#well bbu adjacent

[distinctlywhumpthing]

It's Never Too Late for Christmas

Alright, look. This might be the fluffiest thing I have ever written. It's barely 1000 words so don't anyone come for me saying I've gone soft. Probably takes place a few weeks after First Night Home. Due credit to @deluxewhump's Wishbone for getting me thinking of the smell of Home. Wow, see what I did there: Full circle.

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“Merry Christmas!” Leo says, immediately wanting to dial it back. He holds out the repurposed brown grocery bag between them. 

Aiden looks down, one arm crossing over his torso. “But...mmm’it’s not…” 

Definitely too much enthusiasm. 

Leo lowers the bag. “Right, yeah. I just thought—well, we only missed it by a few weeks…you know back when we met. I mean… It seemed like…” 

Why had this seemed like a good idea again? 

“It’s nothing big,” he tries but Aiden won’t look at him. Like Aiden’s the one who misstepped instead of vice versa. The kid grips his own arm like it’s a lifeline, fingertips digging into his flesh. Never mind that he’s wearing just a t-shirt in late February. Even with the heat a few degrees warmer than he used to keep it, Leo has to bite his tongue to not ask if he wants a sweatshirt. He tries to limit his questions to the ten thousand a day he can’t avoid. 

“I didn’t even wrap it really,” Leo rushes to say. “It’s never too late for Christmas. ‘Honour it in your heart and try to keep it all the year’, you know—” God, stop talking. “‘Live in the Past, the Present, and the Future’—”

Well, at least he got the kid’s attention. Albeit paired with a confused and I’m-embarrassed-for-you grimace. 

“Please, just take it. Put me out of my misery.” 

Aiden takes a half step back but he does. 

Because Leo told him to. Fuck, this was a terrible idea.  

He holds the bag from the bottom with both hands, as gingerly as if something might be alive in there. His eyes flash up to Leo’s before he reaches inside. He opens his mouth once, twice, like he’s trying to say something, but doesn’t. Instead, he looks to Leo for permission again. 

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead,” he says absently, still stuck on what Aiden stopped himself from saying. 

The way the kid reaches into the bag with all the gusto of sticking his hand into a live fire hollows Leo’s chest. Once his fingers meet fabric instead of whatever horrors he’s expecting, Aiden pulls the bundle out with a little more conviction. 

Leo relieves him of the bag, fingers unconsciously creasing it back up along all the seams, as he watches Aiden unfold the jacket. For the past few weeks, he’s lent Aiden his Carhartt and carried rather than worn an embarrassingly retro ski parka. 

“I—” He looks at Leo, something between disbelief and awe in his face. 

“Try it on—I mean, you can try it on if you want to,” he revises. 

He threads a skinny arm through the first sleeve. 

Leo reaches around to hold the jacket so he can reach the other. “It’s the same size as mine…so you can wear more layers while it’s cold.” 

Aiden fingers the ends of the sleeves. “Thank…you...” 

“The color suits you,” Leo blurts, caught off guard by the shy smile Aiden’s trying to hide while inspecting the coat. A total one-eighty he hopes isn’t just Aiden placating him. 

–––

“Aiden? Are you ready?” Leo calls up the stairs as he heads to the door to get his shoes on. “We need to leave in two minutes if we’re going to—” 

He’s already there. 

Standing by the door with the Converse pulled on, the laces tucked inside, and wearing Leo’s jacket. He bites his lips together as he pulls the zipper up, slow enough for Leo to stop him. When he reaches the top without interruption, he lets his gaze slide over to the new navy jacket, still hanging from its hook, and back to Leo. 

He lets out the laugh he’s been holding in and pulls on the coat. “I knew there was a reason I got this in my size.” 

“Color…mmm’s-s-suits…you,” Aiden says, tucking his chin into the soft collar of the old brown jacket, hiding what Leo is sure is a grin. 

Leo scoops him into a hug. “You’ve been plotting this from the beginning, haven’t you?” He swings them side to side a little, the gentlest roughhousing. Aiden shakes his head against Leo’s chest, he’s laughing now but trying to hide it. “This is absolutely not going to work when I buy you workboots. We are not the same size.” 

Aiden’s reply is muffled so Leo pulls back just far enough for him to lift his head. “Layers,” he repeats, barely able to get it out before he’s shaking with laughter again, pressing his face into Leo’s shoulder.  

“You’re incorrigible.” Before he can overthink it, he presses a chaste kiss to the crown of his head. He smells like home. His home. H— 

Leo backpedals against the possessiveness before he even completes the thought. 

But the part of him that spent countless nights wondering if he’d wake up to an empty house finds it profoundly comforting. The evidence that on the basest, organic level Aiden belongs to this home. Has been engrained in its rhythms and smells. The fabric softener from the sheets he tangles up every night, the lavender shower gel he picked out himself, toothpaste from brushing his teeth after the breakfast they cooked together. 

And not least of all, Leo himself. Wrapped up in his arms and wearing his old jacket. 

Home. 

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[whumpsoda]

Seeing Me in You - Unboxing

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, institutionalized slavery, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee

——————

Ever so anxiously fearful, he had safely arrived to his new home. After so long of training and treatment, he had been prepared to perfection for his purpose. He was going to finally be put to use.

His trip to delivery had proved painful, even if he was used to dealing with common afflictions. Such a tight cage was unfavorable for his hulking frame, and the constant, numerous shakes and bumps of the truck formed noticeable bruises over his skin, and a sour throbbing in his head.

Thankfully, 374629 wasn’t meant to look presentable. Especially not pretty. He knew he wasn’t, having been utterly made sure of it. Not average looking, even, but he was never meant to be. He certainly was not a romantic, nothing anyone would purchase depending on his level of attraction.

Once set to the ground below his master’s doorstep, he made a point not to listen into the muffled conversation mushing together like cotton clouds above him. Reducing it to a buzz in the back of his mind, he kept his brain nice and blank. His belly still whirled in a mixture of terror and excitement to be inches away from his owner, and minutes from finally being introduced to them.

He could clearly hear as the employees transporting him finally left, leaving him alone with his owner. Leaving him to begin his new life.

374629 froze rigid as light began cracking and seeping into his crate, flooding his face with warmth and blinding brightness. On instinct his eyes shut and wound tight, body curling into itself further.

He hoped his master would be a good master. Didn’t everyone? Every master would be good of course, he had to be grateful to have any master at all. He was lucky. Maybe they would be just like his handlers in the facility. He couldn’t help but wish they were. As much as he was in no place to have preferences, he would have liked the familiarity.

But as his master ever so carefully opened his box, revealing more and more of his face, 374629 couldn’t help but on instinct catch a tiny look. And his master was frowning.

It was obvious he was attempting to hide it, lips curling up ever so slightly, almost unnoticeably so. The fake, half smile failed to meet his solemn, moistening eyes that glittered in the light. Not only was he obviously unhappy with his delivery, but his master was crying.

As 374629 turned back away, he could only hope it was his pet’s unsavory predicament that he found so foul.

Covered in his own grime, tears and sweat, boxers shriveled and dirty, his burly figure was contorted every which way inside of his box. His collar wasn’t even a nice leather, rather cheap and itching raw, red marks over his neck.

Maybe his master had never ordered a boxie before. Maybe he didn’t realize his pet would arrive so disheveled.

“S- sorry,” the man sniveled, wiping his eyes with clammy knuckles, “This is just… a lot. More so for you, of course.” 374629 could sense the slightest of a soft smile in his voice, pulsing warmth through his pet’s butterfly-filled belly. 

374629 didn’t know if he was meant to respond. He knew his rules well, repeating one specifically like a mantra in his mind. Do not speak unless spoken to, he told himself, over and over again like the handlers had. But he’d never had someone, let alone a person, apologize to him. Apologize! How could he possibly know what to do?

“Ye- yes, sir.” He squeaked out, meek and shaky. He winced, expecting a quick and burning shock to the throat for his misbehavior - hesitating and stuttering - but, while no longer wearing his training collar, such a punishment never came. 

Eyes peeking open once again, 374629 fixated his vision on the wood paneling of his crate. Pets are never allowed to look their master in the face, he told himself, both reminding him of the rules and silently chastising himself for having the urge to do so a second time. He hoped his owner had noticed his previous mistake of doing so, so that he could receive needed discipline for such unacceptable behavior.

“Hmmm… how about we get you up and out of your box, okay?” His master commanded, although spoken strangely. As if it wasn’t a command, rather a question, but 374629 knew very well that it was. Commands were one thing he was good at knowing. “Unless you feel more comfortable in there, then-,”

Before his master could continue, 374629 swiftly and clumsily stumbled from the confines of his box, plopping to his knees beside it. Again he fixed his gaze somewhere beside his master, this time the concrete floor of the hallway, as much as he wished he could look to the man for approval.

“Oh.” 

The pet tensed. Did he do something wrong? He failed to discern an emotion from his master’s lack thereof, causing his stomach to quease with uneasiness. 

“That’s okay. That’s good, yeah.” The pet could have sighed in relief. “Now, can I ask you a question?”

374629 tensed once again. Another question. He was so terribly confused. Why was his master asking him? Permission, even? It had to be a trick. A test, to see how well he’d been trained, an easy on at that. 

“A master does anything they so desire.” He neatly recited, a smile nearly tugging at his lips. 

He was being such a good boy. Back at training he would have received a quick and concise good by his handler, and the thought of praise, no matter how little and insignificant, could have him practically drooling.

For a moment, his master paused.

“I guess I should’ve expected that.” He whispered, more so to himself than his pet. His tone almost shone disappointment to his words, a realization that could have brought rich bile flooding his pet’s mouth. “I just wanna know, um, what’s your designation?”

He didn’t even need to think to formulate a reply. “WRU, facility 034, Guard Dog 374629.” He recited on the instant, words rolling off his tongue with perfected memorization. His designation was beat to memory, coming completely and entirely natural to him. In the whole interaction, that was one thing he was sure of.

He heard his master swallow, thick with saliva that danced down his throat. “Guard dog?”

“Yes, sir.” He responded, without falter, and utilizing his deep, low chords.

“Me too.”

——————

Masterlist

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @3-2-whump @taterswhump

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

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 23

massage/wiping away tears/gentle touch

Conditioned Whumpee, BBU-adjacent, pet whump, nudity, drug mention

Written tired, not proofread

°

Caretaker walked into the back of the facility slowly, eyes scanning the kennels lining the walls. He shivered, put off by the conditions these people were kept in.

Humans were in each kennel, stripped naked save for a collar. They ranged in age and appearance, each of the "pets" having a sheet with all their information.

God, Caretaker hated this place. He knew it was all legal, and it was slowly becoming normalized, but the idea of human pets was disturbing.

One of the employees walked over cheerfully, holding her clipboard. "Hello, there, are you interested in adopting today?"

"Yes," Caretaker replied, voice even and level.

"Well, that's just amazing! What are you looking for today? We have a wide selection of gorgeous girls and boys ready for a new home!"

Caretaker cleared his throat uncomfortably, glancing around. "Who's been here the longest?"

"Oh, Whumpee," the lady responded, starting off towards a kennel on the left wall. "Well, we brought this guy in a long time ago. He was living on the streets, addicted to dugs, poor thing." She flipped through papers on her clipboard, tapping one with a pen. "Even after extensive training, he really struggles with social interactions. That's why he's been here so long."

Caretaker looked into the cage, watching the human huddled in the corner, shaking. "I'll take him."

"We recommend a visit—"

"No need, give me the papers."

•••

Caretaker got Whumpee home, watching as the frail boy huddled on the floor. Caretaker reached down. "Hey, bud... you okay down t—"

Whumpee flinched hard, his breathing quick and panicked.

"Oh, hey, hey. It's okay." Caretaker soothed, holding his hand out.

He delicately stroked whumpee's cheek, paying attention as the boy leaned into his touch. "Its okay, baby. You're safe now, I've got you."

[peachy-panic]

Happy Birthday, Sebastian.

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, mentions of alcoholic behavior, homophobia, bad parental relationships, talk of parental death

“You didn’t mention it’s your birthday,” is the first thing Jaime says when they get back in the car. 

He’s getting better about that, Sebastian thinks. Initiating casual conversation on his own terms. On one hand, Sebastian is elated at the show of progress. On the other… 

Sebastian winces. The well-meaning bank teller had checked his ID and wished him a happy birthday while Jaime stood in earshot, keeping his expression neutral until they were alone.

