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hold-him-down · 3 months

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🤝 - Some help performing a basic task

✥ I Got Something For You ✥

Trigger warnings: semi-explicit noncon. 18+ only.

Notes: 2-ish months into West Peterson.

✥ ✥ ✥

When the doorbell rang, and Mr. Peterson inclined his head toward Leo, that should have been the first warning. The, “I got something for you,” should have been the second. Neither, though, prepares Leo for who greets him on the other side. When Leo opens the door to find a man, no older than he is, with short black hair and deep, charcoal eyes, wearing a Department of Labor Services branded t-shirt staring at him, there’s only a brief moment of confusion before the pieces fall into place.

✥ ✥ ✥

[Weeks Earlier]

“Come over here,” Mr. Peterson calls to him one night, abrupt but not exactly unexpected. Leo finishes the plate he is cleaning and sets it aside. He dries his hands, unrolls the sleeves to his crisp black button-down, pours himself a glass of wine, and makes his way over to the older man who currently holds his contract.

He sits down cautiously, and Mr. Peterson offers him a genuine smile. “I'm– I'm just going to cut to the chase, Leo. I’ve been giving this some thought..." He reaches for his tablet and turns it on. “Now that you’ve been here for a few months, and you know– well, you know how fond of you I am,” he continues.

Leo returns the smile and nods, mouthing a soft, 'thank you,' to be on the safe side.

“I just have been thinking it’s too much for one person,” Mr. Peterson continues. Leo takes a breath, his eyebrows rising. “All of this. And, not just that. But they said, uh–” He runs his hand over the back of his neck and takes a long sip of his scotch. “Well, they said you like interacting with your peers. That you crave companionship. Something like that.”

A silence buds, and so Leo, eager to prevent the void from growing uncomfortable, says, “I suppose neither of those things are untrue.”

“Great. So I've– I’ve been thinking it has to be hard on you. When I’m away, or when I’m otherwise occupied. I thought it might be nice to… I don’t know, procure you a… a companion. To help keep you sharp, and uh– to help keep you happy, I guess,” he finishes.

Leo swallows, tilting his head to one side, as Mr. Peterson turns his tablet so he can see the screen.

“I know that some might think of this as some type of perversion of justice,” he continues, immune to Leo’s curiosity shifting into something more tense. Leo takes a long sip of wine, peering at the screen. “I asked the director at Greenwood to pull a few options for us." Leo's jaw drops. "Before you say anything,” Mr. Peterson adds quickly, “I want you to know that I’m doing this as much for me as I am for you, and I don't... I'm not asking you for permission here, or for your blessing. I think it’ll be good for you to have someone here, but it’ll also be good for me.

"All that said, I do want your input." Mr. Peterson shows him the picture of a worker, and Leo forces himself to remain neutral, if for no other reason than to disguise his discomfort. At seeing this. At getting his first glimpse into this side of things.

“I don’t need you to make any type of final decision about the suitability of these boys,” Mr. Peterson continues. “My attorneys will review their files and ultimately determine if they’re a good match to my, and by extension, your needs. But I’d like to give you the opportunity to veto any, or if you feel strongly attached to any, I’d like to know that, too. Ideally, I'd like to find someone we both find attractive, and someone who may hold your interest through the duration of your contract.”

The evening is spent scrolling through the pictures of seventeen workers, with Leo mostly silent, entirely focused on keeping himself calm, and Mr. Peterson running a verbal pros and cons list for each one. Occasionally, he requires commentary from Leo, and in these instances, as subtly as he can, Leo tries remind him of their humanity. And all through it, Leo actively avoids thinking about the last time Mr. Peterson did this, about his own image appearing on the screen. What he had said then, with whom he had reviewed these files. Inevitably, those thoughts do creep in, but Leo shuts them down as quickly as he can.

And when Mr. Peterson closes the last of the files, glancing finally at a stunned silent Leo, and then, perhaps because he notices something in Leo's expression, excuses himself to bed, Leo finishes his wine in silence and promises himself he will not think about this night. Ever again.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Oh,” Leo says now, opening the front door wider. He shakes his head in a kind of detached disbelief, then steps aside, turning in time to see Mr. Peterson making his way to the foyer. “Mr. Peters–”

“You must be Will,” Mr. Peterson says, and Leo, in that moment, wishes he could be anywhere but in this room. Will is… around his age, he guesses. Around his height, around his build. Dark eyes, easy smile. He can’t help but think that Mr. Peterson has a type, and he also can’t help but wonder what–

“Leo, introduce yourself,” Mr. Peterson says, sharply enough that Leo doesn’t hesitate to reach out his hand.

“I’m Leo.” He smiles, as he would greet any other of Mr. Peterson’s guests. “It’s nice to meet you,” he continues.

Will takes his hand, offering a gentle, if not a little bravely assertive, handshake. He watches Leo closely, holding his eye contact for just a moment too long.

“Well,” Mr. Peterson says, loud enough that Leo drops his hand abruptly, locking his fingers behind his back. “Looks like you two will be just fine.” He nods, as if to punctuate the thought.

Leo can’t shake the unease he feels as Mr. Peterson looks over Will once, then lets his gaze shift to Leo.

✥ ✥ ✥

They spend the first few days falling into a new routine. Leo, on edge since the day Will showed up, waits for the other shoe to drop, and Will puts a razor-sharp focus on assimilating with as little fanfare as possible. And he’s good at it.

Will, who, it turns out, is one year younger than Leo but has been in the system since the day after he turned eighteen, is, in a lot of ways, a perfect product of the training. He meets Leo in the kitchen every morning at seven, and while Leo makes breakfast, Will sets the table. While Leo cleans the bathroom, Will does the laundry. While Leo helps with the restaurant, Will does the yard work.

Will seldom attempts to speak to him, but when he does, he keeps it light. It’s almost too easy, Leo thinks constantly, so at the end of their fifth night together, when Mr. Peterson stops Will from going to his bedroom with a terse, “Wait,” Leo immediately goes rigid. Partly because it has, he’s decided, been way too easy, and partly because Mr. Peterson is on his third scotch, but mostly because of the way Mr. Peterson looks not at Will as he speaks, but at Leo.

“Sit down,” Mr. Peterson says, and he inclines his head toward Leo. Will feels the danger here, too, Leo thinks. He’s hesitant in his step, maybe not noticeable to Mr. Peterson, but noticeable to Leo, who has watched him navigate the house with nothing but undiluted confidence for the last week. “I want to try something,” he says then.

Leo nods, and Mr. Peterson says, “Finish your drink,” and so Leo does so without waiting, taking two big gulps of thousand-dollar wine, and then discarding his glass. “Would you like another?” he asks, and Leo eagerly agrees. Mr. Peterson looks to Will, who fills both of their glasses, and he watches as both of his workers body their drinks.

“I thought maybe,” Mr. Peterson eventually says (and here, he has the audacity to sound nervous), “I thought it might be nice for the two of you to get to know one another a little bit better.” He stands, stretching, and says, “I’m going to help myself to another scotch. When I get back, I trust you’ll both be ready to move things along here.” He looks only at Leo, with an expectant stare that makes the hairs on Leo's arm stand up.

Leo waits until Mr. Peterson has retreated out of sight before he speaks.

He looks straight ahead as he speaks, but he knows Will is listening. In his peripheries, Will leans forward, and takes a slow sip of his wine.

“Whatever happens," Leo hears himself saying, shoving his hands under his legs to keep them from shaking, "I want you to know that I didn’t want this." He keeps his voice low, loud enough to reach Will but not loud enough to reach the bar. “Whatever he makes me do, or whatever he makes you do, just know that I didn’t… I didn’t choose this.” There’s a panicked edge to his tone that grows with each word, and he knows he needs to lose it quickly. He takes the deepest breath he can, as his eyes track Mr. Peterson making his way back to the living room.

“I know,” Will responds, equally softly. And then, as Mr. Peterson lowers himself back down onto the sofa, he says, “It’s okay.”

✥ ✥ ✥

Leo waits until he’s sure both Mr. Peterson and Will have fallen asleep before he allows himself to stand, unsteady on his feet but eager for this night to end. He walks as calmly as he can to the bathroom before he doubles over the toilet, expelling everything his stomach has to offer before letting his forehead rest on his arm.

The feeling of Will’s hands on him, of Will’s mouth on him while Mr. Peterson coaches every movement. Mr. Peterson's voice, look at his face, and he likes that, and god, fucking perfect, and keep going, and use your tongue, and don't be afraid to go a little rougher, and fucking hands down, Leo, and you're doing good, and you're so fucking hot, and every word plays through Leo’s head on repeat and Leo wants to scream to make it stop, but he can't. There's no stopping it, and there's no end to it, and it reminds him, in some ways, of how... He thought he was done, but as images of Mr. Peterson's weight landing on the sofa next to him, of Mr. Peterson stopping Will to look at him, to touch him, as Mr. Peterson's guides Leo's hand, he doubles over the toilet once more–

A knock on the door pulls Leo back to the moment, and there's a second of sheer, perfect panic where he realizes he was too loud, and someone's awake, and things are going to get infinitely worse, before he looks up. And it's... it’s Will who stands in the doorway, backlit by the dull yellow of the hall light, and Leo can breathe again.

“I was that bad, huh?” Will asks, kneeling to a crouch next to him. Will smiles, an apologetic, soft smile that Leo isn’t accustomed to, because frankly, he's not accustomed to Will speaking to him at all, before he lets the back of his hand sweep the slightly overgrown hair from Leo’s neck.

“It’s not you,” Leo says, voice hoarse and still teetering on the edge of hysteria. “It’s me.”

Will laughs then, and it's a genuine sound that Leo hasn’t heard in years, and something about it is all too much, setting off the months, or maybe years, of pent up anxiety, and Leo can’t stop the cascade of tears that silently begins to fall.

Will, for his part, sits next to him, and with no pressure for him to stop, and no one waiting for him to get his shit together, Leo cries harder.

Until eventually, he takes a long, deep breath, and he forces himself to calm down.

Several minutes pass, with both boys silent and processing the events of the evening, before Will finally says, “Did I hurt you?”

Leo replies, almost instantly, “No.”

“Okay," Will says. "Good.” He pauses, leveling his gaze on Leo. The silence draws out again, until finally, Will stands, putting his hand out to help Leo up. “I wish I could promise it won’t happen again,” Will says, quietly. “I… whatever I can do to make it easier, I’ll do. But I’ve been with guys like Mr. Peterson before, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I… I think this wasn’t the end of something, it wasn’t a satisfaction of some dark repressed urge he had as a one time thing. I think it was the beginning of something.” Will opens the door and gestures Leo out first, but squeezes his shoulder as he does.

