#bbu safehouse

[justplainwhump]

Want

Follows this one, [Stalker], in Angel's first weeks of freedom.

[Angel's Story]

Angel stands up against her safehouse lead.

Content: BBU, BBU recovery (or current lack thereof), trauma recovery, implied gaslighting, conditioning, very briefly referenced dubcon sex, dubcon kiss.

The runaway who still hadn't even picked a name stood by the door, a small backpack by her side that held all her belongings. Miguel knew what they were. Toothbrush, hairbrush, one very expensive eyeliner, some underwear - lingerie, she hadn't even learned to appreciate nice plain cotton underwear - and an old DVD she'd nicked from the safe house's common room, some sort of Western starring Thane Barlow with a cowboy hat.

"I'm leaving," she said. He knew. He also knew, that she'd have just walked right past him, spared no words at all, if he hadn't called for her.

"You can't stop me," she added, and picked up the bag again.

He was impressed by her confidence, had been from the beginning. She was determined and resourceful, further than many others who arrived in the safe house. On the outside. On the inside, she was still deeply rooted in her conditioned mindset, and stubbornly refusing to let anyone get her out of it.

He'd talked to the others, after his sessions with her, about the feeling he was actually working against someone else here, someone not trying to dismantle that conditioning, but fortifying it.

"I won't," he said, lifting his hands. "You're a free woman. You can do what you want. I just want you to be sure what it is you want, and why you want it."

"Tim loves me," she said plainly. "I want to be with him."

"Tim? Who is...?" Miguel froze. "The... the Doc? Doctor Harris? That creep, who didn't stop staring at you? He'd have... He'd have assaulted you right on that chair, if I hadn't been there. He was performing that surgery on your wrist, his hands were roaming anywhere but there."

"I'm a free woman," she repeated briskly. "Tim wants me. If I'm free, I'm free to be wanted, am I not?"

"Have you... Has he...? Did you see him again?"

"Yes," she said, something like glee hidden in her smirk. "Often. And yes I let him fuck me. I wanted it. He is very gentle. He loves me. And he has a big house with enough space for two."

"You don't... You didn't want it, Angel, you can't - WRU made that call, not yourself. It's... It's too early."

She clenched her jaw. "So, Miguel. Am I not free, then? Is that what you're saying? That I'm yours, and you get to decide who I do and do not fuck? Now, that sounds like a contradiction to me."

"You don't understand, An-" He hated saying that name, almost felt accomplice in whatever was happening. She wasn't a pet any longer. He couldn't let her. "That's not love. He... Doctor Harris doesn't love you, he wants to own you."

She stepped in now, measured steps, with that overly perfected, seductive away of her hips, until she stood right in front of him, with nowhere to evade. His shoulders pressed against the wall, while her dark eyes bored into his. "Maybe," she mumbled, and her breath was like a caress on his skin, and her lips were so close, and he wanted to push her away, but they never used violence, never.

Her warmth was suffocating. He pressed his eyes shut, and then he felt her lips on him, nibbling at the side of his neck, planting a kiss on his skin.

"Maybe, Miguel," she whispered. "I want to be owned."

When he could breathe again, when he finally dared to open his eyes, the door had already fallen shut behind her.

[itsawhumpsideblog]

The Safehouse, pt. 18

CW: for institutionalized slavery, mentions of abuse, treatment of people as things, medical setting, surgery, panic attack, flashbacks, broken bones and treatment of same

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement:

Given the percentage of rescuees who enter a safehouse with one or more injuries or illnesses which will require medical attention, it is probable that you will be accompanying rescuees to medical appointments early in their time with you. Obtaining medical care can present unique challenges for rescuees and it is important to exercise complete patience with them in a doctor's office or hospital setting. Be aware that the atmosphere in such facilities may bring up difficult memories or even trauma reactions. Be prepared to help rescuees through anxiety or panic attacks, even flashbacks.

The surgery took longer than Angie had expected, or hoped and as it entered the third hour, she was glad that she had gone to get lunch right after they took Mikey. Finding the cafeteria, eating the sandwich, and getting lost on the way back had taken almost an hour and a half; a call to Tim and a chat with the rest of the household had taken another half hour. Since then, she had been sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair, watching the clock and fidgeting. Not for the first time, she opened a game on her phone, played for a few minutes, closed it, and then opened it back up.

Angie tried the TV and found that it was showing an infomercial trying to delude senior citizens into converting their savings into gold bars. She fiddled with the remote, couldn't get it to work, and turned the TV back off. Then she played a podcast she couldn't concentrate on.

She was tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair and staring into space when the door finally opened and Wanda came in, holding some paperwork and smiling. Angie jumped up, fighting down a sudden surge of nervous, excited energy.

"It went great," Wanda said, before anything else. "He did just fine and the doctor said she thinks the procedure was a success."

"Oh, fantastic," Angie said. "That's amazing. I'm so glad to hear it!"

"Me, too. Now, let's go over some paperwork while they finish getting him in a cast and then they'll bring him back here to wake up a little bit. We want him awake and... well, usually we would say talking. But let's go with 'alert' this time. Once he's feeling a little more like himself, we can send him home."

"Sounds great!" Angie could have giggled in sheer relief.

"Okay, so there's no discharge paperwork, as such." Wanda flipped through the papers in the folder. "Not for the hospital, anyway. We've got a form here that should go to your Network contacts, detailing what the surgery was, the cost of it- not that Dr. Silva is charging, but just so their accounting folks are aware- and some discharge instructions." She handed the folder to Angie. "We should be done with him in the next half hour."

"Thank you so much!"

"Of course!" Wanda smiled and let herself back out.

Angie sank back down into the uncomfortable chair in relief, grinning to herself. Then she remembered her other responsibility and picked up her phone.

"Tim?" she asked, when he picked up.

"Yup, I'm here and you're on speakerphone."

"Oh, super, thanks. Hi, guys! I just heard from the nurse. She says Mikey did really well and they're going to bring him back in a few minutes. We'll give him some time to wake up and then we should be on our way home in a couple hours. Just wanted to let you know."

"Did they give you the instructions and everything?" Tim asked.

"Yup, all the paperwork we need. I'll hand it off to you when we get back."

"Excellent, thanks. Text when you're on the way and I'll meet you outside, okay?"

"Yup, will do."

"Thanks for calling, we'll see you soon."

"See you soon!" She hung up, took a deep breath, and sat back to wait.

Mikey was unaware that he had woken up, the first time it happened. He had the impression of being somewhere soft, softer than the garden had ever been before, and warm, too. For the first time he could remember- the first time since the drugs had taken his memory away- there was no pain. He felt like he was floating in a warm cloud and his head was light and sleepy. He let the clouds carry him gently away.

Angie watched Mikey as he lay in the hospital bed, waiting for the anesthesia to wear off and for him to start coming around. He was totally still, which he had been for much of the past week, since his fall, but it felt different this time. He wasn't holding himself rigid, nervous and braced against pain. Instead, he just lay quietly, slightly slack-jawed as he slept. Once, his head stirred and a faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth before he sighed in soft contentment and his breathing slowed and evened as he drifted back off to sleep.

He was still sleeping when Dr. Silva came in with post-surgical information for Angie, outlining instructions for monitoring Mikey's recovery, acceptable activity levels, and a basic plan for continuing treatment.

"He did well," she said at last. "I know we really kept you waiting but-" she shook her head. "There was a lot to fix. He's going to be in the casts for a long time and some sort of brace for even longer. I'm not sure I can say exactly how long it'll be, not until we see how his healing is progressing. We're talking months, though, not weeks. The scarring is likely to be extensive, although we did our best. And his joints will probably always ache a little, especially that shoulder." She sighed. "I really wish it was all better news. But there is some good news, which is that when this is all said and done, eventually he'll be able to use his hands and arms. And he won't be in nearly as much pain, which is the important part. The process won't be pretty, but when it's done, everything will be much, much better."

"Thank you," Angie said. "He would thank you, too, if he could." She looked over and smiled at Mikey, still resting peacefully.

The peace did not last.

When the anesthesia wore off, Mikey woke suddenly and completely, the way he had done when he slept every night outdoors and needed to respond instantly to his Master. When his eyes snapped open, he realized that something was very, very wrong.

All he could see were white walls and a white ceiling with bright lights that seemed to shine directly into his eyes. The brightness stung and Mikey squeezed his eyes shut for just a second, as if, when he opened them, he might find himself somewhere more familiar.

But when he gathered his courage for a second look, nothing had changed. He was still in the strange, monochrome room with the blinding lights and he was lying down. Nearby, something was beeping ominously and Mikey felt his heart speed up and adrenaline dump into his system, like it did when he heard those first footsteps cracking a stick somewhere in the dark at the edge of Master's property.

His mind was still hazy from the drugs and not really awake yet, and Mikey had the terrible, foreboding sense that he wasn't supposed to be there- wherever "there" was.

It never occurred to him to be frightened by the fact that he did not remember having come to the strange, white room. Mikey lacked memories of so much that this new gap in his life was barely meaningful. What was very meaningful was that Master was going to wonder where he had gone.

Then, suddenly, Mikey had a flash of memory of another Pet, tall and thin and dark-haired, bringing him fruit wrapped in a towel, and his stomach clenched. If he was here, what had happened to the other Pet? Was he here, too, or had he been sent... Mikey could not even imagine where else the other pet might have been sent. But he knew it would be bad.

All these thoughts crossed Mikey's mind within seconds, a collection of fears and memories and associations that came to him automatically and without larger context. Then he realized, again, that he was lying down on a soft surface and he broke into a cold sweat.

Soft surfaces were not for Pets. He must not be found here. He had to move, whatever it cost him. The cost would be so much higher if they caught him like this.

But when Mikey tried to sit up, he couldn't. Something tugged at his face- a muzzle? It was blowing cold air into his nose. And he couldn't seem to bend his body to begin sitting, or force his aching muscles to lift him. Mikey looked frantically around but without actually taking in his surroundings.

He dropped one leg over the side of whatever the soft surface was and tried again to sit up and found that was impossible. When he swung his right arm up to try to shift his balance and rise, he was horrified to find that it was restrained, tied up in some kind of cloth, and he couldn't even see his fingers properly, only the very ends of them. When he tried to wiggle them, pain shot down his fingers and they didn't even move.

Even worse, his left arm was immobile. He couldn't see it under the blanket, but it was probably tied to something, strapped tightly down to keep him from doing what he knew a good Pet should do. He strained every muscle trying to sit up, kicked his legs to shift his balance, threw his right arm forward in almost grotesque exertion. But he barely moved.

When the door opened, if Mikey had been able to make a sound, he would have screamed. As it was, his eyes widened, his fight-or-flight response in full activation, and he tried one last time in futile terror to right himself.

"Oh my god," Mistress gasped. "Mikey, what- I was only gone for a second- I'm so, so sorry." She hurried over to the bed. "Hey, hey- careful, you- oh geez-" She put a steadying hand on his right shoulder and finally Mikey's eyes landed on her face.

It all came flooding back to him in a rush, like being struck. The terrible beating they had given him the night his old Master died; the time in a cage; the journey to live with Master and Mistress.

Then, even better, he remembered everything that had come since. A comfortable bed he was meant to use and enough food to eat and a television to watch; Nathan's cheerful company and the joy of being re-united with someone who had become a friend; gentle Francis who told him stories when he couldn't sleep and who held his head when he had fallen and was hurting.

Best of all, he remembered that Master smiled and laughed and spoke softly, and that Mistress talked to him like she enjoyed his company and she had kind hands and Master and Mistress looked after them and never, never hurt them.

Mikey remembered all these things in a flash of knowledge, the same sudden wash of memory that only moments before had caused him such terror, and then he realized that Mistress was standing over him with her hand on his shoulder. If it had been any of his old Masters, Mikey would have been frightened but he found that even now, standing like that, Mistress didn't frighten him at all. She didn't look angry, only dismayed and- maybe even worried.

He looked up at her as if he was searching for answers to many questions and she smiled comfortingly at him. "Do you remember where you are?"

Mikey wasn't sure and didn't know whether to nod or shake his head, so he simply waited and watched her.

"You're in the hospital," she reminded him and now he did nod, a little uncertainly. That might be true- he might remember the morning, if that wasn't a dream.

