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peachy-panic · 2 years

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Day One

Anyway... back to the clinic arc! Part of Do No Harm.

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-adjacent, discussions of addiction/implied noncon drugging, system of legal slavery, medical setting, incredibly tricky power imbalances, general warning for fuckin’ Handler Smith

It’s impossible not to notice the shift in Jaime’s posture the moment the door clicks shut. His narrow shoulders go rigid, though his footwork doesn’t falter. Sebastian bites down on the inside of his cheek, kicking himself for already managing to misstep.

“Just to give us some privacy,” he tries to explain, but— shit. No. “To talk,” he adds hastily. “Just… just to talk.”

This is going well.

He edges his way around the desk to put some space and a physical barrier between them. Jaime’s tension doesn’t relent in the slightest, but he gives a nod, eyes carefully following his movement. Sebastian sinks into his rolling chair, shifting some papers to the side and taking a sip of coffee just to give the nervous energy in his hands somewhere to go. The cup is halfway to his mouth when he freezes, feeling Jaime’s ghost-like presence looming over him. He is still standing, motionless and stiff, across the desk from him. Awaiting instruction. Permission.

Sebastian clears his throat around the lump that has made its home there. “Please. Sit,” he invites, motioning toward the hard plastic chair on the other side of the desk. He supposes he should count them both lucky that he doesn’t try to kneel on the ground beside it. Instead, he folds his slender body into the seat, gripping onto his own coffee cup with both hands as if it might be anchoring him to Earth.

“So… surprise?”

Jaime blinks up at him, wide-eyed. Sebastian’s nervous chuckle flattens into a tight smile. Jesus Christ. Inside the tight dimensions of the room, his voice sounds loud and clunky in his own ears, and even more so when it’s met with continued silence. He clears his throat again. “Look, I know you probably weren’t expecting a change in your routine this morning. I’m sorry if it was… jarring for you.”

Jaime inclines his head. “It’s not a problem, sir.”

Sebastian opens his mouth, then closes it around the correction he wants to make. He doesn’t want to put too much on him at once. “Right. Well, as I’m sure you gathered, your work assignment has been temporarily moved to the clinic. However long that lasts… Well, it depends on a lot of things—mostly pertaining to my abilities to make things run smoothly. And I assure you, I have every intention of making it last as long as you want it to. Which brings me to my first real point.”

He doesn’t miss the way Jaime shifts slightly in his seat, his full attention focused on Sebastian.

“This is important,” Sebastian says softly, splaying his hands out on the desk in front of him. “The most important. I want to know if, at any point, you don’t want to be here. In the clinic. Yes, I pulled some strings to get you in this post, but I’m fully aware that I did so without any input or invitation from you.” He pauses, trying to read Jaime’s face for any indication of what he might be feeling about all this so far. There is nothing but the same passive agreeability as always. “My intentions are pure, whatever weight that promise might carry for you.”

Jaime makes a small sound that resembles the start of a word, then closes his mouth, eyes flickering up to Sebastian’s. Sebastian nods in what he hopes is an encouraging gesture and not an entirely spastic one. “May I ask a question?”

“Please. Yes. Always.”

“What… sorry. What will my role be in the clinic? My responsibilities?” he asks. “I’m not sure—” He pauses, very clearly choosing his words with discretion. “I don’t know what background you have on me, but I don't have any kind of… medical training.”

“Oh. No, no.” Sebastian breathes out another small laugh. “Don’t worry. You won’t be performing any procedures like that. In fact, it’s a condition of your being here that you don’t break certain proximities to that sort of thing.”

This seems to bring at least the smallest bit of relief to Jaime’s expression. Sebastian continues. “I’m thinking, to start, I can introduce you to some clerical tasks? Just basic organizational stuff. Our filing system is all digital, but I think I should be able to get you clearance for computer use.”

When Jaime doesn’t respond right away, Sebastian grasps for something to say that might soften the offer further.

“You can have my office to yourself on those days. It might be nice for you to have some alone time, you know? I’m sure you don’t get much of it around here.”

“Alone time,” Jaime whispers back, nearly inaudible. He nods slowly, fixated on every word in a way that is almost a little unnerving.

Sebastian bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. “I… imagine there is going to be some figuring out involved for both of us. This is something the facility as a whole hasn’t done in a while. But it’s really important to me that you have a say in your time here. Are you… you know, all things considered, are you okay with this? Working in the clinic?” Then, even softer, “With me?”

He knows, logically, there is little chance of Jaime being direct with him, and even less of him outright declining. But he hopes, perhaps naively, that they can work on changing that over time, however much of it they have at their disposal. And that begins with Sebastian offering the question at all.

Across from him, Jaime stares down at the untouched cup in his hands, twisting it back and forth between his palms. Sebastian thinks he sees the evidence of more questions brewing behind his eyes, and he almost prompts him to ask them, but Jaime looks up at him before he can, smoothing out his expression. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you, Dr. Tate.”

There is very little to thank him for, and he feels more than a little slimy for accepting the gratitude, but it's a miracle that he didn’t call him “sir,” and Sebastian has a feeling that this process is going to be all about celebrating the small victories. So he gives his new assistant a hesitant smile and lifts his coffee cup to his mouth, watching as Jaime finally does the same.

***

Sebastian left some music playing in his office, connecting his phone to the tiny bluetooth speaker he brought from home. To no one’s surprise, Jaime was less than forthcoming about his musical preferences, but Sebastian is well aware of how boring and tedious this kind of clerical work can be, and listening to something in the background always helps him get through it. So he opted for one of his more eclectic playlists. Hoping that, between the mix of 1980s hair band rock, classical piano, pop music that was all the rage during undergrad, and the occasional show-tune, there would be something Jaime might enjoy while he worked.

Now, through the slimmest crack in the office door, Sebastian can make out the subtle tap of Jaime’s finger against the mouse, moving in time with the music. And god, he doesn’t know what his life has become, that the tiniest twitch of motion can nearly bring him to his knees out of sheer joy.

“You’re hovering.”

Sebastian startles, catching himself with a hand against the wall. “What? No, I’m not.”

Aria regards him wordlessly, just raising an eyebrow in the direction of his cracked office door. “You’re being creepy,” she tells him, at least having the good grace to keep her voice low.

Sebastian deflates a little. “I’m being… cautious. Don’t you have some opiates to illegally administer or whatever it is you do around here?”

This earns him an eye roll. “He’s organizing digital files, Tate, not performing open heart surgery. Give the kid some space.”

“I just want to make sure he’s comfortable.”

“He will be considerably less so when he discovers you spying outside the door.”

