#not very much bbu? like its set in it but not pet whump

[pigeonwhumps]

A hole in the family

Sanctuary masterlist

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

Samantha, aka Lea's, family mourns.

1.2k

CWs: BBU setting, grief and mourning, presumed dead, implied assault, self-neglect

Samantha's declared dead two months after she goes missing. The police have pulled a body out of the river and apparently there's evidence that it's hers.

Omari... doesn't say much, when he's informed. What is there to say? His daughter's dead. And then he has to tell everyone else.

It's hard to believe it. He's not sure he can. He has to write an obituary, and he's starting to get why people are always described as perfect in them. It feels like tainting her, somehow, to put down anything less. She had personality, life, so many quirks that made people argue with her but he can't put them down on paper. She is was, still, his perfect daughter.

He avoids the river, now. He used to go there with Sam to feed the birds, a bag of dried peas every week, and he wonders, sometimes. Is it an insult to her memory not to go there anymore? Do birds remember? But he can't. Not knowing they pulled her body out of there.

He still goes to the orchestra concerts, him and Kayla. Sam's gone but for a few hours they can pretend she's still there, unable to see that she's not with their eyes closed, just listening to the music and forgetting, just for a little bit, that it's not Sam performing on stage. That that's not the reason she's not sitting with them, even though it should be.

_

Mariano cleans the flat, almost obsessively. Everything is sparkling, now, more than it ever was. It helps that Samantha's mess is out of the way, in her bedroom, but that just makes Mariano feel worse.

Everything is sparkling except for Sam's room. All the winter coats are tidied away, except for Samantha's. After all, she might need it. She might come back and need it and then what would they do?

And she can't bear to go in Samantha's room. She just can't. Ade and Faith and Alaia do, she knows Alaia sleeps there sometimes, but she just can't.

Her daughter is dead. Or missing, as Ade says, but gone all the same.

It's time to clean the good coats. It's almost time for the spring concert. She'll clean Samantha's too, and her shoes. Maybe they'll get a miracle.

The funeral was beautiful. Too beautiful. The orchestra played Venus, with a seat left free for her daughter, and it was as cheerful as Samantha would've liked it to be, and packed full to bursting, but she could hardly bear it. Her daughter is dead, and no matter the type of funeral that's not going to change.

_

They're having another argument, her and Faith. Pizza toppings, this time. After Faith being wrong for the umpteenth time, Kayla turns automatically to Sam. So does her sister.

She's not there.

Of course she's not there, she hasn't been there for months.

It hits Kayla like a truck every time, bowling her over. Her chest is crushed and she can barely breathe.

Sam is dead.

Her baby sister, who was born so tiny, who has always loved music, who would have been world-famous if she'd had a chance to grow, if she hadn't hated the idea so much. Who she'd put her first paycheck towards so Sam could continue the violin lessons she loved so much when the cost went up.

Their last conversation was an argument. She doesn't remember what about anymore, it doesn't matter. She thought they'd make up later, they always did, but then Sam had gone to her concert and something had happened to her and they'd found her violin a few days later, the case scuffed from what the police said was likely a struggle, and what happened to her?

And now... now they won't see her again. She can't make up with her baby sister, or apologise, or even just see her.

She still goes to watch the concerts, with her dad. It feels like she should. Not going would be abandoning Sam for good. And it feels like, just for an hour, Sam is with them, somewhere. On the stage, in life, but... Kayla doesn't believe in ghosts, but if she did, she'd say that this is where she would be.

_

It's family film night. They're watching a film. Or trying to, anyway. No-one can agree.

Samantha's vote goes towards a horror film. She'd have to hide behind the nearest person, first jumpscare in, but she'd vote to watch one anyway.

Eventually, Alaia votes for a horror film, holding Hugo tight. And so with two votes they start one.

Faith misses having Sam curled up beside her, head pillowed on Faith's shoulder, feet tucked under her. Face ready to be hidden in Faith if she needs it.

Her dad starts the film.

She watches, tension rising, until the first jumpscare. The lack of a squeal of fear, a tightening of pressure on her arm, a face burying itself into her, popcorn spraying, it's worse than the jumpscare. She stifles a sob and stands up.

"I can't watch this."

