#box boy universe
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Rules
Pets of the Silver Screen masterlist
Taglist: @maracujatangerine @clairelsonao3 @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @bbu-on-the-side
Multiple times over the years, Agatha learns the rules.
2.1k
CWs: BBU, pet whump, kidnapping, collar, beating, stress positions, dehumanisation, non-con nudity (non sexual)
Agatha juts her chin out, poise perfect despite the tip-toe position she's been forced into.
"My name is Miss Agatha Stanbury, daughter of Lord Kenneth Stanbury. Let me go and you may get out of this alive."
Foster Montgomery smirks, pressing his knife into her neck, blood beading along its edge.
"I think I'd rather keep you. Nobody's going to find you, certainly not after I'm finished with you." He drags his knife down her front, slitting her clothes. They mostly stay on, but it must be a very sharp knife to manage that. "Take them off."
"No."
He holds up the knife, reminding her. "What did you say?"
Agatha swallows but keeps her poise. She's going to be an actress, she can pretend she has nothing to fear.
"I said no. You have given me nothing to wear afterwards and I will not follow your disgusting commands."
"I have more suitable clothing for you later, if you earn it. But if you won't obey willingly I'll have to do it for you."
Agatha's barely had a chance to process the statement when she's slammed to the ground. All her bones are jarred and her nose explodes with agony. A boot seems to grind her into the floor as Montgomery removes her clothing piece by piece.
She hates herself for thinking it, but at least he lets her keep her knickers.
He grunts in satisfaction, and hauls her to her knees. She shoves his hands away and stands, but is back on her knees in less than a second.
"Stay." He reaches behind him and picks up a leather collar complete with tag.
Agatha doesn't move when he reaches out and buckles the suffocating leather around her throat, but not out of obedience. She just doesn't think she can.
She reaches up to touch it, but Montgomery smacks away her hand before she can.
"Don't even think about it. I'll only ever remove it if you need a punishment that might interfere with the collar somehow, so if you do so yourself I'll assume that's what you're after. But you do still deserve a punishment. Bend over."
Agatha swallows hard, the soft leather and cold metal buckle pressing against her throat. She doesn't move. She only came down for the season, she's not going to obey a kidnapper who's apparently obsessed with turning her into a pet.
He couldn't find a volunteer? There's enough of them.
She pitches forward onto her hands and knees as he pushes her over, pulling her knickers down.
"Bare flesh is best for this. Pets obey. They don't say no. They don't talk back. You need to learn this."
Agatha has never had such a thrashing in her life as she receives then. No-one's ever drawn blood before. She's not passed out enough by the end to receive a reprieve though – he orders her to clean the house, and woe betide her if he finds a speck of dust or blood.
She experiences it all as if from miles away. As if from the gathering she's supposed to be at right now, with entirely different rules. She's not in her body, most of the time, and that's probably for the best.
That day and the next, she learns the rules of being Foster Montgomery's captive.
1) Don't say no.
2) Only speak when spoken to.
3) Don't talk back.
4) Address other people as sir or ma'am.
5) Always obey immediately.
6) Don't remove your collar.
7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.
She adds an extra one from herself, too, which she knows is true. Montgomery giving her a collar is not just him being a sick bastard, it's theatre, another part of the pretense. Because even if he were to parade her in front of those she loves, everyone knows that only pets wear collars.
8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.
Over the next few months, the rules don't change. The chores are hard, and the punishments harsh, and a lot more of her is scarred now. Very little of what Montgomery does has any logic to it.
But she still can't find an escape. She fears she's sinking into it.
_
When she's hired by Hayes Fletcher, more rules are added to the list.
9) Don't talk to the other pet.
10) If you disobey, it won't just be you who's punished.
Eloise won't receive whippings, of course, and no canings during the shoot, but she can be put in stress positions, or starved, or have a bucket of water dumped over her head before being left in the unheated studio overnight. And Agatha has absolutely no desire to subject her to anything other than a good hot meal and somewhere better to sleep.
_
Rule 7 is underlined dramatically by the inspector's visit. In the aftermath, Agatha's arm and back throbbing, blood pooling on the frozen stone floor that her toes are just able to touch, Eloise whimpering from her own position, Agatha makes sure to add another two rules to herself (though the second is altered after Eloise's angry objections).
11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.
12) Don't break the rules. Even Only if Eloise agrees to do so.
_
Agatha could possibly escape during the transatlantic crossing. She thinks about it. Even jumping overboard might be better. But she needs to see Eloise again. Be sure that she's alive and physically unhurt (from the sinking at least, Agatha has no doubt she'll have been hurt since). Tell her that she's brave, and a hero, because if it had been anyone but fellow pets she'd saved, if she was anyone but a pet herself, her actions would've been lauded, but instead it's Hayes Fletcher who's being praised for having such a good pet. Which isn't right, it isn't fair, and Agatha can't leave Eloise on her own.
That's when Agatha solidifies the last rule for herself, that's been brewing since she first met Eloise but she's never stopped to think about it before.
13) Her and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.
_
Then the Great War comes.
Foster Montgomery signs up to fight. He leaves Agatha in Hayes Fletcher's care, who lends her to the munitions factory, for good publicity and probably money (money for Fletcher? Money for Montgomery? She doesn't know. But neither man is big into philanthropy). Eloise isn't there. Agatha follows the rules Montgomery has already given her, hating the fact that they keep her alive.
Another few rules are added.
14) Don't become emotional.
15) Never make a sound.
16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.
That last is... profoundly obvious, at times. When the rest of the workers get to go home at the end of their shifts and she is kept working, or if there's no-one else at all, locked in the breakroom until morning. When she's fed less than the others, or when she's beaten, or–
It's so obvious, even more so than when she was hired by Hayes Fletcher. She hates it. And she's so alone here.
The war will be over by Christmas, right?
_
1915. Foster Montgomery is dead, and Agatha desperately wishes she could thank his killer, if anybody even knows. She gets a new tattoo, signifying her ownership by Hayes Fletcher (luckily, she knows his rules, there's no new ones to learn there). The Munitions Act comes into force, and the regular bombing raids start.
Monkey's paw. She's not alone anymore, but it means that Eloise, and several other pets, have joined her in the munitions factory.
She teaches Eloise what she's learned about staying out of trouble where possible. They have a dedicated bunkroom now, pets crammed in on old bedding on the floors of the worst-maintained rooms. They learn that only a few owners have paid for their pets to be taken to air raid shelters.
Hayes Fletcher hasn't.
Night after night they spend, trying to stay calm as bombs rain down around them. Occasionally they're still chained or tied up at night, for punishments, and when that happens Agatha worries the most.
She learns one more rule.
17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.
_
The war ends. By a miracle, her and Eloise are both still alive. Hayes Fletcher goes back to producing films, albeit with less success. Agatha watches as pet liberation campaigns grow, and the next decade approaches with force. The world seems a little more hopeful, things seem to be changing.
Except for her and Eloise. Stuck with the horrible, spiteful little man, punishments getting worse as he gets more frustrated and blames them for it (or maybe he simply has nowhere else to put his anger). The world's moving on, votes for women are coming, and she can't help but think of what her life might be like if she hadn't been kidnapped all those years ago.
She remembers rule 7. And the last time was dreadful, and another attempt could get them both killed, but she mentions her rule to Eloise one night and Eloise agrees. They have to try, don't they? Sometimes, it's the only thing you can do.
A week later, the film studio burns down in the middle of the night. Arson, probably. By the time the fire brigade arrive to the burnt out husk Agatha and Eloise are already sneaking onto a train to London.
_
"If the both of you want rules, I can give you some," says Ira, clearly reluctant, "as long as we can go through the ones you already have first. Is that all right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Ira nods. "Why don't you write me a list then? We can go through them while Eloise is busy."
Agatha takes the paper and pen she offers, wincing as she sits down, heart skipping a beat. She's still not used to it.
At the end of the session, her list reads:
1) Don't say no.
2) Only speak when spoken to.
3) Don't talk back.
4) Address people as sir or ma'am.
5) Always obey immediately.
6) Don't remove your collar.
7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.
8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.
9) Don't talk to the other pets.
10) If you disobey, it won't be just you who's punished.
11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.
12) Don't break the rules. Only if Eloise agrees to do so.
13) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other. (Ira says she can get rid of this one partially too, but she's not so sure. Not yet)
14) Don't become emotional.
15) Never make a sound.
16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.
17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.
The new rules are easy, and straightforward, and Agatha doesn't entirely trust them. The list now reads:
1) You belong to yourself.
2) You will never be punished, no matter what you do.
3) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.
4) Sometimes all you can do is pray.
_
Agatha kneels on the floorboards, trembling. It's her turn today, Ira asked her to clean and she said yes, she's not sure why except she's so used to not being allowed to say no.
