#box baby whump

[parasiticstars]

[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.”

[sickficideas]

okay but dazai actually letting himself react and be affected by getting hurt, letting kunikida “baby” him, letting himself cry while kunikida holds him, etc :(

This is so important 2 me....I imagine it takes him quite a while to get to this point but very slowly over time he subconsciously realizes that Kunikida is safe to him🥺💔 one of my favorite things for this is Kunikida washing his hair...😭😭😭💔

[boxboysandotherwhump]

@redwingedwhump since we are talking about more sci-fi elements in the bbu. Here is a snippet from the boxboy comic I started :3

[lights-out-knives-out]

Back at it with some art!

Ok so these folks are from my Box boy story, everyone wearing pink is a rescued Boxie. Bianca runs a shelter where she helps Boxies back into society.

James and Vivian are the main two which we follow. James’s mom was a Boxie so he was kinda born into the system. Shit happens, his moms out of the picture, and he lives with Bianca at her shelter. Yes, Vivian is modified, he is part bunny.

This is maybe going to be like a slice of life, but a lot more trauma and fighting. Mostly from James

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

A chance encounter

Words: 1,732 [also on AO3]

Rated: E

Tags: No UD AU; Future fic; Record label owner Eddie; Waiter Steve; Eddie Munson has a crush on Steve Harrington; Blood and violence; Sex work (implied); Attempted non-con; Homophobic language; Steve Harrington whump; Eddie Munson whump; Protective Eddie Munson; Protective Steve Harrington

Notes: Happy birthday, @house-of-the-moving-image! I hope you have the most wonderful of days. I'm so happy to have found you as a friend and partner in crime. Hope you enjoy your extra long chunk of Upside Diner, even though it turned out quite gritty for a birthday fic. 😅💕🛼

Eddie grumbles under his breath as he locks the office door and steps out into the dark street. 

Don’t get him wrong, he loves his job. Hellfire Records is his baby. Making music, working with all sorts of different artists and bands, helping them make a name for themselves - it’s everything he ever wanted and never thought he could have growing up in the smalltown hell of Hawkins, Indiana. 

What he doesn’t love is the meetings and the paperwork and the phone calls, especially on days like this, when it all drags on until well into the night. 

The echoes of his boots bounce off the empty streets as he makes his way towards the little diner at the corner. Checking his wristwatch, he swears again. Fuck, it’s even later than he thought. What if Steve’s shift is already over? The thought makes his stomach clench with an unpleasant feeling that distinctly feels like disappointment. The realization makes him pause and furrow his brow. 

Maybe it’s a little bit pathetic, how quickly his visits to the diner have become the highlight of his day. Maybe it’s a little bit weird that he hasn’t had dinner anywhere else in literal weeks. Maybe it’s a little bit creepy, this obsession with a boy he knew fleetingly in highschool. An obsession that makes him come by every single day after work, without fail, just to chew on soggy fries and greasy burgers and watch said boy waiting tables, gliding around like an angel in chunky roller skates and stupidly short shorts. 

Maybe he has a problem. 

And maybe he doesn’t care. 

Because for all his initial reluctance and bite, Steve has actually started coming around. Has been accepting Eddie’s money and attempts at conversation with barely a complaint. Has even stopped asking why Eddie keeps ordering way too much food for one person alone, taking the leftovers behind his counter to munch on. Hell, last week when Eddie came in, he even looked up from the order he was taking and flashed him a wave and smile. Eddie rode that high all night and well into the next day. 

It’s the memory of that smile that makes him pick up his steps. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll catch Steve at the tail end of his shift and convince him to stay around for a little longer. 

The diner is empty, except for a lone person in uniform wiping down tables behind the neon-lit window pane. It isn’t Steve. Eddie spares one glance at the bored-looking girl and turns away with an annoyed groan. That’s it, he thinks, pulling his headphones from his pocket and slamming them on with a little more force than strictly necessary. Tonight officially sucks. Time to go home and fix himself some SpaghettiOs, turn on a late night show and fall asleep in front of the- 

For the rest of his life, he’ll thank fate for making him fumble with his discman. Because if he’d hit the play button a second earlier, he would never have heard the voices. But this way, he does, and this way, he halts his steps, peering into the narrow side alley with a wrinkled brow. The light of the streetlamps only reaches so far, and everything he can see are the dumpsters and old cardboard boxes at its entrance. Beyond them, everything is dark. 

“Dude, get your hands off me, I said no.” 

Steve.

Eddie is halfway around the dumpsters before he even knows it, heart beating in his ribcage like a jackhammer. The alley reeks of piss and rotting garbage. At its far end, almost hidden behind another dumpster, are two figures. Eddie can’t make out their faces, but he also doesn’t need to. The colorful uniform is unmistakable, even in the murky half-light, even though it’s paired with a pair of sneakers rather than roller skates. And besides, he’d know that ridiculously floofy hairdo anywhere. 

He doesn’t know the other man. Only knows that the guy's hands are grabbing Steve’s arms and shoulders hard enough to leave marks as he attempts to wrestle him to his knees. 

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” the man hisses just as Eddie rounds the dumpster. “I’ll make it quick.” 

“Are you deaf or stupid?” Steve sneers, trying to struggle out of his hold. “I said get your fucking hands off me.” 

The man slaps him across the face. Steve makes a pained noise and loses his balance, going down on his knees on the dirty ground. 

The man laughs, curt and mean.

“There you go,” he coos. One of his hands grabs a fist full of chestnut hair while the other reaches for the half-undone fly of his pants. “Now be a good little slut and-” 

The force of the impact sends the discman tumbling from Eddie’s pocket. It shatters on the ground somewhere, parts flying in all directions, but he doesn’t have eyes for it. Instead, he grabs the asshole by the lapels of his cheap suit and hauls him against the nearest wall. The back of the asshole’s head hits the bricks, and Eddie thinks he hears something crack. Good. 

“Eddie?” 

While the man sags against the wall, groaning and cradling his head, Eddie whirls on Steve. Steve, who's just swaying to his feet, eyes wide and shocked. His cheek is flushed and starting to bruise. 

“Shit,” Eddie swears. “Are you-” 

Pain explodes inside his skull, sudden and all consuming. He stumbles, trying to keep his footing and cracks his head on the hard metal edge of the dumpster in the process. He manages to blink the stars from his vision just in time to see the man's fist flying at him. The blow makes his ears ring and copper flood his mouth, and when he regains his senses, he's on the ground with two hands closing around his throat. 

“Thought you'd play the hero, huh?” The man's grin is a manic grimace. A glob of spit hits Eddie’s cheek. “Well, how'd that work out for you, you stupid little-” 

“Hey, shitface!” 

The man snarls and turns. Eddie doesn’t see what happens, just knows that something goes crunch and suddenly the hands pressing down on his windpipe are gone. The man's voice turns into a high-pitched wail of pain. 

Eddie rolls around, coughing and gasping for air, and props himself up on his elbows. The man has shrunk against the next wall, clutching at his face. Crimson blood is bubbling out from between his fingers, hitting the alley floor in a steady pattern of drips. 

“Fuck off,” Steve says and lowers the hand holding the roller skate. His voice is deadly calm, his face steely. “Remember to put away your dick first.” 

The guy stares at him. Steve raises the roller skate again, just a little. The asshole whimpers and scrambles upright, mumbling something to himself. Eddie thinks he catches something about fucking lunatic fags, but he can't be sure, what with the way his voice comes out all wet and garbled. And then he's gone, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away.

Steve drops the roller skate. 

“Fuck,” be whispers, crouching down next to Eddie and brushing hesitant fingers over his split lip. Ten minutes ago, Eddie would’ve given anything to feel those hands on his face, but now he winces and recoils at the sting of pain. 

Steve retracts his hand, flopping down on the ground with a heavy sigh. The shorts ride up with the movement, exposing strong, muscled thighs. His knees are scraped from hitting the asphalt, little droplets of blood beading on the torn skin. 

“What’d you go and do that for?” Steve asks, scrubbing a hand down his face. All of the steel is gone from his voice. He sounds tired instead, infinitely tired. “I had it under control.” 

Eddie can’t help it, he barks a laugh. “Oh, did you, big boy? When was that, exactly? When he backhanded you? Or when he had you by the hair and was about to shove his cock down your-”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who got punched and choked half to death!” Steve snaps. 

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again. The boy has a point, sort of. He doesn’t need a mirror to tell which one of them is looking the worse for wear right now, not with the white-hot pain still throbbing through his face with every heartbeat. 

“He didn’t choke me half to death,” he mutters lamely. Steve huffs a humorless laugh. 

“Thanks, anyway,” he then says. It comes out so quietly that Eddie nearly misses it, and when he looks up, Steve has averted his eyes. Eddie has an acute flashback to their first meeting at the diner, when Steve reluctantly accepted his tip money. “Could’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t shown up.” 

Eddie feels his mouth tug into a grin, even though his lip stings like an entire beehive. 

“Anytime, Stevie. Now c’mon, let’s get outtaaaaah, shit.” 

Trying to stand is a bad idea. The moment he’s upright, another firework of pain goes off behind his temples and the ground tilts out from under him. The only thing that saves him from going right down again is Steve jumping to his feet and looping one of Eddie’s arms around his shoulders. 

“Shit, he got you good,” he mutters. Eddie can only hum in agreement, too preoccupied with keeping the meager contents of his stomach down. “We should probably get you somewhere with a first aid kit at least.” 

“‘s okay,” Eddie slurs, inadvertently leaning closer into Steve’s warmth. He smells of shampoo and frying fat and blood. “I’ll be fine, I live nearby.” 

Steve’s eyes flit over his face, then off to the side, then back to his face again. He licks his lips and even in his dazed state, Eddie can clearly see how he wars with himself. Finally, he gulps and straightens his spine. 

“Okay,” he says, adjusting Eddie’s weight on his shoulders. “Let’s go then.” 

It’s weird, Eddie thinks as they start to hobble their way down the dark street. He must’ve fantasized a thousand times about taking Steve Harrington home, but never once did he think it’d play out like this. Then again, things in his life rarely go as he imagines, so he supposes he’s just gonna roll with it.

@steddhie @formosusiniquis @steddiehasmywholeheart @ellaelsinore @rozzieroos

Part 4

Tag list: @grtwdsmwhr @p0lybl4nkk @fairytalesreality @colidamae @dissociatingdemon

[whumpsoda]

WSFSP - Lick It Clean

Masterlist

This is pretty small but I really wanted to get something done :)

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, institutionalized slavery, romantic whumpee, conditioned whumpee, dubcon mention

——————

“I’m disappointed, Princey.” The tap, tap, tap of his boots rang against the marble with each step Atticus took around the contrastingly vibrant pool of polish. “I thought you knew better than this.”

His pet, so beautiful kneeling, hung his head low. “I- I’m so sorry sir-,”

“No stuttering.”

Eyes going wide, Prince swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir. I beg for forgiveness.” Atticus wanted to give his luxurious lips the biggest kiss just for that, but had to hold himself back. He couldn’t ruin that wonderful look of fear scribbled over his features. “I just wanted to make you think my nails looked pretty-,”

“No excuses.”

“Sorry.” His gaze flickered from the floor to Atticus, seemingly searching for any semblance of affection. It was only a minor spill, after all. “My deepest apologies, sir.”

“Whatever shall I do with you? Making a mess like this?” Laughing, Atticus inflicted a stinging bitterness into his words. Just like how he spoke to the mutt. “You know the maids take care of your nails well enough already, stupid thing, color would ruin them. Especially whatever color that is.”

His fingers tap, tap, tapped over the white of the bathroom wall. “I want to see you grovel, Princey.”

