#like bbu adjacent?

[peachy-panic]

Companion, pt. 1

New Do No Harm content? In the current timeline? In 2024 the year of our lord? Could it be?

Here's part 1 of a couple-part saga in the Sebastian contract, which I lightly foreshadowed here.

WARNINGS: Not much outside the usual BBU tag and the uncomfortable power dynamics that come with it.

The house is warm when Sebastian gets home, in every sense of the word. A candle flickers an inviting glow on the coffee table, and the smell of garlic and onions rushes to greet him. As expected, he finds Jaime posted in the kitchen, tending to his latest creation on the stovetop. On the small bluetooth radio beside the toaster, a song he doesn’t recognize is playing.

It’s taking some time for Sebastian to get used to coming home to someone. For so long, for most of this adult life, it has been dark, empty apartments or cold, distant roommates, never allowed past arm’s length. And now, there’s Jaime, who has entered his life like a bullet and smiles over his shoulder when Sebastian walks into the room. 

He is getting better these days at reading his smiles, and this one, at least, appears to be genuine. Relieved, almost, that he is home. 

“Hi,” Jaime says first.

“Hello,” Sebastian echoes, dropping his coat over the back of a barstool. “What are we making?”

“It’s an Ezra recipe,” Jaime says, wiping his palms on his pants. “Is soup okay tonight? If that’s not substantial enough, I am happy to make something else with it.”

Sebastian does not let his smile drop or fade, no matter how desperately uncertain Jaime sounds. “Soup sounds great, Jaime. It smells amazing.”

It’s the truth, too. It’s a difficult balance, wanting to compliment his prowess in the kitchen and appreciate the genuine joy he seems to derive from it, while also trying not to think of the how and why. Sebastian doesn’t know much about what “training” looks like inside the facility, especially for the specialized domestic tasks that would have been assigned to Jaime, and he doesn’t particularly like speculating on the details. From everything he’s seen in the clinic, he knows that none of it is pleasant.

“How was work?’ Jaime asks, then seems to catch himself. He stiffens, looking sheepishly away. “Sorry. You probably aren’t allowed to talk about that.”

Sebastian snorts. “If only doctor-patient confidentiality applied in a place like that.” The words come out before he can consider the significance they carry to the person he’s speaking to. Guilt spikes sharp in his chest. “Sorry, that wasn’t…”

“It’s okay.” Jaime smiles, but it’s a tense, brittle line. 

“Um.” Sebastian clears his throat, trying to get their conversation back on the rails before he ruins the evening completely. “My day was okay. It was fine.” He shakes his head, pressing his fingers briefly to his eyes. “That was a lie. It was terrible, as usual. I don’t think I need to convince you that having a good day in that building would be a poor reflection of one’s character.” 

So much for salvaging the conversation, Tate. 

“Anyway, how was your day?” 

Jaime pulls the hand towel down from his shoulder and begins wiping at an invisible spot on the counter. “It was fine, thank you.”

Sebastian watches him, trying hard not to scrutinize the pre-packaged reply. His answer is always something of the same tune when Sebastian inquires about his day, never anything less than “fine,” never forthcoming on the details. It’s not the first time it’s sent Sebastian into a bit of a spiral about a concern he’s had from the very beginning: how does Jaime spend his days? Is he happy here? Has Sebastian provided him with enough resources to carve out some semblance of a life here?

He has tried. He has provided him access to the internet and all the movies streaming had to offer, he bought Jaime a reading tablet and granted blanket permission to fill it with as many books as he wants, he has given enthusiastic encouragement for Jaime to go for runs or walks whenever he’d like. It doesn’t feel like enough. He still ends up spending his long days at work wondering if Jaime is at home feeling like a prisoner. 

Sebastian pushes the thought away for now. 

“Is there anything I can help with?” He asks.

“It’s almost done, actually.” Jaime taps the excess liquid from the wood spoon and lays it on a ceramic dish. “Just needs a few more minutes to simmer. Sorry, I hoped it would be ready by the time you got home.”

Sebastian gives him a look. “You don’t have to cook at all,” he says. “Let alone have it hot and waiting at the table. You’re aware of my microwave burrito phase? My standards are low.”

“I remember.” Jaime assures him.  “I don’t mind, though. I like trying new recipes. Ezra lent me a cookbook. I tabbed a few that look interesting. If they look good to you, that is.”

“You have yet to steer me wrong. I’m starting to think it’s impossible for you to cook anything less than a masterpiece.”

The slight stutter in Jaime’s stirring is quick enough that Sebastian can brush it off as his imagination. 

“It passes the time,” Jaime says, a bit quieter. 

“What?”

“Cooking. Planning the meals, ordering the ingredients. Prep and cook time,” he elaborates. “It’s productive, is all I mean.” Jaime has gone tense, the way he does when he seems to say more than he means to, but he recovers quickly. 

The soup is ready shortly after, and dinner is delicious as always, but Sebastian can’t get out of his own head enough to really enjoy it. Jaime’s words—it passes the time—bounce around inside his skull, breaking open all sorts of subtext and confirming all of Sebastian’s fears. 

They’re cleaning up afterward, Sebastian scrubbing the dishes while Jaime dries, when a thought that’s been brewing spills out of his mouth. 