There is an argument perched on his tongue, but he closes his mouth around it. She’s right. He knows she’s right. Casting one last glance through the crack in the door, he nods toward the opening at the end of the hallway, taking their conversation out of earshot. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “Your shift doesn’t start for another”—he checks his watch—“six hours.”

She shrugs. “I moved some things around. Figured you might not mind an extra set of ears and eyes on day one.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, amusement creeping into his tone. “Who’s hovering now?”

Her flat expression doesn’t change. “I believe the answer you’re looking for is, Thank you, Aria. How considerate of you to go out of your way to help me with something risky.”

Fuck. He sighs. “You’re right. Shit, sorry. I— yeah. Thank you. For real.”

“Happy to help.” Finally, a small smirk breaks at the corner of her mouth. “How’s it going with him?”

He can’t help but cast an anxious look back down the hall. “Alright? I think? No one is dead or seriously maimed, so I guess we’re coasting somewhere above a total failure.”

“How did he take the news of his new assignment?”

Sebastian scratches his eyebrow with the back of his thumb. “Like a fucking champion, as always.” His tone is light, but it doesn’t take from the sincerity of his words. “He’s the best student I could ask for, which, you know… mixed feelings about that. But I think I really could teach him open heart surgery at the rate he catches on.”

“Let’s not press our luck.” She turns to walk away then, but Sebastian takes a step after her.

“Aria?” he asks quietly. She turns back to him. “Am I… Do you think I’m doing the right thing here?”

She thinks about it for a minute, her gaze searching his face before finally she says, “I think the concept of what’s right within these walls is a little limited. But you’re doing what you can. That’s a good start.”

***

When Handler Smith comes to collect him at the end of his first day in the clinic, Jaime has to do a double take at the clock at the bottom of the screen to reconcile with the fact that a full ten hours have passed. He blinks up from his—from Dr. Tate’s—computer, feeling strangely like he’s been caught, sitting in the plush, leather chair. He reaches out, instinctively, and shuts off the speaker.

“Well.” A broad grin stretches over the lower half of Handler Smith’s face as he leans against the doorway, eyes scanning Jaime up and down. “Don’t you look cozy?”

Jaime’s mouth makes a move like he might respond, but he doesn’t know what to say that won’t feed into the malice behind his teasing. Instead, he pushes away from the desk and stands quickly, wiping his palms against his thighs. He prepares to follow him out of Dr. Tate’s office and back to the residential wing, hopefully without any unplanned pit stops along the way, but Smith doesn’t budge. The wall of his body standing in the only exit makes the room seem suddenly small instead of cozy. Claustrophobic instead of quaint. Jaime can’t help but shift his eyes past Smith’s shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dr. Tate walking by.

He doesn’t.

“How was your first day?” Smith asks, all false lightness and condescension. Jaime knows better than to take the question at face value, but not answering is certainly not an option.

“It went well, sir. Thank you.”

His leer turns to something a little more scrutinizing. Jaime shifts on his feet, folding his hands behind his back in the way he knows the man likes. Finally, Handler Smith says, “I had to sign off on this little detour, you know. As your primary, I could have easily shut this whole thing down.”

It’s obvious he’s looking for gratitude. He wants to peel every scrap of it from Jaime, and he knows he will give it readily to avoid the loss of something more valuable than his dignity. “Thank you, Handler Smith.” If he doesn’t look him in the eye, he has an easier time ignoring the sour turn in his stomach as he speaks the words.

He makes a vague sound in response. “Frankly, I’m wondering if I made the right choice.” He gestures to the soft chair behind Jaime, positioned just under a heating vent in the ceiling. Too late, Jaime notices his coffee cup still sitting at his work station and prays Smith won’t ask about it. “All this cushy desk jockey work might spoil you rotten. We may have to pick up a few extra refresher sessions before your next contract.”

At this, Jaime’s eyes snap up, the threat of the words lost to the larger implication behind them. His mouth moves before he can stop it. “Is there… Do I have a new prospective, sir?”

Handler Smith’s eyes glint with something not entirely pleasant at his uninvited outburst, but there is a certain amusement there, too. But before Jaime can get his answer, the answer he is both desperate and terrified to know, a light cough behind Handler Smith makes him turn around. Dr. Tate is standing behind him in the hallway. “Can I help you?” he asks with a coldness Jaime rarely hears from him.

“Dr. Tate.” Smith smiles. “How was babysitting duty? Putting that medical degree to good use?”

Dr. Tate runs his tongue along his teeth, eyes hardening. “Wasn’t much babysitting required,” he says, flicking his eyes briefly to Jaime with a small smile. “He’s a quick learner.”

The smile on Smith’s face spreads thinner. “I suppose I should say you’re welcome for that,” he says. The word smarmy passes quickly, rebelliously, through Jaime’s mind. Dr. Tate looks like he might be thinking the same or something worse, but after a few seconds, he tears his icy gaze away from Smith and softens it toward Jaime. “I mean it. You did great work today. Thank you for your help,” he says, and Jaime bites back the instinct to preen under the praise. The small smile returns to his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

Jaime returns the smile as best he can, hoping that his handler reads it as nothing but polite while Dr. Tate sees the sincerity. “Yes, sir.” He knows it’s a term Dr. Tate doesn’t prefer, and Jaime hopes he will forgive him for the instinct to play it safe in their present company.

The answering nod tells him he just might.

“Come on,” Handler Smith orders, and Jaime falls into step without missing a beat. But as they step into the hallway, Smith turns back to Dr. Tate with an entirely new glimmer in his eyes. “I hope you’re keeping a close eye on this one,” he says. “Honestly, I think it’s a little more than irresponsible that this post was approved at all, given his history.”

Oh god. Jaime can already feel the heat rising to his cheeks, into his ears, his pulse pounding in his throat. It’s stupid—he knows it’s stupid—but some part of him had hoped Dr. Tate would never need to know about this. Would never find out something that might make him lose the favor he has chosen to shine on Jaime. Handler Smith, he thinks darkly, probably very well knows that.

Dr. Tate’s brow dips in the middle, a crease forming just above his glasses. “What are you talking about?”

“Probably nothing to worry about.” Suddenly, Smith has Jaime’s forearm in a tight grip, twisting it so that the palest part of his inner elbow is angled toward the light. He looks it over, then runs a fingertip over the soft, vulnerable skin, tracing the blue line of his vein. “Looks like the track marks are mostly faded by now. Still. Taking a junkie off the streets and putting him in a room full of drugs? A slippery slope if I’ve ever seen one.”