She hopes she's done well. She hopes she's done well. She hopes she won't be punished.
Ira doesn't do punishments. But all the same, she hopes she won't be punished.
There's footsteps, then they stop.
"Agatha?"
"I've finished cleaning, ma'am."
A hand on her shoulder. "Agatha, please look at me. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Come on, look up."
Agatha obeys hesitantly. And gasps. Ira's eyes are dark and warm and how could Agatha ever have thought otherwise? Ira gets down to her level as Agatha grasps her hands tightly, pulling her into a rare hug.
"Rules one and two, Agatha."
"I belong to myself," whispers Agatha, still clutching Ira tightly, "and I will not be punished."
Ira's two rules. The only two she'll ever make.
1) I belong to myself.
2) I will never be punished, no matter what I do.
And there's a third, that Agatha has added herself, that she thinks she probably can after so long. Rule number 5, now Ira has been proven correct and number 3 has been partially removed (Agatha does not only have Eloise now).
5) Ira keeps her promises.
#whump#whump writing#bbu community#bbu#box boy universe#box babe#multiple whumpees#pet whump#kidnapping#lady whump#whumpee and whumper#whumpee and caretaker#pets of the silver screen#agatha stanbury#foster montgomery#ira waterhouse#not happy with the list formatting but nvm#historical whump
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Pet Recovery Counter-Conditioning Phrases
"I am my own person. I am allowed to prioritize my own needs and assert my own boundaries."
"I belong to myself and only myself."
"I deserve to be loved by others, touched gently, and treated with compassion."
(Romantic specific) "My body is mine. No one is allowed to do anything to my body against my will."
"I am a human being, and I am entitled to human rights, such as food, water, and sleep. My needs are not a privilege that I have to earn, they are human rights, and I will fulfill them when necessary."
"I can think for myself and take care of myself."
"I am a human being, not a slave. I am under no obligation to obey anyone's command."
"What happened to me was unjust. I did not deserve to be abused by my former master, and I will not tolerate abuse from them or anyone else."
"I am a good person."
"I have a right to be treated with dignity."
"I am not worthless. I have value apart from my master's attention."
(Romantic specific) "I am allowed to say no."
(Guard dog specific) "I am not a monster. In the past, I acted to protect myself, and I will continue to protect myself with or without my master."
"My rescuers are not a threat. My rescuers do not want to hurt me. My rescuers are safe people."
"If I am ever mistreated, I will report it to my rescuers as soon as possible."
"I do not need to lie to protect myself."
"I am allowed to love myself."
"I am encouraged to form relationships with the other recovered pets, and they will not be hurt if I interact with them."
(Bonded pair specific) "I do not need to protect my bond. I do not need to depend on my bond. My bond and I are our own people, and I am allowed to develop my own interests and take care of myself before my bond."
"I am a person, not a pet."
#i saw that one conditioned boxboy phrases lore post and it gave me some ideasies#conditioned whumpee#pet whump#box boy universe#box boy whump#recovery whump#implied past noncon#very very vaguely#i mean some of the deconditioning phrases are romantic specific and there are Things that happen to romantics in the lore so#implied past torture#implied past abuse
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behavior modification, a valentine special
hi! long time, no see. i was home sick from work today and marathoning valentine movies, so here's some sentimental jack and joe for you. part of behavior modification (masterlist here), takes place sometime in the first year after jack's rescue, during his lawsuit against WRU for his freedom.
content warnings for: trauma responses, references to past noncon, tooth-rotting fluff
future snippet, sealed with a kiss
“Is this for your special someone?”
The clerk’s smile is impossibly large; if she smiles any wider, Joe is convinced her face will crack. He understands. She’s probably asked this question at least seventy-five million times in the last week, and it’s a pointless one. Valentine cards are a perfunctory part of being in a relationship. Even if you don’t think your someone is all that special, you still buy them a card because that’s what the day demands. It’s part of the reason Joe never really cared about Valentine’s Day before. The forced displays of affection, the candy pink sheen of it all–it never seemed to reflect the kind of love Joe knew to be true.
But this year, it’s different. This year, the clerk’s question isn’t so pointless. Joe looks down at the red envelope in his hand, and he cannot hide his own smile. “Yes, it is. Someone very special.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll love it!” the clerk sing-songs back. With a pop of her gum, she grabs the card and scans it.
Joe doesn’t correct her. At least, not overtly. “I hope he does,” he says softly, but the clerk doesn’t look up.
They never really celebrated Valentine’s Day before. Sure, Joe liked to rage against the consumer machine, but it was really Jack’s doing. Jack was indifferent, or, at least, he pretended to be. The truth was gift-giving occasions always made him a little uncomfortable. In Jack’s mind, gifts were offered only as part of a fucked-up trade; something he might want for something he certainly didn’t want to give. Joe had learned that the hard way.
They had been seeing each other maybe a month at the time, but Jack was already spending most of his nights at Joe’s place, even if they hadn’t quite consummated their relationship yet. Joe didn’t know at the time that Jack had basically been squatting in the library study carrels and showering at the fitness center, but even if he had, he was more than happy to have Jack with him as much as possible.
It had been a hard week. Jack was marking exams as well as taking his own, and Joe had been preparing for a conference; neither of them had come up for air in days. But when the grades were submitted and the presentation finalized, Joe thought they should celebrate. He thought he’d surprise Jack, and he brought home an expensive bottle of champagne and flowers.
Jack had paled when Joe handed him the roses. “What are these for?” he’d asked.
“For you, silly. For getting through this bear of a week.” Because I love you, Joe had thought but not said. It was too early. But he kissed Jack’s cheek, because that was something he was allowed to do. It made his body feel electric.
But when he pulled away, Jack was still staring at the roses. “Thank you.” He didn’t sound particularly thankful.
“Are you okay?”
A vacant nod. “Yeah. They’re beautiful. Thank you.” Jack set the roses down and turned toward the pantry. “Let me just get dinner started, and then–”
“You don’t have to make dinner tonight, Jack.” It was before Jack was his Jackie. Before Joe knew what he knows now. “I thought we could kick back and relax. Celebrate.”
“Of course,” Jack said softly, his chin dipping into the hollow of his throat. “Of course we’ll celebrate. I’ll take care of you.”
Joe knows that tone of voice now. The faraway note that lets him know Jack is falling back into old habits, a tone that, these days, precipitates a whispered sir. But he didn’t know then.
He didn’t see the way that Jack gnawed on his lip for a split second before he launched himself bodily at Joe, their hips crashing together, Jack’s hands in Joe’s hair. Joe fumbled to set the champagne on the counter behind him, to wrap his hands around Jack’s waist, but Jack’s fingers were already plucking open Joe’s shirt buttons, his mouth close behind. Jack was on his knees so quickly that Joe wasn’t sure what was happening.
“Jack–ohmygod, Jack.”
It was everything Joe wanted, but he didn’t know yet that it wasn’t what Jack wanted. Not until he’d looked down and seen tears squeezing from Jack’s pruned eyelids.
“Jack?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I can’t, I just–I know you deserve it. I know what you want. I’ll try again. I’m sorry.”
It was then that Joe realized. The flowers. The champagne. Jack assumed they were all part of a transaction.
Jack told him everything that night. About Bill and the others. And Joe learned. He never surprised Jack that way again. Even after Jack came home from WRU–no, especially then–Joe tried to avoid surprises. For Jack, tokens of affection were part and parcel of an economy where he was the commodity. Joe doesn’t want him to feel that way, not ever again.
But a card. A card is different.
Joe knows about WRU’s training protocol now. Jack is lucky. Those bastards may have burrowed their poison into his brain, but he still has his words; he can still read. It was one of the only things that gave him comfort when he came home. Books were some of the only things he didn’t ask to touch. Joe understands. Words matter more than things.
The clerk pops her gum again. “You want a bag and a gold seal?”
“No, that’s all right.” Joe manages to stop short of telling her that he’s going to seal this one with a kiss.
“Well, have a happy Valentine’s day, sir.”
“I will. Thank you.”
The card is in its envelope when Joe lets himself into the apartment, and Jack is in the kitchen. The apartment is fragrant with a warm, red wine smell. Joe tiptoes to stand in the cheap stucco archway. He watches the way Jack’s basketball short-clad hips move softly to the old fashioned jazz that’s coming from the speaker on the counter. His body is shyer somehow, more tentative in its movements, but still lithe and beautiful. Jack is still Jack, even after everything he’s been through.
Joe lets out a low whistle, and Jack turns, a pasta server in his hand and a shy smile on his lips. Joe’s knees practically buckle.
“You’re home,” Jack says.
“I’m home, baby.” Joe moves into the kitchen, and when Jack offers his lips, Joe takes them, resting a soft hand on Jack’s hip. “What are you making?”