Sam rubbed people up the wrong way sometimes, she didn't always get on with her family and Faith wouldn't have wanted her to, but she's Faith's sister and she's gone and Faith wants her back.

_

Sammy's teddy is lonely now. Alaia is looking after him, so he's still warm and hugged and loved, but he must be lonely without Sam. There's no music now, filtering through the flat from Sammy's room as she plays.

Played?

Plays.

Alaia is careful to keep Hugo clean and tidy and in nice pyjamas, but it's not enough. He must still be lonely. Alaia is. She's always empty now. She hugs Hugo when she feels especially sad or anxious, her tears making him soggy as she remembers Sammy and their games, but it's not the same. It's not the same as hugging Sammy.

Especially when Sammy can't do anything about the pain this time. She's the cause of it and she can't do anything about it.

_

Ade's devastated. It's not romance, not quite, what they had. They never defined it, exactly. But for all that it was, she's the most important person in his life.

And now she's gone.

He doesn't know what to do with himself. What is he supposed to do, now that Sammy's gone?

It takes a week. A week, before his brother shoves him in the shower and orders food.

He's lost his job by now, probably. He doesn't care.

Everything he sees reminds him of her. The Foodhall Project, where they first met. Black and red braids, a yellow top. A black woman laughing, head thrown back, unselfconscious. A violin on a tram, patches carefully stitched or glued onto the case. A snippet of music by Holst, her favourite composer. Dual language books, Swahili CDs, adverts for language lessons.

He hasn't been able to keep up the Swahili lessons without Sammy there to poke and prod and tease him.

Some days, it's all he can do to wake up.

Eventually, he makes it onto the darker, more secretive corners of the internet. Darker is maybe the wrong word, because what they're doing is good, hope. He gives them a description of Sammy to circle around the safehouses. Maybe she's not dead. Maybe she'll turn up.

Nothing comes of it.

[pumpkin-spice-whump]

yellow! its me again!! its much earlier now than the last time i messaged here😗 (though it is still admittedly late����) i think i am going to sleep soon but i wanted to tell you that i had begun reading your story for Kensington!

i am currently at Bonfire (i think that was the name? im sorry if i butchered or mistaken it for other fics i have been reading😖) and like your stories for Jesse, Kensington's story is also incredibly painful to read😭

i think its the fact that unlike Jesse, Kesi has (arguably) even less dignity as his status as an ouright slave rather than at least a pet or boxboy coupled by the fact he also has (definitively? at least in my interpretation) much much less external reason/s to continue struggling and living (i guess there is Miss Ashley🥺 but Jesse at least got to spend so much more time with the three sweet Bakeman daughters)(i dont want to spoil much to not ruin the others' experience)

i know the two squishy whumpees arent exact copies of each other but i still find it so deliciously heartwrenching that Jesse is much more submissive mostly in part because of the bbu brainwashing or mind/memory wiping (i think this is common in bbu whump so i think its okey for me to mention it explicitly?) while Kensi who (i understand/interpret) was born and raised and lived his whole life as a slave is much more stubborn and defiant.

again i apologize if im missing or misinterpreting something also i know i cant or at least maybe shouldnt draw direct parallels between the two because theyre from two similar but still different worldbuildings with their own set of messed up rules and hiarchies.🤸‍♂️💔

again again it is late and i hope to fix my sleep schedule soon so i can read your works and message you when my braincells can organize my brain goop into something more coherent. i really hope you understand that all this word vomit is laced with love🤕💗

-💌

When i tell you that yesterday and today's asks both made my crappy days instantly better --

First of all thank you so much for reading both of my boys' stories and I'm so glad you like them

Yes, Jesse is extremely submissive in part because of the brainwashing WRU does, but also because Joshua was like that too. His dad passing away when he was younger gave him pretty severe OCD and anxiety that made Josh an unassuming, nervous boy, so his already quiet disposition was only worsened when coupled with the torture he had to face. One thing that always stuck with him though is his protectiveness over those he cares about. WRU did not give that to him, that was just Jesse.

Kensington's story takes place in a different universe where they do have a slavery system where slaves are born and raised that way. I like that you mentioned that Kensi is more stubborn and jaded, because that was not how I meant for him to turn out originally! I meant for him to be more submissive like Jesse, but the more I wrote the angrier Kensington got until I really came to a head in his story (can't wait for you to read the next few parts!)