“I know,” Leo replies.

FIGHTER TAG LIST: @whump-cravings @afabulousmrtake @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @pumpkin-spice-whump @distinctlywhumpthing @thecyrulik @highwaywhump @batfacedliar-yetagain @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup @skyhawkwolf @suspicious-whumping-egg @also-finder-of-rings @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @peachy-panic @melancholy-in-the-morning @urban-dark @nicolepascaline @quietly-by-myself @pigeonwhumps @whump-blog @seasaltandcopper @angstyaches @i-msonotcreative @mylifeisonthebookshelf @anonintrovert @whump-world @squishablesunbeam @considerablecolors @whumpcereal @whumperfully @pirefyrelight @whumpsday @whumplr-reader @lonesome--hunter @darkthingshappen @alexmundaythrufriday

#fade to black ish noncon #the fighter #institutionalized slavery

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cepheusgalaxy · 28 days

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But like BRO being a box boy owner must suck

Like imagine you buy a Pet. It costed you a lot of money, but you managed to.

When they arrive, they arrive in WRU standard clothes (which are ugly) or NAKED (depending on the person who is writing it) so YOU now has to use more money to buy your Whumpee some clothes.

PLUS when they come for you. If you get a secondhanded Boxie. They are probably very fucking bruised so now you ALSO have to pay for their health. Why doesn't WRU give the Pets in better conditions for fucks sake. If i was a whumper I'd fill a form.

#i mean not like they dont deserve it #the owners i mean #but its like just so #INCOVENIENT #bbu whump #it must suck for then #lmao #whump #bbu #box boy universe #pet whump #whumpers #swearing #institutionalized slavery #fantasy slavery

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befuddled-calico-whump · 1 year

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masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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gottawhump · 4 months

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Choices

Maia

CW/Tw: pet whump, institutional slavery, BBU/WRU, death/euthanasia mention

It takes forever for the rich kid to decide who he’s taking home, like it always does, but she’s not surprised when he chooses the little dark-haired Romantic.

When the shelter gets a Romantic, they usually get snapped up quickly. Usually, they’re eager to go, trying out all their practiced charms to win over a new owner.

Not that one. He’d been an owner surrender. He was being replaced by a cat, apparently, from the pet shelter a few blocks down. His skin was heavily marked by hard use, with signs of past owners. Any potential new owner would only take him to destroy him, not to cherish.

She hopes that won’t happen to him with the rich kid.

He shrunk into himself in the shelter kennel, refusing to interact with staff or possible adopters. Eventually refusing to eat, which slated him for the end-of-life section.

She hopes he’ll be okay, in his new home.

Now there are only two in the EOL section. The Guard Dog, due to be put down for inappropriate aggressiveness, and the Domestic, because they need more space.

Their adoption fees are heavily discounted, but even at the employee rate, she thinks she can only afford one.

She has to choose.

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue

#pet whump #institutionalized slavery #bbu/wru #euthanasia mention #old friends #Maia the shelter worker

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snakebites-and-ink · 10 months

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CW: Pet whump, institutionalized slavery, implied past abuse, caretaker is in fact the new master, I’m new at this so if there was a warning I missed please lmk.

It was a normal day, at first. A calm day. Caretaker and Whumpee were in the kitchen. Whumpee was standing casually in the kitchen space and would simply move out of the way if Caretaker had to get to something past them. The pet had come a long way since Caretaker first bought them, when Whumpee would kneel in a corner trying to make themself as small as possible, and not do anything without permission except beg.

Now Whumpee would move around the house freely and take care of their basic needs without permission, and was more-or-less comfortable asking Caretaker for other things they needed or even wanted. Caretaker was proud of them.

Unfortunately, there were still things that could bring Whumpee’s fear out from wherever it still lurked within them.

Not having been paying close attention, Caretaker wasn’t quite sure what caused it: whether Whumpee got distracted, or Caretaker moved in a startling way somehow, or if the glass was just wet and slippery. Whichever it was, the glass of water Whumpee was holding unexpectedly slid from their grasp.

Two sets of eyes widened as the glass crashed to the floor, spraying glittering clear water and glass shards everywhere. Startling, but not a serious thing…to Caretaker.

By the look of things, it was serious to Whumpee. They looked afraid, almost panicked, at how they had messed up. Face pale, Whumpee paused in shock for a single moment before immediately moving to pick up the sharp shards.

“Stop!” Caretaker shouted. Whumpee froze. “Don’t use your bare hands. Use the broom and dustpan, then go over the area with a vacuum to get all the tiny bits that the broom might have missed.” As Caretaker spoke, they leaned over the broken glass with the broom held out so that Whumpee didn’t have to risk cutting their feet to go retrieve it.

Whumpee accepted the broom and started sweeping the shards. They still looked quite afraid, but the instructions seemed to have given them something to focus on and directed them away from blind panic to a more controlled fear. Whumpee was sweeping the glass away from—never towards—where they were standing, and not touching any of it directly.

Satisfied that Whumpee was out of danger and figuring that a second body at risk of getting cut would only complicate things, Caretaker said, “I’m going to the living room. Don’t cut yourself.” Whumpee nodded obediently and Caretaker carefully stepped out of the room.

Whumpee finished cleaning up their mess, trying in vain to ignore the dread that had settled in their stomach. After putting away the vacuum, they went to where their owner had sat down and knelt in front of them.

Caretaker looked up from what they were reading and frowned in concern, noticing how tense the pet was. “What’s up, hon?”

“I finished cleaning. I’m ready for my punishment, Master.”

Whumpee’s heart raced in fear as they wondered what their owner was going to do about this mishap. Caretaker had been lenient with them so far, but they hadn’t broken anything of Caretaker’s before and weren’t sure what the punishment would be. They couldn’t help but think of how their old master would have punished them for a slip-up like this.

“Wasn’t having to clean up the mess sufficient punishment?” Caretaker asked.

Whumpee froze. They were trapped. If they said yes, it could be seen as them trying to escape punishment. If they said no, they could be seen as disagreeing with their master. Either one could only make their situation worse. After a few seconds of panicked hesitation, Whumpee gave the safest answer they could: “I wouldn’t know, Master.” Caretaker’s expectant look told them that that answer wasn’t enough, so Whumpee added, “but I’m used to harsher punishments.”

Caretaker’s face did the thing it usually did when Whumpee talked about the time with their previous owner; it softened with compassion for Whumpee, hardened with cold anger towards Whumper, and got kind of sad, all at the same time somehow. “Oh, Whumpee,” they said sympathetically, “you don’t need any punishments like that. Dishes are replaceable, and more importantly, I know it was an accident. If you were to willfully rebel, I would have to be harsh with you, but otherwise I see no reason for your consequences to be anything worse than fixing the problem your mistake caused.”

Whumpee could have sobbed with relief. Not only were they not going to be punished any further for this, but now also they knew such lenience would be a pattern they could rely on for the future. “Thank you, Master,” they said, tension draining out of them.

Caretaker put an arm around Whumpee’s shoulder and drew them closer, and Whumpee leaned into the owner who was so much kinder than anything they’d known before. “You’re welcome, hon, but you don’t need to thank me for something as basic as that. I’ll never treat you like your last owner did. You’re safe here, and I hope one day you’ll understand that as a truth rather than just as a statement,” Caretaker murmured into Whumpee’s ear.

I’m starting to, Whumpee thought.

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quietly-by-myself · 7 months

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A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 14

Masterlist

I found it in me to write this. Going through a rough time and Akakios is my comfort character, so enjoy the penultimate chapter.

CW: medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, institutionalized slavery, angels and demons, transformation whump, vague allusion to noncon, brief suicidal ideation

===

“You’re changing, my love.”

Asimi ran their hand over one of the nubs of horn protruding from Akakios’ head. Akakios, of course, was crying. There were few nights spent with Asimi that didn’t involve tears. It was a miracle, to Akakios, that Asimi wasn’t sick of him.

“There’s nothing that can be done?” Aka asked tearfully. The reality of it all was sinking in. He was becoming a dangerous creature. Before, he wasn’t human by virtue of being a mage of the dark arts. Now, he would be a monster. He’d be killed.

Not that it was such a bad fate, to be dead.

“No, Aka, my love. There’s nothing that can be done.” For once, the ever-steady Asimi seemed shaken. “I’ll be forced out of you, Aka. I fear for what that means for both of us.” Asimi took a breath. “Aka, we, as devils, are created by powerful emotions. The stronger the emotions throughout a lifetime, the stronger the devil. You will be powerful, my love. Able to defend yourself without me.”

“Asimi, you can’t leave me.” Akakios began to sob. “You’ve always been there. What am I going to do without you?”

Asimi looked away, casting Akakios into shame.

God, even Asimi would hate him now.

“Aka, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I hope we can escape. I hope we can overwhelm their forces and escape. But I don’t think that will happen. Young devils are out of control, Aka. They’re strong and unable to control themselves. With this happening now- look, I’m not a fortune teller. I just don’t know.”

It was the first time that Asimi hadn’t known.

That scared Akakios, more than Constantine ever could.

—

The rain pattered awkwardly on the windshield of Vasiliki’s car. When was the last time that Akakios had heard rain? He didn’t know. Of course, Akakios was out of control of his life once again, but he was, at least, outside the Facility.

Vasiliki, as he brought Akakios out of the car and into the apartment building, leading him with a firm hand on his shoulder, seemed nervous. Why was Vasiliki nervous? He’d never seemed this nervous before.

Once Vasiliki opened the lock to his apartment - Akakios felt like he recognized the number, 504 - and practically shoved Akakios in, he took a deep breath. It sounded part like relief and part like anguish. Akakios fidgeted nervously with his hands, a little unsure of what to do. The apartment was a one-bedroom ordeal - not exactly what Akakios had been expecting out of the doctor.

“I,” Vasiliki took another deep breath. “I know that this is my apartment. I know what that means for you, Akakios. So, I wanted to say my intentions plainly.”

Vasiliki took a look around his apartment, as though he was looking for something hidden. Once he was satisfied, Vasiliki turned to Akakios.

“I have a friend who’s a revolutionary- one who wants to save the dark mages. He- he knows some devils. Some who could help you. I’m calling him to help us. To have us taken to a safehouse. To have you, most of all, taken to a safehouse. You won’t have to talk to me anymore - or anyone from the Facility. You’ll have other people. You won’t be a slave anymore.”