“Red wine pasta with toasted walnuts and arugula,” Jack says easily. He kisses Joe’s jawline.
“I know what one of those things is.”
Jack laughs. “My gourmand.”
“Or something!”
“How was your day, Joey?” Jack disengages slowly and goes to pour Joe a glass of wine.
It’s a difficult question some days. Jack’s days are so different from Joe’s. He isn’t allowed to leave the apartment without supervision until the litigation with WRU is over. Until it’s done, Jack is still technically Joe’s property. But only technically. Joe reminds himself of that every day.
“It was alright. I missed you.” But it’s easier now. Now, Joe has far fewer opportunities to miss his Jackie.
Jack smiles, sneaking a sip from the glass before he hands it to Joe. “I missed you too.”
Joe raises his glass and leans back against the cheap countertop. “I would’ve been home earlier, but I had to make a special stop.”
Jack is back at the stove. He upends the wine bottle into a sauce pan, and a cloud of rich steam rises in its wake. “Why’s that?”
“I wanted to get you a card for Valentine’s Day.” Joe says it gently, so that it will not be a surprise.
Jack freezes, his hand hovering over the sauce pan for just a second, but then his shoulders relax. He peeks at Joe. “You? Mr. ‘Conversation-Hearts-Are-Nuggets-of-Corporate-Greed’?”
Joe smothers his own smile. Jack remembers. “Yes, me.” He pulls the card from his pocket. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jackie.”
Jack puts a lid over the pan and turns around. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“You’re all the gift I need,” Joe whispers, because it is true. Every one of the days he spends with Jack is a gift. He knew that even before, but every nerve in his body is certain of it now.
Jack tries to roll his eyes, but Joe can see that his words have landed. “Well, thank you,” Jack says softly. His fingertips whisper against Joe’s when he reaches for the card.
“Open it up, baby.”
Jack complies, carefully opening the red envelope that Joe absolutely kissed without a hint of irony after he licked the seal and pressed it closed. The card itself isn’t so special; just the standard hearts and flowers schlock that all the stores sell this time of year. But Joe’s written his own message inside. He watches Jack’s eyes move like a typewriter carriage over his uneven scrawl.
Jackie,
I know we don’t usually do this, but I feel like I haven’t told you enough how grateful I am that you are home. Nothing felt right without you, and I know now that it never could. You are my home. You are stronger than any foundation, and I will never stop thanking God that you choose to be with me, even after everything you’ve been through. And it is your choice. You have every choice. You deserve that.
I choose you, every day. I always will.
Love,
Joe
When Jack looks up again, his blue eyes are glassy with tears. “Joey–”
“I didn’t mean to–”
Jack shakes his head. He folds the card carefully and stares down at it. “You didn’t. Joe?”
Joe takes a hesitant step forward. “What is it, baby?”
“I choose this. I do.”
Jack reaches for him then, and Joe pulls Jack into his chest. “I know you do. And even if you didn’t or if–if someday, you don’t, I’ll always be grateful for this. Right now.”
Jack lets Joe hold him, and Joe knows exactly what this moment is worth. He wraps his arms so tightly around Jack that, if he didn’t know exactly how strong Jack is, he might crush him. But no one can crush Jack, and Joe knows how to hold him. Joe knows how to give him room and keep him close all at once. Joe knows how to let him choose.
taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy1, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @termsnconditions-apply, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @ramadiiiisme, @sunnie, @sadboysanonymous, @panic-whump
#behavior modification#jack kenyon oc#joe prescott oc#box boy universe#box boy whump#recovery whump#whump writing#haven't done much with these boys in ages#so have this humble offering#and enjoy the pleasure pain of a tough recovery#and their love#haaaa
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Another binderary bind, and one I'm super pleased with. @haro-whumps 's Box Boy. This bind used several different techniques I'm perfecting, sewn endbands, trimmed textblock, and new paper and casing materials.
It's hard to tell from the pictures, but the endpapers sparkle. I couldn't resist ^^ I wanted the book to feel nice, like something Ren might dress Soren in. It turned out looking a little more royal than I intended (I blame the red) but I still love the way it turned out.
One day I'll get my hands on paper big enough to do a dust cover and proper titleing.
#binderary2024#bookbinding#changelingart#fanbinding#ficbinding#haro-whumps#box boy universe#soren and ren
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ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)
i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch
because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve
CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt
Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.
-
Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.
God, it looks good.
His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.
He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.
This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.
Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.
Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.
Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.
He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.
He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.
He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.
The burn is perfect.
He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.
He looks up.
Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.
His cost more than five hundred dollars.
He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.
Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.
He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.
Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.
The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.
Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.
Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"
"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."
He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.
"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.
If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.
This must be why Owen liked it so much.
No.
He won't think about Owen right now.
Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.
"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"
Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"
Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"
"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."
Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.
It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?
"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.
"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.
It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.
Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.
Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?
"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"
Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."
There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.
Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?
It's... it's good, almost.
It feels better than he thought it would.
"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.
Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.
They both survived, didn't they?
Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.
"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."
"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."
"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"
There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.
"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.
Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.
Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.
He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.
Oh.
There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.
Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.
Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.
Jameson flinches.
Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"
"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."
"I'm so sorry."
Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.
Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.
But then, it's been months.
Months, he made it without taking even a sip.
He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.
The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."
There's a pause.
"From... me?"
"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"
"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."
"Please."
An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."
"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."
Kauri hangs up.
Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.
He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.
Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.
He should have called his sponsor instead.
Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.
But he deserves it, anyway.
Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.
Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.
"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."
"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"
"I got... I drank."
"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.
"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."
"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"
"I-... I scared him."
"... you scared him?"
"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"
"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"
Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."
"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."
Vince lowers his head into his arms.
"Thank you," He says, muffled.
"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."
-
@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay
#whump#ptsd tw#alcholism tw#withdrawal tw#alcoholic whumpee#recovering whumpee#recovery whump#vincent shield is not a hero#erase to control#since kauri makes an appearance#jameson bb#box boy universe#drunk whumpee#whumpee turned whumper#briefly and not on purpose
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The Gift Exchange, part 1
CW: institutionalised slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation
“Miss Lydia, Miss Lydia, what do you think about this?.”
Coriander jogged into the kitchen, brandishing a roll of wrapping paper patterned with abstract swirls in silver and dark green. The silver accents glittered in the pale winter morning sunlight falling in through the windows.
“It is really pretty!” Miss Lydia smiled, brown eyes warm. “Good choice, Cory!”
The blonde pet ducked his head, but smiled back from underneath his bangs. He wore a soft, green sweater with leather patches on the elbows that matched his chestnut trousers.
Lydia was dressed in a dark grey, knitted dress with red leggings. She leaned over the table to move the pot with the red and white amaryllis out of the way.
“Should we wrap everything into one present, or should we wrap each gift separately, do you think?”
“T-this pet thinks we should w-wrap one gift for Colton and one for Linden, b-but that all their gifts can be wrapped together.”
“That’s a good idea, let’s do that.”
Coriander spread out several seed packages on the table and studied them thoughtfully. Closest to Lydia was a packet with a picture of lush, green sugar snap peas labelled: ‘Mangetout, pea seeds 'Norli' ORGANIC’. Then, there were two packets both marked ‘Thunbergia alata, Black-eyed Susan’, the first one called ‘African Sunset’ in shades of red and apricot, the second one ‘Alba Oculata’ in brilliant white. The final was a handwritten envelope simply marked in Cory’s neat handwriting: ‘Chili, mix’.
“Are you happy with those seeds?”
“Y-yes, Miss Lydia. C-Colton will be able to grow them on the balcony, and i-it will be fun that we both can try to grow the same seeds. P-perhaps we can compare notes.”
Cory gathered the seed packets and tied them together with a neat red bow. Meanwhile, Lydia grabbed a hardback book. The blue dust jacket had brightly coloured leaves scattered all over the cover. The title stood out in bright white: When we were birds, by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo.
Opening the book, she wrote on the inside of the cover. ‘To Linden. Merry Christmas and best wishes for the new year.’ Signing it, she handed it over to Coriander to add his name too.
“‘It is a bit of a risky gift,” she admitted to Cory, “since I haven’t read the book yet, but it seems so good. I got a copy for myself too, and I hope I will get the chance to read it over the holidays.”
They added two bags of homemade butterscotch candy in green paper cups, and two reused milk cartoons filled with gingerbread cookies, the result of last night’s baking spree.
Lydia and Cory put their joint efforts into wrapping the gifts into two neat packages. The dark, red ribbon a nice contrast to the green and silver wrapping paper.
“Let’s go for a walk and send it off this afternoon.” Coriander nodded.
“Y-yes, Miss Lydia.”