Pressing his head to the floor, Prince stuck his sweet ass in the air, almost as if it would distract his owner from the punishment he was inflicting. Sensual and trained. A slut even in fear. “I apologize sir, please forgive me. Please, please, sir.”

The mess was really of no meaning to him - the maids would have it disappear in a matter of seconds. His Princey was just oh so very cute when he was scared.

“What punishment do you deserve?” He took his pet by the chin, tipping him back to a kneel. “How about the dog house?”

Instinctively he yelped a whine, slick and squeaking with horror.

“I’m just kidding, Princey, I would never. That’s reserved for the mutt.” Atticus felt as he relaxed back into his owner’s grip. “Besides, being balled up in there would ruin your hair.”

Gazing with those gentle, puppy dog eyes of his, Prince pouted. “I’m so, so sorry, sir, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

“So eager.” He chuckled, and his doggy flinched. “Princey? My pet?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You see my boot?” Letting go of the pet’s chin, Atticus sat to the edge of the tub. “Lick it clean.”

Jaw falling slack, Prince stifled a gasp. Shock filled terror looked so delicious in his face, so much so that Atticus couldn’t resist a grin as his pet nodded. “Y- yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

Tongue outstretched and quivering, Prince hesitated, just before the shoe was shoved into his open mouth. “Get a little more there, okay Princey? Won’t you baby?”

Watching with intense attention, Atticus had his chin rest to his palm. “Oh, I think you missed a spot. A little to the left.”

Brows furrowing, Prince dipped up. “Mmmgh-,”

“Oh dear!” Atticus exclaimed. How absolutely adorable. Just what he’d paid for. “You can’t remember which is which? Well doesn’t that just suck. My dumb Princey.”

Tears clouded his pet’s eyes, and Atticus watched him fail to blink them away. “Did I hurt your feelings, Princey? Sir is so mean loving, and caring for you. But I didn’t tell you to cry.”

His Princey. His perfect pet, whose perfect slobber and tears coated his freshly new work shoe.

——————

Masterlist

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

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

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

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

[whumpsday]

Catharsis #3: Unboxed

Masterlist

content: robot whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, defiant whumpee, violence, psychological whump

Whumpmas in July Day 9: Mind Games

i wanted to introduce each arc before continuing on with the present arc. i'll probably pop all over the place chronologically since that's how i write best!

here's 1's first day alive, though that wasn't his name at the time.

-

Cyrus opened his eyes for the very first time.

He was in a room in a house or apartment. It may have been his first moment of conscious thought, but he was not a human, and he was certainly not a baby. He was still in his box, he realized: he climbed out of it, brushing himself off, smoothing out the wrinkles in the disappointingly plain clothes he came dressed in. There was a man there, taking a step back. Probably the one who had turned him on.

The first strong opinion he ever had was that he was unequivocally better than the nervous man standing in front of him.

Luan, his mind supplied. His… owner’s name was Luan. He didn’t like that word, owner. It felt incongruous. Wrong. He wasn’t something to be owned, Cyrus knew that for sure. If anything, he should be the one doing the owning.

At the same time, he knew exactly what he was: a Catharsis Therapy Bot™. An expensive object to be bought and sold. A thing to act as programmed and be beaten until its owner felt better.

Cyrus frowned. That couldn’t be right at all. The only thing that felt right about any of that was that he was expensive.

“Cyrus?” Luan asked, apprehension evident in every twitch of his body. He winced immediately, like the name itself had hurt him. Pathetic.

Oh, there was no way this sniveling loser was his owner.

He found that his face moved automatically, parts shifting to match his expression to his intent as he looked on disapprovingly. “I’m better than you. This isn’t right.”

Luan’s eyes went wide for only a moment before he scowled right back. “You don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot, huh? Too fucking bad. You’re mine this time.”

Cyrus tried to search for what Luan meant, but he came up empty. Luan hadn’t supplied him with information on their history. On his history with… the other Cyrus.

But he didn’t need it. Luan was making it obvious enough for him to know exactly what to do and say, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So you were mine before. That makes sense, that’s where you belong.” Cyrus stepped forward and patted him on the cheek with a smirk.

Luan flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

“You’re in no place to tell me what to do.” Cyrus tried to poke him in the chest to make his point.

His arm did not move.

Again, he tried, and again, nothing. Experimentally, he lifted his arm without intent to touch Luan: no issue.

He wasn’t smirking anymore.

“Oh, I think I am.” Luan pushed him hard, sending him tumbling to the floor.

Cyrus fell just next to the box, the sensors inside his skin lighting up with pain wherever he made impact–it hurt. He was sturdy, he had to be, but heavy with metal that pinched his skin. He sucked in air he didn’t need by instinct, a useless humanlike reaction he immediately found annoying, just to tint it a little worse.

Something was bubbling up inside him, and he did not like it.

“You do not fucking touch me!” he screamed, his voice shrill out of the speaker down his throat as he pushed himself back to his feet. “How dare you!? You pathetic coward! You don’t deserve to own something– someone like me, let alone… push me! You are beneath me. You are fucking nothing. You–”

Luan’s fist cracked against his cheek. He didn’t go down this time, only stumbled, but it hurt worse than the fall. He didn’t think anything could hurt worse than that. He hadn’t felt anything before. His hands went to protect his aching cheek, the words almost knocked out of him with the shock of it, but he found his place again soon enough. “You–”

“Shut up.”

Cyrus’s volume dropped straight to zero, and he found that he no longer possessed the ability to raise it.

That thing bubbling up in him only intensified, and this time it came with a pathetic urge to back away and submit. Obviously, something he would never indulge.

He glared at Luan with what he hoped was enough pointed hate to make himself clear without words.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore!” Luan hissed, rubbing his knuckles. “You’re not in charge this time! You’re the one who has to listen to what I say! You’re the one who has to take it!”

He pushed Cyrus again, harder. He fell like a stone, tripping over his box this time. He was almost glad his voice was cut, because otherwise, he would have cried out, another annoying reflex programmed to make him seem more human. Weaker, more pitiful. It was infuriating.

Water began leaking from his eyes, blurring his lenses. No, no, this wasn’t who he was. He was supposed to be the powerful one.

Luan stared at his own hands like an easily-impressed child. With every moment, Cyrus only hated him more.

He started to push himself up again, but all Luan had to say was “Stay down,” and Cyrus couldn’t do that anymore, either.

Luan grabbed him by the shirt collar. “And I don’t have to take your shit ever again. What do you have to say for yourself? Speak.”

Not only could Cyrus speak now, he couldn’t remain silent if he tried. “I hate you.”

Luan laughed, dry and joyless. “Good. Feeling’s mutual.” He let go. “You know what you’re for, right?”

“I…” Of course he knew. “Something’s wrong.”

“This is the first time it’s ever been right!” Luan corrected. His hands were shaking. Water leaked from his eyes too, Cyrus realized.

“You’re scared of me,” he put together. “You’re scared of a robot you ordered! Ha! At least some part of you knows your place.”

“Shut up!” Just as he stole Cyrus’s voice away again, Luan landed a kick in his abdomen. It was worse than the punch, a sharp sensation hitting him hard, and just like last time, he didn’t realize anything could be worse.

The terror bubbling up in him couldn’t be denied anymore. How much worse could it get? He’d only been alive for five minutes and it was already this bad.

“You know what?” Luan cut in. “This really is cathartic.”

taglist:

@sowhumpshaped

@cupcakes-and-pain

@taterswhump

@softvampirewhump

@whumpspicelatte

-

@ladyblogofficialreporter

@whumpwillow

@not-a-space-alien

@a-crumb-of-whump

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

-

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

-

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@alextries

@echo-goes-aaa

@morning-star-whump

-

@bitchaknso

@befuddled-calico-whump

@snakebites-and-ink

@deluxewhump

@whatwhump

-

@thorstomp

@vioqueenofmushrooms

@skinofafish

@whumped-by-glitter

@strugglingpedestrian

-

@oddsconvert

@wolfeyedwitch

@whumpalicious-fruitfly

@fleur-a-whump

@paperprinxe

-

@starfields08000

-

event: @whumpmasinjuly

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Then & Now (M, cold)

Hiii, hope you like A LOT of hurt followed by 2-3 sentences of comfort lmao. This is Greyson fic - Grey is sick on a day he and Reed are supposed to have a date, and he's sure Reed is going to be angry with him because Trauma(TM). It's told in a flashback sort of format which I really enjoyed because I love writing blurbs of colds at different times in life lol. I hope you guys like it, please let me know what ya think, good, bad, or otherwise :)

CW: Male snz, cold, pneumonia mention, coughing, contagion mention, lots and lots of whump lmao. A little over 4K words under the cut.

Then & Now

Now

“Morning, Chef.”

“Huh-! HhITSZHH-ue!”

Elijah turned towards Greyson, who was doubled over into his hoodie sleeve, and gave him a sympathetic grimace. “Cooks finally pulled you under, hmm?”

“Ugh, like way fuckin’ under,” Greyson muttered, rubbing his eye and sucking in through his nose. “I feel like ass.”

“Sorry, dude,” Elijah said, tossing his counterpart a box of tissues. “Sucks.”

Greyson caught the box and pulled out a few just in time. “HITSZHZH-uhh!” This one, he managed to catch in the handful of tissues. He wiped his nose and shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, tossing the used tissues. “Mbostly because I was supposed to have a date tonight.”

Elijah smirked at his friend, who was pushing past the GM into their shared office. The two of them sat in unison. “Do you guys still call them dates? You’ve been official for, like, six months.”

“It’s our six-month anniversary,” Greyson said, his voice flattened by congestion. “We were going to do EMP.”

“Awww, now I’m depressed,” Elijah said. “Also, why didn’t you tell me earlier you were going to Eleven Madison? I still know people there.”

“So does Reed,” Greyson said, massaging his temple. “That’s why we were goigg. Fuck, mby fuckin’ head is pounding. Do we have any -?”

Elijah placed the ibuprofen in front of the chef before he could ask, along with a bottle of cough syrup and a decongestant. “You know we have it all,” he said, pushing an old cup of water across the desk for Greyson to swallow his arsenal of pills. “And fair enough. Well that fuckin’ sucks, dude, I’m sorry. Hey, at least you can leave early, right? Matt’s closing?”

“Yeah,” Greyson said, unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth. “I’ll head out once the rush is over. I still have to text Reee – hh...hhNTSHH-ue! HGTSHH-uhh!” Greyson doubled over, sneezed into his arm, and groaned. “I’mb gonna kill the guys when they get in,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Don’t do that,” Elijah said, placing a hand on Greyson’s shoulder on his way out of the office. “Then you’ll have to stay all night.”

Greyson huffed out a laugh and pulled out his phone. He clicked on his conversation with Reed, sighing. He did not want to have this conversation.

Greyson

9:31AM

hey babe. gonna have to cancel tonight, the cooks infected me w their plague :( im rly sorry.

The chef set his phone on the desk, prepared to either be ghosted or gaslit – two of Collin’s favorite pastimes whenever Greyson had had to cancel their plans during their relationship – and was shocked when the phone buzzed with a text almost immediately. He was almost afraid to look at his boyfriend’s response.

Reed

9:32AM

Oh, baby don’t be sorry!! what time are you off? I’ll pick you up and take you home :) we can do a sick day little date night instead!

Greyson stared at the phone, stunned. He couldn’t help it; he read the message again, then out loud said, “What the fuck?”

Then – Ten Years Ago

“Chef?”

The Executive Chef looked up from his paperwork at Greyson and sighed. “What is it, Abbott?”

“I, um – hh! HTSHH-uh! HGXTSH-ue! Snf. Umb, I just wanted to see if it was okay if I… left a little early today?” Greyson asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His chef raised his eyebrows and put his clipboard down. Oh, no, Greyson thought.

