#enjoy that I guess

[whumpcereal]

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

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

Also! I realize I've never really did a "reference" sheet for my version of Donnie I usually draw with Vee. Sometimes I hide some little details here and there (fun fact; he has a tattoo when with her - when I don't forget about it lol), but it's also personality-wise that there can be some more personal headcanons.

Idk, just putting thoughts down. I like sharing stuff with you guys :) !! Might get a sheet out at some point to explain the little things here and there. ... Whenever I'm not telling myself that everything I do is garbage rehehrerheuHREUheurhEURhe

[grollow]

I go to sleep.

I leave you with this headcanon:

Miquella likes the flowers known as Trina’s Lilies and Miquella’s lilies not because of their look, but because of the properties they have in distilled forms. The former because he used to make tinctures to help his sister sleep through some of the worst bouts of pain her illness granted her, and the latter because they bear such a strong resemblance to the ones used for sleep. He went on to pioneer the bewitching branches completely by accident, trying to make something that had similar but stronger soothing properties.

[catmask]

does anyone have like an anti aesthetic. like something you look at and can recognize as a complete fashion/interior design/artistic movement and understand it but it makes you shudder seeing it. i am not talking like “its morally bad” “its poorly structured” like just sheerly devoid of joy for you actually invites a repulse response.

[llovely]

here's a fake interview about my me & my girlfriend that i transcribed from my head. enjoy!

[verflares]

(click for higher quality!) draconified link concept ive been chipping away at this past week ..... here's my funny little compendium concept for him:

"A heroic spirit has taken the form of this bestial dragon. Unlike it's kin, this creature exhibits an extremely aggressive disposition. It appears highly territorial, and will relentlessly chase down those who disturb its skywide patrols - of which it seems to be endlessly searching for either a long-time vassal or foe. Unfortunately, it seems the spirit within has long since forgotten exactly who it was looking for…"

[blueskyscribe]

The Fyre Festival guy just got out of prison after four years and he's already planning another island festival called PYRAT (pronounced pirate) which is clearly going to be Fyre Festival 2.0.

Like he is using the same vague promos as last time, featuring footage of the Bahamas, and when NBC News asked the government of the Bahamas about this they were like "NO, he does not have permission to host ANYTHING here. Please tell us if you see him in our country so we can arrest him."

[inkskinned]

before you know about women, you hear that you do not need to love the man, just that you need to love him through his manhood. which is to say you have seen the future painted in lamb's blood over your eyes - how your mother shoots you a look about your father's inability to cook right. how your aunt holds her wineglass and says i'm gonna kill em. men, right! how your best friend bickers with her boyfriend, how she says i can't help it. i come back to him.

you learn: men are gonna cheat. men aren't going to listen when you're talking, because you're nagging. men think emotions are stupid. they think your life is vapid and your hobbies are embarrassing. men will slam things, but that's because men are allowed to be angry. if you get loud, you're hysterical. if a man gets loud - well, men are animals, men are dogs, men can't control their hands or their eyes or their bodies. they're going to make a snide comment about you in the locker room, about your body, about how you're so fucking annoying. you're going to give him kids, and he will give you the money for the kids, and you're going to be running the house 24/7 - but he gets to relax after a long day, because his job is stressful. the man is on stage, and is a comedian, and says "women!"

and you are supposed to love that. you are supposed to love men through how horrible they are to you - because that's what women do. that's what good women do. wife material. your father even told you once - it'll make sense when you're older. it was like staring down a very lonely tunnel.

it feels like something's caught in your throat, but it's all you know, so. it's okay that you see sex as a necessary tool, a sort of okay-enough ritual to keep him happy, even though he doesn't seem to care about happiness as-applied-to you. it is relationship upkeep. it is kissing him and smiling even though he didn't brush his teeth. it is getting on your knees and looking up and holding back a sigh because he barely holds you as you panic through the night. it's not like the sex is bad and you do like feeling wanted. and besides! he's a man! like... they're another species. you'll never be able to actually communicate, right. he isn't listening.

you just don't get it. you don't feel that sense of i'm gonna climb him like a tree. mostly it just feels fucking exhausting. you play the part perfectly. you smile and nod and are "effortlessly" charming. and it's fine! it's alright! you even love him, if you're looking. you could have good life, and a good family, and perfectly happy.

in the late night you google: am i broken. you google i'm not attracted to my husband. you google i get turned on by books but not by him. you google how to get better in bed.

the first time he yells at you, it almost feels like blankness. like - of course this is happening. this is always how it was going to end up. men get angry, and they yell, and you sit there in silence.

you mention it to your friend - just the once - while you're drunk. she shrugs and says it's like that with me too, i just try to forget and move on. men are always gonna hear what they want to. pick your battles and say sorry even though he's in the wrong. you play solitaire online for a month. you go to your therapist appointment and preach about how you're both so in love.

after all, you have a future to want. nobody lied about it - how many instagram posts say marriage is hard. say real love takes work. say we fight like cats and dogs but the best part is that we always make up. how many of your friends say happy anniversary to the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. if you really loved him - loved yourself too - you'd accept that men are just different from you.

the first time she kisses you, it's on a dare at a party. something large and terrifying whips through your body. you wake up sweating from dreams where her mouth is encrusted with pearls and you pick them off one by one with your teeth. fuck. you sit at the computer and your almost-finished game of sim city. you think about your potential perfect life and your potential future family. you google am i gay quiz with your little hands shaking.

you delete each letter slowly. you don't need to love him. you just need to keep going.

[glo-shroom]

yes & no by Natalie Wee | Trigun Ultimate Overhaul

[and-nobody]

plankton and karen looking a bit odd here

[yuurionviktor]

Personally, I thought this was a banger outfit

[steddietogo]

Robin is hiding under Steve’s bed so she can grab his leg and scare the shit out of him when he comes in. Except, she knows she’s fucked up when she hears voices outside his bedroom. Plural. Her best friend in the whole wide world is, unfortunately for Robin, not alone. She knows why anyone would be seeing the inside of Steve Harrington’s bedroom. And they’re taking their own fucking sweet time as well probably making out on their way— yuck.

The door swings open when Robin is contemplating the least disastrous way she could escape the bedroom and in walks Eddie Munson. Relief floods her chest as she realizes now she doesn’t have to destroy her reputation already hanging by a thread. Then she also realizes she could scare both dumbasses, two birds one stone.

The two are still standing too far from the bed and Robin tunes out of their conversation choosing to use her brain power to mentally will them closer to her. Which is why it takes her completely by surprise when Steve— her straight ass best friend STEVE— leans in and kisses Eddie right on the mouth.

Robin claps a hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. Her best friend a boy kisser? Her Steve?

Robin is nothing if not committed to the bit. Eddie would be proud. She waits till they get close enough even though it pains her to exist in the same room two boys are making out in. They’re play fighting, then Eddie shoves Steve into the bed and it��s now or never.

Robin reaches out at grabs one black jean clad shin and Eddie goes yowling and jumping up in surprise like he’s in some cartoon.

[panthermouthh]

“When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.”

[humming-fly]

I only just now realized what a shame it is we never got to see Al and Greedling really interacting

[alexassanart]

favourite scenes from pacific rim 3 💙