*
Linden wiggled the pen between his thumb and index finger, deep in thought. Leaning back in his kitchen chair, he looked over at Colton, who was working diligently at the end of the table. With wholly unbroken concentration, he was pulling strips of sellotape from the dispenser and sticking them in a neat row along the table’s wooden edge. When Linden had done the altogether far more fiddly task of wrapping a gift up, Col could pluck a pre-cut piece of tape and stick it in place. It was, as Linden had said about fifty times, excellent teamwork.
“Hey, Col, have you ever seen this before?” Linden asked, lifting his hand for Col to see. With the pen held right in its middle, Linden wiggled it gently, until it looked as if the pen was bending at the edges.
Col’s eyebrows twitched, and for a beautiful second Linden thought he was going to burst out laughing. Instead, his mouth curved upwards into a tiny smile. “Yes, Sir. I have.”
“Ah, not too impressive then. Haha, no matter.”
“Do you need any tape for the envelope, Sir?” Col asked, eyeing the Christmas card laid out in front of Linden.
“In a second… I’m just trying to figure something out.”
“Ah, okay, Sir.”
Col took another breath, as if to speak, then stopped himself. Linden prided himself on reading Col well enough by now to know that it was because he wanted to ask a question. Probably what are you trying to figure out?
“I’ve written my part of Lydia and Cory’s card, but I’m not sure how to do yours. I’m not going to make you try and hold a pen. I was thinking - do you want to just dictate it? It doesn’t have to be much, just a little festive greeting sort of thing. I can be your text-to-speech robot.”
Linden was always cheery around Christmas time. Something about winter setting in, dark and long and rainy, and then being cut through by glittering lights, gifts and music. Today, he felt like he was on a veritable warpath to make Col smile.
“That sounds good, Sir… I can do that.”
“Great!” Linden said, overjoyed that Colton hadn’t taken issue with the idea of ‘dictating’ something to his owner, hadn’t overthought any possible rule-breaking that could come with speaking and forcing his Master to write it all down. “And instead of you signing the card the normal way, I thought you could do a fingerprint?”
“That’s a good idea, Sir, thank you for c-”
“Wait, no!” Linden said, making Col flinch. “Sorry, I’m sorry love. I just realised. We’ll both do our fingerprints. That’ll be nice. Then we’re the same.”
There it was again, the coveted half-smile. Col’s cheeks glowed. “Thank you, Sir, that’s really kind. I think- I, uh…”
“Go on,” Linden said warmly. “I want to hear what you think.”
“I think Lydia and Cory will like that, Sir.”
“I agree. Now, here’s what I’ve written.”
Linden pushed the card over. He’d written a short message making light of the strange way they first crossed paths, saying how glad he now was to know the both of them, wishing them a peaceful and happy holiday. He waited patiently as Colton gave his message some thought, then wrote it down exactly as dictated on the left hand side of the card.
Linden found some stamp ink in the back of a drawer, and the two of them rolled their index fingers in it until they could leave two bold prints, one below each message.
Once the card was sealed, it was time for the gifts. Lydia’s gift was a specially-made book embosser, which had EX LIBRIS - LYDIA WINTERTHORPE printed onto it. The embosser itself was a satisfying, weighty thing, and Linden hoped she’d get great pleasure out of stamping all of her most beloved books.
Cory’s gift was also a bespoke item: a brass door sign with his name, Coriander, printed on it. It had ornate rounded corners which gave the thing a rustic, rather stately look, and although Linden had never seen Lydia’s house he guessed it would fit right in. He had run the gift idea past Col first - would a pet such as Cory be okay with claiming the bedroom as his in this way? Col had given it a fair share of thought, ultimately telling Linden, in a way that sounded more like a sinful confession, that Cory would like it very much.
The two men performed their well-honed wrapping ritual, with Col sticking down the final piece of tape with a flourish.
*
This is a collaboration between @whumpzone and @maracujatangerine.
We would like to wish you all a Merry Christmas!
*
Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning
#lydia and linden#lydia and coriander#linden and colton#whump fic#pet whump#pet whumpee#bbu#box boy universe#box boy multiverse#box boy whump#writers on tumblr#original writing#christmas whump#chirstmas
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We interrupt my usual posts to bring you: I have been thinking a lot about BBU and recovery, especially for those who've lived so long in the system or entered it young and don't know how to function outside of it.
Giving them a small list of simple chores (making their own bed, keeping their room tidy, folding towels etc) so they still feel useful
Touch Starved but Touch Averse rescues being given a weighted blanket until they feel more comfortable being touched
Using a wrist link instead of a leash so they can still feel safe but aren't dehumanized
Rescues used to wearing muzzles being given scarves or face masks
Each rescue getting their own bucket of snacks they can take from at any time
Rescues getting to pick out a stuffed animal or some other nice thing like a blanket or pillow when they first come in, so they can have something that's theirs that they don't have to share or give up if they don't want to
Having rescues put their requests or wants into a box if they're afraid of asking directly
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INK BLACK AND BLUE (A whump fic introduction).
hello and welcome to my newest whumpee! I swear I'm writing my other stories but for now you can have him :)
CW for: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, brief mentions of non-con touch, non-consensual drugging.
1: Hand to Hand to Hand
Pet practically belonged to the casino by now.
He was here more often than not, these days, tucked uncomfortably under some table in the back corner with his head down and his knees underneath himself, hands bound tightly together and chained to a table leg.
It was a small place compared to most, low-lit in the yellow wash of the dying lights on the ceiling, hidden in some back alley somewhere. The kind of place people went when they didn’t want much competition, or when they’d been kicked out of every bigger casino in the area. Pet could find his way here from any corner of the town in his sleep.
Most days he’d be dragged in the doorway to a handful of pills shoved down his throat and a hand - or several - blocking off his breathing until he swallowed, then he’d be shoved down to his knees on the moth-eaten carpet to wait.
Today was no different. He couldn’t see much beyond the shoes of the players and the table legs around him, but by the force of the poker chips being dropped on the table and the anxious shifting of the pair of legs beside him, it was going to be… a long night. It had already been a long night. His owner - current owner, anyway - was losing, and badly.
A hand dropped down to rough up his hair and Pet gritted his teeth, curling his fingers into the carpet fibres and hunching down lower. Every muscle in his body drew tense, the urge to bite swelling in his chest, raging and painful, dulled only by the drugs in his system. Somewhere else, he would thrash and turn and sink his teeth in. But he didn't bite here. He'd learned that lesson well and truly by now. He worked his teeth into his bottom lip instead, and the hand drew away to throw another card down on the table.
The game dragged on. Poker chips slammed on the table above him, a kick to his side, yelling from the men who were losing, yelling from the men who were winning. A hand in his hair, more chips on the table, more yelling. Cards, chips, hand, yell. Teeth into lip. Cards, hands, yelling. Nausea, climbing his throat. Drugs and swimming vision. The urge to fight, stuffed somewhere back behind his teeth. He didn't bite here.
The table cleared slowly as time wore on, players running slowly out of cash as it piled in the centre or finally deciding to escape with their winnings before they lost them again. His owner kept reaching down to pet his head – something that only this owner did, really, and Pet didn’t know if it was a nervous habit or if he thought it was some odd form of good luck. Pet had never asked, too focused on keeping his teeth in his mouth and ignoring the way it made his skin crawl. He’d never be seen like that, anyway. At worst he was bad luck, at best he was nothing to them at all.
He gritted his teeth together under the table and dug his fingers into the carpet. It was worn, here, from how often he did this. His table, his spot. Casino property, or whatever. He didn’t want to mean anything to them.
It was some time before the sound of the door opening drew his attention and he lifted his head to see a new pair of shoes stepping across to the table.
“You have time for another round?”
The newcomer’s voice was not one that Pet had heard before. He stilled, listening. The men here were all violent and mean, slurred voices, rough hands. Pet knew them all personally. Intimately. He’d been to each house, each bed, each basement floor many times over but this man – he didn’t recognise him. There hadn’t been a newcomer to this casino in months.
“Just packing up,” said his owner, but there was an edge to it, like he was hesitating. The newcomer shifted his feet.
“Are you sure?”
“… You play cards?”
“I’m quite good at cards, yes.”
His owner sat up straighter and laughed. None of them could resist a challenge. This was going to drag out into another few rounds of back and forth, and his legs were already numb. It was a goddamned miracle his owner had kept him this long as it was, but he was quickly running out of money and Pet knew he didn’t know when to stop. This owner was always more hesitant to give him up, for whatever reason, but he’d done it many times before. He’d do it many times again.
There were three of them at the table now – his owner, another regular, and the newcomer. The cards shuffled, and someone started tossing them out. One fell, fluttering down to the floor, and the newcomer leaned down to pick it up. He glanced up when he did, face-to-face with Pet as he reached for it. The man blinked at him, picked the card off the floor and straightened. That was fine. He’d prefer to be ignored, anyway. Above him, the conversation continued.
“You have a pet here?” asked the newcomer.
