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writereleaserepeat · 12 days ago

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Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

Masterlist

Previous (Chapter 3) // Next (Chapter 5) (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, panic attacks, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan was relieved to see that the boy was capable of cleaning himself up. The shower had only run for a matter of minutes, but as Rowan lingered outside the bathroom to eavesdrop – just in case he was needed - he heard the tell-tale clicks of the shampoo bottle opening and closing. Water splashed rhythmically against freshly cleaned tiles in a hum that was barely muffled by the door. Rowan waited a few painstaking minutes after the water had turned off, seizing the opportunity to practice his patience, before he knocked and reentered.

Although it was a deeply unsettling sight to see the young man kneeling naked in his bathroom, Rowan could already see that the boy’s skin was cleaner, and his wet curls still seemed lighter than when they had been coated with grease, sweat, and blood.

The shower also made clear that some of the yellow patches on the boy’s skin were not dirt, as Rowan had foolishly hoped, but near-healed bruises. Some wounds that had been scabbed over before the shower were open now, glistening red with nascent blood as the skin tried to stitch itself back together. Bright white scars danced with blue bruising, and a single drop of crimson trailed down from a recently reopened leg wound. It seemed that the boy had interpreted the instruction to clean himself up as an instruction to rub his scabs away, scrubbing at his skin until his injuries were raw.

Rowan made a note to himself to speak more clearly in the future. The next thing Rowan noticed was that the mirror was bone-dry, no signs of steam or beading water at the top of the glass. No hints of humidity hung in the air either. He felt his lip turn down in spite of himself.

“You can use hot water next time, yeah?” He offered as hopefully as he could, though his gaze was not returned. “Seriously, you can use the hot water, as hot as you can stand it. This place is great, because I only pay a flat fee for utilities. No extra charge for those long, hot showers. Feel free to sit in the hot water as long as you want. I mean, I certainly do. Anyway, you’re looking a bit cleaner now, so maybe you want to try on some of those clothes? You’ve got to be freezing after that shower. Come on, follow me back to your room.”

And the boy followed, damp hands and knees finding purchase on vinyl tiles, an unfamiliar rhythm across the condo’s floors. Rowan winced again, making sure to hide his disappointment by looking towards the ceiling. They’d have to do something about the crawling, get him back on his feet and walking with confidence. They’d also have to get him eating and drinking on his own, comfortable enough to take showers in hot water, wearing clothes by default, acting of his own will and guided by his own desires…

Rowan bit back a sigh. There was a lot to work on.

They made it back across the hall, and Rowan walked over to the file cabinet that was currently doubling as the boy’s dresser. He slid the bottom drawer open as the steady shuffle-crawl followed in behind him. Rowan’s fingers thumbed through the sweaters that he’d hastily folded just hours earlier, one after the other, a stack of cotton and polyester and sherpa promising warmth. There was a sweatshirt he remembered specifically from his clothing haul, something lined with fleece, certainly thick enough to restore a bit of warmth after a cold shower. Hands still digging through the drawer, Rowan defaulted to his rambling once again.

“I know I set out sweatpants and a sweatshirt earlier, but there might be a warmer sweater in here. I’m going to guess you’re cold, so let’s see if-“ and as Rowan turned to look back at his guest, just to see if he was listening, his heart dropped through his stomach.

There, on the bed, the young man was presenting himself with raised hips and a carefully arched back, eyes looking up through thick eyelashes to meet Rowan’s own-

“Fuck.” Rowan gasped, and he took a step back so fast that his shoulder slammed into the filing cabinet. His hand snapped up to shield his eyes while his voice bubbled up from his chest, words coming out as an inadvertent shout. “No! Jesus Christ, no! No. Stop doing- stop doing that. Fuck, get down from there, just get down. No, we’re not doing that. I’m not going to- we’re not- just- fuck-“

Before Rowan could speak another word, the young man bolted off the bed and down to the floor, throwing himself flat against the ground so hard that the nearby furniture trembled. The sound of his bony knees hitting the ground resounded like two gunshots. In the blink of an eye, Rowan’s outburst had caused the emaciated victim to expose his scar-riddled back to the sky.

It was clear that he was waiting for Rowan to rain blows down on his skin, whether with fists or with whips, another line written in the book of abuse written for all to see. He trembled, but he was silent, utterly silent. This was routine, a punishment he’d been subjected to before. It was something the boy expected, that he waited for, that was the natural consequence to someone raising their voice.

All because Rowan had been a bit uncomfortable, and all because he couldn’t keep that discomfort to himself. He’d been given a sliver of power, a shred of influence, and he’d already resorted to screaming.

Guilt washed over Rowan just as coldly as shock had moments earlier. The sight of the boy offering himself up for punishment, moments after he’d offered himself up for use, jolted Rowan’s consciousness back into his body. He’d yelled, one of the very few thingshe wasn’t supposed to do, and had undoubtedly terrified his guest in the process. The boy’s hands were trembling where they rested, palms up, in front of him. Short gasps came from his mouth, just soft enough that they weren’t quite whimpers, but Rowan could hear the tears he was swallowing back nonetheless.

Rowan pulled in a deep breath, surprised to find that his own eyes were stinging with emotion and moisture. This was all too much. He knew what the victims endured in their abuse, he knew that he had brought a Romantic into his home, he knew all of this from when he signed the papers and looked through the PLF rehabilitation materials. But it was one thing to read the words on a page, and it was another thing to have a battered young man on his bed offering himself up for abuse.

It was the closest Rowan had come, now by himself and in his very own home, to seeing just what he’d been fighting to have dismantled all these years. It was the closest he’d been to direct complicity, to participating in the cruelty of man. It was the closest he’d been to hell on earth.

I can fix this, Rowan thought to himself, forcing another deep breath into his lungs. I have to fix this. I can smooth this over, make it better. This is what I signed up for, this is what I’m here to fix, this is what I have to deal with. I fucked up, so I have to fix it.

What better way to start than with an apology?

“I’m sorry,” Rowan hissed through his teeth as he fought to control his volume. He wasn’t going to yell again, no matter how hot the adrenaline felt in his veins. “I shouldn’t have yelled, and you’re not in trouble. You’re not in trouble, I promise, it’s all okay. You’re okay. You’re alright. Everything’s alright.” Rowan’s heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that it was hard to swallow his volume back. His head felt heavy and his hands tingled with the panic seizing his nervous system.

Yet Rowan knew that he was not the most terrified person in the room. No matter how scared he was at the seemingly impossible challenges ahead, and no matter how worried he was that he’d already ruined everything, the boy was infinitely more afraid. If his first instinct after a shower was to offer his body up for sexual abuse, and if his first instinct after a shout was to offer that body for physical abuse, there was little question as to what horrors he’d endured before this point. He hadn’t even been in Rowan’s home for more than an hour, and he had resigned himself to the service of a stranger who owned his body, who held a title to his very life. There was no sign of the defiance, or disobedience, or even displeasure. It was fluid, seamless, undeniable recognition of ownership.

The boy hadn’t moved despite Rowan’s attempted placations. A perfect pet, entirely obedient, unmoved by gentleness. This was everything WRU wanted in its output, in its products. Simultaneously, it was everything that made Rowan sick to his stomach.

After a painstaking deep breath, Rowan grabbed the clothes he wanted from the file cabinet, and took a step towards the body trembling on the floor. He kept his steps slow, movements as glacial as he could muster, hoping that the boy wouldn’t expect a blow.

“Hey, I’m coming over now, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even going to touch you. Just-“

The boy flinched nonetheless as Rowan lowered the clothes to the floor beside his outstretched palms.

“Here,” Rowan offered, voice as soft and level as he could manage, “these are for you. To get dressed. Please, get dressed. I’m going to leave you alone now, okay? Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back later to check in. I think we both need… a minute, yeah? A minute to take a breather. Both of us. You’re not in trouble. Just, get dressed please.”

Rowan left as quickly as he could manage, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

---

The pet could hardly choke back its tears. What had it done wrong? Had it erred by not offering to please Master first, settled square on its knees, eyes pointed upwards and an eager, open mouth? Had it not cleaned itself well enough, hair still damp from the shower, some wounds still raw and dripping blood? Had it not seen something obvious in this room that it should have found for Master’s use instead?

But the punishment it expected for its insolence and incorrect assumptions never came. Even though it had exposed its hands and its back, opening its skin for lashes or stomping boots, no such corrections came. It hadn’t been able to make out the precise words that Master had shouted, his precise displeasure lost to the ringing in the pet’s ears, but it knew anger from the tone alone. It always knew when its master was angry.

Anger, yet no correction. Shouting, but no punishment. Nothing but a bundle of clothes dropped on the ground beside it, a clear indication that it was supposed to get dressed.

And with that, Master left, closing the door behind him. The pet was left alone to cover its shameful body and await its uncertain future.

---

Rowan wasted no time in grabbing the now-wrinkled PLF Rehabilitation Manual from where he’d placed it on top of the fridge. He knew that if he didn’t separate it from the rest of the paperwork strewn across the kitchen counters, he’d certainly lose it amidst the chaos. On top of the fridge, placed alongside the boxes of now-stale cereal, was as safe a place as any.

He leaned the small of his back against the countertop and busied himself with thumbing through the pages. His eyes flicked quickly over the table of contents, then through the section headers in the body of the document. When he read the manual earlier, he swore he’d seen a few pages dedicated to fixing a fuck-up. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? It was a fuck up of fantastic proportions. Rowan hadn’t even made it two hours before he’d yelled at the abuse victim in his second bedroom, all but screamed at him, just for doing what he’d been so thoroughly trained to do.

He was the picture of a perfect pet, and Rowan had managed to get mad at that. In the boy’s mind, he’d done exactly as he was trained, and it still hadn’t been enough for Rowan. That was going to forever be his first impression of Rowan.

Some people are just more suited for fieldwork, the voice of his past mentor echoed in his ears. Rehabilitation and recovery isn’t for everyone. Just like Greyson has found his stride working on the administrative side of the PLF, you’re doing your best work out in the field. Rehabilitation is an entirely different skillset, a skillset that some people don’t excel in, and that’s fine. Everyone’s job is important here. Your job is important even if you don’t work directly with the victims, I promise.

And yet, despite years of being aware that he was most certainly not suited for rehabilitation work, he’d taken up this cross on little more than impulse. The only one who would pay for Rowan’s ignorance and impatience was the very person who needed him the most.

For the second time since he’d purchased the boy he felt his eyes sting. The weight of this new responsibility weighed on his shoulders now more than ever. There was so much that could go wrong, so much pain and misery he could unknowingly inflict. This time it was his own uncontrollable shock, something he should have been able to swallow back. What would it be next time? His impatience? His ignorance?

Rowan swallowed back the lump in his throat as he finally found the dog-eared page he’d been looking for. He’d dog-eared it, of course, because he’d been afraid he’d have to use it.

You Lost Your Temper – Now What?

In a perfect world, we’d never lose our temper when assisting the wards in our care. Much like we might lose our temper with friends, family, or colleagues, we might likewise lose our temper with our wards.

These moments, while less than ideal, present a learning opportunity for all parties involved. For you, the guardian, it is an opportunity to model sincere apologies and create a safe space for your ward to talk about how they feel. For your ward, it is an opportunity to learn that they deserve politeness and equal treatment from others. For both guardian and ward, it is the chance to discuss communication, expectations, and mutual respect.

Should you lose your temper with a ward in your care, take the time to collect yourself and your emotions. You might be feeling upset, disappointed, or even angry with yourself. You might even be upset with your ward for the actions that triggered the incident, even if you know those actions aren’t their fault. You might be upset with a ward who tested your boundaries, or exercised their freedom and autonomy, in a way that you aren’t comfortable with. These are normal and expected feelings. While it is healthy to process these emotions and acknowledge their impact on you, it is best to do them away from your ward early in the relationship, and in front of your ward later in the relationship. Both are opportunities to model behavioral processing in a healthy and focused way.

Once you have gathered yourself and recognized your own emotions, take some time to think about what caused that first negative feeling. Recognize the moment you lost your temper, recognize what triggered that initial negative emotion, and consider creating a plan to prevent a similar reaction in the future. Take as much time as needed for this process, and ideally, try to give your ward an adequate amount of time to process the event as well.

Finally, talk to your ward directly. Make an appropriate apology for your reaction. For example, if you yelled, apologize for raising your voice. Take the opportunity to remind your ward that they should be treated with kindness and respect at all times, and acknowledge that you did not fulfill that basic expectation. You do not need to share the reason for your reaction – in fact, doing so can cause unnecessary fear and guilt in your ward, particularly early in the recovery process, and even more so if the triggering behavior was due to their trauma or conditioning. Instead, offer them comfort and an opportunity to discuss how the event made them feel.

The rest of the page was filled with sample conversations, language for new rehabilitators to use in such situations. Rowan studied them carefully, feeling himself grow calmer as he did so. He wasn’t the first rehabilitator to fuck up, and from the looks of the manual, he certainly wouldn’t be the last. While this did little to alleviate the guilt, it allowed for a small sliver of relief. There wasn’t anything uniquely wrong with him. Instead, his response was one rooted in human emotion, another byproduct of the system and its cruelty. His disgust was with systemic oppression, not with the boy himself.

I have to do better, Rowan reminded himself, and he took yet another deep breath. His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline that had dumped into his system.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the boy was affected if he himself was feeling the effects of his own temper so severely.

That was the next thought in his mind. He couldn’t simply refer to his guest as the boy forever. Part of developing autonomy, including the autonomy necessary to process scenarios such as the one that Rowan had just created, came from a sense of independent identity. Right now, the boy was just that: the boy in Rowan’s spare room, an object, a legal possession. To recover, he would have to become so much more than that. The manual had said as much: giving the ward a name as soon as possible was critical to developing a relationship of equals.

That would all have to come later, and it would hopefully come from the help of a rehabilitator that Rowan prayed was on the way his condo. Hope was doing a lot of heavy lifting as Rowan sat and stewed at his kitchen counter. He took a moment to check his phone, then he checked a second time to confirm there were no new messages, before placing it back on the granite.

His heart was still racing, so he looked back to the manual with a glance, then over to the closed door of the den, then back to the manual. If either of them were going to make it out of this intact, the least Rowan could do was take the manual’s word as gospel.

What emotion am I feeling? It burned hot, Rowan knew that much, and it had spurred him to yell when he rarely ever did so. Is it anger?

But instead of a tightness in his throat and a burning in his head that he would expect from anger, Rowan felt a tingling in his fingertips, a tugging in his chest, a queasiness in his stomach. It was like he was in grade school all over again, waiting for a teacher to pass out a test he hasn’t studied for. It was that heavy, burdensome dread that clung to him every time he walked onto the liquidation event sales floor.

Rowan knew he could name the feelings as soon as he took note of their home in his body. It was one that he was loathe to admit, even as old as he was, because of the stigma of weakness that clung to those words. No matter how many times he had conquered these feelings in the past, he struggled to confront them now.

But he had to. He had to, for the sake of the person in his care, the very soul that was counting on him to move past the discomfort. Rowan would have to now, and he would have to again, for the both of them.

What am I feeling? He asked himself again, biting down on his lip in spite of himself. Coppery blood washed over his tongue from the open wound. What am I really feeling?

Anxiety. Fear, dread, distress.

Those feelings were so much more than mere anger, and they were budding like a nascent ulcer in his stomach. Those were the feelings that had governed his actions since he’d signed the contract just over 24 hours prior. Adrenaline had made him run like prey, a panicked creature hunted by an unseen predator. Rowan was a gazelle on an endless savannah, running for his life, uncaring of his destination so long as it put distance between himself and the lion on his tail.