“Have you ever had any pets?” Sebastian asks, apropos of absolutely nothing. Jaime shoots him a quick side glance without pausing in his work. 

“Once,” he says after a beat. 

Sebastian knows it’s tricky ground, getting too close to details from Jaime’s past. He knows the rules he is bound by and how closely Jaime tries to follow them, even if sometimes Sebastian thinks he might be getting more and more comfortable with little rebellions. Sebastian is still riding the high from a couple weeks prior when Jaime had gifted him and Ezra the small nugget of truth that he used to play soccer, in his life before the system. What might have been an insignificant detail to anyone else was such a fragile, entrusted thing.

Sebastian doesn’t want to pry, though. He decides to keep his questions more general. 

“Do you like animals?”

“Yes.” That answer comes much quicker. 

“Would you…” Sebastian pauses, making sure he’s positive about the proposition he is making before he makes it. He is. “Tell me honestly if this isn’t something you’re interested in, and I won’t be offended in the slightest. I was wondering… if that might be something you would be interested in. Having a pet here.”

Jaime takes a minute to answer, like he’s choosing each word carefully. “Would it be solely for my benefit?”

“No,” Sebastian assures him, and it’s not a lie. “It’s something I’ve thought about before, but I don’t have a lot of experience with pets. Zero, to be exact, unless you count a goldfish that lived for under a week when I was seven.” He pauses. “I do worry about you getting lonely, though. Staying here by yourself all the time.”

“I don’t mind being alone.”

“I know. I just wonder if it might be nice to have some company. Something to look after.” Something to bring you comfort. Anything to make you happy here. 

A quiet falls over them, interspersed with the sound of running water and dishes clanking around in the sink, and Sebastian starts to think of how to walk this back. Because clearly this is something that gives Jaime pause. 

“What about…” Jaime starts, then stops. Sebastian puts down the dish he is working on and looks at him. Jaime meets his eyes for a split second and then averts them again. “Would you keep it, even after I’m gone?”

And shit. Maybe it’s a good thing he put the cup down in the sink, because Sebastian is pretty sure it would have shattered in his hand from the force of his grip. And he realizes, not for the first time, that the longevity of this… arrangement is something they need to talk about. In detail. At length. Soon. But now doesn’t seem like the right time. 

“If I brought a living creature into my home,” he starts carefully, “then this would become its home, too. It will be here for the long haul.”

After a long, weighty silence, he sees Jaime nod in his periphery. 

“I think I’d like that.”

****

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[whumpflash]

Since I've been working on planning a little, for those who've been reading my Untitled Apocalypse Story:

[flailingfrog]

A Reintroduction of Sorts

TW: BBU-adjacent setting, dehumanization, abuse

Holly does her best. Kit knows this, deep and well into her gut. But she does the same thing everyone else does and carries on like there isn’t a crack in her world even when it’s obvious that there’s something there, edging worry into her. It’s obvious, when you know what to look for, and Holly doesn’t wear it the same as Daphne did, but there’s a stress to her hands, a permanent tug at her shoulders and lips. Kit knows Holly well enough to know what they mean.

But Holly doesn’t want to discuss it, so Kit won’t bring it up, at least not directly. She’s very good at side-stepping issues like that—It’s part of what made her a good pet to Daphne. Besides, Daphne always said there were ways to make someone feel better other than talking.

Kit would still like to know what it was—What about looking at her left Holly’s lips thinning. Maybe then the tightness in her chest and threatening pain in her neck disappear.

Part of the anxiety is good, of course. Being anxious means she cares, and she should. After all, today is the day Holly takes her home. Her nerves need this sticky coating of not quite terror.

She’s never met her husband, or her children. And she’s never been to Holly’s house. It’s too messy, which Holly says is the nature of three kids, a husband, and busy lives, and that there’s only so much you can ask Renee to do in a day when she’s also cooking and helping Holly with her Etsy store and the kids. Renee sets off her nerves, too, though that bit she can admit is unreasonable. Renee and her will probably make great friends, if Holly allows it.

She’s settled perfectly for the moment Holly will arrive: Daphne had arranged the living room so that from the largest of the couches you could look straight across the coffee table to the front door. To herself, Kit can admit she’s always thought the furniture clashed with the wall of glass, high ceilings, and large, sparkly tiled black floors. It’s like her, though, and she’d feel warmer about that if Daphne weren’t gone.

Her crochet bag’s by her feet and she works on one of her current projects, one of what was supposed to be a series of rose doilies her and Daphne made as a pair.

The key scratches in the front door’s lock. Kit wills her heart to stop thumping and looks up from her vantage point on the couch. Downstairs, as the door scrapes across the inner floor mat, Paul starts to yap, which Kit forgives even as it stings through her brain.

It doesn’t show in the easy smile she always gives Holly from rising to her face as the door opens, doily slid back into her bag, and that is another success today.

But it’s not Holly at the door. It’s Nikole, Holly trailing after her with a flat face that makes Kit’s heart stutter.

“Does he always bark like that?” Nikole asks over her shoulder to Holly.

“He’s a barky guy,” Holly says, then to Kit. “He still downstairs?”

“Yes, Holly.” She hadn’t asked her to carry him up them. She digs through the words regardless, looking for any sign of what she’d done.