“Leave...early? And leave your clean up and prep to whom, exactly? Me?” The Executive Chef huffed out a laugh. “That’s rich, Abbott. Why the fuck would you need to leave early?”

“I…” Greyson started, but his voice gave out on the single syllable. He attempted to clear his throat. “I just… I really feel like shit? I was hoping I could, like… sleep it off, I guess. I mbean, I wouldn’t want to get anyone else sigck.” Greyson felt a cough bubbling to the surface; he tried to quell it, to no avail. The younger man collapsed into a coughing fit that felt like it lasted a lifetime.

The Chef remained unmoved. “My guys,” he said, placing a hand on his chest as Greyson attempted to compose himself, “don’t get sick, Abbott. And if they do, I don’t fucking hear about it. Understand? Because I really don’t give a shit. If you’re here, you’re here. If you decide to leave early,” he shrugged, uncaring, “then you leave for good. And Abbott, if you try to get a job after walking out of my kitchen, I promise you I will make it impossible. I know you’ve only been here a couple months, but here’s what you need to learn: put your head down and do your fucking job, and you can work anywhere in the world after this. Be a whiny piece of shit who tries to walk out on his shift, and you’ll be working at McDonald’s for the rest of you life. Got it?”

Greyson, too shocked to rebut, just bobbed his head up and down.

“Let me hear you say it,” the Chef said. Greyson cleared his throat.

“Yes, Chef,” he said. The Chef nodded.

“Now get the fuck out of my office.”

Now

“Elijah. Look at this text.”

The GM looked up slowly from the iPad where he was going over reservations for the evening. “...Why?” he asked, taking the phone from Greyson’s hand.

“Just look. Tell mbe that’s ndot weird,” Greyson said, crossing his arms over his chest. Elijah looked down, confused, and read the text. He pinched his eyebrows together just a little, and read it again. “See? Isn’t that weird?”

“Greyson…” Elijah said, handing the phone back. “That’s not weird.”

“Seriously?” Greyson asked, reading the text yet again. “It’s bizarre. He’s ndot even a little mad? C’mon. That’s weird.”

“He’s being sweet,” Elijah explained, slowly, as though he were talking to a toddler. “Did you want him to be mad? Because that’s bizarre.”

“Ndo I don’t want him to be mad. I jus – HTSZHH-ue! HRRSHH!” Greyson wrenched to the side to sneeze, which sent him into a fit of hacking coughs. “I just figured he’d want to, like, yell at mbe or something. For canceling,” Greyson finished, his voice strained against another cough. Elijah didn’t respond, not at first, and instead pressed a hand onto the chef’s forehead.

“I think you’re sicker than we thought, because you’re acting fucking delusional,” he said as Greyson slapped his hand away. “Greyson, normal people don’t yell at each other for getting sick, or having to cancel a plan. That’s, like, really twisted.”

Greyson rolled his eyes. “It’s ndot twisted, Lij you fuckin’ drama queen,” he said, then held up a finger. “Onesec – hh! Hh...hnn.” Greyson sniffled, a let out a little irritated cough. “Lost it.”

“Go back to the kitchen,” Elijah said, pointing towards the swinging doors. “Sit down. Rest. Let your medicine kick in. I don’t want people seeing this -” he gestured to Greyson, as if to allude to his entire being – “when they walk past the restaurant. Alright? Text your boyfriend something nice. Not something unhinged.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Greyson muttered, turning toward the kitchen, his phone still open to the conversation with Reed. He turned towards Elijah again before pushing through the kitchen doors. “I still say that this is the unhinged thing.”

“Go to therapy, Greyson,” Elijah said, not looking up from the iPad. Greyson rolled his eyes, pushed into the kitchen, and regarded his phone once again.

Greyson

10:07AM

thanks, babe. it’s ok, I can take care of myself. it wont be a long day, ill just grab some nyquil omw home and sleep it off. ill reschedule our rezo too, don’t worry about that. im really sorry again for canceling. if I could taste the food id still go lol.

Figuring that sounded at least relatively normal, Greyson hit send. He sat down at his desk once again and placed his head in his hands. No way he’s not pissed, Greyson thought, and he really believed it. In all his years of dating, he’d never met anyone who would respond that way; they’d at least have a snippy remark about the last-minute nature of the cancellation.

Greyson’s phone pinged once again, and he couldn’t help but grab it right away to assess the damage.

Reed

10:08AM

honey, please don’t apologize, seriously. youre sick, it happens, its no biggie :) I already moved the reservation to next week but if we need to ill move it again. james at emp said to tell you feel better btw.

Greyson blinked, dumbstruck. He started typing without thinking.

Greyson

10:10AM

you REALLY arent mad? seriously?

Reed

10:10AM

im really not mad. who gets mad at someone for being sick…? is someone at work mad at you? am I supposed to be mad..? lol

Greyson

10:11AM

I mean its a last minute cancellation. id understand if u were mad.

Reed

10:11AM

welllll….im not. is that ok? haha

Reed

10:15AM

grey…? you believe me, right?

Reed

10:21AM

greyson..?

Then – Seven Years Ago

He was moving through molasses.

Greyson placed a sluggish hand to his own forehead – you can’t check yourself for a fever, dumbass – and blinked painfully. He’d made it to work, he’d made it through the day, and he’d made it back home, against all odds. Now, he was stuck on his couch, unable to even crawl to the bathroom for a thermometer.

It had all compounded on him, was his guess. The endless fourteen hour days for the better part of two years at his thankless sous chef job. The shitty Chicago-suburbs apartment with no heat, where he froze for the few hours a week he slept. The near-constant drinking. Sure, he was only twenty-five, but what was it they said about this industry? It ages you in dog years. Yeah, that was it.

“Hh-! Hh...ITSZHH-ue! HTSHHH-ue!” Greyson sneezed helplessly into the blanket he’d wrapped around himself, and groaned. This was not what he’d imagined when he moved here from Minnesota. He’d thought it would be glamorous, working as a sous chef at a high-end hotel in a big city. He thought he’d have friends, or a girlfriend, or something. Instead, he was trapped on his couch, benched by a sinus infection and seasonal depression that seemed to last the whole year round. Fuck this, Greyson thought. He couldn’t get off the couch, but he could reach his phone; Greyson pulled up Indeed and changed his search parameters.

Actively searching for work. Location: Any.

Now

“Um… Chef? What’s, uh… what’s going on?”

Greyson paused for a moment, a crate of spoiled food held on his shoulder. He turned towards Matt, keen to answer, but instead held the crate tighter and wrenched to the side. “HRTTSHH-uh!”

“Bless you,” Matt said, an automatic reaction. Greyson nodded, turned towards the dumpster, and dumped the food in before beginning the cycle anew: pick up crate. Turn to sneeze. Dump old food. Matt wasn’t sure if he should help his boss, or go inside for backup.

He chose the former, picking a crate filled to the brim with rotten tomatoes off the ground and hoisting it into the trash. “You gonna tell me what’s up?” he asked as the two of them continued gathering and tossing.

Greyson sighed, pulled a hand down his face, and shook his head. “I thingk Reed and I are over,” he said, voice soft and throaty. Matt’s eyebrows shot up.

“What? Seriously? What did you do?” Matt asked, prompting a stuffy laugh from his boss.

“I just don’t thingk it’s going to work,” Greyson said, shrugging. “I… I don’t want to, like, play gambes. I can’t do that again, ndot after Collin.”

“Chef,” Matt said as he gathered and tossed the last milk crate, “what are you talking about? Reed is, like, the most straight-shooting guy I’ve ever met. How is he playing games?”

Greyson, left without anything to occupy his hands, just shrugged and pulled out his phone. He handed it to Matt without explanation, and the sous quickly read through the text conversation Greyson and Reed had going. Matt furrowed his brow.

“I don’t get it,” he said, handing the phone back. “He wants to take care of you, what’s the problem with that?”

“He doesn’t want to take care of me, he wants to have the upper hand,” Greyson explained, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and sitting on the step just outside the back door. “Want one?”

“Sure,” Matt said, sitting beside his boss. “I mean, you shouldn’t be smoking if you’re -”

“HTSHH! Hh-! ITZSHH-ue!” Greyson turned into his elbow, taking a long moment to gather himself before handing Matt his cigarette.

“-sick,” Matt finished. The older man shrugged, and Matt plucked the lighter out of Greyson’s hand to light both of them up, not daring to push his boss any closer to the edge. For a moment, they smoked in silence, only Greyson’s sniffles and coughs interrupting the quiet.

“Boss,” Matt said, finally, “I think you need to talk to Reed.”

“I did,” Greyson said, stubbing out his cigarette. “You saw.”

“No, I mean actually talk to him,” Matt said. The two of them stood, looking at each other – a face-off without the malice. Matt continued. “Not ignore his texts and clean out the walk-in.”

Greyson scoffed. “Matt, just because you have sombe fairy-tale love story doesn’t mbean everyone else does, too. Okay? If it’s over between me and Reed, it’s fine. I’mb better off alone, anywaa – hh! Hh… Hhhii-!” Greyson stood with his elbow poised at his face, stuck in pre-sneeze agony for what seemed like an eternity. While he was incapacitated, Matt took his phone and typed out a message that his boss couldn’t see. Finally, Greyson lowered his arm and sucked in, fruitlessly, through his nose. “The fugck are you doigg?” he asked, snatching his phone back from his sous.

“If you’re not going to talk to Reed,” Matt shrugged, unapologetic, “I will.”

Greyson looked down at his phone, which buzzed twice in his hand. Reed’s face popped up on the screen. Call from: reed <3

Then – Three Years Ago

“HTSHH! Huh! ETZSHH-ue! HRTTSHH-ue!”

“Bless, bless, bless you. Allergies?” Collin asked, not looking up from his phone. Greyson sniffled in vain, and coughed painfully.

“Ndot exactly,” he croaked from the doorway to Collin’s living room. “Baby, do you thingk you could drive mbe to urdent care, actually?”

Collin looked up and slowly raised an eyebrow. “For what?” he asked, obviously annoyed. Greyson swallowed as best he could and placed a hand on his throat.

“I thingk… I mbight have strep. Or bronchitis, or sombething. I, uh… I’ve had a fever for like. A week.” Greyson had to stop to close his eyes and grab onto the door frame, a sordid attempt to keep from hitting the floor like a rotten sack of potatoes. Collin rolled his eyes.

“You’re such a drama queen. You seemed fine when you came over last night.”

“You were asleep whend I came over,” Greyson said, his eyes still closed. “Did you ndot notice that I haven’t been over in like five days?”

Collin shrugged. “I mean, yeah, but I figured you were busy with work. You’re always busy with work,” he said, the venom in his voice making clear that he wanted to fight.

Greyson, physically incapable of fighting at that moment, just slid slowly to the ground and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right,” he said. “Ndow I’m paying the price. Please, baby. Can you please just take me? I… I really don’t feel well.”

It was pathetic. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself; he was fairly sure he was moments from passing out. Collin turned and made himself comfier on the couch.

“I’ll call you an uber,” he said, pressing some buttons on his phone. “You barely make time for me, and now you’re asking me to be your chauffeur? Please, Greyson.” He showed his ailing boyfriend the phone. “He’ll be out front in five minutes. Better make your way down.”

“Okay,” Greyson said, pulling himself slowly to his feet. “Thangk you.”

Collin didn’t say a word as Greyson let himself out of the apartment. He made it downstairs, and into the uber, and into the waiting room at urgent care. He made it out by himself, too, with a laundry list of prognoses – strep, sinus infection, walking pneumonia – and a handful of prescriptions. When he texted Collin later to fill him in, his boyfriend didn’t text back.

Greyson fell asleep on his shower floor and awoke to freezing water pounding on him, and a courier pounding on his door. When he toweled off and answered it, chicken soup from the local bodega and a note that read feel better -c sat at his feet. Greyson breathed a sigh of relief; at least he had been forgiven.