Akakios stood in shocked silence. It felt like a trap. It couldn’t possibly be true. Him? Free? Meeting devils? Being taken care of? The thought was foreign to him.

“Now, just- just sit quietly and let me call him.”

And so, that was what Akakios did. He found a quiet corner in the apartment, a little bit out of sight, while Vasiliki paced around the kitchen on his cellphone. There wasn’t much time before the Facility sent patrols looking for them.

Even if Vasiliki owned him. Even if he was here under the guise of Vasiliki fucking him-

“They’re on their way.”

God, it was actually happening. Someone was coming. Akakios could only hope that this would turn out well for him.

More quiet pacing from Vasiliki. More quiet corner-hiding for Akakios.

Eventually, there was a rap on the door. Vasiliki jumped. Akakios curled up further in the corner.

As the people entered, Akakios curled up more in the corner, the prongs of the shock collar he bore around his neck digging in. He felt himself losing his grip. He couldn’t have panic be his first reaction to these people. Akakios needed to behave, not make Vasiliki look bad.

There were quiet whispers. One had golden eyes, goat-shaped pupils. Goat horns adorned his head. A devil. A devil in the flesh. A very powerful one at that. The other was a kind-looking man around Vasiliki’s age. He had brown skin, brown hair, and brown eyes, with glasses and a beard of stubble.

As the devil approached, Akakios pushed himself further into the corner, whimpering.

“Akakios, right?” The devil, the powerful devil, sat down across from Akakios, giving him plenty of space. “I won’t come any closer.”

When Akakios looked up at the devil, the room wasn’t Vasiliki’s anymore. The space was dark, pitch-black, yet Akakios could see the devil in front of him. Instead of that humanoid creature, though, Akakios could see a wolverine creature with goat’s hooves, eyes, and horns, sitting there, in front of him.

“They can’t see us here.”

Akakios pushed himself up, whimpering, but falling on his broken ankle. “I- Vasiliki is my master. You can’t take me away from him.”

The creature in front of him considered him for a moment before he spoke. “Akakios, I’m not taking you away from him, not unless you want me to.”

“What I want isn’t important. I’m a slave. I don’t have any wants.”

A pensive sigh. A flicker of eyes away from his face. For once, after having said that, Akakios wasn’t sure he’d said the right thing.

“Akakios.” The creature took a breath, before lifting a hooved foreleg. “I don’t care what anyone has told you before this. You are Akakios. Not a slave. Not to me.” The creature paused. “I want you to understand something, Akakios. You belong to yourself. Vasiliki, he’s done some right, but I’d argue he’s done more wrong than he has right. The greatest thing he’s done, though, was tell Stergios that he’s giving you up to freedom.”

“What?”

Akakios’ voice came out as a weak croak. He was overwhelmed. Panicked. Tired. Confused. Why was this all happening?

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Because if it was, what had that year of torture been for?

“Akakios, as of today, you’re free.”

“Not legally. I'll never be free.”

The devil scoffed. “Mortal men think that they can make laws to control the universe. They’d make laws to control the Sun if they could. Akakios, the world is not in control of mortal men, not even ones as powerful as Vasiliki. Not of will, not of their laws. So, forget that a law ever told you that you were lesser. That you were a slave. Mortal men are foolish, Akakios, and soon, you won’t be one of them.”

It was as if the Sun and Moon collided. Everything went dark inside Akakios’ mind. He couldn’t think. Everything had shattered in a matter of minutes.

Elias, the devil, was right. He would not be mortal for much longer. A week if he was lucky.

Or a moment.

Something grew out of Akakios’ shoulders. Suddenly, he was standing on four legs. Spines protruded from his back. His mouth was full of fangs. Worst of all, horns laid on his head.

A piece of him had broken, that last hold out. That fear of becoming immortal. He was a monster, beyond the lives of mortal men. There was no other way to be. As a dark mage and as a devil, Akakios would never be anything other than a beast.

“Aka, my love,”

Akakios’ golden eyes turned to Asimi, that silvery, draconic form, standing in the flesh, before him.

Tears formed in Akakios’ eyes.

“I- I’m sorry, Asimi.”

Asimi smiled as much as they could in that scaly form. “For what, my darling? This is who you are. And you don’t have to be with Vasiliki any longer. I know Elias, darling. He’s going to protect you.”

Akakios hesitated. “But what about you, Asimi?”

Asimi smiled a little. “I’ve retired from the cause. I love you too much to fight anymore, Aka. I want to be by your side. I’ll be with you, Akakios, but you need to recover. I can help, but Elias, he’s a professional. He’s been helping devils recover for hundreds of years. I was only ever a fighter.”

“But Asimi-”

“Aka, I’m not leaving.” There was finality in Asimi’s voice. “I’m staying with you. But I can’t always be with you anymore. You need to take care of yourself. Just, focus on that, okay?”

A sigh, this time from Akakios, as tears stained his fur. “I can’t do this.”

“You can, Aka. I know you can.”

“Akakios.” Elias spoke his name almost as though it were a command. “I want you to make a decision. You can come with me and leave Vasiliki. Nobody will hurt you for it. Or, you can stay with him, and we’ll do our best to help you recover in his presence.”

Akakios looked at Elias, panicked, chest heaving. “I-I, how could I just leave him?”

“Akakios. Vasiliki is part of a horrible system. Was. Was part of a horrible system. He enabled your abuse. He even abused you a bit himself. You can leave someone who enabled what has hurt you so deeply. You can leave anyone behind. That is your right. You are you and you make the decisions that help you the most. It’s not selfish to take care of yourself, Akakios. In my experience, you need to leave this type of thing entirely behind to move on.”

Moving on.

Could Akakios ever move on?

“I’m not worth it,” Akakios eventually mumbled.

Asimi walked over and put their talons on Akakios’ shoulders. “Aka, there’s so much you can’t see. All these wonderful things. I’ve lived a long time and- and I couldn't be happier to be your lifelong platonic partner. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. You are worth it. So, make your choice. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not now. Not ever.”

Looking into Asimi’s silvery eyes, Akakios felt something that resembled a gut feeling.

“I’ll leave. I’ll-I’ll leave Vasiliki.”

With that, Asimi smiled. “You make a beautiful mountain lion, dear.”

===

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @writereleaserepeat, @just-a-silly-little-whumper, @sparrowsage, @inscrutable-shadow, @whumplr-reader, @whumpycries, @demondamage, @whumpshaped, @itsleighlove, @whump-blog, @whumpterful-beeeeee, @sunshiline-writes

#medical whump #trans whumpee #test subject whumpee #experiment whumpee #fantasy racism #dehumanization #fantasy whump #institutionalized slavery #angels and demons #transformation whump #vague allusion to noncon #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump fic #whump community #conditioned whumpee #a wicked work of art

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generic-whumperz · 3 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

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

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.

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

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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kim-poce · 1 year

Text

4. A Brand New Life: Chaos

Masterlist

CW: pet whump, deaf whumpee, fear of punishment, caretaker new master, reformed criminal caretaker, killing briefly being referred to as ‘put down’, it/its pronouns in a dehumanizing way.

=-=

Many many people had owned it, and it went back to the facility too many times to be able to remember all of them. No owner —in the memories it can recall— was as big as this one. This new one wasn’t only toweringly taller than it, he was also so strong, it was sure that he could kill it with a kick if he wanted. It tried not to think about it, this is the biggest but many others were cruel. Crueler it dared to hope. It needed to hope because it had to, somehow, anger this owner enough to be sent back but not enough to be put down.

Trying to plan something so delicate was hard for its dumb pet, and it was getting harder and harder as time passed, exhaustion came without a word of warning, like a sudden storm breaking everything in its way. And just like with a storm, it can't do much to fight the sleepiness. It wasn't that much of a stupid pet to stop trying to force itself awake, though. The comfortable dog bed was just like the clean water; a trap. And it knew so much better than falling into the first trap in a new home.

There was a time that the knowledge of the punishment to come was enough to keep it up. When it had enough control over its body to stay awake days and days in a row unless ordered otherwise. Back then wouldn't close its eyes to blink just to open them too many hours later with the big scary-looking new owner looking down at it. There was such a time. But that was too long ago.

It shivered. What else could it even do but shiver, look down and wait for the pain? It guessed it could, maybe, look up. It could show that it is sorry and it will do anything to make up for it. But the instinct to cower away far predated its need to look up to understand orders. And in the fear, all that's left is instinct and flashes of painful memories.

Its eyes closed shut when, through its eyelashes, it saw the new owner's hand raising. It was almost grateful, both for knowing what the first hit was going to be and for it to be a slap instead of a punch, a kick, or a baseball bat. It would all come later but at last not at the start. It would be fully grateful for that if the new owner wasn't so very big, and if it wasn't so small and skinny.

The pain didn't come, though. Just a touch. An odd touch. Dry, rough skin in a soft touch. The hand was slow, it slid down from its cheek to its chin. Causing the shiver to increase so very much. The hand, new owner's hand, the one who can hurt it as much as it wants, slowly —always slowly— lift its head.

It was still scared. In truth, scared isn't the right word. After all, even people can feel scared, and what it felt was so much deeper than that. Deeper enough, it was sure, to earn a whole new word. Dread was closer to the feeling, although it felt it wasn’t enough. But there will never be a word for it, it was a pet kind of feeling, and no one bother about what these lesser things feel.

It opened its eyes. The ‘dread’ was still there, but isn't it always? Eating it alive way faster than any torture could. But maybe its ever-presence made it not strong enough to freeze forever. Almost but not enough. Not anymore, anyway.

New owner mouthed something, it didn't try to read it, not truly read. It could be any word, that was way too many words to and it didn't want to pick the wrong one. So it stared, trying to match the word with one of the normal usual orders. It wasn't ‘kneel’ (although it should be kneeling, it hadn't even noticed it was still laying down), it wasn't ‘get up,’ ‘fetch,’ or ‘look down.’ It wasn't even a curse. Just when all the memorized words had failed to match the mouthed one it tried to read properly.

“...th… brea…the… breathe,” new owner mouthed slowly.

Breath? Oh. It wasn’t breathing, was it? Just then it realized that its lung was begging for air for quite a while now, it took a deep desperate breath and flinched, sure it had been loud, it tried to read its owner again. He was still mouthing the same word. So maybe it wasn’t loud after all. It felt weaker all of a sudden. Oh. It wasn’t breathing again.

“Breathe in… breath out. Good boy,” Owner said, it was an undeserved praise, it was anything but good. “breath in… breath out… breath in…”

It obeyed. At the very least, it knew how to breathe, it wasn’t that useless of a pet.