It must’ve been something bad for Holly to bring Nikole. Of course, asking’s out of the question. She shouldn’t have questions, not the kind that wouldn’t leave Daphne with a fond smile to her lips. She should just know what she did. Can she effectively lie about it this time? Her heart is a traitor in her chest.

Nikole looks away from where she’d frozen staring at the quilt on the wall to Kit, and already Kit can see something building in her. “You’re on the couch?”

Kit’s mouth freezes in the smile meant for Holly. She reaches for it, wills it to act for Nikole, but can’t locate her nerve.

Before she can be punished for it, Holly speaks up, sharper than Kit would dare. “Daphne let her on the couch.”

She could melt into her for the defense, press apologetic words into her skin for whatever she’s done.

But Nikole doesn’t so much as tilt towards her, even as Paul reaches a new crescendo. “Even when she wasn’t home?” Her legs carry her in measured steps deeper into the house, and Holly follows, softer.

This is stupid. That’s what Kit thinks. And she would smack herself for it if she were by herself, because that’s not a thought Kit’s supposed to have. The itchiness of annoyance isn’t supposed to be there, either. Under that, there’s an ache. This is different and she misses Daphne. Her face stays in perfect bland pleasantry as she asks, “Do you want me off the couch?”

“Yes,” she says, and Kit’s heart ratchets at how little it gives her.

She slides to her knees. She shouldn’t have asked. Asking would’ve upset Daphne, and Nikole is worse than Daphne. She’s been to the family events, has seen the way Nikole snaps at her daughter and husband over imagined slights.But sitting there, Nikole digging into her as she danced around an issue so easily fixed…

She aches.

On the other side of the table, Nikole stares at her.

She tries to keep her focus on her, face bent to neutrality and care even as her heart beats faster. She keeps waiting for her to speak, but she doesn’t.

Her eyes flit past her to Holly, as covert a question as she dares. Holly looks back with something Kit thinks might be guilt, and she barely has time to snap an internal rubber band at the elation that comes with it before Nikole speaks.

“What are you looking at her for?”

She snaps back to attention at the accusation.

Frowns settle easily on Nikole’s face, and this one is no different. “Don’t you think you should focus on your owner?”

“Nikole—“ Holly reaches for her, but Nikole flinches away and Holly follows suit, as strongly as if she hit her, further away from the pair than where she started.

Kit doesn’t dare look at Holly, her eyes stuck somewhere at Nikole’s collarbone. Holly said she was going to take her home. She pretends Paul can understand the terrible fate that’s befallen them from even downstairs and that’s why he won’t stop barking. It’s easier to deal with the pulse of pain brought on by each sharp burst of noise that way. If it made all the other pain easier, she’d never stop pretending.

Eventually, Nikole will be as familiar to her as Holly or her mother. For now she isn’t. The safest option, she tries for as much earnestness as she can spare, as much as she dares, and says, “I’m sorry, Niko—”

*“Miss,” she interrupts, a haziness to her. “You can call me Miss.”

For all intents and purposes, Kit and Nikole are alone. Very soon, that will be the reality, too. Something drips in her at the thought.

*Her face has fallen out of standard, but she puts back on a smile as soon as she can muster and says, “I’m sorry, Miss.”

“Look at me.”

She wouldn’t refuse a direct order.

Nikole holds her gaze for a long second, mouth a thin line, as tightly coiled as a snake. And then she relaxes with a cock of her head, and for half a moment, Kit can almost relax, too.

“What other bad habits did my mother let you develop?” Nikole asks.

For a second, she can’t process the words. There’s something scrambling in her throat, a smokiness to her thoughts that leaves her woozy. If you had asked Kit before Nikole came through the door, she’d have said she didn’t have any bad habits. She was perfectly suited, the best friend an old lady like Daphne could ask for.

Out the corner of her eye, Holly almost says something to Nikole, jittering in an almost-step into Nikole’s space, but then she stops, glancing at Kit. Kit doesn’t dare glance back. She’s too busy trying to answer properly. Her throat’s grown too thick. She searches for any flaws Daphne had pointed out in the last few weeks, but as always, there’s nothing.

Instead of an answer, Paul echoes off the high ceilings and inside her skull.

*“You’re taking too long.”

She’s too aware of her heart in her chest. She ducks her head to fulfill the image of contriteness demanded, hands cupped in her lap. It’s like she’s admitting to some kind of crime when she says, “I’m sorry, Miss. I can’t think of any.”

“Why is Paul downstairs?”

Paul barks his own accusation, a throttle to Kit’s heart.

Her chest squeezes her tighter. She manages to say evenly, “His things are downstairs, and he can’t walk up the stairs.”

“So you didn’t think to carry him?”

It’s an accusation, but she can’t grasp the crime. “No one asked me to.” She doesn’t let it sound like she’s begging for understanding. No one likes when you beg. If she explains calmly enough—

“So you’re lazy.”

The words dunk her in water, and she missteps. “No, Miss, it’s just—”

“And you’re argumentative.”

Her mouth snaps shut, the label tight around her. She focuses on the whorls of her fingertips as she fights to keep her shoulders rounded.

“I want you to say it.”

