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3-2-whump · 6 months ago

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The Auction Floor: Thomas Costa’s POV

Hi all,

In exchange for a chapter on the current timeline (a chapter I am still working on/fixing up before it is posted), I am posting a prequel chapter. Any and all prequel chapters will be found under 'Eternal, part 0.' They won't have nav arrows, but they will have an explanation to when in the story they take place, and a link to the masterlist to read more. Hope this system works for everyone!

This chapter happens slightly before, concurrently, and a little after The Auction Floor

TW/CW: death of a minor character (briefly mentioned), institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), creepy/intimate whumper(s) (sort of a multiple whimpers situation), manhandling (nonsexual) (towards the end)

Mob boss Luciano Antonio Costa – Boss Tony - had died, leaving mafia to his grandson, Thomas, to control. The newly-appointed heir didn’t look much like a typical Italian mob boss. With his blonde hair, steely blue eyes, and freckled fair skin, he hardly even looked Italian. However, the old boss never had any legitimate male heirs to pass the helm of leadership to, having only one daughter before his wife died. Although he begrudgingly accepted his daughter’s marriage to Tom’s father, an inconsequential gangster from the Irish mob, he had always intended to pass the family business onto his surviving grandson.

“I’m so sorry for your loss” began to lose its meaning after the fourth well-meaning chump, and unfortunately, Grandpa Tony’s funeral had a good turnout. “That was a beautiful eulogy,” one of many nameless faces sniffled. “You two must have been very close,” they’d said to him. Were we ever close, though? Thomas wanted to ask, remembering only the time they last fought. It may as well have been a lifetime ago when he was a teenager who turned his back on the family to try and live a straight life, but the guilt hung over him like a curse no matter how hard he had tried to run away from his fate as the next boss of the Costas. It was always about what he wanted me to be, not what I wanted. Never once was it ever about what I wanted to do with my life, he bitterly remembered. Even now, it was all about Grandpa Tony’s wants, as he accepted his role in leading the Costas. He cast a baleful glance at the casket as it slowly disappeared beneath the earth.You won, old man.

His underboss and a few of the capos, men that he had grown up with and who now supported him in running the large criminal organization, caught on to their new boss’ sour mood. Admittedly, it wasn’t hard to notice how intensely he scowled at the freshly filled-in grave. They suggested celebrating Thomas’ ascension to head of the family with drinks and a night out, but their idea of a night out was attending a black-market auction and maxing out the organization’s funds on frivolous shit. Powerful drugs, illicit weapons, plundered antiques, and –dear god, did Jaime just buy an arowana?! Thomas looked over the side of his whiskey glass disapprovingly.

He glanced over at a corner of the auction house that seemed to gather a large crowd. He shrugged and decided to join them to see the display. The crowd surrounded an entire floor-to-ceiling wall of glass, behind which stood people from all around the world, each divided into their own little compartments within the glass wall, each of them completely naked. The way they were displayed in those little glass tanks was oddly reminiscent of how fish were displayed at a pet store.

Get a pet, people had said to him. It’ll be good for you, they said, help lift your spirits, they said, if you’re responsible for keeping one little thing alive, maybe you’ll be more motivated to take care of yourself, they said. Surely those people had meant a cat or a dog or a python, and probably not an actual human being. Although, Thomas remembered the people giving him that advice were part of the major crime families of the city, too. Perhaps this was what they meant all along?

Regardless of what those people meant, it was a whole different thing to actually commit to owning a person. He’d never seriously considered it before, but now he found himself thoughtfully observing the merchandise behind the glass. Though there were a few people who were obviously adults, most of them were teens, and most them were girls, though there were a couple boys, too.

Whichever one he’d pick, they would have to be relatively attractive, if he was going to have to bear looking at them at the end of every day. He eyed a glass cell with a stunning blonde girl futilely trying to cover herself with her hands and ignore the gazes directed within her cell. Thomas pushed past the crowd and moved on; pretty girls like that would be swiped up immediately, so it wouldn’t even be worth the trouble to place a bid. The next cell held a freckled boy who leaned into the glass, fogging it up with his breath and writing ‘HELP ME’ over and over again with his finger. Thomas passed on that one, too. One by one he would find something wrong with the human assets behind the glass cases. Too shy, too desperate, not my type, that one just stares ahead and doesn’t even move…

He finally stopped around the last few cells, where a crowd had dissipated from in front of a glass cell with discontented murmurs. Inside that one crouched a small boy, knobby knees drawn to bony chest, thin, tan arms wrapped around his shins, and a head of messy dark hair resting on top his knees. The boy dared to look up from his hiding place. Loose, unruly waves of hair and thick, dark eyelashes nearly covered his expressive dark brown eyes. Those eyes hid nothing as they shone with fear. Thomas gripped the whiskey in his hand a little tighter. The child cut a striking image inside the glass prison, reminding him of a time and a place and an incidence he never liked to think about for long-

To his misfortune, his subordinates caught him staring. “Got your eye on the little slave, Tommy-Boy?” Luca asked as he sauntered up to him.

“Don’t call him that.” Even if that was technically what he would be, the whole concept still took a while for him to get used to. “I just think he’s cute is all,” he mumbled into his glass, draining it of the rest of the whiskey while he tried to convince himself the pink in his cheeks was only from the drink.

“Why don’t you place a bid?” Thomas whipped around to see Jaime lurking behind him. When did he get here? His eyes traveled down to the large picnic cooler on wheels, supposedly where Jaime’s new fish was. “Boss Tony, God rest his soul, left you quite the inheritance, I’m sure you can afford him,” Jamie snickered. He pointed to the sign above the glass cell, where the serial number and QR code were displayed prominently. “142225,” he read.

“Doesn’t he kind of remind you of-”

“You shut up. Right now,” Thomas warned.

“We’ll shut up once you place a bid, now come on! At least look up the little slave!”

Thomas sighed and whipped out his phone; the sooner he scanned the QR Code with the app the black market had made him download, the sooner his underlings would shut the hell up. A profile popped up on his phone screen, the men crowding comically around him to read over his shoulder. 142225 had been collected in Pakistan, was 5’1”, and weighed barely 90 lbs. at the last weigh-in.

“They like to starve the kids here,” Luca explained nonchalantly. “Makes it easier to control them.” Thomas glanced briefly at the thin boy inside the glass, frowning a little as he let that unsettling fact sink in. He quickly scrolled past the blood type, known allergies, and other information he deemed irrelevant to hover his thumb over the ‘PLACE A BID’ button.

“Well, go on, you know you want to!”

“He looks easy enough to take care of, and easy on the eyes, too!”

“We saw how enviously you stared at Matteo’s pet at the last New Year’s party, won’t it be nice to finally have one of your own?”

Eventually, their peer-pressure resulted in the new mob boss placing a bid, becoming $30k poorer, filling out some ridiculous form about any last-minute body mods he may want, and waiting until the end of the night to collect his new slave and go home. His companions had left hours ago, and every other buyer had gotten their slave already, so it was just him waiting alone in an emptying warehouse, trying to make small talk with one of the event coordinators.

“So, does he have a name?”

She didn’t even look up from her tablet. “He’s named whatever you want to name him.”

“Where is he from? Besides the collection point, where’s he actually from?”

“We don’t know.”

“How old is he?”

“We don’t know.”

Thomas barely suppressed a groan. “Is there anything you do know?” he ground out impatiently.

“Yeah. He looks even cuter when he cries.” The woman smirked over her tablet, looking over Thomas’ right shoulder. “He’s here.”

Thomas turned around to see the boy, now clothed in a white T-shirt and bluish gray sweatpants. He kept his eyes downcast and his hands folded in front of him. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly before dropping his gaze back to his bare feet. “Khaled,” he replied, voice timid and heavily accented, “but you may call me whatever you want, sir.”