At some point, new owner was holding the (trap) water glass close to its lips, helping it drink water slowly, it noticed that he was doing everything very very slowly. Good. It’s so lucky that he has patience.

No! it thought-screamed to itself. It isn’t luck, you need to make him angry so you can go back to the shelter!

New owner mouthed something again, but it was too many words, and it couldn’t follow even simple orders, so it looked down, there was no reason to try if it’ll fail anyway, and maybe this way new owner labels it ‘too fucking useless’ and sent it back. It didn’t work, it only made the hand come back to its chin, gent- gently? Nothing is ever gentle, the hand slowly lifted its head back up.

“It’s okay,” new owner said, and if it was any less scared or any more defiant it would laugh right then.

‘It’s okay.’ That’s not even a real thing. Not that it mattered anyway, it was lightheaded, maybe it wasn’t breathing right again, or it was dreaming and this all was a nightmare, or it was dehydrated enough to hallucinate again. Maybe it wasn’t even alive anymore. It just knew it was scared, and it was so very tired. It wanted to go back, it wanted caretaker. It doesn’t like it here.

“Hey, hey,” new owner said after making sure it was looking up. “.... don’t cry… here… okay?”

It is not okay. It’s not okay. It is not-

The hand was wiping its tears away now. Oh! It thought. So it is a dream, there is no way an owner would do it.

It relaxed, as long as it is silent no one ever punished it for dreaming of comfort. It leaned on the hand like it had learned to so long ago, and it cried, it was fine because it wasn’t real. Owner won’t be angry about things he doesn’t know, about things that didn’t even actually happen. It knows it was not allowed to sleep yet, so it shouldn’t be dreaming at all. But wasn’t it trying to be bad anyway? It doesn’t know, its thought seems to be crashing against each other, waving at every change of its feeling. It doesn’t care anymore, at least it doesn’t care right this moment.

Dream Owner was still big, still scared, but he was also very careful, his touch was soft, so all it focused on was his soft and warm skin against its.

———

The pet’s reaction was chaos. First, fear of me, then despair for air, then fear of me again, and despair for water. He cried after this, I think it was for fear at first (unsurprisingly), but for relief right after. I just… don’t understand him at all.

I almost pulled my hand away when he leaned on it, it caught me completely off guard, he was suddenly comfortable, as if he seeing someone else instead of me. Not that I am complaining, rather than that I was glad that he could relax a bit, even if for a while. So I caressed him as gently as I could, I wasn’t used to being gentle but I know it’s never too late to learn.

The pet leaned on me and went back to sleep. Maybe he, just like myself, went to sleep too late the day before. I left his breakfast near the bed with another note. I forgot to ask if he could read back in the shelter, but it doesn’t hurt to try (even if the previous note didn’t work).

“Good night,” I said uselessly as I covered him with his blanket. “Sleep well.”

=-=

Taglist: @extemporary-whump, @cupcakes-and-pain, @d-cs, @hollowgast1, @inpainandsuffering, @pinkraindropsfell, @the-magpiesystem, @nicolepascaline, @dainluvr, @a-dead-tea, @fishtale88, @greenwhump, @pigeonwhumps, @wolfeyedwitch, @isntthisblank, @emcscared-whumps, @alienmashup, @neverthelass, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @sacredwrath, @blu-jay-2779, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @espresso-depresso-system

#whump #pet whump #deaf whumpee #whump fic #caretaker new master #caretaker new whumper #fear of punishment #reformed criminal caretaker #institutionalized slavery #it as a pronoun #my writing #A Brand New Life

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distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year

Text

Unintentional 25

Previous—Masterlist— Next

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Past surgical/medical whump alluded to, hospital setting. As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

Found.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with ‘found’.

It wasn’t good or bad or safe or pain or any of the others that WRU had made so bright and shiny and accessible they were practically glued to his hands. Even when he went deeper, spiraling down into the shadowy, muddled places he cared not to linger in, there was no space for it anywhere.

Found.

It didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was what it meant to Leo.

And he had absolutely no fucking clue.

“Aiden, I found you,” Leo repeated, like he was able to see exactly how long it was taking Aiden to glean any meaning from the phrase.

His head was hurting, even with all the drugs he’d agreed to. That had to be a bad sign, a sign that they’d lied and the drugs were doing something else since they certainly weren’t eradicating all of his pain. He made sure his grip hadn’t changed around Leo’s hands. Leo’s hands holding his. Like maybe they were all that was holding him together.

Leo was almost smiling, his eyes still full of emotion. A few tears had fallen just moments ago before he’d made an apology exactly like the one Aiden should have made and couldn’t make. Leo’s eyebrows were still raised because he was expecting this to mean something but Aiden wasn’t clever enough to figure it out. More tests that Harrison designed him to fail.

He nodded once, holding his breath, hoping to hell that Leo would give him some indication that it was the correct response or at least one that would earn him more explanation.

Leo tilted his head a fraction of a centimeter to the left and took a breath but the exhale was shorter than the inhale, more audible.

Fuck.

Aiden flinched when Leo reached for his shoulder. “M’sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re good.” Leo rubbed his thumb in circles over the starchy fabric of the hospital gown.

He wanted to cry. He wasn’t good. None of this could be leading anywhere good.

Leo leaned forward, for some reason undeterred from driving at this point. “Aiden, the day we met. When you woke up in the back of my van, remember?”

Yes, he remembered. A promising first impression.

“That morning, I stopped to get coffee on my way to work and I found you—”

Found whatever lies Harrison had written, raising his hopes so they’d have even further to fall.

“I found you, unconscious in a snowbank off the parking lot—”

No…

“I-I thought you were homeless. I was going to give you my coffee but when I saw you—” Leo reached for his cheek and this time Aiden was too stunned to flinch. “—I just, I didn’t think twice, I wanted to help you, to keep you safe.”

None of this made any sense. Why would he make something like this up? What was the point?

Leo let out a breath, like a sigh. Was he relieved?

He was looking at Aiden expectantly again and Aiden wanted to scream.

Why couldn’t Leo just give him the answer?

“I didn’t even realize that you were a—” Aiden was left to hang in the full shame of what he was, what he had been reduced to. “—Companion. I just wanted to help. I’m sorry I fucked it up, not seeing what was right in front of me, not helping you as well as I could have.”

There really wasn’t any point in trying to understand the purpose of this fresh test.

Christ, it was convoluted and he was way too damaged to ever hope to follow.

His throat ached from holding back sobs.

Nothing he could do would make anything better.

Worse might be possible, but at this point, did it really even matter?

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t—Aiden, are you with me, sweetheart?”

His gaze had shifted off Leo’s face to stare, unfocused, at the light of the MRI machine coming through the window.

Leo searched each of his eyes, one and then the other, to make sure he was paying attention now.

He burned under the valuation.

“Aiden, I didn’t buy you, I—”

“Stop.” He stood, the chair rolling away behind him.

Did he just say that out loud?

He staggered back, away from Leo and in search of his balance.

It was all too much, all of this was too much.

“Aiden?” Leo rose to follow him slowly, hands at his sides. Always so careful and calculating.

“Nnn—please,” he sobbed.

“Easy, it’s okay—”

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his temples.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Leo said quickly. He reached his hand out. “I didn’t mean—I only wanted—”

“Don’t!” Louder than he’d intended, clearer than he thought he was capable of. “Nnn…please,” he added too late. Leo’s face had already fallen, just for a moment before he’d returned to looking concerned.

“Don’t…come near you?”

Nothing could have been worse. Aiden let himself crumple to the ground, arms coming up around his head as he tried to fold away. To sink into the grave he’d dug for himself hand over fist.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Aiden shook his head, sobbing. Everything ached. “Nnn—please…nnno…don’t…nnn…lie—”

After a while, he wondered if maybe he hadn’t said it out loud. Or Leo hadn’t heard his whisper. Or was pretending he hadn’t heard. He tried to quiet his crying to hear. Maybe Leo had left and now, finally—

“I’m going to come sit by you, okay?”

He didn’t move or object so Leo crossed the room and sat beside him. Aiden peeked out to see him dragging a hand over his face, elbows on his knees.

“There’s probably a dozen better ways I could’ve explained that. Delia told me to wait, she was probably right—she’s always right. I’m sorry.” He sighed, glancing over and caught Aiden watching him. He smiled that half-smile, the one that made a few lines appear by his eyes, the one that looked so kind. “Hi, hon.”

He flushed, despite himself, despite everything, and was so glad his face was covered. Leo’s smile faded and in another well-trained reaction Aiden feared he was disappointed. He almost reached for one of the practiced responses, out of habit, to try to salvage the exchange.

“I’d never lie to you, Aiden. I know there’s nothing to make you believe that’s not just another lie but I have no reason to lie to you, sweetheart.”

Aiden couldn’t see the reason either. Unless it were just for sport, which would mean Leo was exactly like Harrison, and Aiden couldn’t face that at all.

He lifted his head, resting his chin on his knees. His arms were starting to throb from holding his legs up to his chest.

Leo smiled again, same smile as always.

Same as the time he’d torn open a bag of mini marshmallows in the parking lot, sending them skittering all over the slush, trying to bribe Aiden out from under his van. Same as when he saw Aiden waiting for him downstairs every morning. Same as when he came home every day.

His heart hammered in his chest. It didn’t seem possible that he could be interpreting all of this right. That any of this was right for him. There was one way to tell. He was pretty sure he’d said it before, correctly, even though he hadn’t really meant to. He’d always been too afraid to practice. The name had never felt like it belonged to him to say.

The sounds were all there, like they wanted to be spoken. He took a breath—

“Leo?”

Aiden jumped and Leo put a hand on his back. “It’s just Delia.”

“Hey, checking in. We can head back now.”

They each took a side and lifted helped Aiden to his feet. Delia’s name tag clicked against her stethoscope as she leaned down to help Leo. He couldn’t read her name, of course, but there she was in the photo, a wry smile on her lips. He wondered if she had been instructed to look serious but couldn’t keep a straight face or if the security guard in charge of pictures had a sense of humor.

This was definitely not a place for people like him.

This was a real hospital.

Delia was a real doctor.

If Leo didn’t have any papers or a contract for him, they really weren’t anywhere remotely related to WRU.

All of that sneaking around had been real.

What exactly were Leo and Delia risking by bringing him here?

“Sweetheart?” Leo’s hand on his cheek made him gasp.

He looked between their faces. Apparently, they’d meant for him to be paying attention.