“I didn’t,” Sebastian agrees, retrieving the two lollipops he had swiped from the bank from his pocket. “Red or blue?” he asks, holding them out to Jaime. 

He studies them for a few seconds—maybe trying to predict which one Sebastian prefers, maybe thinking about the strict rules around food inside the facility—before plucking the blue one from his hand. 

“Thank you,” Jaime murmurs. Then, after a pause, “Sorry. Did you not want me to know?”

Sebastian pulls the wrapper off and pops the cherry sucker in his mouth, then shifts the car into gear to avoid Jaime’s eyes. 

“It’s not a secret,” he assures him. “I just don’t like to make a big deal about it.” Or any deal at all. “I haven’t in a long time.”

For a moment, the only sound is the soft crinkle of Jaime’s wrapper as he unpeels and pockets it. “How long?” he asks.

Sebastian shrugs. “Few years,” he says, which might be understating things. He hasn’t had a real, proper, friends-gathered-round, cake-eating, too-many-shots-of-tequila birthday since his final year of undergrad. 

Well. Except for the tequila. That part doesn’t require friends.

For a moment, he braces himself for the inevitable why, but Jaime doesn’t push. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he says something much more true to character:

“I’m sorry.”

Sebastian flashes him a quick smile. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “I’m hardly a social butterfly.”

“What about your friends? Do they know that you don’t like to celebrate it?”

“Kind of makes it easier that I don’t have any,” he says lightly. Or, at least he intends for it to sound light. 

Jaime glances at him with what appears to be genuine confusion. “What about Aria and Sam? Ezra?”

And that makes Sebastian blink, because…

“Oh,” he says lamely, a small kernel of guilt and surprise forming. “Well, I guess… I mean, I didn’t know them until more recently. This was my first birthday since becoming… their friend, I guess.”

“What about your family?” It’s like Jaime hears his own question as it comes out, and surely he must feel the sudden tension that grips the silence between them, because he immediately backtracks. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have… That’s none of my business.”

The regret in his voice borders on fear, and Sebastian has to keep himself from reaching out to reassure him. 

“It’s alright. You’re allowed to ask me questions, Jaime. My parents…” He has to stop and swallow around a rising lump. “They’re not really in the picture.”

“Oh.”

Jaime doesn’t ask for more, but the silence—and maybe it’s not just the silence, he thinks—makes more words rush to the surface, breaching the floodgates to a subject he rarely speaks about.

“I mean, they raised me,” he rambles. “They’re alive. But I haven’t spoken to them in a long time. Since I was eighteen, to be exact.” He stops, really thinking about the expanse of time that now bridges between now and then. It feels like a mile and an inch all at once. “Almost a decade, now,” he adds quietly.

Sebastian is fairly familiar with the careful way Jaime chooses his words, so he’s not surprised when he takes a while to chew his next ones over, patient and only a little bit nervous.

“I’m sure you have a good reason.”

“Ha,” the bitter noise startles out of Sebastian. “Yeah, no, it wasn’t quite my decision.”

“Oh,” Jaime whispers. “They…?”

Sebastian nods, keeping his eyes straight ahead and his grip steady on the wheel. “They are religious,” he said, keeping his voice detached. “Traditional. Whatever you want to call it. And they didn’t take kindly to their only son coming out.” Sebastian flashes him a wry grin. “In case you weren’t aware, I’m extremely gay.”

Jaime doesn’t return the smile. “They kicked you out?”

“Technically, I was already leaving. I told them right before I moved away to college, but… Yeah. They cut me off completely after that. Anyway,” he finishes ineloquently. “My birthday isn’t much of a problem for them, either.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime repeats. 

“Thanks, Jaime. It's okay, really. I’m fine now.” I’m fine now, he repeats internally, for good measure. I turned out fine.

For a moment, it almost seems like Jaime is going to argue, but he settles back into the seat instead, turning his head toward the window. 

They’re a few minutes from home when Jaime speaks again.

“My parents were out of the picture, too,” he says softly.

Sebastian has to grip the wheel so as not to crash the car out of utter shock. Because he can count on approximately one finger the number of things he knows about Jaime’s past, and this piece of information carries weight he didn’t expect to be handed right now. He wants to cradle this secret between his palms with all the delicacy of balancing a bubble on skin. 

“Yeah?” Sebastian nudges him carefully, stealing a glance in his periphery.

A single nod. “They died when I was young. Both of them. I... I grew up in foster care.”

It’s strange, what happens when you begin to build a relationship with someone from the ground up; how a piece of the puzzle can come in and snap others into place. How one sliver of context can start to paint a picture. How it can break your heart for the person sitting next to you, and also give you some insight on how they got there to begin with. 

An ugly chain of events begins to take root in his mind: passed from one government system to another, another vulnerable statistic slipping through the cracks. 

“I…,” Sebastian begins and immediately falters. “Jaime, I don’t...”

“I’m not supposed to talk about them,” Jaime says. "Or any of it."

“I know.”

“It’s hard to remember them clearly. It’s been so long.”

“You can talk about them with me,” Sebastian offers, knowing he is tiptoeing on precarious grounds. “If it helps to remember them.” Jaime nods, and Sebastian wishes he could reach over and take his hand. “How old were you? Only if you're comfortable saying.”

Sebastian watches the jerk of his throat as he swallows. “Eleven.”

“God, Jaime, you were just a baby.” You’re still so young. 

They come to a stop in the driveway, and Sebastian kills the engine, plunging them into a heavy quiet. From beside him, Jaime’s hands are a constant twitch of nervous energy.

“I want to say something,” Jaime says. “I… I don’t want to overstep. I’m sorry if I…” He stops to clear his throat, then looks up, piercing Sebastian through the middle with a rare moment of held eye contact. “I think your parents are wrong. For wanting you out of their lives.”

The contempt dripping from the word "wrong"—a brand new edge to Jaime’s normally soft spoken tone—suggests there is something far worse he’d like to say. But the fact that Jaime has voiced this much negative emotion at all speaks volumes. And despite the sore spot of the subject matter, something like fondness glows bright in his chest. 

He holds Jaime’s eyes for a few more seconds. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Jaime lets out a slow breath. He nods. 

As they retrieve the paper grocery bags from the trunk, Jaime’s shoulder brushes warmly against his own for just a fleeting second. “Happy birthday, Sebastian,” he says. 

When he smiles, the inner edge of his lips are tinted blue from the candy.

Sebastian, carefully, lets his shoulder nudge him back. “Thank you,” he says. “For that, and for telling me about your parents.”

He doesn’t say: your trust is the best gift I could have asked for. But he means it all the same.

****

When Sebastian comes out of his room, just after sunset, he stops short at the warm-sugared aroma of the house. His nose leads him to the kitchen, where he finds a small, circular cake sitting on the table. A singular candle flame flickers in the low light, and behind it, Jaime. The shadows dance over his mask of trepidation, his fidgeting hands held at waist height. 

“I hope this doesn’t count as a big deal,” Jaime says quickly, as if he’s been rehearsing the words in his head. “I found a pack of candles in the back of the cabinet, and you already had all the ingredients to make it from scratch, so I figured…” He stops short, eyes widening. “Are you okay?”

It is only then that Sebastian feels the moisture beading down his cheek. He wipes it away, a breathy, startled laugh escaping him.

“I kind of want to hug you right now.” The words sort of stumble out without much thought, and he stiffens as he hears them, ready to snatch them back.

But Jaime says, “You can, if you want.” He must hear the passive choice of words as he says it, read the apprehension on Sebastian’s face, because he shakes his head and rephrases. “I want you to. I’d like to give you a hug.”

And then he’s stepping around the table, and Jaime is in front of him. He holds his eyes for a moment, checking and double checking that this is alright. When Sebastian raises his arms in invitation, just a few cautious inches, Jaime steps into them.

It’s slow and soft, and it doesn’t linger. Just a few precious seconds of Jaime’s hands pressed flat against Sebastian’s back, of Sebastian’s arms featherlight above Jaime’s shoulders, and the warm pulse of heartbeats where their chests touch between them.

The cake is still warm, the frosting slightly melty, when Sebastian takes his first bite. He nearly cries all over again at the taste. Sebastian makes sure to cut Jaime the slightly larger slice, and relishes in watching him finish the whole thing.

They spend the rest of their Saturday night curled under blankets on opposite ends of the sofa, with Bella stretched out between them. Jaime’s eyes start to drift during the opening credits of their third movie, and by the end he is fast asleep. Sebastian allows himself a few selfish moments to watch him at peace. His mouth hangs slightly agape. Bella, who has crawled onto Jaime’s chest at some point in the night, vibrates with soft purrs against his neck. 

Sebastian blinks hard and remembers the wish he made as he blew out the candle—the first he had made since he was a child. 

Please, let him be happy. Please, let him be free.

*

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[ilasknives]

THE LONG WAY HOME | One

<- Previous

Hi, hello, it's been. A very long time. Well over a year, I think? I finally have the second part! I'm so sorry it took me so long, life and full time university have been kicking my ass. I haven't done writing in a long time, so it felt stiff and hard to get through, and only half of it is actual whump, but the rest sets up the story. I really missed writing it, though. I hope you enjoy!

CW: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, pet training, collaring.

1: Nine Hundred and Thirty-Three

After:

"Get on your knees.”

"What? No, please, I don't -"

"Knees."

He drops to the floor to avoid the baton that this man keeps touching the handle of, looking up at him from below with his hands in his lap, fingers twisting into the shitty thin fabric of his shirt. Maybe it will rip. He doesn't want it to. It's the same one he walked in with, and he's getting the feeling that he won't get it back again if it breaks. He digs his fingers in tighter, anyway, unwillingly.

"I need to - please," he tries again. He needs to go home. His voice is hoarse, rough from the night of pleading with the empty room, tucked into a corner, fighting waves of exhaustion with terror, trying and failing to keep his eyes open. He'd scrambled to his feet when the door opened, desperate for someone to talk to, to reason with, to see that he wasn't supposed to be here -

And now he's on the floor again.

He swallows, mouth dry. "This was a mistake."

The handler ignores him, looking over him like he's assessing him for something, then sighs, mostly to himself. "Okay. So, Domestic."

"I'm not meant to be anything-"

"You don’t need to speak unless you’re spoken to."

“Please,” he whispers, but the look the handler shoots him is enough to make him close his mouth. Something flashes, in the back of his mind. A hand through the air, a stinging across the side of his face. He flinches, but the handler hasn’t moved. Every part of him is screaming that he’s done something wrong, that he needs to hide away and wait until it dies down, until it’s safe again - but there isn’t anywhere to hide here. Just white walls and a heavy door. God, he hasn’t felt like this in years. It’s hard to breathe. Like a hand around his throat.

The handler lets a moment pass, and then two, and when he’s been sitting quietly for long enough, he speaks again. “My name is Handler Phillips, I’ll be your primary Handler for the duration of your training. You are WRU Trainee 297933.”

“I’m not.” It’s whispered, terrified, but he can’t just… give up. There has to be someone who will hear him out. There has to be some way to go home. “My name is-”

“You don’t have a name, you have an identification number.” The handler sighs, and crouches down so they’re face to face. “Look. I don’t want to do this the hard way, and I don’t think you do, either. You’re gonna have to work with me.”

“I’m not meant to be here.”

"We're just doing intake today, alright? Do you know what that means?"

"I want to go home." He doesn't want to do intake, he wants to go back to where he lives and curl up in his bed and never take another stupid fucking bet in his life. He's supposed to be walking back through the door and gloating about his victory right about now. Yesterday. The day before? How long has he been here? "Let me go home."

"I can't do that, mate. I have a job to do, and so do you." The Handler stands and unhooks something from his belt. "This is a collar. It will be yours. It's fitted with…"

The Handler's voice fades into the background behind the ringing of his ears and the bile that rises in his throat. A collar. Fuck, no. Fuck that.

"No," he interrupts. "No. No. You're not putting that on me. Let me go. I need to go home.”

Handler Phillips sighs again. “297933,” he says.

“That’s not my name.”

“It’s your WRU identification number. The collar is mandatory; it’s part of your training.”

“No.” The handler’s fingers touch, briefly, the handle of the baton. He draws back into himself, swallowing thickly, eyes on the floor. “Sorry,” he says quickly. The words taste sour. “I’m sorry.”

Another sigh from above him.