Never apologize for analyzing my characters! I live for it, and I actually appreciate you drawing parallels between these two. They may be from different worlds, but they both come from me and I enjoy seeing them compared to one another actually! We're to a point in both stories that I have been very excited to come to and this gave me the motivation to keep writing!

(Sorry if my response doesn't make sense or isn't what you were looking for!)

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 3

Previous // Next

CW: bbu, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, it/its pronouns, ableism, food mention

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi

“There we go,” Rowan said, more than a little pleased with himself as the collar came off in his hands. Somehow its absence made the naked, kneeling form in his kitchen slightly more bearable. Still, though, the boy hadn’t moved. 

“That can’t be comfortable,” he said, knowing very well that pets were trained to ignore their own discomfort. The words spilled out of him anyway. It was as though the need to comfort had emerged from a primal part of his mind, a nurturing instinct he hadn’t known he had. “Come on, I want to show you your room. Then maybe we can get you some food and water, yeah, I think that would be nice. I know this is a lot of change really fast, but you’re doing so good.”

---

The cadence of Master’s voice was hard to follow. Master was doing so much talking, but Pet couldn’t make out any of the words. With its old Master, it had started to learn the words that attached to certain rumblings, to certain ebbs and flows in volume. It didn’t need the words themselves to follow the commands. 

But now, with a new Master, the mumbling was indecipherable, no matter how hard it strained to focus. Focusing was hard, even harder now, without its collar. Without its collar it was going to hurt, going to hurt so much…

A touch to its shoulder brought Pet’s gaze up ever so slightly, enough that it could see Master’s knees in front of it. There was not much more to the touch, but as Master stood, Pet could guess well enough what he wanted. 

Follow. 

On its hands and knees, pressed as low to the ground as it could manage, Pet crawled after Master’s footsteps. Its heart thundered at the possibilities that lay ahead. Perhaps Master was taking it to the bedroom to fulfill his needs. That wouldn’t be so bad, Pet mused, because it didn’t have to hear right to do well. Or maybe Master was going to punish it, see how nice and quiet Pet could be, no matter how much it bled on the cold, cement floors. Pet could do that too, Pet could bite its tongue until all it could taste was hot copper. It wouldn’t even whimper. 

---

“Ah-” Rowan started, but then quieted himself. The crawling made his stomach churn, but that could all be fixed in due time. He was sure that this amount of change was terrifying for the new rescue, and the last thing Rowan wanted to do was rush the process and break trust before it was even established. 

The boy followed obediently to the room Rowan had set up for him. It had been Rowan’s home office, a place he rarely used these days. Other than time spent there editing PLF videos and answering liberation-related emails, it typically sat empty and unused. So now Rowan’s desk, chair, and computer were piled in the master bedroom suite, and the old futon was laid out in the corner of the former office. Blankets and spare pillows were heaped on top of it - pets rarely got such luxuries - and it half-resembled a bedroom. Maybe. 

“This is yours,” he offered the room up with an outstretched hand. The boy didn’t move, not so much as a twitch of his muscles, and Rowan felt his frown deepen. The saleswoman had said that he was unresponsive, but this level of unresponsiveness was usually only present in the most severe abuse cases. And that spark in the boy’s eye, the one that had drawn Rowan in the first place, spoke to a spirit that still burned somewhere in his chest. There was a conscious presence in his mind, Rowan just knew it. 

Gentle touch hadn’t made the boy flinch, so Rowan leaned down and tapped his shoulder again, gesturing at the lower eye level this time. This the boy seemed to understand, and he crawled obediently into the room, much like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Rowan couldn’t help but stifle a sigh as the boy turned around and finally sat up, still kneeling with his weight back on his feet, gaze downcast. He just sat there in the center of the room, not moving, not looking up. Bones poked through his skin, ribs painfully visible, and the sight made Rowan remember the next step in his plan of action. 

“You can, ah, stay there while I get you something to eat and drink.” 

If the boy heard, he made no indication of such. 

