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generic-whumperz · 2 months

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The Aid: Chapter 6- Stranger To Myself

CWS & TWS: partial nudity, aftermath of prolonged starvation & torture, long-term captivity, slavefic/institutionalized slavery AU, implied past non-con, self-mockery with some undertones of body dysmorphia

Word Count: 1,258

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Stripped to nothing but his underwear, The Aid stared unblinkingly into the bathroom sink mirror.

How long had it been since he last gazed upon his bare body with unblurred vision?

A warm, too-cheery morning glow filtered in and lit the whole room from the rectangular window running the span of the right wall, shedding an unwelcoming bright light on a distorted creature wearing his skin.

Could his body really have changed this much?

He stared into the bathroom mirror, but an unrecognizable stranger stared back.

Those weren’t his eyes, his cheeks, his nose.

That couldn’t be his bandage-wrapped torso and splinted wrist.

That protruding clavicle, those scrawny arms—those belonged to someone else.

No. This couldn’t be what he looked like.

Even his glasses were wrong.

These weren’t his long-lost staple Prada Heritage frames gifted to him by his beloved late Madame resting on his face, but instead, some cheap, too-big, tortoiseshell browline glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. At least the prescription was right, or at least the most up-to-date, despite being over a year past due for an eye exam.

Before Dr. Paul regifted him the miracle of sight, he let his vision blur over the parts of himself he didn’t care to see, but now they all screamed at him in unison like an off-tune choir screeching from the depths of hell.

The chorus chanted, It happened; it all really happened.

Every slice, stab, cut, burn mark, and bullet wound alike—they were all real. Yet his mind refused to believe the hard evidence screaming at him as if denial would improve his circumstances.

It happened; it all really happened.

He cut.

He fucked.

He took you for all you were worth.

It happened; it all really happened.

And you deserved it all.

His pale skin was littered with markings—dark and faint, big and small, shallow and deep, most of which he forgot the origins of. Every mark on his used-to-be flawless skin served as constant reminders of his previous year and a half in hell, a year of continuous merciless torture by the hand of his deceased Madame’s sadistic son. A year promised to be even worse than the last, quoted from the bastard devil-man himself.

Staying true to form as the resident sad sack, The Aid found himself further dissed by his inability to reach out and touch the stranger to confirm his physicality—he supported himself on one good leg, leaned on a crutch held up by one good hand, and just like that he was out of operable limbs.

All he could do was stare. And even that was strenuous on his bloodshot, petechial eyes.

The only thing he recognized from who he was before was the two thin, elongated c-shaped scars running between his Cupid’s bow and his nostrils; the right side of his lip tugged slightly up and sat higher than the left. These scars he knew, these scars he bore since infancy from a bilateral cleft lip reconstructive surgery. It was barely noticeable; most people couldn’t see it—but he could, and it was the only thing tethering him to the reality his mind desperately tried denying.

The months of starvation ate away at his face, devoured his already slim figure, and left nothing behind but the gaunt outline of who he used to be. His already squared jaw became even sharper, especially juxtaposed with his strong chin, sunken, colorless cheeks, and thin neck. His pallid face sapped any semblance of life. Dark circles drooped under his heavy eyelids; not even a glint of hope dared to glisten in his round, hazel brown eyes.

Still, he stared.

Stared at what was supposed to pass as a piece of expensive jewelry but was little more than a livestock ear tag—a 10mm 24k gold plated orbital cuff pierced through his left ear with a stamped cursive “M” to let his designation as a celebrated ability-wielder known to all.

He stared at the identification number tattoo in industrial typewriter font inscribed on his upper outer left arm—070210 reflected backward in the mirror.

He stared at the shiny strips of newly scarred-over skin—a long, u-shaped cut spanning under the hollowed flesh of his right cheek, a vertical nic on the tip of his chin, and a long faint slice across his left temple, and the jagged bend on the bridge of his nose courtesy of a poorly healed break.

That was just his face; that was just what scarred over. He knew there used to be more, but they faded into oblivion with the passage of time, and he couldn’t help but envy their departure from existence.

His absent gaze drifted slightly south, still staring at the body of a stranger.

Staring at the tiny red specks dotting around his listless eyes that marched in inexorable strides down to similar, but larger, blotches splattering his neck from burst blood vessels elicited from his Master’s wrath.

Staring at the already visible swollen horizontal marks and circles wrapped around his neck from Wyatt Sullivan’s thick fingers choking him out with a furious death grip—it would be no time before the puffy red shapes evolved into dark, blue-purple bruises.

Staring at the rat nest sitting atop his head…at least he still had his hair—every out-of-place and too-long strand of hair that looked as foreign as the rest of him. His eyebrows were unplucked, scraggly, and ungroomed, looking almost as bad as his patchy, overgrown stubble and shaggy, oily hair that hung over his forehead and past his ears. Whoever this stranger in the mirror reflected looked more like a man than he ever allowed himself to resemble.

Was he outgrowing his coveted boyish looks? Or was his youthful glory hiding beneath the detested overgrown shrubbery?

The assault on his once pageant-worthy looks didn’t stop there. The unwanted scruff and strands of greasy hair brought amped-up oil production along with it. His clogged pores screamed to be exfoliated and buffed free of the pus-and-grime-filled white-peaked bumps sprouting on his cheeks and forehead like newly formed mountain ranges. He appeared stuck in a late-bloomers limbo, looking somewhere between the 24-year-old man he actually was and a pizza-faced teenager who acted allergic to caring about appearances and feared face wash.

His dead-eyed gaze meandered down to his gauze-wrapped chest and bandaged right shoulder; visible rib bones peaked between slits of bandages. Faded yellowish-green splotches colored his scarred, concave abdomen. The elastic band of his boxers around his waist hugged his protruding hip bones, barely held up by the too-loose fabric slightly stretched around his rear.

He always resided on the smaller side, both in height and mass, but this went far beyond his typically lean self, past skinny, and now approached the realm of deathly skeletal.

The Aid tilted his head slightly, giving his the stranger’s reflection a last once-over, contemplating what he looked like…it was on the tip of his tongue—

‘An extra from Corpse Bride! Someone call Tim Burton and tell him there’s a new pasty white guy to model a lanky claymation figure after! Meet your latest and greatest awkward yet endearing main character with a heart of gold and a moral lesson to teach the kiddos on the silver screen!’

Wyatt Sullivan took everything from him. Destroyed him. Reduced him to a jump-scare animatronic from a pop-up Halloween store.

But his humor and knack for a self-deprecating joke?

Now that was forever his and couldn’t be beaten, cut, or fucked out of him.

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Chap title inspiration & vibes: The Stranger by Billy Joel

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears

If ya wanna be added or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me! :)

#The Aid #Generic Writez #whump story #oc whump #oc story #whump fic #whumpblr #whump writing #whump blog #slavefic #tw implied abuse #tw implied torture #tw implied noncon #mentions of sa #tw sa #tw sa mention #tw sa implied

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theyayadiamond · 4 years

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Interview with Author Mahogany Writez from Yaya Diamond on Vimeo.

For Mahogany Clark, 2019 was a year in which she miraculously crossed paths with a life-altering defining moment, of sorts which, much to her delight, had emerged courtesy of a pair of empowering new books.

“I wrote my first book in May of 2019 and my second book in December of 2019,” Clark told Making Headline News this week.

The books to which Clark is alluding are: Self Love: A Book Of Poetry By Mahogany, her first written work, and A Cup Of Family Tea, her sophomore published document.

To her credit, both books by this Miami-based author are as good as advertised.

Generally, Clark’s Self Love: A Book Of Poetry By Mahogany is comprised of 38 pages in length and debuted officially on May 23, 2019.

instagram.com/mahoganywritez/?hl=en

twitter.com/mahoganywritez?s=07

m.facebook.com/mahoganywritez/

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generic-whumperz · 7 months

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The Aid: Chapter 4- One Step Closer

TW & CW: non-con nudity (nonsexual), dub-con/non-con touching (nonsexual), clothing dressing (nonsexual), mention of past non-con, pet/slave fic with general dehumanization that goes along with it (nothing severe), deliciously delirious drugged Whumee, Whumpee awakening from a coma, aftermath of torture and starvation, underweight and malnourished Whumpee, probably medical malpractice, med whumpy(?), Care-Whumper (this is the closest we are getting to a “Caretaker” for a LONG time, and Dr. Paul is no saint), asexual-spectrum Whumpee who doesn’t know he’s ace-spec yet and subsequently has negative self-talk and throws himself a pity-party because of it (this is part of the character journey, alright?), Caretaker turned Whumpee, general sad + angsty Whumpee energy, Wyatt Sullivan (Whumper) being a bully (expected), Whumpee being called "boy" when he's a grown ass man, bad jokes as a coping mechanism from Whumpee

IDK if this needs to be a warning or not, but Whumpee is currently non-verbal from being drugged and having trauma (brain trauma from the coma mixed with general trauma-trauma), but there’s quite a bit of internal dialog, and we are in his POV!

Word count: 3645

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‘Maybe if I’m a good enough boy, I’ll get a treat after this,’ The Aid jokingly thought, desperate to find an ounce of humor to cling to.

If he couldn’t laugh, he’d surely cry.

And he was tired of crying.

With gloved hands, Dr. Paul carefully removed The Aid’s IV and feeding tubes, talking him through the process as he worked, intended to keep him as calm and present in the moment as possible. Wyatt Sullivan returned with a full glass of water—per Dr. Paul’s request—which the Doctor took from him before shooing him away, tasking him to warm The Aid a bowl of soup.

“I saved the worst for last, but it’ll be quick, I promise,” Dr. Paul said in a chipper tone. He fondled and stuck a syringe into something at the foot of the bed for a minute before lifting the bottom of the comforter and sheet that covered The Aid.

“Full disclosure, you’re naked under here, but after I remove the catheter, I’ll make you decent so you don’t have to trot around bare-assed.”

The Aid felt his heart skip a beat and his body temperature quickly rise from utter humiliation.

‘Great.’ A shiver of unease washed over him as the thought of another grown man dressing him filled him with inept self-consciousness. He felt foolish for feeling this way, as Dr. Paul had seen more parts of him than anyone else—all parts, in fact, many times.

‘At least Dr. Paul offered; at least it isn’t Wyatt—not like that asshole ever would do anything remotely helpful.’

He glanced down to see Dr. Paul hoist up the covers to his right knee before he forced himself to look away, not trusting himself not to jerk away from perturbed anticipation. The Doctor stuck his arm under the blanket, placing his hand on The Aid’s inner mid-thigh, unclipping the catheter from the adhesive tubing holder, and gently peeling it off his leg.

“This won’t hurt. I mean, even if it did, you wouldn’t feel it with the meds you’re on. Just take a deep breath and try to relax,” Dr. Paul directed, giving The Aid a moment to prepare. He sucked in a quick breath and held it in as he anxiously kneaded the blanket, fingernails digging into the soft filling of the comforter like small animals burrowing into freshly plowed Earth.

The Doctor hoisted the bedding further and quickly peeked below as his arm completely disappeared between The Aid’s legs.

‘I look like a mother about to give birth.’

Although he couldn’t feel much of what was happening and Dr. Paul worked diligently, his face turned bright pink from embarrassment. He fought his knee-jerk reaction of clamping his legs shut, knowing that would only prolong the process and demoralize him even further. He lightly felt the strange sensation of the tube pulled from his urethra, along with Dr. Paul’s index finger and thumb holding his sex steady as the catheter was fished out from inside him.

He wanted to fucking scream.

“You’re okay, almost there…Just a couple more seconds,” Dr. Paul hushed, observing The Aid’s legs shaking, stiffened body, and tightly-twisted red face.

“All done!” The Doctor pulled the blanket back down over his feet while holding the catheter out in front of him, placing the tubing and foley bag that was secured to the foot of the bed in a small trash can.

The Aid sharply exhaled the breath he held in between clenched teeth as a few tears escaped his eyes. He tried to force the memory of the experience out of his mind alongside his expulsion of breath before filling his lungs with a steadied, deep inhale.

‘Deep breath in…deep breath out…Repeat. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.’

He couldn’t help but feel violated and further stripped of agency. Who was he kidding, what agency did he have left at this point?

He knew the Doctor was only doing his job, and it was a simple medical device removal procedure; that wasn’t what bothered him, although he couldn't shake the feeling of being molested. What really ate at him was the fact that he viewed himself as a pathetic loser because, through his own avoidant tendencies, he inadvertently put himself in a situation where the only people who touched him were doing it out of a sadistic urge or in a medical setting—usually to fix damage from said sadistic urge.

He felt stupid for being triggered by something as simple as a formal routine, but his distraught feelings overpowered his rationality, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself. He didn’t care if he was being overly emotional about it; he had to allow himself to grieve the life he lost on top of all the pain and torment he went through. If he still had an ego, he was sure it was just as broken and bruised as his body.

Fleeting parts of him wished he had succumbed to horny teenage sexcapades just so he could dig up a single good memory of an intimate connection that didn’t leave him a sobbing mess afterward. But looking back, even in his supposed “sexual peak” (that he never went through), he harbored no such desires—well, save the fragmented memories of a single budding spark with a male cheerleader that he quickly snuffed out and fled from in a last-ditch attempt to save them both from eventual embarrassment and hurt feelings.