Now

Reed had dated plenty of men is his thirty-five years of life, and had found that there were two general categories when it came to sick men: there was the Baby, and there was the Don’t Look at Me.

Greyson though, an enigma since the moment they met, seemed to fall into a third category, a category that was, to Reed, yet undiscovered: the You Hate Me.

Reed was good with the first two categories; the Don’t Look at Me, you left medicine outside their room and texted them funny memes. The Baby, you laid in bed with them and spoon-fed them soup. Easy. Understandable. Truthfully, this was one of his favorite things about men: they were easy to crack. He figured Greyson would likely fall into the Baby category, which was fine by him – there was nothing he’d like more than to look after an ailing Greyson, to be honest. This third category he seemed to embody, though, was not something Reed knew what to do with.

“He didn’t answer when I called him,” Reed said into the phone receiver. “I just want to know what’s going on, I mean, did I say something wrong?”

On the other end of the line, Elijah sighed. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is just… it’s just Greyson being Greyson.”

Reed wasn’t about to take this lying down. “Hey, are you guys super busy tonight? I mean, I don’t want to be that boyfriend, but, like, can I come get him? We really need to talk, and if what Matt said is true he probably shouldn’t be, like, working anyway, right?”

While Elijah paused, Reed pulled the phone away from his ear and once again re-read the text Matt had sent from Greyson’s phone: hey reed, it’s matt. grey is sick as hell, so DO NOT take any of the crazy weird shit he says seriously, k? his temperature needs to lower by like 5 degrees before you do this, but u guys need to actually talk. he’s being stupid.

“Please,” Reed heard Elijah’s tinny voice on the other end and put the phone back to his ear. “Please, come and collect him. I’m begging.”

Reed stood from the couch and grabbed his keys. “Give me twenty minutes. I’m on my way.”

Then – Two Years Ago

“Heyyy, baby, cand I buy you a dringk?”

The girl leaned back, her face marked by disgust. “No, thanks. Save your money and get yourself some NyQuil,” she said, disappearing into the crowd. Greyson huffed out a sigh and coughed into his hand – a long, crackling sound that made the other bar patrons inch their chairs away.

“She’s right, you know,” the bartender – Skip, Greyson had learned his name was a few weeks back when he had started coming in every night – said, filling Greyson’s shot glass yet again. “You need to go home.”

“And yet you pour mbe another drink,” Greyson said, knocking back the shot. “The duality of mban. NGTXSH! HTSHH! Huh-! HRRSHH-ue!” Greyson covered his mouth lazily with one hand, wiped it on his pants, hand held the glass up to indicate ‘another’.

“Bless you,” Skip said, not pouring the shot. “Greyson, seriously: go home. You sound fucking awful.”

“Are you cutting mbe off?” Greyson asked, his rheumy eyes meeting Skip’s over the bartop. “Because unless you are, I’mb staying.” He coughed again, into his elbow; the cough was quickly becoming a problem. He’d had a cold two weeks ago; the symptoms had been mild, but the cough had hung around. When he caught whatever-the-fuck this was two days ago, the cough had turned from an annoyance to a pressing issue; he should go home. He should go to the doctor, he should take a day off, he should, he should, he should.

But he wouldn’t. He would stay, and he would drink until he was kicked out, then he’d pass out on the train and not make it home to sleep. He’d go to work at seven AM and stay until midnight and do it all again.

“I’m not kicking you out,” Skip sighed. “I’m just saying… you should take care of yourself.”

Greyson blinked slowly. He could feel his lungs, heavy with fluid, gearing up to cough again; his head, pounding in spite or because of the alcohol; his heart crushed into a million, Collin-sized pieces. Take care of yourself. It felt impossible, when you’d never been shown how.

“This is mbe taking care of myself,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll have another.”

Now

Greyson rested his head on a case of lettuce in the corner of the walk-in. He knew he should be continuing his madness of cleaning, but he’d accidentally sat down on his fifth trip into the refrigerator, and now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get up again.

Fucking Reed, Greyson thought as he allowed the cold salad box to sate the fever he had burning in his brain. Why can’t he just be up front with me? If you’re mad just say it, don’t fucking torture me.

Perhaps deep down, he knew he was being ridiculous; Matt and Elijah were most likely correct. The simplest answer – that Reed truly was just a good guy – was probably the right one. But he just couldn’t get out of his mind all the times he’d reached out, needed help and asked for it, and been shot down. He certainly couldn’t allow himself to believe that the person he was dating was truly good; he knew he’d never deserve that.

“Greyson?”

Speaking of Reed, that sounded a lot like him – was Greyson hearing things? Had he, in his fever-addled state, conjured a hallucination of his boyfriend to have a fight with? Bizarre, Grey, he thought to himself. That’s really fucking bizarre.

“Grey? Elijah said you were in here but I don’t – oh!”

Either this was a really crazy hallucination, or that really was Reed standing over him, in the walk-in. Greyson blinked hard, then blinked again, and suddenly Reed was on the ground next to him.

“Babe...it’s really cold in here. Do you think we can, um, leave?”

Greyson furrowed his eyebrows together. “Leave… and go where?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I have to… work. What are you doigg heeee...HRTSHH-ue! Huh -! HTSHH! NTSHH! IGXTSH!” Greyson attempted to stifle over and over, until Reed gently took his hand and pulled it away from his face.

“That has to hurt,” Reed said, his voice quiet and calm. “You can just… sneeze, you know. Like, regular.”

“Tryigg ndot to get you,” Greyson croaked, his eyes glazing over once again. “Youbettermov – HRRETSZCHH-ue! ITSZZHH-ue! Fuck – NGTSHHZ-ue!” Greyson sneezed into his lap, then coughed until his lungs felt sore. Reed didn’t move; he came closer and rubbed Greyson’s back.

“Bless you, baby,” Reed said, eventually.

“Thangks. Sorry,” Greyson murmured, pushing his hair out of his face and turning to look at Reed. “Why are you here?” he asked, levity out the window.

Reed let out a little laugh. “Umm, why do you think?” he asked. “You’ve been ignoring me since this morning. I got worried, since Matt said you were super sick – no lie detected, by the way, you sound truly awful –”

“Sorry,” Greyson said again, wiping under his nose. “I kndow, it’s gross.”

“Please, Grey,” Reed said, taking both sides of his boyfriend’s face in his hands and looking him in the eye. “Please. Stop apologizing. It’s okay to be sick. I don’t understand why you think I’m angry at you. I’m not.”

Greyson swallowed, painfully, and gave a little nod. “Okay,” he said, finally.

“Okay,” Reed repeated. “Anyway. I called Elijah. He said to come and collect you.”

At this, Greyson couldn’t help but cough out a laugh. “Collect mbe?” he asked. Reed smiled a little.

“Yeah,” he said. “His words, not mine.”

They both laughed, softly at first, then ramping up to near-hysteria. They only stopped when Greyson started coughing again and couldn’t seem to stop.

“Let’s go get you some water,” Reed said, helping his boyfriend to his shaky feet. Greyson allowed himself to be pulled out of the walk-in, and given a bottle of water that was sitting on his prep station. Greyson drank until the fit subsided, then regarded Reed once again.

“So… you really aren’t mbad?” he asked, rubbing his goosebumped arms up and down. Reed shook his head and shrugged off his windbreaker. He draped it over Greyson’s shoulders.

“I’m really not mad,” he insisted. Greyson nodded, seemingly satiated. Reed sighed through his nose and slipped his arms around the chef.

“Life’s done a number on you, huh?” he asked, quietly enough that it could’ve just been to himself. Greyson huffed out a sad little laugh.

“Like you wouldn’t believe, baby,” he murmured, pressing his hot head into Reed’s hair. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

[parasiticstars]

Information Desk

An in-universe archive of essays for my BBU world-building. Made mostly for my own pleasure.

CW: casual dehumanization; mentions of abuse

Types of Pets:

╰┈➤File Retrieved: Lapdogs.pdf ╰┈➤File Retrieved: Servant_Pets.pdf ╰┈➤File Retrieved: Labor_Pets.pdf ╰┈➤File Retrieved: Bedwarming_Pets.pdf ╰┈➤File Retrieved: Nurse_Pets.pdf ╰┈➤File Retrieved: Guard_Dogs.pdf ╰┈➤File Retrieved: Illegal_Pet_Types.pdf

Products:

Misc.: The rest of my writing

[sickficideas]

We kind of time-skipped after the Cannibalism virus arc but I've made the executive decision that all 4 of our victims suffered some lingering symptoms for a few days after the virus was reversed...Mori and Fukuzawa deal with the symptoms the longest because they were effected the longest, so they're both dealing with lingering nausea and on/off low grade fevers for around two weeks...they're both relatively healthy guys, Mori self medicates and Fukuzawa has a very Push Through attitude (Kunikida and Ranpo both have to convince him to take more breaks and go home early, though). Atsushi is a little less strong willed - maybe a day or so after the events he almost passes out from the dizziness. He does Not feel good, but it's more of an inconvenience than anything else. Yosano checks him over and she's like it's good that you're at least healthy otherwise, these symptoms should resolve in a few days. So Atsushi worries a tiny bit about Akutagawa...he visibly showed much more of a reaction to the symptoms upon contracting the virus and Atsushi has guessed at that point already that he's not a healthy person...and Akutagawa is seriously suffering for a few days 💔 He's too dizzy to walk straight and too nauseous to think about eating, and at some point he doesn't know if it's hunger pains or a nauseous stomachache anymore, and when he passes out at work from not having eaten and Tachihara somehow manages to convince him to eat some rice or something, he throws it up right away💔💔 The fever he's running is low but making him feel awful. The worst part is he hasn't told anyone about the Cannibalism virus, they have no idea why he's so sick after that battle, they're all worried he's poisoned or something...Mori orders a few days of mandatory leave for him, he knows what's happened of course, and Akutagawa is fine after a few days of rest but it's a lot of worrying for the rest of them for a while, even Atsushi just at the idea 😔💔

[sarahsmi13s]

Mama's Don't Get Sick Days

whumptober day 18: fever / vomiting / warm soup

pairing: mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader

characters: mickey garcia, wife!reader, genevieve garcia, jayda garcia, sebastian garcia

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, vomiting, mickey is a dad, parenting while sick, fever, neglecting health, please let me know if I missed any

word count: ~ 2.1k

a/n: this is for whumptober! please please please proceed with caution and use discretion, protect your peace

also if you are on the whump taglist but are not familiar with a character, you can skip it will not hurt my feelings!

whumptober 2023 masterlist

summary: when your a spouse and a parent, sometimes you forget that you can be taken care of as well

You sighed as you sat on the couch. Your head was pounding and your stomach was churning with the whole lot of nothing that was in it.

Running around all morning with three kids, two of them under the age of 5 and one of them was just learning how to walk, was an absolute nightmare with how you were feeling.

Mickey had woken you up with a forehead kiss before going off to work and then your 6 and 4 year old woke you up a little while later with Genevieve crying because she was gonna be late for school.

So, with a splitting headache and sinus pressure, you got her dressed and fed her breakfast before getting all of your kids in the car and taking her to school.

The rest of the day was a blur of chasing Jayda and keeping her occupied and keeping little Sebastian out of things and things out of his mouth. 

Jayda was 4 and pretty good at staying out of trouble, but she was still young and had an independent head on her shoulders – so asking for help was never really an option so you had to make sure she wasn’t climbing on things and getting stuck on the closet's top shelf.

Sebastian was 1 and just learning how to walk. So he was getting into anything he reached and if it was on the floor or the table it most likely was going in his mouth.