She chances a glance up at Nikole. From the floor, Nikole towers over her, even when Kit knows her new owner’s shorter than her. She fights the urge to glance at Holly, knowing she’s already pushing her as her stomach clamps. She pushes down the thoughts that she shouldn’t have and instead pushes worse. “Miss?”

“Did you not hear me the first time?” she asks, a snip to the warning. Daphne used that word a lot when describing her daughter. It’s like her chest is aching all over again.

Her mouth tries to do something funny, and she’s not quite sure what it is, only that it makes her temple pulse. She forces her jaw to work out, an even mumble, “I’m argumentative.”

“Louder,” she says, the upper knees of her faded light blue jeans pressing into the coffee table. Nikole doesn’t look at Kit like she could ever love her. She doesn’t think she could even love Paul.

Louder, loud enough to be heard clearly over Paul downstairs, she just manages not to rasp, “I’m argumentative.”

*Nikole leans over, sides of her cardigan brushing against the magazines on the table with a slick noise. “That’s right. And my mother might have tolerated argumentative, but I won’t. If you talk back again, you don’t want to know what I’ll do.” She pauses, and the words sit between them just long enough for Kit to feel sick.

Then she says, “You can pack two bags for you and a smaller one for Paul.”

*It’s nowhere near enough for either of them. But it’s not her place to argue. She should be grateful. She reminds herself that in the death of an owner, several pets have it worse. She could be refurbished if Nikole so chose, and even the thought leaves her damper, but instead she’s just…

Being forced out of her home with far too little for her or the little dog Daphne has always trusted her to care for.

*Kit is not grateful. Instead, she is bad.

She still nods, not daring to try and see what Holly’s doing now that she’s gone quiet.

Nikole stares down at her, and Kit waits for her dismissal.

Finally, she says, “I meant now.”

*“Thank you, Miss,” Kit manages, loud enough she won’t be asked to be repeated, and she leaves the room as quickly as she can.

-

@angst-after-dark @black-hole-cobra

[ilasknives]

INK BLACK AND BLUE (A whump fic introduction).

hello and welcome to my newest whumpee! I swear I'm writing my other stories but for now you can have him :)

CW for: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, brief mentions of non-con touch, non-consensual drugging.

1: Hand to Hand to Hand

Pet practically belonged to the casino by now. He was here more often than not, these days, tucked uncomfortably under some table in the back corner with his head down and his knees underneath himself, hands bound tightly together and chained to a table leg. It was a small place compared to most, low-lit in the yellow wash of the dying lights on the ceiling, hidden in some back alley somewhere. The kind of place people went when they didn’t want much competition, or when they’d been kicked out of every bigger casino in the area. Pet could find his way here from any corner of the town in his sleep.

Most days he’d be dragged in the doorway to a handful of pills shoved down his throat and a hand - or several - blocking off his breathing until he swallowed, then he’d be shoved down to his knees on the moth-eaten carpet to wait.

Today was no different. He couldn’t see much beyond the shoes of the players and the table legs around him, but by the force of the poker chips being dropped on the table and the anxious shifting of the pair of legs beside him, it was going to be… a long night. It had already been a long night. His owner - current owner, anyway - was losing, and badly.

A hand dropped down to rough up his hair and Pet gritted his teeth, curling his fingers into the carpet fibres and hunching down lower. Every muscle in his body drew tense, the urge to bite swelling in his chest, raging and painful, dulled only by the drugs in his system. Somewhere else, he would thrash and turn and sink his teeth in. But he didn't bite here. He'd learned that lesson well and truly by now. He worked his teeth into his bottom lip instead, and the hand drew away to throw another card down on the table.

The game dragged on. Poker chips slammed on the table above him, a kick to his side, yelling from the men who were losing, yelling from the men who were winning. A hand in his hair, more chips on the table, more yelling. Cards, chips, hand, yell. Teeth into lip. Cards, hands, yelling. Nausea, climbing his throat. Drugs and swimming vision. The urge to fight, stuffed somewhere back behind his teeth. He didn't bite here.

The table cleared slowly as time wore on, players running slowly out of cash as it piled in the centre or finally deciding to escape with their winnings before they lost them again. His owner kept reaching down to pet his head – something that only this owner did, really, and Pet didn’t know if it was a nervous habit or if he thought it was some odd form of good luck. Pet had never asked, too focused on keeping his teeth in his mouth and ignoring the way it made his skin crawl. He’d never be seen like that, anyway. At worst he was bad luck, at best he was nothing to them at all.

He gritted his teeth together under the table and dug his fingers into the carpet. It was worn, here, from how often he did this. His table, his spot. Casino property, or whatever. He didn’t want to mean anything to them.

It was some time before the sound of the door opening drew his attention and he lifted his head to see a new pair of shoes stepping across to the table.  

“You have time for another round?”

The newcomer’s voice was not one that Pet had heard before. He stilled, listening. The men here were all violent and mean, slurred voices, rough hands. Pet knew them all personally. Intimately. He’d been to each house, each bed, each basement floor many times over but this man – he didn’t recognise him. There hadn’t been a newcomer to this casino in months.

“Just packing up,” said his owner, but there was an edge to it, like he was hesitating. The newcomer shifted his feet.

“Are you sure?”

“… You play cards?”

“I’m quite good at cards, yes.”

