#box boy whump | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maracujatangerine · 4 months

Text

The Gift Exchange, part 1

CW: institutionalised slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation

“Miss Lydia, Miss Lydia, what do you think about this?.”

Coriander jogged into the kitchen, brandishing a roll of wrapping paper patterned with abstract swirls in silver and dark green. The silver accents glittered in the pale winter morning sunlight falling in through the windows.

“It is really pretty!” Miss Lydia smiled, brown eyes warm. “Good choice, Cory!”

The blonde pet ducked his head, but smiled back from underneath his bangs. He wore a soft, green sweater with leather patches on the elbows that matched his chestnut trousers.

Lydia was dressed in a dark grey, knitted dress with red leggings. She leaned over the table to move the pot with the red and white amaryllis out of the way.

“Should we wrap everything into one present, or should we wrap each gift separately, do you think?”

“T-this pet thinks we should w-wrap one gift for Colton and one for Linden, b-but that all their gifts can be wrapped together.”

“That’s a good idea, let’s do that.”

Coriander spread out several seed packages on the table and studied them thoughtfully. Closest to Lydia was a packet with a picture of lush, green sugar snap peas labelled: ‘Mangetout, pea seeds 'Norli' ORGANIC’. Then, there were two packets both marked ‘Thunbergia alata, Black-eyed Susan’, the first one called ‘African Sunset’ in shades of red and apricot, the second one ‘Alba Oculata’ in brilliant white. The final was a handwritten envelope simply marked in Cory’s neat handwriting: ‘Chili, mix’.

“Are you happy with those seeds?”

“Y-yes, Miss Lydia. C-Colton will be able to grow them on the balcony, and i-it will be fun that we both can try to grow the same seeds. P-perhaps we can compare notes.”

Cory gathered the seed packets and tied them together with a neat red bow. Meanwhile, Lydia grabbed a hardback book. The blue dust jacket had brightly coloured leaves scattered all over the cover. The title stood out in bright white: When we were birds, by Ayanna Lloyd Banwo.

Opening the book, she wrote on the inside of the cover. ‘To Linden. Merry Christmas and best wishes for the new year.’ Signing it, she handed it over to Coriander to add his name too.

“‘It is a bit of a risky gift,” she admitted to Cory, “since I haven’t read the book yet, but it seems so good. I got a copy for myself too, and I hope I will get the chance to read it over the holidays.”

They added two bags of homemade butterscotch candy in green paper cups, and two reused milk cartoons filled with gingerbread cookies, the result of last night’s baking spree.

Lydia and Cory put their joint efforts into wrapping the gifts into two neat packages. The dark, red ribbon a nice contrast to the green and silver wrapping paper.

“Let’s go for a walk and send it off this afternoon.” Coriander nodded.

“Y-yes, Miss Lydia.”

Linden wiggled the pen between his thumb and index finger, deep in thought. Leaning back in his kitchen chair, he looked over at Colton, who was working diligently at the end of the table. With wholly unbroken concentration, he was pulling strips of sellotape from the dispenser and sticking them in a neat row along the table’s wooden edge. When Linden had done the altogether far more fiddly task of wrapping a gift up, Col could pluck a pre-cut piece of tape and stick it in place. It was, as Linden had said about fifty times, excellent teamwork.

“Hey, Col, have you ever seen this before?” Linden asked, lifting his hand for Col to see. With the pen held right in its middle, Linden wiggled it gently, until it looked as if the pen was bending at the edges.

Col’s eyebrows twitched, and for a beautiful second Linden thought he was going to burst out laughing. Instead, his mouth curved upwards into a tiny smile. “Yes, Sir. I have.”

“Ah, not too impressive then. Haha, no matter.”

“Do you need any tape for the envelope, Sir?” Col asked, eyeing the Christmas card laid out in front of Linden.

“In a second… I’m just trying to figure something out.”

“Ah, okay, Sir.”

Col took another breath, as if to speak, then stopped himself. Linden prided himself on reading Col well enough by now to know that it was because he wanted to ask a question. Probably what are you trying to figure out?

“I’ve written my part of Lydia and Cory’s card, but I’m not sure how to do yours. I’m not going to make you try and hold a pen. I was thinking - do you want to just dictate it? It doesn’t have to be much, just a little festive greeting sort of thing. I can be your text-to-speech robot.”

Linden was always cheery around Christmas time. Something about winter setting in, dark and long and rainy, and then being cut through by glittering lights, gifts and music. Today, he felt like he was on a veritable warpath to make Col smile.

“That sounds good, Sir… I can do that.”

“Great!” Linden said, overjoyed that Colton hadn’t taken issue with the idea of ‘dictating’ something to his owner, hadn’t overthought any possible rule-breaking that could come with speaking and forcing his Master to write it all down. “And instead of you signing the card the normal way, I thought you could do a fingerprint?”

“That’s a good idea, Sir, thank you for c-”

“Wait, no!” Linden said, making Col flinch. “Sorry, I’m sorry love. I just realised. We’ll both do our fingerprints. That’ll be nice. Then we’re the same.”

There it was again, the coveted half-smile. Col’s cheeks glowed. “Thank you, Sir, that’s really kind. I think- I, uh…”

“Go on,” Linden said warmly. “I want to hear what you think.”

“I think Lydia and Cory will like that, Sir.”

“I agree. Now, here’s what I’ve written.”

Linden pushed the card over. He’d written a short message making light of the strange way they first crossed paths, saying how glad he now was to know the both of them, wishing them a peaceful and happy holiday. He waited patiently as Colton gave his message some thought, then wrote it down exactly as dictated on the left hand side of the card.

Linden found some stamp ink in the back of a drawer, and the two of them rolled their index fingers in it until they could leave two bold prints, one below each message.

Once the card was sealed, it was time for the gifts. Lydia’s gift was a specially-made book embosser, which had EX LIBRIS - LYDIA WINTERTHORPE printed onto it. The embosser itself was a satisfying, weighty thing, and Linden hoped she’d get great pleasure out of stamping all of her most beloved books.

Cory’s gift was also a bespoke item: a brass door sign with his name, Coriander, printed on it. It had ornate rounded corners which gave the thing a rustic, rather stately look, and although Linden had never seen Lydia’s house he guessed it would fit right in. He had run the gift idea past Col first - would a pet such as Cory be okay with claiming the bedroom as his in this way? Col had given it a fair share of thought, ultimately telling Linden, in a way that sounded more like a sinful confession, that Cory would like it very much.

The two men performed their well-honed wrapping ritual, with Col sticking down the final piece of tape with a flourish.

This is a collaboration between @whumpzone and @maracujatangerine.

We would like to wish you all a Merry Christmas!

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#lydia and linden #lydia and coriander #linden and colton #whump fic #pet whump #pet whumpee #bbu #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #box boy whump #writers on tumblr #original writing #christmas whump #chirstmas

94 notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 4 months

Note

🔪 for Chris!

🔪 Awake surgery

CW: Referenced hand whump, blood, sadism, reluctant whumper, facility whump, BBU

"You have got to be joking." The doctor dried his hands off on the single-use towel he held, watching through the one-way window as the trainee inside sat, shaking his head at a nurse who was speaking to him in a low voice. He shook it less like he was saying no and more like he was simply denying that she was speaking at all. "Him again? What the fuck is Petrus doing to this kid? It's only been, what, four days since I got him out of the clinic in the first place!"

"I mean, you know what he does to him, he's one of the little sluts." The handler rolls his eyes. "Petrus fucks him stupid, not that any of them have brains to begin with. But this time 223499 dropped a glass during his Mixology class. Can't pin it this one on Petrus, it's all on 499 being a little bitch again. His Mixology instructor says he's a clumsy little shit."

"Great. Okay." Dr. Ross has a headache already. He hates this place, hates the crude, aggressive handlers and the way they talk about - and to - the trainees. He hates sewing the injured trainees up only to see them again, with new wounds needing dressed and new terror in their eyes. He hates everything about this job except the paycheck.

He can't wait to get another job and get the hell out of here.

The Facility gets to him - it works its way down under his skin, seeing the haunted, nervous way the trainees looked around all the time, trying to guess where pain would come from next. Trying to curry favor, to avoid the torture constantly forced on them anyway. He's been seeing their frightened faces and hearing them beg in his dreams far too often. "So he's here because..."