Smith releases his arm, and Jaime stumbles back a step. He can’t help but reach out and cover the place where his handler’s fingers had squeezed him hard enough to bruise. He can’t look Dr. Tate in the eye, but he feels his gaze on him, burning through him with a physical heat.

“Regardless,” Smith continues, shrugging, “I don’t see this arrangement lasting long. There’s always a little bit of a slump in business after the holidays, but even still…” He flashes a bright smile toward Jaime, who wishes he could shrink up and disappear. “Boys like him don’t go long between contracts.”

At the tug on his shoulder, Jaime allows himself to be led numbly down the hallway and through the clinic doors, unable to risk even a parting glance at Dr. Tate. Afraid of the cold he might find in the only set of eyes he can remember showing him warmth.

***

The last thing Sebastian wanted to drag home from work was the voice of Rowan fucking Smith, but here he is, wide awake and staring at his apartment ceiling with his voice looping through his head.

Has Sebastian made a terrible mistake? Not that he had any way of knowing Jaime’s history, nor does he have any reason to believe Smith is telling the truth, but it still begs the question: should he have considered this possibility when he used his power to bring Jaime into the clinic? What if he really is a recovering addict? Sebastian knows there is at least a decent percentage of WRU’s wards that come into this system by way of substance abuse related issues. Or, at any rate, that’s the reasoning on paper. It’s entirely possible that Jaime is among them.

Not that it changes anything about the fucked up cruelty of what’s been done to him, nor the instinct Sebastian feels to protect him. The only thing it would change is the risk factor of keeping him in a place where temptation is well within arm’s reach. And that’s no small fucking thing.

Still, something feels off about the story. He knows, logically, that there is no one way for an addict to “look like.” But in his limited experience, both with drug addiction and the boy in question, he can’t begin to picture it.

What he can picture, however, are the dozens of ways this could backfire on him. And suddenly, it’s all he can see, the images splattered across his bedroom ceiling with perfect clarity: the possibility of Jaime getting hurt because of Sebastian’s selfish need to feel like he is doing some kind of good. Trying to justify his employment with some pathetic attempts at evening the score.

Suddenly, even in the January cold with his paper-thin insulation and slightly cracked window, Sebastian is too warm, stifled, beneath the covers. He sits up, throwing his duvet off of his legs and into a heap on his bed, and retreats into the living room.

His laptop is sitting on the sad excuse for a coffee table in the center of the room, but before he opens it, he pours a glass of room temperature vodka. For the insomnia, he tells himself. Just to help him sleep. The screen glows back at him, harsh in the dark of his apartment, and without allowing himself to dwell on what he’s doing, he has a search bar open and his fingers poised over the keys.

At first, he doesn’t know what to type. He doesn’t even really know what he came out here looking for. Eventually, though, he settles on: Missing persons, 20xx, Jaime

Yeah, no shit, the results are unhelpful. He’s working off of extremely limited information: a first name and a fucking hunch. Unwillingly, his eyes move to his phone. He could call Sam. Unlikely to win his favor given the ungodly hour, but maybe he would still be willing to help Sebastian out. Surely, he would have access to his confidential files, at least enough to give him a last name to search by, or family history, or—

Oh god. What is he doing? Even if this information was at all relevant to Sebastian, it’s a disgusting breach of Jaime’s privacy, even if the law and the facility that they both belong to in separate ways have stripped him of that right. That doesn’t mean Sebastian should follow suit.

In an instant of horrified shame, Sebastian slams the lid of his laptop shut, the movement so harsh it causes tiny ripples to break across the surface of his liquor. For a moment, he is lost in the overpowering silence of the dark living room. He cradles his head between his hands, dizzy from the whirlwind of emotions assaulting his brain and the lack of sleep that only seems to feed the beast. How is it that with every effort he makes to do something good within the walls of the system, the more lost he feels? The more damage it seems like he is causing?

And where is he supposed to go from here? To take this job post away from Jaime now feels unforgivably cruel, especially after witnessing the aftermath of what he is almost sure was an assault at his last assignment, and then watching that beautiful, glorious moment of Jaime tapping along to music today as he worked. He still feels in his heart that this opportunity, no matter how temporary, could be the reprieve Sebastian always intended for it to be.

But he’s also more aware than ever of the blood that will be on his hands if things go south.

Exhausted from his own self pity, Sebastian sits up abruptly, snatching the glass off the coffee table and draining the rest in a single gulp. The burn barely registers, and the slight buzz of the alcohol in his system does little to coax him toward sleep.

***

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @also-finder-of-rings @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering

#Do No Harm: Jaime & Sebastian #BBU #BBU-adjacent #whumplr #whump writing #alcohol #implied drugging #addiction cw

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ocean-blue-whump · 2 years

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Leo Finch’s Failure: 4

Part 4/4. Thanks to @shapeshiftersandfire for beta reading and the Whump a Woman server for helping with ideas.

PART ONE // PREVIOUS

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Tagging @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch

CW: lady whump, noncon drugging, brutal beatdown, pet whump, BBU, facility whump, post-whump comfort (for one person), brainwashing from torture

***

He doesn’t even recognize when it’s over, his body convulsing with aftershocks, until Greco is undoing the restraints. When his hands touch Leo’s sweaty skin, Leo wails, so loud it can be heard through the gag and into the hallway.

“It’s over, Leo. You did it. Here, let me—“ Greco unbuckles the gag and pulls it off, careful not to touch the boy any more then necessary. “Okay, You can talk now.”

“I’m the handler they’re the pets,” Leo sobs, curling his hands to his chest. There’s red marks on his wrists from the restraints. “I’m the handler they’re the pets, please, Greco, I’m so sorry, I’m the handler they’re the pets.”

Greco awkwardly runs his hand through his hair, “Um, yeah. Listen, kid, I’ve got to go deal with 501, but I called for that nurse you like and he’s on his way. He’ll finish untying you.”

“I’m the handler they’re the pets,” Leo whispers.

Greco seems unsure what to say. He walks out the door, leaving Leo in a pile of his own sweat, tears, and drool, mumbling to himself.

Five minutes later, Bennett bursts in and starts taking off the electrodes and the collar. He ignores Leo’s soft protests, saying, “It’ll be better when they’re off.”

It’s Bennett who’s undressing Leo fully, and Leo’s too out of it to be embarrassed as Bennett rubs a cool washcloth over every part of his body despite Leo’s whimpering, Bennett who gets him dressed in clean boxers, soft gray sweatpants, and a handler t-shirt.

It’s only once he’s dressed and starting to calm down, Bennett combing out Leo’s sweaty hair, that he realizes the full extent of his condition. All the dampness wasn’t just from sweat, he had urinated himself on the table.