Leo caught onto his panic. “Hey, it’s okay.” He moved his hand down to rest on Aiden’s shoulder. “We’ll head back now. You don’t need to do the scan, okay? It wasn’t fair of me to expect that of you. You can rest a bit more until it’s okay for us to go home. Sound good?”

His head nodded automatically. Leo kept one arm around him as they turned toward the door.

He planted his feet.

Leo stopped guiding him. “Aiden?”

He just wanted—he couldn’t— He flapped a hand. What the fuck was that going to convey? He used it to cover his face instead, shaking his head. “Mmm’sorry…m’sorry…”

“It’s okay, take your time. We still have time,” Delia said.

The silence swelled as they waited for him, waited on him.

Leo and Delia exchanged a glance that made him want to evaporate. They were confused and he couldn’t fucking articulate a single goddamn thought in his head. This was not going to work or end well. He couldn’t do this.

He kneaded his brow, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Does it hurt, hon?” Leo rubbed his shoulder.

Aiden shook his head and tried to swallow the knot of frustration building in his throat. “Mmm…I…I…”

Leo considered him patiently, with that concerned crease appearing right between his brows.

Aiden couldn’t decide if it made him want to fall into his arms or at his feet.

He should just be cooperative and go back.

But maybe it wasn’t only selfish. Leo deserved to know. Even if he was pretending it didn’t matter how damaged Aiden was. Not to mention whatever that meant if Leo hadn’t even wanted a companion in the first place.

Now, he’d done it. Tears started running down his cheeks. He swiped at them with the back of his unbandaged hand but they kept coming. He groaned and it just sounded like a sob.

“Aiden, honey. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

He wondered erratically if he might actually respond better to having it beat out of him. If all of this kindness and patience and consideration was what made him flounder. How could Leo still be so patient with him after the tantrum he’d thrown earlier?

“I…mmm…mmm…” Forget about want, need, have to. It was like Harrison had reached in and removed specific words from his head. Which was exactly the reason why this was so important. He pointed at the black monitors lined up under the window, cringing at how debasing the monkey-gesturing was. “…please?”

“You—you want to do the scan?”

Something released inside of him, letting free a sob too. He nodded, wiping his face again.

Leo’s brow furrowed even more. “I’m sorry, I should have asked. I didn’t think—”

He shook his head quickly, now crying in earnest. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have done or said anything to make Leo—

“Alright, okay. Hey, Aiden, hey.” Leo moved closer, squeezing both his shoulders. “It’s okay. If this is what you want, we’ll make it happen.”

He sniffled and nodded. He wanted to sink into the floor for making so much trouble. For the way it was making him feel to have Leo gently thumbing the tears off his face and acting like everything really was going to be okay.

Previous—Masterlist— Next

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

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whumpsoda · 13 days

Text

Seeing Me in You - A Real Name

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker,

——————

“You been thinking about names?” Isaac asked, flopping down on the couch. Smiling, her hands folded over each other casually in her lap as she gazed expectantly to her pet.

“Yes, ma’am.” He replied with the softest of a nod. She had ordered him days before to come up with names for himself, a strange request. A master would want to be the one to name their pet, would they not? Weren’t those the rules?

“Got any in mind? Any you like?”

“No, ma’am.”

Her face dropped a smidge in disappointment, churning a quease in his belly, before she jumped back to her feet. “Give me just one second.” Stepping to the short shelf pushed against the opposite wall, she studied the titles intently, before pulling one out with excitement.

“Here’s some names. A whole book of ‘em.” Isaac announced, flipping to the first page of the thick book, filled to the brim with them, “Edith uses this one all the time, and pretty much all’ve our rescues pick one from in here. I’ll read some out to you, and maybe you’ll hear one you like.”

She recited each and every one in the order they were listed in, looking to him after each name. It was almost as if she wanted his approval, such a foreign concept that 253719 didn’t understand. Though, it was usual for him not to understand her, the other masters, or any of the out of line pets around him.

“Abraham? Arthur? Atticus?” She listed, turning to him with her tender, kind smile that meant even though things were weird, he wasn’t being bad.

“Whatever pleases you, Master.” He had merely replied after every look, the safe answer he held close to his heart. Nearly was he not even listening, mind wandering to emptiness as he kneeled on the rug beside her. But she continued still, not satisfied with it. With him.

Until one name.

“August?” She inquired, and he perked up, the lightest of a glimmer in his eye. He recognized August. Isaac chuckled, giving him a sweet pet to the head that he leaned eagerly into. “You like that one?”

He didn’t like it necessarily, a pet didn’t like, but his master did.

Fall was his master’s favorite season, where all of the magically vibrant colored leaves would fly through the chill turning air. The month of August fell during fall, right? He could have sworn it did.

252719 remembered his master repeating his statement of likeness every year as they sat together on the porch, 252719 kneeling beside him as he smoked. I just love fall, such a pleasant time, he would say, a rare smile strung over his lips. The foul smelling smoke would fill his pet’s nostrils, filling his lungs and tempting him to cough, but he wouldn’t. He was good enough to know not to.

And if his master so decided he wanted to utilize him for another purpose, one he wasn’t designed for but his master enjoyed, he would welcome the stinging burn of the cigarette digging a sizzling hole into his exposed flesh. He would whimper and whine pathetically with affliction, just as his master liked it.

252719 missed his master. He missed him so much it hurt, terribly so, tying suffocating knots all throughout his grief stricken body. Even the pain he inflicted the pet missed.

But they wouldn’t let him leave. Especially the one that was his new master who said she wasn’t but he knew she was. She said no running away, and so he couldn’t.

But he wanted to.

And wanting was weird and bad. He was not supposed to want, but he did and it kept him up at night, tossing and turning over memories of his master, over anxieties of this new place where everything is confusing and strange. How it was changing him and making him so very bad.

“Yes ma’am.” 252719 - no, August - mumbled, to her glee.

August. He had a name now. A real name. Not like the numbers his master called him by. He had a person name.

And August liked it.

…

The clothes were terribly uncomfortable. Not being used to having fabric layered over his skin he cringed, scrunching the soft lines of his plush face. 374629 was not ungrateful, never would he dare to be, he simply did not understand why his master had made him dress. He never had clothing beside a dingy pair of boxers in the facility, and was convinced he would not outside of it either. But there he was, anyway, adorned in his master’s clothing.

He was his master, right?

Me too.

374629 couldn’t help but wonder what he meant. Because of course his master couldn’t be a guard dog, let alone a boxie himself. Masters were people, not pets, and such things were not interchangeable, he knew that.

His master didn’t even act like a pet. No crawling, no mantras - except for, well, when he repeated his pet’s, but that was different, was it not? - no collar, no master, no pet.

His master was not a pet. He was sure that was not what he had meant, and a real pet like him should not have even been worrying about it. All he needed to worry about was keeping his master completely and absolutely safe.

So he forced his brain back into blank and utter emptiness once again, saving himself for the danger of any possible threat. He would keep himself vigilant like he was trained to be.

His master hummed as he cooked, with a sing-song voice creamy like butter that licked his ears with the hint of gravel. He twirled the spoon around the pot, sticky with hot mac and cheese that took over the air of the apartment.

374629 had never had macaroni before, only the gray slop his handler had plopped into his dog bowl at least once a day. He held no hope for the chance of receiving any, knowing his place well.

So when his master, still humming loud and clear, placed a large, human sized bowl of macaroni before him, 374629 didn’t know what to do. He knew he wasn’t supposed to eat it, that was for sure. So he waited.

His master plopped down at the table beside him with his own bowl, steaming the same as his. “That’s for you, okay? I want you to eat as much as you feel you can, if, um, that’s okay.”

Oh.

Maybe… maybe it was for him.

And so he ate. Warily at first, waiting for a kick to the face as he descended his mouth to the height of the food, ass up and hands on the wood. Position five. It never came.

But was his meal delicious.

He’d never tasted anything so good in his life, so wonderful he could never believe he was deserving of it. It spread a cozy warmth of magic through his mouth, not enough to burn but enough to have him melting in a puddle on the floor. Tastebuds sparkling with excitement he plunged back in for more, scooping up pieces vigorously with his tongue and allowing them to dance through his mouth as he chewed.

“So” his master started, pulling him away from the heaven that was his dinner, “Got any name ideas? It can be anything.”

Oh, he was so bad. Had he missed an order? Was he supposed to have been doing so?

“N- no, sir.” He didn’t even want to dare think about a name for himself. His name was for his master to decide, it was the rules. He couldn’t disobey, but was he really, when his master wanted it? 374629 swallowed another mouthful of cheese dripping noodles, mouth dribbling with sticky remains that pooled at his chin.

“That’s okay.” His master told him, although he knew he didn’t mean it. Nothing was okay when your pet was too stupid for you. “I wish… I had Edith’s book with me… I guess we’ll just have to think about it for a bit. Just let me know if anything comes to mind, um, that you like.”

He could… do that. Did he know any names? He didn’t even have one himself.

He knew… he knew His handler’s name. His first, not just his last, even if he wasn’t really supposed to. Of course he had never called him by it, only Handler Parker, but he’d heard it before.

Hey, Simon, I guess you’ve finally gotten this one under your control.

He missed his handler, he supposed. Missed the strict order and absence of confusion. With his handler he knew exactly what to do and what not, and now it felt like he was all alone with his training. Really, he was.

Handler Simon Parker.

“Simon?” He shifted up to his master, eyes falling wide, “Is that what you said?”

Had he-

He’d said that out loud-

“That’s a nice one. It fits you. I like it.” His master said, lips upturning to a grin. He looked excited, almost, and terribly pleased. “Do you like it?”

He hadn’t really-

But he did, and his master liked it. 374629 was going to be sick, stomach curling in knots as burning bile bubbled in his belly.

His lips carefully parted, quivering as his fists clenched, uncut nails burrowing into the flesh of his palm. “What- whatever pleases you, Master.” He choked out, words tinged with the rasp of shock as he turned his gaze back to the floor.

“I really like that. I think it’s settled then.” His master giggled, sweet and bubbly that failed to calm his pet’s horrified heart. “Welcome to the family, um, Simon.”