But that was a lifetime ago.

He didn’t know why he had always avoided deeper romantic connections, but he found them off-putting and thought himself incapable of possessing any feelings beyond a familial or platonic bond.

His disinterest in amorous relations didn’t use to bother him, but now it did.

He would cry-laugh about the irony of his situation when left alone for long periods; he’d spent days reeling about it, stuck in a mental loop while secluded in the basement—an intimately incapable 24-year-old forced to be a punching bag and fuck puppet for a sick pervert who found pleasure from his immense suffering.

He accepted that life wasn’t fair, but did it have to be so goddamn cruel?

******

Dr. Paul’s latex gloves snapped as he peeled them off his fingers. He disposed of the gloves and applied a dab of sand sanitizer, working it vigorously into his palms- the pungent alcoholic stench burned The Aid’s nose and caused a stir of harrowing memories to resurface that came through in broken fragments. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the details and lock them back up in the recesses of his mind’s “Do Not Enter” section.

‘How many things have this abominable fuckass Wyatt ruined and taken from me? Triggered by hand sanitizer? Embarrassing. Maybe it's best I stay here till I die.’

The Aid felt Dr. Paul’s hand tunnel between his lower back and the bed; the Doctor’s other hand securely grabbed his left forearm—the only side of his upper half that remained unmangled.

“I know you’re high as a kite, and you’re out of it, but I’m going to sit you up, okay? We’ll take it nice and slow, up and at ‘em.” Dr. Paul pulled him up with expert caution to a sitting position, still holding him up as his damaged body adjusted to the movement and change of elevation.

The Aid groaned, not from pain, but from the dizzying head rush that momentarily filled his vision with small, trailing stars that reminded him of tiny fireworks. Everything felt off and wrong. The world seemed surreal, as if an obnoxious bright tint was added to it, and he was looking through a high-contrast photo filter.

“Do you feel anything? Are you in any pain?”

The Aid perfunctorily shook his head, his eyes wandering around the room in a daze.

Dr. Paul released the hand from his back, waiting a moment to ensure he could keep himself upright before grabbing the cup of water from the nightstand and holding it out in front of him. The water seemed to sparkle in the clear glass, and he reveled in the small, idyllic moment of his first drink from a cup—not a bowl—since his demotion from house pet to basement troll.

He wrapped his fingers around the glass and carefully took it from Dr. Paul. He brought the rim to his mouth and took a sip.

‘This is the best goddamn water I’ve ever had.’

The liquid was cool and crisp; it didn’t taste dusty and metallic like the water he had grown accustomed to. He never realized how water could have such flavor to it. He took another magnificent sip. Realizing how thirsty he was, combined with the uncertainty of when he’d get fresh water again, he continued gulping it down, savoring every drop.

“Alright…Alright. Okay, that’s enough.” Dr. Paul took the cup from him—still halfway full. “Gotta take it easy, okay? Can’t go chugging water right now; you can have some more in a minute if you’re still thirsty.”

The Aid slumped in defeat, feeling like a small child being berated after being caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Dr. Paul walked to the other side of the room to rummage through The Aid’s dresser, then disappeared into the small walk-in closet for a moment before returning to The Aid’s bedside with garments folded over his arm. He placed the clothes on the bed, leaving all but a pair of boxers in hand, and spun The Aid to the side so his legs were hanging off the mattress—still keeping his lower half covered under the blanket.

Dr. Paul bent over, pulled the boxers over his ankles, worked them around the curve of his bent, scabbed knees, and shimmied them up around his bony hips, the elastic waistband snapping around his waist.

‘This is what Madame Eleanor must have felt like…’

He reflected on his former Master’s last year of life when she needed the most assistance with things. He dressed and changed her multiple times a day without much thought, but never considered the mix of emotions of the person on the receiving end of help. Maybe she made peace with it; an elderly woman dying a slow death from cancer surely didn’t struggle with needing support as much as he did as a mid-20-something-year-old man who was supposed to be the pinnacle of health, right?

Some strange part of him felt a pang of misplaced guilt for not being a better version of himself, although he knew it was out of his control—he didn’t shackle himself, starve himself, and maim himself for months; it was done to him.

Dr. Paul continued dressing The Aid, slipping a pair of socks on his feet as he informed him of his sprained, lightly wrapped left ankle, which he was to stay off of for the next couple of weeks. Dr. Paul assured him that he told Sullivan that he was on bed rest and that his Master wasn’t to lay anything but a helping hand on him.

‘We’ll see how that goes. That creep can’t get his grubby ass hands off me.’

Next, Dr. Paul pulled on a pair of baggy sweats, tying the drawstring as tight as it would allow, then carefully fed his arms through a black zip-up hoodie, taking extra precaution with his right side.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Dr. Paul asked over the low whir of the zipper gliding up to his chest.

‘Consider me your living Ken doll. I can even beg on my knees like Barbie.’

The Doctor retrieved an arm sling from his grab-bag of medical equipment, looped it around The Aid’s left shoulder, and adjusted it to securely hold his right arm. Then, without warning, Dr. Paul abruptly pulled him up by his left hand to stand. His body was stiff as a board, his knees locked, and muscles pulled tight. He stumbled, wobbling with all his weight on his right foot—which wasn’t much, but just enough to throw him off balance.

A distraught whine escaped him as he hopelessly felt another head rush come on and desperately clutched onto Dr. Paul for support.

Panting, he slouched into the taller man’s chest, trying to work up the strength to hold himself up on his own. He felt like a newborn fawn taking its first steps on frail legs minutes after birth.

The hardwood oak floor beneath his socked feet was nice and smooth—he hoped he wouldn’t slip on it. Falling on it would guarantee more damage dealt…although that would mean more bed rest, which meant more time away from Sullivan’s beatings.

“Here we go!” Dr. Paul shoved a walking crutch under his left armpit (‘Where the hell did this come from?’) as he wrapped an arm around him to bear some of his weight, allowing him to acquaint himself with his temporary walking device.

‘An aide for The Aid—a match forged by the heavens and prophesied in the stars, or a cruel joke? You decide.’

“Perfect height! Alright, we’ll just take a stroll to the other side of the room and head back, then I’ll get outta your hair, alright? You’ve been doing so good—”

“That’s what I like to hear! My boy’s a champ; he always bounces back.”

The Aid and Dr. Paul's necks craned simultaneously to the left, watching Wyatt stroll into the room and gesture at a bowl of steamy soup in hand, then placing it—and a spoon—on the dresser.

‘Looks like he’s trying to win points with the Doctor by pretending to be civilized by ‘allowing’ me to eat with silverware; what an occasion. If only I was allowed a camera to document this momentous event.’

“Don’t stop on my account,” Sullivan simpered, sitting on the corner of the bed, twisting around to watch them. He eyed The Aid excitedly, half expecting him to fail and become a blubbering, broken heap on the floor in mere seconds.

‘Stop fucking looking at me with that shit-eating grin.’

“Com’mon,” Dr. Paul coaxed, loosening his grip around The Aid and slowly stepping backward, encouraging him to follow. He took a small, hesitant step forward, supporting himself with the crutch. He felt the woosh of his clothes sway with his jolted, ungraceful step, indicating how much weight he lost during his time in isolation.

“Beautiful,” the Doctor encouraged, guiding him to take another step.

“Speaking of hair, he got a wash and a beard trim last week, then a sponge bath a couple days ago. But I’m sure he’d appreciate a warm shower.” Dr. Paul glanced over at Sullivan.

“Think you can manage to keep an eye on him? I'm not saying you need to bathe him; just monitor him and make sure he doesn’t run the water too hot. I recommend sitting him in a chair so he isn’t standing the whole time; he’ll be woozy for a while. One of the side effects of these meds is heat sensitivity and an increased risk of heat stroke, so just make sure you don’t lock him in the car on a hot day with the windows rolled up. I’ll go over meds with you while he’s eating.”

“Ow-wa Doc! Was that a dog joke you just threw in there?” Sullivan whooped amusedly.

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” Dr. Paul chuckled.

‘Call me Scooby because I can’t fucking Doo this anymore.’

“Sure you don’t want me to scrub his back too? Scratch him behind the ears? Towel dry him and put a pretty bow on him?” Sullivan teased.

‘Don’t threaten me with a good time. If only you would treat me like the show dog I was born to become.’

“Only if you feel so inclined to. But maybe you can pretty him up and get him a haircut and a shave? I’m sure he’d like that. Your mother always kept him groomed, and he looked happier that way. Plus, it brings out his boyish charm, don’t ya think?” Dr. Paul playfully tousled The Aid’s shaggy, grown-out chocolate brown hair that hung past his ears and covered the nape of his neck.

They reached the opposing wall and began their trek back to the bed, the Doctor still guiding him, walking backward like a parent teaching their infant how to walk. From this vantage point, The Aid could see the heap of medical devices stationed on the right side of his bed that mimicked a hospital room.

“Hm, I dunno, I think I like the shaggy dog look on him,” Sullivan said tongue-in-cheek, knowing damn well The Aid didn’t like looking unkempt.

“Looks like a sad little stray puppy, doesn’t he? Well, minus the collar—oh wait—” Sullivan stood abruptly and pulled something from his back pocket. “Now we can complete the look!” He pinched the metal D-ring in between his fingers as The Aid’s dark green leather collar dramatically uncurled, springing out and forward.

The Aid glared at Sullivan with daggers in his eyes, disgusted by the presence of the collar. Just because the physical assaults were off-limits momentarily, it didn’t mean that Sullivan would stop tormenting him in whatever other way he could. The man had the same energy as a brutish school bully who deliberately picked on smaller kids just because he was bigger than them.

“Wyatt, play nice. Don’t tease him; put that thing away,” Dr. Paul chided, irritated by Sullivan’s blatant callousness.

Sullivan challenged The Aid’s glare with a smug smile, placing the collar on the dresser, deliberately positioning it on the edge closest to him so he would see it clearly when lying in bed. This served as a warning, a constant reminder of The Aid’s place, how he was owned and thought of as nothing more than an exotic pet to be tamed and used.

Once they reached the bedside, Dr. Paul took the crutch from under The Aid’s armpit and eased him down on the bed, resting the crutch on the nightstand and grabbing the glass of water.

“Want to finish this?”

‘Is water wet?’

The Aid eagerly seized the glass and greedily drank the rest like it was the last cup of water he would ever get to drink.

“Your first urination after the catheter removal may sting a little, but it shouldn’t be more than a little. There may also be a small amount of blood in your urine, but again, it shouldn’t be more than a small amount. If you have any issues down there, tell Wya—Master Sullivan, okay?” Dr. Paul looked expectantly at Wyatt to confirm that he would be receptive to possible future conversations involving The Aid’s urinary health.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Sullivan asked dumbly. Dr. Paul eyed him confoundedly.

“…You call me, and I come to check on him and make sure he doesn’t have a UTI. If he has any issues, call me, and I’ll check to ensure he isn’t developing more problems. He’s been okay so far despite everything, and I’d like to keep it that way. But, if you haven’t noticed, he’s rather fragile right now; a gust of wind could knock him over.”

“Could have just said that.” Sullivan threw his arms up in the air. Dr Paul sighed, taking the cup from The Aid and propping him up against the bed’s headboard. He brought forth a medium-sized metal tray, unfolded its tucked-in legs, and placed it over The Aid’s lap. This time, Sullivan was smart enough to take the hint of placing the bowl of soup on it.

“You’re welcome.” Sullivan stood, waiting for a meek “Thank you, Master” from his slave.

The Aid stared bleakly into the bowl of soup, unsure how much he’d be able to eat because, despite being starved, he didn’t feel ravenous—he didn’t feel hungry at all. Sullivan scoffed at The Aid’s silence—what he took as an act of defiance.

He’d let it slide, just this once.

He promptly joined Dr. Paul to discuss medication times and dosages.

The older men’s voices faded to indistinctive background chatter in The Aid’s ears. He stared into the soup, fumbled the spoon, and stirred the contents around, trying to muster the strength to feed himself. Somehow, this felt like more of an impossible feat to overcome than hobbling around the room.

He only managed a few spoonfuls of broth. He nibbled on a chopped carrot, but it felt foreign in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it.

He was suddenly hit with an unmistakable twinge of dread. His life felt bleak and meaningless; he had no hope for the future—the drugs seemed to only amplify his negative feelings.

‘Hope I get some fast-acting anti-depressants, if there is such a thing…’

How many more times would he be beaten nearly to death, or to death, just to be nursed back to health for the process to repeat itself? He couldn’t do this again, not after the basement. He lost part of himself in that dungeon that he’d never get back, the remnants forever lost in the pitch shadows. He found his demons down there; they coalesced with a single mission of ripping him to shreds and flaying him open for his human monster to feed on. The demons and devil-man volleyed him back and forth until nothing was left but a shell of a young man who’d lost everything and abandoned his will to live.

He knew no peace, no happiness; nothing but desperation and horror filled his mind and heart.

He stared helplessly into the bowl of soup as his mind dragged him down the hall of horrors, making him relive the torment.