In Rowan’s case, the lion was the system itself, the weight of an industry that would crush him if it knew what he was doing. It was ruthless, it was nefarious, and it would readily kill him if it knew of his efforts to liberate people from its clutches. If so, he wouldn’t be the first liberationist to go missing under similar circumstances.

Of course Rowan was frightened, and of course he had every reason to be. There was legislation, there was law, there was unspeakable amounts of money and power that he was up against. The PLF had always been at a systemic disadvantage in this fight, as had all of its victims, all of its wards. They were fighting on the side of the underdogs, and they would be underdogs until a significant change in the public consciousness occurred.

I’m smarter than a gazelle, Rowan thought to himself, fist tight in his lap. And the lion’s only teeth are rich politicians with a vested interest in oppression. I’m not their fuckinggazelle. I’m braver, I’m smarter, and I’m stronger. I have to be. I refuse to be their prey.

A few more moments of steady breathing were necessary for Rowan to compose himself. And just as the manual had mandated, he’d named his emotions, processed them, and acknowledged their trigger: a victim, a ward who could not consent, offering their body for sexual and physical abuse.

Another minute passed, and much to Rowan’s pleasant surprise, his breathing had levelled. The buzzing in his extremities had relaxed, and his heart no longer felt like it was being squeezed in an unforgiving fist.

The next step was to confront his ward, the boy still waiting and terrified in the spare bedroom.

“I can do this,” Rowan muttered under his breath, the soft escape of his internal dialogue. “I can apologize, I can name my feelings, and I can offer reassurance.”

He paused and searched his thoughts for something to bridge the gap. What had the boy responded to the best in these last few hours?

After a moment of mulling, Rowan realized that it had been the water. The boy had grasped the glass as if it offered his only salvation. He’d swallowed it in the blink of an eye, disappearing before Rowan could have even come up with the words to stop him.

Of course, as Rowan knew from more than a decade of field work, the victims that were prepared for transit were both starved and dehydrated to reduce any potential resistance during transit or during their first few hours with their purchasers.

Such practices resulted in a non-zero number of transit deaths each year, some of which Rowan had documented firsthand.

Rowan went over to the pantry and took out another glass, paced over to the fridge, and poured another glass of cool water from the filter. He filled it just below the brim, tall enough that the boy would be able to drink his fill, but not so full that shaking hands would be unable to raise it to equally unsteady lips.

Glass in hand, Rowan walked back over to the second bedroom’s door.

He paused. A moment, a deep breath, a hand raised towards the faux-wood painted in landlord-eggshell. And he knocked, once, twice, knuckles on the paint making a hollow thunk with each hit.

No response was expected. None came. After another two long seconds, Rowan grasped the doorknob and pushed into the room.

---

The pet had gotten dressed. It had dressed itself in the clothes that Master had tossed beside it after he had yelled, the command obvious enough even without it understanding the precise language.

It knew it had messed up. It knew that something it had done – perhaps it was the position? Perhaps it was the assumption that it would be taken on the bed? – had made its master furious. It had made its master so furious that he had thrown clothes at it, commanded it to cover itself, and left it alone.

So the pet had obeyed as best as it could. It clothed itself in the linens – softer than it had ever been granted with its old master, and so much warmer too – and resumed its position kneeling in the center of the room. Master had placed it here for a reason, certainly, alone with nothing but its thoughts and the ringing in its ears.

Fully clad, from its ankles to its wrist, in pillow-like clothing, the pet felt the pull of sleep. Even the fear from its Master yelling was not enough to overcome the exhaustion of its travels and of its last moments with its handlers. It was so tired that it was nodding off where it knelt, knowing full well that such an action would earn it a lashing like no other.

But its body would only be pushed so far before it broke.

Adrenaline returned when the walls and floor trembled with slight vibrations. Ever since the ringing in its ears had begun in earnest, the pet had learned to pay attention to the way the surfaces around it sang. Now, the floorboards rumbled with the sound of its Master approaching. Light steps – none so heavy as its old master – but an insistent knocking that carried through the wood and laminate.

The pet wished it could shrink in on itself, become smaller, offer an adequate with just its body. But it was already as small as it could make itself, swallowed by the billowing fabric of the sweatshirt, sleeves coming down past its wrists and covering its bony knuckles.

There was almost a certain chance that it would be asked to remove the sweatshirt in short order, anyway.

As it expected, Master’s feet appeared before it moments later. It took deep breaths, listening to the steady hum of Master’s voice. He wasn’t shouting, not this time, back to that level-set rhythm that the pet already found so soothing. If there was supposed to be anger or frustration, the pet couldn’t hear it.

That wasn’t saying much, given that it couldn’t hear much at all.

Much to the pet’s surprise, Master leaned down and placed another glass in front of it. This glass was crystal-clear, filled nearly to the brim with water, its surface rippling from the movement. Although it had happily drank the earlier glass of water at its Master’s command, the pet was still parched. And although its stomach was still in knots from how Master had yelled at it, how it had been waiting for a punishment yet to come, the thirst once again prevailed.

It knew better than to grab the glass with its greedy hands. Waiting, patience, showed the very skills that it had been trained time and again to embody. So it waited, waited, until Master’s voice raised with a sharp uptick in volume.

Drink.

The pet did so without hesitation. It reached forward and it drank eagerly, trying to still the trembling of its hands as it did so. Although it had to raise its head to drink, it made sure to keep its eyes pointed downwards in as much respect and deference as it could display.

The water disappeared in a matter of moments, the pet ensuring that it showed its gratitude for the generosity by finishing it with haste. Carefully as it could manage it placed the glass back on the floor where Master had set it.

Its stomach was still tight with worry, filled with the sandwich and the first glass of water, but it was confident that it would keep the meal down. It had to – if it got sick now, there was no telling when it would get food again. This nutrition was more valuable than anything else at the moment, it was the only way it could hope to have the strength to carry on.

---

“That’s great,” Rowan praised, trying to keep his voice steady as he had been. It had already been stressful enough to raise it to give the command to drink, but the boy seemed unfazed. In fact, he finished the full glass in a matter of seconds, drinking eagerly and without hesitation.

Figuring out how to get the boy to drink on his own would be a challenge for another day. For now, even if Rowan had to command as much, drinking something was better than not at all.

Now, for the reason he’d come back into the room in the first place, when all he wanted to do was leave the boy alone long enough to decompress.

“Hey, uhm, I’m sorry for yelling,” Rowan said. The apology came easily and naturally enough, so he pushed on. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. That was wrong of me, and you didn’t deserve it. You did nothing wrong. Really, you did nothing wrong. The fact that I yelled was my fault. I’m not angry at you. I’m not mad, and I’m not going to hurt you. Everything is okay.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t acknowledge a word beyond the command to drink. Just as all the other times Rowan had spoken, he seemed attentive, but didn’t react.

“I mean it,” Rowan pushed on. “I’m sorry. Everything is alright. You’re okay. You’re safe here, with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to ask you to do those things you had to do before. It caught me off guard, and my reaction was wrong. I shouldn’t have raised my voice”

Nothing. At this rate, it would be impossible to have the back-and-forth dialogue that the manual had encouraged, but Rowan knew that it was possibly asking too much for a first day, even a first week, or a first month. His one-sided apology was a start, at least.

“If you want to tell me how you feel, you can,” Rowan offered the floor up. “It’s okay. You can say how you feel – actually, you can talk, if you’d like, about anything. I haven’t heard you say anything yet, but you’re allowed. You’re allowed to talk as much as you want here. And- and you can get your own water, and your own food- ah. I’m getting ahead of myself, I think. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s okay, and you can talk to me. If I scared you, or upset you, you can tell me that. And if you tell me what’s wrong, I’ll do my best to make it better.”

As Rowan rambled on, self-conscious of the words spilling out of his mouth, he forced himself to look down at the boy kneeling before him. This was no way to talk to a victim like this, was it? Rowan was still towering above him, voice booming downwards, the power imbalance as visual as it was ingrained in the boy’s blood.

So, after another moment, Rowan sat.

He lowered himself to the floor in front of the boy and sat down, crossing his legs like he was a child again. A laugh almost escaped his mouth as he realized how much flexibility he’d lost, knees straining and thighs tugging, as he finally got his ankles close to one another.

The boy perked up immediately, looking through his hanging curls in Rowan’s direction with those bright doe-eyes that Rowan had only seen a glimpse of once so far. Rowan smiled in spite of himself.

“Hey, is this better for you? I think it’s better, at least for right now, if you don’t want to stand up yet. This will let us talk to each other like equals, yeah? We are, you know. Even if you don’t believe it yet. So, I’ll say it again, and maybe you can think about it some more. I’m sorry for yelling at you, and yelling was wrong of me. I never should have raised my voice. I wasn’t mad at you, I was just surprised, because I don’t want to do those sorts of things to you. I’m here to help you, not hurt you, especially not like that. I promise that you’re safe, and no harm is going to come to you here.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. As Rowan spoke the boy’s weight shifted slightly forward, so slight that Rowan almost missed it entirely, and his eyes flitted from his knees towards Rowan’s face. He never quite made eye contact, still hidden behind the curtain of hair, but it was closer than Rowan had been able to achieve from a standing position.

This was what had stood out to Rowan on the sales floor of the liquidation event. The boy seemed distant, but he was far from catatonic like some of the victims that were more difficult to rescue. There was a spark, an attentiveness, a willingness to listen and to obey. It was a flame that yearned for the chance to survive.

Rowan just had to figure out how to nurture that flame and reach through the glass between himself and the boy. They would have to break that barrier down if they were going to move towards healing.

“Yeah, we’re just having a conversation right now, that’s all.” He wasn’t sure how effective his soothing would be so soon after his yelling, but Rowan knew he had to try. “If you want to talk about how you’re feeling, you can do that, talk to me all you want. You can also just tell me to leave if you’d rather be alone right now.”

Nothing, still nothing.

“Can you nod for me if you want to be alone?” He asked, hoping to see some movement. Nothing. “Can you shake your head if you want me to stay?” Nothing again.

A thought struck Rowan as he saw the boy’s eyes peek up again, still hunting, almost fixated on his lips. He tried again once he saw the boy look upwards.

“Can you nod your head for me?”

And just like that, the boy’s head moved slightly, once up, once down. It was short, but unmistakably the very nod that Rowan’s question had evoked. And once the nod had finished, the boy looked back down at the floor.

“Can you nod again?” He asked once more as soon as he was certain the boy was no longer looking.

No movement.

“Oh my god,” Rowan whispered out loud as realization flashed through him, and he clambered to his feet. He nearly tripped over himself as he did so, staggering to a standing position and darting behind the boy, back over to the far corner of the room, directly behind his ward. The boy was still kneeling, unmoving, his eyes were still pointed towards the door. Importantly, he was unable to see Rowan’s face even if he raised his eyes.

Rowan snapped his fingers, a few times on his right, a few times on his left. No reaction. Then, after a pause to suppress the oncoming wave of guilt, he clapped his hands together with considerable force. The sound was sharp enough to echo throughout the small room.

This evoked a reaction. It was subtle, but he saw the boy’s shoulders twitch in some sort of anticipation. A fear response, automatic, but a response nonetheless.

“Holy shit,” Rowan muttered to himself, a hand running through his hair almost of its own accord. His epiphany was looking more and more like a plausible possibility.

“Hey, turn around,” he instructed. He made sure not to raise his voice, keeping it as neutral as possible, but still issuing the command with certainty. Again, no movement. He tried again, same tone, conversational volume. “Turn around, right now. Turn around and look at me.”

Nothing.

After a deep breath, and a final reminder that he was doing this for the boy’s own good, Rowan shouted.

“Turn around!”

And just like that the boy moved, turning on his knees in a swift, fluid motion. A blink later and he was kneeling in that same position, but this time pointed towards where Rowan stood at the back of the room.

A nervous chuckle slipped out before Rowan could swallow it. All of that pain, all of that suffering, the threat of death on the sales floor, it had all been under the guise of disobedience. Rowan was now certain it was anything but.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you’re not disobedient. You just can’t fucking hear me.”

There was a euphoria he couldn’t describe blossoming in his chest. This rescue wasn’t a hopeless mistake that he had made, this victim wasn’t beyond recovery or redemption. He simply couldn’t hear the very words that Rowan was speaking to him, commands or otherwise.

It was Rowan’s turn to drop to his knees, aging bones hitting the wood as he fell a mere foot from where the boy had stationed himself.

“It’s okay!” Rowan all but shouted, the boy’s flinch lost to the excitement. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all okay.” His voice was as loud as he could make it without screaming.

“You’re safe. You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re home, you’re safe. It’s all going to be okay.”

A/N: Cheers to the rewrite for a chance to make it clear that Rowan's not an idiot, he's just out of his depth. That was one of the driving factors for the rewrite, actually. Sorry for those that hoped there'd be a few more chapters of misunderstanding and obliviousness from our well-meaning caretaker - it's important to me that Rowan is capable and aware of himself in this story, particularly given his role in other liberation efforts. But there will absolutely be other barriers to communication and understanding between the two, I can promise that much!

Taglist:

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

@maenr @whump-enthousiast @taterswhump @whump-me-harder

#hear no evil #whump #whump writing #whumplr #whump community #bbu #bbu whump #thanks to everyone who's tagging along on this wild ride #all your notes and comments mean the world to me

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distinctlywhumpthing · 3 months ago

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Leo reads Aiden's Intake Form

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Leo jumps when his phone vibrates against the countertop, a flat buzz like an insect trapped inside a jar. It’s only Delia, probably calling on her drive home to chat, but his chest tightens as he raises it to his ear.

“Can you come outside?” She asks.

“What? Why?”

He’s expecting an annoyed tsk but instead, she just sounds tired. “Just come outside. Alone.”

If only for the reassurance of seeing Aiden content, Leo goes all the way upstairs to tell him he’s going to grab something from the van.

Aiden’s lying on his stomach in bed playing on his Switch, feet kicking lazily in the air. When he sees Leo, his eyes flick around, like he’s checking to make sure his bed is perfectly made or he didn’t leave a stray sock beside the laundry basket. He waits until Leo’s in the doorway to sit up and put the screen aside, looking relieved as he does. Leo knows how much effort it takes every second he doesn’t snap to attention.

He’s convinced Aiden will smell the lie on him but he just says okay and nods. No questioning gaze or hesitation. Aiden picks up his Switch again but keeps it resting on his lap. Hopefully just until Leo turns away and not until he’s closed the front door behind him.

It rained earlier. The pavement, still holding the heat of the day, evaporates the water quickly, mist hanging just above the ground in the yellow cast of the street lights. Delia’s parked behind the cover of his van. His stomach tightens at her deepening subterfuge.

Delia has the heat in her car cranked to the highest setting and it smells exactly like the hospital and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He wants to get out immediately.

“So? What’s—”

“Here.” She holds a piece of paper out to him. Right before he takes it, she pulls it back again. “I just want to say, for the record, that I wanted to take his number off this and destroy it. There’s a big chance most of this is made up and it’s only his place to tell anyway.”

Delia finally meets his eyes, waiting.

“What do you want me to say?” The backseat is absolute chaos. Scrubs and other clothes are strewn about. He counts no fewer than six water bottles and thermoses. And the cherry on top: half a loaf of bread—bag not fully closed—and peanut butter and jelly jars, complete with the knife she must have used to make her dinner, strawberry jam dripping onto the upholstery underneath. He sighs and forces his attention back to Delia. “I can’t know if I agree with you or not if I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine, but I tried.”

“Duly noted.” He means it earnestly but she rolls her eyes and reluctantly hands him the sheet of paper. His stomach is doing somersaults before he even starts to read. It’s a bad photocopy of a bad scan. The handwriting is fuzzy at best, the lines slanting across the page. He has to squint to read it.

Handler.

Committed.

Revision.

“What—”

Parents.

Sedation and five-point restraint.