——————

Isaac is from a different connected bbu story I just posted earlier today if you want to check that out here :)

———

Masterlist

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @3-2-whump @taterswhump @fefe658 @whumped-by-glitter

@pigeonwhumps @whumpinthepot @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @tippytappytyping @ivymyers

@octopus-reactivated @loserwithsyle @snakebites-and-ink @itsawhumpsideblog @otterfrost

@parasiticwhumpee @starrysky888 @isntthisblank

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

#Whump #whumpblr #whump story #writing #my writing #whump writing #Seeing me in you #August oc #Simon oc #box boy whump #box boy universe #bbu #box boy #Pet whump #institutionalized slavery #conditioned whumpee

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hold-him-down · 6 months

Text

Trigger warnings: Aftermath of noncon, institutionalized slavery

Notes: Directly follows this piece, in which Leo winds up laying on the floor crying (as he does from time to time). Someone for sure sent me an ask or two about this, but I simply cannot find those asks, my apologies!

✥ ✥ ✥

Leo’s eyes burn. When the bright overhead light cuts through the darkness without warning, his first thought isn’t about his throat or the throbbing behind his temples or the fact that he still, he realizes, is curled up on the floor. His first thought is that he hopes this one is gentler.

His second thought, in response to the first, is that another piece of him is lost now, to this thing that he has no control over.

It takes too long for him to blink himself to full consciousness. In the time he’s laying there, the handler has crossed the room, has knelt beside him.

He sees the handler’s lips moving before he realizes anyone is speaking.

And then, maybe seconds later, he hears the, ‘easy,’s, the ‘calm down,’s, the ‘take a breath,’s and only then does he realize that he's crying. He focuses desperately on choking back his sobs, and he curls up tighter.

“Alright,” Handler Grey says eventually. His fingers grip into the back of Leo’s neck, equal doses controlling and comforting, but he makes no move to rip him off the floor. Or to turn him over.

And then, a small eternity later, when the room has eventually grown so silent that Leo is sure the handler can hear his heart pounding in his chest, Handler Grey says, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Leo watches, eyes heavy, as the handler stands, turns to the sink, fills his cup. He returns moments later and pulls– no, guides?– and he pulls Leo to his feet, oblivious to, or maybe in spite of, the sharp wince that Leo can’t conceal. He’s never experienced this particular pain before, and it worries him. He glances behind him, to the spot where he had laid, and sees the smears of red.

He closes his eyes.

“We’ll get it sorted out,” Handler Grey says, and Leo nods with a whispered, “Thank you.”

And then, just as Handler Grey pushes the cup of water into Leo’s hand, Leo hears his own voice saying the words that he promised himself he wouldn’t say. “You… you knew, right?” He keeps his eyes down, staring at the cup in his hand, at the way his fingers shake. “What they would… what would happen to me?”

There’s a silence, and Leo can’t look up. He doesn’t want to know this, but he needs to know it. He doesn’t want the handler to tell him, but he needs him to. And then, with a voice absent any guilt, absent any emotion at all, Handler Grey responds, "Yes."

Leo’s eyes meet the handler’s, and he nods, holding back whatever hurt he feels for the betrayal. He locks his jaw to keep himself from speaking again, his lips cracked and his eyes heavy and his body so completely shattered.

“Does knowing that make you feel better?” the handler eventually asks, gesturing pointedly toward the glass.

Leo’s stomach turns over. Still, he forces himself to take a sip, and he shakes his head.

“Then don’t ask the question.” Handler Grey unlocks the cabinet and pulls out a pair of shorts, pushing them into Leo’s arms as he issues a terse, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir,” Leo whispers, the dull, emotionless voice hardly recognizable to him. He’s shaky as he steps into the clean shorts, but the handler, angry as he may be, steadies him. When he stands again, Handler Grey reaches out a hand, pulling at the collar to expose the skin beneath it.

It’s in these moments of subtle kindness that the questions claw their way to the surface. Where will he take him? Will they be gentle with him? When will this happen again?

He doesn’t ask them, though. Instead, he walks shakily, step by step, second by second, in the handler’s shadow. The walk to the shower takes three times as long as normal, but the handler maintains his grip on Leo’s shoulder, and there’s no pressure to move more quickly. Instead, Handler Grey watches every step he takes, his brow as tight as his demeanor.

“Get yourself cleaned up, Leo,” Handler Grey says once they reach the showers. He’s alone here, so it must be early. Too early for the others to be awake.

He takes his time, watching as every drop of red swirls down the drain. When he cries, his tears are silent, and there’s no thought behind them. He stands there, water scalding his skin, his legs and his shoulders shaking, his head pounding, for as long as he’s allowed. He knows that eventually the handler will stop this, but until he does, Leo takes advantage of the moment alone.

Once he’s dry and dressed, the handler walks him back to his room. They're silent, save for the occasional hissing when a step lands too hard. His sweatshirt, several sizes too big, hugs him, and he wraps his arms around his stomach, the handler’s fingers gripped tightly above his elbow.

When he gets to his assigned room, he looks first to Handler Grey for some kind of permission before he is deposited onto the bed. Leo doesn’t hesitate to curl himself up, the thin plasticky mattress groaning under his weight, rock solid but still offering more relief than he thought possible an hour ago.

Handler Grey hesitates, watching him carefully, and then pulls the blanket out from under him and– Leo thinks, for a split second, the handler is going to tuck him in. Instead, he hands the blanket to Leo.

He is given a new cup of water and lifts himself enough to take a drink. “Can I ask another question,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on the cup.

“If the answer will serve you in some way, then sure.”

Leo hesitates, filling the gap in time by taking another drink, and then asks, “Will this… be part of my… training? Every day?” He closes his eyes. Does the answer serve him?

Before he can ask Handler Grey not to tell him, the handler says, “Maybe.”

Leo nods.

And then, surprising himself, he asks, “Did I do okay?”

The handler cocks his head to the side.

“Did he put…Did he say in the notes if I did okay?”

Handler Grey takes a breath, seeming to consider the question. Leo wishes he could stop speaking tonight. It’s rare, though, that any handler gives his questions any attention at all.

“He said you cried.” Handler Grey’s face is devoid of emotion, almost entirely. But there’s something there, just under the surface.

Leo nods. “I’m sorry. I… I can do better.” It’s maybe not the right thing to say, but he doesn’t think it’s the most wrong thing. The corner of the handler’s mouth turns up into a kind of humorless smile, but it’s not mocking.

“I know you can,” he replies. Something in Leo’s face must give him away, because the handler immediately says, “Leo, take a breath.”

He does. He sits up, backing into the corner, pulling the blanket over his lap with him. “What if I can’t do it?” he asks, the feeling of some kind of raw emotion tickling at his throat.

“Do what?”

He grips the cup harder, the surface of the water sloshing as his hands shake harder. “Survive?” His voice is so small, no more than a whisper, and he isn’t sure if the handler heard him at all. There’s no response. For several seconds, they sit in silence, and Leo is aware, keenly, that he is pushing the handler further than he’s going to be able to go.

“You will,” he says. And then, he amends, “You don’t have a choice.”

Leo nods. Again. And drops back into the mattress, curling himself as tightly as he can. The handler, this time, does drape the blanket over him, almost as if tucking him in after all. It’s not a comforting gesture, but, Leo thinks, it may be a meaningful one.

“Leo,” the handler says, as he reaches the door.

Leo waits, his heart pounding, holding back the tears that are begging to break free. “You’re off duty for the morning,” he continues. “I want you to get some sleep.”

And then, just as silently as he’d appeared, he leaves, and the room is shrouded in darkness.

FIGHTER TAG LIST: @whump-cravings, @afabulousmrtake, @crystalquartzwhump, @maracujatangerine, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @distinctlywhumpthing, @thecyrulik, @highwaywhump, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup, @skyhawkwolf, @suspicious-whumping-egg, @also-finder-of-rings, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @prodigal-zoe, @peachy-panic, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @urban-dark, @nicolepascaline @quietly-by-myself @pigeonwhumps, @whump-blog, @seasaltandcopper, @angstyaches, @i-msonotcreative, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @anonintrovert, @whump-world, @squishablesunbeam, @considerablecolors @whumpcereal, @whumperfully @pirefyrelight, @whumpsday @whumplr-reader @lonesome--hunter @darkthingshappen

#aftermath of noncon #institutionalized slavery #tada she lives #ill try to do a lukey one tomorrow #we miss that guy too #i have this one in my head #about them dancing at a wedding #so

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cepheusgalaxy · 4 months

Text

Whump prompt

Hey I saw a post about how when humans keep a species captive for some centuries, at some point evolution comes to play and they biologically change a lot (aka domestication)

And I was imagining.

What if there was a race of people in a magical world but they were "domesticated"--like, what would change? What are the possibilities? Some of the changes that happened were selected--what kind of things the superior race(s) in hierarchy would do. How would they change.

#whumpee #whumper #institutionalized slavery #i think i wrote that right #whump #whump prompts #whump prompt

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panstardalia · 10 months

Text

After the Summer #4: Method

Masterlist: here!

Content: BBU; institutionalized slavery; dehumanization; it as a pronoun; pet whump; minor whump; beating up; blood; begging; non-sexual nudity; physical torture; starvation; inflicted cold.

When cientists work, they have to follow cautiously established rules. Every step have to go according to a plan. Rat new that much, they were smart enough for that. Apparently, though, they were not smart enough to put themself aside the rules and play pretend. No matter how hard they tried, they were never smart enough to follow their Master's orders without making at least one mistake in the process.

That's because they knew they were the subject of Master's experiment.

In a certain day, Rat made so many mistakes that it didn't even seem possible. They tried to convince themself it was because of their confused mind, that they were not in a good mental state and that knowing about being a subject would most certainly change the experiment results, but nothing could justify their incompetence. Master had been crystal clear about that.

Everything started when Rat's brain decided to bring back a melody they thought was lost. It didn't sound particularly important, just a little something to hum while sweeping Master's studio, but soon there were also lyrics to sing. After two verses, Rat realized what they were singing and their chest felt dense, but not enough to stop.

"Thought I found a way out, but you never go away, so I guess I gotta stay, now... Oh I hope someday I'll make it out of here, even if it takes all night or a hundred years." they sang in whispers and held the broom tightly, looking out the window. Rat was sure they were not making that song up, so it was a memory. They knew memories were bad, that Master wanted to wipe all of them from their mind, but somehow music was one of the hardest parts to forget.

And to be honest, Rat didn't want to lose their memories. They knew a lot of them was already missing, and they were afraid of what would happen when the last one was gone. Rat was sure they had another name before that, and they were also sure they had a family of some sort. They could remember the hope that someone would come and take them away from Master, but now, even with this hope still in their heart, they couldn't recall a single name or face. There was someone... right? But who?