"You had surgery, to fix your shoulder and your hands and everything. You won't remember that, because you were asleep for it, but it's over now." He nodded again. "The doctor says you're going to be fine- your hands and arms will be a lot better when you're done healing."

He gave her another nod, since she probably expected it, but he wondered if she would explain why they had tied his left arm down. Mikey felt that there must be a reason for it, but something was making his head feel fuzzy and it was hard to think. Hoping she would understand, he raised his bound right hand and looked questioningly down at it.

"Yeah," she said, as if she was continuing a conversation. "I know that probably feels weird. And it's going to be hard, not having your right hand to use, even a little bit-"

Wait. What did she mean, he wasn't going to have his hand anymore? Forgetting the strange stiffness holding his left arm and the way he was restrained from sitting up, Mikey tried to raise himself and looked frantically from his hand to Mistress. His hand was still there, wasn't it? He could see his fingertips, a little bit, under the heavy bandages and surely it wouldn't hurt so badly when he tried to move it if he didn't have a hand-

Mistress made a face that Mikey didn't realize was guilt. "You don't remember what happened at all, do you?" she asked. He shook his head, a little frantically now, starting to feel his heart speed up and beginning to sweat.

"Oh geez. I'm sorry," she said, and he was surprised to find that she actually seemed to mean it. "I'll start from the beginning. So, during the surgery, they basically put all your bones back where they're supposed to be, right? So they can heal and they won't hurt all the time." Now Mikey nodded again as the memory slipped through the fog in his head, of Master explaining this at home last week.

"And now that it's done, they have to hold all those bones and joints and whatever still, so they can heal. So everything will stay where it's supposed to be. Right?" A nod. "And to do that, they put on some casts. The one on your right hand is like what Nathan had on his leg when he first came home. Remember that?" Mikey found that he did.

"They need your whole hand not to move for- I don't know, a long time. Like a couple months, at least. And they did the same thing to your left arm and your shoulder, but that was a lot worse and it's kind of an awkward spot, so they put the cast over your whole arm and then they attached it around your body to hold your shoulder still."

Mikey just stared. So he wasn't actually tied to the bed? But he couldn't move his arm at all. Well- he hadn't really been able to before, either. Maybe in some ways, this wouldn't be so different.

"Do you want to see it?" Mistress asked. She almost sounded nervous and Mikey wondered if he should be nervous, too. Very gently, Mistress drew back the blanket that covered Mikey from his shoulders down, except where he had thrown it off trying to get up.

When he could see it, he stared at his left arm. The cast was blue and covered his shoulder and then went all the way down over his fingers, just like the one on the right. His arm was bent at the elbow so that his forearm was parallel to the floor and angled across the front of his body. There was a band of the same material around his chest, holding his arm still.

"Does it feel really weird?" Mistress asked, and he didn't even bother to nod. Somehow, he felt that she would know his answer.

"Don't worry," Mistress told him, but it sounded more like an offer than an order. "We'll take care of you. You're going to be just fine."

Mikey nodded, but he thought that getting used to this was not going to be easy.

Next Time: Mikey comes home from the hospital, to his housemates' great relief.

Master List

Notes: These keep being longer than I expected, so I'm adjusting the previously listed summary to account for that. A good problem to have!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

[pigeonwhumps]

Sarita

Bug and Company masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Introducing Sarita, a very mistrustful new rescue who's just woken up at Alix's safehouse.

Sarita appears very briefly in The vet.

1.8k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, dehumanisation, derogatory language about sex workers and sex, past rape, religious mentions (in a bad way), victim-blaming, discrimination against Romantics, self-loathing, stabbing (brief, with a fork), past betrayal, caretaker new whumper, multiple whumpees

When Sarita wakes, she's nowhere she recognises.

So she's not back at WRU. That's good, the handler didn't catch up to her. She's not on the streets, which is odd, that's where she last remembers being. Not back at the safehouse that betrayed her either. So it's somewhere new.

Who the hell's decided they own her or 'rescued' her or whatever this time?

It's an old-fashioned kind of a room, decorated with sickly green and purple like some weird 70s nostalgia trip. The curtains, mostly shut, are heavy and dark red with patterns.

It's really weird and she doesn't like it.

"Yeah, I know. Not the nicest room to wake up in. But at least you did wake up."

Sarita looks sharply to the side to see a dark-skinned woman watching her intently. She has Bantu knots (at least that's what Sarita thinks they're called) and a braid on either side of her face, beaded at the ends. There's also beads of some sort in the knots themselves.

"Adalia, or Bug. They/them. Do you want some soup?"

Sarita sits up abruptly. Adalia doesn't seem surprised to have an injured woman in their house, and she has a bad feeling about this.

"Where am I?"

"Alix's safehouse. You collapsed on the street in front of me, and I brought you here once I found your barcode. You should really cover that up, by the way."

Sarita snorts under her breath. "Safehouse". Yeah, right. Maybe to someone who's not a dumb slut like her, who didn't give up their life to lie on their back all day. Never mind that she was a receptionist later, never mind that she cared for children and took care of the house and is taught and educated and was trained as a multi-purpose pet. All that ever matters is that she was trained for sex and had sex and so apparently she wants to open her legs for every damn bastard who so much as glances her way.

She doesn't listen to the rules (Adalia just assuming she'll stay for longer than it takes for her to get out of bed, apparently). She knows what they'll be. Don't get too close to people, don't try and have sex, don't lead people on, you can use the common areas but only when the other pets are gone and clean up after yourself (she rolls her eyes at that. It's not like she's going to contaminate anyone), make sure to pray for your soul because apparently being raped every night for years means she's going to hell, and oh yeah, don't even think of getting comfortable because we'll sell you out to WRU at the first opportunity.

She never chose that. She never chose this. She still hurts from the handler. And she wouldn't have even come here if she'd had any sort of a choice. Stupid body, betraying her like that.

She's not surprised. Everyone else has.

"And that's everything. What's your name?"

Instead of answering, Sarita shoots out of bed and dashes for the open door.

"Wait! Calm down!"

Sarita ignores them, running downstairs. It's taking too long, someone will catch her, but she couldn't have jumped out of the window. Not on the first floor at least, not when she doesn't know if there's a flat roof or what the ground's like. Not unless she was absolutely desperate.

She spins around in the hallway. The front door will be locked, safehouses don't like pets leaving without permission, especially her, but the back. The back. There must be a back door.

Where?

Where's the back of the house?

Front door's that way, back door must be the other way. This can't be too different a layout to the other safehouse, it can't be far away. She runs in that direction, ignoring Adalia calling after her.

She enters the kitchen and skids to a halt. It's a nicer room, she recognises vaguely, clearly redecorated recently, but that's not what she's really focusing on.

There's a woman blocking the door.

She shifts to the side and takes a step towards Sarita.

Sarita panics. She picks up the nearest thing she can find – a fork, four prongs, silver steel, gleaming in the sunlight – and stabs it into the back of the woman's hand.

The woman screams, stumbling, and Sarita bolts past her into the small garden. There's got to be– no– fuck, fuck, fuck. There's no exits from the garden.

There's no exits from the garden.

The majority of it is scrubby grass, although there is a shed at the end. It's green, metal, small, old. There only seems to be one exit. That's good and bad. It means she'll be able to see what's coming. There might even be tools in there she can use to defend herself. But she won't be able to escape easily.

She runs into the shed. It's mostly empty, but she dives into the corner, crouching, eyeing the door closely. It hurts it hurts she hurts so much from earlier, it burns, she wants to curl up around herself but it's too dangerous, she needs to be able to see what's coming.

She crouches there for a while, listening to the sparrows and moving leaves outside. It's nice and quiet, and she's not currently being hurt.

Then she hears uneven footsteps outside and scrambles to her feet, legs shaking, grabbing a pair of secateurs and holding them out in front of her.

A young woman limps inside. She has a colourful cane in the opposite hand to what seems to be her bad leg, and is wearing a choker and a knee-length black dress with a long sweater over it, the sleeves rolled up to uncover her hands.

"Hi. I'm Maria. Will you drop the garden shears?"

"Fuck you," Sarita replies vehemently. She's not going to leave herself undefended for this woman and all the rest to betray her.

Maria shrugs. "Okay." And she doesn't move.

Sarita doesn't really want to talk to her but she apparently can't help it. "Why are you still here? I stabbed your stupid safehouse owner. You going to hand me back to the reacquisitions team personally?"

"We're a safehouse. Emphasis on the word 'safe'."

Sarita snorts. "Yeah, right. And you're also safe for dumb sluts like me who chose to be a pampered whore because I couldn't be bothered to do any real work. Pull the other one."

Maria's face is strangely blank. "Do not. Don't say things like that. Please." There's a hardness in her voice that wasn't there before.

"Why? That's what everyone says about me. Why shouldn't I say it?"

"Because you shouldn't talk about yourself like that. And–"

She hesitates. Sarita is listening more closely now. No-one's ever told her that before. They're usually too busy insulting her.

"And I don't want to be insulted like that either."

Sarita blinks. Wait, what?

"Alix – the woman you stabbed – she specialises in Romantics. Those with Romantic training. The non-WRU equivalent. So don't talk about us like that."

That stops Sarita dead in her tracks. She finds herself unconsciously lowering the secateurs before catching herself.

"You're all slu- Romantics?"

"Yes. Well, some of us are joint. O's both Object and Romantic. Max isn't Romantic. But he came with me from the same owner and we weren't being separated."

"How long have you been here?"

"Three years, give or take. O's been here longer and Bug came with Alix."

That seems a bit long if Alix was going to betray them all. But still.

"Are you sure it's not just because it's easier to hand you over if you're all in one place?"

"Yes." Her voice is tight. "I know you don't trust Alix, but can you give us a chance? Or at least stop being so insulting."

Oh, fuck all of this. It's not just Alix, it's everything. She can't trust anyone. How does she know Maria is telling the truth? Sure she doesn't act like an owned pet but that doesn't mean she's not lying. Sarita stabbed Alix, who Maria seems to like (and from Sarita's experience, safehouse owners are not to be liked or trusted). Everyone she's ever met has betrayed her. Safehouses are just another type of trap. Why the fuck would she trust anyone? Trusting people just leads to betrayal. And letting herself get close just makes it hurt more.

"Of course I don't trust you. Why the fuck should I give you a chance?"

"You won't be trapped. There's a loose fence panel behind this shed in case of a raid. Just talk to Alix, that's all I'm asking. Then you can leave if you still want to. Please? At least leave with supplies."

Sarita narrows her eyes, trying to work out if Maria is telling the truth. She supposes she doesn't have to go very far into the house. And the kitchen has plenty of knives she can take. Because she doesn't fucking trust them even if Maria seems determined to persuade her otherwise.

"Fine."

Maria smiles tightly. "Good. Will you drop the garden shears now and come with me?"

Sarita drops them (she can't exactly bring them inside, after all) and edges around the walls of the shed, coming to stand near Maria, just out of arms reach. Maria nods to her and Sarita follows cautiously back to the house.

Alix is sitting on the flaking white step, Adalia wrapping her hand. Maybe the wound isn't too bad then, if they've dealt with it with a first aid kit.

Not that she'd feel guilty if it was. Fucking safehouses.

Alix looks up and smiles as they approach. Adalia tucks in the end of the bandage and looks up too, glaring at Sarita. Alix nudges them.

"Fine. I'll leave you two alone. If you hurt her deliberately again I'll kill you."

That last is directed at Sarita, and she nods. Not that she's planning to, but if she does hurt Alix it'll be because she has to run, so Adalia won't get her anyway. But seeing someone be so protective makes her insides ache.

Maria and Adalia disappear inside.

Alix moves her hand out, winces, and nods at the seat beside her instead. Sarita stays where she is, just out of reach, every muscle tensed, ready to run when she needs to. Alix shrugs.

"Sorry, Bug can be a bit overprotective at times. I'm Alix, she/her. Leader of this safehouse. What's your name?"

"Sarita. She/her." She thinks she uses those pronouns anyway. She doesn't really care. But other people do.

"Nice to meet you, Sarita. I think it's time we talked."

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

Try

Wow a new Jesse! I've finally been thinking about him more. Not a ton happens in this piece but hey content!

CWs: bbu, grief, OCD, anxiety, references to noncon

Masterlist

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Jesse couldn’t take it anymore. He had been at the safehouse three weeks -- almost four -- and he had hardly slept more than four hours a night the entire time.