"It's a deep cut." The handler shrugs. "He needs stitches."

Dr. Ross looks back at the trainee. 223499 is holding perfectly still while the nurse turns his hand over. His palm is a mess of blood, darker than the new-penny shine of his hair. The trainee's stained fingers twitch nervously.

He's just a kid.

The same kid who'd automatically gone to his knees just a week ago, ready to do whatever he was commanded to, thoughtless obedience making the doctor's stomach turn.

He has to get out of here.

Dr. Ross swallows, feeling like there's a lump in his throat he just can't quite get rid of it. "Fine. I'll prep something to numb his hand, we'll give him a little bit of-"

"Nah." The handler shrugs, looking bored. "His primary's got a note on his file, didn't you see it? No painkillers for three weeks. Not even topical."

Dr. Ross watches 223499 flinch away from the nurse, who slaps him, making him cry out. The sound is muffled through the one-way window. As is the apology the boy provides immediately, stammering through it, only to be slapped again. This time, he doesn't cry out. He only cringes back, hunching into himself, and keeps his eyes down.

It makes Dr. Ross feel sick.

"... fine," He says, realizing the silence is drawing out too long. "I'll get him sewn up. He can go back to his room once it's done. Tell Petrus to leave him alone for one night, at least?"

The handler snorts with dry humor. "Yeah, good luck on that. But I'll tell him you said so. You want me to help you strap him down?"

Dr. Ross doesn't let himself look at the trainee again. "Yeah. Come in and strap him down while I prep."

"You got it, Doc." The handler gives him a lazy salute.

The kid doesn't fight being strapped down, but it doesn't matter. Once the work begins, the kid's back arches, he screams and thrashes wordlessly, then... even worse, he makes noises after like he's dying, low moaning sounds that seem barely human. He's shuddering, whispering apologies when all he'd done was drop a glass and try to clean it up too fast.

Dr. Ross goes home that night with the trainee's screaming in his ears. He hears the sounds the kid makes once the needle goes into his skin all weekend in his nightmares.

On Monday, he emails his resignation, effective immediately.

He's smart enough to have a one-way ticket booked for a country WRU isn't operating in before anyone reads it.

#chris the strawberry blond romantic #223499 #facility whump #bbu #box boy #box boy whump #box boy universe #referenced hand whump #sadistic whumper #reluctant whumper

61 notes · View notes

itsawhumpsideblog · 25 days

Text

The Safehouse, pt. 18

CW: for institutionalized slavery, mentions of abuse, treatment of people as things, medical setting, surgery, panic attack, flashbacks, broken bones and treatment of same

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement:

Given the percentage of rescuees who enter a safehouse with one or more injuries or illnesses which will require medical attention, it is probable that you will be accompanying rescuees to medical appointments early in their time with you. Obtaining medical care can present unique challenges for rescuees and it is important to exercise complete patience with them in a doctor's office or hospital setting. Be aware that the atmosphere in such facilities may bring up difficult memories or even trauma reactions. Be prepared to help rescuees through anxiety or panic attacks, even flashbacks.

The surgery took longer than Angie had expected, or hoped and as it entered the third hour, she was glad that she had gone to get lunch right after they took Mikey. Finding the cafeteria, eating the sandwich, and getting lost on the way back had taken almost an hour and a half; a call to Tim and a chat with the rest of the household had taken another half hour. Since then, she had been sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair, watching the clock and fidgeting. Not for the first time, she opened a game on her phone, played for a few minutes, closed it, and then opened it back up.

Angie tried the TV and found that it was showing an infomercial trying to delude senior citizens into converting their savings into gold bars. She fiddled with the remote, couldn't get it to work, and turned the TV back off. Then she played a podcast she couldn't concentrate on.

She was tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair and staring into space when the door finally opened and Wanda came in, holding some paperwork and smiling. Angie jumped up, fighting down a sudden surge of nervous, excited energy.

"It went great," Wanda said, before anything else. "He did just fine and the doctor said she thinks the procedure was a success."

"Oh, fantastic," Angie said. "That's amazing. I'm so glad to hear it!"

"Me, too. Now, let's go over some paperwork while they finish getting him in a cast and then they'll bring him back here to wake up a little bit. We want him awake and... well, usually we would say talking. But let's go with 'alert' this time. Once he's feeling a little more like himself, we can send him home."

"Sounds great!" Angie could have giggled in sheer relief.

"Okay, so there's no discharge paperwork, as such." Wanda flipped through the papers in the folder. "Not for the hospital, anyway. We've got a form here that should go to your Network contacts, detailing what the surgery was, the cost of it- not that Dr. Silva is charging, but just so their accounting folks are aware- and some discharge instructions." She handed the folder to Angie. "We should be done with him in the next half hour."

"Thank you so much!"

"Of course!" Wanda smiled and let herself back out.

Angie sank back down into the uncomfortable chair in relief, grinning to herself. Then she remembered her other responsibility and picked up her phone.

"Tim?" she asked, when he picked up.

"Yup, I'm here and you're on speakerphone."

"Oh, super, thanks. Hi, guys! I just heard from the nurse. She says Mikey did really well and they're going to bring him back in a few minutes. We'll give him some time to wake up and then we should be on our way home in a couple hours. Just wanted to let you know."

"Did they give you the instructions and everything?" Tim asked.

"Yup, all the paperwork we need. I'll hand it off to you when we get back."

"Excellent, thanks. Text when you're on the way and I'll meet you outside, okay?"

"Yup, will do."

"Thanks for calling, we'll see you soon."

"See you soon!" She hung up, took a deep breath, and sat back to wait.

Mikey was unaware that he had woken up, the first time it happened. He had the impression of being somewhere soft, softer than the garden had ever been before, and warm, too. For the first time he could remember- the first time since the drugs had taken his memory away- there was no pain. He felt like he was floating in a warm cloud and his head was light and sleepy. He let the clouds carry him gently away.

Angie watched Mikey as he lay in the hospital bed, waiting for the anesthesia to wear off and for him to start coming around. He was totally still, which he had been for much of the past week, since his fall, but it felt different this time. He wasn't holding himself rigid, nervous and braced against pain. Instead, he just lay quietly, slightly slack-jawed as he slept. Once, his head stirred and a faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth before he sighed in soft contentment and his breathing slowed and evened as he drifted back off to sleep.

He was still sleeping when Dr. Silva came in with post-surgical information for Angie, outlining instructions for monitoring Mikey's recovery, acceptable activity levels, and a basic plan for continuing treatment.

"He did well," she said at last. "I know we really kept you waiting but-" she shook her head. "There was a lot to fix. He's going to be in the casts for a long time and some sort of brace for even longer. I'm not sure I can say exactly how long it'll be, not until we see how his healing is progressing. We're talking months, though, not weeks. The scarring is likely to be extensive, although we did our best. And his joints will probably always ache a little, especially that shoulder." She sighed. "I really wish it was all better news. But there is some good news, which is that when this is all said and done, eventually he'll be able to use his hands and arms. And he won't be in nearly as much pain, which is the important part. The process won't be pretty, but when it's done, everything will be much, much better."

"Thank you," Angie said. "He would thank you, too, if he could." She looked over and smiled at Mikey, still resting peacefully.

The peace did not last.

When the anesthesia wore off, Mikey woke suddenly and completely, the way he had done when he slept every night outdoors and needed to respond instantly to his Master. When his eyes snapped open, he realized that something was very, very wrong.

All he could see were white walls and a white ceiling with bright lights that seemed to shine directly into his eyes. The brightness stung and Mikey squeezed his eyes shut for just a second, as if, when he opened them, he might find himself somewhere more familiar.

But when he gathered his courage for a second look, nothing had changed. He was still in the strange, monochrome room with the blinding lights and he was lying down. Nearby, something was beeping ominously and Mikey felt his heart speed up and adrenaline dump into his system, like it did when he heard those first footsteps cracking a stick somewhere in the dark at the edge of Master's property.

His mind was still hazy from the drugs and not really awake yet, and Mikey had the terrible, foreboding sense that he wasn't supposed to be there- wherever "there" was.

It never occurred to him to be frightened by the fact that he did not remember having come to the strange, white room. Mikey lacked memories of so much that this new gap in his life was barely meaningful. What was very meaningful was that Master was going to wonder where he had gone.