“You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” The handler hesitates, like he isn’t meant to continue. “I know this is scary. Take a breath.”

He draws in a breath that burns the whole way down.

“Think you can sit still enough to let me put this on you?”

“I don’t want to,” he whispers.

It happens anyway. The fight just… leaves him. He sits and trembles on the floor while Phillips slides the thick collar around his throat and clips it into place with gentle hands.

*

Before:

They’re all at Nell’s house.

They’re always all at Nell’s house, because she’s the only one of them with dogs, and with a couch, and with more than one shitty, battered Wii controller like Benny has. Nell only has two, but that’s double Benny’s, and the rest of them have none, so Nell’s place is the place to be.

They’re playing Mario Kart while they wait for Benny. Rhys is sandwiched between Luca and the arm of the couch, and one of the dogs has its head resting on his foot, and he can’t even move, because it’s Luca, and he’s got his legs slung over Rhys’s lap and his head pillowed on his shoulder.

Luca jerks his arm, swerves, and runs his Yoshi off the side of the track right as Matteo wins the race. Rhys jabs him in the side. “My go.”

“What – that doesn’t count!”

“In what world does that not count?”  Rhys already knows he’s going to lose the argument, but he entertains it anyway. He rarely actually plays Mario with the group, even though they say they’ll swap controllers after every race. Matteo’s already clicked his controller into the wheel attachment and handed it to Owen. Rhys usually hands off his turn to Luca and watches as he comes dead last every single time.

Luca’s opening his mouth to start the usual ‘I’m going to get it next time’ spiel when Benny waltzes in through the front door with his arms full of Nell’s mail.

Rhys raises an eyebrow at him. “You know that’s illegal, right?”

Benny, mouth full of – something, what the fuck is he eating this time? – says, “Huh?”

“Opening someone else’s mail.”

Benny rolls his eyes and dumps the pile of envelopes – bar one – on Luca and Rhy’s laps. “Helenaaaa.”

Nell’s voice comes back from the kitchen, instantly dry, wary. “What do you want from me?”

“I have something for you.”

“I swear, if you’ve been going through my mail again - ”

Benny darts off, cackling like an idiot, and Nell – also like an idiot – chases after him. Rhys shoves the pile of mail off his lap, and it clatters to the floor, all over the dog.

“… Sorry, Benedict.”

“You’re so mean to her,” Owen says from the other side of the couch. “Come here, baby.”

Benedict heaves all god-knows-how-much of her entire great dane self off the floor and meanders over to Owen. He’s already got Chef curled up with his head shoved under his rollator, and Benedict slumps at his feet and goes back to sleep.

“Thief,” Rhys says. “You’re a dog thief.”

“You dropped mail on her head!”

“Weird mail,” Luca muttered, leaning down to snatch an envelope off the floor. “The hell is this?”

It’s a thick white envelope, decorated in gold trim, a wax seal on the back – and it’s snatched from Luca’s hand as soon as Benny swans his way back into the room.

“Whatcha got there, Luca?”

Luca snorts. “Ask Nell, it’s hers.”

Benny does not ask Nell. He never does, but Nell hates opening her own mail, so she shoots Rhys an exasperated look and slumps down on the couch with Matteo.

“We seem to have abandoned Mario,” Matteo muses as Benny tears open the envelope. He doesn’t even try to remove the seal. Absolute animal.

“Dear resident, we hope this letter finds you well,” Benny reads, pacing in front of them like some grandiose loser. Rhys considers tripping him. “We have recently started a movement to bring clinics to smaller cities, and we’re searching for partici- oh my god, this is that – Pet shit, right?”

Nell makes a face. “Yeah, they’re building some new complex for it, or something, right? I read the first one, some initiative to ‘bring business and economy flow into rural areas’ or whatever.”

“We’re not even rural,” says Matteo.

“I know. God, I thought I unsubscribed from their mailing list. Just tear it up, Benny.”

But Benny’s eyes have gone wide. “Holy shit, have you seen how much money they offer you?”

Rhys snatches it from Benny’s grip. Holy shit was right. The number is in the high ten thousands – more money than any of them have seen in one place in their lives.

“I want it,” says Benny. It’s always Benny who starts this shit. Rhys can practically feel his brain turning.

Luca laughs. “You want to be someone’s house pet, Benny?”

A grin, a shrug. Benny’s never been the type to admit that he’s wrong. “Why not? Cozy up on the couch, no job, no bills.”

“Dumbasses,” says Nell, taking the envelope off Rhys and ripping it in half.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want that kind of money, Nell.”

“What am I gonna do with the money if I’m signing up to their program, Benjamin?”

There’s a lull. It should be the end of it. It should. But Benny is Benny is Benny, and Benny doesn’t know when to stop.

“... I reckon I could get the money, anyway.”

“You’re a coward,” Rhys says, because he’s just as bad as Benny, “and a liar.”

Luca jabs him in the side.

Benny’s eyes narrow, and he squares his shoulders like he always does when he thinks that he’s been challenged.

“Wanna bet?”

Taglist (please ask to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot @whumpcereal @whumpsday @whumpworld @littlespacecastle @anonintrovert @honey-is-mesi @warm-my-whumpee-heart @whumping-seven-days-a-week @alexmundaythrufriday

[echo-goes-mmm]

Juno in "Pet Shelter"

My Writing Masterpost

Juno Collection Masterpost

Warnings: lightly BBU adjacent 

“And that’s about it,” finished Jack, leading the new volunteer back to the front desk. “Any questions?”

Daniel shrugged. “It seems simple enough. Feed the pets, give out meds, play time is two hours a day,” he rattled off.

Jack smiled. “Just about, yeah. Although some pets have dietary restrictions, so be careful with that. It’s all in their charts.”

“Right. Oh, do employees get to adopt from the shelter? Just curious.”

“Yup! There’s a waiting period of six months, though. In fact, I'll have officially adopted a kitty tomorrow. I’m really excited.” Jack beamed, proud.

“Kitty?”

“Oh,” waved off Jack, “it’s a term we use to describe personalities. ‘Kitties’ are shyer, quiet, more independent. ‘Pups’ are more energetic, playful, outgoing. You know the type.”

“Makes sense,” said Daniel. “I guess I’m more of a dog person, but, like, real dogs.”

“Fair,” nodded Jack. “Most people don’t want human pets, hence their rarity. I think there’s only one store in the county, and we’re the only shelter. Hey, since we have a couple hours, you want to meet my kitty?”

Jack pulled out a set of keys from the front desk drawer. “I’m thinking of calling him Juno. He’s really great, and I already love him.”

“Sure, why not?”

The two men turned back down the hall, passed the ‘employee only’ doors. 

“So how come Juno didn’t get adopted yet? I hear pets get adopted really quickly here.”

“Well… he’s got some medical stuff a lot of people don’t want to deal with.”

“Like what?”

Jack swung the keys around his finger.

“For one thing, he’s trans.”

Daniel shot him a look. 

“I know, I know,” Jack said, “but the reality is, that turns a lot of people off, in a manner of speaking. I don’t think it should matter, but it does. And although lots of pets like having sex, Juno has a severe aversion to anyone or anything near his vulva that isn’t himself and his menstrual cup.”

They reached another door at the end of the hall, and Jack flipped through the keys trying to find the right one.

“Usually that isn’t an issue; most people don’t care. Unfortunately, Juno also has an expensive diet. It’s either buy the pricey pet food, or cook for him. I don’t mind the cooking- I like cooking- but the combination of everything makes him pretty unlucky in the adoption department.”

Jack fit a key into the lock of a second door, which opened into a smaller hall with fewer stalls. 

An acidic smell hit them as soon as the door opened.

“Shit,” muttered Jack.

“That can’t be good,” agreed Daniel.

Jack jogged through the hall, and came to stop at a stall. A whine sounded from the poor pet inside.

“Hey, buddy,” cooed Jack, crouching down.

Daniel peered over his shoulder.

A pet was curled up in a far corner, stale vomit in a puddle on the opposite side. 

The pet had dark brown hair, and his eyes were screwed shut. He looked feverish, and he was trembling. His breathing was quick and shallow, and he had top surgery scars on his chest.

Daniel glanced at the sign on the wall.

Juno, it read. Owner: Pending.

“Did somebody give you the wrong food, honey?” Jack asked quietly as he unlocked the stall.

Juno whined again.

“Okay buddy, don’t worry.” Jack pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the stall, pet and vomit and all. “I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

Jack approached the shivering pet. “Take a look in his food bowl, would you?” he called over his shoulder.

Daniel looked inside. “It’s halfway empty.”

“Fuck,” muttered Jack. The pet whimpered. “Not you, sweetheart. You’re doing so good; making sure you didn’t get messy. There’s a good boy. You didn’t eat it all cause you figured it out, yeah? Such a smart kitty.” Jack pet the boy’s hair, and Juno leaned into his hand.

“Can you sit up for me?”

Jack helped the pet lean against the wall, his face tacky with tear tracks. “I know your tummy hurts, sweetheart, but just stay right there, okay?”

Jack pulled away and turned to Daniel. “Dump out the food in the trash,” he ordered. “Get a new bowl from storage, and fill it with the gluten-free bag. Make sure it’s a new bowl, or he’ll get sick again.”

“What about the water? Won’t that be contaminated?”

“Go ahead and take that to the sink. I’ll take care of getting him some liquid,” Jack said. “I need to brush his teeth anyway.”

They left the stall. “Not going to lock it?”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Jack said with a grim face. “He can’t move much when he has a reaction.”

Jack pulled out his phone, dialing a number as he went to the med cabinet.

He opened the cabinet, looking for the stock paste he kept on hand and the shelter-supplied disposable toothbrushes as the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey boss, it’s Jack. One of the pets got fed an allergen again. Sent you some photos.”

“Dammit. Which one?”

Jack found the brushes. They were on the wrong shelf.

“Guess.”

His boss sighed. “And you’re sure it’s Ethan doing it?”

Jack switched his phone to the other shoulder as he filled a bottle with hot water.

“He hates me,” he complained, scooping a tablespoon of the stock paste into the bottle. “And he really wanted Juno. He was on food duty earlier. He’s trying to sabotage the adoption. You know, make him sick so he has to do a round of isolation.”

His boss sighed. “I’ll check the tapes.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

Jack shook the bottle until it was a dark brown and the paste had dissolved.

“Hey, Juno,” he said quietly, pulling open the door. “I’m back.”

Juno looked up at him with teary blue eyes. Poor thing.

“I got you a toothbrush, and that soup you like.” Jack set the bottle off the side, kneeling in front of him.

Juno opened his mouth, still weak and miserable, and Jack scrubbed the stomach acid off his teeth.

“You get to come home with me tomorrow,” he said, cupping the back of Juno’s head for support. “Won’t that be nice?”

Juno made an ‘mhm’ as soon as Jack was finished. 

Jack picked up the bottle. “Do you think you can hold it for me?”

Juno didn’t look very sure.

“Alright, that’s fine.” Jack unscrewed the cap, and held the soup to Juno’s mouth.

Juno took a couple of sips, and turned his head away. His stomach probably couldn’t handle much more.

“That’s okay. You're doing great.” He brushed Juno’s sweaty bangs away from his forehead. He wanted to give him a bath, get all that sweat off, but Juno probably wouldn’t appreciate that right now. “You wanna go to sleep?” 

The pet nodded, clearly exhausted. He must have been vomiting for hours.

Jack helped him lay down on his cot as Daniel came back.

“What's that?” he nodded towards the bottle.

“Stock,” Jack explained. “The salt and fluid is good for nausea and he needs the calories.”

Jack stroked Juno’s hair.

“He’ll be okay, right?”

“Yeah. He just needs to rest.”

___________________

Jack stirred the fried rice in the pan. It smelled great, and it was a new recipe. His aunt had recommended it, and she had Celiac disease just like Juno. 

Honestly, it wasn’t that hard to switch everything over to be gluten free. And it was worth it to keep his pet healthy.

Juno pressed himself against Jack’s back, his arms wrapping around Jack’s waist. He laid his head on Jack’s shoulder.

“Hey, bud. Ready to eat?”

“Mhm.”

Jack spooned two portions into bowls, and sat on the couch to eat.

Juno ate from his bowl with gusto, and Jack smiled as he watched. His kitty had put on a lot more weight, and the doctor was really pleased with his progress. 

Juno finished before he did, and got up onto the couch, shoving his head onto Jack’s lap.