His owner sat up straighter and laughed. None of them could resist a challenge. This was going to drag out into another few rounds of back and forth, and his legs were already numb. It was a goddamned miracle his owner had kept him this long as it was, but he was quickly running out of money and Pet knew he didn’t know when to stop. This owner was always more hesitant to give him up, for whatever reason, but he’d done it many times before. He’d do it many times again.

There were three of them at the table now – his owner, another regular, and the newcomer. The cards shuffled, and someone started tossing them out. One fell, fluttering down to the floor, and the newcomer leaned down to pick it up. He glanced up when he did, face-to-face with Pet as he reached for it. The man blinked at him, picked the card off the floor and straightened. That was fine. He’d prefer to be ignored, anyway. Above him, the conversation continued.

“You have a pet here?” asked the newcomer.

His owner huffed out a laugh. “He’s not worth much, if that’s what you’re wondering. A pain in the ass, more than anything. Aren’t you, pest?” He reached down to rough up Pet’s hair again. He gritted his teeth together and refused to respond, which earned him a smack up the back of the head. “See what I mean?”

“I didn’t know they were allowed this close to the tables.”

A scoff. “You think this place cares? You’re not in a big city anymore, mate.”

The newcomer hummed in agreement. “Guess not.”

Pet glared at the floor, tearing carpet threads up with his fingers, bottom lip worked painfully between his teeth. He’d bitten it raw, but no one cared, least of all himself. It’d just be a point of mockery later, of wow, pest, had to try real hard to keep your teeth to yourself back there, huh? and rough hands holding his face still so someone could lick the blood away. He told himself he’d smash his face into theirs.

Bad pet. Pest. Fucking menace. He revelled in it.

Just not here, he reminded himself when his owner shifted his leg to press it against his side. The contact made his stomach turn.

The game went on.

“Not as good as you said, huh?” Someone said, late into the game, late into the night. “Bet that hand you got dealt isn’t looking as good as you thought.”

A laugh. A shuffle of cards. “I guess not. You’re doing well, though.”

“You’re too fuckin’ polite for this place, mate,” his owner laughed. More chips dragged over to his side, piled so dangerously close to the edge that if Pet craned his neck, or shifted just a little too much, he’d be able to make them fall. Somehow they didn’t when his owner leaned across the table. “Got another round in you? Or are you gonna tuck your tail between your legs and run home? Easy winnings from someone who claimed to be good at this.”

The newcomer sighed and shifted, a hand coming down to pat at his pockets. Pet had been here long enough that he understood what was happening, the desperate search for something else to put up, the draw to the game even when he’d done nothing but lose.

“… I’ll put my car in.”

The owner laughed heartily and accepted. The other regular had left, by now, and it was these two alone, nothing but Pet and the casino staff behind the bar to watch them. This game, another. The tide turned, and his owner started losing, the newcomer’s skills seeming to come through for him.

His owner was scrambling, now, the wins he’d been gloating about ripped right from underneath him.

Pet felt the tug on his leash before he heard the words.

“Throw him in, too.”

“Your pet?”

“His attitude isn’t worth shit, but a pet’s worth a lot of money, you know that.”

“… Sure,” shrugged the newcomer. “My dad could use another pet.”

If his owner had been any decent kind of person, he might have mentioned that Pet was not the kind of pet that anyone would want. He was disobedient and angry. He didn’t get passed around the casino because he was good. They all just wanted their shot at breaking him – it’s all he was good for, anyway. A bargaining chip, a game piece, something to be taken and given up. Just a monetary value and a source of bragging rights.

But his owner was a bitter, arrogant kind of man, just like the rest of them. He was a desperate one, too. So Pet became part of the betting pool once again, and the cards were shuffled above him.

In the end, no matter how hard his owner had tried, no matter what cards he played, it hadn’t mattered. He lost the money. He gave up Pet.

At some ungodly hour of the morning, after a scuffle between the men - over one claiming the other had cheated, or scammed him, or something like that - that the casino staff had to break up, Pet’s chains were taken off his wrists. He heard one of the staff mutter a recommendation for a muzzle.

The newcomer wrapped Pet’s leash around his fist and dragged him outside.

The world swam, and his legs barely had feeling back, and he didn’t fight when he was pushed into the back of a car, still too close to the casino.

He didn’t bite here.

But almost. Soon. When the drugs weren’t making him so tired, when he wasn’t trying to figure out what this new owner would be like and how hard he’d have to fight.

He didn’t answer when the man asked for his name. He’d stopped keeping track of those a long time ago.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, part twenty-one

masterlist here.

content warnings for: EXPLICIT noncon/dubcon, noncon drugging, forced nudity, cages, conditioned whumpee, multiple whumpers, intimate whumpers, bbu/bbu-adjacent, psychological whump

part twenty-one, easier

It gets easier. 

Jack doesn’t know how, but he does know why. It has to get easier, or there will never be any relief. It was the same with Bill, with all the others; the more he fought, the worse everything hurt. And this, this “arrangement” with Ivan is never going to end. He may still have his name, he may not have been obliterated by the Drip, but Jack is property of WRU now. Just as he was always meant to be. 

He is good. Sweet. Compliant. He is an instrument of pleasure, and he serves his master well. 

And so, it gets easier because it has to. It’s the only way he can face his future, such as it is. 