Then, suddenly, Mikey had a flash of memory of another Pet, tall and thin and dark-haired, bringing him fruit wrapped in a towel, and his stomach clenched. If he was here, what had happened to the other Pet? Was he here, too, or had he been sent... Mikey could not even imagine where else the other pet might have been sent. But he knew it would be bad.

All these thoughts crossed Mikey's mind within seconds, a collection of fears and memories and associations that came to him automatically and without larger context. Then he realized, again, that he was lying down on a soft surface and he broke into a cold sweat.

Soft surfaces were not for Pets. He must not be found here. He had to move, whatever it cost him. The cost would be so much higher if they caught him like this.

But when Mikey tried to sit up, he couldn't. Something tugged at his face- a muzzle? It was blowing cold air into his nose. And he couldn't seem to bend his body to begin sitting, or force his aching muscles to lift him. Mikey looked frantically around but without actually taking in his surroundings.

He dropped one leg over the side of whatever the soft surface was and tried again to sit up and found that was impossible. When he swung his right arm up to try to shift his balance and rise, he was horrified to find that it was restrained, tied up in some kind of cloth, and he couldn't even see his fingers properly, only the very ends of them. When he tried to wiggle them, pain shot down his fingers and they didn't even move.

Even worse, his left arm was immobile. He couldn't see it under the blanket, but it was probably tied to something, strapped tightly down to keep him from doing what he knew a good Pet should do. He strained every muscle trying to sit up, kicked his legs to shift his balance, threw his right arm forward in almost grotesque exertion. But he barely moved.

When the door opened, if Mikey had been able to make a sound, he would have screamed. As it was, his eyes widened, his fight-or-flight response in full activation, and he tried one last time in futile terror to right himself.

"Oh my god," Mistress gasped. "Mikey, what- I was only gone for a second- I'm so, so sorry." She hurried over to the bed. "Hey, hey- careful, you- oh geez-" She put a steadying hand on his right shoulder and finally Mikey's eyes landed on her face.

It all came flooding back to him in a rush, like being struck. The terrible beating they had given him the night his old Master died; the time in a cage; the journey to live with Master and Mistress.

Then, even better, he remembered everything that had come since. A comfortable bed he was meant to use and enough food to eat and a television to watch; Nathan's cheerful company and the joy of being re-united with someone who had become a friend; gentle Francis who told him stories when he couldn't sleep and who held his head when he had fallen and was hurting.

Best of all, he remembered that Master smiled and laughed and spoke softly, and that Mistress talked to him like she enjoyed his company and she had kind hands and Master and Mistress looked after them and never, never hurt them.

Mikey remembered all these things in a flash of knowledge, the same sudden wash of memory that only moments before had caused him such terror, and then he realized that Mistress was standing over him with her hand on his shoulder. If it had been any of his old Masters, Mikey would have been frightened but he found that even now, standing like that, Mistress didn't frighten him at all. She didn't look angry, only dismayed and- maybe even worried.

He looked up at her as if he was searching for answers to many questions and she smiled comfortingly at him. "Do you remember where you are?"

Mikey wasn't sure and didn't know whether to nod or shake his head, so he simply waited and watched her.

"You're in the hospital," she reminded him and now he did nod, a little uncertainly. That might be true- he might remember the morning, if that wasn't a dream.

"You had surgery, to fix your shoulder and your hands and everything. You won't remember that, because you were asleep for it, but it's over now." He nodded again. "The doctor says you're going to be fine- your hands and arms will be a lot better when you're done healing."

He gave her another nod, since she probably expected it, but he wondered if she would explain why they had tied his left arm down. Mikey felt that there must be a reason for it, but something was making his head feel fuzzy and it was hard to think. Hoping she would understand, he raised his bound right hand and looked questioningly down at it.

"Yeah," she said, as if she was continuing a conversation. "I know that probably feels weird. And it's going to be hard, not having your right hand to use, even a little bit-"

Wait. What did she mean, he wasn't going to have his hand anymore? Forgetting the strange stiffness holding his left arm and the way he was restrained from sitting up, Mikey tried to raise himself and looked frantically from his hand to Mistress. His hand was still there, wasn't it? He could see his fingertips, a little bit, under the heavy bandages and surely it wouldn't hurt so badly when he tried to move it if he didn't have a hand-

Mistress made a face that Mikey didn't realize was guilt. "You don't remember what happened at all, do you?" she asked. He shook his head, a little frantically now, starting to feel his heart speed up and beginning to sweat.

"Oh geez. I'm sorry," she said, and he was surprised to find that she actually seemed to mean it. "I'll start from the beginning. So, during the surgery, they basically put all your bones back where they're supposed to be, right? So they can heal and they won't hurt all the time." Now Mikey nodded again as the memory slipped through the fog in his head, of Master explaining this at home last week.

"And now that it's done, they have to hold all those bones and joints and whatever still, so they can heal. So everything will stay where it's supposed to be. Right?" A nod. "And to do that, they put on some casts. The one on your right hand is like what Nathan had on his leg when he first came home. Remember that?" Mikey found that he did.

"They need your whole hand not to move for- I don't know, a long time. Like a couple months, at least. And they did the same thing to your left arm and your shoulder, but that was a lot worse and it's kind of an awkward spot, so they put the cast over your whole arm and then they attached it around your body to hold your shoulder still."

Mikey just stared. So he wasn't actually tied to the bed? But he couldn't move his arm at all. Well- he hadn't really been able to before, either. Maybe in some ways, this wouldn't be so different.

"Do you want to see it?" Mistress asked. She almost sounded nervous and Mikey wondered if he should be nervous, too. Very gently, Mistress drew back the blanket that covered Mikey from his shoulders down, except where he had thrown it off trying to get up.

When he could see it, he stared at his left arm. The cast was blue and covered his shoulder and then went all the way down over his fingers, just like the one on the right. His arm was bent at the elbow so that his forearm was parallel to the floor and angled across the front of his body. There was a band of the same material around his chest, holding his arm still.

"Does it feel really weird?" Mistress asked, and he didn't even bother to nod. Somehow, he felt that she would know his answer.

"Don't worry," Mistress told him, but it sounded more like an offer than an order. "We'll take care of you. You're going to be just fine."

Mikey nodded, but he thought that getting used to this was not going to be easy.

Next Time: Mikey comes home from the hospital, to his housemates' great relief.

Master List

Notes: These keep being longer than I expected, so I'm adjusting the previously listed summary to account for that. A good problem to have!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

#bbu #box boy universe #box boy whump #whump #whumpee #the safehouse #pet whump #surgery whump #medical whump

35 notes · View notes

boxboysandotherwhump · 1 year

Text

Sam on the drip.

#whump #whump art #whump animation #pet whump #pet whumpee #facility whump #box boy whump #boxboy whump #boxboy #boxboys #box boy #box boys #box boy universe #boxboy universe #bbu #sam the medic #look at the fancy camera movement #so fancy

440 notes · View notes

catty-whump-us · 1 year

Text

First time posting my whump art, please be kind 🙏

if you guys like this, I might open myself up for whump/box boy art requests!

183 notes · View notes

bannysburrow · 1 year

Text

I had a dream last night about a pet and their master. The master wasn’t really kind, but they also weren’t like “I’m going to beat you for not cleaning that one measly speck of dust”. The pet was extremely devoted to their master, but tragedy struck one morning when the master’s bed is empty. The pet looks all over the house for them, but it’s no use. They’re gone.

The master’s friend comes over to help. Months later, the master is found at a pet shop by their friend and they are one of the pets for sale. The master’s friend buys them to get them out of there. When they get home, the pet immediately kneels at their former master’s feet, begging them to punish them for not being able to protect them. Meanwhile, the master is like, “Why is this strange person bowing to me?” The master’s friend explains the situation to the pet. Cue a bunch of misunderstandings and caretaking.

#pet whump #box boy universe #box boy whump #bbu #whumper turned whumpee #whumpee turned caretaker #conditioned whumpee #multiple whumpees #might write this #i dunno

268 notes · View notes

parasiticstars · 4 months

Text

What kind of food does captive whumpee eat?

What do they long for?

Do they ever miss their cultural food?

The longer they’re away, does the slow leeching of their identity, humanity, and culture ever bring them to tears?

Do they still know where they came from?

Could they ever be reconnected? Or will they always feel like an outsider in their own home, their own world, their own family; even if they’re ever brought back?