His whole chest just ached. He felt so -- he had no idea what he felt, but it was bad. It was as if all his insides had gone rotten. He was decomposing from the inside out, and it started with his heart. The heavy hole in his chest couldn’t be explained any other way. 

He could hardly function at all. He couldn’t pay attention when people talked to him or during group. They all thought he was simply still ‘adjusting’, but Jesse was never going to be adjusted. He couldn’t, it wasn’t in his DNA. He was always going to hurt, always going to be scared and sick and unsatisfied.

He just needed to know. If he knew they were okay, he would breathe easier, he knew it. An integral part of him was ripped away -- as important as his heart or lungs, and he needed to know his girls were safe and okay and alive --

Of course they’re alive. Why wouldn’t they be? They had to be because if they weren’t and it was all Jesse’s fault then he wouldn’t be able to live with himself and -- well. He just couldn’t do it.

Jesse kept being told he was so lucky for getting out, so brave for taking that step. What step? Abandoning his family? It wasn’t brave it was pure hostile cowardice. Contessa said it mostly. She won’t stop saying she’s proud he left -- especially because he’s a Platonic. But he wasn’t brave and he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stay in that house.

If being free was constantly feeling this awful, he didn’t want it.

Even if Mr. Bakeman took him back to WRU… At least they would get rid the memories and free him of this torment.

So Jesse was leaving. He had to, he couldn’t stay anymore. He couldn’t bear the pain. He didn’t let himself think through how’d get there. He was far away -- hours of driving. He had no idea how he’d make it on foot, but surely he’d hitch rides from people. He could…. He could pay them somehow. It made him shudder to think how, but if it was necessary he’d do it.

He saved all the food brought to his room for a couple days prior. It wasn’t much, but it would do. He hadn’t really left his room in a week or so, he hardly left before that either. No one would miss him.

Well. Maybe August, the other platonic. He tried to talk to Jesse whenever he had the energy to leave his room. Jesse could tell he wanted a friend. That made him feel a little guilty. Not enough to change his mind, though.

The stairs creaked as he hurried down, but Jesse tried not to care. He’d be gone so fast no one would have time to come looking. He thought anyway.

He had hardly pulled the thrifted coat he was given over his shoulders when he heard the footsteps behind him.

Jesse whipped his head around, heart in his throat. Would Cooper stop him? Would he  drag him upstairs and lock him away, yelling about how ungrateful he was? Would he finally hurt him? Jesse should run, he needed to go now before hands wrapped around him, dragging him away from freedom--

“Jesse?”

It’s not Cooper. It’s Gwen. Jesse hadn’t really talked to her since that first day, when she had a migraine. She was better after a couple days, Jesse could hear her melodic voice and laughter through the door to his room. Even though his palpable misery, Jesse could see how the orange nightlight lit up her skin, casting shadows on the gentle curve of her jaw, her round nose. She wore a baggy t shirt and sweatpants, hair tucked up in a bonnet.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of herself.

Jesse faltered at the sadness in her voice. How could she be sad for him? She didn’t even know him.

“I--” he cleared his throat, eyes darting to the stairs. Did others hear him come down? “I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“I need to go back. I need to -- I just have to go back.”

“To your owners?”

“Yes.” He took a step back, one hand on the doorknob. Leave. Run. Go before you can be stopped. You have to see them.

“Wait!” Gwen took a couple steps closer, but not too close. Jesse got the distinct impression of trying to get a stray cat to come to you without wanting to scare them off. That’s how he felt, prickly and terrified. “Don’t go.”

Jesse raised his free hand, turning his collar around. One, two, three, four. He was the only one still wearing a collar. He couldn’t make himself take it off and lose that last connection to Abi, Eva, and Harper. His girls. “You don’t get it.”

“I know. It’s different for platonics. But August gets it. And Cooper can help--”

Jesse was shaking his head before she was even done talking. “No, no August doesn’t get it.” His voice was suddenly thick with tears, and he did his best to swallow them down. “No one gets it. I have to -- I have to do this.”

It’s not a Platonic thing. Even he knows it wasn’t supposed to go this far. It’s Jesse. It’s just a Jesse thing. He’s broken, something’s wrong with him. And he has to do this.

“Even though they hurt you?” His eyes snap up to hers. “Isn’t that why you left? They hurt you too badly? That’s why I left.”

He mind flashed to that night, the one he didn’t let himself think of, the one that made him leave. He’d see his girls if he went back, yes, but… but what if Mr. Bakeman didn’t decide to kill him or send him back? What if… what if he kept him and forced him to endure what he did that night? Rented him out, strung him up naked and terrified, allowed others to destroy him again and again for the rest of his life? The pain from that night was finally gone, and the thought of being used like that for as long as Mr. Bakeman wanted made the tears he was holding at bay fall.

Jesse swallowed, trying to soothe the tightness in his throat. The brass doorknob was warm in his hand.

“Will you stop me?” he whispered. He couldn’t tell if it sounded like a question or a plea. “Are you going to get Cooper?”

Gwen shook her head. “Even if I did he wouldn’t stop you. I won’t either. You can do as you please. I don’t want you to leave but I won’t stop you.”

Jesse should’ve opened the door and run then. Guilt ran hot and heavy as tar down his back, coating him in a thick layer of it. He felt ill. “Why don’t you want me to leave?” he found himself asking.

Gwen shrugged, suddenly shy. One of her hands went to instinctively push hair behind her ears, instead just pulling down the edge of her bonnet. “I want to know you, Jesse. And I -- I think you can get better. I know you can. If you give yourself a chance.”

Jesse sniffed. He twisted his collar round again, thinking of his positions like a good little pet. Good little pets don’t live in safehouses and run away from home. His hand was starting to slip off the doorknob. “I just miss them,” he confessed miserably. “I need to know they’re okay.”

Gwen nodded. “The children?”

Fresh tears fell. “Yes.”

“What will happen to you though? I don’t want you hurt. You just got here.”

Jesse’s eyebrows raised in -- he didn’t know what emotion. Everything inside him was so tangled up there was no telling which way was which. He couldn’t think through anything, just feeling the overwhelming despair and misery and confusion and confliction -- what could he possibly do?

Gwen stepped closer. “Try. Or just try to try. Talk in group. Go to therapy. Give it -- give it a month at least. Four more weeks and see how you feel. Please, Jesse?”

“What do I do?” he said aloud, voice weak and desperate.

Jesse had spent a good portion of his time in this house crying and panicky, eyes red and throat raw. He started to fall apart again, right in front of Gwen. His hand slipped off the doorknob, hanging uselessly beside himself as he struggled to get ahold of his breathing.

But Abi and Eva and Harper and Mr. Bakeman and WRU and Abi and Eva and Harper and the house and safety and pain and suffering and Abi and Eva and Harper and rape and pain and death and Abi and Eva and Harper--

How can I ever be happy again?

His face screwed up, eyes on the floor. He slumped his shoulders, backpack falling with a muted thump. Gwen closed the distance between them and helped Jesse out of his coat, hanging it back up. She led him upstairs, back to his lonely room where he fell into the bed unceremoniously. Gwen was the only thing holding him up on the way there.

Gwen left, closing the door behind her. Before it clicked, Jesse heard her speak. “Just try Jesse. I hope you’re still here in the morning.”

———————————–

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @boxboysandotherwhump @hold-him-down @winedark-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @cyborg0109

[gottawhump]

Safehouse

Jonas

CW/TW: pet whump, BBU/WRU.l, lady whumpee. Illness mentioned. No actual whump, I think.

“A Romantic and a Guard Dog?” Jonas heard the man trying to keep his voice neutral. “You’re bonded?”

The question assumed they were. It wasn’t the first time he’s heard it. He hated that question. He never knew the right answer, and they made it matter. She’s my Primary, he wants to say. But they’d know it for a lie.

932 tilts her head back, looking through her hair, smiling. The safehouse owner smiles back, unconsciously mirroring her. She says, in a muted sparkling tone, “We’re friends.”

“Of course.” Does 932 see the flicker of doubt that he does? Romantics don’t make friends. They’re lying, manipulative sluts. Then the owner lifts an eyebrow, taking all of them in, completely. “You have a cat?”

“Yes. His name is Bagel. Is it a problem?” Her hands tighten on the carrier.

She will sleep outside in the worst weather to stay with the cat. She’s made herself sick doing just that. And he will sleep right beside her, to keep her safe.

“No. We don’t have anyone here with allergies right now. It’s just unusual.”

It’s a place in passing, one that gives them a few hot meals and real beds to sleep in for a couple nights. A chance to clean up, to get a change of clothes. They get the same small room, two single beds piled with Goodwill quilts. Not a bad place.

But not the right place. In a few days she’s ready to move on.

He wonders what or who she’s looking for.

Forgive and Forget taglist: @whumpsday @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @justplainwhump @bluetheautisticrat @i-eat-worlds @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

[angst-after-dark]

All The Buried Truths

Summary:

Characters:

Prince Wick and the Whipping Boy

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, NONCON/DUBCON, BURNS, DEHUMANIZATION, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, INTIMATE WHUMPER, LADY WHUMP

“I expect more from you than this, Leigh.” He took another long drag from his cigar and blew the smoke into her face. “I don't ask that you anticipate my needs. That’s not your job. I have Oslo or Savanna for that. All I ask is that you anticipate Christopher’s needs and actions.”

Stargazing

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, LADY WHUMP, SETTING THE STAGE, SLIGHT DUBCON IF YOU SQUINT AND TWIRL AROUND THREE TIMES, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, MENTIONS OF RACISM AND ABLELISM, GUN

She nodded. They rivaled the sea, seemingly endless, spreading far beyond the horizon, gently twinkling one at time as if to say hello.

Just Trying to be Friendly

CW: LADY WHUMP, CHOKING, RELIGION, MANHANDLING, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, RESTRAINED, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING

Air, blessed air. She sucked it in greedily, clearing the blackness from her eyes and the ringing from her ears. She'd been drowning once again, but not any more. They had seen sense, let her breathe, let her live…

Pray For Us Sinners

CW: LADY WHUMP, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, BROKEN BONES, DEATH THREATS, DEHUMANIZATION, RECORDED TORTURE, RANSOM VIDEO

“Smile for the camera!” Shorty chirped. 

Rule 1: Desire to Live

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, RESCUE, GUN VIOLENCE, LADY WHUMP, PASSING OUT, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, MENTIONS OF TORTURE AND DEATH (NOT MAIN CHARACTERS)

I am already dead. I don't want to die. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die.

A Bomb Would Be Safer

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, REFERENCED TRAFFICKING, REFERENCED SLAVERY, REFERENCED AND IMPLIED NONCON, FAMILIAL CONFLICT, ABLELISM (IF YOU SQUINT), LADY WHUMP

"Mama, Papa," he announced quietly, "I'm moving to New York."

Cool Title Here

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, NUDITY, IMPLIED NONCON (PAST AND PRESENT), DEHUMANIZATION, INSTITUTIONALIZED DEHUMANIZATION, NONCON TOUCHING, LADY WHUMP, PTSD

“Whatever happens, don't, don't, don't leave my side.”

Deal With Devils - written by @wildfae-afterdark

"Deal," Peyton agrees mildly. "If you ruin that lipstick on my cock, too."

Fuck You Mx.

CW: AFTERMATH OF NONCON, VICTIM BLAMING, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, REFERENCED NONCON, ABLELISM, WICK IS A DUMBASS HERE AND A JERK

She walked, heels clicking, staccato tapping on the pavement, and didn't look back.

He's Not My Owner

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, ABUSE DYNAMICS, SURVIVORS NAVIGATING RECOVERY, GROUP THERAPY SETTING, CONDITIONED WHUMPEES, DEGRADING LANGUAGE

“I… I’m not sure if I really belong here,” she finally admitted. “I mean, I don’t….I'm just… me. I wasn't a…wasn't from WRU. I'm not a pet.”

Safety

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, PAST REFERENCED NONCON, VICTIM BLAMING, RECOVERY WHUMP, REFERENCED BURNS, PAST REFERENCED NUDITY, COMPLICATED FEELINGS ABOUT AN ABUSER

“Why can’t you….why can’t you feel safe with, with, with me?” He sounded like a child who’d just lost his favorite toy. “I can, can change. I can do, do, do better. I promise.”

