#doc barker oc
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tales from the kennel
hello! a new mini-series is a brewing, starting with this horrific two-parter focusing on justin and tony, whom we met here. part of the kennel universe (master list here), but set before will and tommy are kidnapped.
content warnings for: extreme dehumanization, referenced noncon, future noncon, future dubcon, forced nudity, references to human trafficking, all the gaslighting, branding, restraints, pet whump, captivity whump, filmed whump, creepy whumper, adult language
orpheus, part one
Tony has tried so hard not to think. Thinking, he knows, is no longer required of him. Not here. Probably not ever again.
He’s been sold. Fuck, the word makes his naked skin crawl. It still doesn’t make sense, no matter how long he’s been here. People are not bought and sold. Of course, Doc doesn’t call it that. Doc calls a kidnapping a “rescue;” trafficking is just “finding someone a good home.”
But when Tony lets himself think, he knows it isn’t true. He wasn’t rescued, and he doesn’t need to find a good home. He has a good home–or at least, he used to.
It hurts to think of the little yellow house he and Justin bought together. They barely got to live in it before–well, before all of this. But when Tony curls on the floor of the doghouse at night, when he closes his eyes, he can see the wallpaper they chose for the front hallway–birds of paradise on an orange field. He can see the rack of copper pots hanging over the kitchen island; they were too expensive, but Justin insisted that anyone who cooked like Tony deserved the very best.
It hurts the most when he remembers their bedroom. The overstuffed duvet, the matching bedside tables, the soft light of their twin lamps. Their bodies moving together in the dark. Safety. Comfort.
Tony has neither here. And no matter what Doc tells him about the “wonderful home” he’ll soon be packed off to, Tony knows there won’t be safety or comfort there either. He won’t have a home. There is no home without Justin. There is no Tony without Justin.
Tony knows he will disappear entirely once Doc sends him away. He’s already started to. It isn’t Tony who endures Doc’s training for the camera; it’s Fido. It’s Fido whose red collar is cinched a notch too tight. It’s Fido who sucks, who begs, who bends to be breached like a trained whore. It’s Fido who will be restrained in the waiting crate and shipped thousands of miles away.
It’s Fido who wears the still-healing brand of his new owner between his shoulder blades.
But it is Tony who feels the pain. Even if he knows better than to think, he can’t help but feel.
Tony feels the rough heel of Doc’s hand against the puckered skin of his new scar, and he groans before he can stop himself. It’s only been a few days since Doc came into the doghouse with the branding iron, and Tony’s skin still feels like it’s on fire. Tony doesn’t even know what the damn brand looks like, but he bets he could guess the shape by the pattern of the blood throbbing beneath his skin.
Doc only chuckles. “Oh, now, boy. I know it’s a little uncomfortable now, but think of what your new gift means! Someone loves you enough to claim you for his own. You’re so close to going home!”
“No!” Tony cries hoarsely, but his words dissolve into animal keening when Doc hooks his nails into the brand.
“Yes, you are,” Doc insists. His voice is still gentle, even as he digs further into Tony’s wound. “Don’t undo it by being a bad boy now.”
“Please!” Tony begs. The burning is almost as keen as when the iron first landed on his skin. Doc slaps Tony between the shoulders, and Tony’s knees come out from under him; his belly lands hard against the cold floor.
“You don’t want to ruin your gift, is that right?” Doc chides, letting his hand slip up the back of Tony’s neck and into his dark hair. He scratches idly at Tony’s scalp.
The humiliation is a brand all its own.
“You know, it’s an honor to be adopted by someone so important. You’re going to have so much fun, and I know you’re going to be so good for him. He’s tuning in all this week so that he can get excited for your arrival next weekend. Imagine someone so important giving up so much of his time for a little rescue like you. Aren’t you a special boy, Fido?”
Tony shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about what’s coming. Doc’s already showed him the crate he’ll travel in, the special hood he’ll wear to dampen his senses, the fur-lined cuffs built into the box to keep him still. He’s been promised drugs that will keep him calm for the trip. Tony doesn’t know exactly where he’s being sent, but he knows it’s far. Far from here. Far from the little yellow house.
Far from Justin.
“I want to go home,” Tony says before he can stop himself. “Please, I–”
Doc’s hand freezes in Tony’s hair. “But you are going home!”
Tony shakes his head. “No. You don’t–I–please, Doc, Please. I’ll be good. I promise. Just–”
“Don’t make the people think you’re ungrateful, Fido. Not all of my rescues get the opportunities you have.”
Tony wants to scream. Yes, he’s had so many ‘opportunities’ since he’s been here. The opportunity to be restrained and groped and filmed and drugged and starved and beaten. To be coupled like a brood mare with any one of a dozen faceless people in red collars. To know exactly how weak he is, to know for certain that it took almost no time to break him entirely.
But he doesn’t scream. Because he knows better.
“I’m grateful,” Tony forces himself to say. “I-I–” he swallows around the lump in his throat, “I just don’t want to leave you.”
He pitches his eyes to the floor, but it doesn’t matter: Doc knows he’s lying. The man bursts into laughter.
“Oh, my sweet little pup. What a performance!”
“I’m not–”
Doc’s hand presses against the brand, and Tony is silenced by the searing pain.
“I know you have mixed feelings about leaving, and I know it isn’t because of me.”
Tony stares up at Doc through the blur of his tears. The pain in his back is white hot; the knot in his chest is worse. He never mentions Justin to Doc. He learned early on that there was no point; Doc won’t give him any answers. But now that he’s being sent away–
“The little mutt will be just fine without you,” Doc says. “You haven’t seen him in months anyway, have you? You should be used to it by now.”
But Tony will never be used to it. They didn’t get enough time. They’d only been married for a week when Doc found them. When Doc took Tony’s wedding ring, it hadn’t even had the chance to wear a groove in his skin. It was like he’d never worn a ring at all.
“Please.” Tony shifts his weight back onto his stomach. He lays his arms prostrate on the floor. “I have to see him.”
Doc shakes his head. “I don’t know, boy. Don’t you think it will be harder? He isn’t coming home with you. He might be jealous. I don’t want you to feel badly about your good luck–and I don’t want it to be more difficult for him. I haven’t found a place for him. Not yet.”
Tony closes his eyes. He hopes Doc never finds a place for Justin, that there’s still a chance that Justin will make it back to the little yellow house, even if it’s without him.
“I want to–to-to say goodbye. Even if it’s hard.”
He doesn’t say that he wants to say goodbye because he’s almost certain it will be the last time he sees his husband. At the very least, it will probably be the last time Justin sees him alive. Tony is under no illusion that he will escape the situation waiting for him overseas. He knows he will be used until he is a dry husk, and then he will be crumpled up and thrown away. He can only hope that someday, Justin might have closure. That Justin will sit at the kitchen island with another man who will make him enchiladas and kiss that spot on the back of his neck and banish the nightmares that will surely haunt Justin for the rest of his life.
Tony doesn’t have a choice. His nightmare is going to swallow him whole. But with the time he has left–he needs Justin to know that it will be alright, even if Tony won’t be there to see him through.
Doc chuckles softly and tucks his fingers under Tony’s chin, forcing Tony to meet his eye. “You are an affectionate little thing, aren’t you?”
“Please. Before–” Tony chokes on the lump on his throat, but he holds Doc’s gaze, “--before I go home.”
Doc’s eyebrows raise. His mouth curves into a grotesque smile. “Well, look who’s decided to be a good boy.”
“I won’t fight,” Tony whispers. “I promise.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
As though to prove it, he manages not to flinch when Doc shifts his grip and presses into the soft meat of his cheeks. Doc dips his thumb into Tony’s mouth and presses his tongue flat. Tony stays still. He wants Doc to believe him. It’s the only way that he will get to Justin.
Doc sighs, slipping the calloused pad of his thumb back and forth over Tony’s tongue. “You understand that you’ll have to follow my rules? That you have to be obedient if you expect a treat?”
Tony does his best to nod, even as Doc’s touch teases the opening of his throat.
“And you’ll be a good boy on your trip home?”
Another half nod. Doc pulls his thumb backward, but he keeps Tony’s tongue pinned down.
“Then I’ll let you see him,” Doc says thoughtfully. “But you won’t say goodbye.”
Tony’s brow wrinkles, and Doc laughs.
“You won’t say anything, actually. You won’t speak at all.”
Tony’s mouth twitches in an attempt to protest, and Doc seizes his tongue and yanks. The thin skin that connects his tongue to the base of his mouth flares with pain. Tony whines involuntarily, but Doc doesn’t let go.
“He doesn’t know what it is you’ve been up to all this time. He doesn’t know that you’re being adopted. I didn’t think it was good for him to know, since the two of you were never going to find a home together. Makes it easier to wean him, doesn’t it?”
Tony squeezes his eyes shut again. He and Justin found a home together. They just never expected it to be ripped away from them like this.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy,” Doc snaps.
Tony complies. What else can he do? He promised he wouldn’t fight, didn’t he?
“You’re not going to make any of this worse by spilling the beans. You may agree to stop fighting, but if he finds out you’re headed home, he won’t. He’s already a naughty little thing, and I don’t particularly want to deal with any more guff from him.”
For the sparest of seconds, Tony’s heart soars. Justin hasn’t given up. He’s still fighting. He can make it. He will.
But Doc’s voice brings him back to earth.
“See, he isn’t as valuable to me as you are, Fido. It’s going to be hard to find him a place. And I can’t have you making it any harder than it needs to be. I’ve got limited resources, you know? So, here’s the deal: I’ll let you see him if you promise not to say a word.”
Tony nods again, even as his tears finally break free. He doesn’t want Justin to see him bitted or muzzled. He wants to kiss his husband, to tell him that he loves him one last time. He wants to say goodbye. But if this is all Tony’s got, he will take it. He’s learned to take what he can get.
Doc finally lets Tony’s tongue go, wiping his thumb on Tony’s cheek. “But it’s a little performance test for you, boy. I’m not going to make this easy for you. I want you to show me that you mean what you say.”
“I–” Tony rasps. He pushes himself up on his hands and clears his throat. “I don’t understand.”
“You are not leaving the doghouse until it’s time to pack you up. That means I’ll be bringing the mutt to see you. And I expect you to do what you’ve been trained to do.”
Tony’s gut freezes. His eyes drift up to the camera closest to them.
He can’t. He wants Justin more than anything, but he can’t subject Justin to this. Not when he won’t even be able to explain. There will be too many things he can’t explain. The cameras. The brand on his back. How sorry he is. And how much he loves Justin.
It’s too much to ask.
“But–”
“I will bring him here, and you will show him what you’ve learned. If you want to see him before you go home, those are the expectations. Take it or leave it.”
“He doesn’t know–” Tony tries, but Doc’s palm comes down hard between his shoulder blades.
“And he won’t know.” Doc leans close, pressing harder against Tony’s ruined skin. “If you say a word, I’ll kill him.”
“No!” Tony cries. Justin has to get out. He cannot die here.
“I told you, he isn’t that valuable to me. The only reason I haven’t put him down yet is because my Annie’s taken a bit of a shine to him. She’s never had a pet of her own, and I like to see her happy.”
Tony feels bile rising in his throat. Justin is no one’s pet. Maybe that’s all that Tony will ever be now, maybe that’s a foregone conclusion, but he has to believe that Justin still has a chance.
“You can’t–”
“I won’t, so long as you show us all what a good boy you are. I’m not even going to muzzle you; you’ll get a chance to really show off your training. I’m sure your new owner will be watching, and you’ll want to make sure he’ll be excited to see you.”
Tony collapses over his knees. He’s going to be sick. He can’t do this. He can’t make Justin do this. He doesn’t know what Doc’s done with Justin, but Tony knows he isn’t a red collar. Tony would know if he were. Tony’s body knows every red collar, even the ones he hasn’t seen; he’s tasted them and felt them move inside. None of them were Justin. Tony would never mistake Justin’s touch.
He can’t make Justin a part of this–but he knows that he has to. Doc has him trapped, sure as if he were already packed in the crate. He should never have tried to bargain. He doesn’t have the head for it anymore. After all, he isn’t meant to think.
“You can’t go back on it now, boy,” Doc murmurs. His hand slips below the brand, scratching a gentle line up and down the knots of Tony’s spine. “And you get to say goodbye. Just like you wanted. Only not in so many words.”
Tony doesn’t move. He falls into the gentle touch, just the way he’s been trained, and he stays still. There’s nothing he can do anyway. He knows if he fights now, Justin is as good as dead.
“It’s romantic, in a way,” Doc says wistfully. Tony can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you know the story of Orpheus, Fido? My Annie has a big book of Greek myths that I used to read to her before bed, and that one was always her favorite. Made her cry, but I think she liked the tragedy of it all.”
Tony knows the story, but he can’t remember. Not right now. The only thing he can recall is Justin’s face. He shouldn’t have asked to see him. He should have let himself be packed away and lived with the memories they’ve already made. He curls in on himself. Doc keeps stroking his back.
“Orpheus had a chance to rescue his love from the underworld. All he had to do was to lead her out without turning around to look at her. He just had to trust that she was there, and they’d both be free. But he turned around just as they were crossing the threshold, and she was pulled back into the underworld forever. Because of his weakness.” Doc leans close to Tony’s ear. “This is your Orpheus moment, boy. Don’t be weak.”
Tony can’t stand it. “You’re not giving me the chance to save him from anything,” he says, his voice toneless and hollow.
Doc’s fingers crook against Tony’s cheek. “No, because I’ve already rescued you both.”
Tony should laugh, but he only squeezes his eyes shut again. He’s dreamed about rescue, but he knows now that it will never come. Not for him. There is no escaping the snare he’s just set for himself.
“But,” Doc says thoughtfully, “I am giving you the chance to protect him.”
“From you.”
Doc’s hand withdraws. “From himself. He’s got to learn, and you’re going to teach him. You’re going to show him what a good boy looks like.”
Tony looks up at Doc, the older man’s image distorted by the pane of his tears. “Why do you hate us so much?”
“Oh, Fido. I don’t hate you. I could never hate any of my rescues. You’re all such vulnerable creatures. But just like you’re going to protect your mutt, I have to protect you. I know it’s hard, giving up what you thought your life would be. But I saved you from something so much worse.”
It’s bullshit, but Tony is sure that Doc believes it. The man abducts innocent people and strips away their humanity like bits of old wallpaper, but he believes that he’s serving the greater good. Tony only wishes he could believe too. It would make all of this so much easier if he could believe that this torture was saving him from something worse.
But he knows better. He knows that someone else would have driven by the service station eventually; he knows that if they had been smarter, if they hadn’t gotten in Doc’s truck, they would be at home in the yellow house right now. They wouldn’t have died. Someone would have come. Doc didn’t save them from anything. Doc stole them.
“It’s hard for you and the mutt, I know. But I can’t always place everyone together, so the separation was necessary. So you could get used to the idea. But I’m not a monster, Fido. And so I’m going to give you this chance to ease your parting. But if I let you off your leash, I know you’d run amok. And that’s not modeling good behavior, is it? So, there are rules. It’s as simple as that.”
“You’re insane,” Tony says. “You said you’d kill him–”
Doc swats at Tony’s nose. “Bad dog. That’s enough. The mutt won’t be put down if you do as you’re told. But if you don’t, it’s no skin off my nose. This isn’t a charity, even if it is a rescue operation. Cost-benefit analysis. You’ve earned your keep these last few months; the mutt is a drain on our resources. But this little guest spot might just be his meal ticket until I figure out what to do with him.”
Tony opens his mouth, to protest or beg, he isn’t sure which, but Doc’s hand stops his voice.
“I’ve heard enough out of you. I think your new rules apply starting now. You make a peep, I won’t even go to the trouble of bringing him in. No bark. Do you understand?”
Tony’s chest heaves with a silent sob, but he nods. He knows Doc is as good as his word.
“Hup hup,” Doc commands, and Tony pushes himself onto all fours, even as his limbs tremble beneath him. Doc pulls a leash from his belt loop and clips it to the ring on Tony’s collar. “Fido, place.”
Tony’s cheeks color with shame, but he crawls to the center of the glass box, his leash dragging behind. He knows that this is the spot with the most advantageous camera angles, that he’s expected to hit his mark so that his viewing audience gets exactly what they are paying for.
“Sit.”
Tony complies and lets his bare ass fall back over his heels. He sets his hands flat on the floor in front of him. Doc crouches down and tethers his leash to the anchor in the floor.
“Stay.”
As if there were any other option.
Doc rises and goes to the locked door. He looks back over his shoulder. “You remember your rule, Fido. I’ll be right back with the mutt.”
...to be continued
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone
#the kennel#tales from the kennel#doc barker oc#tony romero oc#justin huang oc#whump writing#pet whump#star crossed lovers#these boys need hugs
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something of an (player-)oc master-post?
info on them beneath the cut cos I HAVE THE CHANCE!!!!! hear about my BLORBOS, BOY.
