#box boy rescue

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 27

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CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language, victim self-blame, brainwashing, the usual. Raid/recapture, manhandling, beating, restraints, blood mention, implied nudity (nonexplicit). As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

He didn’t fight. 

He couldn’t. Even if his arms weren’t aching from elbow to wrist, they were lead at his sides. His fingers too were immovable under the weight of his failure. If only he could shift them, feel them, curl them into fists to hold onto the fleeting whisper of warm fingers in his but that comfort was no more deserved than it had ever been his to claim. 

The finality of it was equal parts devastation and relief. He wouldn’t get another chance, not after this, but he didn’t want any other life than what he’d had here anyway. He welcomed the end. 

They were probably no rougher than usual but rougher than he remembered—

Training is the only thing you need to remember. You were nothing before it, you are nothing without it. 

Two agents clad in black caught him under the arms, dragged him away and shoved him to his knees unceremoniously. They held him there as a third stepped up, looming above him. 

Just a few feet away another group of agents was—

He turned his eyes toward the sky without registering its shade. 

“Identify yourself.”

The numbers were on the tip of his tongue. 

142836359. 

Always spinning away in the back of his mind somewhere. 

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine. Snaking into the forefront of his dreams whenever he slept. From the very beginning, when they’d trained it into him. One hundred forty-two million, eight hundred thirty-six thousand, three hundred fifty-nine. An endless cassette ribbon unspooling, threading itself around each synapsis in his head. Repeating over and over until it was laced throughout. A third strand in every double helix. 

142836359.

“M-my…” He was suddenly reluctant to lose the single thing he’d been given, even though it had never really been his own. Thinking of defying such a direct order was a hurdle in itself but parsing the words to follow through was another thing entirely. “N-n-name…is—”

A baton cracked across the back of his head and he saw stars. The agents at his sides prevented him from following its momentum to the ground. The leader in front grabbed his chin but he barely felt their gloved fingers over the splitting pain in his head. 

“That was a direct order. You will identify yourself.”

He raised his eyes to meet their opaque sunglasses. Defiant. Defective—

Defective companions are immediately returned for evaluation and will be subjected to the most rigorous re-training applicable. 

The agent’s fist connected with his jaw. His upper molars cut into the flesh inside his cheek, blood seeping into his saliva. His skull rang and throbbed from two sides now.

“Identify yourself.”

He ground his teeth together. Brittle and raw like flint and steel, sparking fire through his veins. It felt familiar but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He raised his chin, the feeling flaring hotter. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance. 

“Little fucking shit.” 

He tried not to flinch away from the next blow but the agent to his right held out a hand before it landed. 

“It’s no use. You know how they get after something like this. We have a witness and his wrist is enough anyway. Vocal confirmation is just a formality.” 

The lead agent took off their sunglasses with a slow deliberateness, holding them out and flipping them from front to back, to inspect the lenses. Directly in his line of sight, though the agent’s eyes only scanned the glasses like there was nothing but empty air beyond them. 

Except when the agent reached out to use the fabric of his sweatshirt at his shoulder to wipe away an indiscernible smudge before finally replacing their glasses and breaking the silence. “Did you get a fucking promotion I wasn’t informed about?”

The shielding arm had long fallen. “No, sir.” 

Their weight shifted to the heels of their combat boots as they leaned into their dominance. “So I still call the shots around here?”

“Yes, sir.” Quieter than before—

Actions speak louder than words; show me how sorry you are. 

The leader let the silence stretch again. 

The other group of agents kept their voices low as they dealt with—while they worked. He tried not to look. Better to let his bitter defiance burn through any hope that they’d ever have a last moment shared between them.

“What the fuck are you morons waiting for?” The lead finally barked, making him jump and sending a spike of pain through his aching head. “Restrain him and get him out to the van.” 

“Yes, sir.” The agents at his sides chorused and sprang into action. As good as any pair of trainees. Thankfully, the leader had turned away and missed his smirk. 

They gagged him first. Four gloved hands holding his head still and prying his mouth open to shove a bit between his teeth—

Speech is a privilege and used only to further demonstrate subservience. 

The muzzle covered his whole jaw and nose with mesh that wasn’t quite fabric but wasn’t quite metal. His eyes watered as they tightened the straps over the tender spot on the back of his head, the front digging into his cheeks. Next was a thick shock collar, metal prongs hugging his windpipe and pressing into the back of his neck. More serious than what they used for training. No doubt designed to render the wearer unconscious with a single shock.

The restraints around his wrists were also more severe than anything Archer had ever used in training. Wide and tightened until his pulse beat in his hands and fingers, binding his wrists together in front of him. Similar bands went around each ankle, connected by a short chain that would have restricted his walking to a show shuffle but the agents didn’t give him the chance. They hauled him backwards off his knees and dragged him away. 

Just like that, it was all over. 

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but of course WRU wouldn’t waste resources on a single Reclamation. From the looks of it, he was the last stop. The others in the van were anchored down in two orderly rows. Eleven collars secured to the white walls, wrists to the white bench, feet to the white floor. Now an even dozen.

Just like the facility, everything white and pristine again. All of these bodies reeking of sweat and fear and failure and worse were in need of sanitization. The first in the row wore an evening gown, mascara streaks disappearing behind their muzzle. Two were completely naked. Some were crying. Another was fighting against the restraints like they had any chance at working themselves free before they got shocked for their disobedience. Though from the looks of the angry red welts rising under the restraints, the agents were letting them carry on with their fruitless efforts. A few were limp, split lips and still-bleeding noses indicating they’d needed a little extra help into the van. 

He envied them. 

It was impossible to know what might have led the others here. They all must have known what was coming, tried to avoid it in whatever they may have been doing. Most of them would have agreed with him that death was preferable. 

A Companion across the aisle tried to meet his gaze with pleading eyes but the burn spanning from their hairline to their navel caught his attention first and he couldn’t drag his eyes away. If they were whining in pain, it was lost in the other muffled cries and sounds of struggle— 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

The clip anchoring his wrists to the bench was as thick as his fingers. There was barely enough slack in the anchor at the back of his neck for him to look down to see it fully. None of the locks were of the electronic variety that might release them to the mercy of tumbling in a tangle of immobilized bodies should the van roll. 

How many of them would have their necks broken or simply asphyxiate if there was an accident? Blunt force trauma from being so close to the walls of the van would probably do enough damage to cancel whatever re-training awaited them. Or at least for the others.  

Better yet, a clean decapitation. 

A distorted, muffled sound, distinguishable from all the crying, silenced the rest of the van. It took another beat of listening to the hysterical tail end of it, the inhale past saliva collecting at the corners of a bit before it bubbled out again to realize it was laughter. And another beat to realize he was its source.

All the eyes that were open and could manage the angle, turned to watch. Any distraction was welcome when you were facing hell. Had any of the others been in his cohort?  Had he surpassed them in training? 

Look at him now, Archer’s ace in the hole—

That really set him off. 

But he wound up choking on all of the extra spit and spent the next minute thinking he really was going to die in the back of this van just asphyxiating on his own spit before he finally managed to drag in a thin breath amidst all of his coughing. 

The van was still completely silent once he’d recovered his breath. Some gazes had slid away quietly. Others remained, still happy to watch him unravel. 

His cheeks burned under his muzzle but a part of him was sure that none of them could hold a candle to what had led him here. 

Some of them might have simply been displeasing. Appearances could only be changed so much. Their simple minds so very, very far from telepathic. 

Even after the full-refund window, WRU was happy to offer trade-in credit for an exchange. If that wasn’t possible, they would graciously take care of retiring unwanted Companions. It didn’t make any difference if a Companion was bought, leased, or only rented. The Handlers made sure it was always, always, in the back of their minds that no placement was certain—

The only certainty is that you are property now.

The rest would go back to being numbers on the training roster. 

He would be on a different list. 

They were removed from the van for Decontamination one by—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine

— each brought to their own white-tiled room. Wrists hooked above his head, holding him in place over the drain. He wasn’t sure if these were still agents or Handlers now. A different department of Handlers, maybe. They wore white rubber suits like he could be radioactive or carrying a plague, their eyes hidden behind the mirrored glass window of the suit masks. 

The relief of having the muzzle and bit removed distracted him from noticing they were cutting away his clothes. Too late he realized that with them went the last scent of what semblance of a home he’d had, of—

He didn’t have time to swallow the lump in his throat before the spray hit him. Cold and sharp like the water wanted to worm its way under his skin. There wasn’t any slack to get away from it. No way to cross his legs or twist without his shoulders and arms protesting. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

He yelped when they sprayed it into his ear, gritting his teeth through the other. They pried his jaw open to rinse out his mouth until he was choking. When he was finally released, his spit was pink. 

Next was a powder, antiseptic smell sharp and familiar in his nose, making his stomach turn, misted all over his shivering body—

Your body is an object for service, your mind is a vessel for obedience. 

They scrubbed it in with brushes until the lather was turning pink too. When they brought back the water it was so hot he screamed. And kept screaming as it scalded him like the soap was turning to acid and boiling through his skin. He ran out of air before they were done, gasping in lungfuls of it, the collar tighter and tighter around his neck. His pulse fast against it, beat, beat, beating—  

Beatings break old habits, the collar corrects new ones—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine.

He was still catching his breath when they held open his jaw to let the water burn through his mouth, his throat, his lungs. 

Black spots dotted his vision. Sunlight through leaves, lying on a blanket under a tree. Right beside her. Mira. It hurt. 

His chest ached, his heart burned. He vomited up all of the water and some blood. The room spun. He sobbed.

The water was off now. 

He was saying it out loud, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice echoing, the only sound in the room. 

He was alone.

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[yet-another-heathen]

On the topic of realistic conditioning/deconditioning,

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

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

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

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

...on Conditioned Whumpees - Part 3

[ Part 1 - Part 2 ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is beyond exhausting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other questions to ask yourself while plotting:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[maracujatangerine]

92: Playing with the pet

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation, box boy universe, implied abuse, physical injury

The pet’s master had guests. The pet was on its best behaviour, kneeling on the hard, grey tiles next to Master’s chair. It was tired, cold, and hungry, but it did all it could to keep itself from swaying in place.

To distract itself, and to prepare itself for what might happen, it watched the guests carefully. These people were new. The pet had never seen them before.

Two large, muscular men with colourful tattoos running down their arms and wrapping around their necks. Both of them carried themselves as people who were no strangers to violence, and the pet caught a quick glimpse of a gun in a holster when one of them leaned down to place their tan leather messenger bag on the floor.

With them, they had two women in their late teens or early twenties, well a decade younger than the men. They wore carefully applied makeup, and flowery perfumes that itched the pet’s nose and made it want to sneeze.

“Oh!” The blonde woman exclaimed in surprise when she saw it. “You have a pet! That’s so adorable!”