Are they an immigrant or descended from immigrants? Is the forced assimilation/whitewashing hitting harder now that they’re entirely powerless?

What is their cultural food?

What kind of food does whumpee eat?

27 notes · View notes

bunnyboy-whumpee · 3 months

Text

Reasons why you should buy a pet of the same breed as Osheen:

They're super cute and obedient, perfect to have at home, they can follow complex instructions and perform all kinds of tasks.

They come in a variety of sizes and colors, you can ask for any specific features and there Will most likely be a pet that fits your preferences.

They are pocket sized! Most of them are 150 to 165 cm tall, unlike most humans, they stop growing pretty early in life.

They have a longer lifespan than the average house pet.

They reproduce really fast and can have litters of Up to 6 pups. They can also be breed with other pets and even with their owners so be careful.

Their youthful appearance and soft manerisms make them perfect to be used as nannies or to entetain guests. They can also be hidden at plain sight, given that they are humans bred only for the purpose of being pets.

21 notes · View notes

whumpcereal · 3 months

Text

behavior modification, a valentine special

hi! long time, no see. i was home sick from work today and marathoning valentine movies, so here's some sentimental jack and joe for you. part of behavior modification (masterlist here), takes place sometime in the first year after jack's rescue, during his lawsuit against WRU for his freedom.

content warnings for: trauma responses, references to past noncon, tooth-rotting fluff

future snippet, sealed with a kiss

“Is this for your special someone?”

The clerk’s smile is impossibly large; if she smiles any wider, Joe is convinced her face will crack. He understands. She’s probably asked this question at least seventy-five million times in the last week, and it’s a pointless one. Valentine cards are a perfunctory part of being in a relationship. Even if you don’t think your someone is all that special, you still buy them a card because that’s what the day demands. It’s part of the reason Joe never really cared about Valentine’s Day before. The forced displays of affection, the candy pink sheen of it all–it never seemed to reflect the kind of love Joe knew to be true.

But this year, it’s different. This year, the clerk’s question isn’t so pointless. Joe looks down at the red envelope in his hand, and he cannot hide his own smile. “Yes, it is. Someone very special.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll love it!” the clerk sing-songs back. With a pop of her gum, she grabs the card and scans it.

Joe doesn’t correct her. At least, not overtly. “I hope he does,” he says softly, but the clerk doesn’t look up.

They never really celebrated Valentine’s Day before. Sure, Joe liked to rage against the consumer machine, but it was really Jack’s doing. Jack was indifferent, or, at least, he pretended to be. The truth was gift-giving occasions always made him a little uncomfortable. In Jack’s mind, gifts were offered only as part of a fucked-up trade; something he might want for something he certainly didn’t want to give. Joe had learned that the hard way.

They had been seeing each other maybe a month at the time, but Jack was already spending most of his nights at Joe’s place, even if they hadn’t quite consummated their relationship yet. Joe didn’t know at the time that Jack had basically been squatting in the library study carrels and showering at the fitness center, but even if he had, he was more than happy to have Jack with him as much as possible.

It had been a hard week. Jack was marking exams as well as taking his own, and Joe had been preparing for a conference; neither of them had come up for air in days. But when the grades were submitted and the presentation finalized, Joe thought they should celebrate. He thought he’d surprise Jack, and he brought home an expensive bottle of champagne and flowers.

Jack had paled when Joe handed him the roses. “What are these for?” he’d asked.

“For you, silly. For getting through this bear of a week.” Because I love you, Joe had thought but not said. It was too early. But he kissed Jack’s cheek, because that was something he was allowed to do. It made his body feel electric.

But when he pulled away, Jack was still staring at the roses. “Thank you.” He didn’t sound particularly thankful.

“Are you okay?”

A vacant nod. “Yeah. They’re beautiful. Thank you.” Jack set the roses down and turned toward the pantry. “Let me just get dinner started, and then–”

“You don’t have to make dinner tonight, Jack.” It was before Jack was his Jackie. Before Joe knew what he knows now. “I thought we could kick back and relax. Celebrate.”

“Of course,” Jack said softly, his chin dipping into the hollow of his throat. “Of course we’ll celebrate. I’ll take care of you.”

Joe knows that tone of voice now. The faraway note that lets him know Jack is falling back into old habits, a tone that, these days, precipitates a whispered sir. But he didn’t know then.

He didn’t see the way that Jack gnawed on his lip for a split second before he launched himself bodily at Joe, their hips crashing together, Jack’s hands in Joe’s hair. Joe fumbled to set the champagne on the counter behind him, to wrap his hands around Jack’s waist, but Jack’s fingers were already plucking open Joe’s shirt buttons, his mouth close behind. Jack was on his knees so quickly that Joe wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Jack–ohmygod, Jack.”

It was everything Joe wanted, but he didn’t know yet that it wasn’t what Jack wanted. Not until he’d looked down and seen tears squeezing from Jack’s pruned eyelids.

“Jack?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I can’t, I just–I know you deserve it. I know what you want. I’ll try again. I’m sorry.”

It was then that Joe realized. The flowers. The champagne. Jack assumed they were all part of a transaction.

Jack told him everything that night. About Bill and the others. And Joe learned. He never surprised Jack that way again. Even after Jack came home from WRU–no, especially then–Joe tried to avoid surprises. For Jack, tokens of affection were part and parcel of an economy where he was the commodity. Joe doesn’t want him to feel that way, not ever again.

But a card. A card is different.

Joe knows about WRU’s training protocol now. Jack is lucky. Those bastards may have burrowed their poison into his brain, but he still has his words; he can still read. It was one of the only things that gave him comfort when he came home. Books were some of the only things he didn’t ask to touch. Joe understands. Words matter more than things.

The clerk pops her gum again. “You want a bag and a gold seal?”

“No, that’s all right.” Joe manages to stop short of telling her that he’s going to seal this one with a kiss.

“Well, have a happy Valentine’s day, sir.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The card is in its envelope when Joe lets himself into the apartment, and Jack is in the kitchen. The apartment is fragrant with a warm, red wine smell. Joe tiptoes to stand in the cheap stucco archway. He watches the way Jack’s basketball short-clad hips move softly to the old fashioned jazz that’s coming from the speaker on the counter. His body is shyer somehow, more tentative in its movements, but still lithe and beautiful. Jack is still Jack, even after everything he’s been through.

Joe lets out a low whistle, and Jack turns, a pasta server in his hand and a shy smile on his lips. Joe’s knees practically buckle.

“You’re home,” Jack says.

“I’m home, baby.” Joe moves into the kitchen, and when Jack offers his lips, Joe takes them, resting a soft hand on Jack’s hip. “What are you making?”

“Red wine pasta with toasted walnuts and arugula,” Jack says easily. He kisses Joe’s jawline.

“I know what one of those things is.”

Jack laughs. “My gourmand.”

“Or something!”

“How was your day, Joey?” Jack disengages slowly and goes to pour Joe a glass of wine.

It’s a difficult question some days. Jack’s days are so different from Joe’s. He isn’t allowed to leave the apartment without supervision until the litigation with WRU is over. Until it’s done, Jack is still technically Joe’s property. But only technically. Joe reminds himself of that every day.

“It was alright. I missed you.” But it’s easier now. Now, Joe has far fewer opportunities to miss his Jackie.

Jack smiles, sneaking a sip from the glass before he hands it to Joe. “I missed you too.”

Joe raises his glass and leans back against the cheap countertop. “I would’ve been home earlier, but I had to make a special stop.”

Jack is back at the stove. He upends the wine bottle into a sauce pan, and a cloud of rich steam rises in its wake. “Why’s that?”

“I wanted to get you a card for Valentine’s Day.” Joe says it gently, so that it will not be a surprise.

Jack freezes, his hand hovering over the sauce pan for just a second, but then his shoulders relax. He peeks at Joe. “You? Mr. ‘Conversation-Hearts-Are-Nuggets-of-Corporate-Greed’?”

Joe smothers his own smile. Jack remembers. “Yes, me.” He pulls the card from his pocket. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jackie.”

Jack puts a lid over the pan and turns around. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“You’re all the gift I need,” Joe whispers, because it is true. Every one of the days he spends with Jack is a gift. He knew that even before, but every nerve in his body is certain of it now.

Jack tries to roll his eyes, but Joe can see that his words have landed. “Well, thank you,” Jack says softly. His fingertips whisper against Joe’s when he reaches for the card.