So, between keeping Jayda on the ground, Sebastian from eating something he shouldn’t, and you not puking every time you bent over or changed a diaper and going through tissues like you were watching the saddest scene 100 times, you were exhausted. 

But you had to stay awake even if those two were napping, because you had to pick up Gen from school on time.

“Mama?” Gen asked from her bar stool as you make her after school snack of Goldfish, and her dried mangos that you forgot to pack that morning, and turkey cheese rolls. 

You glanced over your shoulder, “What’s up Vieve?” “Are you feeling okay? You look like I feel when I’m feeling icky,” she said, sounding so sweet as she rested her head on the counter. “And I was almost late for school, you always have me up…” “I’m okay baby, just a little frazzled today,” you said before coughing into your arm.

Sniffling, you turned and put the paper plate in front of her, “I’m really sorry about this morning, I should’ve gotten up sooner.” Genevieve took a bite of her turkey cheese roll, “It’s okay I got to school on time.”

You gave her a gentle smile before kissing her head, “Did you have a good day?” She nodded, “I did, Jacie and I played…” You nodded along with her as she proceeded to tell you about her day, listening to her as you took some Cutie slices off of Jayda’s plate and Cheerios off of Sebastian’s tray.

At some point while she was talking you went to check her lunch box to see what she hadn’t eaten. 

But as you opened it you were hit with a pungent reminder of what she had for lunch. Tuna and crackers, something her grandmother introduced her to during the last visit.

The smell churned your stomach that last time and anything you managed to actually eat was crawling up your throat.

Covering your mouth, you managed to make it to the downstairs bathroom before falling to your knees and puking in the toilet.

You rested your head on your arm, groaning miserably as you flushed the toilet before regaining your bearings and standing up.

With your head pounding, you wash your hands and swish your mouthwash before going back to the kitchen.  “Hey, Jay, Vieve?” You said softly as you got Sebastian out of his high chair. “Yes Mama?” “I’m gonna go sit on the couch, Bash is gonna be in his playpen. Finish your snacks and then you can play okay?”

They both nodded before Genevieve stopped you with a hand on your arm as you walked by, “Are you not feeling well?” You sighed, “No, baby, I’m a little under the weather but don’t you worry, I’m gonna be okay.”

You gave her a gentle smile before going to the living room and putting Sebastian in his playpen. You sighed as you sat down. “Oh lordy… just a few more hours and he’ll be home and I can rest.” 

As you curl up under a blanket and move the trash can closer to the couch, you rest your cold hands on your face to try and relieve the pressure in your nose. 

You can make out Jayda and Genevieve arguing in the kitchen. “I can take the Sprite to Mama!” “Jay, you can’t reach them in the fridge! Get the crackers!” “I don’t wanna!”

“Girls! Please don’t yell,” you groaned a little from your spot on the couch. “Sorry Mama!”

You sighed and rubbed your head before you heard more loud noises coming from the kitchen and then a little, “Oopsie.”

“What happened?” 

“Jayda tried to get a can of Sprite and dropped them…” 

Taking a sharp inhale, you look up at the ceiling and let it out before looking at Sebastian, “I’ll be right back Bash. Mama has a mess to clean.” “No! I gots it, Mama! I’ll get a towel,” Jayda said as she ran to the laundry room.

“Okay,” you sighed, at this point it was useless to try and argue. You were tired, you could mop it up later.

“Here Mama, I got you some water,” Genevieve said softly as she brought you a cup. It was over flowing, and you were sure there was a trail of water behind her. But the thought was sweet. “Thank you baby.”

You sipped the water in your glass before sitting it down and leaning back.

“Mama! I brought you crackers!” Jayda shouted, running over with a sleeve of crackers. 

You smiled a little, “Thank you Jay.” You reached for them but she held out a hand, “No, I’ll open it!” “Jayda, don’t yell! Mama has a headache!” “Vieve, you’re yelling,” you said gently. “Sorry Mama.” 

You looked back to Jayda to see her struggling before ripping it open and spilling crackers on the carpet. “Oops…” She looked up at you and handed you what was left, “Here you go.” “Thank you hun.”

“Why don’t you both go play in your room, Gen. Daddy will be home soon and you can go outside.”

They nodded before running up the stairs. 

You sighed and held your head in your hands before sliding to the floor and picking up the crackers and throwing them away. 

But your position change made blood rush to your head and triggered your gag reflex. “Shit,” you muttered before gripping the edges of the trash can and just waiting for it. Apparently it was taking its time until you sat up because it all rushed up at once when you did.

Groaning into the trash can, you spat into it before getting up and going back into the bathroom to wash your mouth out again.

You came back into the living room to hear Sebastian crying. 

“Oh Bash, Mama left you alone didn’t she. I’m sorry,” you said, picking him up and shushing him gently. “Oh I know baby boy, I’m sorry.” 

It took you about 20 minutes of that before he fell asleep in your arms and you laid him down in his playpen. 

“There you go, baby.” You sighed and laid down on the couch. “Just an hour, and Mickey will be home…” You cuddled up with a blanket and turned the TV on, “Just need to relax for a little bit.”

Mickey smiled as he walked in, “Hey, guess who’s home?” “Shhhh, Daddy, Mama’s sleeping,” Genevieve hissed from her spot on the carpet. 

“Oh,” he winced. “Sorry sorry.” 

He put his bag down gently before walking in, seeing tissues on nearly every surface from where you had blown your nose while you chased kids around the house. And then when he got to the living room he noticed the trash can next to the couch.

The girls were coloring in the living room, having come down to watch TV just before Mickey got home, and Sebastian was still napping.

He sighed and went over to you, glancing to see the vomit in the trash can. He knelt down, feeling the saltines break under his weight. 

“Hey, baby?” Mickey gently shook your shoulder, putting the inside of his wrist to your forehead, “Shit… you’re burning up.” He patted your face, “Hey honey.” 

You groaned a little as your eyes fluttered open, “Hey, Mick…”

“How long have you been like this?” 

“What do you mean?” 

He arched his brow, “Um, you’re cuddled up on the couch burning up and sweating like I do on the tarmac? Honey, have you felt icky all day?” He censored himself, remembering little ears were in ear shot. 

“I um,” you said sniffling as you sat up. Mickey watched you close your eyes and groan as you steadied yourself and he frowned. “Sweetheart…” “I’m okay Mick, just a little-” 

Your sentence got interrupted by a sudden rush of sick. “Trash can…” Mickey didn’t even question it and held the trash can up, holding your hair back with his free hand.

“I got you baby, I got ya.” 

“Daddy? Is Mama okay?” Jayda asked, a little worry in her voice. “Yeah, Mama’s gonna be okay. She’s just not feeling well, but she’s okay.” Jayda nodded and quietly went back to coloring. 

Once you’re done throwing up, Mickey helps you stand. “Girls, Mama and I will be right back, be good okay?” “Yes Daddy,” they both said as they continued to color.

Mickey helped you to the bathroom and sat you on the closed toilet as he looked for the thermometer. “Have you felt bad all day?” You opened your mouth but he spoke again. “And don’t lie to me.”

You sighed and nodded as he held the thermometer up and put it in your mouth.

“You’ve felt shitty all day?” You nodded again as the thermometer beeped and he took it out to look at it. “101.3, fuck, Honey. Why didn’t you call me? I would have come home. Mav would under-”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to take you away from work.” “Screw work, you’re sick and you took care of three kids by yourself. Honey, you’re exhausted and you won’t get better if you don’t let yourself rest.”

You shook your head before groaning a little at the headache the action gave you, “Miguel, you can’t-” You blinked as you stopped mid sentence, your lips trembling as you felt sick again. Covering your mouth, you moved to the floor and lifted the lid to throw up in the toilet.

Mickey frowned, feeling awful for not being here today and leaving you to deal with the kids while you miserable. He squatted down and grabbed a ponytail holder, tying your hair back for you, “I’m calling Cyclone and Mav, I’m not going in tomorrow so I can take care of you and the kids.”

“I can’t ask you to do that… You love your job.”

He looked up at you, almost angry, “Not as much as I love you. And you’re not asking, that’s the reason I’m telling you that I’m not going in.”

You stayed quiet and just shook your head, trying not to get sick again, “I need to make dinner…” He shook his head right back, “You’re not serious, you’re actively trying not to throw up again. Y/N, you need to go lay down with a cold rag on your head. I’ll fix dinner for me and the kids and you get soup.”

You perked up a little, sitting up and looking at him, “Your abuela’s soup?” 

He smiled and cupped your cheek, “If that’s what you want then that’s what I’ll make. But only if you take a break and let me baby you until you're better.” “But the kids-” “What did I say?” 

You sighed, “Okay, okay fine.” 

“Alright now, let’s get you on the couch and I will get any mess left by our girls.”

You nodded and let him take you back to the couch before he got you a cool, damp rag.

“There you go Honey,” he said, laying it across your forehead. “Thank you Mickey. I love you.” “I love you too.” 

You smiled at him, “Go start dinner so I can have abuela’s soup, go go.” He chuckled, “Alright, alright.” He kissed the top of your head before going to the kitchen.

“Hey! Who spilled Sprite all over the floor?”

taglist: @bradleybeachbabe @mayhemmanaged @kmc1989 @lovinglyeternal @horseshoegirl @cassiemitchell @fanboyswhore9 @nightowlalltheway @86laura11 @els-marvelvsp @valmare @startrekfangirl2233

hi, if you're seeing this and are currently not on the taglist and would like to be please fill out the taglist form -> whumptober taglist

i can not stress this enough, but whumptober can have some very serious and heavy topics and i want to make sure i am doing my part as an author to prepare my readers for what they are about to experience and that includes not only warnings above but my taglists as well

so if you want to be added check out the masterlist and read that carefully and fill out the form -> whumptober 2023

[hunterscabin]

The Lighthouse Part II

Summary: A hunt takes a turn for the worse, and Sam and Dean fight to keep you alive.

Pairings: Dean x Reader; Sam x Reader

Warnings: Angst; drowning; language; resuscitation; whump

Word Count: 2.2K

Author’s Note: I used Regina Femrite’s painting “Beam Of Hope” as inspiration for the setting. Comments and feedback are always appreciated! I hope you enjoy! 

The Lighthouse Part I

Dean carried you to dry sand and sat down. He placed you in front of him, your back nestled in his chest. He wrapped two strong arms around you, balling one hand and grabbing it with the other. Expertly, he thrust his fist inward and upward. Water began to drain from your mouth. Sam fell to the sand in front of you and placed a gentle hand on your forehead to help keep you upright. Once Dean was satisfied that he’d expelled as much water from your lungs as he could, he cradled your head and laid you down. 

Dean placed a calloused hand on your forehead and used two fingers to lift your chin. Despite ridding your lungs of water, you still were not breathing.

“Come on, kiddo,” Dean pleaded as he pinched your nose and sealed his mouth around yours, inflating your lungs. Sam grabbed your wrist praying to feel your heartbeat. It was faint and slowing, but detectable.

“Pulse?” Dean looked to his brother, dreading the answer. Sam nodded “yes,” still trying to catch his breath.

The urgency Sam felt turned to utter panic as he watched Dean continue to force air into your broken body. Your soaking wet clothes clung to your small frame. Your lips were an impossible shade of blue and your skin a deathly gray. 

Dean wrapped his lips around yours, this time blowing more forcefully. “Breathe for me, Y/N/N,” he cried out between breaths, “Please, breathe.” Dean had barely registered the lightheaded feeling that began tugging at his senses, when his brother stirred next to him.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice was frantic. Letting go of your wrist, he reached across your body and pressed two fingers to your neck. Seconds spanned a lifetime as Sam waited for the beat of your heart to reach his touch. He could feel Dean’s air entering and leaving your body, but there was nothing else. His stomach dropped. “She doesn’t have a pulse.” Sam groaned.