CASSIUS TUREVER-
listen to cassius by foals lol. lol . lol :-) lol. no relation
Jazz agent :-)
OBIE OBIEEEE OBIE my friend OBIE 's his companion ...
left-handed in more ways than one
he was originally just some guitarist guy until i decided i was gonna just like MAKE HIM in LOATHING. which was the best thing I could've done. it was either CASSIUS in MY LOATHING GAMES or err (checks notes) milo.....murphy.......... because i couldn't think of a better name. not related to the show i swear. it just came to me
he's british . dearly sorry or whatever i dont know . low-class, came to america 'for jobs' at age like 19. in 1922
HE'S NOT ACTUALLY SHADOW TAINTED (or at least in any substantial amount) WOULD YOU BELIEVE ME IF I SAID THE SHADOW STUFF IN HIS HAIR ACTUALLY CAME BEFORE I EVEN KNEW ABOUT SHADOW TAINT???? your honour i thought it would be cool . and it is . lol
fun fact about the stuff in his hair that was actually supposed to have been caused by terrence's accounting but now I have no idea. literally your honour it looks cool
ALFIE ACHIVUNTER-
Cheese wizard!
Barker (pre-taint)
Alphonse-gator (mid/post-taint)
average muscle, high mysticality, and like a 1 in moxie at all times ever
his last name is a portmanteau of achievement and hunter but i keep misspelling it as archivunter . maybe it could instead be archive and hunter but that doesn't make sense? anyway
hey alfie gullible's written on the ceili- hey yeah it does aw now i'm mad (in the shadow-tainted way . he's supposed to be my shadow-tainted guy except He Is Not Evil . He is just full of Madness . Knowledge of the unknowable or whatever you know? yeah)
he's worry. just look at him
CHARLIE HOLLOWAY-
fraternal twin
former bean-slinger, switched with Sylvester and became a snake-oiler
honourable :-)!
absolutely TERRIFIED of dying . more specifically of old age . that's why he found this clock of never-aging-ever*. it's pretty cool . does not look a day over 25 (or so)
more on this. if he played the sims i think he would pass out at the sight of the grim reaper (HALF SILLY?)
*ACTUALLY FUN FACT. it's more like never-changing-ever in the sense of he never gets sleepy nor hungry nor anything of that sort anymore. lol . if he got a cut he wouldn't bleed either
THOUGH despite all of that he'd quite literally turn to dust à la Maxwell Don't Starve if the clock got taken away somehow......
SYLVESTER HOLLOWAY-
guess . is this man a twin ? i have no idea . absolutely no idea (FRATERNAL TWIN)
former snake-oiler, switched with Charlie and became a bean-slinger
Pardner is Doc Alice . half the reason why he swapped classes w Charlie probably
neither honourable nor ruthless . lol
TBH HE'S THE LESS COOL BROTHER IN SO MANY WAYS I DONT HAVE MUCH TO SAY ON HIM. he's like. the shy one the one who never smiles ever the cautious one . but he IS there I GUESS
Mon Frère is a funny little mix of Sylvester and Charlie . I'm mentioning this cos I feel sooooo smart for it . instead of forgetting one and misremembering the other Rufus misremembered them BOTH and MUSHED THEM TOGETHER I GUESS. though that's specific to myyyyyyyy little loathing thingy . yeah
........SORRY IF THIS IS UTTERLY UNREADABLE? BY THE BY?
#so sorry for like . idk . image spam I DIDN'T REALISE#THERE'D BE#THREE (BIG) PICTURES???#uuu it'd be 5 but i'm not including cockerel in here since his ref isn't formatted the same#nor am i including wattson in this HE SHOULD BE HERE BY ALL MEANS#BUT... BUT HE'S..... ERRR HE'S TOO OUT OF THE WAY?#same w cockerel just a wee#wattson's not a player character . cockerel is . but . not for SoL#maybe wattson will get his own post. for funsies#ocs#charlie mode#sylvester mode#cassius mode#alfie mode#shadows over loathing#loathing games
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Indie Semi-Selective Spidersona OC. +18 Themes. Spider-Angeles / Alecto Spyros-Barker
Across the Spider-Verse based w knowledge and influence of the Insomniac games (Marvel's Spiderman 2018 & Miles Morales 2020).
Follows from violentusinpace. Mun is 21+ Weaved by Krissy
Doc
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# 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇 : an independent & private all female historical multimuse featuring muses from various media such as broadway musicals , films , as well as original characters . penned by fleur ( she / her ; 18 + ) . currently running at low to medium activity . main blog to @cathenne ( potc original character ) . meme tag below . personals and non roleplay blogs , do not interact .
mobile links : muses . rules . promo . carrd . doc . interest checker . starter call .
@ycllowhaired ( indie johanna barker of sweeney todd )
@flcpper ( fandomless 1920s oc with a regency verse )
@rosueen ( fandomless 1700s royalty based oc )
@stahrrks ( indie morgan h. stark of the mcu )
@aluoette ( indie cosette fauchelevent of les miserables )
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google doc / interest tracker
ABBY HAMMOND - santa clarita diet
ERIC BEMIS - santa clarita diet
JESSE PINKMAN - breaking bad
CHASE O”DONNAVIN - oc / oracle
DEAN WINCHESTER - supernatural
JO HARVELLE - supernatural
BELA TALBOT - supernatural
BOBBY SINGER - supernatural
AZAZEL - supernatural
LILITH - supernatural
REN - supernatural oc / great earl of hell
GENIE PORTER - supernatural oc / transitioning rugaru
EDDARD STARK - got / asoiaf
JOFFREY BARATHEON - got / asoiaf
TYRION LANNISTER - got / asoiaf
KHAL DROGO - got / asoiaf
JIMMY DARLING - ahs freakshow
BILLY HARGROVE - stranger things
WILL BYERS - stranger things
GRAVE ROBBER - repo! the genetic opera
FRANKY SWEET - oc fire elemental
EMILY - corpse bride
CLAIRE STANDISH - the breakfast club
ANTHONY STANDISH - the breakfast club oc
ELLIOT TRIGGER - oc / addict general spiralling human
BENJAMIN BARKER - sweeney todd
RYUK - death note
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the kennel, part nineteen
NOTE: I swear to goodness I am working on Jacky and Joe, but this just came out today, so here it is.
part of the kennel (masterlist here).
content warnings for: EXPLICIT NONCON, extreme dehumanization, extreme pet whump, filmed whump, creepy/intimate whumper, human trafficking, forced nudity, cages, restraints, collars, threatened electrocution, dissociation
part nineteen, reduced to an object
They leave Will in his cage for days.
Well, that’s not quite true. He hears the door open and shut, feels Annie’s feathersoft touch on the sole of his foot, but he doesn’t let himself stir. Or maybe, he doesn’t even think about it. Maybe he just doesn’t move because he can’t. Like, he cried himself into oblivion after Annie cleaned him up, and now there’s nothing left.
Maybe it’s better that way.
Doc doesn’t care if he eats, and now Will doesn’t either. Even after however many days, he can still taste Tommy, feel the sour warmth down the back of his throat. And since he isn’t eating or drinking, really, there’s no reason to go to the recreation yard. He wonders if he can make himself disappear, if maybe he’ll die before Doc wants to use him again.
No such luck.
At some point, it’s Doc, not Annie, who opens his cage. Doc’s hand locks around his ankle, and without speaking, he drags Will’s atrophied body backward from the crate. Will doesn’t give any sign that he’s felt it, because why should he? It’s not like anything is a surprise at this point, and it’s not like he cares what happens to him now. Whining and getting served with a shock isn’t going to make any of it better.
“Oh, little mutt, it’s not as bad as all that, is it?” Doc murmurs.
Will keeps his forehead pressed to the concrete floor.
“You know, your little exercise with Champ caused quite the stir. I think we may find use for you after all.”
The Will of six weeks ago would have had something to say. He would have laughed, and he would have said something like Joke’s on you, buddy. I’ve been aggressively useless my entire life.
But this Will doesn’t speak. Not unless he’s commanded to, and it doesn’t seem like that’s what Doc is in for just now. Not that Will cares.
“Up on your knees, boy.”
Will doesn’t even bother to try to do what Doc asks. He knows he can’t support his own weight, and he doesn’t figure it matters if he ever does again. Doc’s toe lands hard against Will’s ass crack. Will’s body jars, but that’s it. Nothing happens for a moment, like Doc is waiting for something, and then the older man sighs.
“Stay still, then,” Doc mutters.
Doc’s dry hands are at Will’s hips, and he slips Will’s briefs down and away from his backside, letting them stop just above his knees. And fuck, Will should be afraid, but somehow, he isn’t. It’s not like he doesn’t know where this is going.
There’s a soft click, and he feels Doc’s hand press one of his asscheeks to the side. Something warm and slick falls into his crack, and then Doc’s fingers follow, slipping over his hole and then inside of it. Will stays silent, but this time, he feels a dry lump in his throat–no tears; he hasn’t had enough water for those. But still. He didn’t feel it the first time, just the pain that came after. But this doesn’t feel right. Not to him. His flesh is still tender, inside and out, but it isn’t even that. Even if he had words, he isn’t sure he could explain.
Maybe it’s that the contact is intimate, but Will didn’t ask for it and doesn’t want it. Maybe it’s that there are other pets in their cages, watching his humiliation. Maybe it’s that he can feel in Doc’s touch that the older man doesn’t think he’s touching another person at all, that this is all business to him. Maybe it’s that, on some level, he knows he’s being prepared for Tommy; that even here, Tommy is worth more than he is. Will always comes last if he places at all.
Will feels something slip inside of him, small at first, and then stretching what shouldn’t be stretched and settling wide. He scrunches his eyes shut and tries to breathe.
“The people are asking for you, little mutt. And since you’re drumming up business, I thought I’d help you out this time. We’ll make sure that you’re ready, won’t we?”
Doc waits again, but what the fuck is Will going to do about any of this? If the guy wanted to hear his opinion, maybe he shouldn’t have outfitted him with a fucking bark collar. Will turns his head and lets his cheek rest against the cool concrete. His breath is hard and fast.
Doc sighs. “Fine. Play dead. But you’re not dead yet, mutt. You can thank Champ for that.”
Yeah, because this is something to be fucking grateful for.
Doc doesn’t put him back in his cage right away. He forces Will to lap at a metal bowl of water first, and then he pulls up Will’s briefs and locks him away again. But there’s no relief this time. Every time Will shifts, he can feel the plug inside of him shift too, a reminder of exactly what’s coming–and exactly what he’s worth.
- - -
It feels like days before Doc brings Will back to the doghouse. Maybe a week. Tommy doesn’t know. It’s hard to know anything anymore. He can’t predict what’s coming next, and it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no getting out. He’s not stupid enough to believe otherwise. He doesn’t think Will is either, but it’s not like he can ask. No, Tommy knows what Will’s presence demands, and it isn’t conversation.
Tommy had a feeling it was coming. Doc hasn’t fucked him again since that first day– “You know, Champ, this isn’t about me. I’m not who the people want to see.”--but there have been others. Red collars like Tommy, but with black hoods over their faces. Doc directs them from outside the box, his voice pumped in over speakers Tommy hadn’t realized were even there.
Harder. I want to hear him scream.
Lick up the mess, Champ. Show the people what a good boy you are.
Grab his hair, you stupid mutt. Make sure the camera can see his face.
But there’s been some downtime for the last little bit, for whatever it’s worth. No other red collars, just the familiar burn and stretch of his tail, keeping him loose and ready. But when Doc chains Tommy’s wrists above his head and fits him with the massager again, lets it thrust inside him, lets the tension build until he’s shaking and moaning beyond control, Tommy knows exactly what’s coming, even as his brain melts inside his skull.
This time, Will isn’t blindfolded, but he doesn’t look at Tommy. Tommy understands. He can’t look at Doc or the cameras either. Looking means knowing. Recognizing what’s been lost. That part of him is being systematically routed out from somewhere deep inside, and that he’ll never be able to get it back.
It’s not a thing you assume about yourself, that you’ll be reduced to an object for someone else’s, well, use. At least, Tommy never did. But he supposes he’s been an object for most of his life. That grand jetés and fouettés and port de bras are designed to be looked at, and that, for a long time, Tommy’s body was just their means of projection. He loved to feel eyes on him as he moved, loved the warmth of other people’s energy, the way that it pushed him farther, higher. The way that it made him feel alive.
It isn’t the same now. The cameras never shut off, and Tommy can feel himself trying to shrink from their omnipresent eyes in a way he’s never shrunk from attention before. But there’s no escape, no curtain that separates this life from another. There’s just–nothing. Tommy knows that as soon as he sees Will’s defeated face, already stretched in discomfort by the familiar ring gag. He can’t see Will behind the mournful brown eyes, sunken into a face that’s so gaunt and pale that it would make Tommy’s gut turn if every nerve in his body weren’t directed toward the pursuit of forced pleasure.
Doc smiles as he leads Will into the box by his leash. Now that he knows what to look for, Tommy sees the black electrical box attached to Will’s collar. There are rusty bandages beneath. Will must have hurt himself that first time, screaming the way that he did.
Tommy hopes Will won’t scream this time. He doesn’t want this to hurt Will anymore than it already will.
“Lookit who’s back for another little guest spot,” Doc says with a soft laugh. He ruffles Will’s greasy hair, wiping his hand on his pants when he pulls away. He looks at Tommy. “I thought it was time you got to feel good, Champ. You’ve done so well this last little bit. You deserve a reward.”
Tommy isn’t gagged, but he can’t form words. Sensation rises inside him and he cries out like an animal. Still, he shakes his head. Will is not his reward. Will is his best friend, and Tommy doesn’t deserve him. Not after what’s happened.
Will is kneeling at Doc’s feet, but he is barely there at all. His mittened hands are braced in front of his knees, natural as anything. Like he doesn’t remember that he’s a man. Doc snaps his fingers, and Will rises onto his, well, his mitts and knees. He’s wobbling like a colt, and his eyes are unfocused and far away. Tommy wonders how many times Doc has made Will practice that particular move.
“Good boy,” Doc murmurs to Will. Doc reaches down, and Will barely flinches as Doc pulls a tapered plug from his backside. Doc smiles back at Tommy, waving the slick plug in the air between them. “He’s ready for you, Champ. You can use him however you want.”
“I–I don’t–” Tommy bleats, but his words are lost to the thrumming inside.
“You do,” Doc says firmly. “You know that you do.”
He knuckles his fingers into the shiny knots of Will’s hair and tugs. Will doesn’t make a sound, thank God, but his blank face terrifies Tommy. Will should be frightened. He should be angry. He should be something. But this–
What has Tommy done?
Doc clips Will’s lead to the same hook in the floor as the first time, and then he moves to Tommy. “It doesn’t matter which end you use, but you will use him,” he whispers savagely. “That’s what your public wants, and if you don’t, you know exactly what will happen to him.”
Tommy wonders if Will wouldn’t prefer death, but when he looks at the empty shell of his best friend, he doesn’t know if it’s possible for Will to want anything at all. And selfishly, Tommy doesn’t want to let him go.
“Will you–” Tommy swallows and groans as another wave of sensation crashes against him, but he forces his eyes to Doc’s. “Will you let me–let me–decide–”
Doc laughs, and he scratches his fingernails against Tommy’s sweat-soaked scalp. “Awww, Champers. Not just yet. You’ll do as you’re directed, and if you’re very good, maybe I’ll let you freestyle with him someday.”
Doc unfastens Tommy’s wrists, and this time, he doesn’t remove the massager. Tommy is hard and trembling, and Doc has to help him over to Will’s hunched body. Tommy collapses on his knees in front of Will, but Will still doesn’t look up.
Doc smiles. “Have fun, you two.”
And then he steps outside the box, locking the door behind him.
Tommy looks at Will, at his dead eyes and diminished body, and the rational sliver of his brain wants to take Will in his arms and hold him close, to fucking hold him until he’s warm and there’s some sign of life in him. But then Doc’s voice comes over the speakers.
“Fuck his mouth until he chokes, Champ.”
And Tommy, sweating and sobbing, takes Will’s face in his hands, and, God help him, does what he’s told.
Will never looks up, and he doesn’t scream. Never once does Will scream. But when Doc takes Will away an hour later, Tommy does.
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone
#the kennel#will cartwright oc#tommy mahoney oc#doc barker oc#tw noncon#please heed all other content warnings#whump#whump writing
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the kennel, part fifteen
part of the kennel (masterlist here). follows this piece directly. not copy edited quite as stringently as normal, but i really wanted to put it up before i went out.
content warnings for: aftermath of noncon, references to filmed whump, breeding, mouth whump, human trafficking, and murder, extreme pet whump, extreme dehumanization, forced nudity, brief suicidal ideation
part fifteen, something like relief
The others see when Doc carries the black-collared mutt out of the pole barn.
Some watch through glassy eyes, and they don’t think anything of it, because months in Doc’s care have silenced their thoughts completely. They might have cared when they were people, but they aren’t people anymore.
Some see the smears of blood on the boy’s naked legs, and they look away, because they remember when it happened to them. They know he’ll get used to it in time. They did.
Others notice the ways the boy has changed since Doc brought him here. The way his softness has started to give way to hard sinew and bone. The way he has started to disappear. They look down at bodies that used to feel human, and they turn away from the boy’s dangling limbs because it hurts too much to consider all the ways they’ve changed too.
And then there are those that watch, unflinching. A big man whose teeth have been taken from him one by one, because, when Doc gets around to it, those teeth will be replaced with filed metal implants, so that the newly christened fighter will have an advantage in the ring. A woman in a pink collar with low-hanging dugs, who’s carrying her fifth pup. They were both black collars once too. Collateral who came with merchandise that Doc wanted more.