Jack absent-mindedly carded a hand through his hair. It was so soft and wavy now that he had proper conditioner. 

He focused on the nape of Juno’s neck, just where he liked it, and Juno nuzzled into his thigh.

If Juno could purr like real cats, Jack knew he would.

He looked so much better: well-rested, well-fed, and with a handsome leather collar.

Adopting him was the best decision Jack had ever made.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

[angst-after-dark]

CW: BBU/BBU-ADJACENT SETTING, HOMELESS WHUMPEES, RUNAWAY WHUMPEES, CONDITIONED WHUMPEE, PARA SOCIAL CELEBRITY RELATIONSHIPS, GRIEF, MENTIONED CHARACTER DEATH

Peyton belongs to @wildfaewhump and is used with permission.

TAGLIST: @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump , @badgerwhump , @flowersarefreetherapy , @gottawhump , @oddsconvert , @cepheusgalaxy , @bbu-whump-reblogs

@ailesswhumptober A.I. Less Whumptober day 1, "Public Torture." (Sorta)

They slept in the bus terminal the first night. That was the plan. Dami had looked up on one of the burners they’d pilfered, memorizing it before smashing it and throwing it away. LA to Phoenix to Denver to Chicago to Philadelphia to New York City - a total of twenty-one hours. Twenty-one hours and they would be with their partners. Twenty-one hours and they could hug Wick and Kes and let themself be hugged.

Peyton had stuck close to their side as they bought the tickets, the brim of his hat doing nothing to hide his wide eyes and nervous posture. He jumped at shadows and tensed when anyone came close. He hadn't stopped touching his collar and Dami had finally pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

He’d cried himself to sleep, curled up tightly on the seat beside them with his head in their lap. They couldn't sleep. Dami had stood in the line at the kiosk to get them the tickets that would take them out of California.

The sooner the better.

They felt like a criminal as they sat, cap pulled low. The headphones slid over their ears only to muffle the noise of the busy terminal around them. Unlike the last time they’d been here, the place had updated itself, equipped with tv screens and usb charging stations that Dami was somewhat grateful for.

They zoned in on the television as the news blasted through.

“Tributes are flooding in today after it has been confirmed that up and coming actor, Thane Barlow, has died. Officials reported the movie star deceased, his body found face-down in his bed. His sister has issued a statement outside his home this morning…"

No one would say what he had truly died from. The media would stick to the story she told them. No one wanted to be sued for defamation. Either way, there would be a private investigation and maybe a public one.

Each word was a nail in the coffin they'd been holding their breath for, had been listening for. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. Their world was in the process of falling apart. The worst had come and gone–Thane was dead, that was that.

‘’A call to check on Mr. Barlow was made by his agent when the actor failed to make an appearance at the location of his next film and did not answer when visited at his home, despite the cars in the driveway. Mr. Jones claimed he was worried about the well-being of Mr. Barlow, stating it was unusual for the star to not show up to work.

Not much is known about Mr. Barlow’s background before immigrating to America. Nevertheless, audiences were captivated by his outstanding performances throughout the years. Fans across the globe are mourning his loss, and it is fair to say that Hollywood has lost a truly unique spectacle.”

“Man, that’s just so sad.  He was so talented,” someone commented, biting into their sandwich.

There was a lot of chatter going on around them as people stopped to listen and watch the news. They did their best to pick out bits and pieces of the conversation but they couldn't focus. Their eyes stayed glued to the screen. The cameras were twenty deep, with three helicopters going overhead. Even the tourists had been crowded back: they were packing the sidewalks three blocks in every direction.

“Damn, that’s too bad. He was young too.”

“It blows your mind…like…celebrities are like us, they don’t just live on forever.”

Dami grit their teeth, grateful Peyton was still asleep. All they could do was keep going and try to keep Peyton from shattering. He never got to say goodbye, never got to see him one last time. He was still on the edge of falling apart.

"He played all these villains, all these dark people, see? But he was anything but dark in his regular life. Everyone loved him, and said he was the most fun man to be around."

They wanted to scream. These people didn't know him. They hadn't known him.

They pulled the hat lower and covered Peyton’s head with the hood of their jacket again at the mention of Thane Barlow’s missing pets. There would be a reward for their safe return. They tried not to roll their eyes at the anchor saying how scared and lost they must feel without their owner, how frightened they must’ve been to run.

They snorted and looked away from the tv. They didn't need to see helicopters whirring and police cars flashing around the place they’d once called home. If they returned a third time, Dahlia Barlow-Smith would rain hell on them. 

Perhaps, to some members of society, they were and would always be a criminal. Dami had accepted that the first time they’d run away that their very existence was a crime but Peyton….Peyton wasn't used to it. He wasn't used to the sideways looks, the quiet whispering, the way your shoulders would always feel tense interacting with anyone and everyone. Trustworthy, compassionate, empathetic people were few and far between. 

There was always someone more desperate than you. Another lesson they’d learned the first time they’d run.

He’d learn and he’d learn quickly. 

Dark eyes scanned the crowds of people rushing through the terminal, each in a hurry to reach the bus that would take them to their destinations. They nudged Peyton awake. The time had come. He raised his head to one almighty screech of burning rubber, hearing it skid to an abrupt halt. I looked up and stared into the doors of perhaps the last bus I would ever travel on.

The shuttle was large: it had many compartments to store luggage on top of the seats as well as another compartment to store larger suitcases on the side of the vehicle. The bus was relatively crowded with most of its seats being occupied and had air conditioning blowing through its entirety. Although the bus was filled with passengers, the environment was mostly quiet with people listening to music, reading or sleeping. There were a few conversations going on but Dami paid them no mind. They negotiated the aisle, head down, focused on the filthy, grungy floor. They found an empty seat and parked themself down in it. Peyton clung to their back. 

The journey continued, the bus increased its speed appearing to be traveling faster than a speeding bullet, the view outside became a blur of black and gray whizzing by at what seemed like hundreds of miles an hour.

Perhaps, one day, it would feel like enough. Like they weren't moons forever caught in the orbit of the same planet-sized grief. They weren’t there yet. It still hurt so very, very much.

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 5

Previous // Next

CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, blood mention, scar mention, non-sexual nudity

It felt wrong to touch the boy’s face. It felt wrong to touch a person who had been endlessly abused into mindless submission, someone who had been trained through pain and suffering that they had to exist at the will and command of another. It felt wrong that the boy was still sitting naked, all but skin and bones, entirely unmoving on Rowan’s floor. 

What other choice did Rowan have? Was there another way to communicate with this boy, one  that wasn’t as direct as physical contact? Necessity, Rowan reminded himself as the boy’s face turned upward in his palm. I’m doing this out of necessity.

Even as he gently guided the boy’s face to look upwards, he refused to meet Rowan’s eyes, his gaze directed towards the floor. That was alright. It was going to have to be alright for a while, Rowan suspected. 

After a moment he let his fingers fall away from the boy’s chin. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was relieved when his new houseguest held the position rather than dropping back to the ground. 

“Hey there,” Rowan greeted. He did his best to smile. “I don’t know if you remember, but my name’s Rowan. I know this is new for you, but it’s new for me too. It’s new for both of us. I’m sure you’re probably scared, but we’re going to get through this. We’re going to have to learn together, alright?” 

The boy didn’t even blink. 

---

Master didn’t seem upset that Pet was holding still and looking up at him. By the hint of a smile on Master’s lips, it seemed that he was pleased by the unusual posture. 

It didn’t dare meet Master’s eyes, of course, but now it could try and read his lips. Even if it couldn’t decipher the words that Master was speaking, it had already come to enjoy the soft murmur of Master’s speech. The kindness and warmth was enough for it to relax. 

New�� new… new for both of us… learn together…

Pet knew that it could do that. Pet was happy to learn new things for its Master, and it was going to try its very best to do them well. Failure meant punishment, but even worse, failure meant disappointing Master. Disappointing its old Master is what got Pet into this mess to begin with. It could handle any amount of pain, however Master chose to train it, but disappointment always burned the deepest. 

Pet can be good. Pet can learn with Master. 

---

It struck Rowan that now only was the boy still naked, but the stench of waste and sweat clung to his body. The putrid odor of the liquidation event had begun to seep into the room at no fault of the boy’s own. 

Of course - Rowan privately scolded himself for forgetting. The facility never gave its victims the luxury of proper hygiene, and this one had been stuck at the liquidation event for days, before eventually being stuffed in a box. There was no wonder that the boy’s curls were slicked down with grease and dirt. 

Rowan attempted a smile. He knew it didn’t reach his eyes, but how could it, when he knew how much pain this person had been through? 

“How does a bath sound, yeah? Can we do that?” Rowan offered this enthusiastically. Rowan also knew that his bathroom was a bit of a disaster, scattered with half-empty shampoo bottles and skin care products he hadn’t used in weeks. He tried to soothe himself by rationalizing that the boy wouldn’t particularly care about the room’s cleanliness. 

There was no reaction to Rowan’s offer, not a nod, not so much as a twitch. It was all he could do not to sigh, worried that any sighs would be interpreted as misplaced frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was set the boy on edge. 

He remembered what worked earlier, the very gestures that had lured the boy to his bedroom in his first place. After giving himself a determined nod, Rowan took a few steps backwards, and gestured with a low hand to invite the victim to follow along. 

Much to Rowan’s relief, the boy understood. He scampered forward on his hands and knees, eyes glued back to the ground, every bone on his gaunt frame showing. As much as Rowan would have preferred him to walk on two feet, this was going to have to do for the moment. Just enough to get him cleaned and settled in, nothing more. Then they would begin work on rehabilitation. 

As soon as Rowan opened the door to the bathroom, the boy bolted forward and into the tub in a tangle of limbs and apparent enthusiasm. Rowan hadn’t spoken a single word or made a gesture. He smiled in spite of himself, and cocked his head to the side.  

“Alright, I guess baths are okay? That’ll make this easier.” Rowan thought about the many victims that had been tormented by water, scalded or frozen at inhumane temperatures, or held beneath the surface until they drew mouthfuls into their lungs. To have a victim who was at least amiable to the cleaning process would relieve the burden on them both. 

The boy had resumed the typical kneeling position in the tub, seemingly unbothered by the hard porcelain. Rowan figured it was best not to try and correct that for the time being. One step at a time. Be encouraging. 

Rowan leaned over to the spigot and slowly turned it on, carefully easing the handle towards “H,” and diligently checked the temperature as water began to flow. Once it was comfortably warm he plugged the drain and watched as the clear liquid began to pool around the boy’s legs. Rowan almost swore he heard a contented sigh as the boy’s eyes slipped closed. 

For the first time in more than a day, Rowan felt himself smile, a genuine smile. And for the first time, he felt that maybe he was cut out for this. 

---

Pet was grateful for the washing before it even began. Its old Master was so particular in keeping Pet clean, and would have his servants scrub Pet down every day beneath a stream of hot water. Sometimes the soap was floral, other times it was citrus, but it always left Pet smelling wonderful. Handler never gave it such luxuries when it was sent back to the training facilities. 

The water rose ever higher, first over its thighs, then over the pale skin of its stomach, until the water finally came to a stop right above its navel. It could have groaned with how pleasant the warm water felt on its aching legs and bruised knees. For a moment it nearly dared to speak, express its gratitude for the kindness, but knew better than to open its mouth without being told. 

Still, it was a treat to have Master wash it rather than a servant.

Master gently cupped warm water over its head, and Pet closed its eyes tight to keep the water out. With each new splash of water Master continued to talk away, his voice nearly as warm as the water, wrapping around Pet’s shoulders along with the suds. Of course, the words were still indistinct, and Pet listened in case there was a command it could discern, but it was already starting to think that maybe Master just liked to talk. Pet wouldn’t mind that at all. 

---

“I’ve never really had anything to name before,” Rowan mused aloud as he worked his fingers through the boy’s curls. The texture was so much deeper than his own, the ringlets rich with weight. He made a quick mental note that the dollar-store shampoo he used for his own pin-straight hair would most certainly not do in the future. 

“You see, I had to name a goldfish when I was a kid,” Rowan continued as he began to rinse the shampoo out. “I had to name it, and I stalled for weeks. My parents kept asking me, and my sister kept bugging me about it, but I just didn’t have anything. My mom eventually suggested ‘Goldy,’ and I just went with it. But if you can’t tell me what you want to be called, at least not yet, you deserve a name. A proper one, something with a bit of dignity.”