I Don't Have Those

CW: LADY WHUMP, PTSD, PANIC ATTACK, BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, RECOVERY WHUMP

She shakes her head and clutches her stomach. It aches and the nausea doesn't abate. It only seems to get worse, eclipsing the throbbing pain in her wrapped - when had Charity done that?- foot. That's secondary to everything else. "I don't ge-et those."

Kestrel Discovers Asexuality

CW: IMPLIED PAST NONCON, NUDITY, SURVIVORS NAVIGATING CONSENT, INTERNALIZED ACEPHOBIA

"No. Um….Red." She pushed them away, wiping a hand across her mouth as she stared them down. "Red, please. S-sorry. Sorry, Dami. I'm sorry."

Taglist/General Writing Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy @oddsconvert @siren-of-agony @gottawhump @winedark-whump

[cepheusgalaxy]

I...I can't resist it *inserts high-stakes plot into the ein bbu au*

[i-eat-worlds]

Worlds’s Whumpy Recomendations

[Large Text: World’s Whumpy Recomendations /End ID] Sorted by genre for convenience. If you feel your story fits better in a different category, or would like to add a note let me know and I’ll do that!

BBU/Pet Whump

Do No Harm: Jamie and Sebastian by @peachy-panic (+ Medical/Lab whump)

The Fighter by @hold-him-down

Charles and Ollie by @cupcakes-and-pain

Unintentional by @distinctlywhumpthing (+ Medical/Lab whump)

Guard Dog David and Guard Dog Riley by @redwingedwhump

The Palette by @squishablesunbeam

The Safehouse by @itsawhumpsideblog

Linden and Colton by @whumpzone

Max & Carlo by @deluxewhump

What We Can’t Make Right: Chris by @ashintheairlikesnow

Medical/Lab Whump

Edurance by @whither-wander-whump

Peter and Joy by @alittlewhump

Land of Liars by @whumpy-daydreams

Mediwhump May Masterlist by @demondamage (+Nonhuman Whump, Angles and Demons. Comics)

The Last Lab Rat by @whumpy-wyrms

Marcus/Lucien by @whumpywhumper (+Urban fantasy)

Heroverse

Immortal Cannon Fodder by @pigeonwhumps

And Still and With Bloody Outstretched Hands by @wolfeyedwitch

Honhuman Whump

Our Man Flint by @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night (Vampires)

Blackthorne Hall by @redwingedwhump (Vampires)

Kane & Jim by @whumpsday (Vampires)

The Heart and The Hunger by @wolfeyedwitch (Vampires)

When Hell Comes Knocking by @snaillamp (Demons)

Ash & Callum by @whumping-every-day

Historical/Fantasy

The Shadow of Death by @actress4him (High Fantasy)

The Tiefling by @redwingedwhump (DnD Homebrew)

No Warrior by @secretwhumplair (Medieval, Vikings)

Fog and Furrow by @wildfaewhump (Urban Fantasy/Dystopia, telepaths)

Sci-fi/Futuristic/Dystopian

MD-264N by @pigeonwhumps (Living Weapon Whump)

Morja & Company by @newbornwhumperfly (Conditioned Whumpee)

Riot Kings by @befuddled-calico-whump (Comics)

Weapons Don’t Weep by @wolfeyedwitch (Living Weapon Whump)

Honor Bound by @whump-tr0pes (Near Future Apocalypse-ish)

Other

Freelancers by @whumpacabra (Modern, Mercenary/Millitary whump)

A1 and A2 by @hcnnibal (Modern, Mercenary, Romance, Comics)

[whumpsoda]

We Search For Stolen Personhood - A Hard Day

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpees, collar, whumper turned whumpee, sick whumpee, recovering whumpee

——————

Blowing dark, bouncing curls out from his line of sight, Florence sighed, shifting around in his bed to study the wooden planks that held up the top bunk. As expected there wasn’t exactly much to really see, but at least an hour had passed of simply struggling to sleep, and he was less interested in thinking. 

In remembering.

Sometimes - and he knew Isaac would disagree but occasionally he didn’t much care for what Isaac thought -  it proved bad for him to think. And that’s where it got confusing because Florence also knew now that it was bad to think that it was bad to think, but a good amount of time in his case thinking hurt, and it always hurt even before the safehouse, and if he thought too hard it would hurt so bad-

Shutting his eyes tight he sipped in a breath and held it, mind calming blank and empty. The whole day for him had been spent either falling in and out of consciousness, or down a rabbit hole of trying not to think but inevitably doing so. He needed to quiet his mind to silence, even if for only a second.

Maybe… just for a minute.

After a moment he released the air in his lungs, carefully sitting up in his bed for the first time that day. A pair of plaid pajamas were still draped around his body, a reminder of how good a spot he was in now. A spot he didn’t deserve, and never would. He knew well that fluffy pajamas were a luxury for him.

Striding to the closet he dug behind his neatly folded pile of clothes, bringing up an old memory he wasn’t supposed to have. Florence shook it off.

Stopping as his fingers brushed leather, he swallowed.

There.

He spit a shaky breath as he strapped the collar around his throat, eyes shifting to the door and lingering there, just waiting for someone to walk in and catch him. Secretly he hoped someone would, just so he’d have something else to beat himself up about.

Kneeling down, just as he would before Mr. Franklin and Mistress Charlotte, he curled his hands in his lap. Closing his eyes tight, he sat silently. Like he would when no one needed him, when he had no duties to fulfill.

He itched at the numbers tattooed across his arm. In his mind, when he was a pet, he couldn’t be a handler.

As soon as it had began, it was over. Gracefully he took it off, setting it back into place where no one would find it. He took one more deep, filling breath, shaking the nerves out from his hands, and turned to the door.

The path toward the living room proved oddly difficult, Florence constantly debating whether he really should, or shouldn’t, even when he knew the correct answer. He would take a step to the door, then two steps back, then one step forward. Like he always did. 

Eventually he made his way out though, to find the television on as a distraction for the other rescues as all of the real adults made their ways about the kitchen.

Atop the couch were all the pets sitting huddled together - and by all of them there were only two because the newest ones were surely not ready to venture out just yet - with Calvin by their side. Like some babysitter. He didn’t know why that irked him, why stinging heat rose from his chest, but it did. 

“Oh, hello dear.” Edith greeted with a weak, half smile as he made his way into the kitchen. The lines of her face were deeper that day, telling him all he needed to know about how the new pets were doing.

“Can I do something to help? Anything?” Florence met her expression, exhaustion scrawled across her face. “I’ve been slacking off today.” He laughed a little, sheepishly, playing it off like a joke. He knew they took it better that way, even if everyone - including him - was well aware he wasn’t really kidding.

Edith never laughed back. She only patted his shoulder with a solemn smile. “How about you just join the others on the couch. You’ve had a hard day.”

Belly tensing, Florence bit his lip. 

A hard day.

As if. While everyone else was probably taking care of chores and the new rescues, worrying about him even, he was sleeping the day away with the pathetic excuse of his mind. 

“I…  please? I need to.” Jaw working, his expression hardened. It was always odd to be pleading to have a task to do, when that had previously been his whole life. “I have to. I’ll do anything.”

“Alright then. Would you mind taking this to Isaac? She’s with the newest pair.” Her cheeks smushed her eyes as she smiled, wearily but kind as always. “And then you can join the others with their movie.”

Florence gladly took the medecine bottle from her. “Yes, ma’am.” He said, again, humorously but not. 

Edith playfully rolled her eyes, but he could practically hear the way it flipped to concern as he walked off.

“Florence!” Isaac whisper-exclaimed, eyes widening as he entered the blue room.

“Isaac!” He parroted, playing up the fake surprise as he jokingly mocked her. She huffed a soft laugh, taking the bottle from him before turning back to the task at hand. 

She was sat beside what looked to be a large roll of blankets, which he soon found to be one of the newest pets. He was curled up in a ball of disease, whimpering with affliction.

Putting on the same tone Edith always did, calm and soothing, Florence kneeled beside Isaac and the pet on the floor. “Hi there.” 

Gradually opening his squinting eyes, the pet growled, a low and animalistic whine, a mixture of anger and pain. Hugging his stuffed animal tighter he shifted away, shielding himself, back tapping against the frame of the bed.

For a moment Florence saw this pet as so many different ones, an array of them keeled over for so many different reasons. The root of it always him.

One of them he remembered well, floating to the surface among the others. With bright, skittering eyes and gritted teeth they had fought so well, screaming, biting, and kicking so desperately before he’d beaten them down until they broke. 

All of it with a smile.

A flicker of hot, a quick flash of white, digging his nails into the flesh of his arms as his two rows of teeth ground over one another. Florence swallowed, hard, taking in a shaky breath to stabilize himself. Isaac gently placed her hand over his.

Sticking his arms to his side as he stood to his feet, his gaze lifted with him, meeting that of another. The other pet, he realized, almost forgetting there were two. 

This one stared back, eyes wide and glimmering in the light of the doorway. He sat, tucked into a corner between the bed and dresser, wound in on himself. He held his head low, almost purposefully, hiding his face with his overgrown bangs. 

Florence could see himself in him, clear as day. He was the same when he’d first entered the safe house, holed up under his bed and not speaking a word. Most of the time he wished he could go back to then, when he knew how to keep quiet and do as he was told. When he didn’t know who he was, what he could be, or who he had been.

So he waved. Just a little one, catching the pet’s eye. And he waved back.

He gave a grin before he turned to leave, the pet digging his head further into his knees, and hiding his flushed face.

Flopping onto the couch, Florence fell right between Joey and Otis with a grunt. “Hey.”

“Hello.” Joey greeted, the pair turning to meet his gaze as he slumped down. After a moment she plopped back beside him, resting her head to his shoulder.

Otis cocked their head. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Not really.”

“Were you sick too?” Calvin asked, an innocent look of concern. Sometimes - well, most of the time - Calvin just didn’t get it. Sometimes he’d be plainly, annoyingly clueless, and Florence couldn’t help but grit his teeth.

“Nope.” He replied, keeping his eyes on the screen as he snickered. One of Otis’ favorite movies played, one they always chose when it was their turn to pick a film. No one ever complained about having to watch it over and over again. They’d always said it was a comfort movie for them back from before. “It’s a pet thing. You wouldn’t really get it.”

“O- oh. Sorry.” Calvin mumbled sheepishly, a half baked smile rising on his face, burning guilt in Florence’s belly.

Why was he always such an unnecessary dick? It only revealed his past peeking it’s way through, displaying the asshole in him wasn’t really gone. Just living on beneath Florence, rearing his ugly head whenever he felt fit. Maybe that’s why he was trained to keep his stupid fucking mouth shut.

It was definitely better that way.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[ocean-blue-whump]

To Dream

Follows Safehouse: Night One

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Tagging - @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @justplainwhump @whumpfessional - ask if you want to be added/removed!

CW: BBU, nightmares, mention of noncon, description of past character death (the cut is early because of spoilers! read the other parts first)

***

The fever in Star’s body rages on through the night, but she isn’t present for it. No, instead she’s lost in her own world, dreaming. 

She dreams of Sunny most of all. She sees his golden blonde hair, backlit like a halo, his bright blue eyes, and sometimes, she sees the blood pouring out of his head. WRU was a quiet mercy compared to Hunter. Sure, it was all white walls and white floors and pain, but it made sense. She knew she would not die, and she knew Sunny would not die while the Handlers molded them into the perfect pets. With Hunter, all bets were off. 

So she dreams of Sunny. She dreams of the moment he died, but she also dreams of his head in her lap while they rested by one of the floor to ceiling windows in Hunter’s house, waiting for him to return home for work. She dreams of the beautiful boy taking their nutrient loaves from Handler Hanford and feeding her when she was too injured to move. Sunny was good. At his heart, he was good, but he was also a good pet. 

She always envied that about him. He was a perfect obedient pet. He didn’t have the bad thoughts of defiance like she did. His life was for his owner…literally. They were bondeds, they were made to understand everything about each other, but that was the one thing she could never quite get. He loved Hunter. 

But she dreams of Sunny anyways, until the fever in her earthly body reaches a pitch and her dreams change.

She often dreams of Handler Greco. She wasn’t with him for long, not after killing all those handlers, but she can’t get him out of her head. The way he looked at her…she was his prized possession, but deep down, she gets the feeling that she was a man’s prized possession even before Handler Greco. 