A few months ago, the man’s lover was sold to a businessman in Oman; they will never see each other again. The man bit Doc’s leg after, tried to shred the fucker’s Achilles’ tendon; Doc only smiled and went for the pliers. Complimented the man on his fight.
Years ago, Doc put the woman’s husband down for trying to protect her; he gave her daughter to a man in a blue and white pick-up truck, told the woman it was one of the highest prices he’d ever gotten, that maybe he knew what to do with her after all. She doesn’t look at the babies when she nurses. It doesn’t matter that they’re taken from her so soon; she knows she isn’t really their mother.
These two watch the mutt with casual interest. Maybe the boy has just secured his place. Good for him. It is easier to accept what’s coming, when you know what it might be.
No one thinks of the blonde-haired boy who came in with the mutt. It wasn’t hard to figure out what Doc was going to use that one for, and once they go in the pole barn, they don’t usually come out again. Or, when they do, it’s in an airmail crate.
The rescues watch, but they don’t; they remember, but they don’t; they care, but they don’t. They shiver in the cold and wait to be put back in the cages that they never could have anticipated would become theirs.
Annie watches too, from her place at the edge of the yard. Her chest feels tight when she sees the way Will’s head bobbles backward from the crook of her father’s arm. When she sees Doc stalk back to the pole barn a few minutes later, she decides: she will clear the yard, get everyone inside, make sure they’re fed and warm. And then, she will see about Will. She knows that her father will be busy for a while.
- - -
Will is half-conscious when Annie finds him. He’s been half-conscious for a while, actually, though he still isn’t sure exactly what happened.
Well, that’s not really true. He knows what happened.
Will thinks of the grapefruit spoons that were in the silverware drawer when his mother still lived with them. The bowl of each spoon was lined with razor sharp teeth, so you could dig into the fruit and peel the bitter flesh from the rind.
She took the spoons with her when she left. Because the fucking spoons were worth keeping.
Will feels like his insides have been scraped with one of those grapefruit spoons. His flesh has been peeled from its rind and pulled out of him. His insides burn like citrus juice in a cut, sharp and stinging. And he aches. The most remote parts of him ache with a kind of raw pain he didn’t know a person could feel on the inside, at least not literally. A bruise on top of a bruise on top of a bruise.
He’s never hurt this way before. And distantly, he knows it could be worse. Because he’s almost certain it was Tommy who—
It was Tommy. Will knows it was. He’s been half-conscious for a while, after all.
Tommy tried to be gentle. Will knows it. It doesn’t make it better. Nothing will ever make it better.
When Will hears the door, he opens his eyes. He expects to be spread on the floor of the glass box, Doc leering over him, and Tommy sobbing in the corner. But Will isn’t in the glass box at all. He’s on his back on the wax-papered exam table, and standing over him, a cloth and basin in her arms, is Annie.
“Hi,” she whispers. He can tell by the look on her face that he is absolute fucking road kill.
Oh, fucking hell. Will flushes with embarrassment. This is just what he fucking needs. His best friend’s cum on his face and stuck to his thighs, and a beautiful girl right next to him. Fanfuckingtastic. For just a second, he wonders what Jessie would say about him now, but he tries to push the thought away before it can take root. He’ll never see Jessie again. It doesn’t matter what she’d say.
But Annie’s eyes are heavy on Will’s face, and he wishes they were not. He looks away, trying hard to hide the tears that have crept back into his eyes. It’s only then that he realizes the stupid gag is still in his mouth; a metal piece digs into his cheek when it hits the table.
That hurts too. His mouth. His jaw. His throat, inside and out. He screamed himself raw, that’s for certain, but the collar–Jesus, he can smell the burnt skin.
“Will?” Annie’s voice is timid. “I–I’m so sorry.”
Will doesn’t even pretend he can answer her. He squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing tears out from under his eyelids. They streak down his filthy face. Just one more thing to wipe away. He’s assuming that’s what Annie’s here for. To clean him up and put him back in his cage.
God, Will wouldn’t care if he never leaves the cage again after this. Fucking throw away the key. So long as he never has to do that again.
There are soft fingers at the clasp of the gag, and even though Will knows they belong to Annie, he jerks away from her touch. He doesn’t mean to–it just happens. He curls onto his side, cradling his mitts to his beating chest. He only just remembers to stifle his whine. He doesn’t want to know what it would feel like to shock the open wounds on his neck.
Annie pulls away. “I’m sorry! I just–please? Please, let me help you.”
Will stills, forcing his breath through his nose. He doesn’t move and, for a moment, neither does Annie. Then, she reaches for the buckle at the back of his head, and Will almost sobs when he feels the gag give way. The leather doesn’t fall away–it’s stuck to his skin with Tommy–and Annie gently pries it up. Will doesn’t want to think about what she’s touching, doesn’t want to be touched, but he’s relieved when the pressure on his jaw finally eases. His mouth hangs open, but he isn’t sure he knows how to close it; he’s almost afraid to try.
“There you go,” Annie murmurs. Her fingertips lightly hover over the shell of Will’s ear, but they do not stay. “Doc’s with your friend. I thought–I thought I’d clean you up. That maybe you’d like it better if I did it than if he did.”
Like. Will doesn’t like anything about this. And there is no better. There is only just as bad or worse.
But he supposes she’s right.
“He’s with your friend now,” Annie says, “so we have time.”
There’s a stab of panic in Will’s gut. If Doc is with Tommy, then–
Well, they’re even then, aren’t they?
It’s a horrible thought, because Will is a horrible person. No, not even a person. A mutt. A worthless mutt. If he were a good boy, like Tommy, he wouldn’t think shit like that. He’d know that Tommy didn’t want it to happen, and that Tommy doesn’t deserve to feel the way Will is feeling just now. Tommy is better than he is. Tommy deserves better.
Will’s the one who’s got no pedigree. He never has. He won’t, now.
But fuck if it doesn’t seem fair.
There’s a gentle pitter of water in the basin as Annie wrings out her cloth. When she draws close again, she gasps.
“Your throat,” she says, her voice trembling. Her touch ghosts just below the collar’s band, and Will hisses through his teeth; it stings like a bitch. “You must have–oh, no. Oh, God.”
So, it’s not cute, he guesses.
“We have to get this off.”
For a second, Will wants to protest. If Annie takes Will’s collar off, Doc will be mad, and he sure as shit isn’t going to punish Annie for that. At least, Will hopes he wouldn’t. He’s not sure why he cares. This girl–she’s part of all of this, isn’t she?
But she isn’t. Not really. She doesn’t have a choice. Will wouldn’t have chosen the father he got either. And his mother certainly didn’t choose him. Family isn’t a choice at all.
Annie leaves him, and he stays curled up on the table, because where the fuck else is he going to go? He doesn’t know where she’s gone, but she’s gone for a little while. Will closes his eyes, but still, his eyelids crinkle against the bright overhead light.
He used to sleep with the light on, after Mom left. Everything was scarier without her, because when she was there, Will wasn’t allowed to be scared. She’d yell at him, tell him he was being a baby, that he was a big boy and he should be braver. So he’d tried. For her. He’d tried to be brave.
But Will wasn’t brave. He would lie awake in the dark, hot tears squeezing from his eyes as he listened to them fight. Dad would plead, and Mom would scream, and Will would cry, because he wasn’t brave at all.
When she was gone, Dad never said anything about the light. Dad never said much about anything.
For just a second, Will wonders what Dad would say about this. But he pushes the thought away just as quickly as it came; he’ll never see his father again, so there’s no point in wondering what he’d think. It’s probably easier if Dad never knows any of this. If he never knows what Will’s been made into.
Will’s a disappointment, just like his mother.He was never going to be anything else.
Annie’s steps are so soft when she comes back that Will doesn’t realize she’s there until he feels the cool metal of keys against the back of his neck.
The buckle of his collar opens, and Annie gently pulls the canvas away from Will’s weeping skin. Some of his skin sticks, tearing away with the collar, and out of habit, he grinds his teeth together to keep from crying out.
Well, that’s one way to figure out he can close his mouth.
Annie freezes. “I’m sorry!”
But it doesn’t help. She has to keep going, has to take the collar all the way off, even if his skin comes with it. Who the fuck cares anyway? Just now, Will would shed all his skin if he could. He would let Annie peel it away piece by soiled piece if he thought it would do any good.
But it’s inside him too. The hurt. Tommy. And that, no one can ever strip away.
“You can cry,” Annie says, and she is crying too.
But Will doesn’t cry. He forces his tears to stay put, and he doesn’t say a word, even as Annie lays the collar at the end of the table. He won’t give Doc another reason to hurt him. He has to be a good boy. He has to earn his place.
He has to live, even if he doesn’t want to. He’s not foolish enough to think that Doc would let him die a minute before Doc’s decided he can. No one who traffics in this kind of human suffering is going to be merciful.
“I didn’t think–” Annie whispers, and even through the blurry pall of his tears, Will can see her hands shaking, “--I didn’t think he would take you out there. The ones in the doghouse, he–well, they’re usually alone. He doesn’t–this isn’t–I don’t–I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Will doesn’t answer. He wants to believe that she is sorry, but all the same, she knows. She knows what goes on out there, what’s been done to people like Tommy for God knows how long, even if she didn’t know it would happen to Will. She knows, and what’s she done about it? Fucking nothing. Nothing at all.
But she’s here now, and she’s trying, whatever it’s worth.
She’s trying for him.
Will closes his eyes. It isn’t true. He’s just so fucking pathetic that even a girl who’s seen shit like this her whole life pities him. And he’s not stupid. He’s ruined. In the unlikely event he’s ever free again, he’ll never be free of what he is now. There won’t be love. Just fucking pity.
And who cares if she’s trying? Who cares if anyone ever tries? He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to be touched again.
But somehow, even that’s not true. He wants Annie to wrap him in her arms and hold him, even though he doesn’t.
Christ on a bike.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “Will?”
Will flinches at the sound of his name. He suddenly wishes Annie didn’t know it at all. He can feel her eyes moving over every inch of his marked-up, soiled, fucking wrecked body, and he doesn’t want her to look. He doesn’t want her to look, and at the same time, he’s glad someone knows. That someone cares.
“I have to clean you up, okay?” Annie’s little fingers push Will’s sweaty hair away from his forehead. He winces, and Annie withdraws, just as quickly as if she’d been burned. “It might–it might hurt a little.”
Will huffs out a bitter, noiseless laugh. What the fuck does he care if it hurts? Doesn’t everything? Won’t it always? He squeezes his eyes shut again, and his tears mingle with the sticky remnants of Tommy still pasted to his cheeks.
“Okay,” Annie whispers.
Will hears the slosh of the rag in the bucket, and then, Annie’s hand slips beneath his head, lifting it in a gentle cradle.
The rag is warm against his cheek, and Annie’s touch is sure, even if her hands are shaking. She scrubs soft circles over his face, cleaning his cheeks, his lips, his chin. His skin doesn’t feel quite so tight or sticky, even if it doesn’t really feel clean; he’s not sure he’ll ever feel clean again.
Annie lays his head back down and drops the rag back in the basin, and then her fingers are at the hinge of his aching jaw, circling, massaging, easing the tension left over from the gag. Will groans before he can stop himself, and he braces for the snap of electricity against his throat. It doesn’t come.
Of course it doesn’t, because Annie took off the fucking collar. Fucking genius.
“It’s okay,” she says. Her thumb moves gently over his jawbone. “Just–whatever you want to say–please, say it. You’re safe.”
He isn’t safe. But he can pretend, just for a little while. Before it happens all over again. Because it will. He knows it will.
“Th-thank you,” he whispers. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s thanking her for, and his voice sounds like his throat is made of fucking swiss cheese, but it’s there. He’s there. There are still small mercies to be grateful for.
Annie bends down and kisses his forehead, quick as a wink. Her cheeks are red when she snaps up again, and she turns back to the basin before Will can say anything else. “You’re welcome.”
Even as the rag touches his raw throat, Will thinks it might not hurt so bad. Not just now.
Or at least, he can pretend that it doesn’t. It’s something like relief.
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows
#the kennel#will cartwright oc#annie barker oc#doc barker oc#tw noncon mention#whump#whump writing#heed all warnings
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the kennel master list
Will and Tommy are headed on an ill-advised camping trip when they encounter some car trouble. Luckily, Doc Barker is there with a tow and some hot coffee. But when Will wakes at Doc Barker's place the next morning, he realizes that he and Tommy have far more than car trouble on their hands.
Please see individual chapters for detailed and specific content warnings. This story will be heavy on humiliation and dehumanization and may eventually contain noncon elements [*]; proceed with caution!
-/-/-
part one: on the road
part two: caged
part three: champ
part four: rise and shine
part five: good boy
part six: whipping boy
part seven: squeaky clean
part eight: red for romantic
part nine: in pieces
part ten: speak
part eleven: a perfect puppy*
part twelve: betrayal *
part thirteen: surprise*
part fourteen: in hell*
part fifteen: something like relief
part sixteen: take it like a champ*
part seventeen: a part of it
part eighteen: this is his life
part x/flash forward: room to build
-/-/-
post-rescue content
will's early recovery: tender first aid
will's early recovery: thankful
will's recovery: hope house
will's recovery: first date (a prelude)
annie's recovery: first date (a prelude)
tommy's recovery: first date (a prelude)
#the kennel#whump#whump writing#will cartwright oc#tommy mahoney oc#doc barker oc#annie barker oc#captivity whump#creepy/intimate whumper#pet whump#multiple whumpees
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the kennel, part sixteen
part of the kennel (masterlist here). occurs simultaneously with this piece. please proceed with extreme caution. this is very graphic, and i don't even know where i found the words. poor tommy is going through it.
content warnings for: EXPLICIT NONCON, references to past noncon, forced nudity, extreme dehumanization, extreme pet whump, filmed whump, refrences to human trafficking, guilt, brief suicidal ideation, adult language
part sixteen, take it like a champ
Tommy waits in the center of the glass box. There’s nothing else he can do. Doc has him rigged up in a way he’s never been before, a wide leather belt cinched just under his ribs and tethered to a taut cord hanging from the ceiling. He has to stay on his hands and knees to counterbalance the tension, like a dog heeling to its master.
And that’s what Tommy’s doing, isn’t it? That’s what Tommy is now. A dog. An obedient little pet.
Except he isn’t as obedient as he should be. That’s why Doc made him hurt Will. Because Tommy fought when he shouldn’t have.
Tommy won’t fight again. He can’t. The fight went out of him as soon as he felt himself move in Will’s mouth.
It felt good. Just for a second. Before Tommy realized what he was doing, it satisfied a bone-deep need, and it felt good. Maybe he’d pressed himself forward without Doc’s urging. Maybe he’d rocked his hips into Will’s face like the animal he is now. Because for an infinitesimal blip of fucking time, it felt amazing.
And then, Will screamed. He screamed, and that collar lit up, and even as Tommy heard the snap of electricity against Will’s flesh, Will kept fucking screaming. Because of what Tommy had done to him.
Tommy wonders if Will knows what happened after. That didn’t feel good. Or, at least, Tommy tried to tell himself that it didn’t. But he’d never felt anything like it before, and his body demanded release after the hours he’d spent on the brink. Doc made him keep going until he finished, until he was slick with Will’s blood and his own spend. Will never made a sound. He never moved. Doc said it would be easier that way, but Tommy wishes Will could have fought. One of them should have been able to.
Tommy wants to believe that he didn’t have a choice, that he only did what he did to save Will’s life, but he knows it wasn’t the only reason in the end. He can’t unknow that. He is an animal. A monster.
He deserves what’s coming to him.
Doc is at the computer just now, but Tommy knows exactly what will happen when he steps inside the box. It’s what Tommy should have let happen in the first place. It’s what Tommy will spend the rest of his life doing; he should have known better than to delay the inevitable.
He won’t fight this time.
The door opens with a hiss of compressed air, and Tommy’s knees tremble against the floor. He should take this like a man, but he’s a sniveling little bitch. He’s probably always been.
Doc locks the door behind him and moves to kneel in front of Tommy. He runs a heavy hand through Tommy’s greasy curls.
“You put on quite a show, Champ. I’ll give you that.”
Tommy can’t answer. His mouth is still stuffed full of silicone cock. He’s suddenly aware of the shape and heft on his tongue, and he can’t help but think of Will, stuffed full of him.
Tommy’s cheeks burn with shame. He stares at the floor.
“I think the little mutt did an excellent job of demonstrating just what your fans expect from you. And you rose to the occasion, didn’t you, boy?”
Tommy wouldn’t protest even if he could. He and Doc both know what he did. He swallows, and the silicone teases the opening of his throat.
Doc tucks his fingers under Tommy’s chin, forcing Tommy to meet his eye. “It’s good you got your rocks off with the mutt, because what happens next is not about you.”
Tommy’s entire body is shaking now.
“You’re going to do for me what the little mutt did for you,” Doc says gently. “But you’re going to do it without any help from a gag, because you’re going to show your viewing public what a well trained boy you are, aren’t you?”
Tommy nods. He will do whatever Doc says, always. He deserves this.
“Good boy,” Doc murmurs. “And then I’m going to take from you what you took from the mutt. But I’ll be gentle with you, Champ. I have to protect my investment, don’t I?”