Khaled. He silently rolled the name around on his tongue as if savoring an exotic sweet. Khaled. Thomas cast what he hoped was a reassuring smile, not that Khaled saw it with his gaze fixed to the floor. “Luckily for you, I like your name.” He strode decisively toward the exit, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder to direct him. “Come with me, Khaled.”

In the nearly three-hour car ride back to Thomas’ home, the mob boss learned three things about his new purchase. Firstly, Khaled was shy, only speaking when spoken to and even then, using as few words as possible. Also, Khaled probably didn’t speak much English; how much of this was because he was shy, and how much of this was because he literally couldn’t understand him? And –finally, -Khaled could run. Since the moment the car parked, Khaled dashed out and sprinted into the street. He nearly got hit by a truck before Thomas could chase after him, pull him back, and drag him inside the apartment building. The scene of a grown man dragging a distressed kid who was screaming bloody murder probably shocked some residents, but fortunately the doorman was part of the Costas and did not bat an eye.

“It is too damn early for this!” Thomas complained to himself as he practically threw Khaled into the awaiting elevator. “Do you want to be leashed up like a dog, you little shit?! Cause that’s what’s going to happen if you keep trying to run away!”

“Let go of me, please!” the boy cried, his voice brittle and panicked like a scared, caged animal as he tried to twist out of the punishing grip on his arm.

“Like hell I’m letting you go, not after maxing out my personal credit card on you and pulling an all-nighter for the first time since Kandahar!” He violently jammed the buttons that would take them to the top floor of the high rise.

Soon the elevator dinged, doors swooshing open as they reached the floor of his penthouse. “Come on!” Thomas continued to drag the boy through the hallway, ignoring him begging in that endearing accent of his. Khaled’s complaints all but ceased as soon as he opened the door to his penthouse and let the boy step inside. His eyes widened, sparkling in awe, and his jaw dropped as he let out a reverent “whoa” that transcended any language barrier.

The living room to the penthouse itself was light and spacious, with large floor-to-ceiling windows that let in plenty of natural light, and minimalist décor to accent the living room. A large L-shaped couch dominated the living room and looked over the expansive rooftop and the cityscape beyond it. The rest of the room terminated sharply into a dining area with a large oak table and a wood-floored kitchen with two large granite countertops. An imposingly large door –the door to Thomas’ bedroom, -stood closed to the left of the living room. A hallway to the right branched off into an office on one side, and a guest bathroom opposite. A small staircase right outside the laundry room led to a storage loft spanning above the entrance. Thomas toed off his shoes at the door. Khaled, who wasn’t wearing any shoes, hesitantly walked in. Tom frowned when he noticed the dirty footprints left behind on his beige rug.“Would you like a bath, Khaled?” he suggested. The fact that Khaled didn’t reply made him again wonder how much English he truly understood. We can work on that. He sighed in exasperation as he gripped the boy’s arm and dragged him off to the guest bathroom. Once inside, Thomas deposited him at the entrance and turned on the lights and the fan. He got the shower head running next. Khaled stood silently watching him by the door as he tested the water’s temperature with his hand a few times. He nodded in satisfaction as the water finally reached an agreeable temperature. “Come on in,” he beckoned. Khaled inched closer to the bath tub. “Can I take off your clothes?” he asked. The boy blinked, then shook his head as he quickly took off the shirt himself. The drab sweatpants soon followed, and he quickly stepped into the shower. Thomas drew the curtain to prevent water from spilling and to give him a shred of privacy. As the boy showered, he soon realized Khaled had nothing to wear but that depressing little t-shirt and sweatpants. He took them to the laundry room and chucked them in the hamper, making a mental note to buy some clothes for Khaled as soon as possible. Cute as the small naked boy was, he was still a minor, and Tom didn’t need any extra distractions while he was adjusting to his new role as Boss of the Costa Family.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump

#whump writing #whumpee #creepy/intimate whumper #multiple whumpers #tw death mention #institutionalized slavery #pet whump #tw dehumanization #tw nonsexual nudity #nonconsensual nudity #tw minor whump #at time of story #manhandling #near the end there #I think I got all the tags but if i'm missing any do tell me

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whumplr-reader · 11 months ago

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So this is actually a really interesting question. Is the point of owning a WRU Romantic to have all your tastes fulfilled, or is the point to be seen having all the right tastes?

One could imagine WRU officially only deals in young, lithe, physically flawless Romantics. If you want something else, there are specialty companies that will be happy to take your order. (And let's not look too closely into the actual ownership structure of those companies.)

And, of course, for those who really have wealth to waste, the side of WRU that handles underage pets will of course be happy to help with your less-illegal taste. They might not be willing for you to advertise that your pet came from WRU, though...

I was just thinking about BBU Romantics the other day and it occurred to me that it's a little odd that they're always described as youthful, slender, perfect to one particular beauty standard. The idea is that someone in the market to buy a person would of course want the sort of person generally seen as physical perfection ... but would they?

In reality, you'd have buyers with all kinds of tastes beyond, like, hair color - people who like a sexual partner with some body fat they can grab, people who like body hair, people who want a Romantic that reminds them of their tenth-grade English teacher, people who like a partner older than them, etc. You'd think the facilities would take in all sorts of people to train so that they can meet any fetish.

I have sooooo much writing of my own to do, I don't have time to explore this ...

#bbu meta #bbu worldbuilding #darkchocolatepot #reboggle #box boy multiverse #A Seera original #pet whump #tw institutionalized slavery #WRU - a corporation

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distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year ago

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Unintentional 28

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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.

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @lavbug

#bbu #bbu-adjacent #box boy whump #box boy rescue #bbu whump #sympathetic whumper #carewhumper #pet whump #is it? idk #institutionalized slavery tw #hospital setting tw #CVA tw #stitches mention tw #medical whump #clinical whump #hospital whump #whump #whump writing

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kim-poce · 2 years ago

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Full House/Pet-verse question: How do people become pets? Eri pretty much immediately clocked Day and Night as guard dogs, so were they born for that purpose (how German Shepherds are bred to be attack dogs) or were they rounded up somehow and, because of their size, designated guard dogs and trained accordingly?

BBU Worldbuilding. Heed the warnings.

CW: BBU (boy box universe), pet whump, institutionalized slavery, human trafficking (including children), kidnapping (including children), child abuse in general just to be sure, talks of sex slavery, racism, classism, ableism, noncon body modification (includes mutilation), food control, near death experience, torture, brainwashing, long term captivity, minor whumpee. If I forgot to tag anything PLEASE let me know.

Officially, pets are people who signed up to the facility. There are laws for it; adult applicants must have a witness, underage applicants as young as 12 years old must have the guardian’s permission and at least three witnesses; after a test, the applicant can choose which, from the given option, kind of pet they wish to be. No children under 12 allowed.

Unofficially, there is a lot of illegal human slavery, the consent papers are often fake or forced, and children really young go to the facility often and the register about it is erased.

The facilities avoid illegal acquisition because there are several people against the BBU system, people who jump at them at any given chance. There are however circumstances that makes them more prone to illegal acquisition:

Children: Easier to train and more moldable to whatever the client wants.

Foreign people: Some clients want specific races that do not always come by so they don’t lose a chance when they get one.

Neurodivergent people: Again, some clients have specific tastes.

Pretty people/People with unique features: For obvious reasons.

Training and Customization

The training is personalized both to the client's tastes and to the pet needs. Touch starved pets are sold to not-touching clients, pets allergic to fur are sold to people with no animals and so on.

In matters of customization, well, as long as the client pays, the facility will make ANY body modification asked: tattoos, piercings, removal of vocal cords/eyes/hands/etc, sewing the mouth and make the alimentation integrally IV, and so on. The more hardcore modification the less it is shown to the public.

Another important point is alimentation: To the underaged pets (the ones who are still growing) the alimentation is controlled. Guard dogs's rations are really nutritious and meant to make them big and strong. Lapdogs are feed enough to survive so they can be small and cute. Domestic and General pets are fed in an irregular way so they can work under any circumstances. Romantic Pets are usually also kept small, but the future owner can "customize" them (feed less if small, more if big, if they want the pet thin or fat, hair length, etc).