His owner huffed out a laugh. “He’s not worth much, if that’s what you’re wondering. A pain in the ass, more than anything. Aren’t you, pest?” He reached down to rough up Pet’s hair again. He gritted his teeth together and refused to respond, which earned him a smack up the back of the head. “See what I mean?”
“I didn’t know they were allowed this close to the tables.”
A scoff. “You think this place cares? You’re not in a big city anymore, mate.”
The newcomer hummed in agreement. “Guess not.”
Pet glared at the floor, tearing carpet threads up with his fingers, bottom lip worked painfully between his teeth. He’d bitten it raw, but no one cared, least of all himself. It’d just be a point of mockery later, of wow, pest, had to try real hard to keep your teeth to yourself back there, huh? and rough hands holding his face still so someone could lick the blood away. He told himself he’d smash his face into theirs.
Bad pet. Pest. Fucking menace. He revelled in it.
Just not here, he reminded himself when his owner shifted his leg to press it against his side. The contact made his stomach turn.
The game went on.
“Not as good as you said, huh?” Someone said, late into the game, late into the night. “Bet that hand you got dealt isn’t looking as good as you thought.”
A laugh. A shuffle of cards. “I guess not. You’re doing well, though.”
“You’re too fuckin’ polite for this place, mate,” his owner laughed. More chips dragged over to his side, piled so dangerously close to the edge that if Pet craned his neck, or shifted just a little too much, he’d be able to make them fall. Somehow they didn’t when his owner leaned across the table. “Got another round in you? Or are you gonna tuck your tail between your legs and run home? Easy winnings from someone who claimed to be good at this.”
The newcomer sighed and shifted, a hand coming down to pat at his pockets. Pet had been here long enough that he understood what was happening, the desperate search for something else to put up, the draw to the game even when he’d done nothing but lose.
“… I’ll put my car in.”
The owner laughed heartily and accepted. The other regular had left, by now, and it was these two alone, nothing but Pet and the casino staff behind the bar to watch them. This game, another. The tide turned, and his owner started losing, the newcomer’s skills seeming to come through for him.
His owner was scrambling, now, the wins he’d been gloating about ripped right from underneath him.
Pet felt the tug on his leash before he heard the words.
“Throw him in, too.”
“Your pet?”
“His attitude isn’t worth shit, but a pet’s worth a lot of money, you know that.”
“… Sure,” shrugged the newcomer. “My dad could use another pet.”
If his owner had been any decent kind of person, he might have mentioned that Pet was not the kind of pet that anyone would want. He was disobedient and angry. He didn’t get passed around the casino because he was good. They all just wanted their shot at breaking him – it’s all he was good for, anyway. A bargaining chip, a game piece, something to be taken and given up. Just a monetary value and a source of bragging rights.
But his owner was a bitter, arrogant kind of man, just like the rest of them. He was a desperate one, too. So Pet became part of the betting pool once again, and the cards were shuffled above him.
In the end, no matter how hard his owner had tried, no matter what cards he played, it hadn’t mattered. He lost the money. He gave up Pet.
At some ungodly hour of the morning, after a scuffle between the men - over one claiming the other had cheated, or scammed him, or something like that - that the casino staff had to break up, Pet’s chains were taken off his wrists. He heard one of the staff mutter a recommendation for a muzzle.
The newcomer wrapped Pet’s leash around his fist and dragged him outside.
The world swam, and his legs barely had feeling back, and he didn’t fight when he was pushed into the back of a car, still too close to the casino.
He didn’t bite here.
But almost. Soon. When the drugs weren’t making him so tired, when he wasn’t trying to figure out what this new owner would be like and how hard he’d have to fight.
He didn’t answer when the man asked for his name. He’d stopped keeping track of those a long time ago.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot
#whump#whump fic#bbu#bbu fic#box boy universe#pet whump#whump series#whump series introduction#box boy universe fic#whump writing#whump oc#tagging things on tumblr my beloathed#writing: ink black and blue#writing: ib&b
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Sam on the drip.
#whump#whump art#whump animation#pet whump#pet whumpee#facility whump#box boy whump#boxboy whump#boxboy#boxboys#box boy#box boys#box boy universe#boxboy universe#bbu#sam the medic#look at the fancy camera movement#so fancy
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Imagining a bbu equivalent of those gimmicky wedding Vegas venues but people don't realize are actually legally binding.
"Yes, ha ha, fun roleplay with your friends. Fortunately for us, we own you now. Yeah, the collar's real. You didn’t read the contract that’s on you."
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BBU Community Days 2024, Day 3
April 16 / Writing Prompt: "RULES" / Write a BBU story based on the one-word-prompt and share it!
CW: for institutionalized slavery, emotional abuse, manipulation, drunkenness and drunk antics, a lot more swearing than normal, burning with cigarettes, forced to self-injure
"Shit, why didn't we invest in one of these earlier?" The speaker was a tall man in wrinkled slacks and a polo who looked like he was probably a good shot. There was no gun in evidence, unless you looked behind the counter of his establishment, but it didn't need to be visible for his customers to know that crossing him would be a bad idea.
"Cause they're fucking expensive," his bookkeeper replied, in the weary tones of someone who had explained this before. "We had to start coming out in the black consistently before we could afford the expense. You know that."
"Yeah, yeah. I know." The first man looked down at their new acquisition, kneeling on the floor next to the counter, looking down at his lap and wringing his hands. "Hey, uh- you- uh-" he looked back up at his colleague. "Hey, Ed, what do we call him?"
"His serial number is GU2938." Ed was engrossed in whatever he was doing on a laptop and didn't even look up.
"Nah, that's a mouthful. I'll just call him Pet, that's easy enough. Hey, Pet, there's some food there in that bowl for you. Take five and eat up, but be quick. We're gonna have customers in here in a few hours and we gotta clean and everything."
"Yes, Master," GU2938 replied, as he had been trained to, and scurried over to the bowl. It was full of scraps, probably the remnants of food humans had ordered but not finished. Sometimes people were so busy gambling or getting drunk that they forgot they had a meal in front of them. One of the first things GU2938 had learned was that people on a binge of any kind- betting or drinking or drugs- were unpredictable and did not always act according to logic that he could discern.
Once he had finished eating, GU2938 went back to the counter and crouched next to it, rubbing his knuckles and bent over to ease a bruise on his right side. The previous night, his first in the bar, had been an education, to say the least. It was his third day with his Master, but he had arrived mid-week and the bar was quieter on a Thursday night. Master had said that was best, since it gave him an evening to observe and learn his job.
GU2938 had been purchased to serve as a bouncer for the drinking-and-gambling establishment his Master owned, a dimly lit and slightly greasy place that was accessed by knowing which alley it was in and which stairs to go down to find the door. People did not come here for a quiet night out and GU2938's job was to get them out of the bar when Master determined that they were too drunk or high or broke to give him any more of their money.
Thursday had been quiet, with only a handful of regulars who hadn't left the Pet alone, but hadn't exactly hurt him, either. They only wanted to play with him, ordering him around just to watch him follow their commands. They had ordered him to bring their drinks from the bar, poured condiments on the table just so he would have to clean it up, and made him lick ketchup off the floor. When they lit a match, Master intervened.
"Hey!" he barked, so loudly that GU2938 jumped, although the regulars did not. "You were having your fun- fine. But you don't damage my property. I bought that to do work, not keep you entertained. That's what the races are for." He scowled at the men and waved GU2938 back to his corner beside the bar.
Friday had been very different, in a way. There was more work to do, or at least, more of the kind of work Master had in mind. GU2938 broke up a fight over poker and had to throw out a man who had gotten so drunk he forgot where- or possibly what- the toilet was. Then GU2938 had to clean up after the man, which might have been even worse than hauling him to the door.
When Master turned the lights off, locked the door, and left at almost 4 in the morning, GU2938 finally sat down and hoped he could fall asleep. It was hard to do, just like it had been hard the previous night. The floor felt very flat and a little sticky, and the small, barred windows didn't admit any light beyond a neon glow from some other business across the alley. Through the thin wall, he could hear the sounds of cars outside and the occasional siren and the strange noises frightened him.
GU2938 squeezed himself as far under the bar as he could manage. He was tall and broad-shouldered and the training at the facility had focused on building his muscles so that he would be marketable as a guard dog. He had learned a lot during his training- how to throw a punch and, more importantly, how to take one; how to dart past an opponent and use their own body weight to throw them; even where to put his hands to make someone pass out, permanently if the order was given. But the main thing he had learned was that he hated to fight.
He could fight, it turned out, and well. He was big enough to hit hard when he was ordered to do it and he was surprisingly fast for someone his size. He was perfectly compliant in the gym and ate the diet he was given, perfect for building muscle and laced with steroids that the WRU left off the guard dogs' medical records when they were sold.