“Can we play with him?” The redhead asked wistfully. The pet saw how its master and the two men exchanged meaningful looks, even though the women seemed unaware. When the burly men nodded, the pet’s master smiled and, with an inviting gesture, handed over the pet’s leash to her.

”Of course you can, Jenna! You can take him into the living room across the hall and play with him as much as you want.”

”That’s amazing!” She turned, and the pet scrambled clumsily to its feet, stiff after kneeling for so long. ���What’s his name?”

”Um… well…” Cassius hesitated. ”He doesn’t really have a name. We usually call him pet, or… well, my niece and nephew sometimes call him buddy.”

“Okay, Buddy it is, then.” She smiled at the pet and patted her thigh. “Come on, Buddy.”

The pet glanced at its Master, but Cassius had already turned away and was busy pouring whiskey into three tumblers. Despite the fluttering of fear in the pet’s chest, there was nothing for it to do but to follow the young women across the hallway and into the room on the other side.

The blonde girl sat down in the black leather sofa and pulled up her legs under her. Jenna sat next to her, and as she held the pet’s leash, it knelt down on the grey carpet in front of her. They both looked at it, which made its stomach tighten in fear. Unsure of what to do, it tilted its head and tried an imploring smile.

“Awww! Look, Crystal! That is so cute!” Jenna clapped her hands together appreciatively.

“Do you know any tricks?” Crystal asked, and the pet immediately panicked.

What tricks? It hadn’t been taught any tricks.

It could walk at heel, and serve canapés, and pour champagne in a straight and perfect arc. It could cook, and clean, and listen sympathetically to its owner’s lamentations. It could grovel, and beg, and bleed. But it had a terrible feeling that none of those skills were what these young ladies wanted, and if it couldn’t show them a sufficiently amusing trick right now, they might hurt it, or its Master might be displeased, and that would be the same thing…

It knew it was spiralling, but it couldn’t stop. It was all it could do to keep the confusion and fear from its face.

“Shake!” Crystal leaned forward, a strand of her blonde hair - more warmly yellow than the pets pale blonde - falling down over her face. She held out her hand, and dumbfoundedly, the pet laid its hand in hers. She gave it a vigorous shake. “Yay!” She cheered. “Good job! Good boy!”

The words rushed like endorphins down the pet’s spine. Blessed relief! It had guessed right at least this time.

”Wave!” Crystal nodded to the pet, and it tentatively raised its right hand in a cautious wave. ”That’s good! Now spin!”

The pet hurriedly span around on its knees, making a full circle and then, daringly, tilting its head at them again.

It was equally successful this time. Both Jenna and Crystal laughed and applauded.

”Let me try.” Jenna said. ”Roll over.” She told the pet, who laid down on its stomach and rolled around on its back to land on its stomach again. ”Good!”

”We should give him a treat for doing well.” Crystal said suddenly.

”Yes!” Jenna nodded. ”Do you like chocolate?” She asked the pet.

”Y-yes, Ma’am.”

She rummaged around in her bag and found half a bar of milk chocolate. Unfolding the metal foil, she broke off a square of chocolate and held it out to the pet. Hesitatingly, it leaned forward and carefully took it between its lips. The burst of flavour almost shockingly sweet.

”Sit pretty.” Crystal ordered, and the pet almost lost it for a moment. It was already sitting, what else did they want from it? In a burst of creative inspiration, it held up both hands in front of its chest, mimicking a dog sitting up on its haunches.

It was rewarded by laughter, and another chocolate square. Crystal leaned forward and tousled its hair appreciatively.

“I know!” Jenna looked at Crystal with a wink, then, with a mischievous smile, she turned to the pet and gave the order.

”Snoot Boop.”

Shyly, the pet stretched up on its knees to lightly touch its own nose to hers. Jenna giggled. It kept its eyes respectfully downcast the whole time. Her breath smelled sweet and fresh, like peppermint, and even though her flowery perfume was strong, it was not unpleasant.

The pet sat immediately down on its knees again, and when it dared to look up at her, Jenna’s dark blue eyes looked straight into the pets own. They glittered with laugher, but the pet could see no hint of maliciousness. It was more like she was laughing with it, enjoying its cleverness, rather than laughing at it.

Crystal raised her right hand, index finger pointing at the pet.

”Bang!” She said. This time, the pet caught her meaning quickly. Dramatically, it flopped down on its back on the carpet, eyes closed.

When its theatrics made the young women laugh, the pet felt really proud. It hadn’t been trained for this, but they thought it was funny - and well-behaved.

Suddenly, the laughter stopped.

“Oh no, look.” Jenna grabbed its wrist, making the pet instinctively go limp, letting her twist its hand to and fro as she pleased. A long, infected scratch along its arm glistened damp and red in the lamplight. ”You’ve gotten hurt.”

Before the pet had time to react, she called loudly out into the other room.

”Cassius, did you know that Buddy is injured?”

A moment’s silence, then the pet’s Master’s voice.

”It’s nothing to worry about, Jenna. You know pets, they play rough sometimes.” He cleared his throat. ”If you want to fix him up, there’s a first aid kit in the kitchen.”

”I’ll get it.” Jenna jumped up and walked out towards the kitchen.

”You poor dear.” Crystal said. ”What happened?”

The pet could very vividly recall Kristoff pushing it up against the chain link fence, its arm catching on the strand of barbed wire hanging down loosely from on top of the fence. But if it said that, the truth might reflect badly on its Master.

”T-this pet cannot remember, Ma’am.”

When Jenna came back with the first aid kit, they carefully cleaned the cut and dressed it with a proper, white bandage and everything. The pet was amazed, especially since they gave it the whole rest of the chocolate bar, ’for being so brave’.

”Can we braid your hair?” Crystal asked, as Jenna gathered up the first aid materials.

”Y-yes, Ma’am.”

So then the pet sat with its back against the sofa, while both Jenna and Crystal played with its hair, making Dutch braids on either side of the pet’s head. They were so gentle and careful. The pet closed its eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation, when something tilted and shifted. The memory slid away from it, and changed.

Another hand touched its hair, roughly.

”Did you make yourself this pretty for me?” A deep, melodious voice asked.

The pet froze. In the distance, it could hear its Master greet the man with respect and notes of fear in his voice.

”Of course you can feel free to borrow my pet. Take your time and enjoy him as much as you’d like.”

The pet was immobilised. When it opened its eyes, everything was dark. There were hands all over it, groping, stroking, probing. It knew, that whatever it did, they would have their way with it. Maybe today would be the day that they broke it.

The pet pleaded, begged, finally screamed, but the wandering hands did not let up. It twisted and tried to get away.

It screamed again and then, suddenly, jerked awake.

The soft, warm light from the night light alleviated the darkness.

Hands were touching it, but these hands were safe. Coriander heaved itself up into sitting, and nearly melted into the familiar hug, only now aware of the tears running down its face.

Miss Lydia hugged the pet gently. She stroked its back.

”It’s okay, Cory.” She repeated quietly. ”It was just a dream. You are here with me now. You are okay.”

The pet was clinging to her, taking shivering breaths. Slowly coming back to itself. Relief flowed over it, as it realised it was true. It had just been dreaming.

Then, the pet remembered. It froze. When Miss Lydia felt it stiffen, she froze too.

With an effort, Coriander straightened up, and turned away.

”P-please, Miss Lydia. Don’t… P-please leave this pet alone.”

It didn’t look at her, but it could feel her hesitation. After a moment, her breath hitched as if she wanted to say something, but instead, Lydia got up and walked away.

She left the door ajar.

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[artist-issues]

All right I loved Twisters, too, but I have to stress that there wasn't anything in it that was groundbreaking. Nothing incredible.

Just plain good. Straightforward. Simply good. Wrapped up in a nice neat package. Not trying to right all the wrongs or check all the boxes.

Please don't put Glen Powell in every movie from here to 2029, he did a good job, but it wasn't him, it was the plain good story, and he and the others disappeared into that, that's their job, don't put them in every movie they won't FIT in every movie

[stars-inthe-sky]

9-1-1 Tag Game

Tagged by @rcmclachlan and @screamlet, who may or may not have known that I've watched exactly seven episodes of the series (as well as a whole bunch of clips, admittedly). I'm not letting that stop me from having a good time, but take everything I say with a grain of salt here, because, again, I have seen only seven episodes of a long-running series in a season that, as far as I can tell, has been particularly not good in the scheme of things. So most of this is based on vibes, as well as fic interpretations or skimming Wikipedia once last spring.

Favorite Character: Does fanon!Tommy count? He's fascinating. If not, canon Buck is a completely insane assemblage of personal history and character traits that is hard to look away from, in a good way.

Character You Relate to the Most: Ravi, who's here for the food and to mostly be a professional in a work setting and also what is the deal with these people?

Favorite Episode: Of the episodes I've actually seen as whole episodes, I guess "Masks"? But it seems like the actual answer had I watched things would be one of the Begins episodes, probably Chimney's or Buck's.

Hottest Take: This may be a consequence of the especially bad writing recently, and that being all I've seen, but it feels like Athena's cop/solo storylines are patched in from another show, to the point that I don't really get why she's here as a regular besides that someone landed Oscar Nominee Angela Bassett on this ridiculous network procedural and like hell they're not gonna use her.

Favorite Lone Star Character: Now, this show I haven't actually seen any of, but I know Gina Torres is on it, sooooo probably Gina Torres?

Favorite Ship: Buck/Tommy is literally the only reason I'm here in the first place.

Most Underrated Character: Sure seems like it's Karen Wilson, actual rocket scientist with no backstory. Also, have they really never in all these years given her an excuse to sing onscreen?

Most Underrated Ship: Truthfully, I don't feel qualified to answer this.

One Thing You’d Love to See: Stealing @screamlet's response: "good writing" (and maybe a heavy-handed obvious-romcom-homage reunion for our guys)

Tagging: @sadieb798, who drove me here, and I thiiiiink @rikyl and maybe @running-rabbit fell down this hole a bit with me recently?

[we-were-so-beautiful]

4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit. 

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"I/You made a mess." - five line prompt for boost lol.

CW: BBU, pet whump, institutionalized whump, dehumanizing language, aftermath of dubcon

Boost's Stuff

-

Handler Thompson - Clint - never even takes his pants all the way off. He lays there panting afterwards with them off his hips, his black uniform shirt rucked up to show a flash of stomach paler than his arms and his face and his neck, the only bits Boost usually ever sees.

"Good boy," Clint says, breathy, leaning down to nuzzle along the angle of his jaw. Boost shivers, eyes wide, staring with his head tipped back because he can see the blue sky.

Outside smells like cut grass and rain. Smells he can't remember but knows anyway. The air is humid and hot, the pavement parking lot drying after the storm passed. The sky is so, so blue.