He couldn’t even enjoy his first hot meal in four months.

‘I survived death…But now what?’

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generic-whumperz · 2 months

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The Aid: Chapter 7- Sicko Fantasies and Haunting Memories (NSFW)

(Buckle the fuck up, you are now aboard the Hot Mess Express🚂)

CWs & TWs (not in order): graphic & violent non-con flashback (end of chapter and between the red *****—not to be confused with the black *****—you can read around it without missing any vital details!) including use of a knife and gun and gross details of bodily fluids (it’s a bad time, skip over it if your sensitive to nastiness, don’t say I didn’t warn you—like for real it’s gross), explicit language, insults & name calling*, Whumpee called “boy” even though he’s 24, talk of bodily functions (pee habits and general grooming after months of being deprived of toiletries and self care), suicidal ideation and past suicide attempts/details of past self harm practices (asphyxiation), recollection of being forcibly restrained to bed to prevent further self harm, illicit drug use (❄️&🧊) mixed with alcohol (Whumper), Whumpee wishing gruesome death upon Whumper (but like, good for him, Whumper deserves it), aftermath of starvation and prolonged isolation, undressing and inspecting wounds, prescription drug dependency (Whumpee), depressing self reflections, literal Caretaker turned Whumpee, asshole/bully/sadistic/taunting/creepy/intimate/alcoholic/mentally and physically abusive Whumper (Wyatt Sullivan is his own TW, he’s literally the worst), long-term captivity, slavefic/ institutionalized slavery AU, within the post-apocalyptic(ish) setting AU—mentions of: ongoing war & mass death, evacuations, terrorism and treason, cannibalism, infectious diseases (specifically cannibals with infectious diseases), war factions, extremist Regime, forced labor camps, food scarcity, class division, looting, and hostile takeovers

*We are starting strong with insults here, if this is a sensitive topic or squick for you, you’ll have a horrible time & this ain’t for you dawg, respectfully.

You’ve been adequately warned, proceed with caution :)

Word count: 5,669

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Hey you, yeah YOU!

If you’re still here after that novel of CWs, hi hello :) Holy shit this chapter took on a mind of its own and is a little all over the place! Besides the lengthy list of warnings, there’s also some more world building in here—like a lot more. You probably didn’t have questions, but don’t worry, I gave you the answers you didn’t know you needed anyway! I hope it fits and makes sense, idk what I’m doing, I think my brain is actively rotting out of my skull at this point. If you like insane bullshit, this is for you, and if you don’t, sorry buddy! I'm still sitting on a fatass chapter that comes after this one, but I need to give myself a break after this steamy mess right here. Expect the usual processing time of a month and a half.

Xoxo, Gen

Fuck ass. Shithead. Cock warmer—of all the overused insults his Master chucked at him, The Aid kept a particular fondness for pampered pet.

An offense it was intended to be, yes, but instead of bitter resentment, the gibe strangely restored a sense of lost dignity and sounded comparatively childish against the others. Although, truth be told, most of the snarky nicknames fell flat and lost their zest at this point, and he would’ve appreciated some effort from Sullivan to come up with more creative insults to hurl at him.

His Master made a special sport of provoking him; ergo, he figured the man would at least flaunt some star players now and again.

Nothing got older quicker than a joke worn thin.

But wait, what did the brute call him earlier—lopsie lip? He usually threw up his mental defenses and rolled his eyes when someone made cheap one-liners about his mouth (what could be said that he hadn’t heard a hundred times over?) Still, somehow, Wyatt Sullivan had a real knack for mocking his appearances (his height was another frequently abused topic) and a crafty way of singling out his assumed insecurity. The mockeries weren’t knee-slappers by any stretch of the imagination and came across as equally lame and insensitive Boomer jokes; even so, he’d gladly take these low-hanging digs with open arms over the other vile, squirm-worthy remarks Sullivan berated him with any day—or worse.

Better a poor shit taking the brunt of crude taunts than a poor shit taking the brunt of a boot to the ribs.

Pampered pet—it’s fitting, goes well with his staple stand-in name, Mutt, and even has a certain ring to it, and certainly nicer than cum bucket —yuck (he hated that one).

Pampered was right; he couldn’t stand being dirty and unkempt; indeed, his Madame never condoned sloppy looks and anything less than perfect. She’d be rolling in her grave right now if she saw the sunken state of affairs and how piss poor of a job her son was doing as appointed keeper of her precious house boy.

But oh, how far the mighty have fallen.

Long were the days of his dedication to hours a week of meticulous primping and preening and how he missed those sacred moments.

Since he awoke above ground, he didn’t have the energy or sheer willpower to accomplish anything more than a couple of weak passes with a toothbrush and a few splashes of lukewarm water on his face and called it a day. But now—poor hygiene be damned—a garden of Earthly man-made delights beckoned him.

He studied his previously revoked collection of personal care products next to the first aid caddy on the bathroom counter before him. Here sat everything his Master denied him for months; he bereaved their absences like a lost loved one—no, scratch that, he never missed a person more than a good hand cream and microdermabrasion exfoliant.

In another life, he was always a star patient when it came to oral hygiene—he sported the Colgate smile—so being deprived of his one true love, his toothbrush, during his solitary confinement was arguably worse than having to shit in a litter box next to his bed.

He didn’t know what disturbed him more, the fact that he looked like a freshly dead Jack Skellington or that he now had plaque buildup, a few missing teeth (curtsey of Sullivan’s fists), and probably a couple of cavities.

A new toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and floss picks were no dentist or oral surgeon, but they were a good start toward redemption.

This is as good as he’d get; best make do with what he got and ignore the rest. Maybe he can’t fill a cavity but can scrub off filth. He commonly recited, ‘It’s better to focus on easily fixable things. There’s an irreplaceable level of satisfaction in having attainable goals.’

He scanned the other objects in front of him, taking special note of the lip scrub and lip balm he hoped would mend his cracked and chapped lips, the tub of extra-extra hydrating hyaluronic acid body lotion tasked with soothing his bone-dry, itchy skin, comb and tweezers to tame invasive hairs, cotton swabs to clean out all the gunk in his ears (he was sure he had more than enough ear wax to fill a tea light candle); blemish control face wash, acne cream, toner, and light-weight moisturizer to get his breakout under control; and nail clippers and file to declaw himself.

He glanced at his fingers and toes.

They weren’t as bad as expected—well, despite his calluses, hang nails, and overgrown cuticles that is. At least he didn't have Althetes' foot or start sprouting weird basement mold between the toes.

Sweet Christ Almighty, the filthy and ungodly things he’d do for a good mani-pedi and facial right now.

If Sullivan weren’t such a fucking sadist with a raging hard-on for making him bleed and scream, he’d consider proposing an exchange of sex acts for a full-package spa day. The sex—he told himself—he could grit his teeth through and forcibly tolerate with minimal tears; it was the rest that canceled out any ounce of enjoyment or relaxation he’d potentially get.

No facial was that good.

His former (glorious) self was never a nail-biter or finger-picker, but his time in isolation lent a hand towards picking up some bad habits to occupy his mind in hopes of preventing him from going mad with boredom (spoiler: it didn’t work).

He picked and picked, and sometimes even nibbled, around his hang nails until he drew blood. He didn’t delight in chewing bits of dead skin peeled off in strings around his fingers, but the motion of eating something—even if deduced to bits of himself—helped drown out the hunger pains and sounds of his empty belly gurgling. He secretly wished Sullivan would catch him in the act of self-cannibalizing himself, realize just how far pushed to insanity he was, and take enough pity on him to release him of his sentence.

It was all nothing more than a stupid fool’s hope; the evil sonovabitch never even felt a glint of remorse.

His eyes scanned the razor and shaving cream, almost suspicious of their presence. Shaving himself was daunting and ostensibly impossible with one shaky hand.

But hey, at least Wyatt trusted with a sharp object; this was a step up.

How long had it been since he properly cleaned himself up and given himself a good shave? Months?

The razor looked new. Sullivan must have given him a fresh one. And if his Master went through the backbreaking effort of changing a razor head, that meant he wanted—no, was practically ordering—him to revive what parts he could that resembled his ci-devant good looks…good looks—was he ever even good looking before all this? He couldn’t tell; he was horrible with those types of things. He knew he wasn’t ugly but also wasn’t a looker, probably landed smack-dab in the middle. Perhaps his attraction level wasn’t for him to decide. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or some shit. Or was that just some junk passed around by those unfortunate souls not blessed with Holly Wood looks?

But now he knew he looked like hell, and the amount of work he needed to do on himself was overwhelming.

It was too much.

How well he’d be able to groom himself with one hand would no doubt leave much to be desired and undoubtedly felt like a set-up for sure failure, but the thought of Sullivan having to pick up where he left off and lather him up in lotion and clip his toenails made his blood run cold and more nervous than a puffer fish in a room full of balloons.

He couldn’t let those big, rough, creepy-ass hands that caused nothing but pain touch him any more than they already had. It felt like he and Sullivan would be breaking an unspoken rule if they made any skin-to-skin contact outside of anything besides the ogre inflicting harm on him. His Master’s hands were torture devices of their own; feeling them on him in any other capacity felt wrong, like a breach of contract.

As much as he refused to believe it, he knew deep down he was touch-starved, and part of him was screaming for any ounce of physical affection. He already leaned a little too far into Dr. Paul’s touch and was damn near smitten from the warm spark of soothing comfort that came from a gentle cup of his cheek; if he did the same with Sullivan, he’d never forgive himself, and his Master definitely wouldn’t let it happen without comment.

He already heard him now—“Yeah, ya like that, don’t ya, boy? Look at ya melting into me like the little needy slut ya are. I got somethin’ else real special for ya that’ll get ya howlin’ an’ really tickle up ya’r insides.”

Even an innocent touch would lead to something more; of course, it would; this was Wyatt fucking Sullivan he was thinking about.

He shivered.

Suddenly, he was all too aware of his very full bladder.

He sighed, then hobbled over to the toilet.

These days he had to piss sitting down; circumstance didn’t grant much flexibility there. The stand-up method was unsuitable for those with one functioning leg and one usable arm; if he dared test his limits, it would likely result in him missing the bowl entirely or ungracefully falling over midstream. He told himself that he didn’t mind popping a squat; it erased the worry of not shaking his pee-pole enough and leaking drops on the rim, or worse—in his underwear. (‘Pay no mind to the very real fear of your peen accidentally sliding against the cold inside of the toilet bowl; no, we don’t have room for such worries.’) Wringing his dick out like a washcloth was far more undignifying than just shoving it between his legs and taking his time anyway—that’s what he told himself, what he made himself believe.

But he deserved that, didn’t he—small comforting lies in whatever form he found them?

Thankfully, the post-catheter sting Dr. Paul warned him of went away after the first day, but his urine persisted in being a dark brownish orange (‘light umber, I think that’s called’) that reeked a pungent odor, evoking him to scrunch his nose in sour disgust every time. He drank more than enough liquids now, so it couldn’t be from dehydration—could it? That left him to conclude it must be yet another unpleasant side-effect from his cocktail of pharmaceuticals.

Pharmaceuticals—thank the marvels of modern science for those. However, what he really craved was a fat joint of Blueberry Kush.

How long ago did he pop that palmful of pills? He contemplated with a sense of impatience, ‘couldn’t be more than 30 minutes ago…’

The Klonopin typically took about an hour and a half to two to kick in. And once it did, he was down for the count, blissfully obliterated until evening, when he would pop an Ambien to sail him through the night.

Rinse and repeat day after day, after day until—well, he didn’t know yet.

And he preferred to remain deliriously unaware.

It was better this way.

Hell, it was the only thing that made his life at all bearable—to be drugged out of his mind, not to be awake, not to think, not to feel his body, to play dead until one fateful day, his Master would finally strike a killing blow.

The matter of if Sullivan could wasn’t in question—they both knew the older man could kill him as effortlessly as a house fly stuck buzzing against a windowsill—it was more of a matter of when.

The Aid tried to carry out the deed of snuffing himself out a few times—okay, more than a few times. He lost count of his botched suicide attempts, but that’s all they were, half-assed “attempts”—a courteous word his actions didn’t quite live up to. What he carried out fell more in line with ideation.

In the basement torture den, he’d wrap the chain around his neck with minimal pressure, just enough to feel a light constriction—nothing more, nothing less—and let the fantasy of floating away into nihility mollify him as he mewled and cried himself to sleep like a squalling infant. Sullivan caught him in this self-soothing ritualistic act once before and had the audacity to act scandalized by what he witnessed as if he didn’t knowingly single-handedly push The Aid to the brink of suicide. After the initial surprise of what he walked in on wore off, Sullivan proceeded to laugh at the miserable little thing at his feet and hurl some colorful beratement at him (finally a personalized insult with a bit more spice, although the timing couldn’t be worse) as the boy bawled his eyes out and crumpled into a shaky ball.

The Aid received an extra beating for his lack of self-respect and composure; Sullivan took offense to The Aid’s actions and informed him that he wasn’t allowed to off himself.

After his Master scolded him, he made him swear he wouldn’t “pull any more weakling shit ever again” and ordered him to abstain from any method of self-harm—Wyatt liked being the only one permitted to hurt him.