Leo’s stomach churns. “What the fuck is this?” He holds it away even though he’s barely halfway through.

Delia takes a deep breath. “The good news is that if we finally have his ID number, we can move forward with the paperwork for—”

“Do not finish that sentence right now,” he grates.

“Strictly as a means to an end,” she quickly adds. “You know it’s the first step—”

“Stop with the legalese. I already agreed to that. I want you to tell me what the fuck I’m reading.” His shirt is starting to stick to his back, he wants to rip off his jacket but the seat is too far forward in this stupid car.

“It’s an intake form,” she says softly.

“That is the easiest part to read.” He turns off the damn heat and the absence of noise rings in his ears. “Seriously, Delia. What does this mean? ‘Straight Paths’? ‘Committed by his…parents’?”

“There are a lot of different ways into the System, it was designed that way. Criminals out of for-profit prisons, homeless off the streets, all the stuff you already know, but it goes deeper.” He can hear the venom, even through her clinical voice. “They have so-called treatment programs for alcoholism, addiction, and…well…straight paths.”

He feels sick to his stomach. “For fuck’s sake.”

“I know, it’s awful.”

“What does ‘revision’ mean?” He isn’t sure he wants to know.

“That’s the term they use for administering amnesics.”

He forces a breath in.

“But we already know that he has some—maybe even a lot—of his memories,” she rushes to say.

“Memories of having ‘five-point restraints’ used on him?” He spits, making her grimace. “Where did you even get this?” He’s gripping the vile document so hard it shakes.

Delia carefully extracts it from his fist. “One of Noah’s safehouse contacts has a contact at one of the facilities. They’ve helped in situations like this when we had no choice but to pull records. We only use it as a last resort because it’s so risky for everyone involved. The last time we did this it was a matter of life or death and we needed a medical file—”

He’s not even listening anymore. All he can think about is Aiden, innocently playing video games upstairs. Comfortable, content. Now, Leo will have to face him with these fresh horrors in mind. Even if he tried, he’s not sure he could hide that he learned something new. But, like Delia said, this should have been his to share. He runs his hand over his hair.

“I wish there had been another way,” he laments uselessly. He wishes he listened to her and never read any of it. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“No…that’s the thing…” She swallows. “We’re going to have to ask him.”

Leo shakes his head. “Jesus Christ, Delia. You know what it’s like for him every time we’ve tried. We can’t—”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if there was an alternative. It’ll be different this time because he doesn’t have to try to say it or write it.”

“But what if he still can’t recognize it?” He scrubs his hands over his face. “You said yourself the sequencing, the long number sequence—”

She has to whisper it, “His conditioning should override any symptoms of his aphasia.”

Leo gets out of the car, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He makes a beeline for the edge of the parking lot and vomits into the neat row of bushes there.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps

@batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight

@whumps-and-bumps @i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney

#box boy universe #box boy whump #bbu adjacent #pet whump #dubious caretaker #recovery whump #conversion therapy tw #abuse tw #restraints tw #institutionalized slavery #bbu whump #part of a whole legitimizing Aiden's status arc/drama #probably takes place some months after More Than This

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doumidas-whumps · 3 months ago

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some punishments are easier than others (part 1)

Port's least favorite one so far.

this is before sonny's time. part 1 is pretty short and light on whump, but things will pick up in part 2 ;D

cw: BBU/pet whump, abusive master, starvation & sleep deprivation

He pinched another grain of rice between his thumb and forefinger, plucking it from the glass bowl. His hand was on the verge of cramping, but he lifted the grain to the lamplight, squinting at it. White. He dropped it into a smaller bowl, adding to the slowly growing pile.

He pressed his thumb into the meat of his twitching hand, trying to ease the discomfort. At this rate he wouldn’t finish by morning. He looked to the clock, but it was covered. He had thrown a kitchen towel over it some time ago. It was both disheartening to see how slowly time was passing and anxiety-inducing to see how little time he had left. The last time he saw the clock, it read 3:46 AM. He was sure at least an hour had to have passed by now.

He had been sorting rice all night, grain-by-grain. There was a little less than a quarter remaining in the bowl, a mix of white and brown. Basmati rice separated into one bowl, brown rice in the other.

This was definitely one of least favorite punishments so far. It was also unusually creative. Port would have preferred for Mr. Oz to just hit him. A few strikes with a belt? A smack in the face? That was easy. He’s been through far worse.

His master’s anger was usually quick, burning hot and bright. Funnily enough, it reminded Port of when Mr. Oz once managed to set fire inside the microwave. Port came as soon as he heard his master’s alarmed shout. Mr. Oz was about to open it, to put the flame out, but Port grabbed his wrist to stop him, in a manner so bold he couldn’t believe he’d even done it. He didn’t know how he knew, but the door should stay closed. He unplugged the microwave and they watched the flame starve of oxygen and burn out. It took less than a minute. Mr. Oz patted him on the back for it. Good thinking, he had said.

This time… Mr. Oz was angry at him, but not enough to lose his temper. No, this had been a cold anger, followed by a calculated punishment.

He had left in the morning without a word. When he came home late that night, he pulled two hefty bags out of the cupboard, one in each hand. A bag of brown rice and a bag of white. He tossed them onto the table, grabbed the large bowl that Port liked to use for bread. Port watched this all nervously, silently, with his hands carefully clasped behind his back.

Mr. Oz dumped the entirety of both bags into the bowl. A few grains escaped and skittered across the table, onto the floor. He mixed the two rices together with both hands like he was kneading dough.

Now separate these, he ordered. I want the rice back in the bags by the time I get up. You’re not allowed to sleep until tomorrow night. Understand?

Port’s eyes had slipped closed against his will, only for a moment, the familiar weight of resignation sitting heavy in his stomach. He composed himself. Yes, sir, he said. I’m sorry.

I know you are.

Now, hours later, Port realized he'd been absently rolling a grain of rice between his fingers like a pebble. He moved to see it better. His eyes were burning, and his vision had gone a little blurry.

Brown. He cast it into the bowl with the others. The pads of his fingers felt chalky and raw.

——

Port was frying eggs when he heard the familiar heavy footfalls down the stairs. He sensed Mr. Oz enter the kitchen, and Port turned around, bowing his head respectfully. “Good morning, sir.”

“Where’s the rice?”

“In the cupboard, sir.”

Port turned to tend to the eggs, and when he looked back, Mr. Oz had one of the bags out and was peering inside it with his eyebrows raised. He jostled it a little, disturbing the rice inside. He must have been satisfied, because he closed it and put it back in the cupboard. He didn’t even bother to check the other one.

“How long did that take you?”

“’Til 5:30.”

Mr. Oz said nothing more, only sat at the table.

Port slid the eggs onto a plate and placed it in front of him, along with a fork. He grabbed the mug of coffee from the machine and placed that on the table, too, feeling like he was moving through molasses. Port eyed the eggs as Mr. Oz drizzled hot sauce on them.

Port was pretty sure he already knew the answer to this question, but he figured he would ask anyway. “May I eat today, sir?”

Mr. Oz finished the bite he was chewing. “No.” He forked another piece of peppered yellow egg into his mouth.

Port lowered his head and took the frying pan from the stove to the sink. The smell of breakfast permeated the kitchen. Port hated the taste, but he wondered if he should sneak some coffee after Mr. Oz left, just to keep himself awake. He would have no way of knowing, right?

——

Not long after finishing breakfast, his master was ready to head out. He stopped by the door. “I’ll probably be home late tonight,” he said. “Don’t forget your rules.“

“Yes, sir. Have a good day.”

Mr. Oz just rolled his eyes and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

part 2

#whump writing #whump #pet whump #bbu whump #conditioned whumpee #starvation #sleep deprivation #wru #bbu #ficmidas #solitaire #porter oz #parsa osman

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pyrepostings · 7 months ago

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Box boy-esque universe where recruitment cares a bit about some form of consent to turn people into boxies, so when whumper wants someone who won't be tricked into it they just capture and train their whumpee themselves.

Everyone in this universe is like 'what the fuck you can't do that' and because of corporations protecting themselves and general propaganda (I'm thinking almost apple villifing right to repair type vibe) everyone sees going the homemade route to be barbaric and cruel, but WRU is ethically sourcing and handling their officially branded boxies (of course)

So homemade boxie does get a chance to be rescued and recover and see whumper behind bars, but lives in a system of people going through the exact same thing as them but they don't get justice or sympathy.

Do you think a well meaning but susceptible to propaganda caretaker would purchase an off-the-shelf boxie to help with menial tasks during whumpee's recovery?

Maybe to show that 'you're not like them, see this one likes being depersoned'. Caretaker offhand insulting pet lib activists, thinking that it's an overreaction for whumpee to get mad at them for it.

I just think the contrast and hypocrisy could be neat.

#Propaganda is one hell of a drug #PyrePrompts #Boxie #box boy universe #box boy whump #Bbu #bbu whump #whump prompt #whumpee #whump scenario #whump prompts #whump #whump writing #whumper #whump ideas #It would be a bit of a battle but caretaker would eventually realize the propaganda for what it is #pet whump

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justplainwhump · 4 months ago

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Warrant

Thanks to everyone who stayed patient with me regarding Tyler's story. Here we are.

Tyler's facility is raided by the police.

[Masterpost]

Content (warnings): Implied noncon, facilty whump, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee covering for whumper (idk if thats a thing to tag but anyway), (sort of) parental caretaker.

Time passed differently within the white walls of WRU. It affected even the handlers, who had strict instructions to leave their watches in their lockers. If they had to check the time, they could use their work-equipped tablets outside the cells. If they needed to tell time in a session, they set vibration alerts in their smart bracelets or earpieces. And even for handlers, it was bad enough. Tyler Parker remembered countless moments of leaving the building after work, uniform switched for jeans and T-shirt, squinting his eyes overwhelmingly confused by the position of the sun.

He'd have thought, that experience would have helped him. Given him ways to measure the passage of time without outside cues.

It didn't.

In the beginning, he counted. Handlers. Beatings. Showers. Orgasms.

The voice counting in his head wasn't his own. It was hers. 238's. She'd counted, too. Her unit had been him. He'd caught her doing it, her lips moving, when she was sleep-deprived and high on something. He'd punished her, for wanting to know something that wasn't hers to know. She should only know one thing, he'd said, and that was how to be good for her betters.

She'd stopped counting, then. At least, he hadn't caught her again.

He wondered, at what exact number that had been. What her count would be, by now. At what number it ceased to matter.

Tyler stopped earlier than she had. But then again, maybe she'd stopped twice, too. Maybe she'd thought the same thoughts before the Drip. Maybe he would, too, after. He almost laughed hysterically, thinking about it. About going through all this, again. Just that the people torturing him would be strangers then, the very same people whom he knew now.

People like Jared Grimm, Head Handler of the facility, Tyler's supervisor. Had Tyler counted, he'd know if it was the second time, or the third, that it was Grimm's hand in his neck, pressing him onto the padded table. Maybe even the fourth.

Grimm wasn't sadistic in his fucking. He was methodical, cold, detached. Working through a routine.

"Fucking. Idiot," Grimm breathed into his ears between thrusts. "It didn't. Have to be."

It did, Tyler thought, as a strained whimper escaped his lips. It did have to be.

"Jared," someone said, far away. "There's a call from the reception, they need you."

The hand in his hair vanished. The weight on his back. The breath in his neck. The strain in his ass.

Grimm didn't even slap his butt. He was just gone, leaving Tyler exposed and cold.

Not for long though. "Hey, pretty boy," Dinah Richardson purred. "You look so lonely."

Tyler closed his eyes.

Time passed.

Jared Grimm stared at his knuckles, stark white as he balled his fist on top of his desk. He willed himself to unclench his hand. He was head of this facility, he reminded himself. He had worked hard to get to this position. He was capable. He had it under control.

"Say that again," he asked into his phone.

"The police," the receptionist repeated flatly. "FBI. They're here with a warrant."

Jared exhaled sharply. "Let them in. I'll meet them in the hallway."

The officer in charge was a tall woman, around his age, late forties, he guessed. Long, brown hair that started graying at the temples, tied back in a pony tail. A vaguely familiar face. And a chilling stare that bore right into his eyes.

"Mr Grimm," she said. "I hope you don't intend to stop me or my colleagues. We have a warrant. And anything you do to hinder me will only make your situation much worse."

Jared raised his hands in an inviting gesture. "No, of course. We fully support law enforcement." Financially, he thought grimly. Enough to avoid situations like this, he'd wagered. This woman didn't seem to have gotten the memo, though. He forced his lips to curl into a polite smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I am here to arrest Ms Carly Thompson and Mr Tyler Parker, both WRU employees."

Jared blinked.

Parker. Fuck. No. That couldn't be a coincidence. "I…" Jared's mouth felt dry. He forced himself to keep his gaze level, not to double check the state of his uniform pants. He hadn't even had the time to wash Parker off of him. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know everyone's schedules, I… I can confirm they both work here, but I'm actually not sure they're in today. It's pretty early, and-"

"I am sure." Her smile was icy. "Your receptionist has already told me that Ms Thompson checked in for duty this morning. As for Mr Parker, he seemingly didn't, but I… I actually do have a hunch we can find him here, Sir. And that you know exactly where he is." She folded her arms. "Get. Me. Tyler. Parker. As in, Tyler Parker himself, him able to recall his name, his mother, his past, and the crimes he committed." She lifted her chin. "Not trainee pet 002243."

Jared flinched violently. What the fuck. She couldn't know. Not what happened here, not even vaguely. But definitely not in detail. Not in this detail.

The muscles in her jaw tensed at his reaction. She'd guessed. A shot in the dark. And his reaction had just confirmed it. Fuck.

How could she have made such a precise guess, though? She knew his number. Nobody who wasn't in this building right now did. How-

"We are in possession of a video that has been filmed in this facility." Her voice was hard. "It shows Mr Parker and Ms Thompson drugging and torturing Ms Zsuzsanna - Suzy - Kowalski, threatening to make her into a pet. Ms Kowalski had been reported missing some days ago, then showed up in a hospital with no memory and serious brain damage. She isn't in a condition be interrogated. But we have proof, on this video, that all of this happened in here, in your facility, Mr Grimm."

It couldn't be. They had people for this, people that made sure WRU management knew before the authorities showed up in one of the facilities. And they would, he told himself. WRU could set this right. They always did.

Only question was, who would the company let take the fall for it. And this cop? She'd just put his name on top of that list.

Fuck.

This time, Jared controlled his face better. "I don't believe that's-"

"Mr Grimm," she cut him off. "Again. I do believe that. That video is… not shy on the details. And I would love to bring you and your entire fucking company down for it. I'm a very good investigator, you know."

Jared busied his fingers with straightening his jacket and tried a confident smile. It didn't work out the way he wanted. Still. There'd been something in her phrasing, something not entirely final. "I feel like you are going to present me with another option."

She raised an eyebrow. "Only if I get both suspects, in a state that allows them to be tried. And if you need to go make an immediate call to make sure Mr Parker is taken off from whichever drugs you use to mess people up, please, do so. Because I swear, if he doesn't remember his mother's face, it's not him going to jail, it's *you*, Grimm, personally. And I'm not going to stop at that. I might not be as good as you and your company are at destroying a life, but for you, I'll certainly do my fucking best."

"I…" Grimm stared at her. She was dead serious. "I… I think I didn't get your name, Officer-?"

"Ashley Browne." She smirked. "I didn't take my wife's name."

Her wife. That's how he knew her, how that face seemed familiar. There'd been a photo they'd taken from Parker's and the journalist's apartment, the two of them with his mother and another woman, who- Yeah. That tracked.

"Parker," he mumbled. "That would be your wife's name, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed it would," she confirmed. "So you better hand my stepson over right now, or I will make sure we turn around every last brick in this building and see what else we find."