He hadn't realized it would be so incredibly blue. He hadn't understood that it would seem so immense, so far overhead. He hadn't known it would be frightening, like it could crash down any second, cracks in a ceiling larger than his imagination had ever been able to grasp.

Clint chuckles, warm air against his ear, and Boost shivers again. Instinctively, his arms go up. Bizarrely, Clint leans into it, shifting so Boost can hold onto him as if fighting for an anchor to keep him close to earth. "Hey. You made a mess, did you notice?"

Boost blinks, briefly confused, and then realizes what the handler means. His stomach is marked, sticky, familiar only from his own hand in the showers or those brief times he is utterly alone.

But this time...

"I've never... with someone else before," He whispers. He doesn't know if his body ever has, but he hasn't. Not from someone else's hand, someone else's moving hips, someone else's stinging pain and wavelike pleasures. His skin itches. Messes are bad, and must be cleaned.

But Clint is heavy, and the sky through the window, where he lays on his back on the backseat of Clint's beautiful shining car, is so so blue.

"Yeah, I guess we don't usually give a fuck if you have fun or not," Clint says, careless. He doesn't sound guilty or regretful. Just stating a fact. His fingers graze down Boost's side until he shivers again, tightening around the softening fullness inside him, making Clint groan and lean even more heavily on him. The closure for a seatbelt digs into his other side, down near his hip. The leather sticks to his back. The door handle jams into the top of his head, aching after the rocking rhythm they kept up for so long.

"You really like it out here," Clint says, thoughtfully. "Don't you? You like fucking me out here."

I like the sky, Boost thinks. I don't care about you. I just want more of the sky.

"Yeah," He says, trying to think of how the Romantics do this. Flirty smiles and batting eyelashes don't feel right. But he softens his voice a little, shifts his legs apart as if urging Clint to do it again, what he just did, what they do twice a week now. "I do like it. A lot. Will you bring me out here more often?"

"Sure. You're a fun time." Clint, to his surprise, kisses him. A full on kiss on the lips, and Boost stills but then, clumsily, tries to kiss back. "Next week. I have a long weekend out of town. But next week, huh? You, me, condoms, and a good time had by all."

Boost swallows, and gently kisses Clint. "Yeah, please, Handler Clint. Thank you, sir." He keeps his voice low.

A few more weeks of this and he'll ask to get fast food somewhere. French fries. He smells them sometimes when handlers bring in outside food as treats for the good pets who did well in training.

Weeks of being good, getting food and drink. Maybe things he can sneak back to the others. Then ask to see the handler's apartment. Get off of WRU property, away from those walls topped with razor wire and spotlights. Get somewhere with more grass and trees. Spend some time making Clint think they're so good together. Boost is a good maintenance worker even if he's a failed pet.

Boost can be so, so, so good.

Until Clint thinks he'd never try to run. Until he is trusted and believed and has his chance. Then, he'll have all the blue sky he wants.

But he feels bad about what he'll do to Clint to get it. Just not bad enough to stop.

[pigeonwhumps]

Betrayal

Bug and Company masterlist

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

Sarita is betrayed.

1.7k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, rape, rape with an object, attempted gang rape, gagged, collar, betrayal, manhandling, talk of past rape, gang rape, violent sexual assault and forcing to rape, victim-blaming, victim-shaming, derogatory sexual language, implied drugging, electric shocks, seriously unsafe sex (in an "I looked up the possible medical consequences and wrote it anyway" kinda way), wrist slashing

Sarita's halfway down the upstairs hallway when she hears voices.

Annie, one of the younger safehouse owners (leaders, they insist, but she can't think of them as anything except owners), asked her to stay in her room today. That's okay. She's not supposed to be in the common areas with the others anyway, and she doesn't want to go near them while they're talking. They might insult her again (dumb slut, whore, lucky pampered pet), and it's easier to pretend they accept her when she can't hear them.

Annie's nice to her, at least, even if nobody else is. Everyone else avoids her, or talks down to her, her opinion worth less because she was fucking raped, apparently. But Annie smiles and talks to her, not treating her like she's a fucking plague carrier. She's not so full of all that Christian hypocritical bullshit that's uncomfortably close to what her last owners and their pastor used to spout.

In fact, the food she ate this morning was from Annie. She didn't manage to eat much, it's too long since she had a chance to and now she can't, but it was tasty anyway. She's saved some for later, just in case. Annie also had a long conversation with her about how they can make her feel more comfortable.

Annie's the only one here who doesn't either actively avoid her or insult her. At least, not within earshot. That's something Sarita's never really had.

And if she has an ally and she's warm and dry and her stomach is full, she can bear anything else. She feels warm and sleepy right now, just a little bit.

Annie asked her to stay in her room, so she will, but she needs to use the toilet desperately. So she leaves, padding silently down the corridor, and pauses at the sound of her own name.

"The Romantic. Sarita. Yes, she's just upstairs. She should be ready by now."

Sarita peers over the banister to see Annie, talking with– with–

She swallows. She didn't train with WRU, exactly, but she's seen the adverts, knows the uniforms, recognises the demeanor from her own centre.

These are WRU handlers.

What are they– why–

Except she knows why, doesn't she. They're here for her. Annie, Annie who she liked, who she thought liked her, Annie who now makes startled but completely unrepentant eye contact with her and points.

"There. That's her. She must've woken early."

Sarita turns and runs. She's not going to make it down the stairs, not with Annie and the two handlers blocking her path, so she goes for her room. She picks up a lamp and hits the corner of the locked window, shattering it. There's a flat roof below which she jumps down onto, and then onto the ground.

Ow, fuck, her ankle. Well, she's run on worse, it's not that bad. She sprints around the side of the house and hits something vaguely soft.

Fuck, fuck, no. She doesn't manage to scramble away fast enough to stop the sweaty hands grasping her arms, tight enough to bruise.

She won't go down without a fight.

She kicks and squirms, trying to pull away. An arm loops around her neck, almost throttling her, and she tries to bite it.

It doesn't work. It doesn't fucking work. She screams as something cracks hard against her side, electricity coursing through her body. It stuns her, and when she can move again they keep stunning her until they can throw her into a nearby alley.

She jerks for a bit, the pain and sensation of numerous electric shocks still hitting her. And then she squirms when she's able to, but it's useless as a woman pins her down, fitting a collar that's one notch too tight. Sarita gasps.

"There. That's better," says a man. They're both smirking down at her maliciously and she knows what that smile means even before he says it. "We're going to have our turns with you and then return you to WRU. That okay? Well, I don't actually care about your opinion, because you're a pet and you don't have one. Spread your legs, little pet, and bring your knees up. Let's see what we're working with."

Sarita considers her options. She can't escape right now. The handlers are too alert. So she needs to get them to let down their guards.

Hating herself for it, she does as they say.

They examine her visually, and poke at her with their fingers and batons. The woman whistles.

"Damn. You look good. I bet you were popular. Had a lot of sex, little whore?"

Sarita closes her eyes, because yes, yes she has. She's never had an owner who didn't rape her or hire her out to be raped, or both, and on the streets it was even worse. When people paid in money, or shelter, or food, that wasn't too bad. She chose them, and they were usually okay. But sometimes she let herself be raped so she wouldn't be ratted out, or she was forced upon because as an escaped pet she had no recourse. She's been gang-raped more than once, and some people were so violent she thinks she probably has permanent damage.

Some people forced their own pets to hurt her. That was the worst.

She always had to move when people assaulted her on discovering she was a pet. She had to move a lot.

One of the handlers slaps her across the face and she snaps out of the memories, jerking her eyes open.

"Don't disappear on us just yet. It's less fun. Open your mouth." She obeys, and the woman inserts a pecker gag, tightening it around her head. Sarita gags on the fake penis. "Sorry. But we've decided what we're doing and we can't have you screaming the neighbourhood down. Also, it just looks good."

The woman strokes her cheek and she has to fight not to jerk away. "Look at the fear. It's intoxicating. That's why I joined the recapture squad. Well, that and the perks." She looks Sarita directly in the eye, seemingly soaking up every emotion that Sarita tries desperately, fruitlessly, not to give her. "You know, it doesn't actually matter if we damage you. We can just tell our bosses you were already damaged. The baton has a very low setting, anyway, that no-one ever uses. Consider that your warning."

Sarita really, really doesn't want to go through this. But she can't escape without it.

The man holds up his baton, smiling gleefully as her eyes widen. No. No no no, fuck no, please.

It has a fairly thin end, this one, but she still screams as he forces it inside her.

And then he turns it on.

It's the lowest setting, she knows that, it's not going to kill her, but it still hurts, the shocks burn, it's way too much and she's not aware of anything else as she screams herself hoarse.

She's limp and drifting on pain when the handler finally removes the baton and inserts his penis instead. It takes a huge effort to desperately pull herself together. She'll never escape if she's not ready after this. She wants to escape now, but she stands no chance.

So she waits. She hates it, but she waits, letting him do what he wants without struggling. A sated owner– user– rapist– whatever is easier to escape from.

She scrabbles around with one hand, finally finding the piece of broken glass she was looking for. They're all over these alleys, and she certainly felt it in this one.

Eventually, he finishes up with a groan and withdraws, spilling all over Sarita's face.

"Oh, that was good," he moans. "Wish I could do it again but we gotta get you back to work."

"Hey. It's my turn first," objects the second handler. "Come on, little slut. I reckon we'll start with some knife play, how does that sound? I have a blindfold right here."

Sarita puts on her best puppy dog, Romantic, oh-look-at-me-I'm-such-a-helpless-and-vulnerable-pet expression. It helps that she's already scared out of her mind. Both handlers relax.

Then she moves.

She knees the first handler in the balls, springs to her feet, slashes the second across the wrist with the piece of broken glass clenched tightly in her hand, and runs, ignoring the yells and curses of pain, the unsteady footsteps, the pain in her groin, the blood running down her hand to her wrist, her forearm, sharp pain emanating from it.

She needs to cover the barcode again, she needs to remove the gag and the collar, she needs to get away, she needs– she needs–

She needs to breathe.

She doesn't know where she's going to go now. She's sure as fuck not going to another safehouse, though. She doesn't know why they're called 'safe'. There must be another definition of it that she's not aware of.

Or maybe they're just not including people like her. Dumb sluts who lie on their backs all day because they're not good for anything else, nevermind her actual skills outside of that fucking area.

She runs unsteadily, staggered, through the back alleys, the pain catching up with her. She disposes of the collar and gag, throwing them in the opposite direction at a junction in disgust, hoping to throw the handlers off her scent. She's covered in blood and grime and torn clothes and pained tears and she's limping, she needs to find somewhere to clean up or she'll be found out immediately.

But she doesn't know where to go. She wants to cry and scream and rage at the world that just keeps pulling the rug out from under her but she doesn't have time for that. She doesn't have time to think about what just happened, because if she does she'll throw up.

What the fuck is she supposed to do now?