“Open it up, baby.”

Jack complies, carefully opening the red envelope that Joe absolutely kissed without a hint of irony after he licked the seal and pressed it closed. The card itself isn’t so special; just the standard hearts and flowers schlock that all the stores sell this time of year. But Joe’s written his own message inside. He watches Jack’s eyes move like a typewriter carriage over his uneven scrawl.

Jackie,

I know we don’t usually do this, but I feel like I haven’t told you enough how grateful I am that you are home. Nothing felt right without you, and I know now that it never could. You are my home. You are stronger than any foundation, and I will never stop thanking God that you choose to be with me, even after everything you’ve been through. And it is your choice. You have every choice. You deserve that.

I choose you, every day. I always will.

Love,

Joe

When Jack looks up again, his blue eyes are glassy with tears. “Joey–”

“I didn’t mean to–”

Jack shakes his head. He folds the card carefully and stares down at it. “You didn’t. Joe?”

Joe takes a hesitant step forward. “What is it, baby?”

“I choose this. I do.”

Jack reaches for him then, and Joe pulls Jack into his chest. “I know you do. And even if you didn’t or if–if someday, you don’t, I’ll always be grateful for this. Right now.”

Jack lets Joe hold him, and Joe knows exactly what this moment is worth. He wraps his arms so tightly around Jack that, if he didn’t know exactly how strong Jack is, he might crush him. But no one can crush Jack, and Joe knows how to hold him. Joe knows how to give him room and keep him close all at once. Joe knows how to let him choose.

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy1, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @termsnconditions-apply, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @ramadiiiisme, @sunnie, @sadboysanonymous, @panic-whump

#behavior modification #jack kenyon oc #joe prescott oc #box boy universe #box boy whump #recovery whump #whump writing #haven't done much with these boys in ages #so have this humble offering #and enjoy the pleasure pain of a tough recovery #and their love #haaaa

77 notes · View notes

cuteangsty · 11 months

Text

Pet shelter Whump (Interactive)

masterlist

finally, I finished the drawing, so where did we stop? oh yeah...

no crate. just the car, back seat (caretaker route)

the lady follows you to your car at the parking lot with the 2 pets on the standard dark blue leash from the shelter, you glace at them. both visibly nervous. the brunette is gently holding the blond by shirt, walking behind him. you wonder if perheaps his sight is worse than you previously imagined. the trainer herself seems skeptcal of letting them loose in the car, but agrees to it anyway.

#984772, the blonde is very eager to jump on the back seat, although a little confuse he is a very good mood, while #860617 had a lot of trouble getting in.

"go on, honey〜! your new owner is waiting〜!" the lady sang quite impatient, trying to push him in as "not rudely" as possible.

"um..." he finally enters the car and crawls to the other pet as fast as possible. he seems to whisper something on the blond's ear as he taps the the seats, the windows and the doors of the car. you try to listen to their conversation, but the only thing you manage to pick up was the blonde huming in agreement, you guess that blind pet probably asked about the crates.

You say good bye to the trainer and start the car, #860617 jolts in his seat. It will be quite a long trip, the shelter was pretty isolated from your small town.

you didn't even notice it, initially but, the blond pet has already opened his window and is enjoing the breeze, tho his good mood isn't enough to calm down the brunette. he is in a very unconfortable position, trembling and clawing the seat. it seems like he has never been in loose in a car before, it makes sense considering he has only had one previous owner. every move of the car causes him to jolt or flinch. you start to think perheaps it wasn't a good idea to let them loose like this.

about 1 hour has passed since you've been driving, the blind pet seems to have calmed down a little, but not much. You're already getting in your neighborhood.

your current inventory:

1 bag of cheap dry pet food

1 sample of a more expensive pet food

2 chewtoys

2 collars w/ leashes (they are wearing)

6 chocolate chips

123 notes · View notes

pigeonwhumps · 4 months

Text

Belt

Bug and Company masterlist

AMOW Winter Whumperland: day 10

Tio de Nadal | Conditioning | Left to Die | Holiday Traditions

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Brett accidentally triggers Charlie.

(Charlie is briefly introduced as 726E here.)

CWs: BBU, pet whump, carewhumper, brief mention of animalisation, dehumanisation, self-dehumanisation, non-sexual partial nudity, forced to participate in punishment, mentions of severe past abuse talked about as punishments, mentions of people being hired out, conditioned whumpee

"Ah! I remember! Of course, that's what I need!"

Brett snaps his fingers in excitement. Of course, how could he have forgotten that? He must've managed to keep Charlie's celebration so secret he forgot about it himself.

He's feeling so pleased with himself that it's a minute before he notices what he's automatically taken. It's Charlie's belt, folded neatly in his outstretched hand.

He hears the rustling of fabric and turns.

It's like it's happening in slow motion. Brett watches, horrified, as Charlie pulls off his t-shirt, drops his trousers, and leans on – no, braces himself against – the wall.

Brett can't move for what feels like hours. Most of his beloved pet's behaviour was conditioned by his previous owners, not the training centre, and he dreads finding out what they did to cause this one.

Then he notices the trembling. That snaps him back into action.

"Charlie," he says cautiously, "What are you... no. No. Tell me your previous owners, The Shelter or whatever they call that building, tell me they didn't beat you with your own belt."

Charlie nods slightly, not enough to dislodge his position, and the fact that he's moving so shallowly tells Brett the pet's knees have locked. He needs to get him sat down before things get worse.

"No. I would never do that. Why don't you pull up your trousers, and then we can sit down? I'll help you stay standing, hang on."

He snakes an arm under Charlie's shoulder, and his pet pulls his trousers up slowly before obediently sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Charlie's eyebrows furrow, and then his eyes widen, and Brett knows he's realised that an important conversation is about to happen. If it wasn't, Brett would've helped him into his own soft bed, now more height-adjustable than normal pet beds to help with his legs.

"We need to have a conversation Charlie, which I think you realise. I know this is partly my fault, because Mandy told me not to snap my fingers at you and I forgot, but do you remember what I told you soon after you arrived and recovered, three months ago now?" Charlie nods. "Can you tell me?"

"That you wouldn't hurt me," croaks out Charlie. "That none of my punishments would be physical, and if any of them were too traumatising, to tell you and you'd change it."

"We'd change it," he corrects quietly. He needs Charlie's input for this. He has so many triggers, and some things he physically can't do. Besides, it's a bit of a reminder. "But that's right. So what made you think I would today?"

"You snapped your fingers, sir. And you're my owner, a person, you can change your mind, that's allowed. I'm only a pet, sir, I'd deserve being beaten or whipped or– or whatever you would do if you so desired, sir."

Brett feels sick. Charlie has so many scars, inside and out, and he's willing to receive more.

"Well, I think it bears reiterating that I will never do anything like that to you. The worst punishments you'll ever receive from me will be things like missing dessert or cleaning up and buying a replacement of things you break. Okay? Nothing severe."

"Yes, sir."

Does he believe it? Who knows. Hopefully he will one day.

There's a long silence, before Brett says, quieter again, "I swear to you, Charlie, I will never let anything like that happen to you again." Charlie bites his lip. "Sweetheart?"

"Even if I'm a very bad dog, sir? You said before but– but you won't treat me like a mutt?"

"No. Certainly not the way your previous owners and clients treated you. And I don't want to know the reason you felt like you had to ask or why you phrased it like that, do I?"

"No, sir."

"Okay. How about I fetch you some water and your favourite treat, and then we continue reading the Charlie Bone books? I imagine curled up next to me isn't the most comforting place right now, but you can always lie on your bed."

"Sir?"

Brett shrugs, slightly embarrassed still after an employee commented that he spoils Charlie even more than Mathonwy. "I always give Mathonwy a treat when he's upset, don't I?"

"Yes, sir."

Charlie knows not to talk back too often, but Brett elaborates anyway. "The planning can wait." After all, ice cream cakes aren't hard to make, apparently. He's more than willing to pay Mandy overtime for her help if necessary. "Can you make it to your bed unassisted?"

"Yes, sir."

Brett smiles and ruffles Charlie's hair. "Go on then. I'll be back in a minute."

And finally, finally, he gets a small quirk of the lips out of his beloved pet.