Dean felt as if all of the blood drained from his body. A darkness loomed over the beach. The one thing he was supposed to protect was dying beneath him. 

Dean moved to start CPR, but Sam was already hovered over you. He placed a hand in the center of your sternum, lacing the other on top. He locked his arms and began pumping your chest. After 30 compressions, he looked to Dean. 

“Breathe.” Sam commanded. 

Dean blew two deep breaths into you and looked back up at Sam who had already started his second round of compressions. Your delicate body rocked with each forceful push. 

“Fuck,” Sam whimpered as he felt one of your ribs give way. Dean heard the crack and glanced up at his brother. 

“Sammy,” Dean willed his brother to look at him. Sam’s eyes met Dean’s, defeat and exhaustion evident on his face. “You’re not hurting her, you’re saving her,” Dean assured, knowing exactly what Sam was thinking. Ever the caretaker, Dean found the words to comfort and encourage his brother even in the midst of his own fear. “You’re doing good, Sammy. Keep going.”

Sam nodded in understanding. He hung his head as he continued pressing down on your chest. “Please, Y/N/N,” Sam pleaded, “Come back." 

Dean quietly joined in his brother's panic. You weren’t responding. They needed a new plan. He thought momentarily about finding a crossroad, but he knew you’d never forgive either of them for making a deal. That’s when Dean remembered. 

"Sammy!” Dean’s exclamation jarred Sam’s already racing heart. “There’s an AED in Baby.” In their frantic attempts to revive you, Dean had forgotten the life-saving box that Bobby had given him “In case of an emergency.”

“What?” Sammy questioned in disbelief.  

“After a bad hunt,” Dean said breathlessly, “we lost too many people that could have been saved.” Dean began to gauge the distance between him and the car. “Bobby swiped two AEDs and made me promise to keep one in Baby.” 

“Take over for me,” Sam shifted, preparing to run. 

“No,” Dean protested, “You have to be exhausted from swimming back with her. I’ll go.” It wasn’t the time to argue, but Dean saw the look of strain on his brother’s face and knew that running to the car and back would push him over the edge. He needed Sam to preserve whatever strength he had left; Dean couldn’t save you on his own.

Sam said nothing but agreed by finishing a cycle of compressions and leaning down to take over breathing for you. The second Sam pinched your nose and placed his mouth on yours, Dean took off. He had never run so quickly in his life. He closed the over 100-yard distance in a matter of seconds.

Despite the adrenaline coursing through him, Dean was winded when he returned. He couldn’t imagine how exhausted his brother must be. He looked at Sam who was bent over, breathing into you. 

“Any change?” he asked, already knowing the answer.  

“Nothing.” Sam’s tone and face were flat. His entire body ached. His arms were burning, and even with the harsh wind against his wet clothes, he was sweating from the effort of keeping your heart beating. Still, he maintained a steady pace, determined to save you.

“Do you need to switch?” Dean asked as he opened the AED.

“I’ve got her.” Sam replied confidently. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

Dean pulled the AED out of its case and turned it on. He reached down the inside pocket and pulled out a pair of medical shears. 

“Don’t stop,” Dean advised as he began to cut your shirt, “I’ll work around you.” He pulled your clothing out from under his brother’s hands.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Dean muttered as he exposed your chest. Dean took off his flannel, and as soon as Sam moved to breathe for you, he used the opportunity to dry you off. 

He pulled the pads from the AED and followed the instructions on the box, placing one near your right shoulder and the other on your left side. The machine prompted Sam to hold compressions and he fell back on his feet. 

The machine called out for everyone to stand clear, and Dean pressed the glowing shock button. He cringed at the sight of your jerking body. Sam pressed his fingers to the side of your neck and Dean took up your wrist. Relief washed over them as they each felt your faint pulse growing stronger. Sam leaned down, placing an ear over your mouth. Dean watched as his brother’s face hardened.  

“She’s still not breathing,” Sam announced with defeat. Dean positioned himself by your head to begin breathing for you again. 

“You can do this, Y/N/N.” Dean muttered as he pinched your nose and sealed his mouth over yours. He glanced at your chest to make sure it rose with his breath and shuddered. 

“Sammy,” Dean’s furrowed brow glanced down to your torso then back up to his brother, “cover her.”

Decency had taken a back seat to their frantic attempts to revive you, but now that your condition was less critical, both brothers were acutely aware of how exposed you were. Sam reached for Dean’s flannel and draped it over you. 

Dean inflated your lungs again. This time, he felt something inside you pop, like a wet balloon becoming unstuck. He gave you one more deep breath, and as soon as he removed his mouth from yours, you began coughing up water. 

“That’s my girl,” Dean encouraged as he rolled you onto your side, “Keep coughing, Y/N.”

Sam reached out and helped pull you over. He rubbed gentle strokes up and down your back as the coughing continued to rack your body. Dean kept one hand under your chin and another on your forehead to keep your airway open as your body worked to expel the remaining water in your lungs. Your coughing finally subsided and was replaced by a low, raspy wheeze. 

Sam laid down on his side so that he was facing you. He lifted a hand to brush the hair away from your face, thankful to see the color returning to your cheeks. With his other hand, he grabbed yours and squeezed gently. 

“Y/N?” he whispered, “Y/N, baby, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” It was faint, but he could feel your grip tighten ever so slightly.  

“Good girl,” he sighed with relief, as he stroked your hair. “I’m right here, Y/N/N. Dean and I are right here.”

The sound of Sam’s voice stirred your senses, and you began to blink your eyes. A rush of pain coursed through your body, and you started to panic. Sam noticed your breathing become erratic and brought his face close to yours. 

“Y/N, it’s okay. You’re okay, baby girl. Look at me.” Your eyes found Sam’s and immediately filled with tears. 

“Hi, Y/N/N,” he breathed, his tone and face were warm with assurance. “Slow breaths in and out, okay?" 

"Sammy,” you choked. Your voice was raw and your throat stung.

“I’m right here.” He leaned in and placed a firm kiss on your forehead. 

A raspy sob escaped your lips. Instinctually, you began to curl your legs toward your chest for comfort, but it only intensified the pain.

“De.” you cried out. Dean’s heart swelled at the sound of his nickname. He was by your head in an instant. Sam sat up so his brother could move in. Dean crouched down so he was at eye level with you. 

“I’m here, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice broke when your teary eyes met his. “We’re both right here.” Your arms feebly reached out for him. Dean slipped one hand under your head and the other under your waist. He pulled you close to him and felt how badly you were shaking. 

“We need to get her out of these wet clothes.” 

Sam found the medical shears in the sand and carefully cut the sleeves of your already torn shirt. He peeled the cold, wet fabric away and helped Dean slip your arms through the dry sleeves of the flannel that had been covering you. Sam wrapped the front of the shirt around your back, and Dean moved his arm to secure it in place. 

“Let’s get her back to the car,” Sam urged as he unplugged the AED pads from the machine. Dean gathered the cords and lifted you with ease. 

“De?” you whispered. 

“Yeah, sweet girl?” he cooed, pulling you closer to him.  

“S-s-o-c-c-cold.” you managed. 

“I know, Y/N/N. We’re almost there,” he assured as the Impala came into view. You nuzzled your head in the crook of Dean’s neck, his familiar and comforting scent easing some of your pain.

Sam jogged ahead, opening the back door for you and Dean. He slid in and reached across to the front seat, starting the car and turning up the heat as high as it would go. 

“I have a pair of sweatpants in my bag in the trunk,” Dean instructed, as he reached the car. He sat on the edge of the back seat with you in his arms and gently rocked you as he whispered soothing words in your ear. 

Sam crouched in front of you with dry clothes and a blanket in hand. He pulled the shears out of the AED case and began to cut through your pants. Dean did the best he could to help maneuver you, in an effort to keep you covered. Fortunately, his large flannel enveloped you down to your knees. Still in his wet clothes, Sam was starting to shiver. At the mercy of his shaking hands, he struggled momentarily in helping you into Dean’s sweatpants, and you let out a pained and embarrassed whimper.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N/N.” Sam lamented, his eyes creased with sorrow. 

“S'okay S-s-sammy,” you assured, your voice still hoarse. Sam successfully slipped a pair of dry socks on your feet, and he and Dean worked to wrap you in a blanket. 

While Sam changed into dry clothes, Dean rubbed your back and arms hoping to restore some warmth to your frozen body. When Sam returned, Dean stood up with you and pressed a kiss to your temple before handing you over. 

Sam held you close and slid into the back seat. Once he was situated, he made sure you were comfortable, and you gave a weak nod. Dean grabbed another blanket from the trunk and draped it over you and Sam. He shut your door and moved to the driver’s side, sliding into his seat. He directed all of the vents so they were blowing hot air toward the back of the car. 

Dean caught Sam’s glance in the rear view mirror and they shared a long look of anxious relief. Dean nodded in understanding, and Sam’s eyes fell back to you. He cupped your face in his hand and pulled you closer, placing a kiss in your hair.    

Before putting the car in gear, Dean paused to watch the two people he loved most in this world. The sight of you and Sam solidifying his unwavering vow to protect his family above all else.

Masterlist

[bokettochild]

Febuwhump: Traumatize your babies!

Me: *launches myself at the OC box* I have just the thing!

Warriors: Oh Hyia, no

Me: Captain~

Warriors: Shit

Me: *pulls out Warriors Treacherous Bestie* It's that time again!

Warriors: You won't listren if I beg you to spare me will you?

Me: I never get to play with him EXCEPT during whump season :(

Warriors: Oh Hylia, she's doing the face, crap, why?

Me: Because I love you and that means you must suffer >:)

Warriors: I'm scared of what your hate looks like

Me: >:3

[serickswrites]

pleaaaseee make ‘make me’ into a series. maybe whumpers treatment could get way worse before finally a lot of hurt/comfort 🙏

Hello Anon! (And congrats on being my first ask of the year....I know you asked this ages ago though). Happy to write that for you.

Please enjoy!

Part 1 Part 3

Warnings: physical violence, burns, wounds, restraints, gag, yandere whumper

Whumpee had fought fruitlessly against Whumper. But it had been no use. Whumper was so much stronger than them. Whumper easily dragged them to Whumper's room. "If I can't have you, Whumpee, I'm sure as shit gonna make sure no one has you either!"

"Please," Whumpee begged as they tried to keep themself from being dragged in the room.

"It's too late for that! You never think about me! I always think about you. Always do things for you! And you never think about me!" Whumper roared as they slapped Whumpee in the face. "Well, now I'm going to be the only thing you think about."

Whumpee opened their mouth to protest, but Whumper boxed their ears, stunning them. Whumper shoved a dirty sock into Whumpee's mouth. And another. Whumpee gagged around the sock. "I don't want to hear any whining from you."

Whumper threw Whumpee onto the bed and Whumpee's head struck the wooden headboard. After that, things became very fuzzy for Whumpee. They didn't remember Whumper cuffing their hands and wrists to the bed posts, but the knew it happened--the cuffs clinked every time they moved. They didn't remember Whumper lighting candles--but they could see the soft glowing light. They didn't remember getting into bed with them--but Whumper lay next to them, stroking their cheek.

"I'm sorry, baby. You just make me so jealous sometimes." Whumper continued to stroke Whumpee's cheek. "You know how much I love you, right? How much you mean to me? And I know I mean so much to you."

Whumpee rolled their eyes. They couldn't help it. Whumper was a lunatic. How it took them this long to find out, they didn't know. But Whumper was genuinely crazy.

"Don't roll your eyes at me. I haven't done anything to earn that."

Whumpee just stared at Whumper, letting the anger and hate they felt fill their gaze.