Guard dogs: Torture with no regard to scarring. Trained in martial arts and weapon use over stamina and strength training. Kept 24/7 with a shock collar and when the client pays enough they are implanted with a kill switch. During training, the torture often gets them in the brink of death, this happens so whoever owns them after it’s “merciful” in comparison, so the pet will see them as a “savior” and don’t try to fight back.

Lapdogs: Trained to be as touch starved as possible. Torture usually leaves little to no scars. fed and touched as little as possible so their owner may be their only source of comfort. The training is usually about being as still as possible, acting cute, identifying tricks and traps and acting as such, and makeup and hairstyle. Also, they learn to undergo pain in silence unless told otherwise.

Romantic Pets: Torture leaves little to no scars. Trained to be silent until told otherwise. Kept touch starved all the time but during sex, they have stamina training, and acting lessons so they look as if they are really enjoying it. Their interaction with everything and everyone in a non-sexual setting is cut so sex can be their only form of comfort and contact with other people. Training includes long periods of torture with no apparent reason, where the pet is kept in constant pain, the pain only stops during sex training so they make the realtion of “no sex=pain.”

Domestic Pets: Torture with no regard to scarring. Punished for every sound they make. Not allowed to talk until said otherwise, choke collar activated by speech (and it is kept on n moment they are obligated to speak so even allowed words hurt). Training includes cleaning and cooking lessons, made to overwork with little to no food, hours and hours of repetitive tasks.

General pets: Torture with medium scarring. Usually they sign up as adults and aren’t conventionally attractive so they go into basic training for all types of pets and are sold at a cheaper price.

The Full House pets:

If you want to know about other's series pets, please ask.

Beige: He is a Domestic Pet who voluntarily signed up when he was a young adult. He had no family.

Pink: He is a Lapdog who voluntarily signed himself when he was a teen. The money went to his father. One trainer tried to make him into a Romantic Pet but the facility didn’t allow him to.

Purple: He is a Lapdog who was forcibly sold by his uncle when he was a teen, it was so he would protect his brother. Money went to his uncle.

Day: He is a Guard Dog who was kidnapped when he was a really young child. No one got the money. He was meant to be a lapdog at first (he was cute) but he grew up too much so his alimentation and training was changed.

Night: He was kidnapped in his teens for political reasons and made to be a guard dog because they couldn't tame him enough to make him a Romantic pet.

Little One: He is a Lapdog who was sold by his parents as a young child. Training was customized so the “ugly” autistic traits were not shown and the “cute” ones were encouraged. At first they tried to make him touch starved, and since it didn’t work, they made him a dancer. Was meant to be sold to a non-touching owner but his first mistress wanted to “fix him,” she signed a document declaring she was aware that she was buying a touch repulsed pet and took responsibility for any defects about it.

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parasiticstars · 5 months ago

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To Teach an Old Dog: #1

re re re re re re uploaded bc tumblr keeps fucking it up

TW: BBU/pet whump, casual mentions of dehumanization, institutionalized slavery, and suicide idealization, and me being very pretentious

Kavan’s back hurts. Of the numerous things wrong with his situation, this is what he decided to focus on in an attempt to stave off the impeding sensory overload— and this is the only familiar, non-Pet-fuckery problem he has.

The bit was fastened too tight and digs in the corners of his mouth. He can feel drool starting to crust his beard. He’s disused to the shoddy buzzcut his masters captors gave him in an attempt to make him presentable before auction; he'll certainly never take the feeling of hair on his ears for granted again. The ear tag is pulling on already mutilated earlobes, adding to a budding headache just behind his eyes. The concrete floors look and feel like they haven’t been cleaned ever. The auctioneer’s voice is solidly the fourth most irritating sound he’s ever heard in his life.

Alas, nothing Kavan attempts to focus on staves off the visceral, skin-crawling feeling of too much. No matter how many times the man gets shuttled in and out of auctions and captors like a head of livestock, he’ll never truly get used to the non-personhood, the sheer objectification of it all. Nor will he get used to an audience leering and inspecting him and the other Pets people around him like the products they’re advertised and sold as.

Nobody seems to be interested in him, thank god. Kavan’s getting too old for most people’s tastes— even as a labor Pet, being above thirty is automatically considered a liability, as if he’d crumple into dust the second he set foot onto a construction site or a plantation or wherever the hell else. Has he felt close to it? Definitely. But that didn’t mean he would; even though some places, water and breaks weren’t a given.

(Why would they be? Employers and contractors who use Pets rather than workers don’t need to abide by silly things such as OSHA and basic human decency.)

But regardless.

With the slowly increasing amount of times he’s talked about like his expiry date has run out, Kavan wonders when he’s going to just be taken out behind the shed.

He wonders if he’ll do it himself one of these days.

A prod to the small of his back forces him to straighten, making him nearly drop his sign in the process. His attention snaps back to the crowd, all crammed together in this dingy-ass building in those dingy-ass folding chairs betting on dingy-ass people.

Long had Kavan lost the naïvety that Pet owners were this special type of evil, so impossibly cruel and uncaring that they simply couldn’t be human. Regardless, the fact that everyone here is so unassuming still screws with him. He could hypothetically see any one of them, say, at a Starbucks bitching at the barista about their overpriced order, or shopping at Trader Joe’s, or working in their cubicle, or at a PTA meeting. That in particular jars him.

Nobody around them would know that said person was willingly participating in legalized slavery, lacking even the flimsy pretense of “rescuing” their aunt’s-grandma’s-brother’s-husband’s-neighbor’s-girlfriend’s-niece’s Pet or whatever else they’d want to virtue signal on their Facebook wall or status or whatever else.

(Are Facebook statuses still a thing? God, Kavan’s been out of the loop too long. He doesn’t even know how long.)

One woman in particular has set sights on him. Judging by the fine cut yet plain color of her coat, the disgusted-holier-than-thou glances she’d occasionally give whoever she was seated near whenever they did anything particular crude, the brand name Ceilos, she’s probably fuck-off rich trying not to look fuck-off rich. What would someone like her want at a low scale labor pet auction like this? Why is she eyeing him in particular? Why are her irises barely darker than #FFFFF?

Catastrophizing is, it seems, a very time consuming activity. It muffles the rest of the auction, the auctioneer’s droning that would soon settle the man’s fate, the assistant taking away the sign Kavan was holding and tugging at the rope attached to his collar.

He stumbles as he’s led off the platform and into the pen for inspection. Through the buzzing of his ears, the sound of heels clicking follows.

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gottawhump · 3 months ago

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Discussion

Kolya

CW/TW: pet whump, BBU/WRU, collar mention, institutionalized slavery. Mostly just a difficult conversation. After this, and before this.

“I found Eliot wearing this,” Jonas says, handing him a black latex collar.

Kolya doesn’t recognize it at first, until he turns it around and sees the number. “I thought I threw this away. How did he find it?”

“Cleaning, of course.”

“And he was wearing it? But he’s free, I set him free.”

“It’s not that simple, Nikolai.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.” The tight control in Jonas’ voice snaps, and becomes harsh. “Do you think it’s normal that he cleans all day? That he hides when he’s sick? That he keeps cleaning even though he is sick?”

He fumbles at the last part. “I’ve tried to get Eliot to go to a doctor. He panics so much.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“His last owners were quite neglectful.” Wasteful. Cruel.

“Yes, Nikolai. His last owners.”

“I’m not Eliot’s owner.”

“Nikolai, he wants you to be.”

No. Oh, no. He buries his head in his hands, feeling a heavy pit in his stomach. Then he looks up. “All right. You’re right, Jonas.” His voice catches a little. “I will-I will send him to the ssfehouse.”