[starrspice]

GODS I LOVE PIRATE AUS SO MUCH

Also what's with Eclipse 👀

Well...

Sun and Moon weren't the only one with their eyes on that merchant ship that had Y/N

The big difference is Eclipse knew what Y/N was and that they were on board

He insists him and Y/N have met before but Y/N doesn't remember him

[frightnightindustries]

Killing Time

Tony, also known as the Time Bomb Killer, is a 27 year old serial killer running around Alaska. While teaching one of his 'lessons' (read: torture sessions), he finds somebody in the basement of the pathetic creature who didn't know how to treat romantic partners. He takes him home, and then starts falling for the beautiful man who has beautiful eyes.

Louis didn't have a name before his new ma-, no, Tony found him. Tony told him that healing would be a long process. It would be even longer considering that his new owne-his new companion was a serial killer that still cried for his parents in nightmares.

The pair, through setbacks, begins to help each other heal.

-----

When they cringed in fear

Finding a name

[honeycollectswhump]

me when. aiden 😭😭 hes come so far and his perception of leo has changed so much i am sobbing

Unintentional 28

Previous — Masterlist — Next

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Ongoing raid, fear of recapture, clinical/hospital setting, side-effects/consequences of medwhump (cerebrovascular). Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3 Second ask is from this list

Leo told him to stay still and pretend to sleep, no matter what. One of so few direct orders, Aiden could count them on his hand. The very same Leo had just been holding, fingers warming his, giving him one last reassuring squeeze before he’d let go. 

He couldn’t fail Leo.

Aiden pressed his hands into the bedspread to hide their shaking, to make them still. Starched-not-soft fabric in an orderly, woven grid under his fingertips. Hundreds of washes keeping it uniform for every new patient. Knuckles wrapped in the soft fabric of Leo’s sweatshirt. Left hand throbbing, forearms aching. Betadine and antiseptic sharp in his nose. The sounds in the hallway—the agents in the hallway. He knew those boots, those footfalls. He’d been here before. 

He was there. 

Beside the pool, clothes still damp from diving in, from sweating through what had to be hours of CPR. Dragged to his knees, slapped around, put in a van. The End.

He wouldn’t be able to give them his number this time, even if he wanted to. Except instead of taking a stand, he was simply too damaged. The idea of being beaten in front of Leo made his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He couldn’t shake his head, squeeze his fist, find something, anything, to anchor him to where he was, who he was. The simplest task impossible. He used to be more than a passenger, an observer, recognizing less and less with each visit. Especially when it was like this, when he fell beneath the surface, into things that were muddy and murky and meant to stay that way.

He wanted to look, to confirm what he kept telling himself was true, but he had to keep his eyes closed. 

Leo wouldn’t leave him. Leo had promised. 

But the very foundation of the conditioning was doubt. 

With Archer it pushed him toward an impossible perfection. Empty responsiveness that only left him aching to do more, to be better. 

It nagged him constantly with Harrison but there was little to be done. Harrison took what he wanted, didn’t care what kind of vessel it came from. All of his memories returned were not enough to erase the conditioning, relieve the doubt. The ache to be deserving. 

He was certain it was worse to have both: what once was housed in the ruins of what he was now. 

Leo had no idea what he was taking on. Had no idea Aiden was falling to pieces in his own head when all he had to do was stay still and be quiet. 

He wasn’t meant to open his eyes but Harrison was peeling them open for him. Shining his penlight into one and then the other. 

“I know you’re awake.” His tone was terse. Frustrated? There was a complication? A delay? It was hard to follow, his mind slow to process. He tried to turn his head but he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t, he was strapped down like always. 

Leo had told him not to move.

Harrison snapped his fingers in front of his face. “I asked you a fucking question.” 

He blinked a fraction of a second after he thought of it. He couldn’t remember hearing a question. There weren’t any quips surfacing and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to speak anyway. 

He hadn’t felt this drugged before. 

He wasn’t. 

Leo—was Leo still there? 

“For fuck’s sake.” Harrison demanded all of his attention by undoing the straps. “You’re lucky we need to do this or you’d be kissing a taste of freedom goodbye thanks to your attitude.” 

Too slow to snipe back again. 

He cried out when his arms fell to his sides, so heavy now that he had to hold them, fingers tingling as the blood rushed down to his fingers. 

He had to stay still. 

“I don't have patience for your bullshit today. Do not test me.” 

He swallowed the next whimper, the reprimand curdling in his empty stomach. Unaware that Harrison had released all of the other restraints until he folded forward. Harrison caught him unceremoniously, wrapping his arms around him in a parody of an embrace that still made his heart race and his cheeks flush as if it were earned attention, a reward. Sometimes, he’d wriggle closer, moan in Harrison’s ear or whisper a few lurid suggestions. (Anything was better than being a lab rat.) Once even licked his neck but after that, Harrison had kept him unconscious for so long. 

As much as he had nothing to lose, would push every button he could find in a fruitless attempt to force Harrison’s hand, his nerve was riddled with holes. Whenever Harrison was gone too long, he’d wonder if he’d ever come back. Doubt warping fearful anticipation into longing. He’d miss Harrison. Miss the attention, even of his scalpel, when there was a question of it never returning. He was nothing if not what they’d conditioned him to be. 

“Alright, up you go.” Harrison’s voice still had an edge. They were in the other room across the hall but he didn’t remember getting there. Harrison pulled him to his feet, placed both of his hands on the rail bordering the room. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.” 

He gasped when Harrison let go, overwhelmed by all of his muscles working together for a purpose. But there was something else too, something beneath whatever drugs Harrison always gave him before these bouts of “exercise” to make sure he wasn’t too much trouble. 

“I don’t feel right…” It came out slurred.

Harrison was busy on his phone and waved him on with his free hand. “You remember. One foot in front of the other.” He used the hard toe of his sneaker to prod against his bare heel until he moved. 

Left foot forward. One step at a time. 

His head hurt, ears ringing, vision wavering. Harrison would be furious if he passed out. 

Right foot forward. His leg almost buckled and he gripped the bar tighter. The room spun. 

“Something’s wrong.” The syllables were marbles in his mouth. 

Left foot forward. 

The fingers of his right hand slipped from the bar. 

He couldn’t raise them again, like his whole arm had been numbed. His heart sprinted and stuttered, drilling fear deep into his chest. “Harrison, what did you give me?” The panic in his voice was clearer than the words.  

“Whatever game you’re playing, I am really not—”

Right foot forward. The room tipped. 

Harrison caught him and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m fucking serious. Stand up and finish the lap.” He tried to shove him onto his feet again but he couldn’t balance. 

He was crying now, tears sliding down his cheek. The ones on the other side lost in the fabric of Harrison’s lab coat. “I—I—can’t—I can’t—” No words came out at all this time, only sounds. “Harrison!” His vision spotted. Harrison lowered him to the floor, let him slump against the wall, listing sideways. 

His expression was out of focus but his voice was stern. “This is your last chance. Stop—what—what are you doing?” 

Harrison caught him again but he couldn’t feel where, only the other hand opening his left eye for the light. He didn’t feel his fingers on the right before his vision flared. 

“Fuck.” Harrison held two fingers to his neck, checking his watch. “Look at me, talk to me.”

“I—I—I’m scared,” he cried. It was nothing, it was moans and slurs. “Harrison, help me, please!”

“No, no, no.” Harrison laid him down. “Squeeze my hand.” 

His hand was empty, he couldn’t—

Harrison raised their hands into his line of sight. His right hand limp in Harrison’s grip. “Please, come on, Nothing. It’s nothing, you’re fine. You’re fine.” 

He couldn’t feel his hand. “What did you do to me?” Again nothing came out. He whimpered when Harrison rolled him onto his side. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

He must have been high out of his mind to hear those words. 

“Talk to me, stay with me.” 

How many times he’d wanted to say that himself but now he was the one leaving. 

“Beau, come on. Hold my hand.” Harrison wrapped both hands around his left one. He didn’t think he’d ever done that without gloves on. It felt so warm. “Here, see? Stay with me, Beau.” 

But Beau didn’t belong here. 

He had died when she had, when he’d failed her. 

“No, no, no.” Harrison was holding his face now. “Hey, ‘359. Come on, keep your eyes open. Trainee ‘359. That is a direct—” His voice broke. “Fuck. Please—”

‘359 was out of place too. 

Fragments and pieces, hollow on the inside, incomplete before he’d been given Beau’s purpose. 

A clean slate would always be empty, ‘359 couldn’t exist here.

“Please.” Harrison held him more carefully than he’d ever imagined him capable of. Like he was far from nothing, precious even. “Brandon. Forgive me.”

But he wasn’t Brandon. 

Or ‘359. 

Or Beau.

He only wanted to be Aiden. 

And even though he could still feel Harrison’s fingers entwined with his, he was Aiden. Aiden being careful not to make a sound as memories drowned him. Aiden not moving a muscle or opening his eyes, pulse sprinting in his chest as they waited. He couldn’t feel anything under his fingertips anymore, was growing more and more desperate to check that he was in fact lying in a bed and not waking up on the ground beside Harrison or worse already back on his table. He—

The door opening brought everything in his head screeching to a halt.

It wasn’t Harrison’s warmth still lingering on his hand. 

It was Leo’s. 

Leo who had found him, sheltered him, been so patient and kind with him. Had risked everything by bringing him here. 

He could keep still and quiet, bury his fear of what it would mean to go back, in hopes of selling this lie. To say nothing of what consequences Leo and his sister might face. He could never be the reason someone else was unmade. He owed Leo this, at the very least, as disappointing as he may have been in the rest of their short time together. 

Or did he have a different kind of obligation now? Not just to please and obey but one of higher grounds. To earn everything Leo had given him so freely. To repay selflessness with a sacrifice of his own.

One of the agents cleared their throat and Aiden knew this was it. If he went easily, quietly, they might leave Leo alone. As long as he surrendered before Leo had a chance to try and improvise. 

And he wouldn’t look at Leo at all. To make sure to implicate him as little as possible. 

There were voices in the hallway but he couldn’t catch the words over the way his heart beat so loudly in fear, thudding through his whole body. 

He promised himself he would tear the stitches in the van later. 

Being manhandled into cuffs might start the job anyway.  

He would—Aiden would do this to save Leo. 

He sat up and opened his eyes—

In time to see the backs of the agents as the nurse ushered them out, hissing something about “immunocompromised” and “goddamn idiots, don’t they teach you to read?” 

And Leo, staring at him in disbelief.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

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[yet-another-heathen]

I saw ur really informative post on conditioning and said with whumpers uts about using pain again and again

Any advice about caretakers deconditioning?

[ Referring to this post. ]

The first and most important thing is that the caretaker cannot decondition the whumpee. It's not possible. That progress is entirely internal, and requires a massive amount of introspection, self-motivation, and practice from the whumpee themself. No one else can do it for them.