“Oh my god,” Leo says, scooting back from Bennett. “Did I—“

“It happens,” Bennett says with a shrug. “Don’t feel too bad about it.”

“And you just saw me naked?” Leo squeaks.

Bennett moves closer, guiding Leo’s head down to lay on his shoulder. He wraps his arms around the trembling boy, keeping him close. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. Promise. You’ve had a hard day, haven’t you?”

Leo starts to cry again. It doesn’t last long, his tear ducts dry up from dehydration, and he sits up. “I thought I was going to die,” he confesses. “It hurt so bad I thought I was going to die.”

“I’m sorry.” Bennett stands up and offers his hand out to Leo. “I’ve got a bed for you in the clinic. You shouldn’t be driving right now, you can sleep this off.”

Leo’s head spins as he takes Bennett’s hand and rises, it’s taking all his remaining strength not to just keep repeating I’m a handler they’re the pets again and again. “W-we have to go somewhere first,” he stammers. “To see 501.”

“Fine. But one second.” Bennett pops outside to grab a wheelchair and roll it in. “We don’t go anywhere until you sit down.”

Leo shakes his head. “No, I can walk. See?” His first step is successful, but his second one sends him careening to the ground.

Bennett is right there to catch him and guide him into the chair. “Sweetie, you just had your brain melted. I’ll wheel you around.”

Leo’s overjoyed to leave the training room behind.

They hear 501 screaming before they see her. She’s in the training room on the corner, the one with one way windows for people to watch training sessions. The wire muzzle explains why they can hear her so loud.

There’s too many details for Leo to take in all at once. The three empty vials, one with the remnants of the purple stuff, one with yellow, one with green. Four handlers and Greco, all wearing heavy protective gear and holding batons.

Not the normal ones, the ones Leo carries. The thick, long ones that carry enough shock power to stop a force.

501’s hands are tied above her head, her legs are tied so they’re slightly spread.

They’re beating her harder than he’s ever seen, beating her so bad the blunt force of the batons is splitting open her skin and making red run across the white room. She’ll be in the clinic for weeks, based on how her lips are stained with flecks of blood and her screams are so horribly twisted that they sound demonic.

He’s so much of a failure that they had to call in the Guard Dog handlers to deal with a Romantic.

“Leo, are you okay?” Bennett asks.

Voice catches, eyes are dry, hands shake just a little. “I’m a handler,” he says. “They’re just pets. Get me out of here. I don’t want to look at this…mutt anymore.”

Disappointment clouds Bennett’s voice. “Alright. Okay. Let’s go.”

Leo thinks that maybe he should be sad or scared for 501 on that combination of specialty drugs taking a horrific beating, but all he has in his mind are how the shocks felt and

I’m a handler. They’re the pets.

#pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #facility whump #handler-in-training finch #handler greco #nurse bennett #blue's words

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

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Hope: The Smuggler

A continuation on this little piece I posted a couple of days ago. Just something small knocking around inside my mind.

CW: Escaped pet whumpee, BBU, guns, scarring, referenced past torture, ~mysterious world-building references~

“Allie!” Gyasi hops down from the truck, the tread of her work boots crunching into the rock salt scattered over the road to melt the ice.

Snowflakes are already starting to drift down, landing in Gyasi’s hair and laying white and beautiful against her black braids pulled back low at her neck. They melt a moment later, but it’s definitely snowing a little more than it was a half an hour ago, and Allie’s sure there’ll be another big buildup tonight.

Allie’s mouth always goes a little dry when Gyasi is in town, and she has to lock her knees not to have them wobble as she gives her most welcoming smile. “Welcome back, Gya.”

“Always a pleasure.” Gyasi crushes her in a hug. The other woman only comes up to Allie’s nose, and still she feels sort of helpless at every touch. Funny, how she’s the deputy head of security for Hope, and still someone as slim and slight as Gyasi can make her fall to pieces. “I got a team of six this time, all names you know. We’re going in with seven rescues and a couple libbers with pretty big felony convictions about to come down, hopefully coming back with a metric fucking ton of insulin, plus the usual other shit.”

“Great.” Allie has to clear her throat to keep her voice from coming out husky and trembling. She pulls back from the hug, looking over the truck. The man sitting in the passenger seat gives her a wave, and after a second Allie remembers him, too - Charlie or Chuck. Another truck pulls up behind that, and then a van. “We’ll be sending you in one vehicle at a time. Once we get clearance the first makes it through, we’ll send the next.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how it goes. Rescues first-” Gyasi points to the van. “Then our libbers go in the truck. Chaz and I’ll bring up the rear.”

Right, Chaz. Allie always forgets his name.

“And if you’re caught-”

“I know, Allie-cat. I was never here, there’s no road through the woods, we snuck through an hour east of here.” Gyasi reaches up to pat the side of her face, and Allie wonders if she’s just going to black out one day when Gya does that. “We didn’t give you away the last time one of us got picked up, we won’t this time, either. Trust me.”

“I try to,” Allie says, voice softening a little. It’s hard, to be soft - her life has been one of needing to always be sharp-edged, ready to kill or fight on command. Softness came only after she made it here, and even then only with time. “You know I try to trust you, Gya.”

“Well, try harder, because I’m trustworthy.” Gyasi laughs, deep and rich, and then her eyes shift to the side. Her smile, wide and bright, starts to fade slightly. It returns a little faded, unsure. "We have a watcher, Al.”

“What?” Allie turns to look over her shoulder, instinctively tensing at the possibility of a threat - and then relaxes. “Oh. He’s, uh. He’s shy. That’s our new kid, he came up from Florida.”

“Oof, what a long trip.”

“You’re not wrong. Leslie said he needed to be in No Man’s Land, although she refused to say why. Come on over here, kiddo!”

If Gyasi tops out with her hair not quite high enough to touch Allie’s nose, Esteban doesn’t even clear her shoulders. He’s a skinny, short thing, drowning in a huge canvas winter coat he’d arrived in. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are bright red from the cold he’s still getting used to, and he’s got big thick black gloves on, a woven knit cap pulled down to cover his ears, dark brown curls sticking out all around it, brown eyes sparkling.

Leslie had left him with fleece-lined jeans, heavy socks and a promise to wear two pairs with his boots, all the sweaters you could imagine, and strict admonitions not to try and go without gloves just because some of the others who’ve been here longer do.

His breath puffs out in front of him as he jogs over from where he’d been lurking at the side of the admin building (well... it’s really just Brock’s house). “H-hey, Allie.”

"You look frozen, Esteban.”