Forgive and Forget taglist: @whumpsday @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @justplainwhump @bluetheautisticrat @i-eat-worlds @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @risk606 @taterswhump

#pet whump #bbu/wru #institutionalized slavery #collar mention #Kolya #Jonas #forgive and forget

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befuddled-calico-whump · 2 years ago

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masterlist

Due to their unique, eye-catching appearances and general durability, Dryads are considered the ideal pet.

Easy to capture (all you have to do is threaten them with a torch), and easy to keep (dirt, sunlight, and water are all you really need), a Dryad is sure to make a dazzling addition to any collection. And the best part is, there's no guilt attached. After all, they're not people, they're plants.

Tree Dryads are the most common species. Though nearly indistinguishable from a regular tree while in their plant form, they sure do stand out in their humanoid form!

The complexion of most Tree Dryads is green, but they'll also tend to take on traits of their species of tree, making each subset look wholly unique.

While rarer and more expensive than Tree Dryads, Flower Dryads are worth every cent. Their tiny, delicate appearance is sure to delight anyone, and they come in a variety of gorgeous colors.

Another close relative to the Dryad is the elusive and dangerous Naiad. While a Dryad can be found in the home of any self-respecting lord, a Naiad will rarely be seen outside of a cirque or private menagerie.

The beauty of Naiads and rare Dryads is undeniable, but most experts will agree that a common Tree Dryad makes the best pet for beginners.

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385bookreviews · 1 year ago

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1.45.1 The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins

SPOILERS

Pages: 528

Read Time: 9 hours and 58 minutes

Overall Rating: ★★★★☆ Storyline: ★★★★☆ Dialogue: ★★★☆☆ Characters: ★★★★★

Genre: YA Dystopian

TWs for the book: Violence, death, murder, child death, war, blood, cannibalism, poisoning, gun violence, classism, gore, injury, child abuse, toxic relationship, death of a parent, confinement, toxic friendship, torture, police brutality, grief, execution, animal cruelty, animal death, su*c*de/thoughts/attempts, alcohol, drug use/abuse/addiction, physical abuse, gaslighting, emotional abuse, vomit, medical content, fire/fire injury, xenophobia, medical trauma, genocide, forced institutionalization, panic attacks, bullying, colonization, mental illness, slavery, kidnapping, hate crime, misogyny/sexism, stalking, dementia, trafficking, terminal illness, abandonment, chronic illness, racism, bombing, eating disorder, self harm, deportation, ableism, domestic abuse, infidelity, miscarriage

POV: Third person; Coriolanus Snow

Time Period/Location: Over the span of around 6 months in Panem, the new name for a fictional, dystopian version of North America, set 64 years before the first The Hunger Games.

First Line: Coriolanus released the fistful of cabbage into the pot of boiling water and swore that one day it would never pass his lips again.

The story centers around Coriolanus Snow, the future president of Panem we see antagonizing Katniss and Peeta throughout The Hunger Games series. 10 years after the rebellion of the districts and their defeat by the Capital, Coriolanus and his cousin Tigris and their grandmother are still feeling the affects of it. Tigris and Coriolanus have lost both of their parents, and the family has lost their fortune, barely managing to maintain appearances that they are still wealthy. Coriolanus goes to the Academy, and has plans to attend University the next year, but only if he can manage to win a prize by mentoring a tribute in that years Hunger Games.

He feels insulted by being given a District 12 tribute but hopes he can turn it around upon seeing the charismatic singer, Lucy Gray Baird, put on a performance at the Reaping and capture everyone's attentions. He waits for her at the train station and offers her a white rose from his grandmother's garden. She only takes a petal of it, but resolved, he rides in the caged truck bed with her to where the tributes are to be kept. This ends up with him and the rest of the tributes being dumped into the monkey house at the zoo. He is embarrassed, but Lucy Gray tells him to own it, and he plays it off for the news cameras. After being removed, Dean Casca Highbottom, who seemingly has a vendetta against him and knows of his family's poverty, gives him a demerit. Dr. Gaul, a mad scientist and head gamemaker overseeing the student's projects, commends him. Coriolanus continues to visit Lucy Gray at the zoo, along with Sejanus, a fellow classmate who Coriolanus despises but keeps on his good side anyways. Sejanus and his family were from District 2 but became wealthy Capitol citizens when his father supplied weapons to the Capitol during the war. Sejanus is guilt ridden by this, made worse by the fact that the tribute he is supposed to mentor was a classmate of his in District 2. He offers food to the tributes, but his tribute Marcus refuses to take anything. During school, Coriolanus and Dr. Gaul come up with new ideas for getting the citizens of the Capitol and all of Panem involved in the Games, such as betting on tributes and sending food into the arena, seeking to make it some kind of sporting event. On a trip back to the zoo with some of his other mentors to give the tributes food, Arachne Crane, the mentor of the District 10 girl, is killed by her through the bars of the enclosure. The District 10 girl Brandy is then shot by the Peacekeepers.

After this, Coriolanus and another classmate Clemensia are chosen by Dr. Gaul to put together a project explaining how to make the betting and food donation system for the Games work. Clemensia is too distraught to do the project, but Coriolanus finishes it on his own. They are summoned by Dr. Gaul to her lab where she is working on genetically engineered rainbow colored snakes. If the snakes are familiar with your scent, they are friendly and calm, but if not and you approach them, they attack you with venom. Dr. Gaul put the project papers in the snake tank and asks Coriolanus to lift them out, which he does without issue, however when Clemensia tries, she is bitten and begins to die and is whisked away to the hospital. Dr. Gaul says this happened because they lied about doing the project together when he did it on his own. Coriolanus sings the anthem of Panem at Arachne's funeral, and Brandy's body is dragged through the streets. The rest of the tributes are paraded through while shackled to the back of a truck. After this it is arranged for the tributes to tour the arena with their mentors, when suddenly bombs go off. Both District 6 tributes are killed along with their mentors, twins Diana and Apollo Ring. Lucy Gray rescues Coriolanus instead of trying to escape. The District 1 tributes are shot by Peacekeepers as they try to escape, the District 2 girl dies, and Marcus, Sejanus' District 2 boy, escapes. After his recovery, Lucy Gray begs Coriolanus to believe that she can actually win the Games and they begin plotting how she can do so. Before the Games begin, Coriolanus gives Lucy Gray an old compact of his mother's so she can smuggle rat poison into the arena. She gives him a kiss and tells him he has stolen her heart.

The boy tribute from District 5 dies before the Games can begin, so only 14 tributes enter the arena. They find Marcus' body beaten and tortured but still alive hung up on metal poles. This enrages Sejanus and he has an outburst in the Academy and leaves. The District 7 girl Laminia kills Marcus as an act of mercy. Dill, the girl from District 11, dies of illness some hours later. After an uneventful first day, Coriolanus returns home to find Sejanus' mother, and she says that Sejanus has disappeared and not come home since his outburst. That's when they spot him on TV in the arena, sprinkling bread crumbs on Marcus' body, something that was done to the dead in District 2. Dr. Gaul calls Coriolanus, demanding he come to the arena and rescue Sejanus. When he goes in, Sejanus refuses to leave, wanting to make a statement with his death, but Coriolanus convinces him otherwise. On their way out, Coriolanus is forced to kill Bobbin, a District 8 tribute.

As a way to cover up for his son's stunt, Sejanus' father creates the Plinth Prize for the mentor who's tribute wins the Hunger Games. It is a full ride scholarship to University, which is something Coriolanus desperately needs in order to be able to go because of his family's poverty. Sol, the girl from District 5, is killed almost immediately the second morning of the Games. Lucy Gray and Jessup, the District 12 boy, finally emerge from their hiding places, but it is clear that he has rabies and is trying to kill Lucy Gray. Coriolanus and Lysistrata, Jessup's mentor, send in huge amounts of bottled water, which trigger Jessup's hydrophobia and cause him to fall to his death. When Coriolanus arrives home he learns that his family will lose their apartment due to a new tax bill that they can't afford to pay.