She dreams that Handler Greco is standing at the very end of a long hallway, drawing a sickly green vial of liquid into a syringe. His latest experiment…pain, pleasure, or something else. She tries to turn and run but she can’t. She’s stuck, and the hallway starts to shrink until the needle is in her arm and she’s screaming. 

In her sleep, she stirs, she trembles, she shakes. The fever is consuming her, sweat rolls off her forehead as she turns restlessly in bed. 

She dreams of Hunter. Hunter…he did so much. He did horrible sadistic things beyond Star’s wildest imagination. She dreams of those things, of how he held her down and cut her up, how he took advantage of her Romantic training to use her body for his pleasure. The Handlers were supposed to prepare her, but they didn’t even come close and now Hunter chases her through her nightmares and sinks his teeth into her neck. 

She’s so tired. She’s so fucking tired. Even when she sleeps, she doesn’t rest, not really. There’s always someone chasing her. There’s always pain, so much pain, she feels it in her sleep. Her scars burn and ache and she tosses and turns even without the fever, but with it? 

With it, everything is worse. Her dreams make less sense than normal, she cries out and screams and claws at the pillow. 

But she keeps dreaming. She keeps remembering all the horrible, awful things, all the hands on her that pulled her each and every way until it all fades back to Sunny. Soft golden hair, pretty blue eyes, and a smile that could calm everyone down…except that one night where Hunter killed him. 

*Wake up,* he whispers to her. *Be good. Be pretty. You need to wake up.*

The fever breaks around three in the morning. Comet doesn’t notice at first, but when the girl’s frantic cries fade, he uses his shirt to wipe the sweat from her forehead, careful not to wake her up. He doesn’t know what she dreams about, but he knows she gets nightmares. 

Star keeps dreaming, reliving the worst moments of her life over and over in her head. 

[itsawhumpsideblog]

BBU Community Days 2024, Day 13

April 26 / Writing Prompt: "MADE FOR IT" / Write a BBU story based on the prompt and share it!

CW: for institutionalized slavery, whipping, foot injury, blood, emotional abuse

Most boxboys were transported to their new owners after purchase in the boxes that inspired the term- long, narrow crates into which they were packed and shipped- but not KV1946. On the day he was sent to his Master, KV1946 was washed and dressed in slacks and a sport coat and ordered into the back seat of a car. He was careful not to wrinkle the clothing when he fastened the seat belt and he folded his hands carefully in front of him and sat very still during the ride.

He would have liked to spend more time looking out the window, but he had been instructed to sit properly, which meant straightening his spine and looking directly ahead. KV1946 tried not to feel nervous and instead focused on remembering his training. There would be cleaning to do, household management, serving at meals... he could do those things. He had been trained. Perhaps he would be able to please his Master.

It was slightly more than an hour before KV1946 saw a large house come into view. It was situated in the middle of extensive, beautifully manicured grounds and the car pulled up in a circular drive out front. KV1946 sat very still until the WRU employee who was driving ordered him to get out and stood to greet her client.

Someone had opened the door and his Master was coming down the wide front steps, smiling broadly. He was in middle age, dressed in a fine suit and adjusting his cuffs in a way that suggested he didn't need to adjust them but wanted the WRU lady to know he was the kind of man who wore cufflinks on a Tuesday morning.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, spreading his hands wide as if showing the WRU lady that the grounds were hers to enjoy, for the minutes she would be present on them. "Is this my young man, then?" He strode over to KV1946 and peered closely at him with a smile that was as much a show as the cufflinks.

KV1946 stood quietly, as he had been trained, with his hands clasped loosely in front of him; his new Master circled him very slowly, examining the merchandise.

"I'm told you did very well in your training," he said. "I was pleased to hear it. We hold very high standards, here." He looked KV1946 in the eye in a way that seemed to require a response. KV1946 lowered his eyes deferentially and said quietly, "Yes, Master."

The man gave a delighted little laugh. "Very good! Very good, indeed." Then he ignored KV1946 to speak briefly to the WRU employee and hand her an envelope with a discreet but substantial tip.

When KV1946's Master had finished speaking, even though the WRU lady was still right there, standing outside her car, he turned away from her and shifted his attention to the Pet as thoroughly as if she had never existed.

"Come inside," he ordered his newest purchase. "I will show you the house and acquaint you with your tasks. Referring to you by serial number is vulgar; you will be called Francis." And off he swept with KV1946- now Francis- following as quickly as he could.

The next hour was a whirlwind tour of the home and, to an extent, the grounds. Francis' responsibilities lay entirely inside, but Master wanted him to know where things were around the property, in case of some need. Francis hoped desperately that he could remember all of it and when he was told to go begin fixing lunch, was relieved to find that he knew the way to the kitchen.

Lunch was served without any particular difficulty and then Francis cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled. Afterwards, he retrieved Master's laundry and spent some time treating stains and loading the washing machine. After that, there was dusting in the office.

All the while, Master sat on the porch in the sunshine with a long-stemmed glass in hand. When he saw Francis, he looked very satisfied and said, "I don't know why I didn't get one of you a long time ago."

The satisfaction made Francis' heart leap. Master's happiness was his own sense of security and he found that he desperately wanted to hear another approving word. He would be perfect for Master. Master would like him and keep him and he would never be sent back to the WRU, like bad Pets were. Even the thought made Francis shiver. He had seen, at least enough to have an idea, what happened to Pets who were sent back.

Late that evening, Francis began to feel overwhelmed. It was hard to remember the long list of chores and the order in which they were to be completed. He wracked his brain, ignoring a slight headache, to remember whether he was to do the ironing before setting out Master's clothes for the following day, or after.

He guessed incorrectly and Master, now dressed in a smoking jacket, entered his room and frowned. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded of Francis, who froze and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Master?"

"No, no 'Master'. You were to lay out a suit and then begin the ironing. I want to have my room all to myself, not spend my evening waiting on your pleasure to have clean clothes." He shook his head. "This is not what I was led to expect when I purchased you."

"This Pet is very sorry, Master." Francis hung his head. He could hear the rough, nervous edge in his voice.

"Finish the ironing and then go to the basement," Master said in a very firm tone.

Francis' hands were shaking as he finished the last few items and although he wasn't sure what would happen in the basement, he did know that he wasn't looking forward to finding out.

When he got there, Master was already standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed, with a small switch in his hand. There was a chair in the center of the room, away from the walls and the bit of bedding Francis was allowed- or would have been allowed, he thought. He would have to see if Master took it away for his infraction.

"I am going to be lenient on you, because it's your first day here," Master explained. "Sit in that chair and hold up one foot."

For a moment, Francis was mystified, and then he realized what Master planned to do. He sat and gripped the sides of the chair so that Master wouldn't see his hands trembling. Master took Francis' heel in one hand and raised the small whip, bringing it down on the sole of Francis' right foot with surprising force.

Francis let out a soft cry and then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Master looked at him with something like disgust.

"What are you crying for already?" he asked. "It can't possibly hurt that badly. You were made for this, after all." He didn't seem to want a reply, which was as well. Francis kept his hand over his mouth as the whip connected again with the sole of his foot.

On the third blow, Master let out a small cry of his own and jumped back suddenly, letting Francis' foot fall to the floor.

"I've cut myself," Master exclaimed. He was holding up his left hand, which was bleeding from a single laceration across the backs of his fingers. Master made a noise of frustration and pain and then said through gritted teeth, "Wait here, I don't want you making a mess."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic box, which he thrust towards Francis. "It's a first aid kit. Bandage my hand for me."

The absurdity of the situation never occurred to Francis; he simply opened the kit, found an individually wrapped wipe to clean the wound and then the gauze and medical tape. While he dabbed away the blood, Master hissed and swore under his breath and when Francis had taped on the bandage, he shook his hand as if it smarted.

Francis almost dared to hope he would give up on the rest of the punishment, but there was no such luck. "Hold your foot out," Master said. Francis did so, holding his leg up with both hands under his knee. Using only one hand, Master continued the flogging, ignoring the drops of blood that fell to the floor. Francis pressed his lips tightly together to prevent another upsetting display of emotion that would only make this worse and waited for it to be over. When he thought he might not be able to stand any more, Master finally straightened up and nodded once.

"Clean that up," he said, gesturing to the blood spatters on the floor. "And I expect you on duty as I told you in the morning." Then he stalked up the stairs, taking the whip with him.

In the basement, Francis sat in the chair and tried to collect himself. His breath coming in shuddering sighs but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought to stay quiet and controlled. When he rose to clean the floor, he walked gingerly on the outside of his foot. His vision closed to a pinprick of light as he worked, shutting him off from the pain, pushing it away so that it felt almost like another entity. But when he finally lowered himself carefully to his cot, the agony washed up over Francis and he hugged his knee to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning, Francis was woken early by the pain. He was still clutching his knee and his foot still stung so badly that he was almost afraid to look at it. When he worked up the courage, the news was not good. The foot and ankle were badly swollen and the sole of his foot was covered in dried blood.

When he dressed, slowly and painfully, Francis found that his sock fit, though tightly, but he couldn't get his shoe on over it. He pulled at the shoe, tugging at the tongue and trying to force the heel, until he was crying again and was about to risk being late for his duties. At last, Francis gave up and ascended the stairs, fully dressed except for his wounded foot in its soft, white sock.

Master wasn't downstairs yet and Francis began the first chores of the day, limping badly as he made the rounds of the house to water the plants and then headed back to the kitchen to begin breakfast. He cooked eggs, toast and sausage and fried some tomatoes and arranged it all on a large plate. He brewed coffee and set a place at the dining room table with understated-but-elegant china and a crystal glass for orange juice. He placed a newspaper above Master's place and kept the food warm until Master seated himself at the table and rang for it.

Francis brought out the plate and went back for a mug of coffee and then for the orange juice, ready in a clear carafe to be poured fresh for Master. It was on the third trip that Master, nearing the end of the page he was reading, caught sight of Francis out of the corner of his eye and looked up in displeasure.

"What is that?" He asked, gesturing dismissively at Francis' feet.

"This Pet was unable to get his shoe on," Francis said in a very small voice. He found that his mouth had gone dry and it was hard to speak.

"This Pet has orders not to appear above stairs in less than immaculate condition," Master corrected him coldly. "I took care that you would be fit to serve. Go below stairs at once and fix the issue. Do not appear above stairs under-dressed again. My guests will be here for a morning garden party in one hour. I expect the porch swept and mimosas staged on the table. There will be finger sandwiches for lunch and you will stay outside to serve." He turned back to his newspaper, which meant that Francis was dismissed.

Shaking in the aftermath of his fear, Francis limped back down the stairs and almost fell onto his pallet, where the odd shoe sat. He eyed it with distaste for a moment, but there was no time to waste. It was going to be a busy morning and he would need to use all of the time to prepare. Francis tried again to put the shoe on, but still without success.

He took a moment for a deep breath and a sigh and then began to unlace the shoe completely. With the laces off, he was able to place his foot inside it and lace the shoe up, after a fashion. His foot was already beginning to throb and when he stood, it took all his training to keep him on his feet and headed up the stairs.

Francis was driven nearly to distraction by the pain, but he was somehow still upright and had even managed to put out a clean, white tablecloth and a vase of flowers to display the mimosas before Master's guests arrived. As ordered, Francis stationed himself next to the table with a tray to collect empty glasses and to keep the table supplied with drinks and light canapes.

Master greeted the guests and showed them to the back porch, handing each a drink as they passed through the door to mill about on the flagstones of the porch. The hand he had injured while punishing Francis remained bandaged and Master had placed it in a narrow black sling to go with his morning coat.

"You poor thing!" one of his guests cooed. "Whatever have you done to your hand?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Master said, clearly pleased at the attention. "Just a little cut, the doctor says everything ought to be fine before many weeks have passed." He waved the other hand languidly, dismissing the opinions of doctors who, he implied, fussed too much.

"You bear it very bravely, I'm sure," the woman assured him, patting his shoulder sympathetically. She finished her drink and held it out, secure in the knowledge that the help would be by to collect it immediately.

Francis moved away from the safety of the table to take the glass. He tried not to shuffle, which would probably make Master angry, but his foot was throbbing so badly that he could hardly think of anything else. He hoped he could go back and stand behind the table, in the shade, and put all his weight on his left foot for just a few minutes.