Tommy doesn’t want him to be gentle. It should hurt. It should be a fucking punishment. He wants Doc to fuck him so hard that it batters his body into perfect submission. So hard that his joints come apart and crumble beneath him. Hard enough that Tommy will never be able to forget what a piece of shit he is.
But he nods, because that is what Doc wants him to do.
“Good boy,” Doc coos again.
He reaches around Tommy’s head to unbuckle the gag, brushing Tommy’s nose with the soft flannel of his shirt. He smells like blood and dust. He doesn’t immediately remove the gag; instead, he pushes the silicone in just a hair further. The tip is in Tommy’s throat now, and his gag reflex flutters against the intrusion.
“Practice makes perfect,” Doc says. “Swallow it down like a good boy.”
Tommy swallows. The silicone sinks deeper into his throat. He forces himself to stay still, exhaling hard through his nose. His bound ribs ache with the effort, but he doesn’t cough. He just looks up at Doc with wide eyes.
Doc smiles at him. “See, the mutt was so dramatic. You’re a professional, aren’t you, Champ? A contender.”
The silicone slides backward over Tommy’s tongue, and his mouth is a gaping hole. He doesn’t think he could close it if he tried. Which, he supposes, is by design. He flinches when he hears the gag hit the floor.
Doc sits tall on his knees in front of Tommy and opens the fly of his jeans. He is hard against the seam of his boxers, and he maneuvers everything down just far enough to let his cock spring free.
Tommy gulps.
This is what Will saw, except it wasn’t Doc, it was Tommy. Tommy, shoving into Will’s mouth. Tommy, destroying Will’s already tenuous trust. Will has never been able to believe that he deserves love and care, and now–fuck, how will he ever believe it now? And it’s because of Tommy. He closes his eyes, but he can still see Will’s big brown eyes staring up at him, begging him to stop.
Tommy won’t beg. He’ll be good. He has to convince Doc that this is his place, not Will’s. Maybe Tommy doesn’t deserve forgiveness, but he’ll do whatever he can to keep this from ever happening to Will again.
Doc’s big hands reach for Tommy’s hair, easing him forward. His touch is gentle; it makes Tommy’s skin crawl. Tommy wasn’t gentle with Will, even though he wanted to be.
“Show the people how a show dog performs,” Doc says, his voice suddenly warm and gravelly.
Tommy is crying now, but he nods again, stretching his body toward Doc, the leather straining against his ribs.
Tommy’s lips slip around the bald pink of Doc’s tip, and Doc nudges himself forward, ever so slightly.
“That’s it, Champ. That’s it. What a good boy you are,” Doc drones, his head dropping backward.
But Tommy isn’t Champ. He is Will. A poor, sobbing mutt. And the flesh in his mouth is his own. It is salt and sweat and thin skin, and it presses deep, so deep that he thinks he might swallow it whole, that it might stay in his throat forever, hot and thick. His jaw stretches so wide that it should crack in two, but it doesn’t, and then he feels the flesh swell against his tongue, and his mouth is fuller than it’s ever been, and he is crying, and he can’t stop. His face is tight beneath the salt tracks of his tears, but he pushes forward, and he swallows it down, and he is stoppered. Silent. There’s a faint drop of bitterness on his tongue, and the flesh moves backward, then forward again. His throat beats like a heart.
Doc groans, and Tommy is Tommy again. He can’t even disappear into Champ just now. He knows he doesn’t deserve the respite. He has to be present, has to suffer the way Will did. But his ribs ache beneath the pressure of the belt, and part of him wishes that they would collapse, that they would pierce his lungs and let him drown on his own breath.
“Oh, Champ. I knew you would be a natural. That’s it.”
How did he get here? What the fuck is even happening? This isn’t supposed to happen. Not to him. Tommy is special. He is talented. He’s worked so hard. This can’t be how it ends.
But no one knows where he is. And this isn’t how it ends; the chimes from the computer remind him that this is not his forever home.
This is only the beginning.
Tommy sobs, and Doc knots his fingers in Tommy’s curls, guiding his head back and forth, back and forth.
“There we go,” Doc breathes. “I think we’re ready for the next act, don’t you?”
He pulls back, and Tommy almost closes his lips around him again, desperate for it to stop here. But Doc only laughs, scratching him behind the ears. Doc’s cock bobbles on its way out, and Doc takes himself in hand and rubs his wet slit over Tommy’s lips.
“Go ahead, Champ. Show the people how much you liked it.”
Tommy licks his lips, his chest jerking with half-swallowed sobs. Doc nods his approval.
“That’s a good boy. Now, you just be still. Stay, huh?”
Doc stands, scratching his fingernails down Tommy’s back.
“Your fans have been waiting for this.” Doc’s thumb strokes Tommy’s tailbone. “They’ve sent all those nice gifts to help you get ready. So, I want you to be vocal, Champ. I want you to let them know exactly how it feels. Show them how grateful you are for this opportunity.”
Doc’s hands are warm on Tommy’s ass cheeks, and he spreads them, slowly, carefully.
“What do you say, Champ?”
Tommy shakes his head. He doesn’t know what Doc wants. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to say. He hears the soft hock of Doc’s spit, and it falls, warm and slippery on the crest of Tommy’s ass. Doc’s thumb dips into Tommy’s crack. He spits again, and he slides his thumb up and down.
Tommy can’t. He wishes he could scream himself into unconsciousness like Will did. But he can’t. He can’t.
“Beg me, Champ,” Doc whispers savagely. He parts Tommy’s flesh and spits again, teasing his thumb inside.
“Please!” Tommy bleats. He isn’t pleading for what Doc wants him to, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still begging.
Doc’s thumb presses deeper. “You like that, don’t you, boy?”
He doesn’t like it. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Tommy tenses, and the belt around his ribs feels somehow tighter. “Please!” he shrieks again.
A finger joins the thumb. They ratchet apart, stretching Tommy wide, and he cries out.
“Alright, Champers, alright. We’ll get started.” One of Doc’s hands settles on Tommy’s hip; he lines himself up with the other. “I know it felt good when you fucked the mutt, but I think this is really what you were made for.”
Doc inches inside, slow and wide, and Tommy’s breath abandons him. He can’t–this can’t–it won’t–he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.
But he did this to Will. He hurt Will just like this. And Will couldn’t even fucking fight him off.
Tommy is a good boy. A champ. He’ll take this like a fucking champ. He locks his jaw and tries to brace himself.
Doc’s hip points press against Tommy’s ass, and for a moment, Doc is painfully still. His weight is heavy inside of Tommy, so heavy that Tommy thinks he might not be able to hold it. He feels like his skin and bone will give out, that Doc will fall straight through shredded muscle.
And then, Doc moves. He slides himself back out and then spears Tommy with a rough thrust. He does it again and again and again. Their flesh slaps together, like fucking applause. Tommy’s ribs feel like they are going to shatter as his body snaps against the restraints.
Tommy wishes they would. That Doc would grind him into dust and let him settle. But that would be too easy. This is not supposed to be easy. Not for Tommy.
Tommy forces himself to pay attention, to feel it as Doc pounds him open, filling him completely. There is no room for Tommy’s boyish fantasies, for his hopes or dreams. They squeeze out of his pores with his sweat, and they fall on the floor, and Tommy wishes he could go with them, that he could dissolve and disappear and die. But he won’t. He can’t. He has to feel this. He has to give Doc what he wants. To atone. To save Will. To–Jesus, to destroy himself because he will never be who he was.
Doc rocks against him. “My instincts about you were right, Champers. You’re such a good boy. You will make someone so happy when it’s time for you to go. But we’ll put you through your paces until you’re ready, won’t we?”
Tommy nods, even though he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to. What the fuck does it matter? Doc’s hips snap, and there’s a crash of something that is almost pleasure. He groans, and the sound is inhuman. Tommy is inhuman.
Tommy is gone.
His own flesh starts to swell, starts to rise, and it isn’t fair. This can’t feel good. He doesn’t deserve to feel good. He doesn’t.
But he does, and Doc knows it. He ruffles Tommy’s hair, nudging Tommy in just the right spot and laughing when he moans.
“Good for you, Champerooni, good for you. Pay attention; the next time we bring the mutt in, maybe you can give him a little treat.”
What the fuck?
“No!” Tommy howls, even as he starts to shake and stutter under Doc’s pressure. “Will! Good–” he choked on his own moan. “I’ll be good!”
Doc spits in his hand and wraps it around Tommy. “You are good, boy. And you’ll be good, too. For me, and to the little mutt.” His hand moves, and Tommy’s eyes roll back in of his head; he chokes on his protests like a drowning child. Doc doesn’t stop. “Turns out, some of your viewers found the mutt quite intriguing. They’ve asked for some more guest appearances. I think that might be a nice way to let him earn his keep, huh?”
“No!” Tommy rasps, but the word falls apart as soon as it hits the air.
“I think we’ll let you show him the ropes. Teach him his lessons, just like a stupid little thing like him deserves,” Doc murmurs. “Not like you, Champ. You’ve already learned, haven’t you?”
Doc thrusts in deeply, as if he were burying a sword to its hilt, and Tommy spills over his hand. Tommy screams, and the sound is a gnarl of bald pain and half-swallowed tears and unwanted pleasure; he imagines his larynx exploding inside of his throat.
But Doc isn’t done, and as Tommy shrivels beneath him, he keeps snapping his hips. Doc’s voice is strained when he speaks again. “I know you’ll–fuck, show him the ropes, Champ. It will be good for–oh God, for him to be useful, won’t it? And I know you’ve missed him.”
Tommy can barely process what Doc is saying, his nerves are so raw. But still, he knows now: Will isn’t safe. Tommy was never going to be able to save him. And no one will save Tommy. Not from his own pain, and not from the pain he’ll be forced to cause Will.
Fuck.
For just a second, Tommy thinks about fighting, about breaking a few ribs and kicking out, knocking Doc backward. But Doc’s rhythm stutters, and, suddenly, Tommy is flooded with the heat of the other man’s release. Tommy’s never felt anything like it before; it’s almost like something inside of him has ruptured. Like a blister oozing hot pus. Doc rips Tommy’s hips backward, dragging Tommy’s hands through his own mess, and holds him still as he finishes.
The pressure of the belt around Tommy’s ribs is crushing, and he can’t breathe. He isn’t sure that he’ll ever be able to breathe again. Doc doesn’t seem to notice. He massages Tommy’s tailbone lazily with his thumbs, and then he slides out, giving Tommy’s ass a slap for good measure.
“Well done, boy,” Doc says. “Pretty vanilla, but I think your public had quite the eyeful today.”
Tommy wishes he could crumble, but the belt keeps him on his hands and knees, like a dutiful birddog. He gulps at the empty air in front of him.
Doc zips himself back up. “Hey now, Champers. It’s alright. You’re done for the day, aren’t you?”
“P-please,” Tommy gasps.
Doc leans down to meet him. “What is it, boy?”
Tommy’s eyes flick toward one of the cameras. He can still feel Doc seeping from inside of him, and he wonders if Will is awake, if he can still feel Tommy on his skin. “Please d-don’t-don’t make me h-hurt him,” he whispers. “I’ll d-do an-anything.”
Doc shifts so that his mouth is right next to Tommy’s ear. He tenderly smooths Tommy’s curls. “Our deal is the same, Champ,” he whispers. “You do what I say, or I put him down. Makes no difference to me what you choose.”
Tommy’s head sinks beneath his shoulders. There is no choice, of course. All the choices here are Doc’s, and he chose Tommy. Nothing else matters.
Doc unbuckles Tommy’s restraint and lets him fall in his own mess. Tommy doesn’t move. He can’t.
“We’ll let you get some rest now, Champ,” Doc says, using the voice he always does for the cameras. “I think you’ve earned it. We’ll have some more playtime tomorrow.”
Doc doesn’t bother to restrain or gag him. Maybe he can sense that Tommy’s already weighted down by the chains of his own shame. Or maybe he knows that Tommy’s body won’t move of its own volition anytime soon, if Tommy has any will of his own left at all. Doc leaves his champ in a heap on the floor of his glass box, his naked skin soiled by sweat and spend and tears, shiny beneath the fluorescent lights.
i don't even know, this made me so sad, but i'm putting it out in the world anyway? please be kind to yourself!
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader,
#the kennel#tw noncon#like really a lot#please be very careful and check out the content warnings#tommy mahoney oc#doc barker oc#nsfwhump
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the kennel, part fourteen
part of the kennel (masterlist here), immediately follows this piece. this is very dark and graphic, so please, exercise caution. read those content warnings, and be kind to yourself!
content warnings for: EXPLICIT NONCON, mutual noncon, noncon use of toys, restraints, and gags, forced nudity, brief suicidal ideation, emeto mention, references to scarring and forced weight loss, electric shock, unconsciousness, extreme dehumanization, filmed whump, pet whump, creepy/intimate whumper, adult language
part fourteen, in hell
Will can’t think. Maybe that’s the only thought he has–that he can’t have thoughts at all. What’s happening–it’s too much to think about.
Things like this don’t happen.
Or they do. Will knows that they do. He isn’t stupid. He watches the news. Or he did, when there was a television to watch. He knows that these things happen–
–but they don’t usually happen to people like him.
Or maybe they do. So much of what Will believed was wrong. Maybe he was wrong about the things that kept him safe too. Maybe they’re lies every man tells himself so he can pretend that he’s above what happens to everyone else.
Will knows now: he is not above anyone or anything. He is in hell. Tommy is still warm and twitching on his tongue, and Will is in hell.
Tommy is shaking, his hands heavy on Will’s head as he empties himself. He might be crying. Will doesn’t know. He can’t make himself look up again. He doesn’t close his eyes; he just lets the pale pink of Tommy’s flesh blur in front of him.
Two seconds. It took two seconds. Two seconds, and Will’s mouth is coated with sour salt, warm against his cheeks and down his throat. It seeps into every empty space, choking him, trapping his tongue, and Will knows he will never be able to get rid of the taste.
Tommy’s taste. It’s a part of Tommy that Will was never supposed to share–and it’s something Tommy can never take back.
But he tries.
Tommy bucks back against Doc, yanking himself out of Will’s mouth. Sticky strings of Tommy’s forced pleasure cling to the edges of the ring between Will’s teeth, slipping over his lips, down his chin. Tommy collapses to his knees, screaming; but if he’s screaming words, Will doesn’t understand them.
Will doesn’t understand anything. Maybe he won’t, ever again. Maybe he doesn’t have to. A mutt doesn’t need to think. It’s clear that he has other uses.
Tommy’s trembling hands hover over Will’s cheeks, his shoulders, but they don’t land. Will is glad. Maybe he is glad. Maybe not. He isn’t sure he feels anything, really. His ears are hot; the rest of him is cold. He’s naked, so of course he’s cold. But somewhere, he knows he should not be. Tommy is dripping with sweat. Why is Will so cold?
The hinges of his jaw tickle. He knows that means something, but what does it mean? Before he has a chance to guess, he curls over his knees, and what was in his mouth isn’t anymore. It’s on the floor, on his knees, on Tommy.
“Fuck!” someone says. Not Tommy. Not Will. No one asked him to speak.
Doc.
“Well, it’s your first time,” Doc says, and he is next to Will, pulling him back by the strap that’s fastened behind his head. Will’s body is heavy; he doesn’t fight. Why should he? It won’t matter. “But you’re not done yet, little mutt. Champ was too quick.”
Tommy makes a funny noise, a high-pitched noise, because he can. Will is silent, because he has to be. Like he might be forever.
I told you: your mouth is better when it’s silent.
Will wishes he could close his mouth. It still feels sticky inside, like paste. Like there’s a bitter membrane stretching across his lips. But even so, his breath rattles through the ring, heavy, rotten.
“Get up, Champ,” Doc snarls.
Tommy is bent over his knees. He doesn’t get up.
That’s bad. Tommy has to do what Doc says. Will knows that.
That’s why Tommy did what he did, isn’t it? Because Doc said so?
It has to be.
Doc jerks the strap behind Will’s head. The ring wedges deeper inside Will’s mouth, but he is quiet, because he is a good boy. Doc told him his mouth is better this way. Doc is right. Doc is always right.
He isn’t, but what the fuck is the point of fighting? Will lets his body go slack in Doc’s hold, and he doesn’t look at where Tommy is still folded over himself, sobbing. He doesn’t look at Tommy at all.
Tommy can’t look at him. He knows it. No one will ever want to look at Will again.
Not that they ever did before.
“Champ!” Doc snaps. “Get off your ass, or I’ll take care of the mutt myself.”
No one takes care of Will. He’s a mutt. A stray. The leftovers. He isn’t worth taking care of. Even his mom thought so. His dad too. Jessie–
But that isn’t the kind of care Doc means. Even if Will can’t think, he knows that.
Doc pushes Will up until he’s on his knees again. “There you go, mutt. Up we go. You’ll want to get Champ nice and slicked up this time; that’s all the help you’ll get for the grand finale.”
Tommy’s going to hurt him again. Tommy’s never hurt him before, but Tommy is going to hurt him again. He has to, or Doc will hurt him. And Tommy can’t get hurt. Will knows that. He knows his place. What he’s worth.
For just a second, though, he wonders why.
Why hasn’t he ever been good enough? Why is this where it ends for him?
Why is it Will who always gets fucked?
Too soon?
He squeezes his eyes shut, and the glass box feels like it’s spinning.