#whump #whump writing #bug and company #726e oc #brett oc #bbu #box boy universe #box boy whump #box boy #pet whump #disabled whumpee #carewhumper #dehumanisation #conditioned whumpee #touchstarved

32 notes · View notes

maracujatangerine · 1 year

Text

73.1 Forum Discourse

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

Posted by u/GreenBookworm 3 days ago:

Hi!

So, I haven’t really posted here before, but I’m at my wit’s end and I really hope that some of you can help me.

I have a male pet that I got from some less-than-ideal circumstances. He’s been with me for over a year now and he is really making progress. I think he is trusting me more and more and it seems like he is getting over some of his previous experiences.

Still, he wakes up from terrible nightmares very often. I’m not sure how to comfort him and how to make him feel safe. What do you think, how can I fix this situation?

TL;DR: My pet has terrible nightmares, what can I do?

Futureiteration77 – 3 days ago: How many times per day are your beating him?

ManiacalTiger – 3 days ago: I have a similar problem. My pet is always crying at night and keeping up the rest of the house. What do you recommend?

Futureiteration77 – 3 days ago: At least twice per day or they have too much pent up energy. As an pet owner it is your responsibility to help them manage and release this.

ManiacalTiger – 2 days ago: I have been doing at least three times and still have issues.

Blue_prominence – 3 days ago: What kinds of nightmares? Can u get him to give u more specific details? B specific.

GreenBookWorm - 2 days ago: Idk, really. He doesn’t like to talk about it. It is usually about the training, I think. Sometimes he talks about white rooms that are neverending - that is usually the exact phrase that he uses. Sometimes, it seems to be about his former masters. (He’s had several.) He screams and cries, sometimes he just seems… empty. Do your pets act the same?

Imaginativesloth – 2 days ago: Get him retrained.

Densecircus281 – 2 days ago: ^^ Good suggestion. That’s what I did.

Fancycyclone1565 – 2 days ago: Try NyQuil and Dramamine, both available OTC. Sometimes we also give ours an edible to help them sleep soundly all night.

Throwaway7966123 – 2 days ago: You could ask him if a nightlight would help.

AbsentSnark – 2 days ago: That’s ridiculous!!!!!! He won’t know that, it will only make the problem worse!! This is terrible advice. People shouldn’t come on here without having a basic understanding of how helpless and brainless pets are. It is shocking how much misinformation and bad advice is out there.

GreenBookWorm - 2 days ago: That is a good idea! I haven’t thought about that, thanks! Does your pet have a nightlight? Does he or she have nightmares, too?

Temporarydaybreak987 – 2 days ago: It may be difficult to face the time apart but retraining by professionals is the best option for both pet and owners.

Sunset_Lover – 2 days ago: I suggest finding a separate, soundproof room where you can lock him up at night. Even if he starts crying, it won’t wake you up. Edit: If you don’t have spare room you could use a muzzle

DeepSeaSquid – 2 days ago: if your Pet is a cuddly type, you can let him sleep near you? Mine is really needy and since I let him in my room his night crying has reduced almost completely. But again, it depends on your Pet’s type.

RueTheNymph – 2 days ago: I swear, those people. If you treat him softly like that he will never stop being clingy. Give him few beatings or whatever form of punishment he responds to the best and he will learn not to waste your time

DeepSeaSquid – 1 day ago: Thank you very much for your useless advice. Have you considered that my Pet is clingy because I want him that way? And if beatings simply worked then there would not be a need to make this post, hmm?

RueTheNymph - 1 day ago: You shouldn’t be allowed to be an Owner

DeepSeaSquid - 1 day ago: Lol, forgive me for wanting to have a lapdog

roses-and-embers - 1 day ago: @DeepSeaSquid nothing wrong with wanting to cuddle, but are you sure your Pet is not crying on purpose to manipulate you into letting him into your room?

DeepSeaSquid - 1 day ago: That’s a valid suspicion, but I am sure he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s having nightmares even if I’m not at home and someone else is watching him, besides he’s too well-behaved to dare to try and manipulate me.

This post is a collaboration with brilliant @distinctlywhumpthing and @octopus-reactivated. ✨❤️✨

It is a crossover AU with Leo from Distinctlywhumptning’s Unintentional. We also have a cameo from Octopus-reactivated’s Decima from Title me Miss. For Lydia and Coriander, this is canon.

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#pet whump #pet whumpee #caretaker #whump fic #bbu #conditioned whumpee #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #box boy whump #collaboration #lydia and coriander #original writing #writeblr

130 notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 8 months

Note

💊 Forced to swallow pills - Kauri

CW: Drug use, drunkenness/alcohol use, dubcon, Kauri's Poor Life Choices

No one even tells him what it is before there's a hand at his mouth and then a cup to his lips, liquid forcing something smooth and small down his throat as he reflexively swallows.

Kauri doesn't ask, either.

He doesn't even care.

He just coughs against the burn of the sickly-sweet liquor, apple-flavored vodka that tastes like those hard candies he sucks on sometimes when his panhandling isn't going well and he can't afford dinner.

The whole reason he came here is because they'd promised him free pizza, and they definitely kept that promise. He'd eaten plenty earlier, and then there's been some fooling around, and now there was some kind of movie night and potentially an orgy? He hasn't figured out if there's going to be an orgy yet.

In training, there had been some, sometimes. He remembers how it felt to have them all around him, some trainees like him, some demo pets to help them learn, handlers directing all the action, grabbing and jerking and slapping.

Kauri had aced the orgies.

At least, until Owen found out he was being trained for them and put a stop to it, because he wanted his little pet to only ever pine for him. Kauri had missed getting to see the other trainees, whisper to them, hear news or just talk to someone who felt as bad as he did.

But he doesn't feel bad right now.

He's already drunk, and he thinks a little high just from the smoke in the air in the small room, the press of bodies around him. No one's doing anything, really - just laying here for now, with a movie playing to no one in particular in the corner. Maybe some people are wearing less clothing than they should, but that's normal.

He keeps seeing Vincent fucking Shield on the screen, making serious faces while solving a mystery. Vincent fucking Shield, smiling brightly and kissing a woman with false passion, and Kauri wonders if he'd kissed Owen like that, ever.

Every time he feels himself getting angry about Vincent fucking Shield and his perfect fucking movie-star life, he takes another drink, or runs his hand up someone's thigh, or lets someone kiss him with their own vodka-soaked tongue sliding into his mouth.

Maybe there isn't an orgy.

Maybe Kauri is the orgy by himself.

He can handle that.

He's seated on the floor, between some stranger's spread legs, the denim of the guy's jeans bookending him, seams rubbing rough against his bare arms. Kauri's shirt is off - he has no fucking clue where it is. He might have left it in the one guy's bedroom, or in the bathroom. Or the kitchen.

Where did someone ask him for it first?

Can't remember.

Not important.

"Give that about half an hour," Someone says, half-shouting to be heard over the din, "And you're gonna fucking fly, gorgeous!"

For a second, Kauri has no clue what the asshole next to him is talking about. Then he remembers the pill, the something down his throat, and he laughs, bright and brittle as light shining off sugar cooked as thin and clear as glass.

"Hope so," He breathes. "What is it?"

"Don't worry about it!"

That should probably bother him to hear. It doesn't. He just giggles some more. The guy whose legs he's nestled between leans down and offers him a joint. He takes a hit, and wonders idly what Jake is doing right now. It's close to midnight, but Jake barely sleeps. Probably studying for some fucking test or writing an essay, the kind of shit you can't do when your brain has been made into malleable putty for someone like Owen to mold.

If Kauri called him now, he'd answer. Disappointed, and he'd tell him he shouldn't keep putting himself at risk like this. He'd get to hear Jake's soft voice chiding him for fucking his own life over after he just got to start it, and he's tempted.

Just to listen, because once Jake gets started on that lecture he'll talk forever, and all Kauri has to do is hum sometimes to show he hears it.

"Hey." The guy takes a joint back, blows smoke at him, giggles with an odd high-pitched tone that makes Kauri's teeth itch. "How many dicks you think you can suck before the movie ends?"

For one single solitary second, Kauri lets himself feel a well of loathing and shame that will shatter him to pieces the size of glitter flakes if he lets it. In a room full of strangers, they all know what he is as soon as he walks in the door.

Oh, they may not know why he covers his wrist in long sleeves and leather bracelets, but they know what he'll do, and that he won't say no.