"Oh no. No no." He shook his head. "You don't have the authority to do that."

"You want to bet on it?" She lifted her chin and raised the paper in her hand. "While we're here, with this warrant, my guys will listen to me, not you. And I'll have them turn on their body cams. Let's see how much we can find - how much we can film - until your bosses call my bosses and my bosses call me; such a hassle, only with the same old result that you need fall guys and Carly Thompson and Tyler Parker must be it. The more we see, though, the more names add to the list. Higher up the ranks."

"I-" Jared's mind raced. It couldn't possibly be. Carly would keep her mouth shut, with the right payment, just sit her time, be released, take the money and burn through it in some seedy beach hotel at the other end of the world. Parker however. The stupid asshole was a fucking liability. The attack on Alex. The pet lib journalist. That video appearing from nowhere. They should've put him on the Drip right when they'd brought him in. They should've shipped him out to another facility. They should've -

They shouldn't have played this lightly. But they had.

And now, the police officer in front of him nodded at her uniformed colleagues, lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture. "Search every room, every cell, every office. Turn on your cams, get a good look on every face you can find, trainee, employee, service worker, every single face, until we've found our guys. Clear?"

Jared had no choice. That woman was a fucking nuisance, but he couldn't take any other risk.

"Wait," Jared called. "I… I think I know where to find them. I'll make a call."

Browne stepped back and lifted her hands. "Good. Lead the way."

It was even worse than she'd expected. And Ashley had seen the videos. She had expected bad.

The boy - even at 24, even a head taller than herself and twice her weight, she'd never brought herself to seeing him as a grown man - was curled up on the oddly colorful tiles of a shower room. He was naked, his light skin mottled with bruises of various colors and shapes. Some from weapons, bats or batons, she figured. Most from hands.

She had to force herself to stand still. Not to fall to her own knees besides him, to run a hand through his wet blond strands, to hug him and shield him. Not to draw her gun and empty it into the smirking handlers around them.

"Our handlers sometimes get handsy with each other, after a stressful shift," Chief Handler Grimm said from behind her. His voice had a nervous pitch to it, but still, she swore she could hear a kind of glee in it. The knowledge, that this blatant lie, like so many others, would stay unchallenged. "We condemn any sexual relations at the workplace, but- I guess you know how it is."

"You don't get to assume what I know, Mr Grimm," she said flatly. "I'm a cop. What I know is what sexual assault looks like."

"It was consentual," another man said, and idly kicked a piece of soap over to Tyler. Ashley flinched, when it hit his side, the boy too weary to react. "Tell them, T. We had fun."

"It was consentual." Tyler's voice was all but a hoarse croak. Ashely's stomach turned. "It was."

"See?" Grimm said to her, and to him, "Clean yourself up, Parker, and get dressed."

Tyler struggled to push himself up to his knees, his hand shaking as he weakly reached out for the piece of soap.

It took Ashley a second to remember her duty. To remember that she was here to betray all her beliefs in law and order. Making a deal that was far from any justice. Saving her wife's boy. Who - given what Tara had told them - might as well have deserved all of this. But Ashley wouldn't be the judge of that.

She was here for Diane. She was here to get him out. Whatever the price.

"Tyler Parker," she said, a part of her wondering when she'd addressed him like that the last time. Tyler Frederick Parker, you call that cleaning up your room? It felt like yesterday. It felt like another lifetime. "Tyler. You are under arrest."

He sobbed.

Ashely told herself it was with relief.

#tyler parker #bbu #facility whump #noncon implied #bbu whump #noncon cw #whumper turned whumpee

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parasiticstars · 8 months ago

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[proud box baby owner voice] “see the reason your pets are all miserable is you don’t feed them shit. They’re all skin and bones and sunken in eyes. Not mine though. They’re got meat on them. Some substance. When I throw mine into The Basement they’re perfectly padded and comfortable.”

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oros-ash3s · 2 months ago

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*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* The Boy With No Memories *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters // 524A79X26 (he/him), Atlas (he/him)

TW: Dehumanizing language, descriptions of violence

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

The screams from inside cell #0007 never ceased to stop.

The living quarters were always eerily quiet, dark and cold, with no windows or lights, the only illumination being from when the thick panelled door would slide open, filtering in dim yellow light from the hall outside. But to the inhabitants of the rows and rows of slim, barren gray cells, the silence was their solace. It brought a strange sense of peace, with no foes to fight, no orders to follow, no punishments to endure. The stark quiet, the darkness, the pure emptiness, it was all like a pressure off their shoulders; a relief.

That was before he came.

It was well past midnight when he arrived. 524A79X26 knew he should’ve been asleep by now — most of the others already were. But for some reason, even as he readjusted his uncomfortable, cramped position tucked into the corner of his cell, no rest came. The walls were slicked with perspiration, cool as ice against his back, the night air nipping his skin, so cold it burned. Outside, the wind howled and screamed, rain shooting down against the base like the automatic gunfire of a rifle. 524A79X26 was curled into a ball, his head cradled in his hands, fingers weaving through long, unruly locks of hair in an attempt to soothe himself. The roaring of thunder in the distance cut abruptly through his shivering, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, forcing back the piercing fear panging deep inside his chest.

He hated nights like these. Usually, the living quarters were almost bearable; the quiet surprisingly soothing, the darkness like a warm embrace, dulling the loud buzzing in the back of 524A79X26’s head, easing his mind-splitting migraines for only a moment.

But never nights like these.

The thunder, unpredictable and booming, which seemed to shake the walls of his cell, combined with the rain pounding against the roof and the numbing coldness freezing over his very being, reduced any feelings of comfort that 524A79X26 might have felt.

He knew it was wrong. He should’ve known better, should’ve been able to push away his fears and obey the order he was given. It was lights out. That meant no restlessly shifting, no shaking, no suppressing his sobs. It meant sleep. 524A79X26 knew better than this.

But despite his countless attempts to push aside his fear, 524A79X26 was never able to. He was never good like he was supposed to be. Instead, he was left on the ground in a shaking, panic-stricken mess, eyes squeezed shut so tightly it was beginning to hurt, as his mind swirled with dizzying, terrified thoughts that only made him tremble harder.

So when the boy was dragged in from the hall, fighting with all his might, 524A79X26 wasn’t asleep like he was supposed to. A good pet would’ve. A good pet would’ve been fast asleep — quiet, not taking much-too-loud, shuddering breaths. A good pet would’ve been able to close their eyes and do as they were instructed. A good pet wouldn’t be afraid.

But 524A79X26 was not a good pet.

The door screeched against the uneven, rough concrete as it was forced open, the stark illumination of a singular flashlight shining across the cells. Heavy footsteps echoed through the room, the stomping of metal-plated boots reverberating through the hollow hallway with a boom that was near surpassing the thunder. 524A79X26 flinched, forcing his face further down into the ground. His nose was pressed flat now, the icy floor freezing against the soft skin. But he didn’t dare move. No, to be caught awake would be much worse than the cold, the deafening rain, and the ear-piercing thunder. Being caught by them, disobeying rules….

That was far scarier than even the most nightmarish scenario 524A79X26 could think of.

The boy was already yelling before he was properly in the room. “Fucking get off me!” His voice cut through the silence, sharp and forceful. Despite the way his words were slurred, all blending together in a way that 524A79X26 knew well, his voice carried a layer of venomous rage that 524A79X26 wasn’t used to. There was no carefully controlled respect to it, or even the desperate fear; no, his words were spit with such a ferocity that 524A79X26 half-expected it to be coming from a savage animal.

He lifted his head ever so slightly, eyes peeking out from in between his thick curtain of brunette hair. In the doorway, there he was: The savage boy, yelling with all his might. From the volume of his garbled voice, 524A79X26 had been expecting a brutish mass of muscle, not the rather average-looking figure vaguely illuminated in the dimness of the hall. He wasn’t much taller than 524A79X26 himself, with defined muscles almost identical to the rest of the boys sleeping in a row beside him. He was no savage creature. He was only…. A boy.

524A79X26 watched in wonder as the guards dragged him in. He was being held down by two of them flanking his sides, as he flailed and thrashed around, trying to tear away from their iron grip. A taller guard with a shiny black badge led the group, flashlight flickering momentarily over each of the cells.

Even as the footsteps drew closer to 524A79X26’s cell, the boy never stopped fighting. 524A79X26 had never seen anything like it. Such determination, this strange sort of fierceness about him, despite the fact that there was nowhere for the boy to go, not with the guards on all sides, convinced 524A79X26 that this stranger must have been from another planet. He couldn’t have been from anywhere around here. No one would dare to behave in such an untamed manner.

The guards stopped directly in front of 524A79X26’s cell, and for a second, he was sure his heart was going to stop. But for once nobody paid him any attention, too focused on the boy creating a ruckus. “Let go of me!” He screamed, voice cracking, throat raw. He made another weak attempt at shoving away the guard, but it was for naught. His fist missed the guard by inches, moments too slow and clumsy, the drugs that were undoubtedly in his system blurring his vision, turning well-aimed hits that might’ve once forced both of the men down on their knees into flimsy, pathetic swipes. He yelled in outrage, kicking out desperately. 524A79X26 watched as the rapid movement only caused him to lose balance, legs giving out from under himself.

It was only now, with the flashlight directly aimed at his face, that 524A79X26 could see him clearly. Blood was dried to every inch of visible skin, stuck in his tangled, messy black hair. His eyes were wild, the deepest shade of violet, as they darted around, bright with fear. The guards dragged him closer to the cell across from 524A79X26’s, marked by the number 0007. He struggled to find his footing again, yelling, writhing around in desperation. 524A79X26 could almost read his thoughts: I’m not going in there. I’m not going in there. No, I can’t.

“Oh, shut up.” The guard snapped, voice a low rumble, demanding and threatening. It would’ve sent 524A79X26 into instant silence.

But not the boy. “Don’t tell me what to do!” He screamed, words coming out slower than what he must’ve intended, losing some of their bite. “I’m not one of your fucking pu—“

A sharp crack resounded throughout the room. 524A79X26 flinched, biting down hard on his tongue to force down a yelp. He was barely even able to register what was happening before the boy was on his knees, coughing and spitting out blood, a stream of red dripping down his chin, pattering against the floor. He groaned, breaths coming out heavier than before, shaky wheezes laced with pain falling from his lips.

Still, he didn’t give up. “F-fuck you.” He spat, hazy, unfocused eyes stubbornly glaring up into the guard’s cold, icy blue ones.

The guard huffed, the sound akin to almost laughter, before he produced a long, thin syringe, swirling with milky-white liquid. “You’ll lose that attitude soon enough.” He said, brandishing the needle like a blade. “You won’t last long, just wait and see. She’s going to break you.”

And with that, he stabbed the syringe into the soft crook of the boy’s neck.

He crumpled to the ground face-first.

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ───────── · ·

For the days that followed, the boy did nothing but scream. From the moment his eyes were open until the moment they closed, he was in a rage. Gripping the bars with blood-smeared hands, his grip so tight that his knuckles paled white, face twisted up with such a ferocity he looked more beast than human. Obscenities that 524A79X26 thought to be impossible spilled from his mouth, each insult worse than the last. Unlike what most of them were used to – the bargaining, the pleading that always seemed to make their situation feel more hopeless and dire than it already was, the boy did none of it. With every passing minute, it only seemed his resolve, his unbridled rage, grew stronger.

524A79X26 hadn’t seen anything like it. With every passing day, he watched, enraptured by the new boy’s presence. He looked familiar, almost; somebody that 524A79X26 was sure he knew once. His hair had been neater, he was sure, and something about his face… His face wasn’t right. But it wasn’t like it really mattered anyway, not anymore. Whoever he used to be was now long gone, replaced by an angry, violent savage with violet eyes of pure hatred.

The boy never stopped moving. He paced tirelessly, tracing the perimeter of his cell like his life depended on it. He punched at the walls, fists bashing against the metal until his hands gushed blood; shook the bars as if he thought he might have the power to break them – like none of them had already tried it countless times before. But throughout it all, he screamed. Screamed, unconstrained, until his throat was raw, burning in pain. Screamed, until he was on the ground, panting and wheezing, lips coated with red, coughs violently shuddering out of him, reducing him to nothing but a trembling mess. Screamed, until he could no longer.

And through it all, the fiery light in his eyes burned ever brighter.

Even when the guards withheld his meals for his backtalk, or he was beaten bloody, or he was so weak he couldn’t drag his broken body over to the bars any more, the fierceness in his eyes never left. His spirit, it seemed, was unbreakable. And despite the guard’s promises that he would lose himself soon enough, even 524A79X26 was starting to doubt it. The boy took the beatings, took the starvation, took the unwavering cold, without so much as a cry for help. 524A79X26 didn’t think he was human anymore.

(But were any of them human?)

When the boy would stare at him, gaze piercing into his, and yell promises on how he’d get each and every one of them out of here, how’d he get them free (whatever free was supposed to mean, 524A79X26 was happy here, he didn’t need to ever leave) 524A79X26 almost believed him. Almost.

That was before the white room.

524A79X26 knew he should’ve been expecting it, but with the boy’s pure will, stubborn beyond belief, he thought maybe, just this once, it would turn out differently. Unfortunately for the both of them, even the strongest of souls couldn’t fight against the Spider. They both should’ve known better. They were insignificant, useless, compared to her.

They collected the boy on his second week there. 524A79X26 wouldn’t have known, if not for the boy’s tallies in the wall, a mark scratched into the rusted metal for each day. When the guards showed up, there was practically no chance for a fight. The boy, unlike when he had first arrived, was weak and brittle, worn down by the effects of starvation. Tired eyes still shining with hatred glared up at the guards, and he fought, despite himself, to escape their grip. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He screamed, defiant. “Where do you think you’re taking me? Fucking get off!”

The last 524A79X26 saw of him, he was stumbling through the doorway, screaming his head off the entire way through.

524A79X26 knew it was over as soon as they dragged him back inside his cell. His eyes were empty and dead, glazed-over, lids almost falling shut. His mouth was wide open, drool slipping from his cracked, bleeding lips in a way that 524A79X26 had seen one thousand times over. He’d felt it. Felt the mind-numbing pain, the aftershock turning his thoughts muddled, head blank. The feeling of his limbs, heavy as lead, forcing him to rely on the guards for support, as they laughed at his clumsiness. Having no control over anything, finally being forced to see the situation for what it was: They were in control, they knew what was best for him, they held all the power. 524A79X26 knew that the boy felt it exactly.

He did not scream, or talk – he couldn’t – as the guards tossed him like a ragdoll into his cell. He crumpled to the floor, defeated. The vow of how he’d tear this place to the ground brick-by-brick, how he’d kill them all, how he’d escape, all fell flat in an instant. The boy was no saviour like he thought he was; no, he was just a broken, dirty mutt, like the guards had said. Just like the rest of them.

For the first time in weeks, there was silence. 524A79X26 could rest without the disturbances of the prisoner across from him, without the vulgar language and screamed promises that the bad part of 524A79X26 hoped might just become true. 524A79X26 tried to push down the strange feeling lingering in his chest at the sight of the boy’s curled-up figure. A part of him almost… wanted to speak with him. One more time. He had never dared to answer when the boy yelled at him to help, to rise up against the guards, but now he was almost–

No. That was wrong. That was so, so, so very wrong. He should not have been even considering that. No, he shouldn’t even be thinking at all. Dogs didn’t get to think for themselves. They did as they were told. 524A79X26 was a dog. He did as he was told. That was the way it always worked. The boy had thought he had known better, and what had happened to him? Did 524A79X26 want to end up in the white room again?

The boy was wrong. And now he was going to learn his lesson.