On the third day, Mizzen and Coral from District 4 and Tanner from District 10 kill Laminia, who has been safe up on top of the rafters. Coral and Mizzen immediately turn on Tanner and kill him. Reaper from District 11, the most feared tribute, emerges and starts lining up all of the dead bodies. His mentor Clemensia, who was hospitalized for very long and deformed from the snake venom, cruelly refuses to give him any food as he isn't killing anyone. Gaius, one of the mentors in the program, died from his injuries from the bombing on the arena. Coriolanus discovers Dr. Gaul is planning on dropping the mutated snakes that bit Clemensia into the arena. He decides to drop a handkerchief that Lucy Gray had been using in the snake pit before it is put into the arena so that the snakes will not attack Lucy Gray.

Wovey from District 8 emerges the next day, only to immediately foam at the mouth and die. Coriolanus suspects Lucy Gray killed her with rat poison. Dr. Gaul announces Gaius' death and sets the snakes loose in the arena. Circ from District 3 is killed, along with Coral. Lucy Gray, however, emerges from the tunnels singing to the snakes, and they wrap around her dress and her arms perfectly at peace.

The next morning Teslee from District 3 uses drones to knock Mizzen down from the rafters and he falls to his death. Treech from District 7 kills Teslee with an ax to the skull. Lucy Gray emerges and he goes to attack her as well, but she runs and hugs him before he can swing at her and attaches a snake to his neck. The venom kills him. Lucy Gray taunts Reaper until he decides to drink from a puddle of water she poisoned with rat poison and he dies, making her the winner of the 10th Hunger Games. Before he can celebrate his victory, Coriolanus is sent to Dean Casca Highbottom, who reveals the handkerchief he dropped in the snake tank and the compact with the rat poison. With his cheating revealed, he has no choice but to give up his victory and join the Peacekeepers.

As a Peacekeeper Coriolanus goes to District 12 as he hopes to be able to see Lucy Gray there. He is beginning to consider su*c*de when Sejanus appears, having also joined the Peacekeepers. Sejanus was also given the choice Coriolanus was of expulsion or Peacekeepers, but he agreed to do so as long as Coriolanus could officially graduate the Academy with High Honors. Coriolanus resolves to take the officer's test to move up in the Peacekeepers. He makes plans to see Lucy Gray at a performance of her and her band, The Covey Bairds. He is forced to witness the execution of a rebel, who tells his lover to run before being hung from a tree. At the Hob, Coriolanus sees Lucy Gray perform, and they are about to reunite when her spurned lover Billy Taupe appears and causes a fight. Sejanus and Coriolanus leave the base the next day to go visit Lucy Gray and her family. She sings Coriolanus a song she wrote about the hanging the previous day, called The Hanging Tree. They talk and say it was written in the stars for them to be together. When Coriolanus and Lucy Gray return to the house, Sejanus and Billy Taupe are seen conversing, and Sejanus is drawing him a map of the Peacekeeper base and Sejanus admits they were discussing the girl who the rebel who had been hung told to run. She was captured by the Peacekeepers. Lucy Gray tells Billy Taupe off, and Coriolanus begins to suspect Sejanus as being a rebel sympathizer. Coriolanus writes a letter to Dr. Gaul as if he is still having lessons with her, telling her of what he is learning by being in the Districts.

The soldiers are assigned a new task of shooting jabberjays and mockingjays, but only after they assist Capital scientists in trapping 100 of each. Coriolanus is thrilled that his ideas are being heard, as he hates the fact that the mockingjays exist, seeing them as being out of control. When they go to see the Covey perform again, Coriolanus finds Sejanus sneaking around the Hob and decides to keep a closer eye on him. Lucy Gray confesses that Billy Taupe wants her to run away with him up north. While working with the jabberjays, Sejanus comes up to Coriolanus to confess something to him, and Coriolanus presses record on a remote so the jabberjay records the conversation. Sejanus tells him he is going to run away and go north with Billy Taupe, and needs Coriolanus' help to free the captured girl. Coriolanus refuses to help and tries to talk him out of it but fails, and then sends the jabberjay off knowing that Dr. Gaul will hear of Sejanus' treason. Lucy Gray and Coriolanus walk in on Billy Taupe and Sejanus trading illegal weapons, and Lucy Gray diffuses the situation by saying she'll go north with Billy Taupe. Then Mayfair Lip, the mayor's daughter that Billy Taupe cheated on Lucy Gray with, appears and threatens to reveal the whole scheme, so Coriolanus, not wanting him and Lucy Gray to look like rebels, shoots Mayfair, and then another rebel present named Spruce shoots Billy Taupe when he tries to stop Lucy Gray from leaving. Spruce runs off with the guns that have Coriolanus' fingerprints, but is brought to the Peacekeeper base the next day severely wounded. Sejanus is then arrested and executed for treason.

Coriolanus is told that he is being sent off to become an officer, but with Spruce now dead he is worried that the guns with his fingerprints will show up eventually, and he decides to run away with Lucy Gray. In the time that it takes for them to get to their usual hangout spot deep in the woods, Coriolanus has already decided that this kind of life isn't for him. In the abandoned cabin he finds the guns with his DNA and realizes he can go back and become an officer, but Lucy Gray runs off, realizing he plans to go back and that he betrayed Sejanus. He chases after her, and she planted her orange scarf by a snake that bites him. He fires the gun at random into the woods but can't tell if he killed Lucy Gray or not. He throws the guns into the lake and makes it back to the base. The next day he gets on a hovercraft bound for District 2 so he can become an officer. He is sent to the Capital instead and is greeted by Dr. Gaul. Him becoming a Peacekeeper was a plot of hers the whole time, and she had him honorably discharged and enrolled at the University.

He becomes an apprentice gamemaker, and became the heir to Sejanus' family fortune as they didn't know he was the reason he died and adopted him as their new son. He finally learns the truth as to why Dean Casca hated him so much. Him and Coriolanus' father were friends at the University and given a project by Dr. Gaul to come up with a way to punish the Districts after a war, he joked that they should have the Hunger Games. Coriolanus' father turned the assignment in to Dr. Gaul, betraying Casca's trust, and making him the creator of the Hunger Games. It is left unsure whether or not Lucy Gray ran away into the woods or if she died, as back in District 12 it is speculated the mayor had her killed. He uses rat poison to kill Dean Casca, and the book ends with his family motto: "Snow lands on top."

Coriolanus Snow (Coryo): This was an incredible backstory for Snow. You know that he's going to turn out evil, but at the same time you are rooting for him to be a good person and to win the Games early on in the book. Getting to finally see his internal monologue and his motivations and logic, and how he was shaped by Dr. Gaul, really puts the rest of the book series into perspective. He isn't a loveable protagonist whatsoever, and at the end of the book when he is a Peacekeeper you really start to get his true perspective of things. He never loved Lucy Gray, but saw her as his, an object and a possession, a toy that he eventually got bored of. He saw the mockingjays as an affront to the control of the Capitol, like a mockery. This series puts into perspective everything Katniss did later on and her entire symbolization and why it was so triggering to Snow and why he hated her so much.

Lucy Gray Baird: I agree with a lot of the character evaluations of her that I have seen that she is not meant to be similar to Katniss, but rather to Peeta. They both are able to manipulate audiences and put on a show, and I believe this is why Snow targets Peeta and uses him the way he does in Mockingjay. Lucy Gray wasn't what he wanted her to be, so he discarded her when she wasn't useful. I like that they ended her story mysteriously, with you not knowing whether or not she died or if she escaped on her own and made it north.

Sejanus Plinth: Following the theory that Peeta reminds Snow of Lucy Gray, Katniss reminds him of Sejanus. Sejanus was arguably more influential in Snow's life than Lucy Gray, and his "betrayal" affected Snow more. This might explain why Snow treated Katniss more like a peer, and Peeta more like toy. As for Sejanus himself, I enjoyed his character a lot, just wishing he was less naive and didn't trust Snow like he did.