They know Kauri Grant is always up for anything, or anybody, at any time.

For just that one breath, he thinks that if he has to keep going like this, he'll just turn himself in to WRU, because at least Owen doesn't pass him around. Owen wants his pretty little Vince-slut all to himself.

And fuck, wouldn't it be better than living like this?

Then he pushes it back down, reminds himself that if he goes back to Owen he won't get to talk to Jake or Nat or the little redhead that just showed up again. He tells himself to give it another few weeks, maybe it'll get better.

Just a few more weeks.

Kauri takes another long hit from the joint, sucking it from right between the guy's fingers, and when he exhales, he breathes, "Don't know, but why don't we find out?"

"Awesome! Kauri, you are the fucking best." The guy hands the joint off to someone else, and his fingers are on his zipper a minute later as he watches Kauri with heavy-lidded eyes. Kauri turns, shifting from seated to kneeling, pressing hands on the guy's knees to spread them even more, swallowing against the nausea threatening to boil back up his throat.

He can't. He can't throw up right now.

Not until that pill dissolves and he forgets to give a fuck about this anymore. Until he forgets that he hates these people, and the drugs, and the alcohol, and his entire fucking life that he has to live because Vincent fucking Shield didn't want to fuck Owen Grant.

He puts every ounce of training into it, and after the third guy his jaw hurts too much to think anyway, and the world has gone soft and glimmering around the edges. Everyone tastes like apples and sugar because of the liquor they keep feeding him, and everyone tells him how good he is, how sweet, how fucking pretty.

It feels good, or at least it feels less terrifyingly bad than he felt before, and that's pretty much the same thing when you're Kauri Grant.

The fourth guy's hands are in his hair and Kauri's sure he'll be done any second when the guy's eyes widen, staring down at him. Kauri sucks hard and he jerks his hips forwards and buries himself so deep that Kauri would gag... if he still could.

Nope.

They trained that out of him, just like they made sure he could never say no.

"Jesus," The guy groans, rolling his hips forwards, the others at the party crowding close and cheering him on or waiting for their own turns, "You're so fucking good at this. Mmmmn, baby, has anyone ever told you you look just like Vincent Shield?"

Kauri doesn't bite his dick off in reply.

But he thinks about it.

@autophagay @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears@cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes@whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

#whump #drug use tw #drugged whumpee #forced drug use tw #runaway whumpee #escaped whumpee #drunkenness tw #alcohol use tw #Kauri's Poor Life Choices #imperfect whumpee #traumatized whumpee #bbu #box boy #box boy whump #box boy universe #erase to control

69 notes · View notes

itsawhumpsideblog · 4 days

Text

BBU Community Days 2024, Day 13

April 26 / Writing Prompt: "MADE FOR IT" / Write a BBU story based on the prompt and share it!

CW: for institutionalized slavery, whipping, foot injury, blood, emotional abuse

Most boxboys were transported to their new owners after purchase in the boxes that inspired the term- long, narrow crates into which they were packed and shipped- but not KV1946. On the day he was sent to his Master, KV1946 was washed and dressed in slacks and a sport coat and ordered into the back seat of a car. He was careful not to wrinkle the clothing when he fastened the seat belt and he folded his hands carefully in front of him and sat very still during the ride.

He would have liked to spend more time looking out the window, but he had been instructed to sit properly, which meant straightening his spine and looking directly ahead. KV1946 tried not to feel nervous and instead focused on remembering his training. There would be cleaning to do, household management, serving at meals... he could do those things. He had been trained. Perhaps he would be able to please his Master.

It was slightly more than an hour before KV1946 saw a large house come into view. It was situated in the middle of extensive, beautifully manicured grounds and the car pulled up in a circular drive out front. KV1946 sat very still until the WRU employee who was driving ordered him to get out and stood to greet her client.

Someone had opened the door and his Master was coming down the wide front steps, smiling broadly. He was in middle age, dressed in a fine suit and adjusting his cuffs in a way that suggested he didn't need to adjust them but wanted the WRU lady to know he was the kind of man who wore cufflinks on a Tuesday morning.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, spreading his hands wide as if showing the WRU lady that the grounds were hers to enjoy, for the minutes she would be present on them. "Is this my young man, then?" He strode over to KV1946 and peered closely at him with a smile that was as much a show as the cufflinks.

KV1946 stood quietly, as he had been trained, with his hands clasped loosely in front of him; his new Master circled him very slowly, examining the merchandise.

"I'm told you did very well in your training," he said. "I was pleased to hear it. We hold very high standards, here." He looked KV1946 in the eye in a way that seemed to require a response. KV1946 lowered his eyes deferentially and said quietly, "Yes, Master."

The man gave a delighted little laugh. "Very good! Very good, indeed." Then he ignored KV1946 to speak briefly to the WRU employee and hand her an envelope with a discreet but substantial tip.

When KV1946's Master had finished speaking, even though the WRU lady was still right there, standing outside her car, he turned away from her and shifted his attention to the Pet as thoroughly as if she had never existed.

"Come inside," he ordered his newest purchase. "I will show you the house and acquaint you with your tasks. Referring to you by serial number is vulgar; you will be called Francis." And off he swept with KV1946- now Francis- following as quickly as he could.

The next hour was a whirlwind tour of the home and, to an extent, the grounds. Francis' responsibilities lay entirely inside, but Master wanted him to know where things were around the property, in case of some need. Francis hoped desperately that he could remember all of it and when he was told to go begin fixing lunch, was relieved to find that he knew the way to the kitchen.

Lunch was served without any particular difficulty and then Francis cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled. Afterwards, he retrieved Master's laundry and spent some time treating stains and loading the washing machine. After that, there was dusting in the office.

All the while, Master sat on the porch in the sunshine with a long-stemmed glass in hand. When he saw Francis, he looked very satisfied and said, "I don't know why I didn't get one of you a long time ago."

The satisfaction made Francis' heart leap. Master's happiness was his own sense of security and he found that he desperately wanted to hear another approving word. He would be perfect for Master. Master would like him and keep him and he would never be sent back to the WRU, like bad Pets were. Even the thought made Francis shiver. He had seen, at least enough to have an idea, what happened to Pets who were sent back.

Late that evening, Francis began to feel overwhelmed. It was hard to remember the long list of chores and the order in which they were to be completed. He wracked his brain, ignoring a slight headache, to remember whether he was to do the ironing before setting out Master's clothes for the following day, or after.

He guessed incorrectly and Master, now dressed in a smoking jacket, entered his room and frowned. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded of Francis, who froze and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Master?"

"No, no 'Master'. You were to lay out a suit and then begin the ironing. I want to have my room all to myself, not spend my evening waiting on your pleasure to have clean clothes." He shook his head. "This is not what I was led to expect when I purchased you."

"This Pet is very sorry, Master." Francis hung his head. He could hear the rough, nervous edge in his voice.

"Finish the ironing and then go to the basement," Master said in a very firm tone.

Francis' hands were shaking as he finished the last few items and although he wasn't sure what would happen in the basement, he did know that he wasn't looking forward to finding out.

When he got there, Master was already standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed, with a small switch in his hand. There was a chair in the center of the room, away from the walls and the bit of bedding Francis was allowed- or would have been allowed, he thought. He would have to see if Master took it away for his infraction.

"I am going to be lenient on you, because it's your first day here," Master explained. "Sit in that chair and hold up one foot."

For a moment, Francis was mystified, and then he realized what Master planned to do. He sat and gripped the sides of the chair so that Master wouldn't see his hands trembling. Master took Francis' heel in one hand and raised the small whip, bringing it down on the sole of Francis' right foot with surprising force.

Francis let out a soft cry and then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Master looked at him with something like disgust.

"What are you crying for already?" he asked. "It can't possibly hurt that badly. You were made for this, after all." He didn't seem to want a reply, which was as well. Francis kept his hand over his mouth as the whip connected again with the sole of his foot.

On the third blow, Master let out a small cry of his own and jumped back suddenly, letting Francis' foot fall to the floor.

"I've cut myself," Master exclaimed. He was holding up his left hand, which was bleeding from a single laceration across the backs of his fingers. Master made a noise of frustration and pain and then said through gritted teeth, "Wait here, I don't want you making a mess."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic box, which he thrust towards Francis. "It's a first aid kit. Bandage my hand for me."