Doc holds Will against him again. He strokes the hinge of Will’s jaw with the pad of his thumb, hard, like he’s rubbing dirt away. But it’s not dirt on Will’s face, and no one will ever be able to rub it away entirely.
“Open up, mutt,” Doc urges, like Will’s mouth isn’t already pried open, like Will has any choice in what’s about to happen to him. Again. It’s going to happen to him again. And probably again and again and again and again. Because he belongs to this man now. No one is coming to save them. He belongs to Doc until Doc decides he has no further use, so he will always open up and take what he’s given, because he’s not sure what will happen if he doesn’t. This is how he stays alive. If he wants to stay alive.
It’s not like Will hasn’t wondered if he’ll die here–like, let’s be real, it’s not exactly a Holiday Inn–but for the first time, he almost hopes that he will. That it’ll be soon. Because he doesn’t know if he can do this indefinitely, and he has no choice.
Doc’s hand slips around Will’s throat, and he thumbs at Tommy’s leftovers, still sticky on Will’s chin. Will opens his eyes. Tommy is still crumpled in a sobbing heap on the floor; he tears at his curls with his beautiful hands, knocking what look like fucking dog ears to the floor.
Will’s mitts stay wedged behind him, between his back and Doc’s front. He doesn’t even remember what it’s like to touch his own hair, his skin. He wonders if he ever will again.
“Champ!” Doc barks. “You have five seconds to get your ass over here and let the little mutt do his job. Or I’ll do exactly what I told you I would.”
Will pitches forward, like he’s going to be sick again, but Doc hauls him back up.
“Not this time, boy. There’s no escaping this. Besides, if this doesn’t happen, the next bit will be worse for you.”
Will’s shock must be starting to wear off, because he understands exactly what Doc is suggesting. He’s going to make Tommy–fucking Christ, no. Will can’t. He can’t–and Tommy–
Fuck.
Tommy looks up at Will, his face blotchy and red and completely fucking destroyed.
This is Tommy’s first time. Or it will be. When Tommy–when he–
Will shakes his head. He can’t take this from Tommy. This can’t be how it happens. And Tommy–Tommy can’t take this from Will. He won’t. Right? He won’t be able to do it? There’s no way that this is going to happen to them.
But of course it’s going to happen. Because Doc has toys and remotes and their motherfucking lives in the palm of his hand.
Tommy crawls over to Will. He doesn’t raise his head.
“That’s a good boy, Champers,” Doc coos. He shifts his hold on Will, pressing both hands to either side of Will’s face, smushing the straps of the gag into his cheeks and holding him still and–well, ready. Ready as he’ll ever be.
Will’s gorge rises, and his breath devolves into short, pained gasps. He should probably think about breathing through his nose. Or maybe he should go back to not thinking of anything at all.
But Tommy doesn’t immediately ready himself. Instead, he reaches forward and wraps his naked arms around Will, pressing his head into the soft space beneath Will’s ever-more obvious ribs. His face is hot and sweaty and sticky against Will’s skin, and Will’s body is jolted with the force of Tommy’s sobs.
Will flinches.
He doesn’t mean to. It’s not like he and Tommy have never touched each other before. But just now, it’s like Will’s body knows something his brain does not.
“Oh, how sweet,” Doc says. He lets go of Will’s face and reaches down to pet Tommy’s hair. “Champ is thanking you, mutt. For a job well done.”
Tommy wails, but Will is stone. He wants Tommy to let him go, but he also doesn’t, and how can both things be true at once? How can any of this be real?
Doc reaches down to pry Tommy’s arms away. “Let’s give you both a bit more practice, huh? Hup hup, Champ, and give the mutt his treat.”
Tommy’s protest is shrill, but whatever Doc has his mouth stuffed with completely obliterates his words. Not that Doc would listen if Tommy could speak. Neither Will nor Tommy has a voice now. That’s not what they’re here for. That much is real fucking obvious.
“Now, Champers, I know you’re eager to get to the finale, but you’ve got to let the little mutt prepare you first, don’t you? You were too quick before.”
Doc’s hands cinch tight around Will’s throat–not so tight that he can’t breathe, but tight enough that Will flinches again–and Tommy is instantly on his feet. Will doesn’t understand, but what the fuck else is new?
“Good boy,” Doc purrs.
Tommy looks down at Will, and he tries to catch Will’s eye, but Will doesn’t take the bait. He can’t carry the weight of Tommy’s sorrow on top of his own. Not just now. He closes his eyes again, and he waits.
“Ease it in, Champ,” Doc commands. “Let him help you.”
Tommy must not move fast enough, because Will feels Doc’s shirtfront brush against his naked back. There’s a strangled yelp, and the shuffle of reluctant feet, and then Will feels it. Well, he feels Tommy. Salty and thin-skinned and soft against his tongue.
Will’s eyes are wet with tears, because why wouldn’t they be? But when he tries to blink them away, he sees: Doc is flush behind Tommy, pressing him deeper into Will’s mouth with the rocking of his own pelvis.
“There we go, Champ. That’s it. Good boy,” Doc says.
Tommy shakes his head, whimpering. Doc has both of Tommy’s wrists gathered in one hand, pinned against Tommy’s sternum. Tommy is still soft in Will’s mouth, but Doc’s ministrations keep easing him further inside. Tommy’s tip brushes the back of Will’s throat, and Will gags.
Tommy screams again. It doesn’t make a difference. Doc’s body molds to Tommy’s and keeps him in place.
“Good boy,” Doc says earnestly. His hips twitch, and Will retches around Tommy. He can feel Tommy startle and try to pull back, but Doc’s body stops him. “Look at him take you down. Look down and see what your carelessness has earned the little mutt.”
Doc’s free hand forces Tommy’s head down, but Will can’t look up. He can’t even fucking breathe.
And then, he feels it.
It’s like his mouth has been taken over by a hive of fucking bees. Tommy’s weight vibrates against Will’s tongue, and everything in Will’s mouth is consumed by an impossible bone-deep itch; his lips, his gums, his tongue. Tommy moans, and suddenly, his hips buck hard into Will’s face. Tommy swells against the ring of Will’s gag.
The toy. Whatever Doc had Tommy rigged with when he brought Will in. The fucker turned it back on.
This time, Will can’t help it. He sobs around Tommy, and the collar snaps on. He screams, and the next shock consumes him. He is a live wire, jolting and humming, twitching on the ground.
“Fuck. Would you look at that?”
Doc pulls Tommy away, and Will collapses into a fetal position. His back arches as he lets go another scream, and his mitts thump against his tailbone. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps screaming, and the collar keeps snapping and popping against his throat. He doesn’t fucking care. What fucking difference does it make? Nothing can hurt worse than any of what’s already happened.
He’s wrong, of course.
- - -
Tommy is almost grateful when Will passes out. Almost.
Almost, because even though Will’s been granted a temporary reprieve, there is still something vibrating and thrusting inside of Tommy. Almost, because now, Tommy can see every filthy streak of himself on Will’s flushed face, and he wishes he could not.
Almost, because a shameful part of Tommy still aches for the wet heat of Will’s mouth.
It’s not like that. It isn’t. Will must know it isn’t. Fuck, Tommy hopes he does.
But Tommy’s body isn’t his own now. It fucking kills him. His body has always been a well-disciplined instrument, graceful and careful and sure. But now–fuck, now, he can’t control it. He thrusts into empty air like some kind of addled animal while his best friend passes out from fucking electric shock, and it isn’t because he wants to. It’s because he has to. Because Tommy’s body belongs to Doc now, and it will do whatever Doc wants it to.
Unfortunately, Doc isn’t distracted by Will’s condition. He kicks Will’s unconscious body roughly onto its stomach, with all the tender care somebody might give a sack of garbage.
Tommy’s insides shrivel. Will’s back. Fucking Christ, it’s a Jackson Pollock of bruises and scabs and fresh scar tissue. And it’s because of Tommy. Tommy did that to him. And now–fuck, now–
Doc kneels down and manipulates Will’s legs underneath his body, spreading them wide for balance.
“You’re ready, aren’t you?” Doc nods at the space between Tommy’s legs.
No. No fucking way.
Doc’s finger casually traces Will’s ass crack, and Tommy screeches when he sees a fingertip dip between Will’s cheeks.
Doc laughs. “Come on now, Champ. It’ll be easier this way,” he reasons. “He won’t even feel it at first. Maybe he won’t even wake up. I mean, you didn’t last long that first time.”
Tommy whines, and when another thrust spears him, he grabs for himself. He’d rip it off if he could. If it meant that he didn’t have to do this, he wouldn’t think twice about destroying himself.
But Tommy knows he is going to destroy himself anyway, and Will with him. Doc will make sure of it.
Doc moves to Tommy, slipping behind him again. He turns the massager off and gently, carefully, frees Tommy from its grip. He lets it drop to the floor, and then he wraps an arm around Tommy’s heaving belly.
“You go over there, and you get down on your knees, and you fuck him,” Doc says slowly. He crooks his fingers against Tommy’s side in an absent tickle, and Tommy squirms. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure he never wakes up.”
For a second, Tommy thinks that maybe Will would prefer not to wake up. That maybe, Will would consider it a mercy. But it isn’t Tommy’s choice to make.
Tommy doesn’t have any choices left at all.
Doc pushes him toward Will’s body and forces him to his knees. Tommy can see the shallow rise and fall of Will’s breath; the motion makes Will’s scars look alive, like pearly snakes and bloody vines that might just crawl off of Will’s skin. Tommy wishes they could. That Will could have his body restored to him, like none of this ever happened.
But then, maybe the scars will be the least of Will’s concerns when he comes to.
Tommy’s trembling hands slip softly over Will’s back, a silent apology for what’s about to happen. Will stays still, and this close, Tommy can smell the burnt flesh under Will’s collar.
He wonders if he will ever hear Will’s voice again. He wishes he had his own voice, that he could lean down and tell Will how sorry he is. That he could explain. That he could beg for the forgiveness he knows he will never deserve. Because Tommy shouldn’t do this. He should be stronger than he is.
But he’s so fucking scared.
“Don’t wait too long, Champ, or all that work the little mutt put in will have been for nothing. I’d hate to have to start this all over again.”
Tommy’s spent years wondering what his first time would be like. He could never have imagined this. Choking on his own sobs, he sets his hands on the tender skin of Will’s hips. There’s some scarring there too, and Tommy’s thumb glances softly over one of them. He strokes it almost meditatively, letting Will’s body blur in front of him.
“Your audience is waiting, Champ. Do it now.”
Tommy can’t take a breath, and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears. Will’s out cold. Maybe Doc is right–maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he won’t even wake up. Maybe he won’t even know. Maybe Doc will believe that Tommy’s learned his lesson, and Will will never be in this position again. Tommy knows he won’t be as lucky, but if doing this now spares Will later, he will.
“Now, boy,” Doc snarls.
Tommy fumbles to comply. He’s never done this before, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t–
He does.
...i am so sorry, please take care of yourselves, and send me virtual hugs because this one hurt...
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows
#the kennel#tw noncon#please heed all content warnings#because this one is a doozy#will cartwright oc#tommy mahoney oc#doc barker oc#will and tommy's very bad day just keeps getting worse
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the kennel, part thirteen
part of the kennel (masterlist here); picks up immediately after this piece.
content warnings for: EXPLICIT NONCON (for real, okay), noncon use of gags, restraints, and toys, extreme dehumanization, pet whump, filmed whump, creepy/intimate whumper, cages, references to food deprivation, shock collars, adult language
part thirteen, surprise
Will hasn’t spoken in almost three weeks.
Well, mostly. Doc likes to command him to “Speak!” every now and again, just for shits and giggles, and Will does what he’s told. A few shocks are easier to take than the whip. And Tommy must be doing what Doc tells him, because Will hasn’t been whipped again. Not yet, anyway.
Doc does other things, of course. To remind Will—no, not Will; the mutt—of his place, he says. The food, for instance–or lack thereof. If Will wants to eat, he has to eat from Doc’s hand, and he never gets much. A liver treat a day, if he’s lucky. Every so often, he’ll get a teaspoon of wet food; he hates how grateful he is when that happens. He doesn’t know how much weight he’s lost, but he does know it’s easier to fit inside his cage than it was. His body folds up like a motherfucking accordion now.
It’s not a distinction Will would have ever thought he’d be able to make, but there we are. He wouldn’t have thought that a person—if that’s even what he is anymore—could find comfort in a cage either, but he does. If he’s caged, he’s safe. Safe-ish. Out of Doc’s sight, at least for a little while.
It never lasts, though. Apparently, Will’s the only mutt in the bunch, and that means he’s got a target on his back. The other “rescues” avoid him whenever he’s allowed in the yard, as if they know proximity to Will is going to bring them their own trouble. The others talk to each other, clustered on their hands and knees in little groups, but no one talks to him. Which is fine. It’s not like he can answer.
Maybe that’s why they stay away. Maybe they’re trying to help him.
But no one can help anyone here. Well, almost no one.
He hears the others starting to stir around him, hears Annie’s soft greetings as she unlocks cages and starts to herd her father’s human stock into the yard. They don’t hate her, he thinks, even though they could. She stands on two legs, clothed and warm and beautiful, and the rest of them are stripped of their humanity. They crawl naked into the snow, where they piss and shit on the ground like animals, but they all know it isn’t Annie’s fault.
Shit, she’s practically an angel. At least Will thinks so. It seems impossible someone could grow up in a place like this and still be so kind.
Her feet stop in front of Will’s cage, and Will can’t help the way his heart speeds up when he sees her face through the wire grate. Her hair is so long that it almost sweeps the concrete floor. Will would give anything to touch it.
“Good morning, Will,” she murmurs, the way she always does. She’s not supposed to call him by name, but it’s their little secret. Probably because she feels bad about what her dad did that first day, or maybe she does it for everyone, but Will doesn’t really care why. He likes to hear her say his name. He likes to remember he has a name at all. That he’s more than a stray mutt.
He stares up at her with eager eyes. Good morning, Annie, he mouths.
Normally, she smiles. This morning, she doesn’t. She opens the lock on his cage, but she doesn’t immediately open the door.
Annie sighs. “He wants to take you out himself,” she whispers.
Will’s eyebrows shoot up. That doesn’t seem like good news. Doc normally doesn’t bother with him at all. Will’s half-convinced that’s why Doc starves him; he wants to render Will invisible. Which is whatever. It’s what Will’s always been anyway.
But still. Will knocks his forehead against the door, pushing it slightly ajar, and Annie looks back down at him.
Why? he asks.
“I don’t know,” she answers, more than a little distantly. “But I’m sure it’s okay.”
Yeah, no way in hell is that true. Will shrinks back a little.
Annie opens the door the rest of the way and runs her hand through his dirty hair. Will closes his eyes and leans into her touch. She does this for everyone, he reminds himself. It has nothing to do with him.
“Is he up?”
Will cringes when he hears Doc’s voice, and Annie immediately pulls her hand away. She shoots Will an apologetic glance.
“He is,” she says softly.
“Good. Excellent.”
Annie is gone just as quickly as she came, and Doc is squatting in her place. He smiles at Will, and Will slides a little further back in the cage.
“Hello there, mutt,” Doc says.
He reaches into the cage, and he pets Will’s hair, just like Annie does. Well, not exactly. His broad, flat hand feels heavy against Will’s head, and when his fingers curl into Will’s hair and tug him forward, Will knows that whatever’s coming, it isn’t good.
“Come on out, boy,” Doc orders. He stands and moves back to give Will room. “I have a little surprise for you.”
Will doesn’t move for a second. If he stays in the cage, he’s safe, right? Cold, hungry, sure, yeah, whatever, but safe. Still, he knows he doesn’t have any choice but to follow orders. If he disobeys, it’ll be worse. He pads out of the cage on his mitts, wincing a little when his bare knees hit the cold concrete.
“Well, you’re not much to look at, are you?” Doc says.
Will can’t look up–he isn’t allowed–but he prays that Annie’s gone outside with the others. The white briefs Doc gave him to wear–his own boxers are long gone–have holes at the waistband and sag at the seat, but it’s not like it matters if he’s the best dressed pet. He’s sure that his unwashed hair and patchy beard really add to the effect. They certainly make him itch bad enough.
“What’s say we get you cleaned up, little mutt?” Doc asks. He reaches down to clip a lead to Will’s collar and starts to pull him toward the back room. Will follows, because what the fuck else is he going to do?
Annie is nowhere to be seen, thank God.
It’s a perfunctory grooming. Doc attaches Will’s lead to the bar above the tub, and Will climbs in without argument; it’s better than strangling at the end of his leash, and the still-tender flesh on his back is reminder enough of why fighting isn’t his best move. He winces when Doc passes the scratchy sponge over his scars, but he knows he needs the bath.
He’s less comfortable when Doc shaves his face, but Will’s sure there’s probably more efficient ways of killing someone than letting them bleed out in a grooming tub. Besides, if Doc wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.
Doc doesn’t speak to him while he works, but by the time he’s finished, Will feels like he could curl up in the tub and go back to sleep. He feels blissfully clean and light. But, ever the fucking charmer, Doc blasts Will with cold spray just before he hauls him out of the tub.
Will is shivering when he hits the floor, but he goes to pick up his briefs with his teeth, the way Doc’s showed him on the rare occasions Will’s actually been granted a bath. It’s not like he can put them on himself. Not with the mitts.
Doc shakes his head. “Not today, mutt.”