He wondered if there were websites to help with such a thing. namesforyourbrainwashedhumanslave.com? It wouldn’t surprise him. 

“You’re going to have to learn to wash yourself in the future.” Rowan gently wrung some of the water from the boy’s thick head of hair and hoped he wasn’t pulling on the roots. “It’s okay if that doesn’t happen right away. I’m more than happy to help, but I want you to feel comfortable doing things on your own, without having to ask me. You can come in here and have a bath whenever you want. The apartment incorporates the cost of utilities into the monthly rent already, which means we can use as much as we want at no extra cost. It’s nice to have almost unlimited heat in the winters, especially this far north.”

As he began to carefully wipe away the grime on the boy’s face with a warm cloth, Rowan nearly startled when the boy leaned into the touch. He hadn’t expected to feel pressure returned against his hand. After pausing long enough to pull himself out of the shock, Rowan pressed on and began to scrub at the dried blood on the side of the victim’s face. Flakes of muddy brown and deep crimson scabs covered the deep gouges that ran from his temples, down his ears and jawline, almost down to his neck. Given the extent of the damage, it was a wonder there was any skin left. 

“I hope one day you can tell me how these got here,” Rowan murmured as he got a good look at the wounds for the first time. Blood flaked away and fell in hues of brown into the water, mixed with fresh red from the most recent and still-weeping wounds. 

“I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered before he could stop himself, because he knew he had to be hurting the boy, no matter how gently he tried to proceed. The wounds were deep, and Rowan wondered if they needed stitches. How was he supposed to tell? Maybe they were too wide for stitches, maybe the scar tissue was already too well-formed. 

They were different than the scars that Rowan had seen on other victims before, and he had seen the aftermath of many instruments of torture in his time. These scars were jagged, and they were as wide as three fingers across, as though they had been continually torn open. It was the first time Rowan saw them this close up, and he noted that the cartilage of the ears was warped and knobbed. Again, something like he had never seen before. 

The water had turned a translucent copper color, and Rowan tried not to be sick as he reached in to drain the bathtub. A quick hand gesture and the boy got out of the tub and knelt back down on the bath mat. 

Right, towels. Dry him off. 

“Let’s get you dry, huh?” Rowan spoke. Maybe it would help ease whatever tensions were running through the boy’s mind if Rowan kept narrating what he was doing. He imagined it would be beneficial to take away some of the nerve-wracking suspense, and instead replace it with vocalized certainty. 

Forcing a smile on his lips, Rowan grabbed the freshly-laundered towel he had set aside, and held it out in the boy’s line of sight. 

“I’ve got a clean towel here. If you want to do it yourself, just grab the towel, and I’ll stop. Otherwise, here we go.” 

As soon as the terry cloth made contact with the boy’s shoulders, he leaned into the touch, his upper body shifting a few centimeters closer to Rowan’s own. Again. This time, Rowan didn’t startle quite so easily. In fact, he was surprised at himself, and the happiness that blossomed in his stomach. 

He knew he couldn’t take happiness in this forever. There was no joy to be taken in a human being that acted on inhumane training, a human who sought other human contact because they were told to, not because they wanted it. But if the boy wasn’t afraid of him and his touch, that was one small victory. Rowan had a feeling he was going to have to take the little victories for what they were. 

“You’re doing great,” he said, not for the first time that hour. But this time, Rowan knew he might have been talking to himself as well. 

---

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader @dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast @whumpzone

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 29

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We're finally on the way home kids...

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery. Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

The clock on the dashboard of Delia’s Honda glows bright blue, digital colon blinking between the six and five every second like a heartbeat. Only seven more minutes until the CVS opens. Leo scans the parking lot for the dozenth time. It’s still nearly empty, unchanged since they pulled in ten minutes ago after a drive twice as long as it needed to be. The pharmacy is the only store with any lights on, the rest of the strip mall’s windows and signs are dark. Errant snowflakes flurry through the light cast by the street lamps, inconsistent and sparse, borrowed from a passing storm. It would be peaceful if it weren’t for the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. 

Leo drags a hand over his face and takes a deep breath. He can’t even remember the last time he pulled an all-nighter. It must have been back when he was young enough for it not to feel like he’d been hit by a bus. Beside him, Aiden is still and quiet, save for the just-audible exhales he forces between pursed lips. Measured and even like he’s trying to stave off tears or panic or pain or some combination of all three. They didn't speak on the ride over, both tensely checking the mirrors to make sure they weren’t being followed. 

Not that there was anything to say. 

…

He couldn’t even look at him.

If Aiden were a normal teenager—whatever that means—he’d be giving him hell. How could you be so impulsive? I already thought I lost you once today and now you’re jumping at the next chance? Do you have any idea what that would be like for me? Trying to get on with my life after they’d taken you back? Can’t you see how much I care about you? 

But he couldn’t say any of that. Didn’t know what to say, so he couldn’t look at him right now. Aiden quietly resumed his charade. Sure, the raid wasn't over yet but Leo couldn’t help wondering if he was putting on an extra show of cooperation as a demonstration of goodwill. 

Did he regret what he almost did? Or just the fact that he got caught? 

When he was sure Aiden’s eyes were closed, Leo looked into his face. The ruse wasn’t at all convincing, Leo knew him too well. For starters, the overwrought way Aiden managed his breath was a dead giveaway. A far cry from the gentle, inherent rhythm of sleep even he managed. Leo had clocked more minutes than he was willing to admit frozen in the hallway, letting himself feel an undeserved modicum of relief when that smooth sound reached his ears.

Just as telling was the determination in the tension of his jaw, only a little diluted by the way he was holding the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth to keep it from trembling. He was braver than Leo could ever give him credit for. He barely understood the first thing about this kid, yet here he was, reading every twitch of his brows and hitch of his breath like he had the whole frame of reference. 

Thankfully, this charade didn’t solely hinge on his or Aiden’s poor acting skills. The devil was in the details on this one. It was the set that truly sold it and revealed just how much practice Delia has had at this. 

Greeting cards crowded the windowsill, all sure to have handwritten messages on the inside. Either abandoned and repurposed or manufactured for this explicitly. A handmade quilt was tucked over the foot of the bed, balloons filled one corner up to the ceiling, and fresh flowers sat on all three tables. A hand-painted ‘Keep Fighting’ sign stretched across the wall with messages and names written over handprints. He recognized Delia’s handwriting in one corner. There’s no way she had recruited so many sympathizers so at least half of those notes and wildly different signatures had to have been done by her hand. Again, he was unsure whether to be unnerved or impressed by the level of dedication. Which was about as terrifying as it was comforting because maybe it meant the agents really weren’t coming back.   

And that was about all the time he could spend distracting himself from what the fuck was going on and where the hell was his damn sister. 

It was all he could do not to compulsively check his phone every second. Was it on? Was it even still in his pocket? What if he didn’t get service in this corner of the hospital? 

By the time there was a knock on the door, he had wound himself up so much that he jumped to his feet. In his flat-out panic, he forgot any recognition of the cadence of knocks and was certain they were caught but he was just pinned to the spot like an idiot. When the curtains parted, of course it was only Noah and he knew that, but he had passed the useful kind of adrenaline-fueled exhaustion about five hours ago. 

“They’ve given the all clear. Everything good here?” Leo’s obvious lack of composure earned raised eyebrows from Noah. 

He cleared his throat and straightened, his lower back tight after trying to conform to the chair. “As far as I know…they came in but a nurse made them leave before—” He resisted the impulse to look at Aiden who hadn’t moved, save opening his eyes to watch them. A deer frozen on the edge of the yard, afraid bolting would mean certain death. Ironic. “Where’s Delia?”

Now Noah looked caught out. “She’s, uh, she’s got her hands full with a…patient…” 

Leo struggled to keep his voice even. “What? Did they find something?” 

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s…look it’s better if you don’t know the details. I’m sure you want to get out of here anyway.” He cast a meaningful glance at Aiden. “Here are some notes for the prescriptions. They’re ready to fill at the pharmacy, antibiotics and—”

“Wait a second.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “How deep into this shit are you two? I’m grateful for what you did for us but this doesn’t seem like something you should be making a habit of.” 

Noah had the gall to chuckle—little shit—but when he saw Leo’s expression he quickly swallowed it. “Hey, man, I get it. There’s a reason I don’t tell my family. But I’m sure you know Delia well enough to know she’s not a ‘follower’.” He even used air quotes around the word. “We’re not even in the same unit. We didn’t realize we were both doing this independently until one of our shelter contacts introduced us.” Leo didn’t even try to mask his doubt so Noah continued, “For what it’s worth, it’s a lot safer for both of us having each other’s backs. But as you well know, the risks are never zero when you’re on this side of the law.” 

On this side of the law. 

The phrase twisted and turned in his head as Noah led them out through the labyrinth of back stairwells, quiet wards, and service elevators. It pressed against his thoughts as they huddled in a supply closet from a rush of doctors responding to a code blue. It loomed over him as he rested his hands on Aiden’s shoulders when he nearly jumped out of the wheelchair at the slam of a door. It echoed loudest when he was behind the wheel and it was on him to get them home safe. And figure everything else out. 

…

“L-Leo?” Aiden ducks his chin when Leo looks over, like he didn’t intend to say his name out loud and isn’t sure what to do with his attention now that he has it. He picks at the cuticle of his right thumb, lips moving like he’s trying to shape his words just right before speaking. After a minute of that, he presses them together, flattens his hands on his thighs and meets Leo’s eyes. “Mmm’sorry…before…mmm…” His chin starts to tremble and it’s obvious he wants to look away but he forces himself to maintain eye contact. “I-I-I…mmm…mmm…” 

“Alright, it’s okay.” Leo can’t bear the kid’s self-imposed confession. “I’m not mad. I can’t say I understand what might have possessed you but, anyway, we’re good. Water under the bridge.” It feels a little blunt and more than a little awkward but he adds, “You’re not in any trouble,” like Delia said dozens of times throughout the night. 

“Mmm…but…I’mmm…I-I-I…” Aiden furrows his brow like he’s still trying to find a word, lips moving, but tears well in his eyes, threatening to spill the longer he searches. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Leo repeats gently. “It’s all good.” 

Aiden doesn’t look placated at all. He balks at Leo, visibly distressed, lips quivering as he pauses mid-silent-syllable. 

Shit. That’ll encourage the kid to communicate more, just cut him off like an impatient ass. But if this is just some other backwards Companion obedience thing… Leo’s out of energy for trying to wade through how exactly to handle this. He has so much research to do. Is it even safe to do research?

“I’m sorry, hon. Look—” Aiden flinches when Leo's hand meets his shoulder. 

He grimaces at Leo apologetically, shaking his head at himself. He swipes at a tear with the back of his hand and shakes his head again, a ragged exhale escaping his lips.  

“I know it’s not easy, we’ll figure it out together.”   

Aiden looks up, biting his lips together as he tries to blink back the rest of his tears. It’s heartbreaking to watch. Leo hopes he doesn’t think there’s any problem with him crying when he needs to. At the same time, Leo can also understand why he wouldn’t want to always be breaking down. 

“For now, let’s just focus on getting home, okay?” 

Aiden nods, pulling his hands into his sleeves and wiping away the last of the tears. He puts on a brave face.  

“Good boy.” 

Aiden looks away shyly. Leo opens his mouth to take it back, to apologize for saying something so patronizing, so offensive. He meant it more as a ‘good sport’, ‘atta boy’. He— 

There, behind the fist Aiden rests his cheek against as he pretends to look out the window, is a hint of a smile. 

Only this kid can shatter his heart and melt it in the span of five minutes. 

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeisreal @whumpy-writings

@cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo

@neuro-whump @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

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

@pirefyrelight

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2024

Day 19. “Please don’t”

Content: BBU adjacent pet whump, caretaker is new master, child oc mentioned? (mouse),

Thank you @ilasknives for looking it over <3

…

Ratty waited on the staircase for Mouse to come home from school. They leaned their head against the bottom of the railing poles and watched the door. They had been sitting there since Mum left this morning, and would continue to sit until someone came home. 

There was a sound of a car pulling into the driveway, then footsteps coming up to the door. Ratty perked their head up, watching as the doorknob rattled with the movement of a key. It turned and opened. 

Doug walked through it, wearing an unbuttoned suit with a loosened tie around his neck. His locks were pulled up into a bun. He was home early today, and Ratty leaned their head back against the poles in disappointment. 