The ogre’s cruelties were boundless, but at least the monster finally pitied him enough to find it in his cold, dead heart to allow him the privilege of washing himself up and gave him a change of clothes and a hot meal afterward—sometimes being a mess and pushed to your edge bought rewards.

After all was said and done, he was restrained, his limbs tied to the four corners of the blood-stained mattress so he couldn’t move—for a week—until Sullivan deemed him no longer a threat to himself (the irony of it all did not escape him).

That was the last time he meddled with ending it all. He couldn’t do it, not really—not entirely, no matter how much he wished he could. The only thing that scared him more than Wyatt Sullivan was the great unknown of the other side and being devoured by eternal darkness.

A healthy fear of death was the only thing keeping him alive at this point.

*****

He absently gazed out the window, taking in his perfect view from the side of the house that butted against rolling tan desert foothills.

They were the last house down a long winding street lined with multi-million dollar estate homes, each with a moneyshot view overlooking the Palm Springs valley. He knew better than to indulge in the crackpot fantasy of climbing over that brick retaining wall separating him and the rest of the world to scamper his way through the open desert that went on and on for miles.

He already tried that once.

He didn’t get far—‘Stupid stunt to pull when you have trackers embedded in your neck and spinal column.’

But what was out there?

His mind went wild.

Were there clans of Renegados, the lost people, those who didn’t belong to either cause or fell under contested jurisdictions, hiding deep in the rocky valleys or camping in the Little San Bernardino Mountains? There couldn’t be much of a food source besides snakes and scorpions with the occasional desert hare—not to mention the scarcity of a water source. He surmised Renegados were unlikely in this geography, but what about gangs of marauders? No, that was equally unlikely, as scavenger types preferred abandoned dense urban areas or heavily traveled routes, and they wouldn’t pay much mind to small desert towns or off-grid compounds. There wasn’t much left to plunder in visible sight, especially after the first couple of waves of looting from the mass exodus of some odd four million Los Angelenos alone fleeing the initial outbreaks.

The only people batshit crazy enough to tough it out in such a ragged landscape and unforgiving climate were bands of rebel freedom fighters, the Frondeurs, who opposed what was left of the U.S. Government and fought the rivaling extremist Regime which now controlled nearly half of the 50 states, all the meanwhile also culling the growing numbers of afflicted. It would either be the Frondeurs themselves or hordes of aforementioned afflicted—ravenous cannibals, anthrophages*, devouring their way through the rural areas in search of larger populations to gorge on. “People-eater Pox,” or PEP, was the name quickly given to the incurable disease because “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion” was too clinical and hard to pronounce.

Of course, edge lord teens, horror fanatics, and the everyday 4chan user clung to the pipe dream of a zombie invasion, but these fuckers were far from dead, which somehow made it all that much worse. Sure, they looked dead, but that’s where the physical similarities started and ended.

The afflicted broke out in rotten-smelling, oozing open sore rashes that turned into hardened tree bark-like patches, their skin dulled to a cadaverous blue-gray while the whites of their eyes turned red, and many lost their hair. The cherry on top was their maddening appetite for human flesh and heightened sense of smell and hearing. They were fast, hard to kill, and more animal than human—so he heard.

The Aid never saw an afflicted, not in real life, and he hoped he never would. If you saw one up close, you were two steps closer to being eaten alive or, worse—turning into one of them.

Or maybe instead of bands of rebel forces or diseased cannibals hiding in the desert, there were platoons of those rumored so-called “Envoys” deployed by the Regime—the Republic of Arcadia—to hunt down runaways, defectors, and Frondeurs since they needed every last body they could get. Envoys—he didn’t even know if they were real; he’d never seen one of those either. They were about as real as Santa Claus to him, but luckily, these didn’t look like something out of a Rob Zombie movie and want to eat his face off.

Would Envoys even be out this far west?

Not likely, not unless they now joined the hordes of afflicted. The Republic of Arcadia wouldn’t—couldn’t—needlessly sacrifice any Envoys coming this deep into U.S. territory, not after 11 years in a now stalemated war, not unless they were planning a final invasion.

If that were the case, they were fucked.

If the Envoys were close, that likely indicated the remainder of the U.S. was losing even more territory. Or maybe the government agreed to give up a parcel of idyllic Southern California and a couple of Pacific coast port cities in exchange for a plot of fertile land, unsoiled crop seeds, and healthy bodies to work the fields in a pedantic trade agreement. Lord knows there wasn’t much opportunity for farmland out here in the desert, and good, fertile land these days was worth more than gold, especially after the blights wiped out most of the agriculture industry, which subsequently led to PEP. He didn’t know much about the state of things anymore, and he knew fuck all when it came to the intricacies of a diseased-ravaged and war-torn world hanging on by an unraveling thread. The tidings of war constantly changed, and how anyone could keep up with the insanity of it all was beyond him.

Were they still safe here?

If they had to relocate, what would his Master do with him?

What if they ran out of food?

Would Wyatt eat him if it came down to it?

There was no way he’d let that happen (as if he had a say or any control if it came down to it); not like there was much left of him to eat. You’d get better “meat” off a wild prickly pear cactus than his bony ass. Cannibalism wasn’t just for the afflicted anymore; it wasn’t as uncommon as it used to be. Hard times called for drastic measures in certain parts of the world; not everyone still had access to unsullied food.

But a Sullivan couldn’t stoop so low, not even the worst one out of the bunch, not when the Sullivans were one of the only families left who still owned healthy livestock farms on the West Coast and supplied most of the edible meat and quickly rose to prominence and fortune because of it. Still, being left with the tender mercies of Wyatt didn’t feel promising in any capacity.

He knew he was “lucky” to be owned by the Sullivans and he should be thankful to live in a pocket of the country that remained relatively untouched from the chaos, that he was tucked away from the “real harm” and lived amongst members of high society who remained undeterred by the current state of things. He was a victim of conformity, forcibly resigned to a life he couldn’t get free from. Yet it became increasingly difficult to pretend life was a-okay when the reality of everything sunk in. Eleanor Sullivan was dead. He had five wonderful years with her, but now he suffered under the brutal hand of Wyatt. His life would have been much different if he wasn’t born with abilities. Rather than blossoming into the resident house pet and making his debut by playing mind games with the family matriarch, he’d likely be a plebeian surviving off rations and forced to work in labor camps in a resource sector. He didn’t know which life was worse—people’s minds weren’t made to deal with problems and what-if scenarios this large.

All he could do was accept it and keep trudging along.

This was the world he lived in now—a fucked up, disease-ridden world with only one-third of the population left. A world with a falling, corrupt government that re-institutionalized slavery in an attempt to fill in the labor gaps and keep the corporate overlords happy while the afflicted, marauders, Renegados, Frondeurs, and Envoys wreaked havoc below.

Despite it all and how real and terrible it was, he could only bring himself to worry about the immediate danger in front of him—Wyatt Sullivan.

Out of all his imagined scenarios of who or what was lurking deep in the desert, he hoped Envoys were staking out in these hills and eagerly waiting for the green light to launch an attack. He hoped they would rain down hell and raze this fucking house—tanks, missiles, gunfire and all. He hoped the afflicted would hear the emergency evacuation sirens go off, and every goddamn one of them in a 20+ mile radius would come running like someone rang the dinner bell. He hoped he got to witness them taking one look at Wyatt Sullivan, see the towering beast of a man he was, and look at him like an all-you-can-eat buffet and devour every last bloody fucking inch of him.

Escape.

He could do it then.

For real this time.

That would be the perfect chance to do it, during an emergency evacuation, get lost in the frenzy of it all as his devil incarnate Master got ripped to shreds by anthrophages—

He was getting ahead of himself.

A pipe dream, that’s all it was—a sicko fantasy of diseased cannibals and those terrorist-soldier Envoys and escaping Wyatt Sullivan once and for all. Who knew if he would even be able to ride the tide of freedom instead of being pulled under and drowned by it?

He didn’t finish his breakfast; he blamed the runaway people-eating scenarios on that.

He blinked a few times to shake himself out of his trance, then turned his attention back to himself.

*****

He cautiously unwrapped his shoulder and inspected the stab wound for the first time—appropriately disposing of the soiled bandages in a waste bin, of course (he wasn’t a slob-kabob).

The wound looked better than he expected, not that he doubted Dr. Paul’s work; it’d just been so long since he saw a non-infected wound and received proper medical care.

Five stitches held his skin together. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the skin fusing with a nice crusty scab filled between the gaps of flesh. To his surprise, the swelling mostly subsided and was hardly more than a bump.

He continued undressing his wounds, inspecting each one, surprised by the level of visible healing each time—he usually healed slowly and lacked the gift of quick recovery. Even his splinted wrist with screws tacking the bones together looked better than he imagined it would. The stitch line was smaller than expected, hardly longer than the one on his shoulder.

His eyes blurred over the revealed three-inch scar on his palm and the back of his right hand as he let his gaze maunder to the shower across from him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at this old scar. Unlike the other marks, the memory of this one haunted him with agonizing detail. He went to great lengths to conceal this one, mostly from himself, typically covering it up with a strip of old ace bandage to seal away the constant remainder of Wyatt Sullivan’s unending barbarity.

It was a strange and horrible memory, one he constantly pushed back into a lockbox buried deep in the recesses of his mind, a memory that came in heightened, broken fragments like cutout frames of sun burnt film. It didn't feel real; it seemed like a planted evocation from someone else, more similar to a blurb he would see in a premonition than an echo of his past. Instead of his mind, his body predominantly cataloged this event and all similar events thereafter; he disassociated through most of them in an act of atavistic self-preservation.

Most of his life became staticky blurs alongside indistinct garbles and muddied out-of-body experiences since.

*****

It was the first time.

The monster was hopped up on grade-A Bolivian coke cut with street crystal, riding extraordinarily high, and very drunk, on a weekend bender.

After chasing him around the property with a knife and gun in hand for what felt like hours, the monster cornered him in the home office located in the back of the house.

With that knife, the monster stabbed his hand into the wooden desk, pinning him bent over.

He scremed, hot tears flowed from his eyes, the pain shot through him like a lighting bolt.

The pain stunned him, he stood watching, unable to process what the monster did.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him.

Blood, so much of it.

It spurted out in matching pulses to his quickening heartbeat, the red liquid pooled on the desk and painted his arm in crimson.

The monster grabbed at his waist.

He yelled, thrashed, and fought with everything he had, buying as much time as possible and refusing the inevitable, but he didn’t have much steam after hours of running from and fighting off the lumbering beast.

The monster took his other hand and wrenched it behind his back so he couldn't move.

It felt like the monster was seconds away from snapping his arm. He shrieked.

The monster’s fingers hooked around his waistband and pulled down. Still, he fought—he threatened, he begged, he screamed—he screamed so fucking loud.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him.

The monster groped his bare ass, pinned his legs open, spread him apart, and forced something inside him.

He couldn't see, but by the feel, he knew it must be one of the monster’s fingers.

It didn’t hurt, but it felt wrong, out of place, intrusive.

He screamed more and pleaded for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster spoke, but he couldn’t hear the words.

The monster wasn't stopping.

The monster added another finger and wriggled it around, stretching him out.

He wailed and told the beast he’d do anything to make it stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He pounded his head on the desk; that hurt, too, but he didn’t care.

He wanted it to stop; it had to stop.

He couldn’t take it.

He’d never done this before.

He never wanted to do this, not with the monster, not with anyone.

He kept headbutting the table until his vision was covered in red like his hand.

The monster grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, yelling more words he couldn’t hear.

The monster’s fingers crammed deeper inside him, his body froze.

He begged with everything he had for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

Everything got fuzzy.

His mind went blank.

Something else was pushing inside him now.

Something bigger.

This wasn’t the monster’s fingers.

He wanted to scream, but his body seized, and he held his breath.

This time, it hurt; this time, it hurt really bad, more than any other kind of hurt he ever felt before.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

His mind went blank again.

He came back around.

The monster violently pushed into him, slamming his hips into the corner of the desk.

The monster sunk deep into him, deeper than he thought any monster part could possibly go.

He made noises he had never heard himself make before, noises he didn't recognize as his own.

The squealing and yawping coming from him sounded like a faraway dying animal.

He thought he knew what this was, but at the same time, he didn’t.

He couldn’t accept it.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster moved around inside him, still pushing into him, still hurting him.

He weakly squirmed, still trying to plead with the monster.

The monster pushed down on his back to hold him still and plowed into him, making gross monster noises.

He knew what this was called.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen to him.

No, not him.

It couldn't be. But it was.

The beast liked hurting him, and the beast was good at it.

He screamed and cried, begging so loud his vocal cords gave out until his voice pruned to a dusty croak.

No. No. No. This wasn't supposed to happen to him.

Why was this happening to him?

What did he do to deserve this?

He breathed so fast, but it wasn't enough; he couldn't get enough air.

He thought he was dying.

Everything went dark.

He didn’t exist anymore, and the monster was gone.

But he came back.

He still felt the splitting intrusion inside him—the monster still jackhammering away without the faintest concern for the internal damage dealt.

He felt his insides ripping, it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was on fire.