Ivan is a good master. Even if the first time he took Jack was painful, it was for Jack’s own good. So that he would know better than to resist again. And he does know better now. He won’t resist. He can’t. This is what he wants. It is the only thing he can want. 

In the morning, he swallows Ivan down with his breakfast. Then, if Ivan doesn’t have any clients, he is allowed to go upstairs. He crawls on all fours like the pet that he is, but Ivan doesn’t muzzle him. There’s no need. Jack slips under Ivan’s desk, and he waits for the tap on his cheek that lets him know he is needed. Sometimes, Ivan rests in Jack’s mouth for hours, but Jack doesn’t complain. He’s used to it now. 

If Ivan has clients, Jack is left in his cage, the beads thrumming inside of him and Joe’s hoodie puddled beneath his head. He doesn’t fight the beads anymore. Instead, he chases the sensation, letting his sweat bathe his bare body. He doesn’t come, though. He knows better; his body knows better. He rises, and he waits. Ivan likes to watch when he returns, likes to listen to Jack’s wanton moans. Sometimes, Ivan watches for a very long time. He likes to watch Jack go blind with want. But Jack knows: he is allowed to want, but not to have. Ivan only gives him release every so often–just to keep things in working order, he says. 

In the evening, Jack drinks his water from a bowl at Ivan’s feet. It is cloudy and bitter, and he knows it is drugged, but it doesn’t matter; it’s better than the hood or the leather sack. When the pall of the drug settles around him, when he is warm and pliant and fuzzy and faraway, Ivan carries him upstairs. It wasn’t that way at first. At first, he was restrained or bent over the steel table or forced into position ten–his hands and knees–on the concrete floor. But now, he is such a good boy that he is allowed in the bed. Ivan doesn’t even need to chain him to the headboard anymore. 

Sometimes, Ivan keeps him in the bedroom overnight. Not in the bed, because pets do not sleep in beds. But he has a special cage beneath the box frame just for Jack; the latest accessory from WRU’s new line, Ivan says. There is a pillow and a blanket, because Jack is such a spoiled boy. On those nights, Jack sleeps like a baby. He can stretch out, at least; it is better than his basement cage, better than the soiled hoodie. The hoodie doesn’t smell like Joe anymore anyway. 

Joe is going to be so proud of him. That’s what Ivan says. Jack hopes it is true. 

It is evening again. Jack knows because his bowl is waiting, Ivan’s wingtips shining beside it. He doesn’t look at Ivan’s face; pets show deference to their masters, and Jack is a good pet. But he hears the brisk pop of Ivan’s snap, and he lurches forward on his bruised knees to drink. 

“That’s a good boy, Jackie,” Ivan murmurs, scratching his fingers through Jack’s tangled hair. The pressure feels good on his scalp, but Jack knows better than to stop drinking. He has to keep going until every last drop is gone. Until he’s gone with it. Good boys let themselves go. 

“You know,” Ivan goes on, “you’ve done such a marvelous job lately. I can see that you’ve really adapted to the training protocol, that you understand your role. And you’re flourishing.” 

Jack keeps lapping at the water, but his cheeks color with something that might be pleasure. He’s done a good job. He is who he was always meant to be. 

Maybe he will be able to go home soon. He can show Joe everything that he’s learned. Start their new lives together. He knows his place now. He will make Joe so happy. And that will make him happy. He knows it will. There is no happiness but pleasing his master–his owner. 

“There are a few hurdles for you to clear before you’re done with training, my boy,” Ivan says. “But I know you’ll handle them with gusto. Won’t you?” 

The bowl is empty. Jack’s bare ass slides back to his knees, and he nods without looking up. “Yes, sir.” 

Ivan laughs. “Good to hear. Now, tonight, we’ll stay down here in the basement.” 

To his credit, Jack’s heart no longer plummets. It doesn’t matter where he is, so long as he is giving Ivan what he wants. That’s all that matters. 

“Have I done something wrong, sir?” Jack asks. His voice wavers, just like it is supposed to. 

“Not at all, sweet boy, not at all. I just have a very special surprise for you. A challenge. Do you think you’re up to the task, my darling?” 

“Yes, sir.” Jack folds over his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. 

Ivan’s toe flicks against Jack’s ass crack, and Jack spreads his knees accordingly. 

“I can see that you are,” Ivan laughs. “That’s good. Now, Jackie, I want you to assume position ten.” 

Jack shifts to his hands and knees without a second thought. 

“Excellent, my boy. Now, you stay–” Ivan holds his hand flat in front of Jack’s face, “And I’ll be right back with your surprise, hmm?”  

Ivan sweeps out of the room, leaving the basement door open, and it doesn’t occur to Jack that there might have been a time when he would have tried to follow. To fight. But nothing occurs to Jack at all. He waits, because that’s what he’s been instructed to do. His head is empty. 

Ivan isn’t gone for long; only a few minutes have passed when Jack hears the patter of footsteps on the basement stairs. 

“You’re not going to believe how far he’s come,” Ivan says. He isn’t speaking to Jack.  

“Oh, I’m sure I can believe it,” another voice answers. 

The voice is familiar, but Jack can’t quite place it. Whatever Ivan laces the water with is starting to take effect; his ears rush warm and his joints feel like wax. His head lolls on his neck, but he stays on his hands and knees. He will not break position. Cannot.