"Doesn't your pet mind just standing there like that?" another woman asked his Master. "Won't he get bored?" Master looked over as if he had only just noticed Francis standing there, as if he was so used to Francis that he was no more noticeable than the trees.

"I can't imagine so," Master said in a musing voice. "After all, isn't that what they're made for?"

The party lasted for a few hours and by the time he brought out the finger sandwiches, Francis was shaking and sick with pain. At each step, he wondered whether his leg would give way and drop him- and, more importantly, the sandwiches- to the ground, right there in front of all of Master's guests.

Somehow, he got through the rest of the morning and then the afternoon as well; luckily, Master seemed to be tired out by the effort of hosting and went to take a nap. Francis could limp as much as he needed and stand on his left foot only while he cooked and cleaned. The day went by very slowly, but in a strange haze. The foot went numb after several hours and Francis was a little relieved, although the numbness made it hard to balance when he walked.

At last, Master turned in for the night and Francis went back to the basement. He sat down on the top step and eased himself down with his right foot held in the air. At the bottom, he very carefully untied and unlaced the shoe and drew it off, his heart pounding uncomfortably as feeling came back into the swollen flesh. With feeling came terrible pain and Francis could feel the small supper he had been allowed turn over in his stomach. He hopped desperately to the toilet in the corner of the room, but nothing came up and after a few long moments, he finally collapsed onto his cot.

Later, Francis barely remembered that day. It was not so different from many of the ones that came after it and working while he was in pain became the most ordinary thing in the world for him. But it was one late night, in a different house entirely, that Master's words came back to him.

It had been a long day; Francis was still expending more energy than he knew in trying to understand his new home. Sir and Ma'am were kind, but could be confusing sometimes. Francis was always waiting for them to change, to become angry, to begin ordering him about. He did not expect to live without fear, but the relentless struggle to make sense of his new life was taking its toll.

That night, Sir carried Francis up to bed while Mikey and Nathan stayed downstairs with Ma'am. It was not so late, really, and the sun had only just dipped below the horizon, but Francis had been running hot all day and the pain in his feet was making him restless.

"I'm so sorry you aren't feeling better yet," Sir said, sounding like he meant it.

"Francis will be in working order soon," Francis replied. He hoped it was true.

"Don't worry about working," Sir said, for some reason, but it was in a cheerful tone that might almost have been a joke and Francis was more confused than frightened by the words. He wasn't sure how to respond, and so he didn't. Instead, he lay still and watched Sir bustle about.

Sir straightened his blankets so they laid across his shins, not over his bandaged feet where they would feel heavy and hurt Francis. Then Sir put a thermometer in his mouth and waited patiently for the result. After three minutes, he removed it, peered at it, and shook his head.

"It's about what I expected," he said and then placed a cool water bottle on Francis' head. It was soothing to his hot skin and racing mind and almost made Francis feel like he might be able to fall asleep.

Maybe it was the high fever that made him so bold, but Francis looked up at Sir, sitting there quietly, watching him with such worry on his face and he dared to ask a question.

"Sir- if Francis might be permitted- er- why are you and Ma'am doing all of this?"

"What, taking care of you guys?" Francis nodded and worried that maybe he shouldn't have spoken, in case Sir thought he was ungrateful.

Instead, Sir smiled and shrugged a little. "Humans take care of each other- it's just what we do. I guess we were made for it."

Master List

Notes: Some backstory for Francis!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump,

@starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

[pigeonwhumps]

Hairdresser

Sanctuary masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @for-the-love-of-angst

Lea and Theo go to the hairdresser.

1.7k

So, I promised Vee a comfort drabble. This is certainly not a drabble although it does make me smile. Set fairly soon after Anita gets Lea, before her trip to the vet.

CWs: BBU, pet whump, fear of punishment, past restraints, blink and you'll miss it implied non-con, conditioning, sensory issues

Theo's almost bouncing by the time they reach the groomer's – no, the hairdresser's, Mistress Anita said. He's clearly trying not to show it but Lea can see. Why? What's so exciting about someone who's going to restrain them until they can't move at all and forcefully cut their hair, tugging painfully. Why– why does Theo want that? It's scary and the gowns are itchy and it's too much.

Mistress Anita holds the door open for Theo to enter and pauses, looking at Lea.

"We need to go in, but you don't have to have your hair cut if you don't want to, sweetheart. You can just wait with me if you like. It's up to you."

They enter the hairdresser's and Lea kneels at Anita's feet, watching as Theo, having already been helped out of his harness and coat, climbs up into a posh, comfortable-looking leather seat and rests his head back in the bowl of water. A smiling man in a black shirt rolls up his sleeves and starts washing Theo's hair.

There's no restraints, Theo doesn't look like he's in pain, any malice or disgust the groomer has is very well hidden. Lea doesn't understand.

"Hello." Lea jumps about a foot in the air and turns her head to face the woman who's just spoken, bowing slightly. "Oh, sorry for startling you. You don't need to bow. I'm Marie."

Lea looks up cautiously. The woman in front of her is dark skinned and muscular, with tattoos covering both arms. One arm's held out towards her, and Lea can see scars on it, some more covered by tattoos than others.

Lea flinches.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Just shake my hand, if you can?"

Mistress Anita nods, and Lea takes Miss Marie's hand tentatively, curling her fingers around the older woman's.

"What's your name?"

"Lea, ma'am."

"Nice to meet you Lea. You can just call me Marie, or Miss Marie if that's more comfortable for you." Lea frowns at Miss Marie. That's an odd way to address someone. Mistress Anita said that, too. It's impolite to address a person without a title. She catches sight of a set of numbers and lines on Miss Marie's wrist, partially hidden by trailing vines and flowers.

Miss Marie catches her looking.

"I was a pet, once, like you. A lifetime ago. Now I help pets and ex-pets increase your confidence by letting you choose something for yourself. I promise I won't hurt you, but if you want proof that's okay. Keep watching Theo, and when you're ready, take off your coat, harness and scarf and come over to the hairwashing station."

Marie walks off. Lea looks up at Mistress Anita, completely confused.

Well, when in doubt.

She nudges against Mistress Anita's leg, batting her eyelashes up at her. She has to pay somehow. This is her job.

"Hey, sweetheart, no. You don't have to do that. This is a gift. I want you to feel more confident, and like how you look. And I have no idea how to style your hair. Please, don't try and pay."

Lea swallows the lump in her throat and nods. Mistress Anita never wants to do anything with her. Does she actually want her at all?

She's going to stop thinking about it. She's going to stop thinking about it and get her hair done, and she'll be so so good and Mistress Anita will definitely want her and keep her.

Lea gets to her feet nervously and makes her way over to the comfortable chair, leaning her head back. Her neck feels naked without a collar or scarf, it's weird. There's a mirror on the ceiling so she can see herself, and this chair she's in is a people chair. Why's she being allowed in a people chair?

"Blimey, I see what Anita meant about your hair being damaged. It's okay, we'll get it sorted, you don't need to worry. When was the last time anyone cared for your hair properly? Before Anita, I mean."

"There– there was a groomer before my– my photoshoot," Lea replies quietly.

"Of all the pets I've had in here, I haven't had many end up with healthy hair from a WRU stylist. Good-looking for the photos, but never healthy. Never mind. We'll do our best to get your hair better now, and I'll give you some things to take away with you that might help. Okay?"

"Yes, Miss Marie." It all makes sense now. Mistress Anita wants her pretty. That's good, that's a good reason. She can breathe now she knows why this is happening.

"Right. Sit back and relax, and I'll tell you when you need to move to style your hair."

Lea obeys, letting her shoulders go lax just like Mistress Anita said might help. It doesn't at first, and then Miss Marie's hands start massaging her scalp and it feels so soft, so nice, the scent of the warm water is so relaxing, it sends her into a kind of trance.

She's not sure how long it is before she feels a hand on her shoulder and jumps.

"It's okay. We need to move over there now, that's all. Come on."

Lea follows Miss Marie over to stand behind a chair in front of a mirror, colour-coded shampoos and conditioners and all manner of hair lotions laid out on the side, along with combs and scissors and anything she could think of for hair. Theo's sitting on a chair beside hers, a gown over his clothes, and although he makes her head hurt she's a bit too dazed to notice properly.

"I have a gown for you, although Anita says you have sensory issues, so let me know if it's too much and I'll find something else."

Lea nods and Miss Marie helps her into the gown. It only touches her skin on her neck and wrists but it's still too much, it itches and there's something about it that's almost painful, she doesn't know why. But she's not going to tell Miss Marie, she doesn't know what'll happen if she does. She can survive it.

Miss Marie looks at her and shakes her head. "That's not okay, is it? Let's just try a towel around your shoulders." Lea takes off the gown and Miss Marie replaces it with a soft towel. That's much better. But– how did she know? Lea's good at this, she knows how to pretend, how did Miss Marie guess? Will she–

"You're still good at it, don't worry. Nobody except another pet would've noticed that, yeah?" Lea nods. "Okay. I'm going to comb your hair while you look through these hairstyles. Pick at least one you like, okay?"

Marie hands Lea a ring-binder and she freezes. There's too many pages in here. How can she make a decision? She's a pet, she's not allowed to make decisions.

"If it helps, Anita approves of all of them." It doesn't help. Well – it lifts the biggest worry that Mistress Anita might disapprove and punish her, although she still could of course, but it doesn't help her make a decision. Marie tugs lightly on her hair as she combs. "Choose a number between one and twenty."

Lea tries to calm her racing heart. "Fifteen, Miss Marie."

"Great. I think Anita said you can read a little, so turn to page fifteen and pick a hairstyle from there."

Lea turns to page fifteen obediently. There's only six pictures here, that's much easier. She considers the options before holding her finger above a photo of a woman with braids, some dyed red and purple.

Marie looks over her shoulder and smiles approvingly. "Very nice. It might take some time to do, so why don't you sit back and just watch. I'll tell you if you need to move your head."

"Yes, Miss Marie."

Beside her, Theo reaches out a hand. Lea takes it, squeezing tight.

"I see my boyfriend's finished Theo's hair. I'm glad you managed to reunite."

Lea's brain stutters to a halt near the start of the first sentence. She knew she and Theo were once bonded, that's not new information, but... Miss Marie has a boyfriend?

"What is it, Lea?"

"You– you have a boyfriend?"

Miss Marie's smile widens. "I do. Love of my life. He used to be a pet too."

"But you– you're a pet. How– how can you have a– a boyfriend?" Lea asks, puzzled. Pets aren't made for relationships with anyone who's not their owners, everyone knows that. They're not capable of it, not like people are.

"Not everything WRU says is true."

"But– but– it is!" protests Lea. She knows it is. That's what she was taught. "They're always– always right, unless Mistress– Mistress Anita or Mistress Indira command– command me otherwise."

Miss Marie looks sad, for some reason. "I used to believe that. Just, if you remember anything from today, Lea, remember that you have a life, despite what WRU has moulded you into. Live it."

Lea nods. She's not sure what to think about that (surely her life only has meaning in relation to her owners?) but it clearly means a lot to Miss Marie. Even so, she pushes it to the back of her mind, not ready to think on it yet.

She sits there as Miss Marie does her hair, half listening to the woman (pet? Lea's not sure how to refer to her) chatter on about her life. Beside her, Theo's having an animated conversation with Miss Marie's boyfriend, the hairdresser signing as Theo alternates between speech and occasional one-handed signs. Lea tries to let go so he can talk properly but he doesn't let her, and she's reluctantly grateful.

Once Lea's hair's finished, Miss Marie takes the towel and Lea stands, approaching Mistress Anita nervously. Mistress Anita grins broadly when she sees her, eyes soft.

"Oh that's much better. You look incredible, sweetheart. Well done on making the decision. Do you feel any better?"

Lea nods. "Yes, mistress."

And to her surprise, she really does. Her head feels lighter, cleaner, she likes the way her hair looks. Not like it did with her handler, there's nothing to remind her of that time now. Mistress Anita likes it. She can feel a kernel of something inside her, something she hasn't felt in... she can't even remember how long.

Something that's maybe a little bit like hope.

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

Meeting the Safehouse

WE'RE HERE!!!!!

Masterlist

———————————–

Jesse didn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unmoving. If he moved then the girls would know he left them.