Even though he kept telling himself that, 524A79X26 couldn’t resist the urge to watch the boy anyway. They took him to the white room every day, hours full of silence that 524A79X26 didn’t find himself enjoying anymore. (Had he ever enjoyed it at all?) Each time, the boy came back, drooling and too out of it to register his surroundings. He no longer screamed during the day, or talked back to the guards. He downed each of his meals without a complaint, viciously choking the tasteless food back like the animal he was.

But at night, 524A79X26 could hear him whispering to himself.

At first, it was hard to pick up on, his voice too hoarse to make out clearly. Dragging himself closer to the bars, only then 524A79X26 properly heard it:

“Atlas,” he rasped. “I’m Atlas. My name is Atlas. Atlas Zieliński. I was born on January 11th, 2018. Seventeen years ago. I’m seventeen. Seventeen. I live at home with my two best friends. Their names are Wren Chua and Alastair Cadwalader. Wren and Alastair. I don’t belong to Eden, I belong with Wren and Alastair. I don’t belong to Eden.”

And for one night, the fierceness in his voice was back, as hushed as it was. 524A79X26 listened intently, as he mumbled to himself rapidly, repeating the words over and over, like a mantra. Atlas. My name is Atlas.

The statement threw 524A79X26 for a loop. Atlas? That didn’t make any sense. The boy didn’t have a name. He was a mutt, just like 524A79X26. Mutts didn’t have names. They weren’t allowed to. Mutts didn’t have anything. They were useless, without the Spider to give them a purpose. To guide them.

(524A79X26 had a name, once. That he was sure of. Before they took it. Just like they took everything else.)

Every night, like clockwork, the boy would whisper to himself. And every night, 524A79X26 would listen. The boy always talked about the strangest things. He was a member of the Alliance of Magicae, which 524A79X26 was sure he had made up to entertain himself. No such thing existed. Only Eden helped Magicae. He whispered to himself about music, about the guitar, about car rides, and books, and candy, which 524A79X26 knew had to be fake. But what he whispered about most of all, was Wren and Alastair.

He described them with such love and care; Wren was 16, his very first friend, with dark blue hair and freckles on their nose and a smile that lit up the whole room. Alastair was almost 18, he was pretty sure, with glasses and a hooked nose and mismatched eyes – green and hazel. Wren’s favourite colour was blue. Alastair played the piano. Wren liked drawing. Alastair liked origami. Wren taught him everything he knew about outside. Alastair never judged him for not knowing things. Wren was loud and energetic, Alastair was quiet and timid. A nice contrast. Wren and Alastair were perfect. His best friends. He loved them more than anything else. He was going to get back to them. That’s what he promised himself, every single night. He was going to find Wren and Alastair.

It was hard to keep up with all these odd stories the more and more the boy talked. 524A79X26 couldn’t keep track of all the different people – friends – or the “hobbies”, as the boy had referred to the weird words he made up. But the longer time went on, 524A79X26 was sure it wasn’t just him getting confused anymore. No, the boy’s strange little stories had begun to… fall apart.

“My name is Atlas. My name is Atlas.” He muttered, words still slurry from the white room. “My name is Atlas and I have two best friends. Wren–” He paused, voice catching. In the darkness of the cell, 524A79X26 couldn’t try to guess what he was thinking, but he could see the way he stiffened up, lifting his head up straight, violet eyes blinking once, twice.

“My name is Atlas and I have two best friends.” He tried again. “Wren… Wren Suh– Suh…”

(Chua. Chua, that’s what he called them before. Wren Chua.)

524A79X26 quickly pushed those bad thoughts down. Wren wasn’t real. Wren didn’t exist. No one like the Wren that the boy described could have existed.

“I have two friends, Wren and Al- Alastair.” He continued. “Wren has… b-blue hair. Blue hair and, uh, blue hair and green eyes. Yeah. And Alastair has… brown hair and freckles. And they’re my best friends. They’re real. They’re both real. My name is Atlas, and I belong to Wren and Alastair.”

The more time wore on, the more the boy lost his stories.

(Memories.)

(524A79X26 had memories before. He had memories of— [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED])

(They took them. Just like everything else. They were stealing their–)

“A– Atlas. My name is Atlas. My name is Atlas and I’m 15– no. No, no. I’m… I’m Atlas. My name is Atlas. My name is Atlas and I have a… I have…” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I belong to…”

(My name is Atlas Zieliński and I have two best friends, Wren Chua and Alastair Cadwalader.)

The words died on the tip of 524A79X26’s tongue. He was a dog. He didn’t talk unless somebody asked him a question. And he especially didn’t talk to anyone other than his superiors. It wasn’t allowed.

“My name is Atlas. My name is Atlas Za– no, no, no. My name is… My name is Atlas.”

524A79X26 was a good pet. Could be a good pet. He just had to follow the rules. He could be good.

“My name is Atlas. Atlas. My name is Atlas. I don’t belong to… I don’t belong to Eden. I belong to…”

524A79X26 was a good boy. He was a very good boy. He wasn’t having any thoughts he wasn’t supposed to. He was good, and never thought about bad things. He was good. He wasn’t going to help this boy.

He was good.

“I don’t… I don’t–”

524A79X26 turned the other way, curling into a ball like so many nights before the boy had come and wreaked havoc into his life. This was what he was supposed to be doing. Not listening to the rambling of a lunatic, of a mutt that couldn’t be controlled.

He was going to go to sleep like he was told. He was going to be good.

“I don’t know.”

524A79X26 closed his eyes, pressing his palms against his ears and blocking out the soft sobs of the broken boy with no memories.

He was a good boy.

masterlist ||

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taglist || @ohagi505 @seastarblue @vesanal @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @bioniclechronicles @lancedoncrimsonwings @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @whump-till-ya-jump @sharkblizzardblogs @sugaredparchment @cepheusgalaxy @corinneglass

★ Send me an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

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bbu-on-the-side · 2 months ago

Text

Holiday themed BBU prompts

For RPs, fics or daydreaming!

HOME

- Owner taking their boxie home to their family for the first time and...

- Family is critical

- Family is way too curious

- The boxie gets to meet owner's childhood boxies

- Boxie being told they need to stay home alone, because owner's family won't approve of a pet

- An owner getting gifts for their boxie

- People gifts?

- Pet gifts?

- Boxie becoming part of a Christmas decoration

- Boxie given as a gift

- Person being given a Boxie as a gift

- Is it a dream come true?

- Or a nightmare?

-... Is someone jealous?

FACILITY

- Handlers being in a festive mood

- Particularly nice...

- ... or particularly mean?

- Trainee becoming part of a facility Christmas party

- An official one...

- ... or less so?

- Employee taking a trainee home for the holidays

- Trainee being part of an advertisement as an exclusive gift

#bbu #bbu whump #whump prompts #bbu prompts

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highwaywhump · 8 months ago

Text

Joey gets a nosebleed and isn’t quite sure how to handle it.

TW/CW: conditioned whumpee, pet whump (not really), whumpee afraid caretaker will hurt him (doesn't happen), nosebleeds and descriptions of blood

The morning had been deceptively calm up until that point. It all starts when Joey’s top lip feels warm. The feeling subconsciously tips him off and he swipes his fingers across his face. They come back bloody.

A part of him he thought was long since gone suddenly awakens and forms a curse on his tongue as drops of his blood drips down onto the kitchen table. He holds his hands under his face and leans back to keep from staining the table further, and instead it drips onto his shirt. When he leans forward again to save his shirt it drips between his legs and onto the kitchen chair he’s sitting on.

“No, no, nonono…” Joey whines desperately to himself as he stumbles backwards and to his feet. The chair scratches loudly along the floor. One of his arms shoot out to help regain balance and he knocks over his glass, spilling the last of his juice on the table and down onto the floor. Joey hiccups something halfway to a sob when he sees the red droplets on the cupboards across the room, which were no doubt flung there during his flailing.

There are tears in his eyes when he finally stills, focusing on breathing. Can he clean this up before Aaron comes into the kitchen to tell him goodbye before he leaves for work? He looks around. Definitely not. There’s juice and scratches on the floor and blood everywhere. He probably can’t even reach the red drops on the cupboard. He doesn’t know where the cleaning supplies are, and even if he did he wouldn’t know which were okay to use on hardwood and which would stain it further.

The only way out is to keep Aaron out of the kitchen and take care of the mess when he’s at work. Joey presses his fingers against his nose and tilts his head back, willing the blood to stop. If he can only clean himself up with paper towels, somehow cover the stain on his shirt and meet Aaron in the hallway to stop him from entering the kitchen at all-

“No, wait, don’t lean back,” Aaron’s voice cuts through his rambling thoughts like sunshine through stormclouds. He has entered the kitchen without a sound - or maybe Joey was too upset about his bleeding nose to notice. Joey whips around and makes a noise that is halfway terrified, halfway questioning. What do I do? To his great despair, another couple of drops fling from his hands and land on Aaron’s shirt - a deadly sin if there ever was one. Joey’s eyes are huge and brimful of tears.

Aaron does not at all seem to mind the blood as he raises his hands up to Joey’s head. Joey doesn’t dare move a muscle. This is it, he thinks as he feels Aaron’s hand at the base of his skull, the other one on his chin. . He’ll choke me out. The other shoe has dropped.

But Aaron only gently presses, and Joey immediately folds, following the pressure until he’s pushed his head forwards.

“It’s dripping on the floor-“ Joey starts to sob.

“We’ll clean it up after,” Aaron says, not missing a beat, and Joey takes the words to heart unquestioningly. “You’re okay, it’s just a nosebleed. Come over to the sink and tip your head forwards.” Aaron’s voice is calm and not rushed at all. He’s not mad, Joey realizes.

He trustingly follows Aaron’s directions and stumbles over to lean his head over the sink. He wants to grip the edge of the sink for balance, but his hands are covered in blood so he ends up holding them in tight, tight fists instead, not quite sure what to do.

“There we go,” Aaron says as the blood drips into the sink, still holding a warm hand to the back of Joey’s head. “We want it out, not down your throat.”

“M-hm,” Joey says through his teeth, not confident to say anything else at the moment.

“Do you think you can pinch your nose shut?” Aaron gently asks, taking a step to the side to try and meet Joey’s eye. “I read somewhere that will help stop it.”

“Y-you do it,” Joey says before sense can get the better of him. But Aaron nods.

“Okay. Tell me if it hurts.” Aaron gently takes hold of the soft flesh of joey’s nose between his thumb and forefinger. Joey is shaking until he feels Aaron’s other hand slightly tighten its grip at the base of his skull. The effect is instantaneous. He relaxes into the secure grip, of which he realizes there have been very few of since he came here. Aaron is always careful and gentle with him, and asks before he touches him, whether it’s verbal or non-verbal. Joey has found he likes that, and still ... the trained, ingrained, good-boy-part of him likes feeling a firm, steady hand.

“Remember to breathe, sweetheart,” Aaron suggests after a few moments, and Joey does as he’s told. Lips parted, he takes measured, steady breaths.

For a minute or two, neither say anything. The blood eventually stops oozing out between Aaron’s fingers, and he loosens his grip.

“I got blood on your shirt,” Joey hopelessly reminds his keeper. “And the cupboards.”

Aaron’s hand moves down to where his neck becomes his spine and gently massages him there with his fingers. Joey feels the tension slowly melt and run down his bones, disappearing.

“I have many shirts and cupboards, Joey. I only have one you.”

tags <3 @simplygrimly @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @briars7 @hackles-up @doveotions

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @kixngiggles @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline

@whumpthisway @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumping-snail @pumpkin-spice-whump @pigeonwhumps

@whumplr-reader @considerablecolors @dustypinetree @snakebites-and-ink @inkstainsonmyhands12

@taterswhump @hxakfhakbcbqkk

#cw conditioned whumpee #cw blood #cw nosebleed #bbu whump #boxboy universe #this came to me in a vision #not edited #not proofread #enjoy

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yet-another-heathen · 4 months ago

Note

On the topic of realistic conditioning/deconditioning,

If the trigger is something whumpee wouldn't hear often when they're with caretaker but whumpee still wants to break it because they might hear it elsewhere (like kneel being taken as a command)

Would whumpee ask caretaker to casually trigger them so they have the opportunity to challenge it in their own head and in a safe place? Would this be a good idea for recovery?

And of course being there with the praise everytime whumpee makes just a little bit of progress, or comfort when they don't.

Heads up, anon: your ask was an EXCEPTIONALLY good one, and I ended up writing another mini TED talk (~3-4 min read) in response. Thank you so much for sending it in!

...on Conditioned Whumpees - Part 3

[ Part 1 - Part 2 ]

That is a very, very good idea! You're spot on with all of it, particularly operating in a safe environment where whumpee is ultimately calling the shots. Having that comfort/support readily available will make a huge difference in how well whumpee can tackle the matter. And while the process isn't fun, approaching desensitization with this much intent is much, much more likely to result in success.

I can offer a few pointers that can add another few layers of realism, as well as some other things to think about while tailoring it to your story:

if whumpee is actively working through their conditioning in this way, memories of their trauma will become closer to the surface. As a result, all of their other PTSD symptoms will be elevated during the course of their practice sessions, as well as for at least a few weeks after.

flashbacks are a very common experience during times like this. engaging with triggers like this is going to cause their flashbacks to become more frequent and intense.

during such flashbacks, it is almost a given that whumpee's mind and body will enter a similar state to the one it was in during the time when the flashback was taking place. By that I mean that the fear they felt in that moment, where it was physically located in their body, will echo into their body in the present moment. Same goes for other all other emotions, and sometimes even phantom aches surrounding any injuries they received at the time...

while the emotions tend to be identical to the ones felt during the trauma, in my experience, the pain comes out distorted in a similar way to the way it does in dreams: less intense, and more "blurry" and imprecise in location. When we say that someone having a flashback is "reliving the moment", we mean that their body literally feels as though they're in the same immediate danger that it was in back then.

this is true even though they'll be aware to at least some degree that they're presently with caretaker and safe.

the flashbacks don't always happen immediately after the conditioning trigger is used. Often they flare up hours or days later, sometimes without warning, sometimes as a result of encountering a different flashback trigger. The whumpee's thresholds for what counts as a trigger will drop, which is part of what causes the flashbacks to happen more often. Something they could normally ignore is going to affect them much more while they're like this.

your whumpee is more likely to experience severe mood swings while in this heightened state. Especially feelings like irritability, frustration, anger, loneliness, and grief. This stuff ain't pretty, folks. Even your sweet cinnamon bun is most likely going to lash out at someone as a result.

PTSD episodes are also exhausting. your whumpee is going to feel mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. And, to add insult to injury, being tired amplifies the emotions listed above.

Now all of this said, your whumpee may or may not know that this is to be expected. If they've worked on processing their trauma before this, they'll have figured out that one often leads to the other. They'll go into the deconditioning practice knowing this is coming, and will approach it carefully, but with a fairly level head. Knowing that it'll suck, but they'll come out the other side okay.

If not, they're in for a rather nasty surprise.

For the latter, they will feel at first that the deconditioning practice is making everything worse. They're suddenly struggling the way they did when the trauma was fresher, and it can be tempting to stop and refuse to touch it again because the mental/emotional pain gets so intense.

If they do give up at this stage, it will make trying again far more daunting in the future.

But the trauma being stirred up is actually a sign that it's helping. It means that the whumpee is starting to process what happened to them, which is a fundamental step in being able to heal.

Note: All throughout the process, crying is a very good thing. It lets them physically get rid of a lot of the brain chemicals associated with these surges of emotion. Letting themselves cry over things they couldn't cry about back then can actually help them let go of those feelings in a similar way to if they'd been able to process them in the moment. [Which is the basis for much of EMDR, a specialized tool used in trauma therapy.]