“Well, Mr. Kenyon! Look at you!”

Mr. Kenyon. The name swims in Jack’s brain. No one’s called him that in so long. It doesn’t even feel like his name anymore. 

There’s a gentle nudge at Jack’s backside. “It’s alright, Jackie. You can look up. Show our guest your pretty face.” 

Jack looks up, blinking against the overhead light. The man’s face is shadowed, but even so, Jack recognizes him. The sharp chin, the beady eyes, the whispy mouse brown hairline. Immediately, Jack’s balance falters, and he sinks back over his feet. 

“Aw, now, Jackie. Don’t be scared. You remember Dr. Seligman, don’t you?” Ivan kneels beside Jack and runs a careful finger over the ridges of Jack’s spine. “He’s the one who helped bring you here to me.” 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, even though he isn’t supposed to. He remembers, just barely. Carl’s low snarl, the smoke detector, the drinks–drinks that Seligman mixed. Snatches of foggy time. Being shunted down stairs. His clothes being cut from his body. Hands, shifting, groping, pulling. Waking up, bound in a straitjacket, in this basement. 

Because Jack was taken. Because this is never what he wanted at all. But now, he doesn’t know how to want anything else. 

“Open your eyes, sweet boy,” Ivan coos, but his hand rests heavy on the back of Jack’s neck. A warning. 

Jack complies. Seligman’s horsey face is just inches from his own.

“Dr. Peters was right about you, wasn’t he?” Seligman’s lips creep into a wet smile. “You’re just perfect.”

And Jack is perfect. When Seligman caresses his cheek with papery fingers, Jack lets his mouth fall open. When Seligman teases his soft palate with a jagged fingernail, Jack does not gag. 

“No alarm reaction at all,” Seligman says in wonder. He wipes his wet fingers on Jack’s cheek and swats at Jack’s chin, a silent command for Jack to close his mouth; Jack does. “This is extraordinary, Ivan.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” Ivan’s nails twine with the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck. “He’s almost ready, I think. But I’m still dosing him with a sedative on occasion. That’s part of the reason I asked you to come.”

Seligman stands, still studying Jack from above. “What do you mean?”

“I thought we’d run an experiment,” Ivan says. His touch withdraws, and Jack whines. Ivan only chuckles. “Good boy, Jackie. You just be patient while we discuss. Position five.”

Jack folds in half, a penitent at worship. He listens, but he doesn’t really hear. He is boneless and warm, any real understanding lost in the fog that gets thicker with every slow breath.

“What’s your proposal, Ivan?”

“He’s already been dosed tonight. I say we do what we discussed now, with his typical drugs, and then repeat the exercise tomorrow, without sedating him.”

Seligman sucks his teeth. “So you’ll know if his compliance is drug dependent or not.”

“Precisely.”

Seligman half-laughs. “I suppose I could be talked into it.”

“All for the sake of science, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Faraway as Jack is, his stomach still jolts. He knows he’ll do what’s asked of him—there is no asking, not really—but there is an unfamiliar pinprick of fear worrying his belly; he hasn’t been scared in a long time. Still, he stays where he is and waits for instruction.

“You’ll take his mouth,” Ivan says, his voice cool and matter-of-fact, “and I’ll take him from behind.”

No. They can’t do this. Jack can’t do this. He’s never done it before. He is so good, so good at everything else. He can show them, if only they’ll let him. He wants to raise his head, to protest, but he is too fuzzy, too well-trained. He doesn’t move.

“If you insist,” Seligman replies.

“He’s quite adept at oral stimulation. I’ve made note of it in his file.”

Jack closes his eyes again. Yes, he is good at that. He’s always been good at that. Even Bill thought so. But now, he is practiced. A professional. 

“I’m sure the agency will be pleased.”

Ivan laughs. “And so will you.” He claps his hands. “Up, Jackie. Ten.” 

Jack raises himself to hands and knees, and he keeps his eyes on the slate gray floor. Seligman’s feet move away, but Jack hears the gentle drop of a zipper. Ivan squats down in front of him, tucking his fingers beneath Jack’s chin. 

“Now, my good boy, you’re going to show off all of your training. You are so close to being ready for your next step, but we still need to assess, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack whispers. 

“Good. Now, when Dr. Seligman is ready, you’re going to take him in your mouth, and you are going to make him come. You can do that, can’t you, Jackie?” 

Jack nods. He can do that. It doesn’t matter if he wants to. Of course he wants to. Of course he can do this. It’s what he was made for, isn’t it? What he’s been training for?

Ivan grips the sides of Jack’s jaw with punishing strength. “What’s that, sweet boy?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Ivan’s fingers relax. “Right. While you’re doing that, I’m going to fuck you. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

The pinprick of fear tears into Jack’s gut, widening, burning. But he nods again, the world blurry in front of his eyes. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my darling,” Ivan says. He presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead. “Isn’t this nice, Jackie? Letting others do for you. No choices to make. Just the simple kind of life you were always meant for.” 

“He’s a very lucky boy.” Seligman’s naked, downy-haired legs appear just beyond Ivan’s shoulder. 

“He is. And his Joe will be so proud.” 

Seligman laughs. “Prescott? Oh, Jesus. I’d forgotten.” 