---

The bed in the room was different than Pet was used to. It was lower to the ground, and it had so many more pillows than Pet had ever seen. There were blankets, too. Blankets were always Pet’s favorite part about being used in its old Master’s bedroom. It had no blankets in its sleeping closet, just a thin sheet over the floor. Pet was grateful for the sheet, of course. Master could have taken the sheet away at any time. 

But sometimes, when Pet let its greedy and bad thoughts get the best of it, it dreamed of a blanket all its own. 

New Master came back quickly, and set a plate on the floor in front of Pet. There was food on the plate, and it smelled so good Pet’s mouth watered. It hadn’t had anything to eat in almost two days. 

This is a test, Pet thought to itself as Master placed down a glass of water and then walked away. Pet is hungry, but Master gave no permission to eat. No permission to move. Pet needs to stay here and not think about the food, not think about moving, not think about the loud noise in its ears. Be good, be good, be good…

---

Rowan had figured that he would give the boy some room to eat in peace, grant him some long-overdue privacy. He’d wandered off to the kitchen to make a late lunch for himself, munching away silently as he thumbed through contacts on his phone. He hadn’t told anyone what he'd done, not yet. There simply hadn’t been enough time to think about telling others about his “impulse buy.”

It wasn’t like he wanted to keep it a secret - he just didn’t have an explanation yet. “This one looked so lost, and so hopeful, that even after ten years of seeing victims so much worse off, I decided to rescue him” just didn’t sound right. Hell, Rowan still didn’t know what exactly about the boy pushed him over the edge from filmographer to rescuer.

And god, there was so much left to be done. There was pet insurance he had to fill out for his apartment complex. A yearly registration fee with the city. Enough groceries for two, same with utilities. He could afford it, but the costs were adding up with a startlingly steep curve. 

Most of all, the boy needed a name. 

While Rowan knew that WRU’s victims were extensively brainwashed to forget any of their origins, he thought there might be something the boy preferred, if he could get him to speak. A glance at the clock told him it had probably been long enough for the thin creature to devour the sandwich Rowan had left, so the man put his own dish in the sink and padded back over to the bedroom. 

Much to his disappointment, the boy hadn’t moved. He was motionless, utterly statuesque, the sandwich entirely untouched. Rowan let out a sigh before he remembered. 

“Fuck, I didn’t tell you to eat. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, but this raised no response. So this time, Rowan spoke louder. 

“Please, eat. I know you must be hungry. You can eat.”

---

Pet heard! “Eat.” Pet understood just that one word, but it knew the rest even without hearing the particulars. Don’t eat. Don’t eat. Don’t eat. 

It repeated those words in a mantra to itself as its new Master left again. Pet was okay with that. It had been hungrier than this before, so much hungrier. Soon it would start to shake from the starvation, but Pet would do its very best to sit still. It was doing its very best to be good. It had to be good. 

[redstainedsocks]

Whumpmas in July! @whumpmasinjuly Thought I'd try this today, as a nice distraction, not sure how many other days I'll get through but it could be fun

An intro you say? Intro it is!

I go by Socks, and this is my whump sideblog, likes and asks comes from a username that also has socks in there, hopefully you'll know me when you see me 😉

I like captivity whump, and all the different dynamics that can appear between whumper and whumpee. I have a couple of "active" series, and sometimes write out prompts/themes/tropes and the occasional piece with unnamed characters for settings that I don't plan to go back to.

You'll find here: kidnappings, captivity, some nsfwhump, use of restraints and blindfolds and gags etc, some rescue and post-whump, magical whump, fantasy whump

Less likely to find: comfort/lots of caretaking, gore, extreme torture, sick fics

I made connections and gained some followers here originally with my first series, a BBU story/pet shop pet, but that's currently on (possibly permanent) hiatus for personal reasons.

My active series:

Weight of Earth -- magical captivity, lady whumper, two whumpees (this one hasn't had anything posted for it in a while but its my favourite and I 100% will come back to it, I even have more written from further through the story, just haven't got to where I can post it yet!)

Team whump -- pretty much what you'd expect! One particular whumpee, and a nsfw/noncon captivity for him. But they all get some angst in there post-captivity.

Completed mini-series: Magical whump (lady whumper, non binary whumpee), bargaining, all short pieces that come to a conclusion by the end.