Okay. So now we know what other effects can cascade from the actual deconditioning practice, now we have some things to consider.

First off, what time parameters are whumpee and caretaker working within while deconditioning? There are three basic options:

they sit down together and practice repeatedly using the trigger for [X amount of time; usually <45m at once] back to back. Once that time is up, caretaker will no longer use the trigger at all, the excercise will end, and they'll get up to do something else.

whumpee sets a specific window of time [X number of hours] within which caretaker will use the trigger word at random points. Once that time has elapsed, the exercise is over.

over the course of days, caretaker uses the trigger word at random points without giving warning. the excercise only stops after being ended by whumpee.

Now why is that important? Because of something called hypervigilance. It is another symptom of PTSD which, to put it into the simplest words, is whumpee waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's a heightened state of tension and wariness in which whumpee is expecting that something bad is going to happen, and is constantly searching for any sign to indicate when it's coming.

It is beyond exhausting.

Imagine knowing that someone is about to slap you as hard as they can, and you have to sit there with your eyes closed, waiting for it. The breath-holding, the flinchiness, the rigid tension in your body as you strain to listen for when they're coming.

Only now, stretch that moment out into hours. Days. Weeks. That is hypervigilance.

A hypervigilant whumpee is not going to be able to relax. Or rest. Or decompress. Or readily trust much of anything around them. They're MUCH more likely to flinch at sudden movements/sounds. They might start biting their nails or showing other signs of nervousness and distress.

These methods above have a gradually increasing chance of setting off whumpee's hypervigilance. If they know exactly when the next trigger is coming, as in example 1, then their 'waiting for it' tension will be low. But the more uncertain they become of exactly when it's going to happen, as in examples 2 & 3, the worse the hypervigilance is going to get.

The trade off is that the later examples are more effective in desensitizing them toward the trigger. The more their practice mimics encountering an unexpected trigger in day-to-day life, the easier it will be to fall back on that desensitization when the time comes.

Therefore, it would be a very good idea for a whumpee who's new to this to start with number 1, then gradually progress to 2 & 3 as time goes on. They should be the one to decide when the next step is made, and if/when they need to dial it back.

Other questions to ask yourself while plotting:

how mentally prepared is whumpee for worsening symptoms? what about caretaker? did either of them know it was coming?

how much of this heightened PTSD stress can your whumpee take before it becomes too much? how do they react when they do hit that tipping point?

if caretaker feels that whumpee is getting too distressed during practice even though they're not tapping out, would they call it off themself? Or would they ultimately leave that decision to whumpee?

based on the answer, how would whumpee feel about caretaker's decision? Relieved? Belittled? Betrayed?

does whumpee have any grounding tools they can use while practicing?

how does caretaker handle the mood swings and instability that come with whumpee's heightened PTSD? You should consider both their internal and external reactions on the matter.

how does whumpee prefer to decompress after a practice session? what things would help them calm down and recover?

how long do they need (hours or days) before the next attempt?

Even with all I've just written, there's far more to the resulting hightened state of PTSD than flashbacks and hypervigilance. PTSD symptoms that they're most likely to encounter in the background while doing deconditioning practice include:

Flinchiness, anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, exhaustion, emotional mood swings, outbursts, crying spells, depression, executive dysfunction, dissociation, numbness, racing thoughts, freeze responses, tremors, inappetence, muscle tension, and heart palpitations.

Yes, usually many of them at once, even those that contradict. Your whumpee is going to have a LOT going on at once, and it is not going to be a fun time. I recommend looking up any of the above symptoms you don't recognize, and looking for whump inspiration in what you learn.

(Because everyone experiences PTSD episodes differently, there's a lot of wiggle room in which ones whumpee will encounter. Don't feel pressured to use all of them, find what you want to write and have fun with it!)

Thanks again for the incredible ask, anon. And again, I want to congratulate you on how spot-on your original ask was. You nailed it. I know this was a lot more than you asked for, but I hope this provides helpful context for your whump! My inbox will always be open if you think of anything more <3

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cepheusgalaxy · 4 months ago

Text

The WRU customer’s guide

Chapter 2 - Product receival

(Distributed by WRU ©)

Your Boxie arrived! And now what?

Congratulations on getting your new Pet! The WRU staff thanks you for your preference.

We assure your new Pet is suited to attend all your necessities and wishes thanks to its top-tier training with WRU’s most brilliant teams of professional handlers. If your experience is enjoyable, please consider leaving a feedback on our site! Your opinion matters a lot to us.

Your pet's serial number and designation can be verified at its register that was printed and shipped alongside the product, and also sent to your online mail. If there is a mistake and you can't find it, please refer to custome service on the nearest WRU store or our site, wru.com.

What's included in your product

Inside the box that you received is one (1) WRU Box Boy, which is wearing a basic WRU shipping uniform and collar. Alongside it is your Pet's Owner’s File that includes its designation, medical record and further information.

If there is any damage or parts of your delivery missing, please don’t hesitate to call the WRU team (DDD xxxx-xxxx) that will promptly resolve your issue.

Unboxing your Boxie

Unboxing your new Pet should be very easy. However, if this is your first time unboxing a Box Boy you might ask your deliverer to assist you.

[ID: A loosely drawn pet box with the WRU logo on the side as well as two handles instead of one. Below the box is written "Box lol". /end ID.]

Please check if your package is an WRU Pet Box.

The Box was sealed during the shipping process to avoid opening up and damaging your Pet on the way. To unlock it, remove the bolt of the door and pull the six locks arranged as 2 on the top, 2 at the bottom and more 2 on the left side. This should be enough to unlock your box.

Your new Pet is awaiting inside! It might be curled up awake or sleeping, in which case you can press the button under the red compartiment on the right side of the Box, which will send a quick shock to awake it.

Depending on the delivery, your boxie might have stayed in there from two to nine hours. Give it some time to come out of the package, and it should kneel in front of it. If you think your Pet is taking too long to come out or is not taking the supposed position, it might be hurt or confused, in which case, you can demand a self diagnostic by asking it if there is any damage. If that is the case, do not worry; You can acess the Pet First-Aid guide on our site or refer to the nearest WRU store, that will promptly take care of it for you.

Tip: You can keep the Box until you have arranged a proper enclosure for your Pet.

Settling your new Pet

After taking your Box Boy out of the package, look for a green sheet that contains its information and history. That is your Pet Owner’s guide. Be sure to verify it is indeed your Pet and that it has not been any mistake in the shipping process.

Your Pet is now ready to serve you, but it needs you to state the boundaries and rules of your house, so it may act accordingly. You can let them in some room as you put the shipping package away.

Once you’re done, show your house to the Pet and tell it what its duties are gonna be. You might name it or assign a room and belongings to it, if you so wish, but be assured it doesn’t need any accomodations besides the basics to be in its best behavior.

If you have any doubts about accomodating your new Pet or how to handle it, please check our site for more information.

Thank you for trusting WRU with your comfort! :)

Did you know?

WRU © not only cares a lot about our customers, but also we care about the environment!

In order to fight climate change, we in WRU adopted the Tip for a Tree project, in which every dollar you donate goes to WRU’s partners who are working for a greener future!

Acess more information at wru/tipforatree.com.

[ID: The WRU logo, a grey W with a V crossed over it. /end ID.]

lmao what do you guys think

credits of the logo to @endless-whump

#this was fun #part 1 would be “ordering your pet” btw #if there is a 3 its probably abt maintenance #whumpblr #bbu whump #described #wru #box boy whump #box boy universe #bbu universe #bbu #whump #whump community #pet whump #whumpes r us #in-universe media #tw institutionalized slavery #tw dehumanization

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writereleaserepeat · 2 months ago

Text

Hear No Evil - Chapter 2

Masterlist

Chapter 1 // Chapter 3

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan hadn’t slept. Ever since he’d signed those papers, and ever since a tag reading sold was affixed to the top of the boy’s cage, he’d been caught in a whirlwind of panicked activity. There was so much to do, and not enough time to do it. As he walked out of the WRU warehouse, his head was spinning. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the essential rescue training he was missing, how much knowledge he lacked compared to the PLF’s experienced rehabilitators.

“Your delivery is scheduled between eleven and one,” the saleswoman had said as she handed him the paperwork, like the boy was a piece of furniture. There’d been no background check, no inquiry as to his credentials, no investigation to ensure that he was purchasing a pet for its intended purposes. The only questionnaire he’d been asked to fill out was related to his satisfaction with WRU’s service at the event – a survey he’d politely declined.

Just like that, with a stroke of a pen and a touch of his credit card to a digital terminal, Rowan had been granted the legal possession of a human being.

Still dizzy from the weight of responsibility he had just created, Rowan came to his senses long enough to make it home from the liquidation event. The rest of the day, and the rest of that night, were spent trying to make his condo ready for the incoming arrival.

Dawn hadn’t yet come when Rowan’s phone buzzed. He stopped fussing with the clothes in the hamper long enough to see it was a text from “Josh J. (Work)”

Sure man, I’ll cover your shifts this week. Everything good? You basically never take PTO.

No, Rowan wanted to reply, things were most decidedly not good. He’d acted on a rash impulse and was way out of his depth. As someone who’d been working for a decade and a half as a pet liberationist, he’d sworn to do good. He’d sworn to dismantle the system, to save who he could, to protest injustice. All that time, all that effort, and he’d still put money right into WRU’s hands in a moment of weakness.

And for what? To bring home a victim he didn’t have the knowledge or skills to help? This wasn’t even a victim that was prioritized for rescue, one with a strong chance at rehabilitation and reintegration into society, but a young man from a liquidation event with some undisclosed and undiagnosed problem.

All of that, however, wasn’t his colleague’s problem. Rowan grit his teeth and drafted what he figured was an innocent white lie.

Yeah, I’m fine. It was a hectic weekend and I realized I haven’t taken time to breathe in years. I’d think I’ve earned a few days away.

He didn’t want to elaborate any further.

Hell yeah. The response buzzed almost instantly. Then another. You fucking deserve it. No one hustles like you, boss. Crack a beer, put on the PGA, and I’ll try to make sure the station doesn’t burn down before next Monday.

Rowan would most certainly not be cracking a few beers and putting golf on the TV. At that very moment, he was doing his best not to get sick from worry or pass out from exhaustion. There were mere hours between his present breath and the boy’s arrival.

He’d spent the night doing his best to get ready to face the consequences of his actions. He’d combed the PLF volunteer site and tried to read every manual they had available on rehabilitating victims. He’d pulled his desk and computer out of the windowless den and set up the futon to make a bed, something resembling a room for the boy to call his own. He’d run out to the nearest department store and filled his arms with clothes that would be close to the boy’s size, at least from what Rowan could best guess looking over the papers. He’d tried to clean up the condo, but it was going to be impossible to make the space look livable before his latest acquisition arrived.

Hole-ridden sheets stretched over an ancient futon, clothes that likely wouldn’t fit right, the last of the toiletries Rowan could find in the drawers, a bathroom that had been hastily scrubbed with Comet from the very back of the closet - it all would have to be good enough for now. It just had to be good enough until Rowan could get his shit together.

It wasn’t much comfort to tell himself that it was probably better than what the boy had had in a long time.

As his shaking hands tried to fold yet another oversized sweatshirt - the boy would like that, wouldn’t he, something comfortable and warm? - Rowan knew there was one more call he had to make before the boy’s arrival. As much as he wanted to run from the reality of what he’d done, hide in shame from the fact his impulses had brought him to such an untenable situation, he also knew that he couldn’t get through this alone. He’d signed the papers, the charge had hit his card, he’d shaken the salesperson’s hand. He now legally owned a human being, a trafficking victim, an abuse survivor.

Folding laundry would have to wait. It was already almost seven in the morning, and the day wasn’t getting any younger. Rowan heaved a shaking breath from his lungs and sat down on the couch cushion next to the hamper. He hated how much his fingers trembled as he hovered over the familiar contact in his favorites list. It was two hours later on the east coast, and Grey would be on his way to the office if he wasn’t there already.

A lump lodged in Rowan’s throat as he hesitated again, face hot with shame. He’d come to his extensive privileges with the PLF through consistent dedication to the cause. His typical level-headedness and rationality had prevailed time and again, earning him promotion after promotion. He was one of their most crucial and well-hidden operatives currently active in the field. And yet, and yet, here he was, a pet arriving at his doorstep with no foresight or forewarning.

“How are you supposed to help this victim recover if you can’t even make a phone call, you idiot?” Rowan chastised himself through a grimace as he rubbed his palm across his furrowed brows. Rationally, making this phone call was the best way to get both himself and his incoming houseguest the help that they needed. Rationally, Rowan knew that he had to make this phone call sooner or later. But rationality hadn’t exactly been the captain of his choices over the last twenty-four hours.

It took another minute of gnawing on his lower lip before Rowan finally brought himself to hit the call button. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and-

“Hey there, Rowan! How’s my favorite videographer and secret agent?” The familiar and ever-cheerful voice washed over Rowan like a ray of welcome sunlight. It was warm and relieving, and some of Rowan’s tension immediately melted away. He could do this.

“Morning, Grey.”

“Yeah, it’s a morning indeed! What is it, not even seven there yet? Early morning for a busy man. You doing alright after the liquidation event yesterday? Any chance to pull footage or sound bytes yet? I’ve told her she needs to be patient, but you know Darcy is when they’re waiting on new content for our socials.”

Rowan took a breath and closed his eyes.

“Listen, man, I need your help. I went to the liquidation event, I got set up to take footage like I always did, they let me in without a hitch. But- but I might have done something a little impulsive when I was there.” The entirety of the admission wasn’t quite ready to come to Rowan’s lips, the words lodged somewhere behind the lump in his throat.

“Please don’t tell me they clocked you,” Grey groaned, his words thick with anxiety. It was the groan of worry that came with all the stresses of Grey’s status.

The two friends might have begun their time at the PLF together back in college, but while Rowan had been content as an agent with boots on the ground and neck on the line, but Grey’s ambition had taken him on the executive track. While Rowan busied himself with infiltrating warehouses and transportation trucks, Grey had climbed the ranks to become Vice President of the North American Division of the PLF. Although their career paths had diverged along with their practices, they’d remained as close as ever through their ideals and hard-fought friendship. And so Grey had become a full-time liberation executive, while Rowan kept his craft to weekends and evenings between his full-time job at the TV station.

“No, nothing like that,” Rowan said, falling over his words as he tried to soothe Grey’s fears. “No cops, no drama, no one suspected a thing. I got all of the footage I’d hoped to get, some sound bytes too. There was some seriously fucked up stuff, worse than usual, and it’ll make some great clips for us, this is some really great material. I’ll be editing it this weekend, at least I’d planned to do that, and-“

“Take a breath, man, take a breath. If you got in and out without a hitch, why’s the sky falling?”

Rowan swallowed, and pressed on.

“I- I, uh- I saw a victim there. I mean, I saw a lot of them, right, that’s the whole point of the event, that’s why we go. But you know, there was this one. There was something different about this one, okay? I can’t tell you what it was, you just, you’d have to see it to believe it, to feel what I felt. I looked at him, and I just- I couldn’t say no. It’s like he begged me to live with just his eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I mean never, and you know how long I’ve been doing this. So I- I guess- I rescued him. Bought him, really, if I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Cash upfront for a lifetime contract, signed on the warehouse floor, delivery set for later this afternoon. He should arrive in about four hours, actually, now that I look at the time.”

There was a pause, and Rowan could hear a slight crackling over the line as Grey took a breath. Finally, when Grey’s voice came again, it was more tired than Rowan had heard in quite some time.