Will opens his mouth and lets the underwear fall to the floor. He knows better than to try and cover himself, so he waits, teeth chattering, for further instructions.
“I told you,” Doc says, kneeling behind him, “I have a surprise for you.”
Will’s stomach feels tight, and he hunches a little; he already knows he doesn’t want this surprise. He feels Doc move behind him, and suddenly, Will’s eyes are covered with thick black cotton. Doc ties it off in a knot behind his head. Will can’t see a fucking thing. His head swivels back and forth, but all it does is make him feel dizzy.
Doc laughs, and the heavy toe of his boot nudges at Will’s backside. “Hup hup, little mutt. We’re going to go for a walk.”
Will struggles behind Doc on the lead, flinching away from imagined obstacles with every shuffle of his mitts and knees. He’s still so fucking cold; he doesn’t want to go outside, but somehow, he knows that’s where Doc is leading him. So he can parade Will, totally fucking naked, in front of the other pets. And Annie. Fucking awesome.
The cold hits him hard when Doc opens the main door, and he barely stops himself from screaming when his bare skin makes contact with the crunchy snow of the recreation yard.
“Do you remember your special job, mutt?” Doc asks, tugging Will blindly through the snow. There’s a layer of ice on top of it, sharp against Will’s knees and feet. Every movement burns his skin.
Will doesn’t take Doc’s bait. Even though he knows he can shake his head without making a sound, he is too afraid to try. He’s made it through this morning without making a mistake; he doesn’t want to fuck it up now. Doc tugs on the lead, and Will’s collar shifts against raw skin, but it doesn’t activate.
“Aw, come on now. I’m sure you remember.”
Of course Will remembers. One does not survive an honest-to-God whipping and then forget why they received it. He’d just thought he’d been spared lately because Tommy was doing okay. Following the rules or whatever.
Will isn’t stupid enough to believe that Tommy is actually doing well. No one here does well. The other pets are just as broken as Will is–as Tommy must be. But he knows that Tommy’s got a different set-up. Annie’s told him a little bit. Even if Will doesn’t know what Tommy’s being made to do–Annie won’t tell him that–he understands that being in the fucking doghouse means being watched.
For the first time in his life, Will thinks of being invisible as a luxury–and it’s a luxury Tommy doesn’t have.
“Well,” Doc goes on, chuckling as Will belly flops into a high drift, “Champ had a little lapse this morning. And I think you’re going to help him learn his lesson. That was our deal, wasn’t it? That you’d take on what he couldn’t?”
Will swallows the whine pushing its way up his throat. He has a feeling he’s in for enough pain.
There’s the sound of another door, and Doc yanks Will inside. The floor is concrete here too, but there’s a soft layer of grass or something on the ground; it almost smells sweet. Hay, maybe. Whatever it is, the floor isn’t as cold and hard as in the kennel. Not that it matters much. Will’s entire body is trembling from the cold, and as the warmer air starts to wrap around him, his skin breaks out in a horrible itch. Will wriggles a little against the floor, and this time, he does whine.
The collar activates, but the shock isn’t too bad. Just a quick snap. Will flinches, but he manages to keep himself from making another noise.
“Oh, mutt. Are you cold?”
Will doesn’t bother nodding, because of course the motherfucker knows he’s cold.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry too,” Doc says, and even though Will can’t see his face, he hears the smirk in Doc’s voice. Will starts when he feels Doc’s hand on his cheek, his thumb brushing over the bottom of Will’s blindfold. “You know, I think I’ve got a solution to both those problems. We’ll get you something to snack on, and then we’ll get you warmed up.”
Will’s stomach rumbles like the fucking traitor it is, and Doc pinches his cheek.
“That’s right. Be a good boy, and you’ll forget all about how you���re feeling right now.”
There is nothing about that statement that is even remotely comforting.
But the lead is pulled taut again, and Will fumbles forward on his mitts. The hay slips and slides beneath him, and as they move further into the building, he can hear the gentle whir of some kind of machine; it’s not as loud as the generator in the kennel, but without his eyes, Will suddenly feels like he can hear everything. There are soft chimes that remind him of a chat alert, and then he realizes: a computer.
“Oooh, looks like Champ’s public is chomping at the bit for this one,” Doc says with a chuckle.
Why? What the fuck is going on?
“Now, you just stay for a minute, little mutt,” Doc murmurs.
He presses his palm flat on the crown of Will’s head, like it’s a fucking on/off switch. It might as well be. Will freezes, sitting back on his ankles the way he’s supposed to. He’s still shivering, but he’s not exactly sure that he wants to know how Doc is planning to warm him up.
“That’s a good boy,” Doc says, and Will feels his heat draw away.
There’s another sound, like air rushing out of something, and then the whir of the computer is drowned out by another louder vibration–and the sound of strangled pleas.
Tommy.
Will starts from his knees, but he’s felled when Doc yanks at his leash. Will doesn’t let it stop him. He fights forward again, sliding on his naked belly, pushing off his toes, using his elbows to ease him forward.
The pained cries are louder then. Tommy sounds like a fucking animal. Will can hear him alternately gasp for breath and try to swallow and–oh, Jesus Christ. Tommy shrieks as Will comes closer, but Will can’t understand what he’s trying to say; Tommy’s throat must be slashed to fucking ribbons inside.
“Tommy!”
Only Will doesn’t think it: he screams it. The collar activates, and Will falls to the concrete floor, cracking his chin on some kind of metal barrier. He bites his tongue, and he can taste iron, but he doesn’t care. Tommy can’t be making those sounds. Tommy can’t hurt like that. Will’s supposed to take it for him.
“Tom–” Will tries again, but the second shock is too much. He curls onto his side, panting.
Stars blister the black behind his eyelids. He isn’t cold anymore.
Tommy is still screaming.
“What an entrance,” Doc says with a laugh.
Will’s lead is yanked again, but he can’t get to his knees. His neck and shoulders still twitch with leftover electricity.
“Get up, mutt,” Doc snaps. A hard toe bites into Will’s naked hip. “You wouldn’t want to miss out on your surprise. Champ has been waiting for you.”
Tommy moans, and the sound is so broken, so fucking foreign, that it makes Will nauseous. When he doesn’t move, Doc slips his fingers inside of Will’s collar and pulls back until Will strangles.
“You’d better get used to that,” Doc growls. And then his voice changes. Will is still fucking choking, but Doc sounds like he’s on a motherfucking informercial. “See, the little mutt here is on a very special training regimen. If he speaks out of turn, he gets a nice little shock. He’s done quite well so far, but it seems being so close to Champ has him all riled up.”
Tommy’s scream is suddenly louder, and Will knows what he means to say this time.
No.
Tommy’s still fighting for him. Will’s head moves to look for him, but he can’t see. He can’t see a fucking thing.
Doc heaves Will’s body over the metal barrier and throws him to the ground; there’s no hay on the floor here. Whatever wind Will had gained back is knocked out of him again, and he gasps, letting the blood from his wounded tongue trickle down his throat. He coughs. Doc laughs. Tommy bleats out words that aren’t words at all.
Will hears a hinge click, the hurried jingle of keys in a lock. Wherever he is now, it smells like sweat and–and–something else that he knows, but cannot place. It’s sour and earthy, and he knows he knows what it is–but what is it–what–
Doc rips Will to his knees by the hair, and even if Will manages to keep quiet, Tommy does not. His protest is so loud that Will can feel it vibrating in his chest.
And then Will realizes. The sound he heard, the one that was louder than the computer, is even louder now, and it’s coming from the same place as Tommy’s screams.
This is not good. This is so not good.
The lead shifts again, and Will can hear the carbinner click below him. He can’t move–Doc’s fingers are still knuckled tight in his hair–but he understands that he’s been tethered to the floor. Doc lets Will’s hair go and kneels behind him, the button of his fly hot-cold against the small of Will’s back. He presses Will’s back to his front, and Tommy’s wailing grows somehow louder.
But Will almost doesn’t hear. One of Doc’s hands slides over Will’s bare chest; the other sinks to his belly, almost concave after the weeks of calculated starvation. Still, Will twitches. He doesn’t want to be touched there. He doesn’t want Doc to touch him anywhere.
“Now, little mutt, you want to help Champ, don’t you?”
Will doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even breathe. He just wants Doc to let go.
This isn’t the kind of punishment he thought it would be.
- - -
Tommy wishes he were blindfolded.
He doesn’t want to watch this, but he can’t look away either. He can see Will shrinking beneath Doc’s touch, and he knows Will’s figured it out. Maybe not all of it, but he at least has some idea of where this is all going.
But he doesn’t know what Tommy does. Not yet.
“See, Champ is in training to be a Romantic,” Doc says, using the voice he always does for Tommy’s viewing public, “and I think he has potential.”
Tommy’s body quivers in the restraints. The bastards who tune in have already gotten a show. There’s a pearly white puddle beneath Tommy’s body; he‘s come once already, just after Doc left. The toy kept going, of course, even when Tommy’s nerves had fired themselves into white hot oblivion. He’d screamed and moaned beneath the gag, letting it rock back in his throat until he hoped it might choke him. But he didn’t choke, and the feeling didn’t stop. Doc must have known that it wouldn’t, that there’d be no escape.
Champ has to be ready, always.
Tommy isn’t ready at all.
Tommy looks at Will, thinner and paler than Tommy’s ever seen him, fucking blindfolded and terrified, and Tommy knows he will never be able to forgive himself for what’s about to happen. He doesn’t know how to believe that there might be a way back from this.
“But Champers seems to be having a little performance anxiety,” Doc continues. He slips his hand between Will’s legs and begins to stroke him, slowly, thoughtfully. Will wriggles and whines, but the fucking collar zaps him, and he collapses back against Doc. “Which is silly, since Champ has so many admirers.”
Doc’s hand keeps moving, and Tommy, even in his overstimulated haze, can see the tears seeping from beneath Will’s blindfold. Tommy screeches beneath the gag.
Don’t! Don’t fucking touch him!
But the words are not words. They are an animal’s keening. Doc doesn’t listen, anyway.
“But then I thought of you, little mutt,” Doc says, and he presses a soft kiss to Will’s hair. It’s almost—paternal, and that makes it worse somehow. “And how you’re here to take on anything Champ can’t handle.”
Another wave of painful pleasure rolls through Tommy’s body, and he tenses against the feeling. He can’t do this. He won’t.
But he has to.
“So, you’re going to show him how it’s done. So he won’t be so scared the next time.”
“No!“ Will howls. He bucks in Doc’s hold, his mitts flailing at the collar around his throat, but even the pain doesn’t keep him from screaming. “Please—ngh—I-I-fuck—I—ahhh—Tah—ahh—Tommy!”
Tommy can hear the snap of the shocks even over the vibration in his own head, and he throws himself against the restraints, like he has a fucking prayer of saving Will any pain. But the sensation rises again inside of him, and suddenly, his screams are mingling with Will’s.
“What a pair of noisy boys,” Doc laughs. He hugs Will to his chest like a stuffed toy. “Oh, little mutt, it’ll be alright. We’ll make sure everything goes nice and easy.”
Will doesn’t seem to be able to scream anymore; he twitches listlessly against Doc, eyes almost rolled back in his head. Doc rocks him gently back and forth.
“You just be brave, mutt. Champ chose this for you; he must know how brave you are.”
No! Tommy tries to scream. No! He was gonna kill you—
—but he doesn’t know what Will hears. He can only watch as Will shakes his head, moaning incoherently against Doc’s chest. Tommy can’t tell if Doc’s deactivated the collar or if Will is just too far gone to save himself the pain.
Doc takes the opportunity to reach into his shirt pocket.
“I’ve got something that’ll make it easier on you,” Doc coos. “But if you’re a bad boy, I’ll make sure nothing is easy at all. Understand?”
But Will is shaking with silent sobs, and Tommy groans as the weight between his legs swells. He doesn’t want this, but the relentless vibration is pushing him toward the edge again. He doesn’t know what Doc will do if he comes again before Will–before Will–
“Understand?” Doc says again.
Tommy’s vision is actually starting to blur. He can’t see if Will nods or if Will is even moving at all. For a moment, Tommy is completely overwhelmed by the sheer helplessness of clinging to an edge he doesn’t know how to anticipate. It’s like he’s in a goddamned cartoon, sweaty fingers losing their grip one by one–
“There we are, little mutt,” Doc’s voice sounds distorted and far away as the vibration rises higher. “You look so handsome. This will help you adjust.”
Tommy fights to open his eyes, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t.
Will’s mouth is stretched open by a black silicone ring. It’s wedged cruelly behind his teeth, the leather strap cutting into his red cheeks. He doesn’t fight as Doc tethers his mitts behind his back. It doesn’t seem like Will is there at all.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better if Will disappears. If he isn’t here for any of what’s about to happen to them.
And it’s about to happen. Doc leaves Will stranded in the center of the box, and he moves to Tommy. Already, Doc’s tapping at his phone; the whirring inside of Tommy stops, and Tommy’s restraints begin to slacken. Tommy can’t hold himself up, not with the echo of the vibrations still buzzing in every one of his peripheral nerves, but Doc catches him before he falls.
“You’re going to stand, Champ,” Doc whispers in Tommy’s ear. “You’re going to stand, and you are going to use that mutt’s mouth for target practice.”
“Nnnnn,” Tommy protests weakly, but he already knows that he cannot refuse.
Doc unclips the mitts at Tommy’s hands and throws them on the floor. “You’re going to have to hold him,” Doc says so that only Tommy can hear.
Tommy shakes his head–he doesn’t want to touch Will, doesn’t want to be complicit in any of this pain–but Doc ignores him. He manhandles Tommy toward Will’s hunched body, and the touch is almost too much; Tommy almost can’t make it, his nerves are so shot. But he manages to hold on, because he knows if he doesn’t, this will only last longer. Doc has no plans to spare either of them. That much is fucking obvious.
Will is completely still as they draw close, and Doc laughs, gently pushing Tommy in front of him.
“Head up now, mutt,” Doc coos to WIll. “Let the people see what a good boy you are!”
Will’s chin jerks a little, and the forced-open ‘O’ of his mouth turns up. Doc reaches around Tommy’s trembling body to grab Will’s chin and bring it forward.
“That’s it, boy. Just like that. I told you; your mouth is better when it’s silent.”
Doc’s body is pressed against Tommy’s backside, and Tommy can barely stifle his groan. He needs to be touched, needs release–but he can’t–he can’t–
Doc pulls Will’s face closer with his hand and nudges Tommy forward with his pelvis.
Will’s bare chest beats frantically; he knows what’s coming. He must.
But he doesn’t know that it’s Tommy. Not yet. It’s Doc’s hands on Will’s face, Doc’s voice in Will’s ears. Doc. Motherfucking Doc.
Tommy presses himself back against Doc, but it’s no use. Doc urges him forward, and it’s over. Tommy’s tip slides neatly through the ring inside of his best friend’s mouth.
Tommy’s head falls backward, and he holds his unbound hands in the air, like he’s being robbed. He supposes he is. He will never be who he was ever again. Not after this. He’s a traitor. A disgusting piece of shit. But his nerves are so raw, and it feels–it feels so–no, it doesn’t feel good. It can’t. He wills himself to go numb, but every nerve in his body is screaming.
But Tommy doesn’t scream. He doesn’t want Will to know.
Will is silent too. He’s crying, but he isn’t making any sound, just wheezing around the ring in his mouth and letting his tears slip down his red cheeks.
Doc shoves Tommy’s hips hard, and Will’s mouth is stuffed full.
Will��s mouth is stuffed full of Tommy, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it.
“Hold him,” Doc snarls, and Tommy does, sobbing. He rests his shaking hands in Will’s hair as gently as he can–and he feels it the moment Will realizes. Will freezes, tears still squeezing from beneath his blindfold, and there’s the slightest shake of his head.
Doc’s hips buck Tommy even closer to Will, and Tommy can’t stifle his groan. Doc’s chest is flat against Tommy’s back, and he reaches under Tommy’s arms, around Will’s head, until his fingers reach the knot of Will’s blindfold.
“Surprise!” Doc says.
Will blinks up at Tommy with red, resigned eyes, and Tommy–fucking pathetic whore that he is–stiffens and spills into Will’s mouth.
...we're not done yet. but look, i needed a break, and i bet you do too...
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake, @whump-world
#the kennel#will cartwright oc#annie barker oc#doc barker oc#tommy mahoney oc#tw noncon#like really a lot#i am not playing with you#please be careful#and heed all other content warnings
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the kennel, part twelve
part of the kennel (masterlist here). occurs a couple weeks after part eleven. if you thought it was dark before, it's about to get even darker. please proceed with caution.
content warnings for: explicit noncon, threats of future noncon/dubcon, noncon touch, noncon use of toys and restraints, forced nudity, death threats, intense fear, pet whump, filmed whump, extreme dehumanization, negative self talk, adult language
part twelve, betrayal
Tommy knows it’s coming.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out–not that anyone would accuse Tommy of being a genius. Certainly not now. Weeks ago–shit, it’s not months yet, is it?--he was a person. A talented young dancer who’d just signed his first contract with a company. Now, he’s a wan paper doll in bouncing puppy ears, his every movement recorded and beamed to sickos around the globe, and it certainly isn’t his brain they’re tuning in for.