Thank you to everyone who follows me, and hello to the new folks I've been seeing your names appear lately and there's a fair few of you! I appreciate you all for reading and engaging, ta very much 😊

[whumpqin]

Day 30: Ignoring an Injury (Whumptober 2020)

Second to last!

Characters: Emerson (POV), Orifel

Taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​ @whump-only​

CW: General bbu warnings, bonded box boys, modern slavery, ignoring an injury, blood, pills, forcing to work, referenced past torture, cuts, passing out from pain, complications from injury, referenced public whump. If there’s more, let me know!

Word Count: 751

It was with a gasp that Emerson set the final dish in the sink, aching and weary. He leaned against it, breathing quickly as the cuts along his stomach throbbed. They had been hurting all day despite him taking several pills to ease the pain, though it wasn’t like he could stop and rest to allow himself to heal. There was still so much to be done.

He still needed to wipe off the kitchen counters and prepare them for tomorrow. It was always easier to cook in a clean area than a dirty one if just mentally, and Emerson promised himself that nothing would stop him from keeping it cleared.

His hand brushed against his wound, gasping sharply at the feeling of instant pain. Quickly Emerson scrabbled for the medicine that he was keeping close, taking a couple of pain relievers out of the bottle in order to take them. He couldn’t remember if he had taken any recently, so he figured that the stabbing pain was clear enough.

After downing them with a bit of water, Emerson set to work. He retrieved a dish towel and wet it, beginning to slowly wipe the countertops and the island down as he cleared them. Left out food went back to its respective spot, pots and pans that went unused were set back into the cabinets. Routine work, albeit a little slowly as he worked around the wounds that were carved deeply from the stream a week ago.

A week ago… It was almost Sunday, wasn’t it? Emerson grew worried that he’d be able to take more of the customer’s requests, but he reminded himself that he had taken much worse before. This was no issue.

He wiped a bit of sweat off of his brow as he came to a stop as the sink. His final task was to put the dishes away, and then he could rest for the night. So, one by one, Emerson picked up the dishes and hopped around the kitchen, placing them in their respective spots.

As he worked, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned a bit awkwardly, quietly catching his breath as lashes against his back screamed in pain.

“Hi Emmy! Are you almost done?” It was Orifel, thank god. Emerson felt the weight of his wounds lift somewhat upon seeing his bonded’s face.

“Ori… Uh, yeah, I’m almost done. I just have to put away these last few dishes. What are you doing here?” He lifted himself up a bit, brushing his stomach against the counter while putting one of the larger dishes away. It hit just the right spot for his cuts, and he suppressed a whine of pain so that he didn’t alert Orifel.

“Oh, Sir said that I could spend some time with you tonight. So I made my way over here to get a head start,” Orifel explained, chipper as ever. Excited, even.

Emerson huffed through his nose as he glanced down, noticing the faintest bit of red peeking through his clothing. His eyes flitted back to Orifel. Stay calm, Em. Stay calm.

“That’s good. Are we… looking at pink, or black?” he asked, gritting his teeth a bit. He could tell from the way that Orifel paused that he had messed up, that his bonded was beginning to pick up on what was going on.

“Um… purple..? Em, are you… are you alright? You don’t sound very good.” Emerson watched as he drew closer, feeling for the island so he could orient himself around the kitchen properly. “Can I help?”

“No, no, I’m fine, I just, uh, need some sleep, I’m-” Emerson’s hand slipped along the sink as he put more of his weight on it. The room was beginning to spin, now, and as he crashed to the floor he forced his eyes to shut.

“Emerson! Emmy, oh god, hang on hang on!” Emerson felt hands touch against his head, wiping against the sweat that was gathered there. He could hear Orifel’s panicked reassurances, patting him across the face in an attempt to find out what was wrong. “Sir! Sir come quickly, please! There’s something wrong with Emerson!”

Hands petted through his hair, trying to calm him, he supposed. It felt lovely, drawing a small, weary smile upon his face. Emerson forced his eyes to open, looking directly at the milky color of Orifel’s. He could already feel his consciousness slipping.

“Sorry, Orifel. Forgot the sink was wet,” he said, feeling himself go limp in Orifel’s arms.