Rat's singing was interrupted when a wave of pain made them lose all stenght in their legs. They tried to find support on the broom, but it slipped and Rat fell down on the ground, unable to even use their hands to break the fall. The shock collar kept on for what felt like hours before Master's voice resonated distantly.

"I thought I have told you to clean up my studio."

"I-it's done, Master!" Rat quickly stated, raising themself to kneel up. "I was-"

"Shut it" He demanded, the low voice and cold eyes telling Rat everything they needed to know: he was pissed. "Why do you think you are allowed to sing around?"

Now that was a trick question with no right answer. If they said something like I know I'm not, then they would admit they knew they were doing something wrong. On the other hand, they could not lie and say they didn't know it was not allowed. Rat was trapped with no way out.

"I don't-" they stuttered. "I won't do it again, Master, I swear-"

Rat wasn't able to finish the sentence as the man grabbed a handful of their hair and yanked them to the floor. He then caught hold of their hair again and pulled them up. Rat held back a yelp, too terrified to say anything.

"And WHY, I wonder, do you keep talking with that disgusting voice of yours?!" He yelled, shaking their head.

"I'm so sorry...!" Rat whispered, trying their best not to cry. They had learned their lesson. Singing was bad, their voice was bad, they knew it now.

Master was not satisfied, though. Even when he let go of Rat's hair and told them to leave, his expression was enough to tell them it was not over yet.

They ran out of the studio with the broom, ignoring the pain on their scalp. It would be the best luck if it was the worse for the day. So no more wasting time on fear, lost in thoughts. They had to prepare lunch.

One day after another, Rat was losing their determination to hold up on the memories they had left. They were not sure for how long they have been under Master's grasp, but it already felt like forever. If there was something worthy saving among those memories, then why had nobody came to save them yet? The only thing remembering brought was pain and nothing else. Each time Rat thought of anything outside their duties as a pet, suffering and torment followed. If they weren't going to be rescued, then maybe they should't cling to their past anymore.

Table set, Rat put the cloche over Master's plate and ran back to the kitchen, sort of to hide from him, and closed their eyes to listen. Across the hall, they could hear the man typing on his computer. They knew it wasn't normal to hear that far away, but that super power had been proving itself essential for Rat's survival. They always knew where Master was (except for when they were distracted, just like earlier), his footsteps could be heard from any room in the house.

If Rat had a fear, was that Master would find out about this ability and find a way to bypass it. They could not bring themself to imagine how harder it would be to survive if he did that, the bare thought petrified them with fear.

The typing stopped. Rooms away, the office chair made a flowing sound against the wooden floor and Master's footsteps approached. With their eyes still closed, Rat could almost see him sit down on his usual chair in the dinning room. He took off the clotch and the cutterly was loud against the plate. He was eating. Rat's stomach growled as they hadn't eaten anything in the past twenty four hours, but knowing Master was eating with no complains was enough.

Now they only had to wait and keep listening. Better then letting their memories go, Rat had learned an even more valuable lession that day: to never stop hearing Master.

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

Rat wondered if Master's method was working. They wondered if he knew they knew about conditioning and if was much harder to condition someone who knew they were being conditioned. "You can never outsmart me", he had said forever ago. That sentence came with a great amount of pain, enough to make them understand it was true. Even so, they could not help but ponder if he knew how smart Rat was. Not more than him... but maybe more than he would think.

There were so many maybes, so many ifs. Rat had still to decide what to do with all of it. Would telling Master show him how loyal they were? Or would it trigger his rage, for Rat was not allowed to think so much of themself? Should they keep their knowledge a secret?

"November fifteenth" they heard Master say to his voice recorder. "The progress is getting slower. I don't know what I am missing. That filthy rat of mine keeps getting its memory trigged and I can't seem to keep track of the triggers. I know I said I want to do it without chemicals, but at this rate, I'll end up with no choice but using them."

His voice was deep and Rat had a hard time recognizing all the words. However, that entry was very promising. They had to listen to every bit of it, because knowledge was power, so they tiptoed closer to the studio's closed door, knowing they could leave safely when Master finished his journaling.

"The list I keep track of its traits on is growing longer" He said with a note of frustration in his voice. "But no matter what I take from it, it seems to be just an inch deeper than I can reach. I have forbidden it from speaking Spanish, from singing, from stargazing and playing the piano. Yet, without the chemicals, I cannot reach further into its mind. It's time to reevaluate the plan and maybe draw another route."

Rat mentally took note of every word they heard, each one of them feeling like knives in their chest. Their shoulders were heavy, as knowledge was also a burden. What were them even taking notes for? It had been a long time since they had forgotten about their reasons to listen to Master's entries. Why, they wondered, should they keep holding on so tightly? What exactly were they trying to find out?

Everything Master said, plus Rat's feelings and memories, suggested that maybe they were someone worth remembering. Was it really worth it, though? Was the torture worth it? Their head hurt and spinned with so many questions and apprehensions, and Rat decided it was time to retreat.

A heartbeat too late, Rat realized they had tripped in something they shouldn't even touch: an antient chinese vase that costed half the manor's value. The shattering was so loud that everything went completely silent for a moment afterwards. They didn't hear Master's raging steps nor the door furiously opening. Their mind could only focus on the fear. Rat would be heavily punished for braking the vase, it was obvious, but would Master realize they were eavesdropping? Worse yet, would he realize they had been doing it for a while, now?

Over again, the man grabbed Rat's hair and shouted so loudly that their ears rang, unable to process the infuriated words. When they didn't reply, he threw Rat hard on the ground, on the scattered shards. It hurt like hell, they tried to get up, or at least remove some of the smithereens from under their body, but it was fruitless. Before they could even move, Master had already taken off his belt to beat them up.

He rose his voice more and more as the leather tore Rat's skin apart. They wish they could make his words make sense, but everything was nothing but a blur. Their hearing, their sight, everything felt like they were underwater. The only thing they could objectively feel was the pain, the hot blood dripping from every new wound. An eternity later, they were able gather themself together enough to articulate their own words.

"I'm sorry!!" They screamed desperately. "Please, have mercy! Please, Master, I am so sorry!!"

"Oh, now you are sorry?" He panted, not even close to finish the punishment. Rat felt the leather bruise their skin again before he continued. "What are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry I broke your vase, Master! I know it was-"

Rat's voice failed them as Master hit them particularly hard, their words swallowing themselves in a yelp.

"You still think you are smarter than me, you filthy rat?!"

"No I don't!!" They knew they were screwed. And for what? For information they didn't even know how to use? How could they even think it would be worth it? "I am not!! I was just curious! I don't even know why I eavesdropped! Please, Master!"

"SHUT IT!" Once again, Rat's ears throbbed distressingly.

Master kept hitting them, his strenght seeming to increase instead of reducing. Rat tried to escape the belt, resulting in more shards stabbing their body. Even if they had been given the luxury of wearing clothes, they would be totally torn apart at that point.

"Please, Master!!" It was pointless to try, but Rat could not think straight anymore, nor hold back their begging. They would do anything for the agony to stop. "Please, I'm so sorry!"

A lifetime ago, they were sure someone was coming to save them. Someone would hold them tight and promise it would be alright. It felt like a ridiculous thought, right now, but if there was anyone looking for them, it would be the perfect time for this person to arrive.

"Please! Please!! Help!!" They called anguishedly, reaching for the depths of their heart. "ALLEN, HELP ME!!!"

The world stopped spinning for an eternal second. Master's hand halted above his head as his fierce eyes became cold. Black holes, Rat made this comparison once. The antecipation hurt even more than the belt. They had messed up badly this time.

The worst part was that they couldn't even fully remember who Allen was. The name slipped out their tongue so naturally, they knew it was someone more than important. Rat missed Allen so much, knowning somewhere deep down that he would protect them if he was there.

But there was only Master.

"What did you say...?" He whispered as he knelt down, and Rat's body ran cold under his breath.

"I-I don't know..." They trembled violently, too frightened to move. "I don't know, Master... please..."

His eyes shone, and Rat knew he would do his best to crush every bit of their soul. There was only one thing they could do to save themself now, because Allen could not. Nobody would.

"TAKE IT AWAY!" They pleaded, and the man paused once again, his interest piqued. "I don't want to wait for him anymore! I can't stand it! I know you're trying to erase my mind in order to turn me into a good pet! I've been resisting, but... I can't stand it anymore!"

As many times before, Rat didn't know how close to the truth those words were. Was it for real, or were they just saying the necessary to survive? Nonetheless, they had done this enough times to know that, eventually, it would become true.

"Condition me..." They begged, sobbing. "Make me a good pet, Master, please... I can't fight anymore... I surrender... I'm so tired..."

For the first time, Rat's words made him stop and think. It was so ironic. The only time they succeeded in negotiating with that man was when they gave up.

Without a word, he once again grabbed Rat by their scalp and dragged them down the hallways to the door that led outside. Helpless and exausted, they didn't even try standing up this time. They felt their thin locks give in under Master's hand as them both reached the yard.

November was so cold, so cold. Rat would trade anything for the excuse of a blanket they left in the basement. The man threw them against the wall and, when Rat reached the gound, he locked the chain attached on the bricks on their collar.

Rat tried to curl themself in a ball, shivering intensely. The blood still dripping on the grass felt even colder, now.

Master reached out and touched Rat's face, forcing them to look up. They leaned against his hand, not because his touch was gentle, but because it was warm, and it was the least violent of the entire day. It didn't last, as he pulled away and went back into the house.

The wind made it difficult for Rat to listen to his steps. They preceived he went to his room, which at that time of the day meant he went after his suitcase. Good news: he would come back and probably Rat wouldn't be left out in the cold. Bad news: he went after the suitcase.

When Master got back, he had the much hated muzzle in his hands. He put it on Rat and tightened it a little bit too much. They whimpered, lowering their head. The man, however, forced them to look up, lifting their chin, and his low voice was even more wintry then the end of the autumn.

"I'll let you think about what happened today. You can reflect on your behavior and decide if you will finally be a good pet for me, alright? I'll be back to retrieve you by dinner time, but you'll keep the muzzle for fifteen days. I'll get it out so you can eat every once in a while, when I feel generous, not because you deserve it. You are just a filthy rat and you should be grateful I am giving you the chance of being my pet. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Rat nodded vehemently, desperate. Dinner time was too far away! According to the position of the sun on the sky, it was still... no. A good pet should not know how to use the sun to tell the time, much less complain.

"In two weeks I will decide if you have learned your lesson. If you blow it one more time, I will not hesitate, do you understand? I am giving you one more chance because I have invested a lot on you already, but I can always discard you and find a better pet."