That’s how he knows. The tail, its phallic bulb long and thick inside of him, was the first clue that Doc was starting to think bigger and better. Doc’s left it in for weeks now, only removing it out of the barest consideration for lubrication and biology. Eventually, Tommy stopped noticing it was even there. His body’s adjusted to its new role, accommodated something that it should have refused.
But even though he knows it’s coming, he still isn’t ready when it does.
Tommy is asleep on his cot when Doc comes in; he’d sprained his ankle during one of Doc’s fucking marionette tableau sessions, and Doc had taken pity on him and let him sleep lying down for once.
“Rise and shine, Champerooni,” Doc murmurs. “It’s time to get up. You’ve got a big day today.”
There’s no outward indication that it’s morning. There are no windows, only unrelenting fluorescent lights. Maybe it isn’t a new day at all. Tommy has no way of knowing. Doc likes it that way, Tommy thinks.
He whimpers a little as Doc tugs the blanket away from his naked body. His mouth is cotton around the silicone phallus that’s been stuffed inside of it since Doc’s last visit; he needs water, but he knows Doc will make him beg first. He knows how this goes.
Doc wraps his hand around Tommy’s tail, jerking it around inside of Tommy until it prods at one particular spot. Tommy moans, and Doc laughs, letting the tail go and scratching lazily at Tommy’s bare ass.
“Rise and shine, I said,” Doc says again. His voice is harder now, more demanding.
Tommy does what he’s told. He shifts from the cot onto his knees, careful not to sit back on his injured ankle; part of him still tries to protect himself from permanent damage, even if he knows it’s a losing battle. Doc strokes him a few times, and Tommy stiffens beneath his touch. He dangles his mitts in front of his chest and stares down at the floor, waiting.
“Such a good boy,” Doc coos. “Already begging for more.”
He isn’t, but it doesn’t matter.
Doc reaches behind Tommy’s head and undoes the gag, slipping the silicone cock from between his lips with what might pass for tender care. He drags his thumb over Tommy’s dry lips and nods in approval.
“Speak, Champ.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tommy says, shifting his jaw back and forth to try and dissipate the ache in his muscles. He swallows, and the inside of his throat feels like a crumpled piece of paper.
Doc’s hand moves around him again. “You’re welcome, boy.”
Tommy’s cheeks burn, but he lets his body respond the way it is supposed to. Okay, so he doesn’t let it do anything. He knows that he doesn’t have any control. He’s just obedient. That’s all.
He doesn’t want to admit that it feels good, that he misses being touched so badly that Doc’s unwanted attentions aren’t really so unwanted at all.
“Would you like some water?”
Tommy nods, whining the way Doc likes. He keeps his hands limp in front of his chest.
Doc fills the bowl with the plastic jug he brought, and then he smiles back at Tommy. “Alright, Champ. Free.”
Tommy doesn’t waste a moment. He scuttles to the bowl on his hands and knees, dropping his face down and lapping hungrily at the cool water. He’s so absorbed that he almost doesn’t notice it when Doc squats behind him and starts to stroke the small of his back.
Almost.
“Stay,” Doc says, his voice low and husky.
Tommy freezes, his face inches above the water bowl. He can feel the water dripping from his chin, hear it as it falls back into the bowl, but he can’t move. Doc’s thumb massages a heavy circle into Tommy’s skin.
“Today is a very special day,” Doc murmurs. He yanks at Tommy’s tail, not hard enough to pull it out, but enough that Tommy can’t help the bleat of discomfort that escapes from his mouth. “Your fans have decided it’s time, Champ.”
“T-time for what?” Tommy asks, even though he already knows the answer. His knees feel like rubber beneath him.
Doc presses the fly of his jeans against Tommy’s ass, and the tail rasps in again under the pressure.
“For your training to progress, my good boy.”
“No,” Tommy whispers. For a second, he contemplates shoving his face back into the bowl and drowning himself. It can’t be time. Not yet. This can’t be how it happens.
Except that of course this is how it happens, because Tommy’s life is a complete fucking nightmare, and he’s starting to believe that he will never wake up.
Doc grinds into him. “Yes. Now, this isn’t my favorite chore–no offense, Champ, but you’re not really my type–but it’s important you have a firm and guiding hand. That your public can see you’ll be worth whatever they’re willing to pay for you when the time comes.”
Doc’s firm and guiding hand dips beneath Tommy and strokes him again. Tommy imagines other strange hands doing the same, and he thinks he might be sick.
He was supposed to have this moment with someone special. He was supposed to feel safe and loved. He was supposed to be in control.
“Please,” Tommy says. “Please, don’t. I’m not ready, I–”
“You are,” Doc insists.
He wraps his hands around Tommy’s hips, positioning Tommy so that his ass is in the air, and then he starts to work the tail from Tommy’s backside. Tommy groans and tries to move away, but Doc’s free hand digs into Tommy’s hip again.
“Stay, goddamnit,” Doc snarls.
Tommy stays. He feels the tail give way, and he’s ashamed of the emptiness he feels.
It doesn’t last long. Doc’s fingers dip into his hole, which is, by design, loose and ready.
“Well done, Champ,” Doc says. “Now, this first time, we’ll be quick. Just to rip the bandaid off, you know? We’ll work on technique a little later.”
Doc’s zipper drops, and Tommy hears the telltale click of the lube bottle being snapped open.
Something inside of Tommy snaps with it.
Tommy’s body is still powerful, even if it’s a little banged up. He kicks his legs out from underneath him, and he feels his heels connect with Doc’s solid gut. The older man grunts, and Tommy hears him thud against the floor. But Tommy doesn’t look back. He manages to get to his feet and starts for the door of the cage.
It’s not open. It never is. Doc is never that careless. He always locks that door behind him.
Tommy bangs on it anyway, like that’s going to make some kind of fucking difference. He screams as though someone will hear.
No one hears. The door does not give way. Doc is back on his feet, and he’s ripping at Tommy’s collar, yanking Tommy backward and into the center of his glass prison.
“NO!” Tommy screams. He manages to wriggle away from Doc’s grip for a second, and he turns, throwing his fists in front of him like some kind of deranged boxer. “Get the fuck away from me!”
Doc’s salt and pepper hair is out of place, a chunk dangling over his eyes. He hasn’t done up his zipper. He doesn’t look kind now, and–more importantly–he doesn’t look intimidated.
He sighs and then kicks out, nailing Tommy’s injured ankle.
Tommy crumples immediately, wailing in pain. Still, he tries to fight, kicking and screaming even as Doc hoists him to his knees.
“I don’t want this!” he cries. “You–you sick fucking bastard! I will never–never–”
Doc backhands him across the face. “Shut your filthy mouth, boy. You don’t speak to me that way. And you certainly don’t get to tell me no.”
“NO!” Tommy shrieks again, his chest beating wildly.
Another slap. “Oh, Champ. You should know better.”
The part of Tommy that refused also forgot.
It isn’t until Doc is fastening his wrists to the overhead rigging that Tommy remembers: it isn’t only him that will be punished for this.
“You know what happens when you’re a bad boy,” Doc grumbles.
Tommy shakes his head. Oh, God. Will. He’s just fucked Will over too.
Doc opens an app on his phone, and the rigging retracts, forcing Tommy to his feet. He cries out when his weight rests too much on his ankle. Doc could give a shit. He kicks Tommy’s ankles apart and cuffs them to loops on the floor. Tommy whimpers, but Doc ignores him. When Doc is finished, Tommy’s naked body is a wide open ‘X,’ and he hears the automated zip of the cameras as Doc taps on the screen of his phone.
“This could have been so easy,” Doc murmurs. He steps aside, rescuing the dog ear headband from Tommy’s cot and shoving it roughly over his head. “It won’t be easy now. Not for you, of course, but not for your little friend either.”
Tommy jerks against his bonds, the stupid dog ears flopping down against his forehead. “No! No, please! I’m sorry! I’ll do anything–just, please, please, leave him alone!”
Doc kneels to double check the restraints at Tommy’s ankles. He looks up at one of the cameras with a grin, wrapping a possessive hand around Tommy’s trembling calf.
“He means the little mutt,” he says to the camera. “I rescued him with Champ here, and Champ knows the deal: when he’s naughty, it’s the little mutt who will take his knocks for him.” Doc squeezes Tommy’s leg. “I think you’ll enjoy his little guest spot today. And we’ll make sure Champ does too.”
Tommy’s stomach roils. Doc can’t bring Will here. The things that happen in the doghouse–Will wouldn’t be able to handle it. Jesus, Tommy can’t handle it, but at least he’s had some preparation. At least Doc let him know what he was in for.
He doesn’t want Will to see him this way. And he sure as fuck doesn’t want to see Will get hurt again. Especially if Doc–no. No, he wouldn’t. He can’t.
“No–you can’t–”
“I can, actually,” Doc says. He stands, letting his hand slip north as he rises. He cups Tommy’s balls, holding them like he’s trying to determine their weight. “You forget who’s master here, Champ. But you won’t forget again. Not after today. And neither will the mutt.”
“You can’t do this to him!” Tommy shrieks. His mitts bat uselessly at the air. “I’m the–the Romantic!” The word hits him like a blow, but he swallows and forces himself to keep pleading. “This is what you took me for, and–”
Doc laughs, landing a patronizing pat on Tommy’s cheek. “Rescued, boy. And it’s interesting how you remember that now. If you’d only remembered a few minutes ago, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You can’t,” Tommy says again, but his head falls between his raised arms.
“I’m not going to,” Doc replies. He pushes his hair back into place and locks eyes with Tommy. “You are.”
What the fuck?
Tommy’s chin jerks up. “What?”
Doc’s eyes crinkle at their corners, and not for the first time, Tommy wonders how someone who looks so kind can be so completely unhinged. Doc wraps his fingers around Tommy’s chin and grips it hard.
“Oh, Champ. I have to make sure you learn, don’t I? And the best way to learn is by doing, you know?”
Tommy swallows bile. There’s no fucking way. He can’t. He won’t do this. What Doc’s suggesting–Doc can’t make him. It’s not like Tommy’s body is just going to give into this. He won’t hurt Will this way.
But, of course, he’s wrong.
Doc lets Tommy’s chin go and steps outside the box, zipping his pants as he goes. Tommy cranes his head to see; Doc is rifling through the cabinets by the computer monitor. That never ends well for Tommy. The things in those cabinets are sent in by the viewers, and Tommy’s spent enough days in the dog ears and tail to know that he doesn’t want any more of their gifts.
Doc pockets whatever it is that he’s decided on and goes back to Tommy.
“Champ here is going to be a good little stud for his mutt friend.” Doc is looking at Tommy but speaking to the cameras. “Whether he wants to or not.”
“No,” Tommy whines. “Please, I can’t–”
He can’t even get the words out. He squeezes his eyes shut. There’s no fucking way. This is insane. This isn’t happening. It isn’t happening. It won’t happen. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck–
“Oh, Champers, I’m here to help, aren’t I?” Doc reaches into his pocket, and Tommy doesn’t miss the soft whirring that starts in Doc’s hand. “We’ll make sure you’re ready for him, don’t you worry.”
Tommy’s tears break free as Doc secures a black silicone ring around his cock. Already, Tommy can feel the vibrations starting to build around him, and he groans. But he knows it’s about to get worse. He understands exactly how Doc is going to force him to perform.
Doc pulls the rest of the device back and between Tommy’s legs, slipping the thick phallus inside of Tommy without any warning. The thing pumps relentlessly inside of him, and Tommy knows immediately that he’s toast. If he could think, he would hate how easily he takes it, hate the way his body is ready after weeks of Doc’s careful training and attention.
But he can’t think. He can only feel. He shivers as the pulses shake his nerves into some kind of mind-numbing static. His jaw goes slack with another moan, and he doesn’t fight it when he feels Doc slip the gag back between his teeth. Tommy’s mouth is full, and his head vibrates with the rest of him as his body bucks in its restraints.
“What a sight you are, Champ,” Doc says appreciatively. He winks up at a camera. “Isn’t he?” He drags his fingers through Tommy’s curls, yanking backward until Tommy’s collared neck is a column, his pulse leaping beneath pale skin. “See? You’ll be completely ready for the little mutt.”
No. The word echoes in Tommy’s head and then is drummed away by the rising vibration. It’s no use, and they both know it. Tommy sobs, but the gag muffles his protests. He’s shaking so badly that he’s almost grateful for the rigging keeping him upright.
Doc leans close to Tommy’s ear. “You’ll be so needy by the time I bring that little fucker in here that you’re going to beg for whatever he has to offer.”
Tommy tries to shake his head, but Doc only knuckles deeper into his hair.
“And if you even think about fighting this time, if you think you can try to be noble and spare him–I’ll put him down and bury him in the sinkhole out back.”
Tommy could swear his breath fucking stops, but the whirring inside of him does not; it burns, dry and unrelenting, and he knows it will never stop.
Doc pulls away, slapping Tommy’s ass for good measure. He claps his hands and rubs them together, looking up again at the cameras. “I’m going to go get our little guest star. This will be such a surprise for him! And a treat for you all too.”
Doc leaves Tommy suspended in anticipation, his body slowly giving way to the inevitability of its own betrayal.
...we'll pick up with poor Will next time. Buckle up...
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1926, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whumptakesthecake
#the kennel#tw noncon#mind the content warnings#tommy mahoney oc#doc barker oc#this one is rough#and the next one will be even worse#so you're welcome i guess
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the kennel, part eleven
checking back in with poor tommy! masterlist here.
content warnings for: explicit noncon touch and use of toys, suggested future noncon, humiliation, extreme dehumanization, dissociation, filmed whump, pet whump, description of past injuries, adult language
part eleven, a perfect puppy
Tommy doesn’t know when the days began to blur together. For all he knows, hardly any time has passed. Where he’s kept, it’s impossible to tell whether the sun is coming or going, because it’s impossible to tell whether there is a sun at all. Not that there isn’t any light. There is. The fluorescents that surround his cage never go out. They beat down on his glass prison, and they make sure that Tommy’s–no, Champ’s fans can see him clearly.
The only indication Tommy ever has that time has passed is when one punishment is swapped out for the next. Well, not punishments. He’s a good boy. Doc tells him so all the time. No, Tommy is–Champ is a show dog. He’s showing off his tricks. He counts them, cataloging them in his head like tally marks on a prison wall.
It started with Doc dislocating his right shoulder. Then, it was his left. After that, Doc rigged him up like a marionette; Tommy was pretty sure he’d pulled his inner thigh, and he was lucky he hadn’t broken his ankle.There have been a series of different poses since then, each one pulling and straining Tommy’s body in new and grotesque ways. Fourteen in all.
Tommy can handle it. His body is still strong, and so far, he doesn’t think Doc has done any permanent damage. He put Tommy’s shoulders back in joint; he let him down before he snapped his ankle. He hasn’t beaten him the way he beat Will. Tommy is fine.
It’s the other things, the ‘gentle’ tricks, that Tommy isn’t sure he can handle. But Tommy’s red collar means that Doc has to give their viewers a certain kind of show, and Tommy feels like he’s inching closer and closer to his opening night.
At first, it was purely visual. Leather harnesses that accentuate Tommy’s most private parts, black blindfolds, ball gags. Things Tommy would never have chosen for himself, things that he finds humiliating, but things that don’t hurt. Not really. Just his pride. But the people watching, they like it.
At first, Doc told him he was a star, that he’d brought in enough money to earn his keep and then some. Then, Doc started to touch him. Not just to change his position or scratch beneath his chin, either.
That’s it, Champ. Hup-hup. That’s a good boy.
Tommy cried that first time. He snorted and choked beneath his gag like he was drowning. Doc laughed, but he didn’t stop; his hands kneaded and stroked and twisted until Tommy’s body betrayed itself, spilling over Doc’s hand and onto the floor. Doc had scratched behind his ears and told him what a good boy he was, and then he’d dropped Tommy from his pose, letting him fall right in his own mess. Tommy lied there until he knew Doc was gone, and then he’d managed to crawl to his cot. Even though he’d hidden under his blanket, he knew that the people watching could hear him sob–and he knew they liked it.
It’s what they paid for, after all.
It’s happened what Tommy thinks might be every day since. Tommy still cries, but he does it silently, letting his tears seep from closed eyes. He’s accepted that there’s nothing he can do to stop this. This is his life for the foreseeable future, and he has to be good; it’s the only way to keep him and Will safe. Doc reminds him of that every time.
Be a good boy now, or you know the little mutt will suffer. I’m sure we could add a few more stripes to his coat.
He hasn’t seen Will since he's been in the doghouse. He doesn’t know what Doc might have done to him. But when Tommy closes his eyes at night, he still hears Will’s guttural scream. He hears the whip crack, smells Will’s blood.
Tommy won’t let it happen again.
Tommy is a good boy. A champ.
He doesn’t want it, but if he closes his eyes, he can give himself over to feeling something other than pain or fear for just a split second. He can pretend it isn’t Doc, that it’s someone who loves him, who would never hurt him. Someone who wants him to feel good. It helps him sometimes, when his own fear threatens to derail Doc’s plans. Tommy can never stay in the fantasy for very long, but he lives for the fleeting seconds when he can believe.
But it always ends. He always remembers where he is and who is touching him. Doc won’t let him forget. And Tommy knows that Doc won’t let it stay so simple for long. The people who pay to watch Tommy suffer will want more. They probably already do.