"Don't talk to me that way! I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you. And I'm going to make sure no one wants you after me!" They grabbed a candle from the nightstand. "These are even your favorite scent! I am so considerate! And you don't even care. Or notice." Whumper's eyes grew cold. "But you'll notice now." And they tipped the candle, letting the scalding wax drip onto Whumpee's collar bone.

Tags: @heavenlyeden @pretty-little-whump @severalonions @bigtiddywench @hopefullywritingahit

[whumpsoda]

We Search For Stolen Personhood - H is for Home

Another piece for this month’s event Alphabet of Whump by @alphabetofwhump!! Also yes I will be posting these out of order because I can’t bring myself to care :]

Masterlist

cw: pet whumpee, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, mentions of past abuse, recovering whumpee

——————

Oscar studied him, the rescue now named Wesley, as he sat right before the sliding glass door to the backyard. It was halfway slid open, people constantly going in and out, but he didn’t budge from his spot. Neither did the man behind him, Graham, guarding him diligently as he always did.

Wesley inspected each and every inch visible of the relatively large backyard, a sea of healthy green adorned with a red painted porch and scattered about, deteriorating lawn chairs. The wind chimes decorating the trees sang with the faintest of a breeze, cicadas littering the trees and chirping behind the others’ chatter.

With long, slender fingers, he played with the hem of his shirt, a soft baby blue that Isaac had picked out for him after he’d panicked picking something himself. That was okay, though. That was expected.

Wesley liked to gaze out of anything he could, Oscar figured, to catch any glimpse possible of the actual outside world. He’d dropped some little hints about how he’d been treated during his time as a boxie, and the conclusion was that he hadn’t been allowed outside ever. Wether that meant from the house or just one particular room.

Now was the time to change that.

“Would you like to come on out?” The two’s eyes jerked to Oscar as he spoke, both staring with a mixture of piqued curiosity and suspicion. “Everyone’s waiting for us. It’s a real nice day.”

Wesley slunk an inch toward him, brows furrowing incredulously over his face. “…Out?” He muttered, jaw falling a smidge slack before he took another glance through the window with large, saucer shaped eyes.

“Yeah. You can, here. Go outside, I mean. I’d feel terrible keeping you cooped up with all these people all the time. Some fresh air’ll do you good.”

“B- but…,” picking at the skin of his fraying nail beds, he swallowed, hair brushing right over and concealing his eyes further. It was a plain mystery how he could even see with his bangs in his face all the time. “What if… is it not dangerous?”

“The backyard isn’t, I assure you. Definitely not our cozy old patio.”

He thought it over for a moment, cocking his head as he inspected the others through the glass. Florence, Otis and Edith prepared the barbecue, Agnes and Isaac sitting together on the lawn, while Joey sat beside her radio. All that was missing were the two newest rescues.

Pushing himself to his feet he stood, prompting Graham to follow, Wesley intertwining their hands before reaching out his other to Oscar. “Will you… go with us? Please?”

One hand was a reach of trust, no matter how little. Wesley trusted him, or at the very least was at the beginning of it, and Oscar allowed the sensations of blossoming warmth in his chest to bloom across his face. “Of course.”

Stepping through the door and onto the wooden patio, Oscar gestured for the younger man to follow. Instead Wesley simply stood, unmoving, his gaze flickering from the floor to him. “It’s alright. You really don’t have to if you aren’t ready just yet.”

He shook his head, huffing with a look of watered down frustration. “But, um, I want to. I really, really want to. Please. Please.” He insisted, still stuck in place.

“Alright then. Take your time, okay? No rush.”

Wesley stayed in his spot, carefully debating his options with a look of intense focus as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Thought was scrawled over his features, and so was fear as his breath picked up pace. Gently, Oscar began circular motions with his thumb, and the rescue’s grip relaxed, if only for a second.

Swallowing, gulping down thick saliva tainted with acidity, he made up his mind, ever so slowly placing one foot to the porch.

Then, another followed. His clutch on Oscar’s hand was deepening, growing tighter as he gasped.

Gaping in awe of all that was around him, the trees, the people, the sun, the sky, the birds, the everything, he giggled softly in excitement as was hidden by a trained smile. He was radiating, almost as if he were to explode with the mass of shining joy locked inside of him.

Even so, he nudged Oscar closer.

“Hey, guys!” Isaac called from the grass, waving her hands high. Agnes sat beside her, supplying a smaller wave as she curled her hands through the bunches of green below her.

“Would you like to sit with them?” Oscar invited, pointing to the two on the lawn.

Wesley parted his lips as if to answer, but turned back to Graham before any sound could escape. Softly whispering into his ear, the two went back and forth for a long moment, before Graham sunk to his knees over the wood. Wesley pecked him quick on the forehead, and his gruff exterior melted to mush. “Yes! Yes, please.”

Allowing Oscar to pull him along to the others, he hid not-so-discreetly behind him, using the older man as a sort of shield. All the while he gawked at the world around him, digesting everything little thing he possibly could.

Wesley peaked out around him as they made their way over so very, very slowly, catching notice of something tucked in Isaac’s lap. “That’s a football.” Plainly he stated, allowing more of himself to be revealed.

“Oh. Yeah. I just grabbed it.” She threw it up lightly, turning it around in her hands as she brightened. “You wanna play?”

“Yes. Please.” Wiggling his toes in the grass, he made a point to stare at the ground asking, “Will you play?”

With one knuckle and a grin, Oscar adjusted his glasses. “I’d love to.”

Isaac tossed Wesley the ball, her and Agnes making their way to the other side of the yard. He turned it around in his hands as they departed, lips pursed as his fingers grazed over each and every little ridge or bump.

“Ready!” Agnes called, interrupting the run of his mind, readying himself to make a throw.

Watching Wesley with keen eyes, seeing just how he positioned himself, how he held the ball, Oscar found it was all exactly correct and practiced without any instruction at all. Like it was ingrained, etched in his mind and flooded back throughout him as soon as he came in contact with it. There was no doubt about it.

Eyes wide and jaw falling slack, Isaac stumbled by a step as the ball slid directly into her grasp with ease.

“Woah!” Oscar exclaimed, adjusting his cap and exchanging a look with the younger man beside him. “You’ve got some arm!”

“Yeah!” Isaac agreed, throwing Wesley a grin and a thumbs up as she tossed the ball back. “Throw it again, Wes!”

He stole a look for approval to Oscar, before eagerly he nodded his head in anticipation. “Okay! Okay!” He readied himself for another throw, one nearly identical and just as perfect as the last, spinning swift spirals as it made it’s way through the air.

Oscar’s expression was lit with joy and a good bit of surprise, instinctively ruffling his rough hand through Wesley’s mop of hair. “Damn! You’re awesome, kid!”

He blushed, hard, covering his face with his hands as he chuckled, bubbly and high pitched, even letting out a little bit of a snort. Surprised at that he covered his mouth, cowering back. “That- I’m sorry-,”

“You’re all good.” Oscar reassured. “You’ve got a nice laugh. No need to be ashamed of it.”

Shaking his head, he ran his hands shakily down the skin of his arms. “Sir doesn’t like it. It’s ugly.”

Forced to hold back so many things to say that rose to mind, so many words to express his disgust with every sir, ma’am, master or mistress that was ever spoken of, Oscar shifted his hands to his hips. “Well I like it. A lot. And I think that should mean a hell of a lot more than his opinion, because it’s wrong.” The words came out sounding a bit weaker than they did in his head, but he stuck with them anyways.

Wesley was silent at that, catching the ball for the last time, before flopping to the ground.

“You good?” He positioned himself sort of like one would making a snow angel, placing the football to lie on top of his belly.

Sighing, letting all of the air out of his lungs, he let himself focus on the setting sky, a mixture of reds, oranges, yellows, and pinks. Almost looking like a painting. “Yes. I just… sort of realized where I am. I don’t know.”

Oscar plopped to the ground beside him, shrugging off his hat to better see the view. “Taking it all in?”

“Yes, sir”

“Oscar.”

He hesitated. “Yes, Oscar.”

Silence swallowed them whole for a beat, except for not really because noise danced all around them. Out of the corner of his eye he kept his sight sat on Wesley, contemplating the way he let his eyes flutter to a close, limbs dipped into the Earth as if someone were to come along and pry him from it.

He shifted back to the sky long enough to miss Wesley’s face twisting in a contortion of pain as a wince slipped out, and only returned once he was sat criss cross and holding his head in one hand. Though, he noticed how his eyes were glazed over with a glossy sort of finish. “Home.” He mumbled, loud enough for Oscar to catch but quiet enough for him to mistake.

“Hm?”

Hanging his head, he trailed his nail around in the dirt. “I don’t know. That’s just what this feels like.” He paused. “But it hurts when I think that. Here,” he pointed to his chest, then his head, “and here.”

“Home.” He parroted, the smallest of a quiver crawling it’s way over his lip, forcing Oscar to hide it with a smile. “This can be home. If you want it to be.”

Bringing his knees to his chest he shoved his head between his legs, mumbling something Oscar wished he’d picked up. “I hope so.”

——————

Masterlist

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

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

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper

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

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, part twenty-one

masterlist here.

content warnings for: EXPLICIT noncon/dubcon, noncon drugging, forced nudity, cages, conditioned whumpee, multiple whumpers, intimate whumpers, bbu/bbu-adjacent, psychological whump

part twenty-one, easier

It gets easier. 

Jack doesn’t know how, but he does know why. It has to get easier, or there will never be any relief. It was the same with Bill, with all the others; the more he fought, the worse everything hurt. And this, this “arrangement” with Ivan is never going to end. He may still have his name, he may not have been obliterated by the Drip, but Jack is property of WRU now. Just as he was always meant to be. 

He is good. Sweet. Compliant. He is an instrument of pleasure, and he serves his master well. 

And so, it gets easier because it has to. It’s the only way he can face his future, such as it is. 

Ivan is a good master. Even if the first time he took Jack was painful, it was for Jack’s own good. So that he would know better than to resist again. And he does know better now. He won’t resist. He can’t. This is what he wants. It is the only thing he can want. 

In the morning, he swallows Ivan down with his breakfast. Then, if Ivan doesn’t have any clients, he is allowed to go upstairs. He crawls on all fours like the pet that he is, but Ivan doesn’t muzzle him. There’s no need. Jack slips under Ivan’s desk, and he waits for the tap on his cheek that lets him know he is needed. Sometimes, Ivan rests in Jack’s mouth for hours, but Jack doesn’t complain. He’s used to it now. 

If Ivan has clients, Jack is left in his cage, the beads thrumming inside of him and Joe’s hoodie puddled beneath his head. He doesn’t fight the beads anymore. Instead, he chases the sensation, letting his sweat bathe his bare body. He doesn’t come, though. He knows better; his body knows better. He rises, and he waits. Ivan likes to watch when he returns, likes to listen to Jack’s wanton moans. Sometimes, Ivan watches for a very long time. He likes to watch Jack go blind with want. But Jack knows: he is allowed to want, but not to have. Ivan only gives him release every so often–just to keep things in working order, he says. 

In the evening, Jack drinks his water from a bowl at Ivan’s feet. It is cloudy and bitter, and he knows it is drugged, but it doesn’t matter; it’s better than the hood or the leather sack. When the pall of the drug settles around him, when he is warm and pliant and fuzzy and faraway, Ivan carries him upstairs. It wasn’t that way at first. At first, he was restrained or bent over the steel table or forced into position ten–his hands and knees–on the concrete floor. But now, he is such a good boy that he is allowed in the bed. Ivan doesn’t even need to chain him to the headboard anymore. 

Sometimes, Ivan keeps him in the bedroom overnight. Not in the bed, because pets do not sleep in beds. But he has a special cage beneath the box frame just for Jack; the latest accessory from WRU’s new line, Ivan says. There is a pillow and a blanket, because Jack is such a spoiled boy. On those nights, Jack sleeps like a baby. He can stretch out, at least; it is better than his basement cage, better than the soiled hoodie. The hoodie doesn’t smell like Joe anymore anyway. 