He tried to scream, but his throat stung. So he wailed out broken sobs even though that still hurt, too.

The monster laughed, then spoke more words he couldn’t hear, and he knew it was good that he couldn’t make them out. He wasn’t a monster, so he didn’t speak monster. That made sense.

He wept.

The monster stuck something in his mouth. An object. The gun.

No. Please not him. Not him. Not him.

The beast spoke more monster words and sounded mad and happy at the same time. He couldn’t feel the monster's feelings because he turned off his monster-reading senses.

Why was the monster doing this to him?

He drooled around the gun and tried to bite down on it to quiet his screams, but it hurt his teeth.

He was terrified.

All he could hear was his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He felt sick.

He thought he was going to die.

He felt wetness.

He realized he pissed himself.

The monster didn't notice.

The air smelt like a gross gas station bathroom mixed with copper.

He felt more wetness, a different wetness spilling from where the monster was.

Blood and monster cum leaked out of him.

He felt the mix of wetness slicking between his thighs and drip down his legs, only stopping when his socks soaked up all the fluids. After some unknown amount of time, it settled in his shoes. It felt like he had stepped in a puddle, a smelly, rotten puddle.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He felt nauseous and dizzy.

The monster grunted and huffed on top of him; he could smell the alcohol, the beer, and chewing tobacco on the monster’s breath.

He smelt his blood and some other gut-churning smell he assumed was sweaty, unprepared, raw sex.

He hated sex. He never wanted to do it. But the monster didn't care what he wanted.

He cried until his eyes swelled, and he couldn’t see anymore.

His whole body ached.

He was tired, so tired. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted this to be nothing but a bad dream.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

But it did happen. It happened. To him.

*****

He surmised whatever deal Sullivan made with the Doctor’s experimental drugs was paying off, at least for now.

As relieved as he was with the healing of his noticeable injuries, his main concern sided with the non-visible wounds, what lay beneath his skin—the injuries Sullivan deliberately exploited because he knew better than to dig his trigger-happy fingers into freshly fused flesh and meat and consequently be stuck with the Doctor’s wrathful hospital bill.

His sprained ankle and cracked rib still pulsed with a dull ache.

He hoped by the next check-up, whatever damage his Master dealt would remit, and the memory of this incident would evanesce like the rest of his forgotten scars.

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Footnotes:

*Anthrophage: a person with PEP (People-eater Pox), medical diagnosis “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion.” This is just a fancy name for a diseased cannibal who has PEP that exists within this AU. Anthrophage is not a “real word,” but it’s a play off of the word—anthropophagite.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

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generic-whumperz · 7 months

Note

Not much has been revealed yet about The Aid's backstory, but you mentioned in your intro that he chose to sell himself into domestic slavery due to a family tragedy, which is deliciously intriguing. Can you tell us anything else non-spoilery about his background and his life before? Bonus: Does he have a name? Did he have one?

Omg, thank you so much for the ask and interest in this little story of mine! 🥹

I’m so glad you found that bit about an undisclosed family tragedy deliciously intriguing, that’s exactly what I was going for!

Yes I can elaborate ! So I don’t know how much of his previous life he remembers yet or how much I will explore his past since he basically has trauma brain and had blocked a lot of his past out. That, and well, his “before life” was basically when he was just a kid and teen. But before all the drama and misfortunes, he came from a really good solid family, with married parents, an older sister, and a younger brother. He had a good childhood and was a very happy, well-taken care of kid.

(More background about his life before below)

School: He was a straight-A student, had a solid friend group and was a nerd. He never had to try really hard, things came to him naturally and he was one of those infuriating people that never had to study for a test and just had a knack for remembering information. He was also a theater nerd and loved working on props and setting the scene. He also strikes me as someone that was in some school clubs and helped put together fundraisers for underfunded school programs. He was in sports and did track & field, basically he’s like a “cool nerd” type because he kinda rubbed shoulders with everyone.

Social life: I don’t know much about D&D, but he gives me the feeling that he was his friend group’s DM and hosted all the games at his house or did thematically coordinated outdoor sessions (he may have even LARP’ed too close to the sun 👀 was that a thinly veiled hint that partially led to the tragedy he blamed himself for?)

His nerdiness does spill over in his adult life in the form of his love for board games that he likes to play with Madame Sullivan, or his interest in trivia games or trivia game shows.

He’s a very neat and tidy person and loved to put up seasonal decorations and set the ambiance in Madame Sullivan’s home. He loved to play host when Madame Sullivan had over guests and he was known for his hors d’oeuvres and deserts. He’s used to be being well-liked and appreciated, it also doubles as his character flaw since he’s constantly seeking approval from those around him and thrives off of external validation.

I would consider him more of an introvert than an extrovert, but he is very extroverted and enjoys company. But he also doesn’t have a problem with being alone since he always finds away to make himself “busy”- in whatever way that may be.

Career: He chose his slavery position based on his natural talents and his already chosen career field which was going to be something in medical/ nursing or social services/ non-profit outreach. He knew he wanted to help people, so that’s why he chose the Domestic In-Home Care Aid position. He isn’t big and tough nor does he have a desire for romantic intimacy or serving as a personal companion for to someone who would probably want more than he would be will to give, so he felt that he really only had one option anyway.

Character traits in the story: So obviously he had a very nice and fluffy life and even got lucky with his first posting and developed a familial relationship with his master. Bad things aren’t supposed to happen to people like him- only they do.

We have a good sense of who he used to be, but he starts to loose himself even before he sells himself, but he is desperately holding on to his former self while in service under Madame Sullivan. Which I would like to point out is the child-version of himself. His young adult years are obviously very strange, but in a way he gets to prolong his youth because he’s living with a maternal figure and doesn’t have to deal with any really adult-life things. He’s kinda infantilized himself in a way (he later realizes this and sees how problematic he was, but also he was dealing with trauma and was young so we can’t hold it against him) which stunted his own personal growth, but he also uses this as a method of self-sabotage because he doesn’t think he deserves to live a free, happy life.

This story is about a lot of things, but his character journey is at the heart of it. He has to grow up, face and make peace with his past, heal his inner child, confront his current tormenter, survive and recover, (and escape?!) and decide who he is- not what he is to other people. I guess in a way, it’s a fucked up coming of age story and maybe even a cautionary tale. And with undertones of commentary on the patriarchy and failed capitalist society that turns humans into commodities, of course.

Name: Yes he has a name! Ironically I kinda tease at the idea of him having a name or not in the next part (that I still haven’t finished and posted💀), but I think it will be awhile before we learn his real name. Wyatt just calls him “Mutt” or “Aid,” or whatever rude/derogatory term he can think of on the spot.

#whump stuff #The Aid #Generic Writez #whump drabble #whump oc #oc background #oc backstory #whump writing #whump blog

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generic-whumperz · 4 months

Text

The Aid: Chapter 5, Part 2- MALICE

TW & CW: all hurt/no comfort; slave fic pet whump (so dehumanization, but nothing too severe); mentions of past and future non-con; strangulation/choking; near-death experience; death threat; gun and shock collar mention; explicit language (insults); alcoholism (Whumper) & drug dependency (Whumpee); sadistic, creepy, intimate, bully Whumper*; Caretaker turned Whumpee; emotional manipulation; recovering starved and beaten Whumpee (including mention of issues with being able to hold down food); post-coma & surgery recovery; mention of broken bones, stabbing, death and resuscitation; drugged Whumpee (partially voluntary, partially forced); Whumpee is an adult (mid-20s) but called “boy”; ANGST

*If you are sensitive to creepy asshole Whumper behavior, specifically name calling and taunting, I recommend sitting this one out.

Author’s note: Sorry for making this a two-parter because of the word count! This chapter has been over two months in the making (getting Covid, midterms, and finals really fucked up my flow), and I apologize for the long wait! I hope it’s worth it; I put a lot of love and care into this (as much love and care as you can put into a story dedicated to whumping a guy lol)! Warning: there’s a bit of exposition sprinkled in here (especially in part 1) that I hope piques your interest. Surprise-surprise, I’m a bitch that enjoys worldbuilding, so be prepared for some AU lore! But I hope this exploration helps introduce what’s happening here, as I think some explanations are due in our sixth part! Our boy is finally awake and alert enough to talk, so we finally glimpse his and Wyatt’s dynamic 1-on-1. It’s only going to get more batshit crazy and worse from here on out, enjoy!

Look out for the special blue text! (Explanation at the bottom with the Footnotes!)

Word Count: 4337

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“He won’t see ya’r shoulder, won’t know about the bandages.” Sullivan mused, still trying to patch together a lie to sell his brother.

“Ya dislocated ya’r shoulder falling off the ladder cleanin’ windows- that famously hurts like a bitch, don’t it? It didn’t set right, and we all know ya’r a little pussy, so ya’re just actin’ like ya got stabbed.” Sullivan concluded, looking all too pleased with himself and not holding back a single ounce of exultation. He acted as if he just discovered a new cure for a disease that stumped the scientific community for years the way he gloated, but no, he just contrived what he believed to be a half-believable fib.

The Aid fought not to roll his eyes, but his fear of being further chastised kept him in line.

“Yes, sir.” The Aid gulped, swallowing the mild annoyance bubbling in his voice.

Sullivan chortled, attentively watching The Aid continue working on the oatmeal one small bite at a time. It was awkward, to say the least, but The Aid was sure they both hated this arrangement equally- but who were they to argue against the Doctor’s orders?

“Make sure he eats a meal with each dose; it’s critical for the drug trials.” Dr. Paul instructed. “In fact, it’s best if you watch him. You need to log how much he eats and know if he vomits anything back up, pills especially.”

“Sir?” The Aid’s eyes wandered up to his Master’s. He kept his head down in a practiced fashion, taking special care to ensure his posture read as meek and timid.

“What?” Sullivan was short, his voice echoing a growl- how dare the menial ask him a question.

The Aid swallowed. “Why is Master Lon coming over?”

Silence.

Sullivan’s eyes straitened, studying The Aid’s apprehensive face as if searching for an ulterior motive to the slave’s modest inquiry. They didn’t often have guests, and Wyatt famously didn’t have the best relationship with his older brother, Waylon Jr.

“Emma has some kinda family tree school project. Mom kept binders of old family stuff, so Lon wants to take some for her to use. Ya know how he is, only comes ‘round when he wants somethin’.” Wyatt sighed. “I dunno if he’s bringin’ her or not, but I don’t want her lingerin’ ‘round in here with you, so if she comes in here, ya tell her ya’re contagious an’ that she needs to stay out, got it?”

“Yes’sir.” The Aid said tersely before he took a nibble of the buttery toast, which got slightly easier to down with each bite. Not focusing on the food helped it go down; as much as he disliked making conversation with the dastardly jackass who tormented him, it was the only thing that helped preoccupy part of his mind.

He contemplated what Sullivan said and assumed it to be true- at least partially.

But he knew it couldn’t be the only reason. . . There was a faint yuck wafting in the wind.

Suddenly, a rogue thought popped into his head, ‘Money. I bet Wyatt asked Lon for money again. And he’s bringing his daughter along to ensure Wyatt won’t start a fight and get physical.’

A premonition.

It startled him initially since he hadn’t gotten one in a while. He forgot how strong and sure they came through, ringing through his mind clear as day and loud as a whistle. Unlike his empathy, these “knowings” weren’t as easy to switch off since they happened randomly. Of course, he couldn’t control them or how or where he got them, and they conveniently never happened when he needed them most, and they seemed to only surface for small, inconsequential events that rarely even affected him directly.

He resented them for that reason. Knowings? He didn’t know shit! The universe baited him with crumbles of information, simulacrums, or glimpses of the future with little to no context or indicator of what the hell any of it even meant. “Pretenses” was more fitting.

What's the point of having abilities, even despised ones, if they don’t even help you? (‘Can’t get a fair warning about when the next time this asshole is gonna try to stab me, or beat me, or, or- maybe best not to know when things like that are coming. . .’)

But his inability to harness any control around them was no one’s fault but his own.

Like most things in life, these abilities worked best if maintained with adequate exercise, usually in the form of meditative practices he didn’t keep up with. The lack of sufficient exercise left the ability-muscle part of his brain weak and underdeveloped. Ergo, he considered his abilities mostly worthless, aside from granting him the honorific title as a Mystic, which itself was little more than a scourge to all those unfortunate to be given the designation that bore as much polarization and vilification as the word “witch” in colonial-era North America.

The only merit “Mystic” held was in the industrialized slave trade, which sold supernatural practitioners at inflated prices to buyers seeking products with a distinguished novelty, a competitive edge over the average Tom, Dick, and Harry who lacked the niche, coveted endowments used by their Masters for party tricks and a plethora of personal gains alike. But most commoners, the everyday folk, didn’t pay mind to such matters, especially not after the extremist-led Regime raided D.C. after the untimely death of two-thirds of the population, leaving most of the country in post-apocalyptic ruin.

Sullivan cleared his throat and impatiently tapped his fingers on his knee, “Lonnie’s comin’ ‘round noon, so ya got plenty of time to get cleaned up. I pulled out mom’s ol’ shower chair an’ set it up for ya in ya’r tub this mornin’ while ya were still sleepin'.’ So now ya can sit an’ don’t gotta hobble ‘round on one leg- ya’re welcome for that. . .”