Tigris Snow: We see Tigris in the Hunger Games, a mutated person altered beyond recognition and wanting Snow dead. I so desperately need to know what happened between The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and Mockingjay that turned their close relationship to the point that she wanted him dead.

Storyline: Watching Snow transform into the monster we know him as was an immensely compelling storyline. You slowly watch his downfall into authoritarianism and cruelty and it's a painful read but so, so good. Suzanne Collins gave so much backstory and explanation for things that happen later. None of it felt forced or thrown in there just because. Things like The Hanging Tree song and Snow's connection to it being fully explained makes the rest of the series feel so much more real and everything has a lot more significance than it did. Also learning that Snow (with the help of Dr. Gaul) made the Games into the spectacle we see in the original trilogy ties everything together in the best way possible.

Representation: Pluribus, a club owner and smuggler close with the Snow family reveals that he used to have a husband. One of the Covey Baird girls has a girlfriend.

Summary: The writing style between this book and what I remember of the original books is definitely different, and it was weird to me at first but ultimately, as it's from Snow's perspective, it makes total sense and adds to things. Snow is an unreliable narrator from the jump, but you don't really realize that until nearing the end of the book. This book really just adds to the series as a whole and takes to an impossibly high standard for an already legendary dystopian YA series.

Quotes: "I'm so blameless I'm choking on it."-Sejanus Plinth (pg. 73) "He comforted himself with the thought that she was old and no one lived forever." (pg. 161)

#book review #book blog #books #book reviews #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #suzanne collins #the hunger games #hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #coriolanus snow #lucy gray baird #sejanus plinth #tigris snow #president snow

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hold-him-down · 6 months ago

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Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled.

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out.

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract. He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though.

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore.

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?”

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks.

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies.

Otto nods.

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them.

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it.

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable.

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away.

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself.

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all.

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable.

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring.

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure.

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall.

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head.

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually.

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.”

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel.

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue.

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?”

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears.

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.”

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

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

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

@squishablesunbeam

@considerablecolors

@whumpcereal

@whumperfully

@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

@whumplr-reader

@lonesome--hunter

@darkthingshappen

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

#Med Whump #Gratuitous Med Whump #Medical Restraints #Chemical Restraints #Noncon Touch #Referenced Noncon #Parker Destin #Institutionalized Slavery #Noncon Drugging #Conditioning #Referenced Food/Water Restriction #Referenced/Described STI testing #Referenced/Described Shock Collar #Whumper POV #literally over 4k words wtf #get leo a pet fish and warm hug when?

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3-2-whump · 3 months ago

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Break my heart why don’t you 🥺💔😭

We Search For Stolen Personhood - Say It

Masterlist

cw: fantasy of murder/choking, noncon/dubcon kissing mention, pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee

——————

The room was unlit, save for the shine of the crescent cut moon glimmering through the window. The fan, white as everything else, buzzed above the bed, a humming thrum that coated the squealing of crickets and hoots of owls from the outdoors.

Usually when Prince would awake at some random hour in the middle of the night, he would flush any thoughts out from his mind and watch outside that very window at the glitter of stars in the dark night sky. He didn’t understand why, but oftentimes the images of constellations would arise, as if that was anything for a pet to concern themself with.

But this was not like usual.

Instead, Prince stared daggers at his sir with beady, piercing eyes, his sir innocently oblivious to it all. Asleep, even, chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. Prince held his breath, only releasing and sucking in a new heave of air every so often. His fists were tightly wound around the comforter, holding on with an iron grip.

His sir hadn’t said it. Again.

He passed on his chance, neatly laid right out for him to just take it, and didn’t fucking say it.

Jaw working, Prince grit his teeth. He’d never been so furious before, rage coursing through his veins. He didn’t think it was remotely possible for him to be.

Prince was so sure he was going to say it. He was so hopeful, too hopeful, because if he hadn’t said it already then why would he ever?

They had kissed, his sir’s burly hands holding the sides of his pet’s smaller, more angularly shaped head, a thick bead of spit connecting their lips even after his sir had let go. Prince had believed it was just the right time as perfectly round pools of brown met green, both accompanied by up curled lips.

Prince had made sure his speech, his mannerisms, his everything was so utterly perfect, having practiced the words in the mirror for hours before his sir had returned home.

Fluttering his lashes, cocking his head, and keeping his voice low and slick with rasp, Prince spoke just as he was trained.

“I love you, sir.”

Sir had laughed a little around his heavy, warm breathing, blushing even, which he rarely ever did, as he brushed a thick strand of Prince’s hair out from his gaze. He pressed one more peck to his pet’s forehead, scruffy beard tickling Prince’s skin and parting his lips as he went to respond.

“I know you do, Princey.”

Biting his lip hard, nearly enough to pierce the skin and fill his mouth with stinging copper, Prince dug his face into the soft, silk coated pillow beneath him, wetting it with flowing tears. He caught a sob in his throat, holding it there for a second before he released it, twisting into a croaking whine.

Was he not capable of being loved? Was it his fault? Was Prince not good enough for him?

God, he looked so fucking peaceful while his pet was forced to agonize. He appeared vulnerable, even. Prince could catch him off guard right then and there, teach him a lesson and make sure he never dared upset his docile, obedient property ever again.

Prince could do whatever he so pleased. Wrap his slender yet still strong hands over his sir’s throat, twist and turn as he grunted and squealed for help. Watching as his sir’s face churned with indigo, just until he lacked the life to fight back.

At that Prince wailed hoarsely, muffled by his pillow. A terrible pet he was to think something so monstrous. Maybe that was why his sir couldn’t bring himself to love something so broken.

“Prince…?” The pet whimpered, going rigid as his sir’s gravel coated voice tainted his ears, fearful that he had somehow spoken his horrid thoughts out loud. Carefully, with stained cheeks he turned to meet his owner’s gaze, hazy and drowning in drowsiness. “You- you’re crying. Why are you crying?”

“You- I-,” swallowing, his lip shook with a heavy tremble as he stumbled with his words. “Do you- love me, sir?”

Sighing, his sir placed a moistened of Prince’s hair back into place. His features glistened in the light of the night, caressing his roughened face. Prince nearly wanted to kiss him, but another, locked away part of him, wanted to gag at the thought. “Silly pet. Why in the world are you awake at this hour?”

Prince pressed onward, brushing off his sir’s undeserved tenderness. “S- sir, do you love me?”

His sir’s clammy hand was settled over his mouth, a touch he wanted to shy away from, but was unable. “Shhh, Princey, calm yourself. There’s no reason to be letting such emotions get to you like that. I didn’t ask you to cry, did I?”

“N- no, sir.”

“Correct, Princey. And good boys only cry when sir asks them to, don’t they?” Prince nodded, sniveling incessantly like an upset child. “And right now sir wants us both to sleep. You woke me up with your foolishness, your idiocy, and you will pay for that later. Understood?”

His expression darkened, a cold tone shifting over his gaze. Prince wished he could bury himself underground and never come out.

“Yes, um, sir.”

Tucking the blanket back up to his pet’s shoulder, Prince’s sir gave him one last little sleepy smile. “Go back to sleep, Prince.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Slipped out automatically, before Prince licked his lips and in a cracking voice choked out one more I love you.

His sir, already flopped over and facing toward the wall, did not respond.

Prince got his answer, wether he liked it or not.

——————

Masterlist

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

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

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights

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

#whump writing #other peoples writing #pet whump #institutionalized slavery #box boy universe #bbu #tw murder fantasies #choking #intimate whumper #conditioned whumpee #emotional angst #made me tear up a bit

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3-2-whump · 9 months ago

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Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

next>

Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

#whump writing #oc intro #viridian oc #whumpee #pet whumpee #tw minor whump #tw slight gore #tw noncon nudity #tw noncon bodymod #slavery tw #slavery whump

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whumpingisfun · 1 year ago

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Respect and Responsibility | 1 | Doorstep

TWs: dehumanization, pet whump (of the human variety), modern institutionalized slavery, fantasy whump, overuse of magical abilities, offscreen beating

Theo is a thief. He’s had sticky fingers since he was little. Shiny things hoarded away in his room. Silverware, coins found under the couch, chocolate. His mother had teased him about being a little dragon, and he supposes it’s true in a way.