Once again Rat nodded. Master ruffled their sore head and got up on his feet. "I'll see you in a few hours" he said before disappearing into the manor.

Alone with their thoughts, Rat finally came to a conlusion they had been avoiding for too long: nobody would come for them and they had no way to fight alone. There was nothing they could do to survive but complying to the experiment they knew they were. They knew they had been someone before, but it was time to surrender and truly forget about what once was.

No more music. No more stars. No more wondering. No more Allen. From now on, Rat would focus solely on being the perfect pet. Letting go of their past was the right choice, they knew. Winter was comming and they could only hope the snow would wash away everything Master couldn't reach.

Just let go. There's no use fighting. Rat would no more dream about someone else's arms around them. Now, their only wish was for Master's embrace. When they became the perfect pet, he would finally hug them and praise them. He would tell them his efforts were paid off and would never beat them up again. This... would be perfect. Yes, there was nothing Rat wished more than that.

With this sweet daydream, they let everything else behind, on the other side of those walls.

It would be over soon.

#whumpblr #whump #bbu oc #bbu whump #pet whump #bbu #pet whumpee #Noelle Keyland #After the Summer #institutionalized slavery

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gottawhump · 1 year

Text

Strays

Carlisle

CW/TW: BBU/WRU, homelessness, institutionalized slavery, pet whump, food insecurity/starvation/hunger.

“No, Carlisle. We don’t take home strays.”

“But, Mom!” He turns his head up at her, trying his best wide-eyed wanting. “Please!”

He’s been feeding the Pet in the alley for the last two weeks, bringing him sandwiches, cookies, and juice whenever he can. At first, the Pet hid from him and only took the food after Carlisle left. Now he takes the food from his hands, his own often shaking, and thanks him with grateful downcast eyes.

Pets need homes. The boy knows this. He’s seen commercials by WRU, and read stories about the travails of lost Pets eventually reunited with their families. The Pets in his own home have told him how happy they are there, how frightened they’d be without a home to shelter them and owners to guide them.

This one is scared and hungry and hurt, and the boy wants to help.

“Please, Mom?”

She sighs. The Pet cringes and tries to make himself look smaller. “Show me your wrists.”

The stray Pet obeys, turning his wrists upward, showing the barcode. His mother takes out her phone and snaps a picture of it. “I’m sorry, Carlisle. We don’t need another Platonic.”

Her tone doesn’t allow further argument, or he would point out how many things they have that they don’t need, but they want.

Dejected, he goes home with his mother.

The next time he visits the alley, the Pet is gone.

“My son wants to adopt a Pet,” she says a few weeks later, at the shelter. “Domestic or Platonic, and a healthy one.”

Carlisle peeks through the doors separating the Guard Dogs and the Romantics, fascinated. They have more visible scars than the others, and he wonders how they got them.

But he turns back to look at the selection the shelter attendant led them to. All of them kneel, and smile, and their eyes flick from him to his mother and back again. They’re afraid, too. Of the shelter? It frightens him too, with its concrete floors and fenced kennels. Or of him and his mother?

Don’t they know he just wants to give them a safe home?

He wants to take them all home, but he can only choose one.

He chooses the thinnest, the most frightened, with a scar cut across his face. His mother frowns, but allows it.

When they are home, and alone, he asks the new Pet, “What’s your name?”

It’s years later, and his parents have died, leaving him the only heir to the Black fortune. He asks the cook to pack him a basket of lunch things.

He goes back to the alley.

He takes out a sandwich and a bottle of water. He sits down on the ground, not caring about the dirt and grease getting on his tailored clothes. He holds out the food and drink, waiting.

There’s a new stray in the alley, a girl with tangled hair and not enough clothes. Romantic, he suspects. She hasn’t come close enough yet for him to see her barcode. Maybe today she will.

She peers out at him from behind a garbage can. She will run if he approaches her, so he just sits, holding still, holding out the food. Come on, he thinks, it’s for you.

He will leave it for her if she doesn’t come out.

It’s a lot like catching a stray cat, he knows. You have to earn their trust, in small, steady ways. But it’s harder, too.

She finally comes out and approaches him. She reaches for the food, then stops herself. She drops to her knees, in the graceful sensual way of the Romantics, and holds out her own hands. Now they are on an equal level, and he puts the food and water into her hands.

Softly, he says, “My name is Carlisle. What’s yours?”

Tagging @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine

#pet whump #bbu/wru #lady whump mentioned #Carlisle black #old friends #homelessness #hunger #institutionalized slavery

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quietly-by-myself · 10 months

Text

A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 13

Masterlist

A little short but Important Things Happen

CW: medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, suicidal whumpee, mentioned/discussed noncon, institutionalized slavery, angels and demons, allusion to domestic violence, transformation whump, emeto mention

===

There was a shatterproof mirror in the lab cell’s bathroom. Akakios had checked the “shatterproof” part. No, there were no means to an end in the bathroom. Everything was set up to make suicide impossible. Whether that was because subjects frequently committed suicide or because of Akakios himself, he didn’t know.

However, one thing had become obvious one fateful day after Akakios had taken his doctor-prescribed showers. As he was brushing his hair like Vasiliki had ordered him to, he’d found nubs.

It had taken Akakios a moment to understand what they were. They were boney and sharp. It even hurt a bit to touch the base.

They were the start of horns.

Asimi’s words came back to Akakios. If I stay with you for too long, my love, you’ll become like me. Once you start, you can’t stop.

Akakios immediately did his hair in a way that would hide them. Fear pounded in his chest. God, if Vasiliki found out-

His mind raced with all the awful scenarios. It would mean more pain, more torture, more experimentation. Maybe, just maybe, Vasiliki would finally use him.

After all, Akakios had been trained for little more than sex. Constantine had used it to break him.

It would follow that Vasiliki would do the same now that Akakios was becoming a devil.

—

“Akakios, I know you probably want to sleep.”

Akakios had curled up in a ball on the table after Vasiliki had released his restraints. Seeing Akakios like that made Vasiliki feel guilty. He was going to have to make it so much worse for Akakios. He didn’t want to.

But there was something he needed to do before he hurt Akakios.

“I noticed the horns. They’re peeking out of your hair now. You’re transforming, aren’t you?”

Akakios was quiet, tears rolling down his face. The tears soon turned into uncontrolled sobbing. Vasiliki moved from his chair to sit on the floor next to Akakios. It was a delicate situation - one perhaps too delicate for Vasiliki. He didn’t know how to handle it.

However, looking at Akakios, he felt his pain. It was an odd feeling - he thought that the part of him that wasn’t human had taken his ability to feel connections with other people away.

Maybe the reason he felt that mystical connection that had been missing his entire life with Akakios was because Akakios wasn’t really human anymore.

But that made it even more confusing. Akakios was turning into a devil, not an angel. If he could only feel connections with nonhumans, wouldn’t it make sense that he could only feel them with angels? Vasiliki didn’t know.

What he did know was that he felt a distinctive pain in his chest. One that made him want to reach out and hug Akakios. One that made what he had to do impossible.

“You should’ve told me.” Vasiliki did his best to avoid a scolding tone, even if that was what it was. “I…” Vasiliki didn’t know what to say.

And he didn’t get time to think over what he wanted to say. Akakios was the one to speak.

“Please don’t use me.” Akakios sobbed some more. Vasiliki decided to allow him to speak his mind. “I- I know it’s all I’m good for, but please, I don’t want it. I don’t want you to.”

Vasiliki paused. “What do you mean that it’s all you’re good for?”

“I was rated at low value because I’m defective. They trained me for sex because sex slaves always sell. I’m worthless outside of sex and I know it’s only a matter of time before you realize that. Now that I’m becoming a devil, you’re going to use it to break me like my handler did.”

Akakios lost control of his breathing again and began to sob.

Vasiliki sat in cold silence. What the Facility did never bothered him before now. Sitting there and listening to Akakios relay everything that had been told to him, all the lies he’d been told, made it real in a way that it wasn’t before. Vasiliki found himself disgusted with himself. He’d contributed to this. He’d enabled it. He’d been a part of it, even.

Just that thought, watching Akakios sob, made him want to vomit. Vasiliki couldn’t be so self-centered though. Akakios needed him. Akakios was the victim, not him.

No.

Vasiliki was the villain here.

The image of Stergios popped into his head.

Was this the moment Stergios had been waiting for him to have? To be so disgusted with himself that he wanted to bathe in kerosene and light a cigarette?

Oh, to have Stergios by his side to guide him through these crushing emotions. To comfort Akakios better than he ever could.

But Stergios wasn’t there.

It was just him.

“Akakios, can you look at me?”

That marred, burned face looked up at him, eyes red and puffy.

“I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. I-” He took a breath. “It was only once for me, but I was raped too. It doesn’t even remotely compare to what you’ve been through, but I would never do that to you.”

Vasiliki found tears in his eyes. He couldn’t tell Akakios that he would have to punish him. He couldn’t punish Akakios. He was going to get Akakios out of here.

“I need you to obey everything I say, but after that, you’ll be safe.”

Akakios looked at him in shock.

“I’m getting you out of here, Akakios. We’re going somewhere safe. Somewhere you can get help for your transformation. This isn’t right. And I refuse to be a part of it any longer.”

…

Akakios looked at Vasiliki in shock. This had to be some sort of joke. However, as Vasiliki picked him up and strapped him to a wheelchair, Akakios thought it might’ve been to drag him to his execution.

However, the halls turned unfamiliar. Faintly, Akakios could smell freshly cut grass and must. It was a smell that hadn’t reached his nose for at least a year.

Maybe, just maybe…

Vasiliki waved his card at the door and it opened without a beep. Outside. He was outside. In a nearly-abandoned parking lot, but he was outside!

This was happening.

This was actually happening.

Akakios thought for a moment that he had to be dreaming. However, the feeling of the leather of Vasiliki’s car was certainly real. It burned his exposed legs a little. Against the freezing cold of the night, it was a shock.

“Just stay quiet and if anyone pulls us over, I’m taking you home to fuck you.”

Akakios’ heart sank. Was that what was happening?

Vasiliki took off at lightning speed.

Even if Vasiliki was taking him home for use, Akakios found himself not caring.

At least he was out of the Facility, even if only for a little.

===

Taglist: @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @writereleaserepeat, @just-a-silly-little-whumper, @sparrowsage, @inscrutable-shadow, @whumplr-reader, @whumpycries, @demondamage, @whumpshaped, @itsleelove, @whump-blog-reblogs, @whumpterful-beeeeee

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