He cleared his throat again, eagerly waiting for a reciprocal “Thank you, Master,” for his kind gesture that wouldn't go unnoticed before continuing- “An’ I made sure to set out the bandages- ‘er, gauze- or whatever the hell the Doc left, on the sink for ya. I guess ya can give me a holler if ya need help. Suppose it wouldn’t be in either of our best interests for ya to wrap it wrong an’ get a nasty infection or somethin’ of the sort.”

An abrupt wave of grief hit The Aid, filling his chest with a qualm of heavy sadness and demanded him to stop eating. He put the slice of toast down, huffing a defeated sigh while straightening his spine, and met Sullivan with an exhausted stare.

Before he could even process his thoughts and emotions, audacious words tumbled out of his mouth, “Sir, what’s the point of all this? Where- where does this go? What are we doing?”

Sullivan pressed his lips together tightly, his brow unconsciously furrowing as they studied each other's unamused stares in a tense silence.

“Why are you pretending to give a shit about me?” The Aid asked after several seconds, his mousey voice barely above a whisper.

Time halted in place as the corners of Sullivan’s mouth slowly curved upwards in a wicked smirk, his face darkened by a creeping shadow of his signature vicious gall that spread with the ruthless tenacity of malignant cancer.

Uh-oh, this was bad.

Sullivan maintained his unblinking stare while running his tongue over his teeth like a starving man eyeing a plate of steak, “Oh, my sweet, sweet boy-”

The Aid held his breath as Sullivan’s thick, gooey words jolted him to his core and seeped into his skull, making his brain spasm and short-circuit. The shock summoned a cold shiver to rake down his spine with icy claws that spurted outwards into his extremities, giving him the sensation of a million microscopic bugs tunneling through clogged, frozen veins.

“-Cause whether I like it or not, an’ I assure ya I don't, ya’re mine. An’ we both know I got my own kinda uses for ya that otherwise wouldn’t be victimless crimes if done to a free person. Plus, you gone an’ meddled ya’self in a dead woman’s will an’ lumped ya’self in as an extension of personal property. Whatever I’ve done, or am yet to do to ya, is fair play; consider it proper punishment for swindlin’ a sick old lady an’ robbin’ her blind. So thanks to ya’r own doing, it’s just you, me, an’ momma’s house-”

“I didn’t have any part in that! But that’s beside the point, you- you killed me!” The Aid erupted in a stifled sob. “And you threatened to cut me open and sell my fucking kidneys! I remember- I remember that now! You don’t get to do that and then continue on like nothing happened, no, not again!”

Sullivan shook his head and retightened his grip around The Aid’s sprained ankle, not enough to make him squeal and thrash out in pain, but enough to hurt him just a little. The Aid ignored it best he could manage but still let out a small whimper.

“Ya’r such a goddamn crybaby an’ a selfish little prick!” Sullivan growled. “Ya know I got knocked out too? Woke up in a goddamn hospital bed an’ wasn’t no one there holdin’ my hand an’ soothin’ me like ya’r precious lil’ wanna-be doctor boyfriend ya were gettin’ sappy an’ cozy with- made me fucking sick watchin’ that. My head busted open, an’ I was leaking just as much blood as ya, all cause I was tryin’ ta save ya’r sorry ass! I got stitches and everythin’- had to use up the rest of my PTO all for my dickhead boss to end up sackin’ me yesterday anyway. But do ya see me pissin’ and moanin’ about it? No, that’s cause I’m a fucking man, and I handle my shit.”

He stopped only to shake his head and shoot an imperious glare at The Aid as if persecuting him for a crime punishable by death. “Ya’r lucky to have someone takin’ care of ya, feeding ya drugs like fuckin’ candy, an’ gettin’ waited on hand an’ foot like some little fuckin’ prince when you ain’t shit else ‘sides a thrallie*. Meanwhile, I’m the Master; where’s my special treatment? Do I got a lick of that?” Sullivan glowered at him, a jealous fury brewed in his cold, insidious eyes as his top lip twitched from agitation, partially exposing his yellow-stained teeth.

The lengthy, melodramatic pause indicated that this was not a rhetorical question- oh shit, he was expecting an actual answer.

The Aid stared at Sullivan with a half-troubled, half-dumbfounded look plastered on his face- the baseless accusations, the incorrect assumptions, the blatant bald-faced lies. How could this man say any of this out loud with any amount of conviction? One would assume the man worked in commission-based sales, with the amount of bullshit he was constantly trying to peddle.

The Aid, overcome with a surge of anger, had more than enough of being gaslit left and right in nearly every conversation with the pathological lying sonofabitch. He sat there in silence, brewing in his thoughts, when he felt the overwhelming urge to verbally hit the fucker where it hurt. He knew how to- of course he did- Sullivan’s emotional projection lit the path of every insecurity, big and small; all he had to do was follow the yellow brick road, but he also knew it was in his best interest not to poke the hungry bear.

‘. . . No. Absolutely not. Don’t go there. . . Do you have a death wish? -Don’t answer that!’

Resentment crept over him like early morning frost, rapidly engulfing his mind in a sheet of icy bitterness, unintentionally mirroring Sullivan’s venomous rancor. He was seething and damn near about to start foaming at the mouth like some rabies-infested beast.

The psychic link that bound them only minutes earlier rewove itself between them; this time, The Aid made no conscious effort to hide himself, to try to blend into the baleful shadow monsters prowling in his Master’s mind.

He felt every throb of fervent cruelty pulse through his veins and settle between the notches of his mind and burry itself in the crevices of his muscle and bone as Sullivan’s amplified feeling overtook him-

MALICE

Still, the more rational part of him fought to hold back because if he were to say what he wanted, he was sure it would be the last thing he’d ever speak on God’s green Earth before exchanging pleasantries with Charon as he ferried him across the river Styx.

But at least the afterlife would be free from Wyatt Sullivan, so. . . win-win?

‘No, not win-win! You don’t want to die here. . . Just don't- Do. Not. Fucking. Say. It.’

Too late.

His devotion to pettiness evidently knew no bounds, “You did have that, I was that for you- I treated you like a King. I did everything for you; I gave you all I had to give! But you couldn’t help but fuck it all up, just like how you fucked up your marriage and the relationship with your daughter!”

A blur came hurling at him at warp speed.

Thick, rough fingers grappled around both sides of his neck, immediately cutting off his airway. Left with no time to preemptively suck in a quick breath to carry him through the following moments of deprived air, he instantly gasped for precious oxygen.

“Ya’r a miserable, ungrateful little cunt!” A furious voice rang in his ears, paralyzing him with fear.

“-An’ a spoiled fucking brat; how dare you disrespect me!” Sullivan’s hot breath lingered in the shell of The Aid’s ear as his Master ferociously screamed inches away from the side of his face.

“Ya’ve been nothin’ but a sneaky, connivin’ lil’ shitbag since the day I met you; I’m the only one seein’ through ya’r lies and deceit!”

The strangled slave reflexively brought his knees up to his chest and kicked, bucking the breakfast tray and its contents off to the side. Oatmeal and orange juice hurled to the floor, splattering on impact, the echo of the clamor silenced by Sullivan’s booming inflection, “But I pitied you for the sorry sad-sack waste of space ya are an’ kept ya after mom died, but how did ya repay me for my kindness?”

The Aid’s face reddened to a cherry hue. Tears welled in his eyes.

“You. Ruined. My. Fucking. Life!”

He clawed desperately at Sullivan’s unrelenting death grip.

“Ya’r a worthless, pathetic little freak. Think I didn’t jus’ feel ya pokin’ around in my head, huh? You’ll pay for that! Got nothin’ of value, just cheap tricks an’ a vicious tongue.”

But the older man didn’t budge.

“Only thing you gotta offer me is the rush I get from hearin’ you screamin’ and cryin’ and beggin’ for a mercy that’ll never come when I bleed ya an’ fuck ya’r tight little asshole-” his voice dropped an octave, and a lascivious twinge replaced his wrathful edge- “Goddamn, do you feel good.”

Flashes of The Aid’s various assaults struck his mind with the frenzied succession of a continuous lighting storm, the psychical shrapnel slicing him at each pass. Each scrap of memory zapped his nervous system, launching him into a state of immeasurable panic as he flailed and prayed to whoever- or whatever- was listening for divine intervention.

The blood.

The pain.

The degradation.

The helplessness- ‘no more, please no more.’

Tears went from trickling to gushing down his face as he thrashed fruitlessly, desperately digging his nails into Sullivan’s bulging hand tendons.

“That’s ya’r purpose- being my designated cum-bucket, nothin’ more. But I can’t even stand to look at ya’r ugly-ass face. That’s why ya only get fucked from behind like a cheap dumpster-slut whore inna truck-stop bathroom.”

Out of primordial instinct- rather than a deliberate and obviously pointless effort- The Aid gulped for airless breaths, hoping to ease the suffocating sting radiating in the walls of his throat that only got worse with each passing second.

Fuck, he didn’t have much time left before he’d pass out.

His dizzying head and puffy face were enough of a warning signal he had grown to know all too well from Sullivan’s rounds of casual asphyxiation.

His white-knuckled, raking fingers started to loosen and lose their verve as his body went slack.

“Ya better make these recovery days count an’ soak ‘em up good, ‘cause after this fluffy staycation, ya’r in for a new level of hell.”

The Aid’s face changed from bright red to a pale blue as tiny, flickering stars bombarded his vision and intruded his peripheral.

Air- he needed fucking air.

Pronto.

“Ya’ll be beggin’ me to put my pistol in that bitchy, lopsie-lipped mouth of ya’rs an’ pull the trigger, cause the things I’m gonna do to ya are gonna have ya pleadin’ at my feet to end it all ‘cause ya ain’t got the balls to do it ya’self.”

His eyelids dropped over his dwindling, star-splattered vision. He felt himself pulled down to a lightless abyss. . .

‘It’s ove-

Air ripped through his lungs.

He lurched forward, coughing and panting and spitting up drool. The abrupt spasmodic inhales ballooned air into his chest cavity, courtesy of his Master’s released stranglehold.

He trembled and hugged himself, bawling in combination from the crushing, subjugating terror of a promised far-worse future and from the sharp, spasming pain that tore into his side. Just as soon as he regained his breath, it was ripped away as his broken rib- irritated by his ravenous inbreathing- throbbed with the maddening agony of a sledgehammer crashing down and exploding his insides.

His body seized, the pain knocked the wind out of him, and he once again fought to breathe, leaving him a sputtering, wailing mess. A limitless, compounding pain enveloped him- his throat stung, his chest hurt, and his body strangely thumped with a sparkling jolt of it-feels-like-my-nerves-are-on-fire tingle.

He could do nothing but mewl like the tiny, feeble baby he felt like and choke on his miserable wheezing.

He dejectedly tried to make amends with himself, ‘It wasn’t worth it. . . It’s never worth it- just shut up next time. You can’t win; you can’t survive him if you keep purposefully pissing him off to the point where he casually tries to kill you once a week. If we’re ever gonna get out of here, we need to be collected and unified. Strong and healed.’

A tough hand gripped a fist full of The Aid’s hair and yanked his head up.

“Don’t ya ever speak of my ex-wife or my daughter again, or next time, I won’t let go,” Sullivan hissed. The Aid got death threats as often as an overzealous retail cashier tried to sign up customers for the store’s credit card, yet the threats, coupled with a murder attempt, always left the longest-lasting impression.

“Yes sir, I’m-I’m sorry. . . It won’t. . . happen again,” The Aid quavered between coughs, keeping his gaze cast downwards in a show of defeat and compliance.

“Ya also earned ya’self at least a week in the zap-collar. I think it’s pretty well-deserved for the nasty things ya said to me, don’t cha agree?” Sullivan’s tone projected a derisive chime, sounding much too devilishly chipper considering the context of what he spoke.

The Aid’s throat bobbed as he struggled to gulp, considering Sullivan’s punishment as an honest appraisal for a jab he knew sunk its teeth into him and did as much internal damage as he received external damage. “Yes, Sir. . . I deserve. . . punishment.”

His critical subconscious scoffed at how easily he’d roll over and show his belly when faced against his vitriolic abuser, ‘Disgusting how pathetic and meek you are on the drop of a dime.’

The Aid’s skin, heated from shame, caused him to perspire. He didn’t know if it was from the crying or sweating of a combination of both, but he only now noticed the fogginess of his glasses and the smears across the lenses. He knew it would be pointless to try to clean them now- he was far from done with crying- but he wiped his tears underneath his glasses away with a curled index finger, appropriately covered by his sweatshirt sleeve to absorb the liquid.

As he pacified himself for a solid two minutes, his panting and wailing steadied, allowing him to take notice of the grading sound that was Sullivan chuckling to himself- characteristic of the true villain he was. Sullivan stayed like that, fingers locked in between chunks of his slave’s hair, as he boasted in his usual devious fashion, taking his victory lap in the form of grandmaster puppetry.

If The Aid had been without bedridden injury, Sullivan would customarily order the sorry little mutt to bow at his feet or bare his naked ass to him in preparation for belting. But since he had already reached his limit of what he could get away with without Dr. Paul’s notice, orally reciting lines would have to suffice.