“Hello, sir,” Ratty greeted half-heartedly. 

“Oh, Ryland, I didn’t see you there.” Doug sounded surprised. “Where’s your mother?” 

“She left to run some errands. Said she would be back later and to wait for Mouse to come home.” 

“I see…” Doug sat down beside Ratty on the staircase. It weirded Ratty out, and they shifted an inch away from him. He was too close to them.

Doug was staring at his hands in his lap, and kept his voice quiet. “I know you miss August, and that your mother won’t let you talk to him. I don’t think that’s right of her. I tried to talk to her about it but she, well, it might take some time for her to accept the idea.” 

Ratty didn’t know how to respond and just stared at him with distrust still clouded over them. 

He continued. “So, what I was getting at is… If you want to call him on my phone while everyone is out, you can. If you don’t tell your mother or sister.” 

Ratty blinked. “Wait. Really?!” Was this a trick? “Really, sir? Are you serious?” 

“Yeah. You can call him right now if you want.” Doug pulled out his cellphone and held it in front of Ratty. “But it can only be a small phone call for now. Is that okay? I’m sorry it can’t be longer but maybe next time.” 

“Yes, sir!” Ratty practically shouted. Their hands trembled with anticipation. Was he really going to call Auggie right now? 

“Okay then.” Doug winced and tapped in August’s number. He put it on speaker and handed the phone over. 

The phone rang a few times until a nervous voice picked up. “Um… Hello?” It was Auggie.

Ratty’s words were caught in their throat. “Hi,” they managed to croak out.

“Tee? Is that you?” August asked incredulously.  

“Yes, Auggie. Mr. Doug let me use his phone in secret. He told me not to tell Mum.” Ratty curled inwards against the phone. 

“Oh. Huh. Are you okay?” He asked.

Ratty assured him that they were more or less okay, and the two had a little back and forth of worried small talk. 

Ratty was building up to their main question until they finally dared ask. “Auggie? Can you come and get me now? I did everything you told me to. I've been good. I’ve been here for so long, when can you come and get me?” 

A pause, then he sighed. “Ratty, I can’t come and get you. You know that. You’re going to have to stay there a little longer. I’m sorry.”

Tears welled up in Ratty’s eyes, fogging their glasses. “Please don’t leave me here, Auggie. Please don’t…” 

“I’m sorry, Tee. It’s not that simple. Keep being good for them, alright? You just have to wait this out. I’ll see you as soon as I can, I promise.” 

Ratty clutched the phone with a lump in their throat as tears dripped off their chin. “Please come soon…” 

“I’ll try. I miss you.”  August’s voice gripped around Ratty’s heart. 

They gulped in some air. “I miss you too, Auggie.”

Doug waved to get Ratty’s attention, then tapped his smart watch. He put five fingers up then closed his fist. 

Ratty got the gist and sniffled. “Auggie? I have to go now. Please come soon, okay?” 

“I’ll try, Tee. I’ll try…”

—

General writing tag list: @frogkingdom @coppercoyoti @alittlewhump

Febuwhump tag list: @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @blackrosesandwhump

[sideblogformindtrash]

Alright. A rebranded version of Orfeu, Farlan and Haru's part of the story. It's heavier than it was last time, and everyone's morals are worse. It will have more explicit content, as well. And I really don't know how much of it I'm up to writing, so let's just see how it goes.

CW: human pet; dehumanization; noncon; past and present; noncon alcohol use; BBU-adjacent;

It's not too explicit in this one, a bit more towards the end.

Farlan opened the door of the car for him. He smiled, the man knew how to be a gentleman when he wanted to. 

Stepping outside in the gravel he took a moment to look at the house towering over them. He had been to houses like this one before, some lived in and some abandoned, each telling a story in their carved up stones. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what it would look like, once it was left neglected, with its foundation rotting and paint peeling off the walls and the memories of those who lived there once impregnated on the old cement like grooving smoke.  He couldn’t help but wonder if someday a part of his own soul would be stuck within those walls. After all, Farlan said he could stay for a couple of months, as long as his dad was away.

“Do you like it?” Farlan asked, hooking a hand around his waist.

He smiled, throwing himself against the man’s chest, tip toeing to be able to kiss his cheek. He was so tall, and smelled so good. He knew he was a little fucked up from the times they had chatted a bit… but still was one of his preferred clients. 

“It’s lovely” He winks, suggestively tracing up his back. Although he returns the affection, he doesn’t seem satisfied.

“Be honest. This ain’t you”

He giggles, glad he’s picked that up. Means at least he was paying attention to their conversations. 

“...It 's too big. You know, houses are alive. It will rot and die and crumble and be filled with ghosts and we’ll all be stuck inside it forever. It will someday become a maw”

Farlan glances up at the house, furrowing his brow. 

“That 's alright. I kind of already hate it”

Orfeu smiles. Sometimes it’s not the place itself, but the people inside it that turn a cozy home into a trap.

“Is it really okay for me to be here?”

“Yeah. Dad will be gone for a while. Business and all”

He smiles, swinging on his feet. It’s exciting, and honestly unexpected too.

Over the years, he’s worked his way up to richer and richer clients, till he had a pretty good list of them. They’d take him on travels who could never dream of paying for himself, or meet him at these lavish hotels. Never at their own home. Always a hidden, shameful secret.

Not that he was complaining. He’d be spoiled to the hell and back either way, all he had to do was have some class and give these fuckers some attention. At least Farlan didn’t seem ashamed of him. 

After a last look at the house, Farlan gently pushes him towards the door.

“Let 's go in. It’s cold”

A smile creeps up his face when he sees the inside. It’s even more lavish than he could have expected, every wall and ceiling painted in rococo-like style, every corner filled up with details and golden furniture, the walls built in archways, spiraling staircase in old varnished wood, a golden hanging chandelier. There’s so many trinkets all around… he is sure they won’t miss it when he takes a few.

Well, and there’s a living ghost at the doorstep, white curly hair framing his face like a fallen snow, a perfectly practiced kneeling position, hands softly curved over his lap and a soft pleasant smile. His eyes have nothing but burning devotion. 

“Is that your pet?” 

…The reply is a twitch on Farlan’s face, as it stares down almost hatefully at the kneeling boy.  What the pet could’ve done to deserve such anger he’d never understand, but Farlan had told him about the pet before.

He didn’t want it. He didn’t like them growing up, didn’t like hearing them scream, he didn’t want one now. Yet he was given one and now he just… Hated it. Except he learned to like the screaming.

Orfeu smiled and pretended that didn’t make him a little uncomfortable, but he had met his fair share of pets at this point. It was almost mandatory for his richer clients to have one, and not uncommon for them to want the pet to participate. At the end of the day, having absolute control over someone seemed like a common fetish among those circles, almost as much as being controlled. Even more so when the ‘partner’ was someone who couldn’t safeword out of it. 

And Orfeu would just. Take a deep breath, swallow down his feelings and go along with it. What the fuck was he supposed to do anyway, other than just make sure to keep himself safe?

“He’s adorable” He smiles at the pet. He was infatuated with Farlan up to a second ago and now… Just staring at Orfeu with big scary eyes “May I…?”

He asked the pet, but it’s Farlan who answered. 

“Go ahead. You two will become… very intimate anyway” Farlan nudges the pet with his foot. It's cue enough for the pet to lean forward and kiss his shoe “He’s a desperate little slut. He’ll get wet just from you looking his way”

The pet’s face goes red with shame, the softest mew under his breath, but there is some truth to that When Orfeu touches his head, he seems to melt, exhaling deeply and leaning into the touch so much, he’d fall if Orfeu took his hand away. 

Makes him wonder how much conditioning that took. 

“What is his name?” 

“...Father calls him a songbird sometimes. Ain’t really that” he twists his nose in scorn, but the pet can’t see this time. He’s got his eyes closed, in heaven just from being petted. 

“...You didn’t give him one?”

“He doesn’t need a name. He’s just my thing”

Orfeu smirks, gently pushing the pet back. It mews, sad as the hand is taken away, but he goes back to kneeling, like hands clasped on his lap.

“Well. Your thing. Like me?” 

Farlan fixes up his glasses, glancing away and cleaning his throat. His face flushes a little bit.

“No. No. Not like you”

“...Oh love. Exactly like me. Kinda like you, too~”

There was an abyss between him and the pet, and an even larger one between the two of them and Farlan. But they were all the same dust in the end. They’d all lose a part of themselves in this house and be stuck in here forever, someday becoming ghosts made of smoke. And their lives, in the hands of the same uncaring god. 

“Pet. Bring us wine” Farlan demands, just as a way to interrupt that discussion. The little thing away to fulfill the request “Let’s go up. I’m tired”

He follows close behind, noticing the way Farlan struggles up the stairs ignoring the elevator despite being clearly in pain. He’s pretty sure he left the cane on the car. 

The pet joins them halfway, steps so light he barely notices till he’s right behind them, wine in hand, but not daring to run past his Master. He wonders what his name was before, and where he came from. If at some point in his life, he was held by loving arms, or was it all just misery and pain? Because he remembers being in a lot of pain himself, when he tried to sign away his own life.

Farlan groans, sitting on a big cozy armchair in the bedroom, and relaxing a little as he takes the weight out of his hips. The pet puts the wine on the table, and kneels by his side. 

“Come on. Sit” He gestures to the other armchair. Orfeu considers just going on his lap instead, but Farlan seems to need a moment so he just obeys.

“That’s some fancy fucking wine” The label on the bottle says it’s a least eighty years old and imported. Truthfully, it is wasted on him. He couldn’t differentiate it from a cheap one anyway. Not that he’s complaining, as he swirls it around and makes a whole show of tasting the wine. It’s red and it’s sweet and that’s about all he can say. At least, Farlan seems amused by it. 

“Shouldn’t he get some too?” He asks, glancing at the pet, kneeling quietly on the floor.

Farlan seems to ponder for a moment, then with a gesture, makes the pet crawl towards Orfeu. He kneels at his feet, eyes wide, having a harder time hiding his fear and anxiety now as Orfeu tilts his chin up and takes the cup to his lips. The pet takes an hesitant sip, a line of red dripping down his white skin. 

From there, it is easy enough to finish off the bottle and then move into bed. 

Farlan is brutal with the pet making it cry and whimper, the bed creaking under them. He leaves the pet’s light skin colored with purple bruises, makes him croak and whine and cry. He’s rough with Orfeu too, of course. But hey. Unlike the pet he likes it. And truly… he’d rather invite that attention all on himself.

He does what he can, eventually managing to shift Farlan’s attention, keeping the pet underneath himself, gently petting his hair. 

At some point, they fall asleep together, in a messy, sweaty pile. 

Farlan leaves early in the morning, mumbling something about being late for class, leaving an empty space in the middle of the bed.

Orfeu yawns, and pulls the pet towards him instead, letting it bury his head on his chest, falling asleep again.

tag: @whump-blog (im guessing you wanna tag-)

[whumpsoda]

WSFSP - Lick It Clean

Masterlist

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

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

——————

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

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

“No stuttering.”

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

“No excuses.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——————

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

[pigeonwhumps]

Inspiration

BBU Community Days: Day 6

@bbu-on-the-side

Oh gosh. I'm not sure how I found the BBU originally, but I know I was hesitant to join in at first. The first stories I found and read in what was then their entirety were Tomas and Rowe and Linden and Colton by @whumpzone, although the first piece was part of Paxton and Amal by @boxboysandotherwhump – I remember getting confused by it lol, I think I struggled to find the masterlist or something? Anyway, iirc I started reading through the tags, and I was still a bit uncomfortable creating something in the BBU, but I still created Sam and Lucan, which is adjacent to it in a way. But then, idk what happened, I'm not sure whose piece it was but it clicked, like "well why can't I write something?" and, once my brain came up with this prompt and I decided I liked it too much not to write something for it, Sanctuary was born.

And then I haven't really stopped since.

As for writers that have been an inspiration... well, there's a lot. @ashintheairlikesnow's worldbuilding has definitely helped, and also your characters and stories. @octopus-reactivated and @maracujatangerine your conversation/posts on pets in film directly inspired Pets of the Silver Screen, so I can't leave you out of this. Every BBU writer whose stories are so good, that I see and then want to write more myself... look, I'll tag a few who I haven't already tagged, but I'm definitely gonna forget people, apologies: @justplainwhump @flowersarefreetherapy @for-the-love-of-angst @deluxewhump @gottawhump @winedark-whump @highwaywhump @wildfaewhump. And anyone else who I've talked to about my BBU OCs (@painful-pooch with Cass, for instance, and others on Discord)!