But what the caretaker can do is be there for them while the whumpee fights toward their own recovery. They can be the stability that whumpee needs in order to work through these massive problems on their own.

Deconditioning is awful. It involves repeated failure, over and over and over, working toward lessening the response. And it is incredibly frustrating, painful, heartbreaking, and at times it feels completely hopeless.

Progress is so non-linear that they can spend months improving and then backslide nearly back to the beginning if they get caught off guard. At times it'll feel like they're stuck at the same point and can't get any further. Like a future where they will be free of it may simply not exist.

At many points, your whumpee is going to feel heartbroken. They're going to spiral into, "Why can't I do this? Why can't I make it stop?" and, "I thought I was past this." and, "Will I ever be able to undo what whumper made me?"

A good caretaker can be there to comfort them when things go wrong. They can hold them while they cry. They can listen to them when they go into a sobbing, breathless rant about how much this hurts. They can make sure that whumpee knows they have someone who doesn't think of them as broken or lesser because of what they've gone through.

Depending on if whumpee feels it would help, they might help them brainstorm a reward system. If there's a situation where they're around other people and the caretaker spots the trigger coming, they can try to redirect conversation away from it before it hits. Preferably without anyone realizing they're doing it for whumpee's sake. When whumpee has just been triggered and wants nothing more than to be alone, the caretaker can make sure their boundaries are respected. To make sure they have somewhere safe to go.

Even more importantly, they can also help by highlighting the moments of whumpee's progress. Pointing out their successes, no matter how small. Pointing out how far they've come. Reminding them that the ups and downs are supposed to happen. That trauma recovery is a rollercoaster, not a straight line.

As a whumpee in that state, it's very easy to feel like they're making no progress. That even when they succeed, the tiny bits of success are hollow, because 'they shouldn't be like this in the first place'. Have your caretaker help them see their own victories. Help them actually see the healing as it grows.

A realistically conditioned whumpee does not need someone to fix them. They need someone to be there for them while they save themselves.

---

This was such a good ask, thank you for sending it my way!

[maracujatangerine]

71. Unexpected Gifts

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump, illness

Lydia felt it immediately, as soon as she opened the front door. The absence.

She had unconsciously gotten so used to Coriander always coming to greet her. He seemed to have an almost uncanny ability to know when she was coming home.

His silent footsteps, neat appearance and bashful smile, they were all such a familiar part of her everyday routine that she keenly felt the lack of his presence.

She took off her shoes, coat and scarf and went into the kitchen. After washing her hands she unpacked her groceries, gathered everything she needed and quietly walked upstairs.

The door to Cory’s room stood ajar. Lydia knockad on the door frame and he looked up from his place in the bed. Large, fever-bright eyes, fair hair curling damp with sweat around his face.

“Hi,” She said softly, forestalling his next move with a raised hand, “you don’t have to get up.”

The pet obediently stilled in the bed, just silently looking up at her.

“How are you feeling?”

He swallowed dryly, painfully.

“N-not that good, Miss Lydia.” He admitted. “T-this pet didn’t do a-any chores today, it is sorry.”

“Don’t worry, Cory. I’m glad you stayed in bed today. That was a very good decision.”

“Look, I brought you a smoothie.” Lydia moved to sit on the edge of his bed, placing the drink on the bedside table. She reached out to gently caress his shoulder. “Mrs. Phan came by the shop today. She bought a few more books by Frances Hardinge, and she said that Hoa really enjoyed A face like glass.”

Lydia rummaged around in her cloth bag. “She liked it so much that she wanted to give you a gift.” She pulled out a small, stuffed oriental dragon. “Mrs Phan said that they’d just got a shipment of these and that Hoa had asked if she could be allowed to give one to you. Mrs Phan was a bit worried that you would feel that it was too childish, but I said that you’d probably like it.”

Lydia bit her lip, hesitating. “That is, it is totally all right for you not to like it. We can give it to someone else if you don’t want it.”

The blonde young man in the bed looked at the cloth dragon toy, with its scales in blue, green and silver, long tufted moustache and amber eyes. He slowly shook his head. Looking up at Lydia, his grey eyes were filled with tears.

“T-this pet loves it.” He said quietly. “It… it was very nice of them.”

“It was.” Lydia agreed. She reached out to gently pet his hair. “When you get better, we can go and visit them and you can thank them yourself, okay?”

“Y-yes, Miss Lydia.”

“You should drink your smoothie.” Lydia said. “Would you like to use the electrical blanket for a bit?”

Coriander nodded. “T-that would be nice. T-thank you, Miss Lydia.”

“No problem, it was very nice of Ev to send it to us. It is very handy now, don’t you think?”

*

A while later, Coriander lay in bed. The pet could hear Miss Lydia moving about downstairs, faint music from the radio in the kitchen, some magpies chattering to each other in the trees outside. The gentle warmth from the electrical blanket seeped into the whole of the pet’s body, quieting the pain from sore muscles and aching joints.

The pet knew that this was just a flu. It counted itself very lucky, a few days of discomfort and kind attention from its mistress, and the illness would pass. It didn’t even really believe that Miss Lydia would be angry with it for not being able to work.

Still, there was something with being weak and in pain, however fleeting, that awoke old, bad wounds that never seemed to heal. Nebulous, unnamed fears lurking in the back of its mind. It made it even more grateful for the warmth and weight of the electric blanket.

On an impulse, the pet reached out for the stuffed dragon on the bedside table. Hugging it, Coriander drifted slowly off to sleep.

*

This post is a response to a previous ask from someone who wanted to give Cory a plushie (The ask is here!), and this ask. Thank you both so much for the inspiration! 🌸

(I love getting asks, I’m just really slow in responding to them!)

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[comatosebunny09]

soft kitty, warm kitty [ one ] | sylus

— summary: the one where the adorable stray cat you take in is not all that he appears to be. — cw: silliness, fluff, slight injury and blood mention, shapeshifting, hybrid au, self-indulgent af — now playing: carousel - evgeny grinko

There was this pretty stray kitty you’d been feeding and playing with outside your job for three or so months. 

At first, it wasn’t your biggest fan. It spat, hissed, and swiped at you whenever you got too close—you learned to carry band-aids in your bag from thereon. But it still quietly nibbled on the food you left out when you were at a safe distance. You made a point to refill its bowls each time you came to work. Started leaving a cardboard box with a solar-powered heating pad outside to help it battle the glacial nights that often befell the city. 

Eventually, it grew accustomed to you. With baby steps, it came closer and closer each day, sometimes perching itself on the bench you sat on during your lunch or smoke breaks to keep you company. With time, it allowed you to pet it. Its ivory fur was surprisingly soft beneath the street sludge and grime it accumulated throughout the time you knew it. It also had striking, scarlet eyes you brushed off as a genetic mutation. Plenty of weird animals inhabited the city, so an uncommon eye color wasn’t particularly unsettling. 

The adorable stray only allowed you to touch it, reverting to its initial attitude when your coworkers got too close. It seemed to specifically take a liking to you, bunting its little cranium against your hand and ankles, marking you with its scent, grooming you with its barbed tongue, and purring like the low rumble of a Mustang. 

Finally, you decided to catch it. You noticed a red, crusted ring adorning its tiny ankle. It must’ve been injured. You weren’t sure how long it would survive on the streets before infection set in, and your caring instincts were screaming at you to save it. 

So, you did.

It was surprisingly easy to lure the little guy into a cat carrier with treats. It crawled into the bag effortlessly, almost as if it wanted to be rescued. That afternoon, you took it to the vet. They cleaned its foot, gave you cream and antibiotics to ward off infection, updated its shots—the whole nine yards. 

It had also been revealed to you that your feline friend was a boy. The vet offered to neuter him, but you staved it off, promising to return later. You could barely afford the bill he racked up from his treatment alone.

With a warm smile, you cradled the carrier, holding your new companion in your lap as you rode the subway. The pretty, sedated feline purred nonstop on the commute home. 

It took some time to adjust. Of course, you hadn’t expected his transition to succeed overnight. 

When you gave him his first bath, he wasn’t the happiest camper. He adorned your arms with angry, red streaks to illustrate his discontent. His coat was lustrous and white beneath the grime and fleas. And though he was initially a hissing, snooty ball of fluff following his bath, he purred continuously when he curled up beside you that night in your bed, seemingly grateful to be off the street.

You find with time that old habits die hard.

You bought him a red leather collar to compliment his eyes. With it came a bell and pendant, and your address was carved into it. The little guy loved to slip out of your apartment at night, often returning to the streets he was so accustomed to. He always came back, sometimes days after disappearing. He brought you little presents, ranging from dead mice to shiny, crimson gems that looked like they could’ve been worth a fortune. Snowball, as you had fondly named him, was truly a marvel. He was adjusting to domestic life well, but you didn’t stifle him when he wanted to spend his nights perusing the city and stirring up little cat mischief.

You were grateful for the company. You’d been living in the city for about a year, having relocated to its heart for your job. You didn’t have any family in the area, so you relied heavily on your coworkers for social interaction. Otherwise, you were on your own. 

It was pleasant to have a little fur ball bouncing around your home, knocking things off your dresser, shacking up in your pantry, or hiding under your dining table, ready to attack your ankles. He brought excitement to your otherwise humdrum life, keeping you on your toes while curling up at your feet, expressing his gratitude for everything you’d done for him thus far. 

You were content despite your solitude, looking forward to what your furry companion had in store for you each day.

You awaken to sunbeams coloring the space behind your eyelids. To the melody of birds chirping and cars occasionally easing by on the street. 

A quiet smile rounding your lips, you reach beside you to pet through familiar tufts of white. Snowball routinely curls up next to your head on the pillow when you sleep. You haven’t yet opened your eyes, so you’re a little caught off guard when his fur feels slightly shorter than usual. 

Still, you wear a smile as you fondly coo at your kitty, your voice rough with sleep. He doesn’t purr in response, which is strange given his purr motor’s always been broken. He never knows when to stop. Perhaps he doesn’t feel well today? 

Cautiously, you pry your eyes open, your vision blurry from the sun's rays. Through the haze, you ingest a familiar wash of stark white. Your eyesight gradually corrects, and you can discern shapes and colors. Upon taking in the scene beside you, you stiffen, your silly little smile frozen in place.

On the other side of your bed, where Snowball would usually be roosted, quietly waiting for you to stir from your slumber, lies a tan stretch of skin. Recognizable red eyes watch you beneath short, swept lashes, blinking sluggishly, a humored cant to pink-petaled lips. 

Reality slowly trickles in. There is very much a warm-blooded man beside you in place of your darling feline. Your smile melts away, traded for something of confusion. And once you’ve fully processed the moment, you do what any logical person would do given this situation: you scream.