But every time a fight ended, GU2938 would pause, look at his opponent, and break down in tears. And every time, the guards would make fun of him, order him to stop crying and, when he couldn't, beat him until he was too stunned to react any more. Then they would take him back to his cell where his wits would slowly return to him. He lay on the floor every night, seeing the face of the Pets he had fought in his mind's eye. He worried about them until he saw them again and could reassure himself that they were still breathing, even if they were damaged. His own injuries, even when they were severe, were less painful than the knowledge that he had hurt someone else.
Under the bar, GU2938 thought of the other Pets and closed his eyes against the mental images that formed the only memories he had. He began to rock back and forth, as if trying to shake the pictures away, and then found that the swaying reminded him of the last time he felt safe. It had been in the box on the truck between the facility and the bar. In that box, nobody was there to hurt or frighten him and he knew he would be left alone as long as the truck kept on swaying down the road. GU2938 tried to pretend that he was back there in the box on the truck and eventually he fell asleep.
He was woken late in the day by his Master opening the door and turning on the lights. GU2938 jumped up and stood with his head bowed at respectful attention as his Master crossed the room to the bar and set down a box.
"Got you something," he said. "Come here." Master opened the box and drew out a thick black collar with a small box attached to it. When GU2938 came over, Master reached up and fastened it around his neck. "That's a shock collar. I got the remote right here, see? I don't want to have to use it, but if you leave here or you disobey me, I can and I will. Understood?"
"Yes, Master." They were the only words GU2938 had uttered in recent memory and he heard his own voice so seldom that he was almost surprised by the sound of it, soft and deep and uncertain.
"Good. Now fill the cooler and get the floor mopped." Master went off to his own tasks in the back office.
GU2938 hated the feeling of the collar. It wasn't actually too tight, but it felt like it was and it made him cringe whenever he turned his head and felt the material rubbing against the front of his throat. He tried not to turn his head much, but it was difficult to remember not to move naturally. Even worse, he had no idea what Master's idea of disobedience was. GU2938 was trying his hardest to be a good Pet, but he was very afraid that Master would disagree.
As the weeks passed, GU2938 became more accustomed to the rhythm of life in the bar. He found that sleeping sitting up and leaned against the inside of the bar was more comfortable than trying to stretch out on the floor, especially with the collar snug around his throat. He also slept with one hand inside the collar, holding it away from his windpipe. Master fed him at least once a day from anything left in the kitchen before closing time and Ed, the bookkeeper, even gave him permission to eat scraps off of customers' plates when he did the dishes. He was hungry, but on most days not painfully so.
Only dealing with the customers never got easier. When Master ordered it, he had to throw them out of the bar sometimes, but Master also let the customers order him around when they wanted something. Occasionally, they played a game with him where they made a rule he had to follow for however long they said.
They seemed to play this game about once a week and GU2938 dreaded it. The first time they played, the rule had been that he had to do a somersault whenever one of them clapped. After he had rolled across the dirty floor a few times, one of the customers got it into his head to start applauding, making the Pet roll over and over around the bar until his back ached from contact with the hard floor.
The next time, he had to serve them with his eyes shut until they said he could look. The bartender played along and even Master laughed when someone put a chair in front of him to trip him when he brought a table their bill. The Pet went sprawling, afraid to open his eyes even to catch himself, and landed hard on his wrists. Without looking, he picked himself up very carefully and felt his way to the nearest table.
"Wrong one," someone said, when he tried to give them the little plastic tray with the paper and pen on it. There was a roar of laughter as he felt his way from table to table, each of them refusing the bill, until he was touching the back wall.
There were no tables left and he found himself shaking and afraid, because he didn't know what to do next. Should he ask again? But then Master would think he was questioning the honest of Master's customers and he wouldn't like that.
"Give it here," said Master's voice. "And go back to the front."
Still with his eyes squeezed shut, GU2938 went. Master must have delivered the check and the game continued, with GU2938 delivering food and drinks in between orders from the customers to go find the pinball machine or tie a customer's shoes.
The game came to an abrupt end when GU2938 slammed into the pool table and spilled an entire tray of beers all over himself and the floor.
"Open your fucking eyes and clean up that mess," Master snapped. GU2938 blinked in the light as he opened his eyes for the first time in hours and beheld the immense mess in front of him. Entirely without meaning to, he began to cry and almost immediately there was a sharp stinging feeling at his neck that made his whole body tense up. It only lasted a second, but when it ended, the spot on his neck under the little box didn't feel right and he ached horribly.
"Enough," his Master said in an angry voice. "I don't want to see any of that bullshit. Just clean. it. up."
"Yes, Master."
That first use of the collar marked a terrible turning point in GU2938's life. Now that the bar regulars knew he could be shocked, and knew one thing that would make Master do it, it seemed to become their goal to make Master shock GU2938.
In addition to the Rules game, they began betting on how long it would take them each night to make him cry. In between watching races or poker on tv, they pinched him as he passed or kicked his ankles or kneed him when Master wasn't looking.
If he had seen in, GU2938 supposed, Master would have stopped them, if only to protect his investment. The night one man pressed a lit cigarette to the Pet's arm, Master yelled at him and made GU2938 throw him out- but he had already been shocked and the man had won his bet. Every night GU2938 did his best not to cry, from either pain or fear, but they managed to find his breaking point all the same.
When they left and GU2938 had done his cleaning and eaten a bowl of leftover scraps, he would wedge his aching body and all its bruises under the counter and think about a quiet, dark box in a quiet, dark truck and rock himself back and forth until he could calm his adrenaline enough to sleep.
Things reached a crisis point the night the TV set broke. It might have had something to do with the bottle a very drunk customer had thrown at it earlier in the week, or it might simply have been a very old set. But whatever the cause, it broke in the middle of a race and the customers had been very invested in watching cars circle a track.
"Fuck," Master swore, and emptied the contents of his pockets onto the bar until he found his phone. He smashed the buttons and yelled into it, already sounding angry. "My fucking TV just died." There was an indistinct voice from the other end, and then Master said, "So what? The race was on and the TV just died, just like that." Pause. "Yeah, I know." Pause. "Well, I think we probably need another one, dumbass." Pause. "What the fuck?" Master sighed. "I'll be back when I sort this out," he announced to nobody in particular and stormed outside, still swearing at whoever was on the phone.
GU2938 was already nervous to be left alone with the customers, but when he saw that Master had left the remote to his collar on the bar, he thought he might be sick. He wondered for a split second if he could hide it until Master got back. Even if Master shocked him for it, it would still be better than whatever the customers might do.
He wasn't fast enough. One of them saw it and grabbed it out of the pile of loose change and crumpled receipts.
"Hey," he called to the other men, "Look what I got!" This was greeted with a round of drunk cheers that made GU2938 feel sick.
"Okay," said the man holding the remote. "First rule, umm... you have to walk around with your eyes crossed. Now go to the pool table and see if you can hit anything."
GU2938 did as he was told. He made it to the pool table and tried to pick up a cue, but he was so concentrated on the pool balls that he forgot there was a second condition.
"He's looking at them," someone called and instantly there a shock ran through him, making his muscles seize.
"No good," called the man with the remote. "Next rule? Anyone?"
"Make him eat gum off the bottom of the tables," someone suggested, to laughter. There was plenty of gum on the undersides of the tables and the chairs, too, as GU2938 well knew. As instructed, he scraped some off and put it in his mouth, but when he gagged, they shocked him again.
Then they had him carry a plate on his head and shocked him when it fell off. He had to turn a cartwheel and was shocked when he couldn't. With every broken rule, the shocks seemed to last longer and he was sure they were turning up the intensity. He couldn't help himself and screamed with each wave of electricity that shot through his body.
Prank call the emergency phone number.
Stand over here and piss into the potted plant.
Use this lit cigarette to draw a smiley face on your palm.
Stand under the target while we play darts.
Punch yourself in the face. No, harder. Right in the nose. Not like that.
Every time, they shocked him and with every shock, GU2938 felt his body grow weaker and felt his mind grow more afraid. His heart didn't feel right anymore, as if it skipped a beat when the shock came, and his legs could barely hold him.
At last, they got what they really wanted and he began to cry. Not just a few tears, like most nights, when GU2938 could keep himself mostly under control and the shocks from Master would be brief and comparatively light. Now, it was as if floodgates had opened and he sobbed from somewhere deep inside himself, the tears pouring down his aching face. He could feel a ball of grief deep in his stomach and he leaned against the bar and covered his face with his hands, as if they hadn't already seen.
"Uh-uh," the man with the remote crowed. "You're not allowed to do that. Your Master said you weren't. Didn't they train you better?"
GU2938 was sobbing too hard to answer or even to begin to collect himself.