“It’s not so bad,” Esteban says, cheerful as always, even as his nose looks like Rudolph on a bad day. “I’m getting used to it. I wanted to watch the trucks! Who is this? Are these new people like me?”

“Oh, I’m not like you,” Gyasi says, without judgement, but Allie still sees Esteban’s shoulders hunch a little under his layers, catches the embarrassed flush that darkens him even under the cold. “Gyasi Templeton’s the name. I run meds, mostly. And people.”

“Run...?” Esteban’s curiosity overcomes his mood, and he turns to look at the two trucks and the big van, then back at Allie.

“I’m a smuggler,” Gyasi announces happily. “I smuggle.”

“Right.” Allie points to the van first. “Her group does runs to Canada through here. Meds, runaways, pet lib groups. Other stuff that it might be hard for us to get hold of on this side of the border, Gya’s group can bring through here.”

“Technically, we go through there.” Gyasi points, gesturing to the forest just visible at the horizon, the soft smudged line of dark green and brown. “It’s a bumpy road, let me tell you, halfway up a fucking mountain and back, uh.. you said Esteban?”

“Yeah,” Esteban’s replies, shyly, half-hidden behind Allie. “That’s my name.”

“You pick it out?” Gyasi’s not really that interested, just making conversation. Allie can see her distraction - she’s in a hurry to get moving, hoping to make it through the trees before nightfall and the snow make things too difficult or dangerous and force them to wait it out.

Esteban, though, doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes! Dr. Osmond let me choose my own name, he was very kind to me. He was very kind.”

Allie swallows, jaw setting into a firm line, shoulders tensing. She, after all, has seen what the kids hands look like under those gloves. Scarred and with one pinky permanently bent, one of his other fingers doesn’t even close.

“No, he wasn’t,” Gyasi says, and she glances back at the truck, with its engine still rumbling.

“What?” Esteban blinks.

“Nobody kind has a runaway Boxie who goes this fucking far to get away from them.”

Esteban looks away, something shifting in his expression. Allie, as a rule, doesn’t give a fuck about sob stories. She has her own, and she’s heard so many on top of that. She stopped letting them sink into her skin a long time ago. But she finds herself wondering what Esteban’s expression - wistful, sad, but oddly bittersweet, too - could possibly mean.

“Ethan wasn’t nice,” He mumbles. “But Dr. Osmond was, in the lab where I was first.”

Then he gives Gyasi and Allie another bright smile, but it’s more brittle than it was before. “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” He says politely.

Allie frowns, though. “The lab, Estenban? You mean Facility, right?”

“The lab,” Esteban says patiently. “In the Facility. Where I grew up. I’m gonna go, it’s getting cold.”

“Wait, what do you-”

“Later, Allie.” He bumps his shoulder lightly against Allie’s arm as a kind of farewell, and crunches his way back out of the road and onto the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the adjustment house, the first place anyone stays until they’re ready to settle down.

Allie watches him go, a chill settling into her chest.

What lab? Where he grew up? Leslie said he came out of some exec’s house. And the exec sure wouldn’t be a doctor...

“Cute kid,” Gyasi says, startling Allie back out of her thoughts. “But we have a contact waiting for us at an auto shop in Nick’s Island. Next time we’ll get coffee, right, Allie-cat? And you’ll finally watch Clue with me?”

Allie feels something flutter in her chest. Esteban’s odd mysterious statements forgotten, she quickly nods. “Will do, Gya. Stay safe.”

“I never stay safe, it’d ruin my fun.” Gyasi crushes Allie briefly back into another hug, and then climbs back up into her truck, settling back in. “Let them know we’re going through, we’ll be there in ten or fifteen.”

Allie’s already pulling out her radio. “Your escort’ll be ready for you when you hit the path. You already paid up?”

“Yeah, I paid Brock half direct. You’ll get the other half of your cut when we come back.”

“Right. Half in cash, half in meds.”

“Same as always. See ya, Allie.”

Gyasi’s truck rumbles away, the second truck and then the van following after it. Allie radios the group working the road through the woods today, but her mind keeps going back to Esteban. Dr Osmond. A lab. Where I grew up.

Now what in the hell does that mean?

@finder-of-rings @burtlederp @astrobly @doveotions @whump-tr0pes @symphony-of-greys @orchidscript @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @wildfaewhump

#whump #whump ocs #guard dog box boy #bbu #box boy universe #bbu guard dog #box babe guard dog #box babe #recovering whumpees #escaped whumpee #scarred whumpee #gruff caretaker

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whumpingcrow · 3 years

Text

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 1

Introduction

Surprise! A new story, new characters, inspired by all the lovely authors of tumblr who do BBU or WRU writing :) enjoy!!

CW: BBU and everything in relation to that, drugs/alcohol, party themes/setting, plane mention, college setting, breakup mention, tattooing/tattoo shop mentions (let me know if I missed anything!)

Nicko and Salem had never really been too close. They lived a few houses away from each other in high school, had some of the same classes, and were tied in with the same friend groups. They were friends, as much as you could be friends with someone you only hang out with cause they’re close by, but not close by any means. Salem felt a certain way about Nicko, he always had, a way that told him to keep himself a safe distance from him. Maybe it was his recklessness, the way he did awful, often mean, things seemingly on impulse, just because it popped into his head and he wanted to follow through. He was unreasonably harsh and manipulative and just attractive and charismatic enough to not suffer the repercussions.

Because of this, Salem wasn’t really entirely sure how he had ended up living with the kid in his last two years of college. Both him and Nicko had gotten into the state college and were both art majors (Nicko was in visual arts and Salem in music), so they had been around each other since they both moved into the dorms as smooth faced freshmen. Nicko was on the football team for the first year and a half, then he got kicked from the team. At that point he hadn’t spoken to Salem for a while, so he never figured out the real reason why. He heard gossip, that Nicko was caught doing drugs, that he had slept with the coach’s daughter, that he’d been fighting, but it was impossible to know if it was the truth. On one hand, Salem wouldn’t exactly be surprised if it was something like that, but on the other hand he didn’t want to believe that he was that bad. After that, he focused on his studies. Salem saw him around campus working in sketch books or on a canvas, sometimes he would show up to a class covered in paint and tired, like he’d been working on something all night. He was also doing an internship at a tattoo shop, he got paid a lot to stab people with needles, and he genuinely enjoyed it. Plus, Salem had seen some of the stuff he’d made, and he certainly had talent, even though he was sort of a dick.

During that time, freshman and sophomore year, Salem was pretty preoccupied in his own respects, so these were the only things he really knew about Nicko. Those two years had been difficult, looking back on it he was surprised he was able to pass all of his classes with what he had going on. There was a messy relationship, horrible breakup, and he used it mostly to put into his music. He wrote some of his best pieces about it, so in a way he was thankful. He was better off now, anyway.