“Jesus Christ,” Grey muttered. Rowan could picture his exasperated face even from more than a thousand miles away. “What were you thinking? You aren’t trained as a rescuer, you haven’t been assigned a rehabilitation team, and there’s no way we can get him in for an urgent medical work-up on such short notice. We’re not prepared for another intake, and you’re not-“

“I know, I know. I fucked up. I fucked up big time.” It was Rowan’s turn to cut his friend off. That guilt, that shame, it was heavier and heavier as Grey confirmed Rowan’s worst fears. This was a fuck-up on a massive scale. But there was no going back now. That boy was going to be in his home today, and he was going to be alive. That had to count for something, right?

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” Grey asked this over the sound of distant keystrokes. It was like the frustration from just moments ago had dissipated, and the confident leader had emerged with an air of business around him. It was that very trait that had made Grey a no-brainer for such a high-ranking role within the PLF. “You rescued him from a liquidation event, so this isn’t going to be a standard rescue case. Give me some more details, and I can try to connect you to a rehabilitator nearby for immediate and emergency intervention. I’ll need you to send me scans of the purchase papers, the ones with your contract, as well as any that come in his box later. Do you have his WRU ID number? I’m opening a rescue file in our system for him now.”

And now it was Rowan’s turn to let out a breath of relief. There was no anger left – no, there never had been anger to begin with – as Grey proved that he was every inch the liberationist that hundreds admired him to be. If Grey was going to scold Rowan, it would come at a much later time.

“I don’t actually know why he was sent for liquidation,” Rowan admitted as he hauled himself off the couch and walked back over to the kitchen table. It was piled with papers and books, all displaced during his frenzied cleaning and preparatory efforts, and it would probably take him some time to figure out where he’d actually put the contract papers. “I only had a few moments of contact with him on the floor, and the sales agent was vague. I looked over the papers, but it was only as far as the sales agent had mentioned in their words – he’s a dual-trained Domestic-Romantic with no apparent problems other than so-called ‘selective obedience.’ He apparently went through their standard and advanced refurbishment programs, but that didn’t fix the obedience issues. Cognitively, he was attentive and lively on the floor, capable of making eye contact and engaging with his surroundings. Physically, well, it was hard to tell under the jumpsuit. I saw some of the usual scarring under his uniform, and some fresh wounds on the sides of his face, but that’s it.”

Grey hummed as the keystrokes continued.

“Alright, well, that’s not really helpful. Sometimes they don’t share the true reason for the liquidation, and it’s up for the rescuer and their team to figure out the extent of the issues. I’ll need to get you a case manager who can follow up once he’s had his medical work-up and paperwork fully reviewed. It looks like our roster has a special-instance rehabilitator located about twenty minutes away from you, and I’ve already got her assigned to the case in our system. She’ll be the person you report to until we get a case manager for you both. She’s been with the PLF for about four years now, with twelve total successful rehabilitations, eight being special cases from liquidation events or other emergency rescues. I’ve sent her your contact information just now, and I told her to reach out as soon as possible. I hope she can get out there today, it being a Sunday and all. Her name is Angela Herrera, phone number ending in 8742, so pick it up when she calls.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Grey.” These five minutes had already changed everything. Rowan – and the boy – weren’t in this alone. They had not just the weight of the PLF, but the power of Rowan’s dearest friend, behind them now. Help was on the way. And by god, Rowan was going to take that help with open arms.

Grey gave a soft, strained chuckle.

“No, you’re the miracle worker today. You have given a human being a second chance at life, and that’s worth more than all the money in the world. Now, I would never recommend what you’ve today done to anyone, and it’s not going to be an easy path forward. But I know you did it with a good heart, and with good intentions. Most of all, I know that you are more than capable to handle this, even in these less-than-ideal circumstances. You are strong and you are smart – you’re going to have to be, for the sake of this boy.”

“I know. I will be. I’m going to do this, and I’m going to do it right from here on out. Even if this is how it has to start, it’s by-the-book going forward. You have my word I am going to put my whole heart and soul into making this right. Not for my sake, but his.”

Even without words, Rowan could feel Grey smiling.

“I know. Of all the people in the world, I can always trust you, even if you’re an idiot sometimes. Don’t worry about the footage from the event until you have your new guest settled in, alright? Any new liberation material can wait, and if Darcy bugs you about it, tell them to talk to me. Make sure you read through the PLF rescue manual on the rehabilitation site, then when you’re done reading it, read it again. When your guest arrives make sure you use a conversational tone, soft voice, lots of praise, slow movements and hand gestures, all of that stuff we went over in training for interacting with victims in the early stages of recovery. I know it’s been years since you took the training, but it’ll come back to you.”

“Of course. I already have the manual printed out and on my table somewhere – fuck, I swear I printed it, along with ten thousand other things, it’s here somewhere – but I read it. I’ll read it again now, as soon as I hang up. I’ll let you go so you can get back to your job saving the world. I’ve got my hands full over here, I guess. And, Grey… thanks for your help. Really. I guess I should thank you for not chewing me out either.”

“Oh, don’t count that out yet,” Grey said. “I’ll save the chewing out for a more opportune time, well after your new guest is settled in. Hell, I hope I can do it in person. We’re overdue for a visit anyway, and of course I’d love to meet your guest.”

“Noted.” Rowan felt his smile twinge slightly into a grimace. Of course, he wouldn’t get let off the hook so easily, not under Grey’s watch. “I’ll be on the lookout for a call from Angela or you, yeah? Otherwise, I’ve got to finish getting ready.”

“Yes, of course. Like I said, call me if you need anything, and I mean anything. Just because I’m Vice President now doesn’t mean I’m not your friend. You call, and I will pick up.”

“Likewise. Always. Chat later, Grey.”

“Later, Rowan.”

As soon as Rowan hung up he collapsed back into the couch, the already-wrinkled rescue manual clutched between sweaty fingers. There was so much to learn, so much to do, and so little time to do it. But it had to be better than death, right? Whether that was a lie or the truth, it was what Rowan had to tell himself now. Grey was on his side, and the weight of the PLF was behind him. They were going to give this boy a fighting chance at life, a second chance to live as a man, and not as someone’s pet.

It would be Rowan’s greatest challenge yet.

---

The third cup of coffee had just finished brewing in Rowan’s coffee pot when there was a knock at the door. It was half-past eleven, and despite knowing that this moment had been coming, the tightness in Rowan’s chest suddenly became as heavy as a stone. There was hardly a breath left in his lungs as he stumbled in a daze to the door.

He peered through the peephole and, sure enough, there were two men in WRU-branded coveralls waiting on his welcome mat.

A final deep breath in, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, and Rowan threw the door open.

“Good morning, Mr. Bailey. We’re here to complete your delivery.” The man’s voice was monotonous, droning, almost exhausted. It was like he was going door-to-door selling gym memberships rather than delivering a human being to a stranger’s home. And just as a salesman would, he shoved a clipboard with a thick stack of papers in Rowan’s direction.

“I need to scan your ID and have you fill out this confirmation paperwork. Once that’s done, my colleague and I will go get your delivery from the truck. As soon as it’s in your possession, you’ll have a final release paper to sign to effectuate the property transfer.”

Property. That’s all the boy was in the eyes of the law. In Rowan’s care he would be so much more, but for now, Rowan had to play into the charade for a few minutes longer. He grabbed the clipboard with sweating palms.

“Yeah, sure. Let me see those.” He scribbled something resembling his signature on any line he could find, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, and slammed the pen down as he reached the final page. “There, I think I’ve got it all. Here’s my driver’s license, that alright?”

The man looked over Rowan’s ID, apparently blasé as he matched the birth date on the plastic to the one Rowan had scrawled on the paper, then handed it back to Rowan with a grunt.

“Looks like everything’s in order here. We’ll be back in about ten minutes with your purchase. Does this building have a freight elevator? Tends to be a bit easier to maneuver for us.”

“Yeah, down the hall and to the left past the fire doors. Can’t miss it.”

“Great, thanks. We’ll be right back.”

And to their credit, they were. After only seven minutes of Rowan pacing his recently-cleaned hallway, all of his shoes tucked in the shoe rack rather than strewn across the tiles, a second knock came at the door. This time, when Rowan opened it, there was a large pine box on dollies between the two WRU personnel. The first thought that crossed Rowan’s mind was how much it looked like a coffin.

“Alright, here’s your delivery. Is the hallway fine, or do you have a room set aside?”

Rowan did have a room, but he didn’t want anyone associated with WRU in his home a moment longer than they had to be.

“Hallway is fine.”

“Great. Then we’ll go ahead and put your box there, and once we’ve got it off the dollies, we’ll require your signature right here.” Another paper on yet another clipboard was thrust into his hands, and Rowan’s mouth was dry as the box was rolled into his hall and heaved off the dolly and onto the floor. There wasn’t a sound except for the slight scrape of pine across the floor, and then the scratching of a half-dead ballpoint pen across paper, and then the shuffling of even more paper.

The WRU delivery staff gave a final look over where Rowan had signed before a forced smile came over their faces. The tall one spoke in a tired service voice, just like a cashier who was pitching a club card.

“Congratulations, Mr. Bailey, the transaction is complete and the property has been fully transferred into your ownership. The rest of the documentation for your purchase and otherwise accompanying the product are contained in the box, including an additional copy of the sales contract and the property’s medical and training records. Further information, if necessary, can be obtained from WRU directly, as can additional copies or digital copies of the necessary documentation. When putting any inquiry in with WRU, please use both your purchase number and the product’s WRU-issued identification number. If you’ve been satisfied with today’s service and delivery, please fill out the survey that will be sent to the email we have on file for you. While the cost of delivery was included with your purchase price, at the conclusion of the survey, you will have the option to leave a cash tip if you were particularly satisfied with today’s delivery service. Thank you for choosing WRU.”

The words bounced off Rowan’s consciousness as his attention turned to the box. The boy was in that box, waiting for him. All he could bring himself to do was wave off the delivery personnel with an open hand.

“Got it, I’ll look for the survey and all that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to tend to my… purchase.”

Before they could respond Rowan shut the door on them. They would receive no additional praises or compensation for their role in facilitating this abuse. What mattered now was that Rowan was, legally, the boy’s owner. And the boy was here now in his possession.

Rare courage overcame Rowan. Perhaps it was the fear driving him, perhaps it was the anticipation, or perhaps it was delirium from the all-nighter. Whatever it was, Rowan didn’t spare a single spare moment before undoing the deadbolts on the top of the box and heaving the lid open.

And there, laying motionless in a bed of straw, naked but for the black leather collar around his neck, was the boy.

---

Light pierced the pet’s eyes like a bolt of lightning. Its ears had been ringing, and although it couldn’t hear what had transpired beyond the walls of its box aside from the slight murmur of voices, it had prepared for the lid of the box to be opened.

You’re lucky, Handler Green had said with his hand wrapped around the pet’s throat, moments before it was thrown into the box and the lid cut off any light. You’re not going to die today. This is your last chance, so don’t fuck it up.

The last few hours – had it been hours, or had it been longer? – in the box had been filled with little more than abject terror. No amount of breathing exercises or attempts at sleep had soothed its nerves. All it could think of was the future ahead, the new master that would await it once the box was finally opened, how it would make its first impression to the person that held its life in their hands. If it failed here and now, it would surely die.

All it wanted now, and all it had ever wanted, was to be a good pet who served its masters well. It rehearsed its positions between waves of panic attacks, it silently recited its old master’s favorite recipes step-by-step until the ingredients sounded like poetry in its mind, and it stretched each morning to keep itself flexible and pliable. It tried its best to listen in training, no matter how hard the ringing had made it. And when it received punishments or corrections, no matter how severe, it remained silent.

Now, with light streaming into its box, it had a final chance to prove that it was good. The pet was certain that it could be good, be useful, be the perfect pet its new master wanted. Though fear was sticky on its parched tongue, it knew from training that fear would lend itself to its determination and would likewise reduce its error rates. Today, on this very first date, that fear would serve it well.

Fear meant that it was still alive.

The pet had been specifically trained for this moment, and it was well-practiced in this first essential maneuver. Handler Green had gone over the routine with it again last night after it had been brought back to the training facility from the warehouse. For once, Handler Green hadn’t administered any additional punishments as they rehearsed the motions. Perhaps that meant the pet had done something right.

In those same fluid movements it had practiced just some hours ago, the pet sat up from where it had been nestled in the straw, heaved a leg over the side of the box, then another, and threw itself to the floor and onto its knees. Its legs tucked comfortably beneath it in the kneeling position, the same one it had been taught to assume from those earliest days in training. Its joints ached from the time in the box, but pain wouldn’t stop the pet now, it never did. The pet did many things wrong, but not this one small thing – it could kneel as long as its master needed.

And though the pet didn’t dare raise its eyes, the flash of movement from its hurried scramble to the floor confirmed its fearful suspicions. That same man that had stood outside its cage at the warehouse, the same one it had accidentally made eye contact with, was its master now.

Hands on its lap, the pet bowed its head, kept its gaze low and fixed on the dark wood floors. Although its ears rang, and although it couldn’t quite hear if Master was speaking, it strained for the relief and release of a command all the same. All it wanted was the chance to prove, once and for all, that it was good.

---

Taglist:

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

#hear no evil #whump #whump writing #whump blog #whump story #whumpblr #bbu #bbu whump #hear no evil chapter 2 #one big change in the rewrite is that grey plays a bigger role - they're best friends after all #also rowan's emotions fluctuate more because that's cool #anyway our poor boy has arrived!#enjoy y'all #this is a slower chapter so thank you for your patience!

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distinctlywhumpthing · 2 months ago

Text

First Night Home pt. 2

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Inhale, one, two, three, four.

Exhale, one, two, three, four.

Aiden jumps when Leo turns on the water. It seems like so long ago that he waited in this very spot on the first night. It’s fuzzy but he fixes his mind on those memories: Leo bribing him to come out from under the van with mini marshmallows; watching him cook dinner; even how scared he was, imagining how he might be punished for breaking the bowl.

Anything but the last time he was in here.

“Alright.” Leo takes a breath worthy of the size of this undertaking. “I’m gonna stay with you. We’ll skip the Saran Wrap and you can just hold onto my shoulders so your arms don’t get wet. Sound good?”

He swallows and takes off his underwear.

“Just look at me, okay? I’ve got you.” Leo lifts his hands one by one up to his shoulders like a slow dance. He’s so careful settling them there, especially his left hand, that Aiden’s covered in goosebumps when he’s done. Before he has a chance to breathe again, Leo starts to gently peel the tape and gauze from his collarbone and his arm. He curls his fingers into fists on Leo’s shoulders.

“Sorry, sorry.”

He’s not Harrison, he’s so far from being Harrison.

It’s an insult to even have to draw the anti-comparison but his focus is like a scanning radio. It’ll lock onto the next strongest frequency whether he likes it or not.

Inhale, one, two, three, four.

Exhale, one, two, three, four.

It’s not the same as when Leo counted for him at the hospital.

“Alright, ready?”

He is not. He nods.

In a graceless dance, they get him standing in the tub and under the stream of water. He grips Leo’s shoulders, tries to focus on his steadiness.

“Is it okay? Not too hot or cool?”

He jerks his head in a nod, even though that only answers the first question, keeping his eyes locked on Leo’s face just like he said.

Not looking down at the blood-colored water circling the drain, just like—

No.

Inhale, one, two, three, four.

Exhale, one, two, three, four.

Leo has to help wash the blood off but at least it’s a loofah.

Not a washcloth. Not a sponge.

He grits his teeth against the sensation, switches to counting straight up. Would he actually prefer a scrub brush and a cold hose?

“Turn?” Leo poses it like a question, like there’s a choice. As if Aiden could bail right now.

He lets Leo lift his hands off his shoulders, holding them up out of the shower spray. Turns to face the wall, raising his hands above his head to rest there, like he’s about to be strip searched. He starts to breathte through his teeth.