"Guess not," the man said. He was looking out into the bar, talking to the other customers now, as if he was onstage speaking to an audience. "I guess we better help you out, get you properly trained. What do you think, boys?"
There was a cheer and to a background of applause, GU2938 felt the shock in what might have been slow motion. He could hear himself screaming at the top of his lungs as the man with the remote adjusted the intensity for maximum effect.
There was the feeling of a burning ring around GU2938's neck and he fell full-length onto the floor as his body tensed up. It was like an induced seizure and he felt his limbs shaking, his joints striking the tile. His teeth were grinding together and his eyes rolled in his head and then even the screaming stopped because he couldn't get a breath and his throat felt like it was on fire.
It only stopped because Master came in and shouted, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? I paid good money for that and you motherfuckers are just ruining it for fun." He kept on in that vein for some time, but GU2938 heard none of it. Consciousness ebbed and flowed and eventually someone dragged him behind the bar and left him there, supine and weeping, for the rest of the night.
The last thing that happened was Master shoving a bowl of scraps towards him. "You got the night off," Master said, "But I expect you to work double tomorrow to make it up."
"Yes, Master," GU2938 tried to say.
His blood ran cold. He hadn't made a noise- Master had spoken to him and he had answered but no noise had come out. GU2938 grabbed frantically at his throat, trying to pull the collar away. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, but there was nothing to hear.
Years later...
They were the first ones to arrive, which meant that Mikey had time to get the podium set up where he wanted it while Angie, Tim, and Nathan unfolded metal chairs into straight rows. Francis parked his wheelchair at the back of the room and got his crutches situated comfortably, pulling the sleeves of his flannel down smooth under the cuffs around his forearms.
"Are you ready?" Francis asked Mikey as they took their places at the front of the room.
Mikey shrugged. "I think so," he signed and Francis grinned.
"You'll be fine, I know you will. We'll do it just like we practiced at home."
"You're right, I know. But either nobody's going to show up or too many people are."
"Either way. Just like we practiced."
Mikey nodded and they watched the door as it opened to admit a stream of people. The local meetings of the Pet Liberation Movement were invitation-only to ensure that everyone in the room could be trusted; it looked like tonight everyone who was welcome had chosen to show up.
By 7:00, the library's conference room was standing room only and there was a low buzz of chatter as the attendees waited for the program to begin. Mikey focused on the front row, where Angie gave him an encouraging smile and a subtle thumbs-up. Nathan made a silent but enthusiastic cheering motion and Tim gave him two thumbs up, grinning broadly. Mikey blushed and laughed, but he felt better.
When the door had stayed closed for several minutes, suggesting that nobody else was coming, Mikey looked over at Francis, who nodded that he was ready to begin. Mikey raised his hands for quiet and the talk slowly died away as people noticed the gesture.
With a nervous deep breath, Mikey began to sign as Francis interpreted for him.
"Good evening. My name is Mikey and even though I'm using Sign Language, I'm not deaf- I'm mute. I lost my voice permanently because a shock collar was used on me when I was being kept as a Pet. My friend and fellow rescued Pet, Francis, and I are going to talk to you tonight about our experiences as victims of the Pet trade."
Master List
Notes: The end sort of just came to me, but I'm in love with the idea of Mikey becoming an activist. Also- is Mikey actually Ferdinand the Bull? Discuss.
Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial
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Pet whumpee who is so conditioned that they’re not all scared or sad or angry all the time. They’re happy too, they make jokes about some of the rules they have (they still try to follow each and everyone perfectly).
Bonus points if whumpee is with a sadistic whumper/ whumper who does not care about whumpee in the slightest and treats them as if they were worth less than dirt
Bonus Bonus points if caretaker is horrified of how happy whumpee is with their life
Bonus bonus bonus points if caretaker doesn’t know how bad whumpee’s life truly was until a big reveal and they’ve laughed at some of whumpee’s jokes about their rules/punishments
#conditioned whumpee#whump#box boy universe#whumpee#whumper#pet whump#sadistic whumper#caretaker#caretaker new master
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Btw I love bbu so much. Not just because of the pet whump dystopian-ish genre but also, because it's like a collab setting. Every one can use it, and each time someone writes on it it's like the world gets a bit richer 🥰 ive seen templates for wru aquisition forms, lists of positions for pets, and its all amazing. Bbu is not even the coolest whump trope on its own (in my opinion) but I think that that is what makes it so cool
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🦷 for…literally anyone. Go crazy with this
CW: BBU, some mouth whumpiness although the whump is emotional, medical whump
"Okay, here we go. Now, I'm going to insert this into your mouth, and you're going to bite down, as evenly as you can, and hold it until I say. Got it?"
Oskar looks at the little plastic tray in Arvid's hand as though the spongy, grayish thing inside of it is something alive that might bite him at any second. "Why?"
"I want to make a mold of your teeth."
Oskar shifts rapidly backwards in the exam chair in Arvid's 'medical room', also known as the half of his basement space he doesn't sleep in. One wrist brushes against the open leather buckles that can be used to restrain patients and he flinches violently away from it, face going suddenly white except for two red spots in his cheeks. "But-"
Arvid closes his eyes, taking a breath. "Oskar. Just do it."
Oskar shakes his head, curling his knees up to his chest and sliding his arms around his legs. His mouth opens and closes a few times on a word that never seems to quite make its way out. "I-... I don't want to," He whispers, hiding the bottom half of his face behind his knees, only his dark eyes showing, staring, hurt, at Arvid. "I don't want to do that. Please, Arvid, I-I don't, I don't want to-"
"Oskar," Arvid says, keeping his voice calm only with difficulty. This is irritating. "
Oskar's eyes drop and he stares down at the stirrups that hang off the end on long metal poles, where patients can slide their feet and hold their legs open. If possible, he blanches even further, and Arvid fights down his annoyance at the delay. "I have Samael coming in in like half an hour for bloodwork, we need to get this done before she gets here."
Oskar curls himself up even more tightly, closing his eyes and giving his head one more weak shake. "Please," He whispers. "I don't want to."
"Oskar. It is just to get a teeth mold! This is completely normal!" He thinks. Actually, Arvid doesn't have much of a comparison for normal, but it's normal for the work he does, anyway. He has molds of the mouths of all of the archangels and most of the other employees of the organization, too. He has molds of his own teeth, damn it. "I'm tired of you wasting my time with this, so just... fucking do as I say. You're my pet, aren't you?"
Oskar's breaths are coming shallowly, and he doesn't open his eyes. "Yes," He whispers. "I am." One of his hands moves to touch the collar around his neck, as if reminding himself. "I, I am yours."
"Right. So just. So just do the thing, so we can get it done and I can go back to doing my actual job before Samael shows up and wonders why nothing's ready for her..." He trails off as he hears a strange noise, like a clicking, and tilts his head. His eyes trail downward, until he realizes... it's the chair rattling in place.
Oskar is shaking so hard the exam chair is shaking, too.
"... hey." Arvid looks down at the molding clay in the dental tray - it'll dry out and be more or less useless if this takes much longer - and then, with a sigh, he sets it back down on the little metal rolling table and reaches out, putting one hand on either side of Oskar's face. "Talk to me. What's wrong with this? The tray, the... the chair? Is that it?"
Oskar hesitates, then opens his eyes again, looking up at Arvid without raising his chin. "... both."
"Okay... uh. What the fuck is wrong with them?" The chair is... just a chair. Arvid had gotten it at an insanely low price some years back during a private estate sale he decided not to look too closely into - but Oskar is clearly terrified of the damn thing. He's not even restrained - Arvid only uses those when one of the archangels is violent or hallucinating.
"Clinic c-chair." Oskar's teeth click together from his trembling. His eyes are glimmering in the lights with tears that haven't fallen yet. "The, the mold for a-... a gag, I don't... I don't want to have a gag here, Arvid. I don't-... I don't want to-"
"What? It's-... it's not for a gag."
Oskar swallows hard, licking at his lips. "It's... not?"
"No... no. Jesus Christ, Oskar, it's for if you get hurt and lose a tooth or something, so we can get you a good screw-in tooth and shit. I was thinking the other day about how you've ended up going out on fieldwork with me twice, plus you've been climbing the tree in the yard, and just in case, we should have shit ready to go for your records. That's all."
Oskar glances sidelong at the little plastic tray, then back at him. His lips press into a thin line, the skin paling at the pressure, before he tries to talk again. "I don't... want anything in m-my mouth, Arvid. Please-... I, I can't. Please, please don't make me. Please."
Arvid inhales. He knows if he checks his phone that time is running out, Samael's going to walk in any fucking second. "Oskar. We are going to do this and we are going to do this now. Open your fucking mouth. I am ordering you, as your owner, to open your mouth."