He made a mistake leaving. He knew that now, but he couldn’t go back. Mr. Bakeman would have noticed he was gone by now, and if he tried to go back he would kill him. It was selfish, but he didn’t want to die at Mr. Bakeman’s hand.

It could be worth it though. Maybe. If he got to see the girls before. Because any other way he would never see them again. Ever.

The world fell around Jesse. He was a set piece stuck on stage as the theater burned around him. He was moved and painted and placed where he was needed to go, but he could not leave when he needed to most.

Jesse could not move. They undoubtedly already knew he left them, but maybe if he didn’t move it wouldn’t hurt them. Not like it was hurting him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about when he was on his knees with Mr. Bakeman’s gun pointed at his head in the backyard. All he could think about was how heartbroken the children would be if they witnessed him die. But what has he done now? He might as well be dead to them. They never got to say goodbye. They’ll never see him again. Their Jesse. Gone.

The one person they would call for at night. The one person who cared for them when sick and held them when sad. The only person who knew their likes and dislikes, their fears and dreams and friends and goals. He saw Harper’s first steps, helped Eva with a speech to her little first grade class and was worriedly at Abi’s side when she landed her first back flip outside of gymnastics class.

Who would they have now? Mr. Bakeman was only in their lives to spite Jesse. And their nanny seemed nice, but she would never love them like he does.

Jesse buried his face in his pillow and let out a sob that sounded more like a scream. He prayed that Abi would see the letter before their father did. That she would read it and understand how sorry he was.

He would get up right then and jump out the window, hitchhike his way back to the Bakeman home and tell them in person how much he loved them. But he was too much of a coward. If he moved, they would sense that he was moving hundreds of miles away. And they would know that he had more fear than love.

Jesse’s heart twisted in a painful, familiar way he knew was grief.

He was a coward.

And they were gone.

Jesse stayed in bed all day. He heard people moving downstairs, and sometimes outside his door. Someone knocked once. He didn’t answer them and they went away. He cried. He screamed into his pillow. He was crushed with guilt and grief and regret. He twisted his collar round and round but nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay.

He passed out from pure exhaustion at some point, and when he woke it was light outside again. Jesse told himself that the girl’s knew now. They knew he left them and so there was no point in staying still. They would have to read the letter now to know that he still loved them.

People were up again. Jesse felt sick at the idea of talking to them, but he was propelled by his hunger and need to relieve himself to get out of bed.

He didn’t look in the mirror. It wasn’t a school day, but it didn’t matter when he wasn’t there.

Jesse stood at the door with his hand on the knob for an awful long time, trying to psych himself up to step in the hallway again. Meeting these people would make it feel real. He really left them and he lives somewhere else with strangers. 

Cooper said there were four other rescues living there besides him and his sister. He’d told him their names he thought, but Jesse had been in no state to listen that night. What if they all hated him for wasting a day? Maybe he’d ruined his chance at ever feeling some semblance of okay there and now he would be a permanent outcast.

Jesse leaned his head against the door and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears. He gasped in a breath.

If you don’t leave now you never will.

He stepped out of the bathroom and crashed straight into someone.

“Oh. Sorry,” Jesse mumbled, stepping back. His shoulders hunched in anticipation of a hit, but when it never came he looked up at who he ran into.

A young woman, about his age, squinted at him from across the hall. She had a hand on the left side of her head, and coiled black hair pulled loosely away from her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “It’s hard to see without my glasses. Are you the new rescue?”

Jesse’s face got red for no reason. “I’m Jesse.”

The woman smiled. “I’m Gwen. Sorry I’ve got a killer migraine, so I’m gonna lay down, but I’ll talk to you later. You’ll like it here. Cooper and Contessa are great.”

Jesse nodded. “A migraine? Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah I get them all the time. Just waste a day laying in bed. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow. Everyone else is in the kitchen. Nice to meet you Jesse.” And with that she left, stumbling down the hall to the room next door to Jesse's own, gently shutting the door.

“You too Gwen,” he whispered.

One person down. Five more to go.

He stopped at the end of the staircase, spinning his collar. He could hear voices just around the corner. His chest was hot, but also cold? He wanted to go back to bed.

Just do it. 

Jesse stepped down the last step and turned into the kitchen.

———————————–

Cooper Hernandez always got up around five. He’d go for a run, come home and shower, and make breakfast for the house. The rescues varied in wake up times. Miranda liked to wake up early and she was usually in the kitchen helping him cook. August would sleep in, making his way there when he had to strength to get up. Everyone trickled in and ate before going about their plans for the day. Usually Cooper’s sister, Contessa was last. But yesterday they had another empty chair that was supposed to be filled.

Jesse, the new rescue, never came down from his room. Cooper wasn’t concerned. It was normal to be overwhelmed and scared. Especially because Jesse needed some coaxing to leave his owners.

But before he knew it Cooper had gone through another morning routine, sat down for another breakfast and stared at another empty chair. Surely he was getting hungry. They hadn’t even heard him open the door to go to the bathroom yesterday.

He’d come around. He just made the hardest decision of his life, but he’d come around.

“You okay Gwen?” Contessa asked. Cooper snapped out of his thoughts and noticed Gwen had her head in her hands.

She nodded with stilted movements. “Got a migraine coming on.”

“I’m sorry,” Miranda said. Her face was the perfect image of concern. “Do you need anything?”

“No. I’m just um. I think I’m just gonna go lay down. Sorry,” Gwen said, standing up.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Contessa told her.

Cooper watched her go shakily up the stairs, reminding himself to check on her later in the day to see if she needed anything. Heaven knows she will never ask for it herself.

“Will he come downstairs today?” August asked. As the newest, besides Jesse of course, it was taking a lot for him to come out of his shell.

August’s first days there he just stayed in his room (just like Jesse was seeming to), ignored everyone and everything, and cried.

His case was different. He didn’t make the choice to leave, and he wasn’t rescued by pet libs. His owner gave him to them. She had a change of heart. Cooper understood it, and appreciated it, but a part of him knows that, because of it, August will never be the same as he was before. His owner had described him as energetic, outgoing and funny, but that was not the August any of them had ever seen. Platonics bonded to their buyers in a way that couldn’t be understood by those who had never experienced it. Cooper didn't think that August’s owner even understood it. But August was strong. Anyone who went through that was.

Cooper had told August yesterday that Jesse was also a platonic, and that it would be nice if August could help him through these first few days if he was up to it. August’s face had lit up at the idea of someone else in the house like him. He’d knocked on Jesse’s door sometime yesterday, but got no answer. It would just take time.

Cooper cleared his throat. “Be patient. It took a lot for him to leave. He just needs a bit to process it.”

August nodded. “Maybe I can knock on his door again?”

“Yeah. We’ll give him a little, but you can certainly try again. Just don’t take it personally if he needs another day.”

August nodded again. Cooper beamed at the way he didn't even try to hide his excitement.

Cooper didn’t have to guess how it would feel to have someone in the house who understood. Dawson, Miranda, and Gwen were all Domestics. They didn’t feel the same attachment to their owners that August and Jesse felt.

Well, he didn’t think so anyway. The house therapist, Bree, dropped hints here and there at their briefings that Dawson may have had a higher attachment than was usually seen. But he did leave of his own volition, so who knows. Maybe it’s the guilt.

“What’s he like?” Miranda asked, pouring herself more coffee.

“I’m not really sure. It was a long drive for him that night. He just went to bed. But hopefully he’ll join us this morning and you can all introduce yourselves.”

He didn’t tell them about the phone call he’d had with his Abuela. He didn’t even tell Contessa.

———————————–

“There’s something about him,” Abuela said.

“What do you mean?” Cooper was losing patience. It was late. He was used to setting up quickly for a new rescue, but it was still a stressful process. And then his Abuela has to call and talk for ages… He loved her but sometimes it was too much.

“He’s a nanny, for the children. Three little girls. He loves them like they’re his own. He calls them his girls. I… I just wonder if he might try to leave. For them. He’s very jumpy, always on edge.”

“It’s hard not to be as a boxboy, Abuela,” Cooper told her. He set the phone on speaker and began to put fresh sheets on the bed. “Will he be okay sleeping alone? Each room only has two beds and I already got four rescues…”

“I’m not sure. I think so. But Cooper, honey, just… I know you know this, but just be gentle. Leaving your children is the hardest thing a person can do. And as far as he is concerned, they’re his.”

“You got it. WRU’s brainwashing can do crazy things to people. It takes a lot, but he’ll get there. Plus, we have another Platonic who’s also experiencing a lot of stress from unwilling separation. Maybe they can help each other out.”

“I hope so.”

———————————–

The stairs creaked and Cooper looked up to see Jesse standing nervously at the entrance to the kitchen.

“Hey, Jesse,” Cooper said warmly, trying to not let too much relief show. “Are you hungry? Come take a seat.”

The poor guy looked like he wanted to bolt as fast as he could out the front door, but, with a lot of effort it seemed, he did take the empty seat between Miranda and August. Up close Cooper could see that he had dark bags under his bloodshot eyes. He had been clearly been crying. He was also sitting rather stiffly on his chair, tense like his body hurt. Abuela had made it clear, without really saying it at all, what had been happening to him in that house. Cooper made a mental note to offer him the heating pad later.

“Get some food if you want it. Or this is full of coffee.”

Jesse reached a shaking hand up to his collar that was still buckled tight, and spun it around his neck. Cooper held back a wince at the sight of his chafed and red skin that ringed the leather. He was going to be a difficult one to separate from the collar. Oh well. August still wore his too.

Maybe it’s a platonic thing.

Contessa looked up from her phone for the first time all breakfast, just glancing at Jesse, and then at Cooper with furrowed eyebrows. She cleared her throat. “Hey, I’m Contessa, I’m Cooper’s sister. Jesse right? Do you wanna stick with that or would you rather change it?”

Jesse looked up from pouring himself a cup of coffee with wide eyes. “Change it?”

“Some rescues don’t like the names their, uh, owners gave them,” Cooper jumped in, lightly kicking Contessa under the table. “They’d rather change them. If you want to, you can. It doesn’t have to be now, it can be whenever. But if you like your name then you can keep it too. It��s up to you, man.”

He knew what his Abuela meant by jumpy. Jesse hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself smaller, holding his mug close. His eyes looked far away, but also darted around the table quickly, taking in all the details it seemed. Cooper was going to have to ease him in to learning everything about the house.

“I, um, I like Jesse,” he finally said. “I like it. Ab--” He cut himself off with a drink, taking a big deep breath. Cooper could see tears shining in his eyes.

August smiled good naturedly. “I kept my name, too,” he told him, taking a bite. “I’m August.”

Jesse attempted a smile, but it was the saddest thing Cooper had seen in a long time. The poor kid was falling apart at the seams. But he was trying, and Cooper would never fault him for that.

Dawson stood suddenly, taking his plate to the kitchen and out of sight. He never quite liked meeting new people. Or old people. Or people.

“I’m Miranda,” Miranda chimed in. “And that was Dawson. And um, Gwen just went up to her room.”

Jesse cleared his throat, nodding. “I ran into her in the hallway.”

“She gets headaches,” Miranda explained. “She’ll probably just be in her room today.”

He nodded again. He didn’t take anything to eat, but that wasn’t concerning. The first few days in the house were overwhelming. He’d settle into a routine soon.

“So um, when we’re done eating I can give you a tour of the house and explain the house guidelines and chores, that sound okay?”

Jesse nodded, which was good. But Cooper got the feeling that he would agree to anything he said right now.

He’d fall into a routine. Jesse would learn to grieve the life he left, and understand that he made the right choice. He would heal here.

Cooper hoped.

———————————–

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf@boxboysandotherwhump@hold-him-down@winedark-whump@melancholy-in-the-morning @castielamigos-whump-side-blog@cyborg0109

[gottawhump]

The House

704

CW/TW: food mention, BBU/WRU. Pretty much an introduction piece.

The house is small, but spotlessly clean. Impeccable. What place can he have here?

At the table, with a plate full of hot scrambled eggs, potatoes, and bacon and a glass of juice. There’s laughter, and chatter. He eats a few bites, but the rich food quickly fills him up.

He is acutely aware of people watching him, and wants to melt into the wallpaper. No, not people. Pets. Barcodes on their wrists, half hidden under sleeves, peeking out from beneath bracelets. Except for the man who brought him here. Owner.