The strange man beside you winces, a searing, heavy hand shooting out to cover your mouth. Your voice dies in the back of your throat, and the stranger takes you in with mild irritation donning his features.

“Must you be so noisy?” he grouses, the rough slide of his voice furling in your stomach. You blink owlishly at him, his hand still clamped over your mouth. 

As the adrenaline spuming through your body tempers, and you’ve taken more time to breathe and assess your situation, you fully observe the intruder.  And with a mixture of horror and confusion, you intake a familiar set of ivory, tufted ears twitching atop his head.

Again, you let your instincts guide you, and you do what one would typically do in this situation: you reach out to tweak said ears, confirming the familiar glide of silken fur beneath your fingertips. The stranger sucks in a breath, jerking away from your prodding. He fixes you with an iron gaze that pierces straight through to your soul. A look you’re all too familiar with, Snowball having pinned you with it at random times throughout your day.

You scream again, the sound of it muffled behind the meatiness of the stranger’s palm. Only, this is no stranger.

Is this—is this Snowball?

[obxsummer]

paper rings // ghost of you

pairing: jj maybank x routledge!reader (she/her)

summary: sarah cameron takes a test before she joins you and john b on a rescue mission. your brother has no aim whatsoever, you can't drive a boat, and jj's got an important question for john b. (p.s. sarah cameron is an angel)

warnings: pregnancy trope (i still love u sarah), john b & jj cry sesh!!

navigation -- series masterlist

ask me anything or support me via a ko-fi

--

If you had asked Sarah Cameron what her life would look like at one point, she would’ve never told you this. She would’ve never guessed she’d be living with five Pogues who happened to be her best friends, and one Pogue leader boyfriend. That seemed impossible, but here she was.

John B was still passed out in bed, having carried you to your own at some point during the night to be tucked under warm blankets. Kie was snoring away, and Pope and Cleo had yet to emerge from their room, so Sarah had the house to herself, technically. 

She made her way out early in the morning when the sun was just peeking through, steering her bicycle into the downtown area. It was still trashed, obviously, but it seemed the worst of the damage had been taken care of and the fires were out. Keeping her head down, she ducked into the pharmacy in hopes of finding the thing she came here to.

Three years ago, if you would’ve asked Sarah Cameron, she would never be stealing pregnancy tests from a pharmacy, and she sure as shit wouldn’t be doing it at age nineteen.

Grabbing the two boxes, she stuffed them in her bag before collecting a handful of other items you all needed at the house. Might as well, considering there was still no power and the store wasn’t secured with the broken glass everywhere. 

Shuffling her way out the door, she tried to look as inconspicuous as possible while walking back to her bike. It was clear the riot had continued further past JJ’s departure since most stores were wiped of merchandise and torn to shreds.

The sunshine caught on the shards of glass scattered and Sarah held her hand up to her forehead to block the reflection from burning into her eyes. She came face to face with the local jewelry store window, the one she’d been in just a few weeks before.

--

JJ threw open the door to Sarah and John B’s room without any hesitation, and thank God the duo were actually taking a nap and not enjoying their alone time in other ways.

“Sarah!” JJ’s attempt at whispering was not going well. “Sarah, wake the fuck up!”

The girl in question groaned at being pulled from her slumber. “The fuck, JJ? What?”

The blond boy waited for her to look over at him before he was waving her closer. She huffed and shuffled out of John B’s arms, her boyfriend still snoring soundly with the grace of a heavy sleeper. Following JJ out of their room, she closed the door softly behind her so John B wouldn’t wake up.

“I need your help with something,” JJ explained.

Sarah took one look at his expression and smirked. “Holy shit, you’re so stressed.”

JJ rolled his eyes and grabbed her by her shoulders. “I need you to help me find a ring.”

“A ring? A ring for what?” Sarah repeated in confusion.  JJ shushed her, his index finger pressing against her lips as she went wide-eyed with realization. Sarah was practically jumping now, her excitement evident as she pulled JJ’s hand away from her face. “Holy shit! Are you serious?”

“Yes, now be quiet!” He looked over his shoulder to see if you were done with your shower and found the door still closed and water running. “We have to go now, okay? I don’t want her being suspicious.”

Sarah was quick to agree, bouncing as she ran down the stairs to grab her shoes and purse before meeting JJ by the Twinkie.

The two spent a good two hours in town, Sarah having been former friends with the jewelry store employee who was more than willing to answer any and all of JJ’s questions.

“What size ring does she wear?” Sarah asked as she scanned the cases for anything that caught her eye. “Do you think she’s a princess cut girl like me? Oh my God, this one is gorgeous.”

“Princess cut?” JJ repeated the phrase, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he looked down at the ring Sarah was pointing at. “The fuck does that mean?”

Sarah looked up at him, dumbfounded. “Do you know the slightest thing about what she wants?”

JJ tilted his head and looked back at her. “Sarah, we’re Pogues. Have been our whole lives. Do you think she even has the slightest clue about what any of this means?”

Accepting defeat with that one, Sarah shrugged and turned back to the options displayed. “Whatever it is, you better make it a good one with all the shit she deals with when it comes to you.” She shoved JJ teasingly and moved to look at another area of the room. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Princess Cameron.” JJ rolled his eyes and followed her without any disagreement. 

--

Sarah frowned at the memory. The days of peace and hoping for the celebration you and JJ could have were long gone, but she hoped they could find a way to change that. If anyone deserved that happy-ever-after feeling, it was you and JJ. 

Biking back to Poguelandia was quiet, and Sarah was thankful for the time to think. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the pink tests in her bag and her heart was racing just thinking about it. She was nineteen, John B was almost twenty, but shit they were still young. This wasn’t what she imagined when she thought about having a family. Not in an environment like this.

Sarah tiptoed her way back up the stairs, noticing all the doors were closed except for the one to your room. A tiny part of her was relieved and she peeked in to see the balcony doors open, curtains blowing lightly with the wind. Closing your bedroom door behind her, Sarah made her way out to where you were resting in the hammock with your eyes closed.

“Hi,” She whispered quietly, not wanting to scare you.

You blinked and smiled up at her. “Hi, you okay?”

Sarah bit her lip in response, hand searching blindly in her back for the boxes before she held them up for you to see. “Um… can you-can I do this, in here? With you?”

You nodded, pushing yourself out of the woven hammock to meet her in the doorway, grabbing her hand in yours. Sarah tossed her bag on your bed and followed you into the connected bathroom, forcing a deep breath into her lungs. 

“I’ll wait, out… on the other side of the door?” You asked carefully, not sure if she wanted you in the room or not. When she nodded, you squeezed her hand. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Yeah.” Sarah nodded in agreement, but she was obviously trying to convince herself more than you. You attempted to give her a reassuring smile, but it probably didn’t help considering you were just as nervous for her. She closed the door quietly after that.

You paced the floor for a moment, wanting to give her the space and privacy she deserved while also fighting the bile in your throat. What the fuck happened now?

And where the fuck was JJ?

There had been no texts or calls from your boyfriend since last night, and although you were trying to give him the space and trust he deserved, you were worried. He wasn’t in the right mindset last night, and you didn’t have enough time to talk him down like you wanted to, like you always did. 

Grabbing your phone from the charger, you unlocked it and immediately moved to the Find My app where you could see JJ’s location pinging from Goat Island. You cursed, knowing he probably went in search of Groff after the information Luke shared.

JJ deserved answers. He deserved the truth. You shook your head, thinking about how Luke Maybank abused a boy that wasn’t even his, realizing how heartbreaking this whole situation was. It was unfair, and cruel, that everything good in JJ’s life had been ripped from him in some way.

Moving back to your messages, you typed one out: babe you okay?? we can come get you??

The message wasn’t read right away, causing you to sigh, but remind yourself that he might be busy talking to Groff. Or something was wrong. And you really really hoped something wasn’t wrong.

Your bathroom door creaked open slightly, Sarah’s face poking out as you got to your feet. Her expression wasn’t easily readable but she shifted enough for you to see the two tests on counter, both with two bright lines on their screens.

“Okay,” You spoke quietly, watching her expression for any kind of indication of how she felt.

“Impeccable timing,” She replied stoically. You nodded, trying to think of any words to comfort her but were stopped by the sound of footsteps.

“Hey! Is Sarah in here?” There was no time to prepare for Kiara’s sudden presence as she popped up next to you. Her eyes locked in on the bathroom counter instantly and her jaw dropped. The turning gears in her head were practically visible as she turned to face Sarah. “Um… are those yours?”

Sarah bit her lip, clearly nervous at the thought of more people knowing. “Yeah.”

Kiara was instantly looking over at you. “Oh, shit.”

Sarah frowned at the response, her eyes moving between the two of you in attempt to figure out what she was missing. “What? What’s ‘oh shit’ about?”

You shook your head, trying to give Kiara the sign to shut up. “Nothing, nothing. There’s nothing to be worried about-”

Kie thankfully picked up on your clue and started to dig herself out of the hole she created, “I mean… soon to be homeless, broke again, chased by killers. I don’t really know how it could get better.”

Sarah hummed, her eyes glancing back at the positive tests. “It would be like, super great, if maybe you could fine, like, one positive thing,” Her voice was shaky as she looked back at the two of you, eyes damp with tears. 

“You’re gonna be an amazing mom,” You answered simply, like it was the easiest thing because it was. Sarah Cameron had all the great qualities that a parent should have, and you were so happy for her. You just wished it had been at a better time.

“The best,” Kie agreed quietly, “And John B loves you. He’s gonna be an all right dad.”

The idea sent the three of you into laughter at the thought of John B, your John B, raising a kid. 

“And you have all of us,” You continued as you reached out to grab Sarah’s hand again. “Each and every one of us.”

Sarah nodded, her arms opening to pull you and Kiara into a group hug. “I love you guys.”

“We love you,” Kiara replied, her hand squeezing your side just a little bit tighter in an unspoken conversation. “So, what does this make me Auntie Kie now?”

The three of you pulled apart with more laughter, the cloud over your heads slowly disappearing with each passing minute. 

“Does… does John B know?” Kiara asked after a moment. Sarah pulled the tests off the counter, tossing them in the boxes and into the garbage with a shake of her head, telling Kiara that he didn’t, not yet.

“Any word from JJ?” Sarah switched the topic to pull the attention off herself.

You glanced at your phone to see an empty lockscreen and shook your head in response. “No. I have an idea of where he is, I just don’t know if he needs us yet.”

Eventually, Sarah slipped downstairs to make breakfast, finding John B already up and moving around the kitchen with the smell of bacon lingering. 

“Hi,” She greeted softly, kissing his cheek before unloading the items she had stolen from the store into the fridge. “Didn’t think you were up.”

John B flipped a piece of bacon. “Heard you laughing with the girls, figured I’d come get something started before we head out for the day. When did you go out?”

“Early,” Sarah replied shortly, her chest tight with the possibility of John B overhearing the news before she could share it. “Did you.. Did you hear us?”