But first, Sullivan messed with him a bit.

“Ya got a snappy lil’ mouth. Bout time I put that to use, don’t ya think?” Sullivan grossly snickered; his inflection emanated more creepy than playful, although he was shooting for the latter.

The Aid shivered, refusing to accept the explicit implications of what his Master seemingly passed off as a “joke” (or what he assumed was a joke, dear Universe, please let it be a joke) - Sullivan’s brother and niece were coming over soon for fuck’s sake! And speaking of fucks, Sullivan never used him for anything more than a quick thrust n’ bust- no matter how bloody and gorey he preferred it to be.

Sullivan knew damn well his Domestic servant lacked the professional training to give proper head (and he was more than sure the boy never even touched a dick- especially not a vagina- in his whole pitiful existence), and if he dared try to force him to, he’d wind up receiving the toothiest, most unsatisfying blow job in history. Plus, he didn’t trust him enough to not just straight-up bite him.

“Maybe it’s time to teach the mutt a new trick. Ya like bones, don’t ya, pup?” Sullivan grabbed The Aid’s chin with his other hand, hiking up his head to face him.

Chin quivering, The Aid’s bleary eyes flicked up to meet his Master, who looked all too amused. Sullivan smiled, taking a moment to appreciate The Aid’s face blotched with terror-stricken dread, noting how his jaw twitched from the snivel dancing across his features.

“Aw, look at those big puppy dog eyes!” Sullivan mimicked the unmistakable pitch of a honeyed, mocking laugh used when teasing a dog with a treat.

His fake jubilance turned stern, “But ya’ve been a naughty boy! What should ya’r punishment be, huh?”

A small whimper wobbled in The Aid’s throat as he chewed his bottom lip. ‘Yuck, yuck, yuck…’

“Ya made a mess in the house!”

Without warning, Sullivan wrapped his arms around The Aid and dragged him to the floor, wrangling him to get on his hands and knees, which was surprisingly more manageable to do than usual on account of The Aid cooperating out of fear of further hurting himself. He supported himself with only one wobbly arm, curling his broken wrist up to his chest, trying to ignore his trembling from pain and fear.

A sweet, citrusy aroma wafted up his nostrils as Sullivan grappled his hair again, forcing his head down over the splatter of oatmeal and orange juice mush on the floor. Now he genuinely mimicked a dog having his nose shoved in a pile of his own shit after a potty-time mishap.

“See what ya did? Bad boy!” Sullivan walloped him on the ass. He flinched and yelped while every ounce of embarrassment burned his skin.

The Aid pleaded, his enervated body shaking, “I’m sorry, Sir!” His weak, atrophied muscles were sapped of strength from malnutrition and disuse, and he didn’t know how long he could support himself on one shaky arm.

“But are ya really? You say that a lot, but I don’t think ya mean it-”

“I do- I do mean it! I’m sorry, really sorry. I know I’ve been bad. I promise- I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want, just please-” his voice cracked and squeaked, “please don’t hurt me.” He broke out in a shattered sob; tears splashed on his glasses until a thin, watery film covered them.

Sullivan scoffed, then pulled The Aid’s head up, causing the pool of tears to drop down and join the mix of spilled breakfast.

“Quit ya’r fucking crying. Now repeat after me- I live to serve my Master, and my Master is always right. Say it.” Sullivan cooed venomously in his ear. He whined but complied, seeking to rectify the situation.

“I live to serve my Master, and my Master is always right.” He could all but mumble; the words tasted like poison.

“What’s that? Can’t hear youuu.” Sullivan taunted, drawing out the “you” in a sing-songy echo.

“I live to serve my Master, and my Master is always right.” Bland. But slightly louder. Hopefully good enough.

“Say it like ya mean it.” Sullivan directed. “More, hm- passion.”

If the rat bastard didn’t still have a grip on The Aid’s head, he would have turned and shot him a bitch-are-you-fucking-kidding-me glare.

The Aid collected himself, took a deep breath, and summoned his last ounce of fuck to give, “I live to serve my Master. And my Master is always right.” Better. But sounded a bit defeated, but also said with the certitude of a preacher.

“Again.” No directive of improvement.

‘Bingo. And that’s what we call pitch perfect.’

“I live to serve my Master. And my Master is always right.” Exact copy of the first.

“Again.”

Third time’s the charm? He repeated it once more, perfectly matching his previous inflection.

Silence.

“Now clean up this mess an’ go wash ya’self up.”

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So, what’s with the random blue text?

‘This is a premonition.’

THIS IS AN EMPATHIC FEELING

Footnotes:

*Thrallie: derivative of “Thrall” (a slave, servant, or captive). It is a slang term used in this alternate-reality universe.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight

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generic-whumperz · 4 months

Text

The Aid: Chapter 5, Part 1- SUSPICION

TW & CW: all hurt/no comfort; slave fic pet whump (so dehumanization, but nothing too severe); alcoholism (Whumper) & drug dependency (Whumpee); shock collar mention; explicit language (including insults); sadistic, creepy, intimate, bully Whumper; Caretaker turned Whumpee; emotional manipulation; recovering starved and beaten Whumpee (including mention of issues with being able to hold down food); post-coma & surgery recovery; mention of broken bones, stabbing, death and resuscitation; drugged Whumpee (partially voluntary, partially forced); Whumpee is an adult (mid-20s) but called “boy”; ANGST

Author’s note: Surprise-surprise, I’m a bitch that enjoys worldbuilding, so be prepared for some AU lore! But I hope this exploration helps introduce what’s happening here, as I think some explanations are due in our sixth part! Our boy is finally awake and alert enough to talk, so we finally glimpse his and Wyatt’s dynamic 1-on-1. It’s only going to get more batshit crazy and worse from here on out, enjoy!

Look out for the special blue text! (Explanation at the bottom with the Footnotes!)

*Initial song inspo was “I’m Only Sleeping” by The Beetles (but oops I kinda derailed & went ham.)

Word Count: 3876

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A stern fist pounded on the doorframe in three successive knocks.

An authoritative, booming voice followed, “Get up. It’s time for meds.”

The Aid let out a long yawn, then peaked his head up from his cozy blanket cocoon and pushed down the mountain of bedding he snuggled under to chest level, his warmed face kissed by the early morning chill of the crisp midwinter air.

‘Thank fuck,’ he thought to himself. His beloved painkiller began wearing off an hour ago, and he itched for another dose.

Like most mornings, The Aid awoke groggy and lethargic and awaited the on-the-dot 8 o’clock breakfast bell that was Wyatt Sullivan’s brutish knuckles pummeling his doorframe.

Today was no different.

He’d been awake for some time but pretended to be asleep, hiding under the covers for as long as possible, milking as many precious moments of undisturbed rest as he could. That, and well, he hurt like hell and tried to move as little as possible because of it.

Cautiously rolling over from his side to his back, he sprawled out his unmaimed limbs, which welcomed the movement and released a euphoric surge of endorphins for his efforts—nothing like a good stretch in the morning to get the gears turning.

He hadn’t reached the stage in his healing journey where his body ceased feeling like he got hit by a bus, but then again, it had only been three days since he awoke from his week-long coma. The annoyingly heightened sensitivity to light that nearly blinded him since the first day he regained consciousness continued to plague him- his pupils struggled to dilate, and his vision continued adding a hazy, bright whitewash over his surroundings, making him feel like he was in a perpetual dream state.

Could it be from the side effects of the new cocktail of pharmaceuticals? Body trauma? Starvation or a disturbed mental state? A combination of all? The answer was impossible to know.

What he did know was between the round-the-clock cocktail of drugs Sullivan fed him made him nauseous and heady, his inability to move half his body, and his disorientated eyesight, he half-convinced himself he really was finally dead; or at least sequestered in some poorly constructed, shabby purgatory that would hold him until he wholly phased over to the side of the dearly departed.

But death be too sweet of a release for a disparaging sad-sack such as him, and he knew better than to hope he would be allowed to go so easily.

His snap back to reality—his reality, his sad, miserable reality, was the hard-to-ignore militaristic growl of his Master, recognizable in any mental state, clear-headed or not, no matter how dead he debated himself to be.

The Aid fulfilled Sullivan’s read-between-the-line command out of a trained compulsory instinct rather than intentional effort—he carefully twisted his torso with his outreached, unbroken hand to the right, taking special consideration of his broken rib he hoped to not further aggravate in the process, as he fetched his glasses on the nightstand and promptly adjusted them on his nose.

He sat up with a lackadaisical effort, matching all the bursting-at-the-seams excitability of a DMV employee, to face the day ahead of him and to face Wyatt Sullivan’s ugly mug glaring at him with a special delivery of meds and breakfast neatly put together on a serving tray held out in front of him.

What a beautiful sight it was to see—his Master serving him for a change.

Sullivan frowned, acting as if he were allergic to the words he spoke, chewing them with the same dissatisfaction as a toddler forced to eat broccoli, “Trouble… sleeping?”

“No, Sir,” The Aid replied sleepily, voice laced with a twinge of early morning raspiness.

Dr. Paul’s generously supplied Ambien made sure to keep him adequately sedated throughout the night—bonus points included keeping the pesky demons at bay.

Sullivan handed him an uncapped eight-fluid-ounce bottle of Ensure to kick off the morning regimen. He struggled the most with solid foods, but he was able to manage liquids. He sipped the drink dutifully between paced intervals as Sullivan put the tray on the dresser, then turned to witness him consume the contents.

His appetite hadn’t fully returned; Dr. Paul said it could be quite some time before his body started feeling hungry again, some effect of long-term starvation and post-surgery recovery. And who knew what the hell this hefty dose of mixed medication was doing to him?

Every mealtime was a battle.

He fought hard to keep down every bite he could bring to his mouth, but his efforts were not without reward as he successfully managed to hold down a couple of days’ worth of food now—which was more food than he was getting in a whole week when chained up beneath the floorboards. He forgot what it felt like to quench his thirst fully or to have a full belly—or as full of a belly as he could manage despite his ever-present teetering urge to puke his guts out.

In the grand scheme of things, his current state was hardly an improvement, but anything—everything— felt like sunshine and rainbows compared to bleeding to death as an emaciated corpse in a dungeon.Three cheers for being adequately fed, properly hydrated, and munificently medicated—hip-hip-horay.

His satiated basic needs lent a hand for his wits and senses to begin slowly returning, and among his normal senses, he reacquainted with his sixth sense, which he had long forgotten about.

And he sensed something was off this morning.

The Aid felt Sullivan’s shift in energy…something was— looming?

The edgy ambiance alluded to more than just Sullivan’s usual restless withdrawals from alcohol (he was sure the brute hadn’t taken a sip since their little basement incident—his shakes, evened-temper, and cleaner-than-usual smell were enough of an indication of that), but any additional insight escaped him. The aura remaining in the room was unsettling at best, foreboding at worst.

***

As The Aid lay slowly dying from starvation and infection on that rotting mattress in that hell of a basement for months, the last thing on his mind was his special little bag of tricks. He was endowed with a unique set of senses separating him from the rest of the herd and earned him a hefty price tag that only those from considerable means could afford—yes, despite Sullivan’s slanderous accusations of his low worth, he did, in fact, fetch a pretty penny, many pretty pennies, a fuckloads worth.

If Wyatt ever found out how much his mother spent on the measly servant, the man would undoubtedly pop a gasket and explode with a plume of steam jetting from his ears.

It was more than happenstance for The Aid, a trained caregiver of Olympic-grade rank, to be a Mystic—a conduit of psychic abilities. He possessed a sought-after and rare sense-set his former CSI* facility overseer, Handler Bryce, doted on him for having and landed him the posting with Madame Sullivan in the first place—as anyone who could afford it wanted a special breed of a Domestic servant, and Elenor Sullivan spared no expense when it came to acquiring the best of the best. The Aid not only fit the bill for a high-class servant who came with all the fixings, including a level of inculcated etiquette that would make a Victorian maiden blush, but he was the damn paragon for all Mystic Grand Servants.

The Aid’s repertoire consisted of the empathic, hyper-intuitive, psychometric*, and premonitionative* variety- that’s right, a true four-for-four value nicely wrapped up in one little shiny package available to the highest bidder. Although, according to him, these abilities merely sounded cooler than they were practical in day-to-day life, he regarded his abilities (what he thought of as “annoyances” or “curses” more than anything else) as sporadic hindrances welcomed with the same fondness as a migraine.

The Aid’s most prominent abilities, his varying forms of empathy and hyper-intuition, morphed together (lending some to classify him with the gift of discernment- ‘yeah, ‘gift’ my ass’) to generate feelings- strong, unshakable feelings that overcame him in the form of heightened emotions, mental images, or sometimes both.

But what all Joe Schmoes failed to realize was that Mystics were particularly vulnerable to negative energies, which his four-year-old self affectionately named “yucks.” And these yucks were everywhere: people, places, and things oozed “the yuck.” Consequently, he opted to close himself off from feeling other people; he had enough of his own shit to deal with.

Who the fuck wanted to be burdened with the feelings of other people anyway?