Now, he and Nicko lived together off-campus, along with three other art majors who neither of them knew too well, but rent was cheaper with more people and they were easy enough to get along with. School was almost over, it was their last stretch of their senior year, and things were good. Salem’s future was looking promising, he’d already been speaking to different producers and composers who he’d been set up with by his teachers, as soon as he graduated he would have enough saved up to buy his own place, closer to where he would work, on his own. Life was so simple, Salem was happy and hopeful and for once, things made sense. He just had to get through winter break, then the last few grueling months would crawl by, and then he would be free.

But then winter break came and went, Salem went back north to visit his parents, and when he got back things suddenly got...complicated.

Nicko would insist over and over again to Salem that they had “talked about this!” and he tried to persuade him by saying “you said it could be cool!” every time they talked about it afterwards. Salem told him that bringing it up as a concept while they were getting drunk after midterms was not talking about it.

What happened was someone had read an article somewhere, maybe it was from a click bait thing on Instagram or a frightening news article on facebook, and had brought it up while they were all throwing back beers before they went out to their own respective parties. It was about something Salem had only heard hushed whispers about online, he wasn’t even sure how legit it was because of how rarely he heard about it: boxies. The word made him cringe every time one of them threw it out drunkenly, like it was something cute. If what Salem had heard about it was true, they were essentially criminals who were brainwashed (or trained, as they liked to call it to sound more appealing) instead of taking another sentence. Box Boys, Box Babes, they had more gross marketing names, all involving a box. Supposedly it was because they were notoriously shipped to you conveniently in a box right to your front porch, as if they were an Amazon package. Yes, living human beings stuffed inside of a box and left on your porch, just waiting to be let out so they can start doing whatever it is they’ve been retrained to do. And somehow it was all completely legal, if you did it through certain companies.

So, that’s what they’d been talking about, when Salem looked back on it, all he remembered from the conversation was something like:

“Dude, how the fuck is owning a boxie legal at all? I was just reading this article and-”

"Those are like, those servant things you order online or whatever? I've heard about those, I think."

“That’s not the point, Nicko. I’m talking about how it’s fucking crazy this is allowed.”

“I think it’s cool. I mean if it were me I’d rather get to live in a house as like...a maid or whatever than go to jail. Jail sucks. I dunno, I think it’s cool. What about you, Cobain?”

Salem hated when Nicko called him that, he’d been doing it since freshman year, when one of Salem’s songs was suddenly being passed around the school in a youtube video he’d forgotten he’d posted. Nicko told him that it was edgy, that he sounded like Kurt Cobain. That would have been fine, Salem really wouldn’t have cared, if Nicko hadn’t personally told him before how much he hated Nirvana, how the music sucked. So every time he used the nickname it was patronizing, a little stab at him.

Still, Salem merely looked up from his laptop, he was probably checking back on his flight information for going back home, maybe checking to see if his test scores were posted yet, and scowled at him. “Yeah, Picasso, I think that owning a person is super cool.” He’d been sarcastic, obviously so, and Nicko knew that.

And still, here he was, telling Salem that he’d “agreed” to getting this boxie. Salem would disagree every time, and Nicko would just roll his eyes and shrug his shoulders and he would get away with it. He was always getting away with shit, it was really starting to piss Salem off.

The day Salem got back from break it had been snowing. The drive back from the airport was stressful, it was late, Salem just wanted to go home and sleep. Going back to the town he grew up in was draining, sometimes. It reminded him of complicated times and hopelessness. He wanted to forget all about those feelings, things were going good, he could be hopeful now, and going back home made those feelings a little...muted, for a while. So he figured he’d go home, get into bed, sleep it off, and get back to being hopeful in the morning.

Only he couldn’t do that, because of course Nicko was having a party. He usually called it “having people over”, because he was trying to be an adult now and that’s what adults usually said, but when it consisted of beer pong and body shots that didn’t seem like the right term. The lawn was covered in cars, so was the driveway, so were both sides of the street directly outside. Salem had to park halfway down the block, get his suitcase and guitar, and walk down the street. To his own house. He wanted to break Nicko’s face.

When he walked into the house, the air was thick with smoke and reeked of pot and sweat and booze. The living room was mostly empty, Salem could see from the front door that almost everyone was in the kitchen playing some sort of drinking game or outside. The house was a mess, almost all the lights were off so Salem couldn’t see the full damage yet, but he could tell that he wasn’t going to like it when he did. He shuffled into the house, kicking away cups and bottles as he walked past them. Part of him wanted to just turn around and get back in his car and drive far away, never come back and never see Nicko or this shitty house again. But he had to stick to his plan, he had to play it safe here.

“Salem!” He snapped his head up, in the direction of the voice, sighing when he saw it was Nicko’s girlfriend, Aurora. Or Rory, as most people called her. She had dyed her hair a bright, shocking blue since Salem had last seen her, if he remembered correctly she had it a pale pink before. Her makeup was dark and heavy, like it usually was, making her eyes look all that more intense and striking. Except for right then, because she was very obviously high, her eyes hooded and lazy. She was sitting on the couch, a boy who looked a lot younger than her on his knees right in between her legs. He looked even more fucked up than she did, glaring hard at the floor and swaying slightly as she raked her fingers through his messy, dark hair. As Salem approached them, the kid flinched away from him and snapped his eyes up to look at him. He didn’t pay too much attention to him, too distracted by his anger. Rory had to shout over the music just a little when she started talking again. “I was wondering when you were gonna be back! How was your tri-”

“Where the fuck is Nicko?” He interrupted. His hand was tight around the handle to his guitar case, he could feel his heartbeat in his closed fist.

Rory gawked at him, then her crimson painted lips turned up into a lazy smile and she laughed. “Wow, someone’s in a mood,” she teased, “why don’t you have a drink? Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Rory. Tell me where he fucking is!”

Rory turned her attention downwards, toward the rough looking boy on the floor in front of her. Salem followed her gaze, realizing that he was now shaking, pressing his thin frame against Rory’s leg like he couldn’t get close enough. He was looking at Salem’s shoes, his face twisted up in a nervous frown. Rory instantly leaned close to him, hands on his cheeks and lips against his jaw, saying something in a real low, soft voice. She was calming him down, soothing him, Salem noticed, because he had frightened him.