As he’d grown older, the shiny things he collected grew in value.

But he’d never stolen a person before.

Okay. Back up, rewind.

Theodoric de La Rosa is a thief. But even a thief has morals.

Theo had come to Rynthem’s capitol Zale for a heist. It was a simple one, something, something, wrongful inheritance, stolen from natives,something, something, the usual shit that a rich schmuck would do for something shiny, blah, blah, hoarding away relics that deserved to be with their culture and people where it would be properly used and kept safe, etcetera, etcetera.

This time it was a painting. And a few statues. Masks? Lots of shit.

Anyways, Theo had gone in for a painting.

He’d done all the proper paperwork, gotten all the visas squared away. Juniper had done an amazing job giving him a proper cover as someone well off and in good standing.

But the check in for Rynthem was… weird. The vibes were off. It made all of his long honed instincts rise up.

Maybe it was the person who was also behind the checkpoint desk with the chipper customs agent who signed his passport. The blue collar cinched tightly around their pale neck, the artful way their bright sunshine yellow hair swooped over their bright blue eyes, looking like they had just stepped off a movie set. The way their smile was just, this side of fake. Almost plastic. Different from the cheerful customer service smile in that there was a sense if Theo tried to get them to have any expression other than the one painted on their face… it would crack their face wide open.

“...I like your collar.” he compliments the person. “It’s a very pretty shade of blue.”

“Thank you, Mr. de La Rosa.” the customs agent smiles, widely, all teeth, instead of the person Theo had addressed.

It’s clear, in the flashing of the customs agent’s eyes, how the person standing at attention behind the customs agent looks down briefly, that Theo had misstepped. “I hope you enjoy your stay at Rynthem~” their voice is cold.

Theo clears his throat awkwardly, taking off his glasses and cleaning them. “You, uh. You have a nice day?”

Theo didn’t know it at the time, but that was the first time he’d interacted with a Pet. It wouldn’t be the last, either.

That vaguely off-putting sense just grew stronger as Theo entered Zale proper, leaving the hustle and bustle of the Transportation Hub Station.

It wasn’t obvious. Of course it wouldn’t be obvious. It just was.

It was the small things. How certain people followed others at just the shortest clip behind and to the right or left - presumably the dominant hand. The collars that Theo had first thought was just a fashion statement tightly cinched around certain people’s throats. Some even had leashes.

Hybrids, people with brightly colored hair that would have looked unnatural on other people’s faces, all with collars, all of them just slightly off, too perfect. Uncannily so.

Places in the restaurants with spots for a leash to be attached to, pillows to kneel on.

Signs in shop windows saying ‘NO PETS ALLOWED’, and places where you would tie the leash to a post. All of them human, kneeling or standing in the designated area. Waiting. Some of them drinking out of small dishes as they waited in the dry Rynthian summer heat.

What was horrible about it was that it was so normal.

It was so casual, that it took Theo ten minutes to realize that those were people that the signs referred to. It took someone exiting a store, with a collared person in tow, staggering under the immense weight of all the bags and boxes and totes.

Too perfect, too shiny, too artificial.

These people were slaves.

These people were Pets.

Theo was sick in the next public trashcan and had to go find a medical mask in a convenience store after he’d been stared at for too long for doing something so ‘unseemly’.

And then he spent the next ten to thirty minutes hyperventilating in an alleyway, because Pets were everywhere, tagging along with their owners, seemingly happy with their lives of servitude, eyes always plastered adoringly on their owners’ faces.

He dials Juniper, despite the long distance charge and the risk factor.

“Juni I can’t do this.”

“WHAT?!?? After all the extra effort it took to get you the proper clearance and identification?!” Juniper’s tinny voice echoes in Theo’s ears.

“Juni, there are literal slaves here!” Theo’s voice shakes as he tries to keep his voice down. “There are slaves, and I can’t save any of them, and I get the feeling if I try anything, they’re going to make ME disappear.”

He’d gotten the feeling from how he’d addressed the customs agent’s Pet. How he had misstepped and was on thin ice. The realization of the danger he was in was like a cold ice cube melding with the sweat prickling his body, dousing him in a terribly horrid polar plunge.

He was shivering.

“--eo, Theo, my boy, listen to me.” The calm, assured voice of Theo’s dear mentor, Professor Hale, rolled deep into his ear. “Take a deep breath.”

Oh. Right. Breathing. Breathing was a thing.

Theo sucked in a deep shuddery breath and held it, counting to five.

“There’s a good lad.” Professor Hale murmurs. “Now, let me know when you’ve calmed down. You won’t retain anything if you panic.”

Right. Right. Panic was the archnemesis of a proper thief.

Okay. Okay… shit it wasn’t okay -- but breathe. Breathe. Exhale for five… Inhale… hold, two, three, four, five… Cycling air in and out of the lungs in a measured fashion.

Stinky trashcan.

Theo’s eyes flicker around the alleyway, nose wrinkling under his glasses.

Brick wall.

Really noisy neon sign.

Gravel and rocks poking me in the ass.

…why do I feel like I’m forgetting something.

OH RIGHT AIR--

Theo coughs as he sucks in a deep lungful of air.

“You know, when I told you to breathe, I meant it, young man.” Professor Hale’s voice rumbles in his ear, slightly tinny from the connection.

“R-right--” he coughs, wheezing slightly as he swallows spit wrong. “Fuck!”

“Swear jar.”

“Damn it Hale, I’m in a situation!”

That gets a bark of laughter from the other side of the phone. It makes Theo smile, but it quickly fades.

“Professor, what am I going to do?” he asks helplessly.

There’s a pause on the other side of the phone, and Theo can’t help but picture the concentrated look on the old man’s face as he considers his words carefully.

“Theodoric, I want you to listen to me carefully.”

Theo straightens. Oh shit, full name coming out. “Yes sir.”

The smile is audible but strained in Professor Hale’s voice. “I want you to document everything you see carefully.”

Theo swallows. “...you mean…”

“Yes. I believe the situation calls for it. I know it will leave you exhausted every day, but if you take some over the counter pain management, you should be fine.”

“You mean not debilitated by migraines and able to get the goal you sent me here for.” Theo cuts in.

Another pause. “...well, yes.”

Theo sighs, rubbing his forehead as he sets his head back on the wall. “Okay.”

There’s an audible scuffle of the phone being argued over quietly before Juniper audibly wins by elbowing Professor Hale in the gut.

“Theo I’m sorry, I should have looked harder at where you were going, I would have NEVER sent you there alone if I’d known--”

Theo sighs, eyes sliding shut. “And have you and the Professor at risk too?” he wearily asks. “No, its better if I’m the only one here. I’ll get in, and get out, and send the prize back to HQ as soon as I can. Just… if you guys don’t hear from me again, if things go wrong--”

“Don’t talk like that.” Juniper’s voice is breaking a little. “You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna get home, and make us chili again. You hear me de La Rosa? You’re going to make me chili again, the really spicy one!”

That gets a laugh out of Theo. “You just love me for my food, Juni.” he teases. He sucks in a steadying breath. “A-anyways. If I don’t make it back, make sure to look after Whiskers for me.”

“I still can’t believe you named your cat Whiskers.” Juni sighs. “It’s like naming a baby Fingers.”

There’s a strangled choking noise on the other end of the line that doesn’t come from Juniper as Theo snorts and then starts to laugh hard enough tears begin to roll down his cheeks.

“Sure, Juni. Next time I’ll let you name my cat.” Theo wheezes. “I love you guys. I’m so sorry about the bill.”

A soft sigh. “I’ll handle it, Theo.” the Professor’s voice is warm. Soothing. Theo can hear his shoulders loosen even oceans away just by hearing the old man’s voice.