The look of open, honest pain and fear on Oskar's face sends a twist of some strange unpleasant chill through Arvid's chest, but he at least slowly nods and - jaw trembling - opens his mouth wide for Arvid to slide in the tray, then bites gently down. Sounds come, unbidden, from his throat - muffled whines that he doesn't even seem fully conscious of. Arvid can all but see his pulse racing in the spot just under his jaw. His eyes lock on Arvid's face and stay there.
"Good boy," Arvid soothes. Usually praise is a one-way ticket to fixing Oskar's bad moods, but this time it just seems to bounce right off him. The tears finally fall, running in clear trails over his cheekbones. Arvid wipes them away with his thumb and Oskar flinches, minutely, never quite pulling away. "It's all right. It's all right. Just a few more seconds..."
He takes the little handle on the tray, murmurs for Oskar to open carefully and slowly, and pulls it out to set it aside and get the next one ready for the bottom teeth. Oskar's trembling never stops, the chair rattling lightly, the pet's fingers dug into the padding until his knuckles are pure white.
Arvid finishes the second tray, and as soon as he removes it and says a soft all done, you were very good, Oskar uncurls, bolts off the chair, and races past the curtain that separates the two halves of Arvid's life. His feet slap on the concrete floor and Arvid watches him go, sighing.
He hears Oskar climb into the bed, the gentle squeak of the springs in the mattress as he buries himself under blankets and probably curls right back up into the little ball likes that. Muffled sobs are just barely audible, and Arvid's teeth itch to go ask him to stop that shit, it's annoying and he has shit to do today, he can't waste his time comforting Oskar's every fear.
But... he caused the fear.
Arvid hesitates, feeling that strange unpleasant twist again.
It's guilt.
He inhales, looking over at the curtain. "Oskar..." He trails off. He should just... go over there and apologize, hold him for a while, let him talk about it or something. It'd be the kind thing to do, and Oskar is the best thing he has in his life these days.
There's a harsh, loud sniff. "Yes?" Oskar's voice is thick and heavy with his tears.
"Listen, I just-" The door to the basement opens and Samael, a woman who seems created entirely in shades of black and slightly less black, steps inside. Arvid swallows the rest of his sentence.
The sounds of Oskar's fear stop - muffled even more thoroughly as he must hear Samael enter, too.
"Am I early?" Sam asks, eyebrows raising. The piercing in one glints in the flat white light of the exam side of the room. "Where's your little creature, isn't he around you all the time these days?"
"He's... busy," Arvid says. "Just give me a second to get the vials ready for you."
"Busy? Doing what?" Sam hops up onto the exam table, even swinging her legs a little. She's maybe five foot three on a good day, but Arvid knows damn well she can snap necks with her thighs alone and is one of the best in the business. "What do pets even do?"
Arvid ignores her. He walks over to peek around the curtain, faintly smiling as he sees the very Oskar-shaped lump on the bed, a hint of his hair showing on the pillow.
"We'll talk about it later," He says, pitching his voice low. "Okay?"
There's a rustle as Oskar shifts around under the blankets he's hidden himself in. He peeks out, just a bit of hair and pale forehead and huge eyes. "Yes, sir," He says, voice weak.
Arvid sighs. Oh, good. He's sir again. Great.
Sometimes, this shit is harder than he thought it would be.
#whump#arvid olsen hates the sun#oskar#bbu#box boy universe#box boy#medical whump#mouth whump#not really but#emotional whump#based around the mouth and bad memories so#arvid is sometimes an asshole
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I woke up thinking about this so I'm asking! How would Cory fair if, for some unimaginable reason, Lydia had no choice but to have Wayland watch him for the weekend??
84. Unfortunate Circumstances
CW: NSFW, non-con, institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump
“Of course, dearest. You and Lydia should enjoy your girls’ weekend together and I’ll keep an eye on the pets.”
“Are you sure you are all right with looking after Cory-boy, too?”
“No problem, Ceci. It isn’t more than right considering your friend took care of Brutus for our trip. We should help her in return.”
Mistress Cecilia pouted prettily.
”But that sounds so boring and full of drudgery, dear. Perhaps I should stay to keep you company?”
Wayland gave Cecilia an affectionate kiss. “Don’t you worry! I’ll have some fun too. I might have a few friends over tonight.”
“That sounds better.” She wrapped him in a quick hug. “See you in a couple of days!” Looking at Absalom, Brutus and Coriander all kneeling in line, she added. “Be good, pets.”
And then she was out of the door.
*
Handcuffs clinked as Wayland locked Cory’s hands behind the pet’s back. Then, he pushed him down to kneel on the cold floor. Brutus watched helplessly as Coriander, naked, lowered his head. His scarred back, the vulnerable arc of his spine, the blonde hair falling freely around his face. The fair-haired pet looked… broken.
Wayland rubbed his hands together, grinning.
”Don’t worry your sweet little head, pet. We are going to have fun together. First, Absalom is going to make you feel so good. He is a wizard with that mouth of his. He knows exactly what to do.” He smiled languidly. “And then, Brutus here, will take you from behind.”
Wayland reached up and patted Brutus’ upper arm a couple of times. Just like you would pat your horse or your hunting dog. For once, Brutus didn’t feel the elation that praise from his Master usually gave. Instead, he felt a sick, cold dread roiling in his stomach.
“You’re going to pop some pills, boy.” Wayland said. “So that you can stay nice and hard for a long, long time.” He chuckled to himself. “This will be a show for me and the lads to enjoy. I have heard from Cecilia that your dear Mistress Lydia doesn’t even play with her boy toy.” He spat. “Just what you could expect from that fridgid bitch, am I right?”
He reached out to smooth over Coriander’s hair in a mock caress, only to violently fist his hand into the silken, blonde tresses and force the shivering pet’s head up. Tears glimmered in Cory’s grey eyes, catching the lamplight, but the pet did not let them fall.
“Hmm.” Wayland almost purred at the sight. “But that should mean that you are nice and tight.” He laughed. “Perhaps too nice a treat for a simple guard dog, maybe all of us should have you? Brutus can get his chance when we are all done.”
He looked up, behind Brutus’ shoulder. “What do you think, Absalom? You little whore. I’m sure you have all the experience in the world when it comes to these matters, don’t you?”
The romantic gracefully sidestepped Brutus’ hulking form and sashayed into the room. When he passed the guard dog, he turned his head and locked eyes with Brutus. The eye contact somehow electrifying, meaningful, as if he wanted to share a message. But Brutus had no idea what Absalom meant to convey, and the moment passed.
“That’s right, Master.” Absalom stepped close to Wayland, let his hand glide lightly down the bigger man’s chest. He looked up at him through his eyelashes. “But..” Absalom said slowly. “Why would you bother with these… amateurs?” The pet tilted his head upwards, as if inviting a kiss. “I can give you and your friends all the entertainment you need.”
He turned his head slowly towards the door. Again, that meaningful glance towards Brutus. An expression of urgency flickering over his face, only to be completely erased when Absalom looked up towards Wayland again. “You can send them away.” He suggested, coyly. “We can have some privacy to enjoy ourselves before your friends arrive.”
“Aha, I know what you want.” Wayland said. “You just want to have the chance to curry some extra favour for yourself.” He laughed. “That’s kind of sly. Smart for a pet, at least.” He grabbed Absalom’s chin, forcing the pet’s head further upwards. “It will be fun playing with you. But me and the lads, we probably want some novelty as well.”
He looked over all the three pets with a calculating expression that chilled Brutus’ blood.
”Maybe..” he said, and the glint in his eyes held no hint of clemency or compassion. “Maybe I’ll just take all three of you at once.”
Brutus awoke, heart still beating fast with fear. The familiarity of the sparse room. The shapes of his weights on the rack at the end of his bed, each of them glistening silver in the light from the street lamps. The hard cot beneath him. It all brought him back to reality.
Coriander was safe, at home, with his owner. Absalom probably asleep upstairs.
It had all just been a dream. But the uneasy feeling stayed with Brutus for a long time.
*
The ‘it was just a dream’-trope is a bit of a cheap cop-out, I agree. Sorry about that. ☺️
I don’t think Lydia would ever leave Coriander with Wayland. She would rather leave him to stay home alone.
Thank you for the fun ‘what-if’-inspiration, Anon! ✨💖✨ (I love getting asks, but I am very slow in responding to them.)
*
Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning
#pet whump#bbu#box boy multiverse#box boy universe#pet whumpee#whump fic#writeblr#writers on tumblr#lydia and coriander#original writing
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First time posting my whump art, please be kind 🙏
if you guys like this, I might open myself up for whump/box boy art requests!
#whump#box boy#whump art#box boy art#box boy universe#hurt/comfort#hurt/comfort art#digital sketch#whump stuff#box boy whump#pet whump#whump blog#whump community#whumpee#box boy world building#box boy multiverse#collar#dog leash#unhappy boys make me happy#oc artist#artwork#art requests
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