It doesn’t make it any easier when the time comes.
It’s morning or midnight or whatever the fuck o’clock, and Tommy’s been curled on his cot for four hours or four seconds or four days. None of it makes any difference. His joints scream in pain from the last pose, but he can’t bear to stretch out; he makes himself as small as possible beneath his threadbare blanket.
He hears the barn door open, but it’s already closed again by the time he manages to raise his head. Doc strides toward him, his blue flannel shirt tucked into fleece-lined jeans, and Tommy isn’t sure he’s ever hated anyone or anything so much. The fucker is warm and cozy and so fucking cheery–it makes Tommy want to scream until his throat is bloody.
He doesn’t scream, of course. He knows what to do, and he does it. He scrambles off his cot and waits on his knees, mittened hands limp in front of his naked chest like a begging dog. He’s shivering, and his tongue is dry beneath yesterday’s ball gag; Doc never took it out, and Tommy hasn’t had anything to eat or drink for he doesn’t know how long. His head swims, but he manages to stay upright.
“There’s my good boy,” Doc chuckles. He unlocks the glass door and lets himself in, locking the door again behind him. He doesn’t take any chances with his Champ.
Tommy doesn’t look up. He stays still and lets Doc’s fingers crook and wiggle behind his ear. They brush against the strap of the gag, and Tommy whines. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he nudges into Doc’s touch.
“Awww, Champers, do you want that nasty thing out of your mouth?” Doc coos.
Tommy nods, because he does. He will take whatever relief he can get before today’s torture begins. He’s already learned that much. Distanty, he wonders what Will has learned.
“Alright, then,” Doc says, squatting down in front of Tommy. He reaches behind Tommy’s head and unbuckles the gag. “You can have a little break. Get yourself a little dinner, huh?”
Tommy stays put. He knows how this works. He can’t move without Doc’s say-so. If he does, there won’t be any food or water. And if there’s no food or water for Tommy, there’s damn well no food or water for Will.
“That’s a good boy, Champ. You show ‘em how it’s done. Go on now. Free.”
Free. The word hits Tommy like a blow, but he scrambles on hands and knees to his water bowl. It isn’t fresh–Tommy doesn’t remember the last time Doc changed it–but Tommy could give two shits about that. He knows the cameras are capturing his prone body, his naked ass, his fraying humanity, and he doesn’t care about that either. He laps hungrily at the water, no matter how badly the motion aggravates his aching jaw. The water splashes up and into his nose, but he doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t care.
“My, what a thirsty boy,” Doc laughs, giving Tommy’s ass a curt slap. “That’s just fine. You drink up now. Drink all you want.”
Tommy does. He drops his face lower, and he imagines what it might be like to drown.
There’s a sudden clinking next to his head and stale meaty smell: his kibble. Because that’s what he eats when he’s lucky enough to be given food. He never refuses it, because he’s afraid that if he does, Doc won’t feed Will. Not that he has any way of knowing what Doc’s done to Will. But still. He’ll do what he can. He has to. They have to get out of here together.
Doc knuckles into Tommy’s hair and shoves his face into the kibble. “Aren’t you a lucky pup?” Doc asks. “So spoiled.”
Tommy forces his lips to the little brown pellets in the bowl and takes them in. They’re dry and scratchy along his tongue, and chewing fucking hurts, but he manages to force the first mouthful down his throat. He needs it. He knows he does. He has to keep his strength up.
But, for a moment, when he feels Doc’s hand slip up and down his bare back, when he hears the murmured Good boy, it’s almost too much. Well, it is too much. There are people paying to watch him go through this. They are the same people who watch when he cries, when he can’t move for the pain, when Doc assaults him, when he relieves himself in a fucking ten gallon bucket. He’s not a person to these assholes. He’s an animal.
And he is becoming more of an animal, day by day. He keeps burying himself deeper so that he can protect the last shreds of his dignity and humanity. This isn’t happening to Tommy; it’s happening to Champ. And Champ is a good boy.
He takes another bite.
“Eat hearty and then rinse your mouth,” Doc instructs. “Your public sent you some nice new toys, and I know you’ll want to be ready to use them right away.”
There’s a jolt in Tommy’s gut, but he doesn’t look up from the bowl. He’s under no illusion that whatever the nice new toys are, they won’t be nice for him.
He eats until the tag on his collar clinks against the bottom of the bowl and dutifully takes another glug of water. He misses the mint aftertaste of his toothpaste, the feeling of his mouth being fresh and clean. He misses so many things. Home. His family. Will.
But there are things he didn’t realize he’d taken for granted. Grace and power. Control over his own body. Confidence in his future. Peace. He’s supposed to be taking his bows center stage, not fishing for kibble on his hands and knees. He’s supposed to be somewhere else. This is all wrong.
Doc’s fingers tuck inside Tommy’s collar and pull him backward, until Tommy is sitting on his ankles again.
“That’s a good boy, Champ. So grateful for all that you receive, aren’t you?”
Tommy doesn’t answer. He knows he isn’t meant to. He wishes he could reach up and rub his jaw before Doc puts the ball gag back in, but his mittened hands won’t do him much good. He keeps his eyes on the floor and waits for Doc to hook him to the rigging. It’s time for his pose. He knows how this goes.
“Oh, little Champ. Don’t look so glum. I told you: there are special surprises for you. Seems your public wants to help you along in your training so that you can learn some new tricks. Look, boy!”
Tommy raises his head to see what Doc has in his outstretched hands, and he regrets it immediately. He slams backward onto his ass and scrambles to press himself against the glass wall.
Doc only chuckles, waving Tommy’s “surprises” at him. A black silicone dog tail with a thick, tapered bulb on its business end and another ball gag–only this ball has a thick silicone phallus protruding from it. Tommy can feel his throat closing up just looking at it.
“No,” he rasps, surprised to hear his own voice. “No fucking way.”
Doc looks over his shoulder at one of the cameras. “Skittish, isn’t he? C’mon now, Champ. These are brand new, just for you. The nice people bought them for you special.”
Doc takes a cautious step forward, like he doesn’t mean to spook Tommy. But Tommy’s spooked. His heart hammers so loudly that he’s convinced the fuckers watching the livestream must be able to hear it too.
“The other Romantics have to make do with what we have lying around. They may not even get much training before they’re sold off. But you?” He kneels in front of Tommy and smooths Tommy’s blonde curls from his sweaty forehead. “You get the best. We’ll make sure you’re prepared before anyone has a chance at you.”
“Please,” Tommy hears himself whisper. He stares at the black bulb attached to the tail. It’s huge. He’s never–he doesn’t– “I can’t–”
Doc leans close. “You will, or I’ll ‘fix’ your little mutt friend and feed him what’s left over.”
“No!” Tommy barks. His food shifts in his belly, and he doubles over. Images of Will strapped to the exam table rise unbidden, and he can hear the screams again. He raises his mitts over his ears, but the sound keeps echoing in his head.
“Oh, Champ,” Doc says with a smile. He rips Tommy’s head upright again, and the tail in his hand slaps against Tommy’s cheek. “I will. See if I don’t. He won’t even complain. He might be worthless, but at least that one knows how to take what he’s given. Never says a word. He’d probably be grateful to have something to eat.”
Tommy’s chest beats frantically, but he can’t make himself speak.
“What will it be, Champ? Will you be a good boy for the nice people?”
Champ is a good boy. He will do what he’s told. He nods as best he can with Doc’s knuckles against his scalp.
Doc lets him go, and Tommy collapses over himself. This is only the beginning, he knows. He understands what these things are preparing him for, and the thought rips open a pit deep in his stomach.
He’s never been with anyone before. Sure, there was plenty of messing around backstage, but Tommy didn’t have the time to experiment much. He was too singularly focused. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. He doesn’t want to admit that he was too shy to put himself out there. His experience is limited to his own hand, to his boyish fantasies of a handsome man with strong arms and a kind smile. And now–
“Up, Champ,” Doc demands. “And open that sweet little mouth.”
Tommy does what he’s told. Doc forces the phallus into his mouth.
“I want you to put your lips around it, Champ. Give us a show before I lock it in.”
Tommy’s jaw already hurts so much, there’s no way. But Doc grips his chin, pressing his fingers hard into the soft parts of Tommy’s cheeks and forcing his mouth into an ‘O’ shape. He slides the silicone in and out, in and out. It’s soft and cool, but each time Doc moves in, he presses it further.
“Look at you,” Doc murmurs. “A natural. I knew when I found you that you were made for this. I can always tell what my rescues will be good for. And you’re perfect, Champers.”
Tears slip down Tommy’s distended cheeks, and this time, Doc presses the gag back so far that Tommy chokes. Tommy coughs and tries to expel the intrusion, but Doc lets go of his cheeks and moves behind him, buckling the gag and locking it in place. The phallus flattens his tongue and strains his jaw, but when he tries to adjust, it only slides a hair deeper, bumping up against the entrance to his throat.
Tommy closes his eyes. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be like. This isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.
Doc’s fingertips whisper over the leather panel that’s replaced Tommy’s mouth, and he nods in satisfaction. “Thanks to our friend from Oman for that one,” he says for the benefit of the audience. “You’ll learn how to relax around it, little Champ. Don’t be afraid to swallow it down, if you can. That’ll be good practice for you.”
Tommy can just barely hear the chimes from the computer over the rushing in his ears.
“There we are,” Doc soothes, running his hands over Tommy’s shoulders. “Look at Champ, taking to his new place like a duck to water. He says thank you for the nice gift.”
Tommy sobs beneath the gag, but he knows it’s thanks enough for the fucking perverts watching. The silicone seems to swell in his mouth, and he tries again to shift it with his tongue. He only succeeds in pushing drool from his trapped lips. It pastes the leather to his chin.
“Now, hands and knees, little Champ.”
So that Doc can put the tail in.
Tommy can’t obey. His limbs won’t cooperate. He looks up at Doc through his tears and whines.
He’s begging.
Doc chuckles and wraps his warm hands around Tommy’s naked hips. He pushes upward until Tommy’s ass rises and then pulls away.
“There you are, boy. Good boy.”
Doc reaches between Tommy’s legs and strokes him a few times for good measure. Tommy shakes his head, and this time he doesn’t rise. He’s too fucking scared. He just wants it to stop. For Doc to leave him so that he can crawl under his blanket and pretend that he isn’t being prepared like some kind of stuck pig. He stays soft under Doc’s hands.
“Awww, well, that’s alright, Champ. We can try again later, can’t we?”
Doc pulls away, and it’s all Tommy can do to stay upright. He’s shaking so hard that the gag knocks against his back teeth.
Doc presses a lazy finger to Tommy’s hole, and Tommy yelps.
“Oh, that’s certainly unexpected. No one’s ever touched you there, have they, Champ?”
Tommy presses his forehead to the floor, and Doc chuckles.
“Well, then, this may be a bit uncomfortable at first. But don’t you worry, Champ. We’ll leave it in for a while so that you can get used to it, and it’ll get easier every time. Won’t it, folks?”
Tommy’s face is hot with new tears. This is his first time. Cold. Synthetic. Cruel. He will never get this back.
Distantly, he knows there will be another first time, and it will be even worse. But he can’t think about that right now. He hears a soft click behind him, and then he feels Doc’s slippery fingers at his entrance.
One.
Tommy’s chest burns. This isn’t what he wants. This isn’t what he’s ever wanted.
Two.
Tommy screams around the gag in his mouth. Champ waits.
Three.
Tommy is silent, and Champ is a good boy.
Nothing. Empty space.
And then, the bulb shoves in. Champ knows how to take it. Or, if he doesn’t, he is quiet. Good.
Doc jerks the tail side to side, and Champ moans, vibrating the gag in his throat. He is stuffed full.
“See, it isn’t so bad, is it, boy?”
A slap to the ass. He brims with pain.
“Oh!” Doc says. “I almost forgot. One last present.”
Tommy is buried, and Champ does not look up. He feels a wire band slip over his head, and then something soft brushing over his ears. Like fur. His head pops up, and the soft fabric moves with him.
Ears.
“Now you’re a perfect puppy,” Doc says warmly.
He reaches behind to stroke Champ’s tail and gives it another swift jerk. The feeling vibrates through Champ’s core, and he feels himself stir between his back legs.
Doc laughs. “I knew you’d like it, if you just gave it a chance. Now, for today’s special pose. I don’t think we need anything too elaborate–we’ll want to keep you on all fours now.”
The slip lead moves over Champ’s head, and Doc tethers him to the floor in the center of the cage. Champ doesn’t try to move, but if he did, he would realize that he can’t reach anything–not his cot, not his bucket, not his food or water. He is trapped, and he is entirely at Doc’s mercy.
When Doc leaves him, Champ lies on his stomach, pillowing his head on his mittened paws. He cries for a while, but eventually he manages to fall asleep. The computer keeps chiming for hours.
taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @honey-is-mesi, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1926, @flowersarefreetherapy
#tw noncon#the kennel#tommy mahoney oc#doc barker oc#this guy is maybe the most evil whumper i've ever written#so uh#enjoy that i guess
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whumpcereal's master list of master lists
behavior modification
WRU has hired renowned behaviorist Dr. Ivan Peters to refine their training protocol for Romantic acquisitions. When Jack Kenyon–the brilliant young partner of one of Ivan’s med school rivals–applies to be Dr. Peters’ research assistant, he has no idea what he’s signing on for.
the kennel
Will and Tommy are headed on an ill-advised camping trip when they encounter some car trouble. Luckily, Doc Barker is there with a tow and some hot coffee. But when Will wakes at Doc Barker's place the next morning, he realizes that he and Tommy have far more than car trouble on their hands.
#whump#whump writing#behavior modification#behavior modification au#jack kenyon oc#joe prescott oc#ivan peters oc#the kennel#will cartwright oc#tommy mahoney oc#doc barker oc#annie barker oc
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Hi! I absolutely LOVE your writing, I’ve reread both Behavior Modification and The Kennel more times than I can count and I am always devour your posts whenever you make them. You really have an incredible way with words, characters, and whump, and it’s absolutely INCREDIBLE. One thing I think you also do really well—and which I’d like to ask for some pointers on, if it’s not too much trouble—is writing Ivan’s perspective in a way that effectively portrays him as downright despicable, but also complex, engaging, and believable. I want only horrible things to befall him, but I do enjoy the parts of Behavior Modification that are written in his POV as much as the others, and I think it really adds to the work! There’s a part of my (private, unposted, never to see the light of day) story coming up that absolutely has to be written from the villain’s perspective or it’ll spoil a big twist. I’m not used to hanging out in my bad guys’ brains, though. It feels much easier to focus on the victims and their emotions, which are much more understandable and ofc more sympathetic. How do I give my awful bastard a feeling of depth and authenticity when I feel like I can’t relate to pretty much anything he thinks, says, or does? (For all that I do technically dictate his atrocities for that good whump…)
Hello, kind anon!
First of all, THANK YOU! I am going through a big dry spell with my writing right now, and I appreciate all of your kind words more than you can possibly know. Impostor syndrome is real, and we all need reminders to help us feel a little bit more confident, so--thank you so much for that. <3
Second, I think, when it comes to writing villains, the most important thing is remembering that they are their own heroes. Ivan is a shit, yes, but he believes in his own scientific mission, he believes that he has been wronged by Joe, and he believes that he is helping Jack fulfill a destiny that he might have missed. Ivan is just an instrument of science; this is what Jack was always meant for; and Joe deserves the pain of watching Jack fall away because he is the bad guy for not having given Ivan what he wanted back in the day.
If you find your villain's rational motivation for being a villain--for Ivan, it's science and little petty revenge; for Doc, it's a delusion that he's helping people who would otherwise be forgotten and doing it better than WRU--it's easier to write them with complexity. Your readers know your villain is awful, but your villains don't! Why didn't Joe love Ivan? Why didn't Doc's wife understand his rescue operation? They're just people out there peopling, and why doesn't everyone get what it is they're trying to do?
Real people who do bad things--unless there is something very specific amiss in their mental chemistry--sometimes don't understand why what they're doing is so bad. Sometimes they feel remorse too. But their behavior is driven by extremes that I think they either aren't entirely aware of or would believe are beyond their control. They aren't cartoon characters, and perhaps they aren't even inherently evil, but they are deeply flawed.
TL; DR--humanize your villains and see where it leads you.
#i love asks#and this anon#thanks for giving me an excuse to pretend i'm a writer#behavior modification#ivan peters oc#the kennel#doc barker oc#whump#whump writing#craft discussion
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Will 🫶
If you could have talked, if there were no repercussions, what would you have said to Tommy all those times Doc forced him to hurt you, if anything at all?
Would you have told him you understood? Or begged him?
"I mean, I did understand. I do. I do understand. I know--I know that he--he didn't--he didn't want it. I know that. I do."
He looks down at his lap. Sometimes, it's still strange to see fabric where there should be skin.
"But I--is it bad if I--if I would have b-I mean, asked him to stop? I know that he might not have been able to. He told me--he told me that Doc said he'd kill me if Tommy didn't, well, you know. But I--I think that might have been my choice? You know? I mean, you probably don't know. Why would you? But if I could have--if Doc had just--I think--I think I would have wanted that."
He starts to raise his head, and then seems to think better of it.
"Don't tell Tommy? But I would have begged for Doc to kill me instead. Sometimes, I wish he had. But I guess that's not really what you asked, is it?"
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