He gave her a quick glance before putting the butter back in the fridge. “Laughing? Yeah, but that was about it. Everything okay?”

Sarah nodded as John B wrapped her in a hug, kissing her forehead gently. “Your sister knows where JJ is.”

John B blinked in surprise at the fact that you weren’t busting down the stairs. “And we’re not going to him because?”

Sarah shrugged. “She said she wants to wait, to see if he needs us.”

While John B wasn’t sure that was the best idea, nobody knew JJ better than you, so he had no room to argue with the decision.

“The ring was gone. From the jewelry shop.”

John B nearly choked on his own spit and coughed to clear his throat. Sarah giggled at the reaction, a smile spreading across her cheeks at the way he blushed. 

“You’re lying. Please tell me you’re lying.”

“Nope,” She popped the p in her word and waved her left hand in front of his face where her homemade ring rested on her finger. “We’re not going to be special anymore, Vlad.”

John B smiled at the nickname that he hadn’t heard in a while. “You’re always gonna be special to me, Val.”

You walked down the stairs a few moments later, now dressed for the day and stomach growling with the scent of food. “Hey,” You greeted John B as he set a plate full of eggs on the table while Sarah dipped upstairs to tell the others that food was ready. “Thanks for last night, you didn’t have to stay.”

John B sat outside with you until the early hours of the morning, holding you close with the knowledge that the nightmares would be worse if someone wasn’t there. This was the first time in a while JJ wasn’t home when you went to sleep, and John B didn’t want you to worry all night, so he stayed.

“‘Course,” He replied simply, pausing to lean against the table and look at you carefully. “You heard from J?”

You shook your head, snagging a piece of bacon from the plate. “He went to Goat Island. To see Groff.”

“Groff?” John B paused. You nodded and bit off half a piece. “Like Chandler Groff?”

“Yeah, Luke was spewing some shit when JJ went to see him, so he’s trying to get answers. I didn’t ask, he seemed kind of upset about it. I’m sure he’s trying to figure out how Luke got a bypass to take the house,” You explained, trying to answer the question without really answering it. 

John B seemed to roll with it and your friends slowly filtered their way into the kitchen to eat their hearts out. Sarah tucked herself in the chair next to you, John B on her other side. The empty chair at the table was a little too obvious, and when the read receipt didn’t show up on your phone all morning, you knew something had definitely gone wrong.

--

John B and Sarah were in agreement the second you said something felt off about JJ not answering. You quickly cleaned up after breakfast (though it was more like lunch at this point), and tried to get ahold of JJ again. Your texts were no longer being read, but his location was still pinging near Goat Island and you knew you had to drag your friends into it despite JJ’s wishes.

“We can take the HMS, he took the charter boat,” John B offered as you tried calling JJ again, to no avail. 

“We’ll try to find out some more about the rezoning,” Pope offered as he motioned toward Cleo. “It’s only a matter of time before they come knocking. We might as well prepare for it. Could stop by and say hi to Ma and Pops too.”

Kie nodded in agreement, “I need to go check in at home, anyway. Mom’s gonna kill me with how yesterday went.”

John B nodded in understanding and tugged a shirt on over his tank top. “Alright, we’ll catch up with you guys later, yeah?”

The three of you took to the HMS shortly after, John B setting his course to Goat Island. Sarah plopped next to you on the small bench, leaning against your shoulder as you stared across the water.

Your brother was, recognizing the distant look in your eyes but his confusion was focused on Sarah’s sudden silence. She seemed excited earlier in the kitchen when talking about her new revelation, but she’s gotten quiet since then. John B made an internal note to ask her later.

“What’s that?” Your eyes caught sight of another boat across the marsh, barely covered by the plants covering it. “Kill the engine, JB,” You directed as you ducked down out of view. The fact that the sun was still setting didn’t help your cover but hopefully, the marsh grass would do its job enough for you to get a closer look. You could just barely see a group out on one of the ledges, a handful of them all with their sights on two people.

“Shit, that’s JJ,” You pointed slightly to the white shirt covering the form of your boyfriend. From here, he looked generally unharmed, but you still didn’t like the way the mercenaries were holding him back. 

“And Groff.” John B locked onto the form of the older man who was also being held a little too tight to be friendly. 

“Those are the guys from Charleston who took the scroll,” Sarah pointed toward the guy and girl that you and John B had narrowly avoided in the cemetery. The man she pointed at was the one Cleo had tried to kill, the same one that almost killed you while diving.

“What do they want with JJ?” John B asked, his eyes not leaving the form of his best friend, whose arm was wrenched behind his back with a machete a little too close to his face. 

You shook your head, heart practically in your throat at the scene in front of you. “I don’t think it’s JJ they want. He’s collateral.”

John B ran a hand through his hair. “We could, like, ram them. Create a distraction,” He offered.

“Ram that?” You repeated as you pointed toward the much larger boat. “John B, come on!”

“Sorry! Just trying to think!”

“Wait, hey!” Sarah reached down to grab the handful of liquor bottles that were remaining from your last store run, having been left on the HMS in a hurry, clearly. “A little Molotov cocktail, maybe?”

You gave her a side glance. “That’s psychotic. Let’s find some rags.”

John B quickly pulled up the bench seat in search of any leftover towels. You tugged your favorite beach towel from underneath you, fingers struggling for a second before you were able to rip it into strips, quickly tossing them to your brother.

“John B, hurry!” You hissed as the lady’s attention moved to JJ, her form much closer than before. 

“I’m trying! Shit!” 

Sarah ripped one bottle from his hand, tucking a few towel strips into the neck of the bottle and swirling it to the alcohol would drench the towels. “Light it, we'll distract them. He’ll get free, jump over, and we’ll grab him.”

“Just don’t hit him,” You looked at your brother, slightly terrified with the knowledge of his past aim. “I’d like him in one piece, please.”

John B quickly tied a rope around the bottle, his fingers moving as fast as he could to tie one of the knots your father had taught as kids. “Don’t hit JJ with the Molotov cocktail. Gotcha.”

Your hands searched your jean shorts for JJ’s lighter that you rarely left home without, handing it over to John B for his use. “Be careful, please.”

Sarah tucked herself behind the wheel of the ship, your brother on the front bow with the cocktail and lighter in hand. He quickly lit the towel, a curse leaving his lips at how fast it caught flame before he tossed JJ’s lighter back to you and started spinning the rope with the flames midair.

“Oh my God, I should’ve done it,” You huffed as you ducked next to Sarah, John B’s tactic clearly a horrible one. 

With a final grunt, he put his whole body into the throw… only for it to come back down on the floor of the boat.

“John B!” You chastised as the flames sprinkled over the floor. “You’re a dumbass!”

“Oh shit!” John B tumbled into the water in shock, the splash definitely giving away your cover if the fire itself didn’t.

You cursed and pushed Sarah back when she went to run for him, your stern eyes keeping her in place as you ripped open the cabinet beneath the wheel to grab the fire extinguisher Pope insisted on being there despite JJ’s best wishes. 

In his defense, John B was kicking and shoving water onto the boat, lessening the flames before you pulled the pin on the extinguisher and knocked the rest of it out in a cloud of powder. 

“Are you okay?” Sarah reached down to pull your brother back on board.

“I’m so sorry,” John B coughed and flung his extra shirt over into the boat.. 

“A blind person could’ve thrown that better!” You hissed and helped Sarah haul his weighted form up.

John B shrugged your hands off, his attention back on the cabinet where he pulled out a slingshot that JJ insisted on buying at the local county fair one year, swearing water balloon fights were going to become his new hobby.

You grabbed the second bottle as John B tied the rubber pieces to stabilize them. 

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself, or we start shooting!”

You recognized the man’s voice, knowing he was the one who had chased after you and JJ underwater that day. John B shuffled around on the floor, pulling the bands back into position for you to settle the bottle into his grip.

“Ready?” You asked, flicking the lighter open in your hand. Your brother nodded, giving you permission to bring the flame closer until the towel caught and the flames warmed your skin. 

John B took a deep breath, his movements calculated as he aligned and leaned back further. “Bye bye.”

The bottle launched this time, flying across the channel gap to the larger boat where the glass shattered on impact. The group went scrambling and you lost sight of JJ in the glowing orange light. 

“I said not to hit him!” You smacked your brother’s shoulder out of anxiety and looked back to the fiery scene ahead. “Let’s go!” 

John B moved instantly to restart the engine and steer closer to where JJ could hopefully get a better approach to jump. Your jaw dropped at the sight of a burning form going overboard to remove the flames from his clothes. 

“Where is he?” You called out aimlessly as John B approached the boat. He tugged on your elbow, pulling you behind the wheel without any explanation, and stood on the edge. 

“I’ll find him,” He promised before hopping to the other boat like it was the easiest thing ever. “Circle back around.”

Sarah thankfully shifted you gently, understanding you hated driving the boat in the first place, let alone when both of your boys were up to no good. Her hands took over easily and she steered the boat with a precision you never had.

“Thank God you used to be a Kook,” You breathed out with a small laugh, Sarah smiling in response but keeping her eyes focused. “We’ve gotta quit letting them do stupid shit like this together!”

Sarah huffed, turning around slightly to bring the larger boat into view as you waited for the boys to come into view. “I’ll kill them myself, actually.”

After a moment of looking, you caught JJ’s white t-shirt sprinting out one of the doors higher up, John B right behind him. Your brother took to the ladder, JJ engaging in another fight with the mercenary who intercepted him.

“Shit, shit, go!” You directed to Sarah when both boys were as high as they could climb. The crew below was recovering from the distraction and slowly shifting closer to engage. You screamed as one started climbing the rungs just behind your boyfriend, “JJ!”

His head snapped up immediately at your voice, barely sparing a glance at John B before the fear of you watching him get killed outweighed the jump they were about to take. “Ready?”

“Screw it.”

You couldn’t tell whether they were screams of excitement or fear, but both John B and JJ jumped as far away from the boat as they could. Sarah moved just as quickly, giving the vessel enough push to float next to the two close enough that you could lean down and grab hold. 

You anchored your weight and reached down with two hands to grab JJ’s wrists, a small grunt slipping out as you pulled him up with your momentum, both of you tumbling to the floor of the HMS. Sarah and John B had been much more graceful, your brother having enough time to get back to his feet and behind the wheel, jamming the throttle forward just as gunshots rang out.

You reached out to grab Sarah’s wrist, pulling her back down as John B swerved to make it harder to aim. JJ coughed under you, your leg tucked between his two as you sat up to keep an eye out for the mercenaries to follow. When they didn’t, you put your attention on the boy.

“Holy shit,” You breathed before bending to kiss him deeply, fingers tangling into his wet hair as his hands grabbed your hips tightly. You managed two more quicker kisses before settling back. “You okay?”