He can’t eat any more, but he drinks down the juice. Someone takes away his plate and refills his glass. He wraps his fingers around it, sipping the orange juice.

“Are you staying? I’m Ivy, by the way. What’s your name?”

“I am 905704, designation Domestic, east wing, first floor.”

The instant silence tells him it’s the wrong thing to say. But it’s the only identifier he has, memorized before his box closed around him.

The man who brought him here nods. “When you’re ready, you can choose a name. I’m Pete, the house manager.

Forgive and Forget taglist: @autophagay @simplygrimly @justplainwhump @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @whumpsday @i-eat-worlds

704 taglist: @kim-poce @fishtale88 @i-eat-worlds @roblingoblin285

[justplainwhump]

Raid

Adrian takes part in a WRU raid.

[pet safety masterpost]

Content / warning: BBU, frankly discussed noncon (by whumpers), implied forced prostitution, WRU things, reacquisition teams, biting, beating. It starts very fluffy, but most of this is in fact very much not.

Slowly, Adrian and Bea began to develop a routine. Marta helped, from a distance, sharing what she knew from years of safehouse work and adapting it to Adrian's reality.

Physical activities, she had recommended. Touch that is affectionate, yet not physical. Defining and defending boundaries for each of them.

It was a challenging journey for both of them, but Adrian found himself enjoying the ride.

Bea helped with and prepared cooking. She didn't have any words for it, and barely any memory, but there was definitely some physical memory to kitchen assistance - with the slight drawback, that that had been with full vision, as they'd learned the hard way when she'd seriously cut herself while chopping onions, and the ER had sent them off because they wouldn't treat pets.

From then on, there were weekly therapy sessions for Bea, a work therapist (WRU-licence for work with pets) visiting them at home and teaching her how to deal with her vision impairment.

Bea refused to leave the apartment without him, but he taught her how to order groceries via app and she took over that task, too.

And then, there was dancing.

Every day after Adrian came home from work, he'd put on a playlist and they'd dance in the small space of his living room for almost an hour. Bea was a great dancer - of course she was, he thought grimly, nobody came out of WRU's training who didn't have perfectly sensual movements and flexibility. But she also seemed to genuinely enjoy it.

They danced Salsa, New York style, and Bea took to it like a fish to water. When he was at work, she browsed YouTube playlists he'd set up for her to find new combinations or try out stylings and decorations, and after he had been the one to teach her for their first two or three sessions, the roles were quickly reversed and she became the teacher.

"That pet really does wonders on you," his colleague at work said. "Haven't gotten laid enough before, huh?"

"She's fantastic," Adrian would reply then, nonchalantly enough not to provoke any follow up questions, and he'd hate that it was true. He was better.

Happier.

Of course, this didn't last long.

---

Adrian was just filing away the reports on his last uneventful inspection, humming the tune of a Salsa song, when his phone rang.

"Hey, Delgado," Kelly's voice was pressed. "Need you for a raid downtown. Illegal brothel, WRU pets involved. Police have requested a WRU team to deal with them. Dispatching three handlers and you. Departure in five. You'll answer to Grimm."

Grimm. The asshole who'd performed 'quality assurance' on Bea. It was even more sickening to imagine now, than it had been back then.

"Grimm and I aren't exactly-"

She cut him off. "You're both professionals, Adrian. He's the most senior employee on the team. Deal with it." She'd hung up, before he could add anything.

Cussing, Adrian grabbed his protective gear and jogged to the car park.

"PSI Delgado," Grimm greeted him, as he eased himself in the back of the van. "What an unpleasant surprise. I don't exactly need moral guidance to raid a house full of second hand Romantics."

"Seems our bosses think you do." Demonstratively, Adrian reached to his chest and turned on the body cam. "Pet Safety means to keep WRU property safe and well-kept. Would be a shame for the company if that weren't your highest prerogative."

Grimm clicked his tongue. "How's your own little whore anyway, eh? You keeping her safe and well-fucked? Or you defending your moral-superiority-slash-virginity against her?"

Adrian grabbed the handle over the door as the van went into a sharp curve. "What happens in my bedroom is none of your business."

"Ah, I see." He chuckled. "Nothing much, then. She's fun when you get her to scream, you know? Three fingers up the ass should do the job."

Adrian forced himself to remain calm. "What about the mission, Grimm?"

"Illegal brothel, bunch of whores with bar codes on their wrists. Police are coming in for the gangsters running it, need us to secure and seize the pets."

"How many?"

"Half dozen Romantics. Guard Dog or two." Grimm smirked. "My handlers and I will handle the Romantics, so you don't need to burden yourself with that depravity."

"Called the wife already, not to wait up," one of the other handlers chimed in. "Going to be a long night evaluating the products. We'll need to make sure they're still functional."

"While Delgado here can check if the Guard Dogs are still functional," Grimm added cheerfully. "Excellent team work."

"Truly." Adrian grinned at him darkly. "Always a pleasure working with other departments."

In his pocket, a burner phone was holding connection to his sister's, continuously sending his location data in the background.

---

It was worse than he'd expected.

Somehow, it always was.

None of the Romantics were registered to the brothel's owners. Runaways, who had either been collected off the streets by criminals or even taken the job up by themselves, earning money by doing the one thing they thought they were good at.

All of them had one thing in common - they were terrified seeing the dark gray WRU uniforms.

Some of them folded into Respect position even without the command, crying and whimpering.

Some tried to make a run for it.

Like the young man Adrian was pinning to the wall right now, barely twenty, high cheekbones, tousled black hair that fell down his back. His translucent robe hid nothing, not the too thin shape of his body, nor the bruises on his neck and thighs.

"Please," he whimpered. "Please, Sir, no, I can't go back, I'll do anything, please."

Adrian pressed him closer into the wall and leaned in. The boy reacted by curving his body against him, baring his neck, trying to rub his ass at Adrian's crotch.

Adrian squirmed. No. He couldn't do this. "See that window to our right?" he hissed. "There's a roof underneath. You hit me, get out there, down, two left turns, there's a red car. Get there, and you'll be safe."

From the end of the corridor, someone whistled. "Delgado trying to get some after all, huh? Need help?"

Adrian flipped the handler off, while he wrestled the pet's legs apart with his knee in an effort to show her what she expected to see. "Not help, fucking privacy would be nice!"

She chuckled. "Sure thing. We help each other, don't we? Be quick." He heard her press a button on her radio. "First floor clear."

Adrian reached for his own pants, pulled open his belt, while watching her leave.

His lips brushed over the boy's ear. "Got it?"

"Sure." The boy pushed back his ass. "I give you a good time and you look away for a second," he purred.

"No. You don't give me anything," Adrian said sharply. "No time. You hit me, you get to the red car. You ran away once, you do it again. Now."

He loosened his grip, and luckily, the kid had understood.

He spun around and punched him in the stomach, then a knee between the legs.

Adrian's loud whine wasn't entirely fake, as he stumbled back and rolled up on the floor. The kid stared at him for a second, and then darted towards the window Adrian had indicated, long hair flying past him like a flag.

Adrian counted to five, before he hit the button of the radio and yelled "Fuck! One got away!"

He just prayed it was true.

"One whore doesn't matter," Grimm's voice cracked in the radio. "Found the jackpot down here, be useful for once, Delgado. Basement, now."

Adrian pushed himself back to his knees. His cheek throbbed where the kid's punch had landed, not much more, but the kick between the legs had been hard. He groaned, as he started to limp towards the stairs.

The police had mostly retreated, a bunch of well dressed people loaded in the back of police trucks, some other officers carrying out computers from upstairs.

Adrian's colleagues however were in the basement, where a group of four trembling pets was huddled up behind a huge Guard Dogs shielding them against the handlers. He was growling lowly, swinging a long iron bar in one hand.

The handlers kept safe distance at the bottom of the stairs, shock batons and guns ready.

"Why don't you just shoot the dude?", the woman who'd been upstairs with Adrian demanded.

"Big guy is worth a mill," Grimm said lowly. "Top grade. Has titanium enforcements and shit. Reacquisition have been on the lookout for him for months. He'll go to refurb in mint condition, and still be on the larger end of six figures."

"Go. Away," the Guard Dog growled.

"Ressource guarding." Adrian mumbled. "Classic side effect of that sort of conditioning. Question is, does he defend all of them, or just one."

"Check the files." Grimm gestured at one of the handlers. "Did one of them escape with him?"

"Twink at the left. Not even a Romantic by designation. Domestic. Valet to their owner. Worth... neglectable."

"Huh." Grimm raised his gun and fired.

The gunshot echoed from the walls, deafening by itself, multiplied by the inhuman scream that rose from the Guard Dog's throat when the Domestic went down.

He lunged forward, at the same moment something pushed into Adrian's back.

Adrian only had time to draw his shock baton before the Guard Dog was on him, metal teeth sinking into the armour on his neck, digging through it, tearing skin and flesh. Grimm, he dimly thought. Fucking Grimm had pushed him in the line of attack.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't even raise his arm with the baton, could only scream, as the man on top of him shook his head with Adrian's neck between his teeth.

Punches rained down on the Guard Dog, vibrating in Adrian's body, his bones, his skull, everywhere. He couldn't see straight, everything a foggy blur, the only thing sharp the teeth in his neck.

There were calls around him, screams and footsteps and groans, and then finally, finally a heavy weight sinking down on him, a release of the stinging hold of his neck, and the welcoming darkness of unconsciousness.

---

When Adrian came to in the hospital the first time, it was for some minutes to a doctor changing the IV bag.

The second time was at night, when he woke up disoriented, trembling from a nightmare about Eric wearing a translucent robe, kissing his neck, then turning into a zombie biting him. Adrian's trembling fingers found a thick bandage around his neck. He rang the nurse for painkillers.

The third time, late in the morning, it was to Handler Grimm sitting in a chair next to his bed.

He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep again and make him go away.

It didn't work.

"Morning, Delgado," Grimm said cheerfully. "Man, you really went all in for the team there, didn't you?"

"Fuck you," Adrian rasped. "You fucking threw me to him as.... as bait."

"You wore armor," Grimm said with a shrug. "And you messed up right before. Plus, you're a fucking pain in the ass." He clasped Adrian's shoulder, and Adrian gasped in pain as it tore at the fresh wound. "And it worked out. I'll cash in the reacquisition bonus, and both of us will keep silent about the details, eh? I'll get you a share."

"What... about the pets?"

"Got more than half of them. They're on the Drip as we speak. Your cutie is still on the run, but don't worry, they all get picked up sooner or later. Until then, I'll make sure you'll get a little solace."

Adrian groaned, and Grimm just chuckled. "Was good working with you, eh? Cheers, PSI Delgado."

Adrian passed out, came back, and passed out again.

Somewhere in between, in the fleeting moments of consciousness, he felt someone curl up at his side, gentle hands brushing over his skin.

"I'm with you," a soft voice whispered. "I'm with you, Adrian Delgado, and I'm keeping you safe." She hummed against his skin, the cheerful tune of a Salsa song.

This time, when he fell asleep, he smiled.

--

---

tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses @pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon n @whumpinggrounds @somewhumpyguy @whumpzone @tragedyinblue

[bbu-on-the-side]

BBU 'standard' scenes and tropes

In my connect-the-community craze, I have another idea - for new writers and all readers:

A little overview on the most classic tropes and iconic moments of BBU, with the opportunity for you to link your own takes at it, as a little navigation.

The list follows here (readmore for more); I take your suggestions for what to add, and I'll make a separate post for every item that you can reblog with links to your own story featuring that.

I'll start with part I and will add to it later, also taking suggestions on what to add!

Part I: Beginning

Recruitment / Sign-Up (voluntary)

Abduction / Sign-Up (involuntary)

Intake Papers

The Drip

Takes on training / facility whump

Shipping out

-

Part II: Owner / Whumper

Unboxing

Naming the pet

Setting up rules

Punishment

Showing Off the Boxie

tbc

-

Part III: Runaway

tbc

-

Part IV: Safehouse / Caretaker

Choosing a name

First Bath

First Meal

Scar Reveal

Boxie asking to be used

Boxie breaking caretaker's property

Nightmares

tbc

-

Part V: Recapture/ Refurb/ Back at WRU

tbc