The absurdity of the situation never occurred to Francis; he simply opened the kit, found an individually wrapped wipe to clean the wound and then the gauze and medical tape. While he dabbed away the blood, Master hissed and swore under his breath and when Francis had taped on the bandage, he shook his hand as if it smarted.

Francis almost dared to hope he would give up on the rest of the punishment, but there was no such luck. "Hold your foot out," Master said. Francis did so, holding his leg up with both hands under his knee. Using only one hand, Master continued the flogging, ignoring the drops of blood that fell to the floor. Francis pressed his lips tightly together to prevent another upsetting display of emotion that would only make this worse and waited for it to be over. When he thought he might not be able to stand any more, Master finally straightened up and nodded once.

"Clean that up," he said, gesturing to the blood spatters on the floor. "And I expect you on duty as I told you in the morning." Then he stalked up the stairs, taking the whip with him.

In the basement, Francis sat in the chair and tried to collect himself. His breath coming in shuddering sighs but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought to stay quiet and controlled. When he rose to clean the floor, he walked gingerly on the outside of his foot. His vision closed to a pinprick of light as he worked, shutting him off from the pain, pushing it away so that it felt almost like another entity. But when he finally lowered himself carefully to his cot, the agony washed up over Francis and he hugged his knee to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning, Francis was woken early by the pain. He was still clutching his knee and his foot still stung so badly that he was almost afraid to look at it. When he worked up the courage, the news was not good. The foot and ankle were badly swollen and the sole of his foot was covered in dried blood.

When he dressed, slowly and painfully, Francis found that his sock fit, though tightly, but he couldn't get his shoe on over it. He pulled at the shoe, tugging at the tongue and trying to force the heel, until he was crying again and was about to risk being late for his duties. At last, Francis gave up and ascended the stairs, fully dressed except for his wounded foot in its soft, white sock.

Master wasn't downstairs yet and Francis began the first chores of the day, limping badly as he made the rounds of the house to water the plants and then headed back to the kitchen to begin breakfast. He cooked eggs, toast and sausage and fried some tomatoes and arranged it all on a large plate. He brewed coffee and set a place at the dining room table with understated-but-elegant china and a crystal glass for orange juice. He placed a newspaper above Master's place and kept the food warm until Master seated himself at the table and rang for it.

Francis brought out the plate and went back for a mug of coffee and then for the orange juice, ready in a clear carafe to be poured fresh for Master. It was on the third trip that Master, nearing the end of the page he was reading, caught sight of Francis out of the corner of his eye and looked up in displeasure.

"What is that?" He asked, gesturing dismissively at Francis' feet.

"This Pet was unable to get his shoe on," Francis said in a very small voice. He found that his mouth had gone dry and it was hard to speak.

"This Pet has orders not to appear above stairs in less than immaculate condition," Master corrected him coldly. "I took care that you would be fit to serve. Go below stairs at once and fix the issue. Do not appear above stairs under-dressed again. My guests will be here for a morning garden party in one hour. I expect the porch swept and mimosas staged on the table. There will be finger sandwiches for lunch and you will stay outside to serve." He turned back to his newspaper, which meant that Francis was dismissed.

Shaking in the aftermath of his fear, Francis limped back down the stairs and almost fell onto his pallet, where the odd shoe sat. He eyed it with distaste for a moment, but there was no time to waste. It was going to be a busy morning and he would need to use all of the time to prepare. Francis tried again to put the shoe on, but still without success.

He took a moment for a deep breath and a sigh and then began to unlace the shoe completely. With the laces off, he was able to place his foot inside it and lace the shoe up, after a fashion. His foot was already beginning to throb and when he stood, it took all his training to keep him on his feet and headed up the stairs.

Francis was driven nearly to distraction by the pain, but he was somehow still upright and had even managed to put out a clean, white tablecloth and a vase of flowers to display the mimosas before Master's guests arrived. As ordered, Francis stationed himself next to the table with a tray to collect empty glasses and to keep the table supplied with drinks and light canapes.

Master greeted the guests and showed them to the back porch, handing each a drink as they passed through the door to mill about on the flagstones of the porch. The hand he had injured while punishing Francis remained bandaged and Master had placed it in a narrow black sling to go with his morning coat.

"You poor thing!" one of his guests cooed. "Whatever have you done to your hand?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Master said, clearly pleased at the attention. "Just a little cut, the doctor says everything ought to be fine before many weeks have passed." He waved the other hand languidly, dismissing the opinions of doctors who, he implied, fussed too much.

"You bear it very bravely, I'm sure," the woman assured him, patting his shoulder sympathetically. She finished her drink and held it out, secure in the knowledge that the help would be by to collect it immediately.

Francis moved away from the safety of the table to take the glass. He tried not to shuffle, which would probably make Master angry, but his foot was throbbing so badly that he could hardly think of anything else. He hoped he could go back and stand behind the table, in the shade, and put all his weight on his left foot for just a few minutes.

"Doesn't your pet mind just standing there like that?" another woman asked his Master. "Won't he get bored?" Master looked over as if he had only just noticed Francis standing there, as if he was so used to Francis that he was no more noticeable than the trees.

"I can't imagine so," Master said in a musing voice. "After all, isn't that what they're made for?"

The party lasted for a few hours and by the time he brought out the finger sandwiches, Francis was shaking and sick with pain. At each step, he wondered whether his leg would give way and drop him- and, more importantly, the sandwiches- to the ground, right there in front of all of Master's guests.

Somehow, he got through the rest of the morning and then the afternoon as well; luckily, Master seemed to be tired out by the effort of hosting and went to take a nap. Francis could limp as much as he needed and stand on his left foot only while he cooked and cleaned. The day went by very slowly, but in a strange haze. The foot went numb after several hours and Francis was a little relieved, although the numbness made it hard to balance when he walked.

At last, Master turned in for the night and Francis went back to the basement. He sat down on the top step and eased himself down with his right foot held in the air. At the bottom, he very carefully untied and unlaced the shoe and drew it off, his heart pounding uncomfortably as feeling came back into the swollen flesh. With feeling came terrible pain and Francis could feel the small supper he had been allowed turn over in his stomach. He hopped desperately to the toilet in the corner of the room, but nothing came up and after a few long moments, he finally collapsed onto his cot.

Later, Francis barely remembered that day. It was not so different from many of the ones that came after it and working while he was in pain became the most ordinary thing in the world for him. But it was one late night, in a different house entirely, that Master's words came back to him.

It had been a long day; Francis was still expending more energy than he knew in trying to understand his new home. Sir and Ma'am were kind, but could be confusing sometimes. Francis was always waiting for them to change, to become angry, to begin ordering him about. He did not expect to live without fear, but the relentless struggle to make sense of his new life was taking its toll.

That night, Sir carried Francis up to bed while Mikey and Nathan stayed downstairs with Ma'am. It was not so late, really, and the sun had only just dipped below the horizon, but Francis had been running hot all day and the pain in his feet was making him restless.

"I'm so sorry you aren't feeling better yet," Sir said, sounding like he meant it.

"Francis will be in working order soon," Francis replied. He hoped it was true.

"Don't worry about working," Sir said, for some reason, but it was in a cheerful tone that might almost have been a joke and Francis was more confused than frightened by the words. He wasn't sure how to respond, and so he didn't. Instead, he lay still and watched Sir bustle about.

Sir straightened his blankets so they laid across his shins, not over his bandaged feet where they would feel heavy and hurt Francis. Then Sir put a thermometer in his mouth and waited patiently for the result. After three minutes, he removed it, peered at it, and shook his head.

"It's about what I expected," he said and then placed a cool water bottle on Francis' head. It was soothing to his hot skin and racing mind and almost made Francis feel like he might be able to fall asleep.

Maybe it was the high fever that made him so bold, but Francis looked up at Sir, sitting there quietly, watching him with such worry on his face and he dared to ask a question.

"Sir- if Francis might be permitted- er- why are you and Ma'am doing all of this?"

"What, taking care of you guys?" Francis nodded and worried that maybe he shouldn't have spoken, in case Sir thought he was ungrateful.

Instead, Sir smiled and shrugged a little. "Humans take care of each other- it's just what we do. I guess we were made for it."

Master List

Notes: Some backstory for Francis!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump,

@starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

#bbu #bbucommunity #box boy universe #box boy whump #whump #the safehouse #pet whump

38 notes · View notes