JJ’s thumbs slipped under your tank top to brush your skin gently as you looked him over for any obvious injuries. “Oh baby, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

“Hey, hey. Keep it PG down there, you two,” John B’s request made you scoff and you moved down to kiss JJ again despite your brother’s wishes. Sarah sat next to your brother, letting him rest on her shoulder as she took over driving so John B’s adrenaline could wear off easier. 

The four of you burst into laughter, sinking into the relief that you found your missing piece and could return home for the little time you had left there. What you didn’t know, just yet, was that the boys made it out with the scroll relating to the Blue Crown and your next treasure hunt was just around the corner.

--

After arriving back at Poguelandia, Sarah had practically dragged you into the house with the intent to shower before you’d rejoin the boys and catch everyone up on the last few hours. 

“Hey, dude,” JJ stopped John B before the older boy left the dock after he tied up the HMS. “Can I talk to you about something?”

John B nodded without any hesitation, nudging his head toward the store to at least get under the light since night had taken over. The Routledge boy dug into the cooler, grabbing a beer for himself before tossing one to his best friend. “Let me guess, this has to do with the grabby hands you had at the jewelry store last night?”

JJ’s jaw practically hit the floor which had John B dying from laughter in a few seconds. 

“How the fuck did you know?” JJ glanced around quickly to make sure nobody else was around to hear the conversation. “Seriously, are you a mind reader or like-”

“Sarah told me,” John B took a deep breath to resettle his emotions. “Said it was gone.”

JJ groaned and ran a hand through his hair. Suddenly, he didn’t know how to talk to his best friend of almost fifteen years. How does one ask their best friend of fifteen years permission to marry his sister?

“Look, I know this conversation should’ve been had with your dad, and I wish it could be because there’s a lot of things I would say to him first,” JJ started off, his words a little too heavy for his liking, but he had to acknowledge it. He had to acknowledge the fact that they were still kids in a scary world, and Big John should’ve been better to you. 

Clearing his throat, JJ took a big sip of his beer before forcing himself to meet John B’s gaze. “I mentioned it and you probably thought I was joking, but I also know there is nothing more she would want than for you to hear about this first. More than anything in the world, John B.”

John Booker Routledge had prepared himself for a lot of things in life, but he never prepared himself to be staring at his best friend with tears in his eyes over you. To be talking about another person protecting you when he couldn’t, to give up being the one you ran to for help. John B didn’t want to admit it, but he felt like this was saying goodbye to being your big brother. 

“I love her, man. I love her more than I ever thought I was capable. She makes me… she makes me so good. Like I’m more than the kid with the piece of shit dad and the shit short stick. I’m more than that to her, and… and I couldn’t be more thankful for that. Like you can’t make that shit up, bro,” JJ let out a teary laugh and crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s like the fucking sunshine after a hurricane, like no matter what, it’s gonna be okay, and I don’t want to lose her. Ever.

“I want to make her the happiest person in the world. She deserves a life so much better than this one, where she’s not worried about food on the table, or if we’re coming home at night. She and Sarah, hell all of us, we all deserve that, man. I just…I just want the chance to give it to her.” 

John B stared at the person across from him who was spewing words he couldn’t read in cursive. This was JJ, JJ fucking Maybank. The kid who smoked weed like it was his job and hosted keggers like it was nobody’s business. John B’s watched that version of JJ, the ticking time bomb version, completely disappear. That version of JJ doesn’t exist anymore, and in its place was the one John B had grown to trust when it came to you. 

The version that held your hand when the road was rocky. The one who picked flowers in your favorite colors just to see the excitement in your eyes before they died two days later. The JJ that held you night after night when your head became too messy and you wanted to give up. This was the JJ that knew your anxiety attacks and how to stop them, how to be level-headed with you even when it was hard to. This is the JJ that John B knew you deserved.

JJ was pacing now that his best friend hadn’t really said much and he was worried the idea was flying out from under his fingertips. “I know I don’t deserve her, John B. I never will. And I’ll never forgive myself for letting everything happen to her. I should’ve been there, I should’ve done better. But I swear to you, from here on out, I will do everything I can, every lasting day of my life to make sure she’s safe.”

Reaching into the zipper pocket of his cargo shorts, he tugged out the signature shark tooth he usually had clipped around his neck, but this time there was a new piece attached. A silver ring on the chain weighed a little bit heavier than usual. JJ took apart the clasp and pulled the jewelry off before holding it out to John B.

“Sarah um… Sarah was with me, but I guess that’s obvious now. I didn’t know what the fuck princess cut meant, and the lady there went to the Kook academy and they used to be friends so I guess…”

JJ's voice floated away as John B stared at the ring in between his fingers. He’d seen this ring so many times in his life, and the realization of where made the tears fall. Holy shit.

John B crying caught JJ off guard and now he was panicking, “Dude, you good?”

“I made a call,” Sarah’s voice entered the conversation as John B turned to face her. She was teary herself, having eavesdropped a bit on the words shared. “Nicola said she remembered your dad from the shop.”

John B swallowed harshly and opened his arm to let Sarah tuck into his side. He stared at the object for a moment longer before holding it back toward JJ who was looking at him expectantly. “That was… that’s my mom’s ring. Our mom’s ring.”

JJ’s breath caught in his throat. 

“Dad had pawned it when he got in deep with the gold and… how did you?” John B sniffled and rubbed his nose as he looked down at the girl next to him.

“Oh come on,” Sarah laughed at their shock, but deep down she knew this meant a lot to John B and it would mean even more to you. “She’s my best friend. Did you really think I was going to let you go in there and pick out something as important as this when you didn’t even know what a cushion halo was?”

JJ crashed into the blonde girl a little harder than he intended, but Sarah welcomed it regardless. She hugged him back just as tightly, feeling his shoulders shake beneath her touch. She was just glad to make this happen for the two of you. Nobody deserved it more. 

JJ pulled back after a moment, giving her forehead a kiss before he was once again faced with his best friend and the lingering question. John B tackled him just as hard, the two boys clutching each other like a lifeline. Suddenly, they were kids on the playground again, defending each other when things hit a little too close to home. And shit, were you home to both of them.

“There is nobody…nobody, I would trust with her more than you,” John B sniffled when he leaned back to clasp JJ on the shoulder tightly, using the back of his hand to wipe the tears from his face. “She’s yours, JJ. Always has been.”

JJ let out a sob and embraced John B again. John B knew that deep down JJ never felt like he was good enough for you, but the two of you couldn’t have been more perfect for each other. 

And although John B felt like he was losing you, there’s nobody he’d rather lose you to than his best friend, JJ Maybank.

--

a/n: hiiiii our babies are getting engaged!!!!!

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[we-were-so-beautiful]

2. day six

holy shit hi! it's me! I'm back! I will be very surprised if anybody remembers me or this story given that it's been literally six months since I posted the first chapter. my motivation, interest, energy and amount of free time for this project all fluctuate, but... this story feels like it wants to be told, and I want to tell it. so hopefully I'll manage to pop up around here with an update for it every once in a while.

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, cages, blood mention. I'm still getting the hang of how to tag these so please let me know if there's anything I missed.

[masterlist] [chapter one] [chapter three]

Vanessa means to wait until an hour before closing time to go to the shelter. Really, she does. She wants to give this guy as much of a chance as he can get to go home with someone, literally anyone, who’s better for him than she is. But it’s lunchtime and she’s already practically vibrating. She’s not even used to being awake by noon anymore, much less having already been up for hours refreshing the site so often it’s making her nauseous. Or maybe that’s just the all-consuming anxiety of suspense.

What if the assholes at the shelter decide that six days is close enough, and take him away before she even gets there? What if she’s fucked up and counted the days wrong, and he’s actually scheduled to die today? What if the subway’s delayed, or the shelter closes early, and she’s too late, and another person dies because she made a stupid fucking mistake?

What if, says the voice in the back of her head that she refuses to listen to, somebody takes him who’s even worse for him than me?

“Oh, fuck literally all of this,” she says to the empty room, and grabs her coat.

—

“Uh, hey, I’m here to…”

“Sign in on the sheet.” The bored-looking shelter employee doesn’t so much as glance up from her phone. Vanessa looks around; the lobby is totally devoid of anyone save for the two of them.

“I just want to know if—”

“Sign in on the sheet.”

Vanessa breathes out through her nose until her hand stops ticking long enough to write. She scribbles her name and the time, and sets the pen down with a deliberate clack on the desk directly in front of the employee.

The woman barely raises her head. “How can I help you.”

Vanessa steels herself. “Is, uh… Do you still have…” God she hates talking about people like this she hates it she hates it she hates it. “Is pet number 414374 still here? I want to…” She wants to choke on the word. “...I want to adopt him.”

The employee’s affect goes duller than ever. “Oh, he’s still here, alright,” she mutters grimly.

Vanessa only realizes how much tension she’s been holding when it floods out of her so fast she almost loses her balance. “Can I see him?”

“If you really want to,” the employee sighs. “But I’m tellin’ you, lady, you’re not gonna like what you find.”

—

“That’s him?!”

“Told you you were gonna be disappointed, lady.”

Vanessa gapes. It’s not like she’s been expecting to be okay with seeing people in cages, but she sure as shit didn’t expect… whatever the fuck she’s looking at now.

The dude is filthy, caked head to toe in blood, dirt and worse. The hair that flowed around him in his picture is matted down his back now, littered with scores of dead and decaying leaves. His ice-blue eyes are dull and unfocused. His breaths are quick and shallow, and the way they rasp in his throat makes Vanessa twitch. 

He’s lying in a heap on the single layer of newspaper between him and the inch-wide mesh of the shelter-standard cage. Vanessa sucks at math, but she thinks it can’t be more than three by three by five. The shelter profile listed him at six foot two.

The employee bangs on the metal with the back of her hand, making a horrible clanging sound that makes Vanessa want to claw her own ears off. “Hey, look alive, refurb. You got one more interested owner. Maybe try to impress this one for a change?”

“Can he even—” Vanessa starts, but the guy surprises her by slowly, painfully lifting his head. The dirt that coats his skin cracks and flakes as he struggles to push himself up on his elbows. He reaches jerkily for the front of the cage, arms trembling violently with the effort, his breathing growing more and more labored as he tries to meet her gaze.

In the split second before he collapses again, she swears he manages it.

—

“I want him.”

The employee has already turned to go, talking over her shoulder as she ambles back toward the desk. “Yeah, so if you're lookin’ for a fancy one you could try the Manhattan shelter, they sometimes—hang on, you what?” She twists back abruptly as the words actually register.

“I want him,” Vanessa says again.

The employee stares at her for a long, long minute. Vanessa can almost see her fighting the urge to blurt out, “why?” Finally, though, she collects herself, with a wildly overexaggerated shrug of her shoulders.

“It’s your money, lady,” she says, and unlocks the cage.