Joe is going to be so proud of him. That’s what Ivan says. Jack hopes it is true. 

It is evening again. Jack knows because his bowl is waiting, Ivan’s wingtips shining beside it. He doesn’t look at Ivan’s face; pets show deference to their masters, and Jack is a good pet. But he hears the brisk pop of Ivan’s snap, and he lurches forward on his bruised knees to drink. 

“That’s a good boy, Jackie,” Ivan murmurs, scratching his fingers through Jack’s tangled hair. The pressure feels good on his scalp, but Jack knows better than to stop drinking. He has to keep going until every last drop is gone. Until he’s gone with it. Good boys let themselves go. 

“You know,” Ivan goes on, “you’ve done such a marvelous job lately. I can see that you’ve really adapted to the training protocol, that you understand your role. And you’re flourishing.” 

Jack keeps lapping at the water, but his cheeks color with something that might be pleasure. He’s done a good job. He is who he was always meant to be. 

Maybe he will be able to go home soon. He can show Joe everything that he’s learned. Start their new lives together. He knows his place now. He will make Joe so happy. And that will make him happy. He knows it will. There is no happiness but pleasing his master–his owner. 

“There are a few hurdles for you to clear before you’re done with training, my boy,” Ivan says. “But I know you’ll handle them with gusto. Won’t you?” 

The bowl is empty. Jack’s bare ass slides back to his knees, and he nods without looking up. “Yes, sir.” 

Ivan laughs. “Good to hear. Now, tonight, we’ll stay down here in the basement.” 

To his credit, Jack’s heart no longer plummets. It doesn’t matter where he is, so long as he is giving Ivan what he wants. That’s all that matters. 

“Have I done something wrong, sir?” Jack asks. His voice wavers, just like it is supposed to. 

“Not at all, sweet boy, not at all. I just have a very special surprise for you. A challenge. Do you think you’re up to the task, my darling?” 

“Yes, sir.” Jack folds over his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. 

Ivan’s toe flicks against Jack’s ass crack, and Jack spreads his knees accordingly. 

“I can see that you are,” Ivan laughs. “That’s good. Now, Jackie, I want you to assume position ten.” 

Jack shifts to his hands and knees without a second thought. 

“Excellent, my boy. Now, you stay–” Ivan holds his hand flat in front of Jack’s face, “And I’ll be right back with your surprise, hmm?”  

Ivan sweeps out of the room, leaving the basement door open, and it doesn’t occur to Jack that there might have been a time when he would have tried to follow. To fight. But nothing occurs to Jack at all. He waits, because that’s what he’s been instructed to do. His head is empty. 

Ivan isn’t gone for long; only a few minutes have passed when Jack hears the patter of footsteps on the basement stairs. 

“You’re not going to believe how far he’s come,” Ivan says. He isn’t speaking to Jack.  

“Oh, I’m sure I can believe it,” another voice answers. 

The voice is familiar, but Jack can’t quite place it. Whatever Ivan laces the water with is starting to take effect; his ears rush warm and his joints feel like wax. His head lolls on his neck, but he stays on his hands and knees. He will not break position. Cannot.

“Well, Mr. Kenyon! Look at you!”

Mr. Kenyon. The name swims in Jack’s brain. No one’s called him that in so long. It doesn’t even feel like his name anymore. 

There’s a gentle nudge at Jack’s backside. “It’s alright, Jackie. You can look up. Show our guest your pretty face.” 

Jack looks up, blinking against the overhead light. The man’s face is shadowed, but even so, Jack recognizes him. The sharp chin, the beady eyes, the whispy mouse brown hairline. Immediately, Jack’s balance falters, and he sinks back over his feet. 

“Aw, now, Jackie. Don’t be scared. You remember Dr. Seligman, don’t you?” Ivan kneels beside Jack and runs a careful finger over the ridges of Jack’s spine. “He’s the one who helped bring you here to me.” 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, even though he isn’t supposed to. He remembers, just barely. Carl’s low snarl, the smoke detector, the drinks–drinks that Seligman mixed. Snatches of foggy time. Being shunted down stairs. His clothes being cut from his body. Hands, shifting, groping, pulling. Waking up, bound in a straitjacket, in this basement. 

Because Jack was taken. Because this is never what he wanted at all. But now, he doesn’t know how to want anything else. 

“Open your eyes, sweet boy,” Ivan coos, but his hand rests heavy on the back of Jack’s neck. A warning. 

Jack complies. Seligman’s horsey face is just inches from his own.

“Dr. Peters was right about you, wasn’t he?” Seligman’s lips creep into a wet smile. “You’re just perfect.”

And Jack is perfect. When Seligman caresses his cheek with papery fingers, Jack lets his mouth fall open. When Seligman teases his soft palate with a jagged fingernail, Jack does not gag. 

“No alarm reaction at all,” Seligman says in wonder. He wipes his wet fingers on Jack’s cheek and swats at Jack’s chin, a silent command for Jack to close his mouth; Jack does. “This is extraordinary, Ivan.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” Ivan’s nails twine with the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck. “He’s almost ready, I think. But I’m still dosing him with a sedative on occasion. That’s part of the reason I asked you to come.”

Seligman stands, still studying Jack from above. “What do you mean?”

“I thought we’d run an experiment,” Ivan says. His touch withdraws, and Jack whines. Ivan only chuckles. “Good boy, Jackie. You just be patient while we discuss. Position five.”

Jack folds in half, a penitent at worship. He listens, but he doesn’t really hear. He is boneless and warm, any real understanding lost in the fog that gets thicker with every slow breath.

“What’s your proposal, Ivan?”

“He’s already been dosed tonight. I say we do what we discussed now, with his typical drugs, and then repeat the exercise tomorrow, without sedating him.”

Seligman sucks his teeth. “So you’ll know if his compliance is drug dependent or not.”

“Precisely.”

Seligman half-laughs. “I suppose I could be talked into it.”

“All for the sake of science, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Faraway as Jack is, his stomach still jolts. He knows he’ll do what’s asked of him—there is no asking, not really—but there is an unfamiliar pinprick of fear worrying his belly; he hasn’t been scared in a long time. Still, he stays where he is and waits for instruction.

“You’ll take his mouth,” Ivan says, his voice cool and matter-of-fact, “and I’ll take him from behind.”

No. They can’t do this. Jack can’t do this. He’s never done it before. He is so good, so good at everything else. He can show them, if only they’ll let him. He wants to raise his head, to protest, but he is too fuzzy, too well-trained. He doesn’t move.

“If you insist,” Seligman replies.

“He’s quite adept at oral stimulation. I’ve made note of it in his file.”

Jack closes his eyes again. Yes, he is good at that. He’s always been good at that. Even Bill thought so. But now, he is practiced. A professional. 

“I’m sure the agency will be pleased.”

Ivan laughs. “And so will you.” He claps his hands. “Up, Jackie. Ten.” 

Jack raises himself to hands and knees, and he keeps his eyes on the slate gray floor. Seligman’s feet move away, but Jack hears the gentle drop of a zipper. Ivan squats down in front of him, tucking his fingers beneath Jack’s chin. 

“Now, my good boy, you’re going to show off all of your training. You are so close to being ready for your next step, but we still need to assess, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack whispers. 

“Good. Now, when Dr. Seligman is ready, you’re going to take him in your mouth, and you are going to make him come. You can do that, can’t you, Jackie?” 

Jack nods. He can do that. It doesn’t matter if he wants to. Of course he wants to. Of course he can do this. It’s what he was made for, isn’t it? What he’s been training for?

Ivan grips the sides of Jack’s jaw with punishing strength. “What’s that, sweet boy?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Ivan’s fingers relax. “Right. While you’re doing that, I’m going to fuck you. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

The pinprick of fear tears into Jack’s gut, widening, burning. But he nods again, the world blurry in front of his eyes. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my darling,” Ivan says. He presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead. “Isn’t this nice, Jackie? Letting others do for you. No choices to make. Just the simple kind of life you were always meant for.” 

“He’s a very lucky boy.” Seligman’s naked, downy-haired legs appear just beyond Ivan’s shoulder. 

“He is. And his Joe will be so proud.” 

Seligman laughs. “Prescott? Oh, Jesus. I’d forgotten.” 

Jack whimpers before he can stop himself. They shouldn’t make fun of Joe. Once Jack gets home, he’ll prove what a big man Joe is. He’ll let Joe do whatever he wants, the way he always should have. 

“Yes, Jackie works very hard for his Joe.” 

“Does Prescott even know–” 

Ivan pops to his feet. “Enough talk, I think. Jack knows what to do. Let him show you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Seligman says. 

“Alright, Jackie.” Ivan’s voice drifts behind. “Position one. Let Dr. Seligman guide you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Jack pushes himself to his feet, but before he can rise to standing, Seligman’s dry hands wrap around his shoulders, holding Jack’s trunk parallel to the floor. Jack hates the feeling of the man’s skin on his, but it doesn’t matter; what he feels is unimportant, and he knows it. Still, he shivers, and Seligman squeezes his shoulders. 

“Open that beautiful mouth, Mr. Kenyon,” Seligman says. 

Jack follows orders, and when Seligman slips himself–limp, pink, cold–between Jack’s lips, Jack immediately does what’s expected of him. He flattens his tongue, pushes himself down, lets Seligman guide him back and forth, back and forth. 

“My goodness,” Seligman breathes. “My goodness.” 

Jack doesn’t have any goodness of his own. He is almost grateful when he feels the familiar warmth of Ivan’s hands on his hips.

“That’s it, sweet boy, keep going. Don’t let me distract you,” Ivan murmurs. He kneads his thumbs against Jack’s tailbone, using his knuckles to tease at the cleft between Jack’s buttocks. 

Jack isn’t distracted. His cheeks hollow, and when Seligman’s grip grinds against the hinges of his jaw, Jack moans. The sound is protracted, muffled by the weight of Seligman against his tongue, but it doesn’t matter; Seligman laughs and pats his cheek. He’s hard now, and his hips thrust forward against Jack’s waiting face. 

“That’s right, Mr. Kenyon. You are the star pupil, aren’t you?” 

Jack knows the words are wrong, but just now, he can’t explain why. There is nothing but sensation, nothing but a body that floats in space, ready to be used however his betters see fit. He lets Seligman’s pubis press against his nose; he will breathe when he can. There’s no reason to fight. 

“He is quite teachable,” Ivan agrees. 

He slaps Jack’s ass, sending Jack’s body forward until Seligman is teasing his throat. Jack’s buttocks are cleaved apart, stretched so far open that he almost feels like he’s being ripped in two. But it’s alright. Ivan is only getting ready to prepare him; Jack is lucky. 

There’s a soft hocking sound, and then something warm and slippery drops between Jack’s ass cheeks. Ivan’s thumb slips between the mounds of skin and muscle, and then he circles Jack’s hole. 

“Hold him still for a moment,” Ivan says over Jack’s head, and Seligman slows his rhythm, smashing Jack’s face between his sandpaper palms. 

“Christ, Ivan. You’ve done a wonderful job.” 

One of Ivan’s hands finds purchase on Jack’s hip again; his grip pulses around the bone. “We’ll see, won’t we?” 

Ivan guides himself down, and then, with one sticky thrust, he is inside of Jack. He ruts forward, gently, just once. A kindness. Seligman eases himself forward too, laughing a little. But Jack isn’t afraid. He is just a good boy. The warmth spreads inside his head, and his throat flutters as Seligman pushes into it.

Ivan rocks against him. “Now, sweet boy, now, we’re going to see what you’re really made of.”

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