His eyes slide closed with a soft sigh. “Thank you, Professor. …I should get out of this alley.”

“Be safe, Larcine.”

He straightens.

“I will. Thank you Professor. You two stay safe, keep HQ running.”

“Yes sir, Leader sir!” Juniper cackles and then the connection crackles shut.

Leaving Theo alone, in a country run by the very thing he despised.

So, almost to present day. How about that heist.

The target? Lord Harrison Carter’s summer mansion.

Theo gets in as serving staff. New hire, sweet face, no one can resist his sweet face, and with the high pedigree and service record Juniper had forged, no one can resist his resume.

He’s put in rotation. But there are whispers in the staff room after the noon tea is served.

Lord Carter is getting a Pet.

Theo is practically invisible as he goes about the usual menial tasks the staff are wont to do. Cleaning. Tidying. Dusting. There’s a lot of dusting. Theo can’t see any spec of dust anytime he’s sent to do another round of dusting.

If it weren’t for everyone doing the dusting, Theo would think he was being hazed.

No, the hazing comes from a different angle.

It’s his face that gets him in the most trouble.

He’s pretty and he knows it. Flaunts it a little with the girls and the boys who swing that way, winking and generally getting a laugh out of everyone once it’s clear he’s just having fun and has no intentions to flirt his way into a bed.

Despite him not having any intentions, it still gets him slammed up against one of the lockers in the changing rooms.

Frankly, it gets him beat to hell and he staggers out of it, bleeding. He doesn’t remember much, after a certain point. There was the richly decorated hallway swimming in his eyes… and then nothing.

He wakes up in the hospital wing of the mansion. Bandaged and with a pounding headache he can feel through what must be a nice cocktail of pain medication because wow is he floaty.

A man, who must be his temporary boss, sits at a chair by his bedside, reading a novel that Theo is too fucked up to read. Oh. Right. They broke his glasses. Damn.

“Good morning Sir.” is what he tries to say.

What comes out is a garbled, “Gurdmurnigir.”

Larcine, one of the rising thieves in the underworld, reduced to incoherent mumbling.

Great.

“Mr. Rosa, you’re awake.” The man closes his book with a snap that makes Theo flinch. Ow. Motherfucker.

Harrison Carter is a man who, in Theo’s drug addled and blunt mind, looks sick as fuck, and not in a good way. The man is frail, gaunt, with the same air of fragility that the Professor gets when it’s a bad day and the man feels all of his many years. Thinning brown hair frames his narrow, gaunt face and his cheekbones could cut glass. The only reason Carter isn’t as pale as a white sheet of paper, is because the man still has a healthy dose of melanin in him.

His dark brown eyes are sharp, however.

Sharp and cold.

“Tell me, Mr. Rosa, who did this to you? I wish to have them… disciplined.”

Theo swallows. “Hhhhow?” he chokes out.

A hand runs through his hair. It makes him shudder at the subtle intimacy of it. Like Theo is a kid sick at home. He doesn’t like it. This old man who’s probably in his fifties, maybe sixties is nowhere near his father.

…despite having investigated Lord Harrison Carter on the outside, before heading in, the man doesn’t look a day over thirty, despite the sickness obviously ravaging the man’s body.

Chills run up and down Theo’s spine.

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about that, young man.” Carter says idly, playing with Theo’s hair. “Just let us good folk take care of it for you.”

Theo stares blankly up at the man, and then just lets his eyes roll up in the back of his head.

The next time he’s awake, he’s much more clear headed, and in much less pain. It’s a tiny little nurse on a large stool with big green owl-like eyes behind thick glasses who just stareeees at him quietly and makes notes in her little tablet before informing him that he is free to go home with two weeks of paid time off which - when she sees him about to refuse - is non-negotiable and the pay includes hazard compensation.

“The culprits who have harmed you on Lord Carter’s property have been dealt with.” she informs him primly. “When you return from your rest, you will not have to worry.

Theo smiles a smile that’s only charming in how miserable and pathetic it is. “...thanks.”

He’s trying really hard not to think about what kind of punishment his current - temporary - employer had handed out.

She hands him his glasses. “Your eyeglasses have been repaired, free of charge.” she says.

“...thanks.” He puts them on, instantly relaxing when his vision comes back into focus. No migraines. Thank Lupin.

He slowly sits himself up completely and limps out of the medical wing under his own power, and wishing that the generosity of the Lord he was working under didn’t come at a price.

There’s a box on the mansion’s doorstep.

Theo stops, staring.

There’s a box on the mansion’s doorstep.

It’s big. More of a crate than a simple package box.

He turns back around. Hands fists by his side. He can’t risk the heist. The Lucine Guild had already promised the museums and families they would get their heritage back. He can’t.

He can’t.

…

……

………

“Fucking damn it.” He turns around again, ripping off his glasses and this time, the world doesn’t go blurry, but instead sharpens. Every blade of neatly mowed grass stands out next to each other, sharpened into high definition as time unspools around him. It’s like walking through molasses. It’s like walking through air. The beat of his heart is his drum his drum his drum and he’s almost drunk from the heady beat it brings him.

He watches himself move through time, a phantom. Separate from himself as he is now, decked in purple hues. He watches as he stops. He looks back. He looks forward again. And then time shatters in two.

In blue hues, Theodoric de La Rosa goes on, never stopping. He nudges that timeline back into view as he grabs the box and wrestles it inside the haze. In that hazy, flickering timeline, the box disappears sometime later while the blue coated Theo is still walking, oblivious, visible on camera to be too far away to have even grabbed the gigantic box.

Theo is sweating.

His head is pounding. Vision swimming.

He pulls and pulls the box even as his muscles burn.

He pulls and maneuvers this box, all the way through town, inch by grueling inch, his world completely coated in red hues. All the while, the specter of his blue self haunts him, blocks ahead, growing farther distant and as that distance grows, so does the pain in Theo’s head.

The red world blurs until it is just Theo and the box. The box and Theo. Something warm and wet trickles down his neck. Down his chin. But he doesn’t have time to stop, and wipe away what must be blood from him overusing his Gift.

If he lets go, time starts for the box, and Theo will lose his chance with so many people around to see the box suddenly appear.

So inch by grueling inch, he pulls the box closer to that blue specter of a self that chose differently, of a self that Theo made real by forcing the timelines to behave as if only one choice had happened in a tree of choices.

He gets the box into his apartment. His shielded and warded apartment.

He lets go of the box, and with shaky fingers he shoves his glasses back on, sucking a deep ragged breath as he melds and slams into his other timeline’s self. The memories make him gag, as memories that are alien and foreign to him slide slick and oily into his mind.

In another life Theodoric de La Rosa never stops to help another person. He steals and steals because of his own sense of greed. Alone--

He collapses against the box, choking on bile, swallowing rapidly. His hands fumble with the mechanisms of the box, fumbling for the latch.

The last thing he sees, as his blood soaked fingers hit the right mechanism, are wide gold eyes, rainbow hair and porcelain white skin, half in shadow as the box opens like unspooling origami.

And then he is enveloped in darkness once again.

#dehumanization #pet whump #bbu inspired #modern institutionalized slavery #fantasy whump #overuse of magical abilities #offscreen beating #Theodoric de La Rosa #Respect and Responsibility #Theo and Sammy

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distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year ago

Text

Unintentional 27

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This one turned into one of those chapters. It sat for months, already beta-read, becoming a point of avoidance and a total bottleneck in my writing flow. It didn't feel good enough/perfect/complete in a way I couldn't put my finger on but my heart wasn't in it for a rewrite. So, finally, I need to just check this box and move on.

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, sprang to 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 behind his back. 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 was waiting for 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—

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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#bbu #bbu adjacent #bbu whump #box boy whump #box boy rescue #institutionalized slavery tw #pet whump #whump #wru #whumpblr #whump writing #recapture #restraints tw

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