Leo must hear the change because instead of the almost-scratch of the soaped-up loofah, it’s Leo’s hand that rubs circles across his shoulder blades.

Aiden almost loses it.

Trapped there, pinned against the tiles. He doesn’t want to look at them. But they are decidedly better than the ones he sees when he closes his eyes. He locks every muscle, forcing himself not to arch and twist out from under Leo’s too-careful, too-soft, too-kind, too-slow touch that he can only half feel. It’s all he can focus on and it goes on forever.

Even when Leo finally helps him turn around, replacing his hands on his shoulders, the other half of the sensation keeps ghosting across his back.

It won’t stop. He wants to scream.

Leo grimaces when he sees his expression. “Sorry, I thought— ”

“M’good,” he grates.

Leo doesn’t push it. “You’re doing good, almost done.”

A stab of guilt cuts through him. Leo’s helping him. Not hurting him, not even close. If only he could explain—

“Hey, nice choice.”

It takes Aiden a moment to figure out what he means, he’s not pointing to anything. As soon as he realizes, his throat tightens and tears prick in his eyes.

Lavender.

When Leo wraps him in one of the giant, soft towels, something releases inside him and tears start running down his cheeks. He tries to hide them, lifting the towel to his forehead or hair to secretly brush them away before Leo can see. But it’s no use once he has to hand over the towel to get dressed.

He gets as far as putting on clean underwear before Leo notices.

“Oh, Aiden…” Leo says in that too-gentle tone that only makes him cry harder.

He gives up trying to step into the sweatpants and sits on the bed, immediately regretting the loss of Leo’s hand under his elbow. He drops his head into his hands and sobs.

Through the cracks between his fingers, he sees Leo kneel. “Okay, that’s okay,” Leo whispers. He takes the sweatpants off his lap and gathers one leg top to bottom to slip over his foot. Does the other the same and lifts them up over his knees. Pulls socks onto his feet.

It aches how gentle he is. How steady and unhurried. No one’s ever given him permission to cry before.

He rests his hands on either side of Aiden’s head, thumbs overlapping Aiden’s. “Come here.”

Aiden lets him move his hands down to the waistband of the sweatpants, ready to pull them up. He pauses to wipe the tears from his cheeks with the softest brush of his rough fingertips. Aiden feels like he might split in two. He can only ever remember crying like this once before, when she died. He doesn’t know why he’s crying so hard now.

Leo pulls him to stand and right into his arms. He’s barely aware of Leo threading his arms through a t-shirt, followed by another one of his old hoodies, because all he can feel is the steadiness of the arm he keeps locked around his waist. Like Leo knows he would otherwise fall to pieces.

Once he’s dressed, Leo sits on the bed and pulls Aiden right back into his arms, holding him like he’s never letting go. He cries harder when he realizes Leo rubs his back to the same cadence as his own steady breathing. Up as Leo’s chest rises, down as it falls. Giving him something else to hold onto, all the while holding him together.

All the shadows cast by the rising sun are gone now. The light changed from warm to bright, morning sun all the more brilliant from the snow reflecting it right back at the sky.

“Leo..?” It slips out, something between a whine and whisper that he’s not even sure is coherent.

“I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“Mm’sorry,” he whispers. “Mmm….so’sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s all good.”

“Mmm…I—I—” He chokes on a sob, fingers curling into fists in Leo’s shirt. He almost didn’t get this. “I—mmm—”

“It’s all good,” Leo says him. “You don’t have to apologize for crying—”

“Nnno, no—m’sorry, mmm’sorry, I-I—I—”

Leo stops trying to reassure him, just keeps rubbing his back in smooth, steady circles up and down, up and down.

Aiden’s throat tightens. “I…mmm…w-w-w—” He shakes his head. Tries again from a different angle. “I-I…mmm…d-don’t…” He takes a deep breath. “W-w—” The word evades him again and he just skips it this time. He wants to say this. He needs to say this. “Mmm…t’go.”

Leo’s hand stops and Aiden’s breath with it. “You don’t want to go?”

A sob shakes through him and he nods.

“Hon, we’re not going anywhere…?”

He holds his breath. The voice in his head tells him he shouldn’t have said anything. He should have said ‘sorry’, should have said ‘thank you’, instead of trying to say more.

“You don’t want to go? I— Oh...”

Aiden can picture the change in Leo’s expression perfectly. He squeezes his eyes shut because he can’t bear to be wrong and catch a glimpse of anything different. Leo inhales to say something a few times but he doesn’t ever start. He doesn’t let him go either, so he can’t be too angry, but Aiden starts to feel the pressure of the silence like a door closing. It was so stupid to think—

He flinches when Leo moves him off his lap. “M’sorry—” he rushes to say but his voice breaks and it only sounds like another sob.

“Hey, hey.” Leo’s hands find his face. “Look at me, hon.”

He blinks away tears to find Leo kneeling in front of him again. “M’s-sorry,” Aiden whimpers, shaking his head. He wants to take it back. He’s sorry for saying anything that made Leo let go. “I—”

“Me too.”

A tear runs down Leo’s cheek and Aiden forgets whatever it was he wanted to say. He wonders what it would be like to lift his hand and brush it away with one of his fingertips like Leo does for him. He settles for bringing his hands up to hold onto Leo’s wrists. He feels worse than guilty that he’s upset Leo too, like this ache inside him is contagious. Aiden catches his bottom lip between his teeth to stop it from trembling, from pulling him back under the sobs.

Leo leans forward, bringing their foreheads together like he did at the hospital, and closes his eyes. “I’m so glad I found you,” he whispers.

Aiden sobs, hands moving up to Leo’s shoulders almost on their own. Leo understands perfectly and pulls him back into his arms for the hug he wants.

He’s shards and pieces but he’s here.

And he’s not alone.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds

#bath scene #pet whump #box boy whump #box boy universe #bbu whump #bbu adjacent #dubious caretaker #whump #whump writing #sucker for a carewhumping bath scene #almost did this as the answer to a comfort ask of nice relaxing bath for aiden #but can't be that mean on NYE #he cries enough as it is #sorry for spamming those of you on both tag lists <3

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doumidas-whumps · 4 months ago

Text

no longer in solitude

Porter's first impression of Sonny, the new pet.

a little something from Port's POV this time (and by "a little something" I mean 2000 words). this is the night Sonny is brought to his new home.

consider this a sort-of prequel to this.

cw: BBU/pet whump, abusive master, whumpee emotionally attached to whumper

All day, the house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. It made Port a little twitchy. It seemed quieter than usual today, quiet enough that the florescent lights buzzing in his ears were making him sick. He had to step out of the bathroom halfway through cleaning the shower, scrubbing brush abandoned by the drain. He rinsed his hands and pressed his cool, clean palms to his eyes. Memories of lying alone in that cold, featureless room in the facility flashed behind his eyelids.

He tried to think of something else, his master coming to mind easily. He had left for work that morning without a word to Port, just as he had the past two days. Mr. Oz hadn’t been speaking to him lately. In fact, he’d barely even looked at him.

Maybe something at work was bothering him. Did his boss yell at him? Could it be that the coworker he always complained about was getting on his nerves? Maybe it was unrelated to work; maybe he had lost more money at the casino. The last time that had happened, Mr. Oz lost two grand playing blackjack or poker or whatever it was and when he came home he threw one of his shoes at Port’s head. Port dodged it on instinct, which just made him angrier. Though come to think of it, Port hadn’t had any projectiles thrown at him, lately, so maybe it wasn’t that.

The grandfather clock started chiming, shaking Port out of his uneasy thoughts. He took a grounding breath and reentered the bathroom.

After the bathroom was the living room. He pulled the remote out from between the couch cushions, itching to turn the TV on for some background noise. He set the remote in its proper place on the glass coffee table, next to a box of playing cards. He didn’t have permission to watch TV today.

Lately Mr. Oz had been getting home around 7:00, so Port started dinner at 6:30. Talking to him over dinner was usually the most exciting part of Port’s day, but the two previous nights he had taken his dinner up to his room, leaving Port to clean up in silence. He hoped today would be better.

Dinner was finished by 6:55. He left it on the stove on low heat. When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 7:20, Port put it in the fridge. He had already cleaned the the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the living room, the kitchen, even under the fridge, under the oven, and the tops of the doorways. He supposed the bookshelf could do with some dusting.

When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 9:00 and Port had truly run out of productive things to do, he grabbed the playing cards from the coffee table and kneeled on the Persian carpet, arranging them for a game of solitaire. Mr. Oz had never explicitly forbid him from playing card games, so Port figured it was okay as long as he put everything away before he got back.

By the time the clock chimed for the second time since he’d started playing, marking 11 o’ clock, Port was starting to get concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for his master to stay out after work, but 11:00 P.M. was far later than usual, especially on a Thursday night.

Port had been in the living room for hours, having long since adjusted to a more comfortable sitting position. His current game was not going well. Stuck, Port listened to the ticking clock while he tried to figure out how to salvage it. It was hard to think when his eyes were drifting closed. He had gotten up at 5 A.M. that morning, like usual, and he wasn’t allowed to sleep until his master turned in for the night.

Port gave up on the game and rested his elbows on the coffee table, shifting the cards underneath his arms. He stared at the blinking colon of the digital clock under the TV, willing himself to stay awake. He should probably get up and move around, but the combination of the blinking and the ticking had a hypnotizing effect.

Just as the clock blinked to 11:08, he heard the garage door screech open and jerked awake. Port hastily gathered the cards into a stack and slid them into their box. He rose to his feet and padded to the side door to greet his master, where he waited eagerly, a smile already on his face.

The door swung open and Mr. Oz stepped through into the yellow light of the hall. His cheeks were ruddy, teeth visible in a grin. Port found it encouraging.

“Welcome home,” Port greeted. “How was your—”

Port was startled as another figure appeared out of the darkness in the doorway behind him. His first split-second thought was that it was one of his master’s friends, as it wasn’t unusual for him to invite people over. The thought was dashed as soon as he spotted the supple black collar around the figure’s neck.

It was a boy— a young man— who stepped into the hall, eyes cast down. Port couldn’t see his features too well at this angle— only his shining black hair, which was neatly parted down the middle of his scalp.

Port realized his mouth was still open and shut it. Once he pulled his eyes away from the pet he noticed that Mr. Oz was looking at him, eyes glimmering. “Porter, this is Sonny.” He clapped the boy on the back, who visibly jumped. (A sign of poor training.) “He’ll be helping you out around the house.”

Every question running through Port’s mind was cut short. Was he saying what Port thought he was saying? “Sir, do you mean…?”

“That’s right! You get to have a little playmate, doesn’t that sound great?”

Port blinked.

Mr. Oz was looking at the pet with some sort of fondness. “I’ve had my eye on him for a while now… you should’ve seen the look on David’s face.” His hand moved to the pet's neck, whose shoulders raised higher. “I’m gonna get him a collar like yours,” Mr. Oz said, hooking a finger under the nylon. “So you can match.”

Some buzzing feeling was spreading through Port. His chest was shivering. He felt his smile grow wider. He clasped his hands in front of him and squeezed. “This is great, sir.”

Mr. Oz smiled back at him. It felt good to be on the same page as his master, to be excited with him. Port was already imagining what it would be like to have another presence in the house. Someone to help with housework, to get to know, to talk with like an an equal. A small spike of guilt struck him at the thought. His master was supposed to fulfill all his needs. He shouldn’t be craving the company of another pet, of all things. And yet…

Mr. Oz grabbed Sonny roughly by the shoulders and pushed him closer to Port, made them stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sonny had to be at least half a foot shorter than him.

He watched Mr. Oz admire them both, mind working. His hand shot out to Sonny’s face so fast that Sonny jerked back and Port nearly flinched. Mr. Oz gripped him by the face, dimpling his cheek with his thumb as he tilted his head upwards. “Look at me,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll have you…” He trailed off, eyes growing dark. “What’s with that face?”

Port glanced down to gauge for himself. On Sonny’s face was an unmistakable expression: fear.

“Are you scared?” asked their master. He was no longer smiling.

Sonny said nothing. Port’s heart beat fast for him. Mr. Oz did not like to go unanswered.

“Well?”

Sonny hesitated too long. Mr. Oz released Sonny’s face only to crack his hand across it like a whip. Sonny nearly collided into Port’s shoulder, hand raising as if to cradle his rapidly flushing cheek. Port felt a rising sense of alarm. Where was this boy trained?

Mr. Oz’s hand grasped Sonny’s wrist, halting it in place. “Please, sir—“ Sonny finally spoke.

“Who taught you to act like this?” He was yelling, now. “Were you disciplined at all?”

Port couldn’t help himself. “Sir, he’s just—”

His master whirled on him. “I don’t wanna hear a single word outta you!”

Port’s jaw clicked shut.

He turned back to Sonny, who was lowering towards the floor like his knees were buckling. Mr. Oz released Sonny’s wrist and ran both hands through his short hair, something he always did when he was exasperated. “Way to ruin my damn mood.” He rubbed his eyes, and when his fists fell he locked eyes with Port. They were slightly red. “Take him to your room,” he said. “Explain the rules.” His gaze drifted to Sonny, who now had his arms wrapped around himself. Mr. Oz sighed, pinching his brow. “If he doesn’t fix his behavior… we’re gonna have some problems.” Port felt Sonny curl further into himself beside him.

“Yes, sir.” Port wasted no time in guiding Sonny upstairs with a gentle hand on his upper back. He pushed open the door to his room— their room, now. There wasn’t much. A dresser, a blanket, a pillow, the soft rug he slept on. A painting of a seagull hung on the far wall. Port would have to grab another pillow and blanket for Sonny from the linen closet— that is, if Mr. Oz didn’t decide to revoke his bedding privileges for that little display.

Now that they were out of earshot, Port felt comfortable enough to speak. He needed to give Sonny the rundown on how things worked around here. But first… “Are you alright?”

Sonny lifted his head, looking directly at Port for the first time. His eyes were so dark Port couldn’t see the pupils. They shone like black pearls, wet. His cheeks were dry, the left still colored from the slap, but his face was otherwise unblemished. He looked young. His mouth made no movement.

“You can speak, right?”

Sonny’s gaze lowered. “Sorry,” he whispered. “This is a lot.”

Port sighed, feeling a pang of sympathy. The boy didn’t seem very experienced. “It’s okay,” he said. “Let’s sit down.”

Sonny wasted no time in dropping to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. Port went to his knees in front of him, but after a few seconds decided to readjust and sit on his bottom to be more casual. He gave Sonny a minute of silence to calm down before speaking again.

“I don’t know what that was, but—” you shouldn’t be so scared? I hope you’re okay? You can’t do that again? “—he isn’t as bad as you seem to think he is.”

Sonny looked at him again, now reproachfully. Port tried a smile. “Are you new?”

His eyes turned sharp, flicking up and down Port’s figure. “Six months outta training,” he muttered. Secondhand? Sonny seemed to be considering him. “You’re not new.”

“No.”

“You’re W.R.U.?” Dubya-arr-yoo.

“…Yes.” Technically.

Sonny hummed, lowering his chin. “You kinda seem like it.”

Port wasn’t sure how to feel about that, or what could have possibly given him that impression, so he just asked, “Where are you from, if not W.R.U.?” Port knew of at least two knock-offs. “I didn’t even know Mr. Oz was looking for another pet.”

Sonny just sighed and lowered his head further so his forehead touched the tops of his knees, face hidden.

Well, alright. Considering they were equals, Port supposed Sonny wasn’t obligated to answer him.

#whump writing #whump #pet whump #bbu whump #multiple whumpees #group whumpees #conditioned whumpee #wru #bbu #ficmidas #solitaire #porter oz #sonny oz #parsa osman #two months later i finally finish it #fingers crossed the next part will come out sooner than that #i may continue to make illustrations it's fun

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