Salem realized, then, how angry he sounded, shouting and cursing, and he sighed to himself. He decided he’d be better off just going to bed, putting in earplugs and waiting until the morning to deal with the problem. It’s not like he’d really be able to fight Nicko anyway, he was so much taller and he’d been on the football team and honestly Salem just wasn’t equipped for fighting. So he turned away from both of them and made his way down the hallway, to his room. He locked his door and set his things down, then he promptly stripped down to his boxers and got into bed.

The next morning, Salem was surprised to wake up to a clean, quiet house. He walked down the hallway, expecting at any second to see all of the trash pushed into a corner somewhere, he didn’t think Nicko would have cleaned up himself, unprompted. But it was clean all the way through, and he was impressed when he walked into the living room and saw Nicko, decked out in all black clothes and black boots, relaxing on the couch with his keys clutched readily in his hands, like he was leaving. He was speechless, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he approached him.

“Morning, sleepy head,” Nicko teased, tilting his head back and looking him up and down, “how was your trip?”

“Uh...good.” Salem answered, voice still gruff from sleep.

“Morning, Salem!”

He turned to see Rory standing there in fishnets and an oversized hoodie, dramatically tall heels wrapped around her ankles, making Salem wonder how she was standing straight. One time, when Nicko was busy doing an art piece or working on school work, he couldn’t remember now, she and Salem had been in the kitchen alone and Rory told him that she liked to wear tall heels because Nicko likes when she’s short and it entertains her to bother him. She said the best part of her day sometimes is irritating Nicko.

Behind Rory, standing with his head dipped downwards and his shoulders slightly hunched, was the same scared looking kid from the night before. He was allowing Rory to pull him along by his wrist, focusing on his shiny black boots, ones that he looked rather unsteady in, like he wasn’t used to tall shoes. His thin, oversized black tee shirt hung off of one boney shoulder, showcasing a few tattoos up on his collar bone and neck. They looked fresh, like they were healing. After Salem scanned the rest of his body (why was he wearing shorts and a tee shirt!? It was snowing outside!), he had healing tattoos all over, scattered every few inches. Were they all new? Salem didn’t know much about tattooing, but he didn’t think that was safe.

Salem didn’t realize he’d been staring at him, silent, until Rory cleared her throat, redirecting his attention to her. “He’s cute, huh?” She smiled, smacking her gum at him. “Nicko picked out a good one.”

“I...What?” Salem muttered.

“Our boxie,” she explained, holding his limp arm up in the air and waving it a little, making the kid flinch hard, “You were looking at him. Isn’t he precious?”

Now, he was shrinking in on himself more, looking rather embarrassed and ashamed, his face hidden mostly by his floppy hair. Salem frowned at him, then at Rory, then at Nicko, who was smiling smugly.

“You didn’t.”

Nicko laughed at him, and thus began the famous “You said it would be cool” argument. Salem was so shocked in the moment he wasn’t able to form a proper argument, so Nicko took both Rory and the boxie out the door and into the snow with him.

So that’s when things got complicated. Well, not necessarily right away, but that was the thing that kickstarted it all. It was a total snowball effect, where one bad thing happens and it just gets worse and collects more velocity and severity the longer it goes on, until it’s huge and it can’t be stopped and it flattens a poor snowboarder or a small city. Salem had to finish school, he had to start living his life and building his career, he didn’t have time to worry about huge snowball problems. That could ruin everything, all of his hard work and pain would have been pointless. All because Nicko decided to get a fucking boxie.

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justplainwhump · 1 year

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Stalker

Posting out of order yet again, sorry!

This closes a gap - the first steps of a recently free Angel on a bumpy road that'll eventually lead to her revovery.

[Angel's story]

Doctor Tim Harris falls in love.

Content: BBU, conditioning, early recovery, predatory behaviour, stalking, very dubcon vibes, dubcon kiss.

The man stood in the shadows of the trees lining the narrow street in one of the worse parts of a better neighbourhood. Big houses with gardens just big enough to not let the curious neighbours too close, but too small for that air of being well-off that the adjacent streets could offer. One of the houses was under construction, from the looks of it had been for years, and it was the one next to it that Tim Harris was interested in.

The pattern of lights behind the windows suggested that the rooms had been made smaller, to accommodate more people. Like a boarding house, maybe. In a way of course, that's what it was.

A safehouse for runaway WRU pets. He knew where it was, because the owners - that probably wasn't a good word, the activists running it - were dangerously incautious. They brought the runaways to his practise, one or two a month, and he treated them after hours, because his ex - before she was his ex - had urged him to do something for the greater good. Things you do for love. And well, money. Of course, he let them pay him for it. He risked his appropriation after all, helping runaways hide their dirty pasts.

One of the volunteers left the house, calling something to say goodbye, and Tim withdrew a little further into the shadows.

He should double his fees, if it was so easy making that safehouse out. Maybe he'd think about that later.

Now, he wasn't here to gather information on pet lib. He was here to gather information on a pet.

Angel. 002238. He knew the number, because he'd looked at it so often, three sessions, until the black lines had faded and soon there'd be nothing left of the bar code.

She'd flirted with him all the time. Not let the pain deter her. He'd remarked to her, that other people cried during the procedure. She'd said that crying made her look less attractive, and she wanted to be at her best for him.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. Her soft, perfect skin, the freckles on her nose, those dark eyes that seemed so knowing and naive at the same time. When he'd asked her for a drink after their first session, the pet lib guy had looked at him like he was a creep and told him that she wasn't ready to consent. The second session, the guy had stayed in the room with them the entire time. That was the day Tim had followed them back home for the first time.

And today, in the last session, he'd managed to give her a message, lean in closely while placing the bandage around her wrist, trying hard not to be distracted by the smell of her hair. "Meet me, outside the house. 8."

She'd just smiled, and let her fingertips run over his hand.

He still shivered, remembering.

It was 8:20 already. But he was patient.

She'd show. He knew it. Her touch had held a promise.

There was light up in the room he'd figured was hers, first floor, second from the left, and he could see a shadowy figure move behind it. The curtains moved aside, the window swung open, and he recognised a halo of blond hair. Angel. Whoever had given her the name, they'd chosen perfectly.

The light in the room went off then, but he could see the open window in the dim street light. A long leg in short pants graciously swinging over the windowsill, another one, and there she was, climbing down the drain pipe. An angel, descending to meet him.

She landed on her feet silently, gaze running over the street, and he stepped forward into the light.

Her smile was as radiant as in his dreams. "Doctor Harris," she said. "You came for me."

"I did," he replied, cleared his dry throat. "Do they... do they lock you up in there?"

"They don't want us to go out at night. Not the newer ones, at least." She shrugged and looked back at the house over her shoulder. "They don't make sense. They say there are no rules, and then there are rules, but if we call them rules, it's wrong again."