[peachy-panic]

I Want To Stay

DO NO HARM. Followup to The Incident last chapter. Sebastian and Jaime have some shit to work out. 

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-adjacent, discussion of past sexual assault/abuse, self-victim-blaming thoughts, panic attack, some dehumanizing thoughts

Ezra is quiet for several long moments after Sebastian stops talking, the line crackling with static.

God, it’s even worse when he recounts the story out loud.

Part of him wonders if he made the right call, suggesting he and Jaime wait until the morning to talk. But after Jaime got dressed last night, Sebastian took one look at him perched on the edge of his bed, puffy eyes fighting to stay open, and he knew that the kid needed sleep more than he needed whatever weak reassurances Sebastian could offer him in the moment. Neither one of them were in the right headspace for the kind of talk they needed to have.

Not that Sebastian got much sleep in the end. A couple of broken hours at best. But that, at least, gave him the advantage of being awake before Jaime. He needed a window of time to get his head together, and the best way to find some clarity in this tangle was to dial Ezra’s number. And of course, despite the early hour, his call was answered.

“I recognize,” Ezra finally says slowly, “that this is not a comfortable subject, but I think it’s best if I speak freely now.”

“Please,” Sebastian says, a little too eagerly.

“I don’t think it will come as any surprise to you that there is a high probability he has been sexually abused by his previous contract holders.”

Sebastian pulls in a breath. He does not tell Ezra that he knows this for a fact. Even if the law does not uphold doctor-patient privileges for people like Jaime, Sebastian would never betray his confidence. Still, having the words spelled out between them in black and white, after the horror show in the living room, stings like a slap to the face.

Fortunately, Ezra doesn’t seem to expect a response.

“The first few weeks of a contract are incredibly difficult, no matter how long you’ve been at it. There is never any guarantee of what you’re walking into. I had…”

There is a brief, uncharacteristic pause, and Sebastian panics, because the last thing he wants to do is drag his friend into the murky waters of his own past to fix something that is Sebastian’s problem. But Ezra recovers quickly, moving on before he can call the whole thing off.

“I was contracted out a lot,” he says. “Early on, I learned that humans can always come up with new and unique ways of hurting each other. This boy… He is young. He is only beginning to find this out for himself. To him, right now, everyone in power is a threat to his safety. And nobody has more power in his life, right now, than you.”

Ezra gives that a moment to sink in, then asks, “Have the two of you had a clear conversation about your expectations?”

“I try to make it clear that I don’t expect anything from him.”

Ezra breathes out something that might be a laugh. “That is a nice sentiment, Sebastian, but not very helpful in practice. Expecting ‘nothing’ is rather vague, and is sort of an expectation in itself, is it not?”

Yes, it is. Of course it is.

Sebastian tries again. “I gave him a list of guidelines, like you suggested. Something he can reference if he gets nervous. I told him he doesn’t need to address me as a superior, that he is welcome to anything in the apartment and isn’t obligated to work around the house or… or serve me in any way.”

“I’m going to be blunt again,” Ezra says, “which is probably what you should do with him as well. Have you told him outright that you have no intention of having sex with him?”

Sebastian closes his eyes. “I… I told him that I would never hurt him. I didn’t specify—I mean, I would never even think about touching him like that, you know I wouldn’t.”

“Yes,” he interrupts gently. “I do know that. He, very clearly, does not. And given what you’ve told me, and what I already know about the system, he is going into this contract with every reasonable expectation that he will be assaulted at some point. It’s likely he still will believe that, even after you talk to him. But that trust has to start somewhere, and this is one promise that I know you’ll keep.”

Sebastian feels very suddenly like he might cry again, but Jaime could wake up any minute, and he doesn't want him to see his bloodshot eyes. He cannot go into this conversation framing himself as the victim.

“I thought he was starting to trust me.” It sounds as pathetic as he feels. “We’ve made so much progress in a few short weeks, and still, he… Jesus, Ezra, I’m doing exactly the opposite of what I wanted to do. You should have seen him last night. He’s terrified, and I didn’t even notice. He’s been spending—god, weeks just waiting for the moment I would…” He swallows back a gag. “He must have been so scared, and I didn’t even see it.”

“You see it now,” Ezra says—and isn’t that putting it mildly? “Now, you can address it.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees. He just hopes it isn’t too late to reverse the damage.

****

For the first time in weeks, Jaime wakes to a morning that is even more grim than the night that preceded it. The memory from the night before slams into him before he even opens his eyes, sharper and meaner than any nightmare could be. Because last night, the demons weren’t just in his head. Last night, Jaime let them out into the open, laid them bare for Sebastian to see, and now he has ruined everything that could have been good.

Dread turns him to stone where he lay. From his tight ball on top of the blanket, he looks around the room—at the clothes hanging in the closet, the borrowed book on the nightstand next to the full glass of water Sebastian brought him the night before—all the tangible tokens of kindness that will be ripped away if Sebastian, justifiably, decides to sever their contract early. Jaime wishes he could turn back time. He knows that there will never be another assignment like this one. This was his best case scenario, far and above, and he has thrown it away.

The thought of sitting quietly in Sebastian’s passenger seat, empty handed as he drives him back to the facility, hollows his chest. He thinks about what it would be like, seeing him in the facility—passing him in the hallway with his head bowed, being brought into the clinic to be examined after a new contract—and Sebastian looking through him like a stranger.

Jaime swipes angrily at the tears that try to burn their way out. He has no right to cry about it now. There is no one to blame but himself.

He doesn’t know how many minutes pass, only that the sunlight coming in through the curtains has tinted gradually warmer over time.  From the kitchen, he hears the muffled signs of life and knows Sebastian is up. Still, Jaime avoids the clock on the nightstand, desperately wishing to play ignorant for as long as he can. It’s selfish to hide himself away when Sebastian said he wanted to talk this morning, but the thought of facing him feels insurmountable.

Finally, the guilt outweighs his anxiety, and he can no longer delay the inevitable. Even if he really, really wants to.

He takes more time than strictly necessary picking out his clothes for the day, and even more pulling each article into place, but eventually there is nothing more he can do to stall. Standing in the middle of the room, Jaime turns to face the door and draws one slow breath after another. He does it again, and then again, and again, until suddenly the breaths are controlling him and not the other way around. They come faster and more shallow, and suddenly he’s not getting enough air at all. He jams one fist against his stomach and the other against his chest, digging his knuckles hard enough to bruise. Breathe. You have to breathe.  

When he finally gains control, or some semblance of it, his knees are on the carpet, but he doesn’t remember hitting the floor.

He allows himself only the amount of time it takes for his breathing to level out, then he pushes himself up, rolls his shoulders back, and leaves the room.

Sebastian is sitting at the kitchen table, phone to his ear, when Jaime stops in the doorway. He looks up at him, eyes widening slightly, but covering the expression with a quick smile. “Hey, I’ve got to go,” he says to whoever is on the line, followed by a pause. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll ask him. Thank you again.”

He sets the phone facedown on the table and turns his full attention to Jaime. “Hey. Good morning,” he says, making half a move to stand, then seeming to think better of it.

“Good morning,” Jaime echoes numbly. Before he can start gushing whatever useless apologies his brain can come up with, Sebastian nudges a plate and a mug toward Jaime’s side of the table.

“I made some coffee and toast. It’s still warm.”

This is his way of softening the blow, a voice in the back of his head whispers. Still, Jaime obediently folds himself into the chair and thanks him. Not wanting to add ingratitude to his list of offenses, he nibbles on a piece of toast slathered in butter and honey. His favorite, he notes with a twinge of sadness.

A long silence overtakes the table. Both of them chew a little longer than they need to, taking extra sips of their coffee to buy time. Finally, when the tension feels tight enough to snap, Jaime blurts “I’m sorry I kissed you,” at the exact moment Sebastian says, “We should really talk about what happened.”

There is, inevitably, another long silence.

“Sorry, you go ahead,” Sebastian says quickly.

Jaime’s eyes fix to a spot on the table’s wood grain and don’t deviate from there. Somehow it’s even harder saying the words a second time, but this is the most important part. Jaime has been on the receiving end of a lot of kisses that he didn’t want. He needs Sebastian to know that he means it.

“I’m sorry for kissing you. You didn’t want to, and I… I was selfish. And I’m sorry.”

“Jaime,” Sebastian says gently, because even now, of course his first instinct is to meet Jaime with undue kindness. “It’s o—I mean, no, it’s not okay. But I don’t think you have a selfish bone in your body. I know you didn’t do it to hurt me.”

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Jaime whispers.

“No,” Sebastian agrees. “But I am not angry with you, or upset with you in any way. Okay? I just… I’m hoping you can help me understand how we got here.”

Jaime’s mouth clamps shut. He stares at the wood grain until his vision goes unfocused. A couple of times, he tries to pry his mouth open, but no words make it out.

“Okay.” Sebastian says patiently. “It’s okay. I know that was kind of a broad request. Maybe… maybe we can start with last night?” Jaime nods. “To be clear—It’s not that you’re not allowed, or that I’m in any way upset by it, but you were up pretty late. Is that… unusual for you?”

There is no point in lying now. “No.”

“Oh.” Sebastian sounds so sad, he wishes he could take back his answer immediately. “I’m sorry that I didn’t notice before.”

Jaime inclines his head. “I try not to wake you.”

Sebastian hesitates long enough for Jaime to look up, then says, “You can, you know. If you ever want to or need to. I’m no stranger to late nights. I know they can get pretty lonely sometimes. I won’t ever be mad at you for waking me up.”

Jaime doesn’t know what to say to that, as he doesn’t think Sebastian would appreciate a thank you, so he just nods.

The kitchen chair creaks as Sebastian shifts his weight across from him. “Jaime, I—” He stops, then starts again. “It’s okay that you couldn’t answer me last night, but I really need to know. Have I done something—even by accident, even something small—to make you feel like I wanted that from you last night?”

“It’s not you,” he says honestly. Not this version of you, at least. Not the real you. “You’ve been… you’ve been so nice to me.”

It doesn’t earn the smile he hoped for . “That’s… I’m glad you think so,” Sebastian says, “but obviously I haven’t been doing as well as I should, to let things get as far as they did last night.”

Jaime shakes his head, a bit frantically. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Haven’t I, though?” A bit of frustration seeps into Sebastian’s voice, and Jaime can’t help but wince. Immediately, Sebastian retracts. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Jaime feels dangerously close to tears again. He’s clenching his fists under the table hard enough to make his joints ache, but the words tumble out of him anyway.

“I’ve been having nightmares.”

He doesn’t know what he thought he would achieve by telling him this, and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to elaborate without making it worse for everyone, but the words are out there now and Sebastian seems to latch onto them.

“Oh,” he says softly, his copper brows drawing together above his glasses. “Do you want to tell me about them?”

He bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood. He doesn’t want that. He really, really doesn’t, but his silence seems to fill in the blanks that he doesn’t say out loud. He can almost feel the moment it clicks.

“Jaime?” Sebastian says. “Are these nightmares about me?”

He will not cry again. He won’t.

“I…” Jaime’s throat is dry. He swallows, trying to wet it. “I’m not allowed to talk about it, but you already know. What they did. The…” He’s treading dangerous waters, and his body knows it, if the trembling in his hands is any indication. It’s like the conditioning they forced on him is a physical part of his chemical makeup, rejecting the attempt to override it. “My Keepers, before you. You know what they did to me.”

At the time, in the clinic, it was humiliating to have all his secrets bared to Sebastian as his doctor. Now, he is grateful he doesn’t need to say the words aloud.

Slowly, Sebastian nods. “I do know. And Jaime?” He ducks his head so that he is closer to his line of sight. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that it happened to you then, and I’m… I’m so sorry that I didn’t make it crystal clear to you until now—but I will never, never, do anything like that to you. I will never expect anything like that from you, nor would I want it, and just like last night, I would stop you if you tried.”

The conviction in his voice is hard to deny, though there is still a part of Jaime’s fucked up mind that tries to fight it. “Thank you,” he says anyway.

“Don’t—” Sebastian’s eyes clamp shut. “That is not something worth thanking me for.” When he looks at Jaime again, he studies him with an unreadable expression. “You know what they did to you was wrong, right? It was fucking evil. You know that, right?”