A non-Mystic would assume that he at least found solace in his premonitions.

Wrong.

Sure, his degrees of clairvoyance told him things he’d never know without supernatural intervention, and it was always right; he was always right. Yet he rarely felt satisfied with such knowledge. And sometimes, “being right” and knowing things he shouldn't landed him in a heap of trouble—and once, not so long ago, it even landed him a four-month stay shackled to a support beam, surrounded by concrete walls below ground.

***

Sullivan sat on the edge of the bed, an awkward grimace rolled over his face, his chary eyes locked on to The Aid’s wary expression.

‘What the hell is this about?’

The Aid wanted to stick out his feelers and openly prod as he would with others but knew better than to; his Master was full of nothing but a nauseating amount of malice and animosity that quickly seeped into him if he looked in for too long. If he dared plunge into Sullivan’s internal affairs, it would have to be a covert mission, a war fought with surveillance drones rather than foot soldiers. Undoubtedly, Sullivan’s MO was off—his idle moping was unusual behavior, especially for a man as heedless and brash as he, who—more often than not— navigated the world with the cocky tactlessness of a bank robber.

The older man broke the stare, turning his attention to his clasped hands resting on his lap.

Was he…brooding?

After a solid minute of staring at his anxious, twiddling thumbs, Sullivan finally grumbled, “My brother is coming over today.”

‘. . . Oh?’

Sullivan couldn’t look at The Aid as the words came from his mouth; if The Aid hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought a thorn of guilt pricked Sullivan, but psychopaths don’t feel guilt, do they? He would know.

Perhaps Sullivan merely acted to be suffering from a pang of remorse to get sympathy points from his empathetic-to-a-fault servant; a bold and brash move considering the man just murdered and threatened to disembowel him to settle a pricey bill from the mechanic a little over a week ago.

The Aid knew what the arrival of a guest meant, but since Sullivan didn’t ask a direct question, he kept quiet. Although he could feel Sullivan’s surface-level desire (the man projected like a lighthouse, so The Aid had to all but crack open his mentally projected empathic door just a smidge to not be overwhelmed by the influx of Sullivan’s toxic yuck) for him to just-say-something-god-damn-it to ease his internal tension, he opted to play the obedient slave role and not speak unless commanded to. He would slyly play by Sullivan’s rules when it served him best. More often than not, weaponized incompetence was the only weapon he had at hand that Sullivan was too stupid to notice since the man was an arrogant rat bastard who paraded around with the false confidence of the most intelligent person in the room.

It was quite a sight to see the ogre of a man internally floundering like a fish out of water without his go-to conversational crutch of threatening or yelling at his sorry excuse for inheritance. The Aid found small victories where he could, and feeling the man battle himself gave him a much-needed dose of satisfaction. He fatuously likened himself to David conquering Goliath, and in true legendary fashion, the much older man at least doubled The Aid’s weight and had a full 13 inches on him, but The Aid liked to think that he had him beat when it came to native wit.

Sullivan huffed a compressed, bitter laugh, “For reasons I don’t understand, he likes you and is going to want to see you.” As he spoke, he outstretched his fingers, trying to release the tension brewing in his sweaty palms before making himself bring his gaze back up to face the physical representation of his alcohol-fueled violent outburst.

“So-” Sullivan surveyed the broken, gaunt, sickly-looking figure before him.

The Aid finished sipping the Ensure slowly, making sure to milk every moment of Sullivan’s sulky fidgeting, ‘Look at him posturing, actin’ all tongue-tied and flabbergasted and shit. Petulant bastard. This is gonna be a real doozy.’

The Aid kept his empathic door cracked and peaked in the sliver of space between him and a dark, dread-filled abyss, careful to keep his distance, far away enough so that no harm would befall him, but open enough to catch any emanating feeling that dared poke its tendril out from the frightening depths of Sullivan’s mind palace. The danger of meddling in his Master’s feelings did not escape him, nor would the opportunity to gently pry at the man in such an oddly vulnerable state elude him just the same.

In an equally unpredicted but half-expected second later, a thick, clouded emotion overcame him, clear and strong as ocean winds. In the entirety of that single instant- which seemed to expand further than metaphysically possible—he felt a rare, mutual link stitch between himself and Sullivan, intertwining them in an impossible moment as they emoted in unison—

SUSPICION

Drunken Sullivan couldn’t tell his ass from elbow, but sober Sullivan was a few notches quicker (now leveling the playing field as his dried-out self was more on par with The Aid’s drugged and slightly disorientated state) and all the more eager to detect The Aid’s use of abilities, of which he banned him from using without explicit permission. Unsanctioned use resulted in a swift and proper beating for defying the Master’s orders.

Sullivan knew of The Aid’s tricks, how he felt invading his mind, so The Aid quickly closed the mental door between them and settled back into the present moment, hoping that Sullivan didn’t catch wind of their accidental syncing.

The Aid gulped a knot in his throat and tightened his jaw as he shifted restlessly, trying to distract Sullivan with a wince and doleful whimper to sell the look of being in physical pain over mental distress—both were true, so it didn’t demand much fabrication.

Sullivan narrowed his eyes and hacked a cavalier snicker, scrutinizing The Aid’s woebegone manner, but continued, “Ya’ve been sick, real sick. By the looks of it, for a while, I reckon. Ya’ve been struggling to eat; maybe ya got a viral infection or some bad strain of the flu or somethin’, that’s why ya’r all shriveled up an’ lookin’ like hell. An’ ‘fore that, ya hurt yourself when cleaning the windows outside on the second story…ya fell off the ladder an’ got impaled by a tree branch.” His faked insistence dwindled to an unconvincing timbre towards the end of the falsity of events, revealing his inability to buy his half-baked bullshit.

The Aid forcibly gulped his last sip of vanilla-flavored dietary supplement, or else he would have spit it out and erupted in a fit of laughter. He bowed his head, trying to conceal a small, giggly hum that escaped him anyway, despite his effort to hold it back.

“The fuck is so funny?” A flash of anger bolted across Sullivan’s face; his piercing eyes shot icy daggers as his hand stiffened at his side—oh, he wanted to slap the snide little fucker clean across the face.

“Sir, respectively, we live in a desert, not many trees around. There aren’t even any trees on the sides of the house?” The Aid tried to reason, choosing his words carefully while anxious eyes surveilled Sullivan’s rigid hand, which resembled closer to a cocked gun over a human extremity.

Sullivan forced a dramatized sigh, airing his frustrations with what he took as The Aid’s unwillingness to cooperate. A stern hand reached out; The Aid preemptively flinched—but instead of being struck, to his surprise, Sullivan snatched the empty Ensure bottle from him and replaced it with a cup of water coupled with a napkin of pills on his lap.

“Then what happened then, hm?” Sullivan asked smugly with a click of his tongue, challenging The Aid’s ability to contrive a believable story to sell.

The Aid took a moment to shift through the morning pills—all 10 of them—in search of the only three he cared about: his precious off-brand oxycodone, Klonopin, and fluoxetine. The rest he didn’t know or give a shit about, and Sullivan never bothered explaining to him. Not like it mattered; he’d have to take them all regardless—Doctor’s orders.

The Aid considered how he could respond, wrestling with the outcome of each conjurable scenario—it could go so many ways.

But how would he play it today?

He singled out the two smallest pills, adding them to his holy trinity of medication, before quickly swallowing them with a couple of gulps of chilled water.

He’d try his luck; after all, he was on the winning side, and Sullivan seemed more forgiving today.

“I think a burglar broke in and attacked me. But thankfully, my big, strong Master stepped in to save lil-ole-me since I was stuck in bed with an icky cough and too weak to defend myself.” His cadence was uncharacteristically slow, calculated, and clipped with disdain.

He downed the remainder of the pills with a finishing chug of water and handed the empty cup to Sullivan.

‘Checkmate bitch.’

“Is that so?” The older man’s words flowed slow and sticky; suppressed anger coated every syllable; then, he slid his tongue over his teeth. Now, he really looked like he wanted to hit him, and The Aid knew it took every ounce of strength for the brute to hold back.

Sullivan expelled a sigh before tittering at The Aid’s innuendo, seizing the cup from him and standing to set it on the dresser. Before Sullivan sat back down, he threw back the bottom covers to expose The Aid’s feet, placing a possessive hand on his sprained ankle as he settled back into his spot.

‘Oh, big man wants to play a game?’

Against his better judgment, The Aid upped his antics and turned the insinuation switch to overdrive, “You mean you don’t remember? Wow, I guess he hit you over the head harder than I thought—”

Sullivan squeezed his lame ankle, abruptly cutting him off and forcing a surprised gasp to fill his chest. A white burn relit in his ankle, shot to his toes, and smarted up his leg, splintering off just below his kneecap; the pain plucked a yelp through his gritted teeth as he placed his hand over his broken rib, steeling himself against the sharp, pulsing agony daring to wreck him from both ends.

“Ya’ve been a real little shit ass since ya woke up from that coma, ya know that?” Sullivan snarled, rage flickered in his hollow eyes as he threw a sulky look at the insolent slave.

The Aid knew he shouldn’t. Oh, he really shouldn’t.

Don’t say it… Don’t even think it.

‘You’ll regret it.’

That may be true. But the opportunity was his for the taking.

Fuck it—

“I learned all my shit-assery from the very best, Sir-”

He sucked in a quick, painful breath and bolted his eyes shut from the new spark of a fiery, needling pain bursting from his ankle as Sullivan forcefully extended his wrapped foot to a point. A delayed scream ripped from somewhere deep in his belly and reverberated through his splintered rib.

“I’m sorry!” A screech burst from the pits of his chest, trembling from a whirlpool of pain and adrenaline flooding his nerves as a few involuntary tears rolled down his cheeks. A wounded, shaky chuckle thrummed in his throat, an unconscious attempt from his body to expel pent-up distress.

Sullivan glared at him wickedly. In any other circumstance, The Aid would’ve already been slapped around and given a black eye for being mouthy. He usually bit his tongue, or at least knew when to get off the proverbial bus before it rode off the cliff, but since awakening from the coma, since Sullivan stabbed him to death, he felt different—blasé. Devil-may-care.

And it scared him like hell.

“Keep it up, boy, and ya’re gettin’ the fuckin’ shock collar an’ I’m frying that soft little neck of ya’rs, got it? That don’t leave marks, an’ Dr. Paul won’t know.” He jerked The Aid’s ankle again, stealing another pleading yawp pried from his vocal cords to drive the message home that he was serious—as if he ever doubted his Master’s inclination towards cruelty.

“Yes sir, please, I’m sorry!” He begged weakly between sobs. Sullivan eased his grip but didn’t remove his hand. The Aid’s ankle and side throbbed mercilessly, and he wondered how much longer they would take to heal now.

“Look at ‘dat, an’ you fell an’ hurt ya’r already fucked up foot! The Doc is gonna tell ya that ya need to be more careful!” Sullivan taunted.

“Yes, sir, I am very accident prone.” The Aid tried to joke, but the humor he attempted to muster didn’t rally; instead, its remnants dropped and sunk heavily in his gut. He quietly whimpered as he slowly rocked back and forth to lull himself, chastened by his foolishness, and hung his head in remorse.

Sullivan smiled shallowly at him—it was amazing how the ogre could even ruin a smile—reveling in his slave’s misery and surrender.

Sullivan retrieved the food tray and placed it on The Aid’s lap, monitoring him intensely as he did so. The Aid examined the contents of his breakfast—a small bowl of oatmeal, a slice of toast, and a cup of orange juice. He didn’t know how he would be able to eat it all. His barely-there appetite became further nullified by the pain throbbing throughout his body. Dr. Paul said to give it a few days for his body to get used to regular food again before he should proceed with an anti-nausea and appetite enhancer if his appetite couldn’t return on its own, but damn, did he wish for another magical little pill to fix another one of his Sullivan-made problems.

Sullivan espied The Aid’s poorly concealed apprehension towards his food- how he looked so helplessly at the bowl of oatmeal.

“Eat,” his Master demanded.

Funny sentiment, all things considered, the man who starved him for months ordering him to eat.

The Aid took the spoon and stirred the oatmeal. He was pleased to see steam coming off it—nothing worse than cold mush. He brought a small spoonful of oatmeal to his mouth and chewed it slowly, trying to overcome the urge to spit it out and forcing himself to swallow.

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So, what’s with the random blue text?

‘This is a premonition.’

THIS IS AN EMPATHIC FEELING

Footnotes:

*CSI: (not “crime scene investigation”) stands for “Chattel Services Incorporated.” CSI is a WRU adjacent type facility that “trains” would-be enslaved people. I don’t want to give too much away right now, as more will be revealed about CSI and its facilities as time goes on! Just know that they are the big cooperation that has a monopoly on the industrialized slave trade in this alternate-reality universe.

*Psychometric: relating to the psychic power, Psychometry, where a person receives visions through objects. We will learn more about what this means specifically for the MC down the road!

*Premonitiative: relating to the psychic ability to receive premonitions- visions of future events. The MC’s premonitions come through in a couple of different ways. Instead of visuals, he may receive internal dialogue that seems to come from nowhere. I still consider this a “premonition,” although it can also double as his hyper-intuition.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

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