"Do you..." The question sounded dumb, but it was half out already, and so Tim rolled with it. "Do you like rules?"

Angel looked at him funnily, thoughtful, with a cute crease between her brows.

"I don't think that's something to like. Rules are necessary. Discipline is necessary. How can I be good, if nobody tells me what to do to be good?"

"You still climbed out of your window, even after they told you to stay inside the house."

"You told me to come out and meet you." The gaze she cast him, half hidden under long lashes, made his heart skip a beat. "I obeyed."

She was taller than him, he realised, even on bare feet, but there was something she did, with her shoulders, or the way she tilted her head, that made her appear shorter, made her look up at him. He liked that.

She kept his gaze still, waiting for a reply. There was one, he knew it, tasted it on his tongue already. Ask any of the pet lib people in the house behind her, it would be the wrong one, for many reasons.

But he wasn't them, and she wasn't just any pet, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and she looked at him in a way none of his former girlfriends ever had.

He gently rested a hand to her cheek, let himself get lost in her gaze for another second, before he spoke, voice rough.

"Good girl."

She all but melted into his kiss.

#bbu #bbu recovery #bbu pet lib #Angel's story #tim harris #creepy caretaker #dubcon #bbu romantic #dubcon kiss

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ocean-blue-whump · 2 years

Text

Christmas Morning

No comfort for Hermes. 😈 Posting this a little bit early so I don’t have to worry about it. Merry Christmas!

Tagging @ashintheairlikesnow @outofangband

CW: pet whump, BBU, creepy/intimate whumper, starvation

***

“Good morning, baby.”

Hermes’s eyes flutter open; he stifles his shudder at Levi’s arm snaked around his bare chest. “Good morning, Levi,” he answers.

The older man presses a kiss to the back of Hermes’s neck and one to the brand between his shoulder blades. “Merry Christmas.” He rolls over and stands up, rolling his muscular shoulders. “Let me get you some clothes, huh?”

“C-cold, Levi,” Hermes mumbles into the pillow. “‘M so cold.” And hungry, but he doesn’t dare voice that out loud.

“I know, sweet boy. It’s cold here in the mountains. I’ll start a fire in the living room, okay?”

Hermes pulls the blankets closer around him. Without Levi, he’s freezing, his joints are stiffening up. He’s dreaming of tea, the fragrant leaves Levi steeps in the copper kettle, pours into a ceramic mug, and keeps for himself, dipping a biscuit into the steaming drink while Hermes has to sit and watch because “caffeine is bad for growing boys” and “he’s not really hungry, is he?”

Levi drops a small pile of clothes on the bed. “I’ll give you, oh, let’s say seven minutes to clean up, get dressed, and come to the living room for our first Christmas together. Think you can do that, boy?”

Hermes nods. His shiver makes him look more enthusiastic than he really is, and Levi laughs. “There’s a good boy.”

When Levi’s gone, Hermes gets up. He’s cold and tired and feels so weak as he makes his way into the bathroom. After cleaning up and getting dressed in a pair of pattered candy cane pajamas, he stares at his reflection in the mirror. Eye bags, sallow skin over his gaunt face. He looks like a ghost, not a god, with his ethereal eyes staring back at him and he can barely recognize himself.

His hair started falling out a few days ago, more noticeable than before. Levi punished him for that, but Hermes can’t stop it, he doesn’t want to lose his hair either, he doesn’t want this.

With no clock in the bathroom he has no idea when his seven minutes will be up. He’s too weak to run out. Last time he tried, he rolled his ankle and Levi still made him dance on it. He holds onto the wall where he can, making his way into the living room.

He hasn’t eaten in three days. Levi won’t let him eat. He begs so prettily, but Levi always wins.

Hermes peeks his head around the corner. Levi is placing logs onto the fire, stoking the flames with a metal poker. The Christmas tree is glistening in the corner of the room, a small stack of presents underneath. Levi looks up with a smile when he sees Hermes. “Isn’t that precious. Go sit on the couch.”

Hermes walks over, his footsteps soundless. “Was I fast enough, Levi?”

The man sets the poker down to check his watch. “Yep. You did it.”

There’s a question pushing at Hermes’s tongue, one he won’t dare ask. If Levi wants to deny him food, who is he to question his owner? He sits down on the couch, tucking his legs up underneath him. His black hair falls into his eyes, he brushes it out of his face with his thin fingers and looks at Levi bashfully. “What do we do at Christmas?”

“I give you your present, then we watch a movie…” Levi walks over to Hermes, tracing his hand across the boy’s throat. “You stretch while I go take some of the fallen branches out of my yard, and then? I get to watch my little god dance for me. “Carol of the Bells,” sweet boy. That’s what you promised me.”

Hermes bites his lip. “Levi, I don’t, I don’t think I can dance today.”

The older man’s face darkens, he practically pins Hermes to the couch. “What do you mean?”

Hermes trembles underneath Levi’s imposing figure. “I’m too hungry. I feel so weak, Levi, please.”

Levi’s face twists in anger. He raises his hand and Hermes forces himself to stay perfectly still.

The slap knocks his head back against the couch cushions, his cheek stinging. Tears flow from his eyes, he whimpers and looks up at Levi. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please forgive me Levi. I love you so much, I want to make you happy.”

“Then you wouldn’t complain so much when I ask you to do something for me, huh, baby boy?” Levi grabs the boy’s jaw, smushing his cheeks up. “My little god. My little prince. Sweet angel boy. I’m giving you everything you could ever want.”

“I love you,” Hermes mumbles out. “Love you so much, Levi. I want to be good for you, I promise.”

His Christmas would be so different if he was with Handler Dennison. He would get fed part of the man’s lunch, Handler Dennison always brought extra fried rice and chicken parmesan and stopped bringing shrimp when Hermes confessed that he didn’t like them. Because he was good, after the first two months.

Levi lets go of the boy’s face, patting his other cheek. “You’ll still dance for me, won’t you?”

Hermes nods, terrified of what would happen otherwise. He’s always scared and always cold and always hungry.

Levi hums. “Good. And don’t you worry your pretty little dumb head about food. I know when you’re ready. You’re not ready to eat again, baby. I’ll take care of you. I’m going to the kitchen. Stay put, baby.” He presses a kiss to the boy’s forehead, then to his lips, quick and casual, before leaving.

Save me, Handler Dennison, the boy thinks.

And, traitorously, I don’t love my owner.

All added to the list of things he can’t say out loud.

#pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #box boy whump #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #starvation #christmas #hermes #levi katz #blue's words

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