Hesitantly, Jaime nods.

“They had no right to touch you, and neither do I.”

Legally speaking, that might be true. But they both know that it is not the law that determines what is allowed and forbidden, but the systems that uphold it. And this system has been broken since its inception. Still, something about hearing the words out loud soothes some broken, desperate part of him that aches to believe it’s true. The part of him that’s been aching to believe it since he stepped through the door.  

Sebastian has given him reason after reason to believe it. He realizes now, more than ever, how much he doesn’t want to lose that.

“Are you going to take me back?” He rips off the bandaid, clean and quick. He needs to know the answer now, before his hopes can climb any higher.

For a moment, Sebastian stares at him with the kind of quiet you expect to hear before a bomb goes off.

“Jaime,” he says, and there are tears in his eyes. “You’re not a… You aren’t a fucking toaster. I’m not just going to dump you off on WRU the second something goes wrong. You are a human being, and I… I care about you. The only thing that would make me take you back to those people is if you told me you wanted to go, and even then, I would insist that we explore every other possible fucking option first.”

Jaime doesn’t know what other options there are, and he doesn’t ask, because right now his brain is reverberating with one single thought: I get to stay. I get to stay. I get to stay.

“I want to stay,” Jaime says.

Sebastian nods. “Good. Okay. Good. I want you to stay, too.”

This time, when they return to their toast, the quiet is much lighter than before, the tension slackening along with their posture. They take their time, finishing their food before either of them speaks again.

“I know that you’re not allowed to talk about what happened with your… on your past contracts,” Sebastian says suddenly. “But for what it’s worth? I promise that I’ll never tell a soul if you decide you want to talk about it with me. You deserve to have that option, whatever you decide.”

Jaime briefly entertains the thought of unloading those stories, what it might feel like to share that weight with someone who cares about him, if only for a little while. But the darkness will slip in fast if he allows it, and he doesn’t want to bring Mr. Torley or Bryan or Thomas or Handler Smith or any of the others anywhere near this moment.

“Okay,” he says.

Sebastian nods, accepting that answer easily. He collects both their empty plates and carries them to the sink, turning his back to Jaime.

“There is something else I wanted to talk about,” he says over the running tap. “Do you remember the friend I told you about? The one who mentioned wanting to meet you?”

He does remember. At the time, the idea of meeting another one of his Keeper’s friends filled him with cold dread, too fresh off the memory of Football Sundays at the Torley house. Now, after the night behind them and the conversation they had, Jaime tries his hand at trusting him.

“Yes, I remember.”

Sebastian turns back to him and leans against the counter, drying his hands on his sweater. “I think it would be good for you to know you have someone else on your side. Someone besides me, I mean.”

Jaime’s confusion must be apparent on his face, because Sebastian elaborates, albeit somewhat uneasily.

“He gave me permission—or… well, an instruction, really, to tell you this before you make your decision about meeting him. And let me be clear, it is completely your decision.”

He seems to wait for some sort of confirmation, so Jaime nods again, fighting against the instinct that tells him the rug is about to be ripped out from under him.

“Ezra is… Ezra was in the system, too.”

Jaime blinks, truly lost now. “He’s a companion?”

“No, he isn’t,” Sebastian says, and there is the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth. “But he used to be.”

***

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[ilasknives]

INK BLACK AND BLUE (A whump fic introduction).

hello and welcome to my newest whumpee! I swear I'm writing my other stories but for now you can have him :)

CW for: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, brief mentions of non-con touch, non-consensual drugging.

1: Hand to Hand to Hand

Pet practically belonged to the casino by now. He was here more often than not, these days, tucked uncomfortably under some table in the back corner with his head down and his knees underneath himself, hands bound tightly together and chained to a table leg. It was a small place compared to most, low-lit in the yellow wash of the dying lights on the ceiling, hidden in some back alley somewhere. The kind of place people went when they didn’t want much competition, or when they’d been kicked out of every bigger casino in the area. Pet could find his way here from any corner of the town in his sleep.

Most days he’d be dragged in the doorway to a handful of pills shoved down his throat and a hand - or several - blocking off his breathing until he swallowed, then he’d be shoved down to his knees on the moth-eaten carpet to wait.

Today was no different. He couldn’t see much beyond the shoes of the players and the table legs around him, but by the force of the poker chips being dropped on the table and the anxious shifting of the pair of legs beside him, it was going to be… a long night. It had already been a long night. His owner - current owner, anyway - was losing, and badly.

A hand dropped down to rough up his hair and Pet gritted his teeth, curling his fingers into the carpet fibres and hunching down lower. Every muscle in his body drew tense, the urge to bite swelling in his chest, raging and painful, dulled only by the drugs in his system. Somewhere else, he would thrash and turn and sink his teeth in. But he didn't bite here. He'd learned that lesson well and truly by now. He worked his teeth into his bottom lip instead, and the hand drew away to throw another card down on the table.

The game dragged on. Poker chips slammed on the table above him, a kick to his side, yelling from the men who were losing, yelling from the men who were winning. A hand in his hair, more chips on the table, more yelling. Cards, chips, hand, yell. Teeth into lip. Cards, hands, yelling. Nausea, climbing his throat. Drugs and swimming vision. The urge to fight, stuffed somewhere back behind his teeth. He didn't bite here.

The table cleared slowly as time wore on, players running slowly out of cash as it piled in the centre or finally deciding to escape with their winnings before they lost them again. His owner kept reaching down to pet his head – something that only this owner did, really, and Pet didn’t know if it was a nervous habit or if he thought it was some odd form of good luck. Pet had never asked, too focused on keeping his teeth in his mouth and ignoring the way it made his skin crawl. He’d never be seen like that, anyway. At worst he was bad luck, at best he was nothing to them at all.

He gritted his teeth together under the table and dug his fingers into the carpet. It was worn, here, from how often he did this. His table, his spot. Casino property, or whatever. He didn’t want to mean anything to them.

It was some time before the sound of the door opening drew his attention and he lifted his head to see a new pair of shoes stepping across to the table.  

“You have time for another round?”

The newcomer’s voice was not one that Pet had heard before. He stilled, listening. The men here were all violent and mean, slurred voices, rough hands. Pet knew them all personally. Intimately. He’d been to each house, each bed, each basement floor many times over but this man – he didn’t recognise him. There hadn’t been a newcomer to this casino in months.

“Just packing up,” said his owner, but there was an edge to it, like he was hesitating. The newcomer shifted his feet.

“Are you sure?”

“… You play cards?”

“I’m quite good at cards, yes.”

His owner sat up straighter and laughed. None of them could resist a challenge. This was going to drag out into another few rounds of back and forth, and his legs were already numb. It was a goddamned miracle his owner had kept him this long as it was, but he was quickly running out of money and Pet knew he didn’t know when to stop. This owner was always more hesitant to give him up, for whatever reason, but he’d done it many times before. He’d do it many times again.

There were three of them at the table now – his owner, another regular, and the newcomer. The cards shuffled, and someone started tossing them out. One fell, fluttering down to the floor, and the newcomer leaned down to pick it up. He glanced up when he did, face-to-face with Pet as he reached for it. The man blinked at him, picked the card off the floor and straightened. That was fine. He’d prefer to be ignored, anyway. Above him, the conversation continued.

“You have a pet here?” asked the newcomer.

His owner huffed out a laugh. “He’s not worth much, if that’s what you’re wondering. A pain in the ass, more than anything. Aren’t you, pest?” He reached down to rough up Pet’s hair again. He gritted his teeth together and refused to respond, which earned him a smack up the back of the head. “See what I mean?”

“I didn’t know they were allowed this close to the tables.”

A scoff. “You think this place cares? You’re not in a big city anymore, mate.”

The newcomer hummed in agreement. “Guess not.”

Pet glared at the floor, tearing carpet threads up with his fingers, bottom lip worked painfully between his teeth. He’d bitten it raw, but no one cared, least of all himself. It’d just be a point of mockery later, of wow, pest, had to try real hard to keep your teeth to yourself back there, huh? and rough hands holding his face still so someone could lick the blood away. He told himself he’d smash his face into theirs.

Bad pet. Pest. Fucking menace. He revelled in it.

Just not here, he reminded himself when his owner shifted his leg to press it against his side. The contact made his stomach turn.

The game went on.

“Not as good as you said, huh?” Someone said, late into the game, late into the night. “Bet that hand you got dealt isn’t looking as good as you thought.”

A laugh. A shuffle of cards. “I guess not. You’re doing well, though.”

“You’re too fuckin’ polite for this place, mate,” his owner laughed. More chips dragged over to his side, piled so dangerously close to the edge that if Pet craned his neck, or shifted just a little too much, he’d be able to make them fall. Somehow they didn’t when his owner leaned across the table. “Got another round in you? Or are you gonna tuck your tail between your legs and run home? Easy winnings from someone who claimed to be good at this.”

The newcomer sighed and shifted, a hand coming down to pat at his pockets. Pet had been here long enough that he understood what was happening, the desperate search for something else to put up, the draw to the game even when he’d done nothing but lose.

“… I’ll put my car in.”

The owner laughed heartily and accepted. The other regular had left, by now, and it was these two alone, nothing but Pet and the casino staff behind the bar to watch them. This game, another. The tide turned, and his owner started losing, the newcomer’s skills seeming to come through for him.

His owner was scrambling, now, the wins he’d been gloating about ripped right from underneath him.

Pet felt the tug on his leash before he heard the words.

“Throw him in, too.”

“Your pet?”

“His attitude isn’t worth shit, but a pet’s worth a lot of money, you know that.”

“… Sure,” shrugged the newcomer. “My dad could use another pet.”

If his owner had been any decent kind of person, he might have mentioned that Pet was not the kind of pet that anyone would want. He was disobedient and angry. He didn’t get passed around the casino because he was good. They all just wanted their shot at breaking him – it’s all he was good for, anyway. A bargaining chip, a game piece, something to be taken and given up. Just a monetary value and a source of bragging rights.

But his owner was a bitter, arrogant kind of man, just like the rest of them. He was a desperate one, too. So Pet became part of the betting pool once again, and the cards were shuffled above him.

In the end, no matter how hard his owner had tried, no matter what cards he played, it hadn’t mattered. He lost the money. He gave up Pet.

At some ungodly hour of the morning, after a scuffle between the men - over one claiming the other had cheated, or scammed him, or something like that - that the casino staff had to break up, Pet’s chains were taken off his wrists. He heard one of the staff mutter a recommendation for a muzzle.

The newcomer wrapped Pet’s leash around his fist and dragged him outside.

The world swam, and his legs barely had feeling back, and he didn’t fight when he was pushed into the back of a car, still too close to the casino.

He didn’t bite here.

But almost. Soon. When the drugs weren’t making him so tired, when he wasn’t trying to figure out what this new owner would be like and how hard he’d have to fight.

He didn’t answer when the man asked for his name. He’d stopped keeping track of those a long time ago.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot

[tragedyinblue]

BBU Community Days, #12

@bbu-on-the-side

{Day 12: Decisions} What is something special about your setting (be it BBU or adjacent)? Does it differ from the "standard"? In what way does this decision influence the story you're telling?

------------

CW: Mentions of terrible injuries, ruthless practicality and no ethics in a dystopian world

Not sure how unique these two are, but here we go, lol. The most obvious thing I can think of is the brand of carewhumper I'm going for. It's a mix of well-meaning caretaker and unintentional whumper, but with the added complication of a degenerative memory disease (dementia). I've seen stories where Platonics/Caregivers deal with disgruntled owners, but the general vibe seems to be that the owner gets better. Unfortunately, dementia does not. While it's something Chase was (theoretically) trained to handle/mitigate, simulations aren't the same as real scenarios.

Which leads to the second point: the level of purposeful brutality involved in the Caregiver training. The way I interpreted that designation is that yes, the Pet is to be a health aide (remembering schedules, medications, assisting with mobility, feeding, bathing, clothing, etc.) but they're also supposed to learn to perform life-saving skills should something befall their caretakers (they fall and break a bone, bleeding out, drowning, etc.). Since Pets aren't seen as people, the handlers have them practice on each other as the most realistic simulation possible. It's dehumanized pragmatism in the cruelest way and I'm not sure whether a lot of folks go there in their facility stories/flashbacks. I can't promise not to get dark again, but whatever bad things happen to Chase or any other character in my story will have a "logical" reason behind it and not just be whump for whump's sake.