Jack whimpers before he can stop himself. They shouldn’t make fun of Joe. Once Jack gets home, he’ll prove what a big man Joe is. He’ll let Joe do whatever he wants, the way he always should have. 

“Yes, Jackie works very hard for his Joe.” 

“Does Prescott even know–” 

Ivan pops to his feet. “Enough talk, I think. Jack knows what to do. Let him show you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Seligman says. 

“Alright, Jackie.” Ivan’s voice drifts behind. “Position one. Let Dr. Seligman guide you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Jack pushes himself to his feet, but before he can rise to standing, Seligman’s dry hands wrap around his shoulders, holding Jack’s trunk parallel to the floor. Jack hates the feeling of the man’s skin on his, but it doesn’t matter; what he feels is unimportant, and he knows it. Still, he shivers, and Seligman squeezes his shoulders. 

“Open that beautiful mouth, Mr. Kenyon,” Seligman says. 

Jack follows orders, and when Seligman slips himself–limp, pink, cold–between Jack’s lips, Jack immediately does what’s expected of him. He flattens his tongue, pushes himself down, lets Seligman guide him back and forth, back and forth. 

“My goodness,” Seligman breathes. “My goodness.” 

Jack doesn’t have any goodness of his own. He is almost grateful when he feels the familiar warmth of Ivan’s hands on his hips.

“That’s it, sweet boy, keep going. Don’t let me distract you,” Ivan murmurs. He kneads his thumbs against Jack’s tailbone, using his knuckles to tease at the cleft between Jack’s buttocks. 

Jack isn’t distracted. His cheeks hollow, and when Seligman’s grip grinds against the hinges of his jaw, Jack moans. The sound is protracted, muffled by the weight of Seligman against his tongue, but it doesn’t matter; Seligman laughs and pats his cheek. He’s hard now, and his hips thrust forward against Jack’s waiting face. 

“That’s right, Mr. Kenyon. You are the star pupil, aren’t you?” 

Jack knows the words are wrong, but just now, he can’t explain why. There is nothing but sensation, nothing but a body that floats in space, ready to be used however his betters see fit. He lets Seligman’s pubis press against his nose; he will breathe when he can. There’s no reason to fight. 

“He is quite teachable,” Ivan agrees. 

He slaps Jack’s ass, sending Jack’s body forward until Seligman is teasing his throat. Jack’s buttocks are cleaved apart, stretched so far open that he almost feels like he’s being ripped in two. But it’s alright. Ivan is only getting ready to prepare him; Jack is lucky. 

There’s a soft hocking sound, and then something warm and slippery drops between Jack’s ass cheeks. Ivan’s thumb slips between the mounds of skin and muscle, and then he circles Jack’s hole. 

“Hold him still for a moment,” Ivan says over Jack’s head, and Seligman slows his rhythm, smashing Jack’s face between his sandpaper palms. 

“Christ, Ivan. You’ve done a wonderful job.” 

One of Ivan’s hands finds purchase on Jack’s hip again; his grip pulses around the bone. “We’ll see, won’t we?” 

Ivan guides himself down, and then, with one sticky thrust, he is inside of Jack. He ruts forward, gently, just once. A kindness. Seligman eases himself forward too, laughing a little. But Jack isn’t afraid. He is just a good boy. The warmth spreads inside his head, and his throat flutters as Seligman pushes into it.

Ivan rocks against him. “Now, sweet boy, now, we’re going to see what you’re really made of.”

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-anime-blog-blog, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @ramadiiiisme, @sunnie, @sadboysanonymous, @panic-whump

[foundfamilywhump]

whump intro!

i've been saying i'm gonna do this for literal years so it's probably high time i actually do that! so here it is - long time listener first time caller, i've been lurking in the whump community and participating in some discords and occasionally whump posting on main on my regular blog for some time now, and i've been wanting to get my official Whump BlogTM up and running for a while. if you keep waiting for the right time, though, the right time will simply never come! so here it is. i'm gav, he/they, i'm 25, and this will probably be a combination of fandom and original whump content. mostly reblogging for now, but i plan to post links to my fic when i post whump fic and hopefully will get some giffing powers at some point! i'm on ao3 at altschmerzes.

info about my likes/dislikes and some important blog maintenance notes under the cut!

tropes/concepts i like: whipping, emotional whump, long-term emotional/physical consequences of whump, ptsd, team/friend group dynamics, kidnapping, torture, injury hiding, exhaustion, manhandling, restraints, touch starvation, hidden past trauma reveals, characters being driven to a breakdown, just a good old fashioned beat-down. the list goes on and on, frankly XD. (nsfw/sexual assault-based whump will be present but carefully tagged)

tropes/concepts i'm not particularly into: extended long-term/permanent captivity, BBU and adjacent concepts, anything too wholly bleak/hopeless/based in ceaseless unending suffering. (i like... for lack of a better term Intense And Dark Whump but not if that's All There Is, y'know?)

for some housekeeping notes: i don't ascribe to 'whumper/whumpee/caretaker' as Static Permanent Character Archetypes, they are merely convenient shorthand that describe situational roles within a particular scenario. also, i'm aromantic and extremely romance repulsed. posts reblogged about romantic dynamics are going to be few and far between and if i make posts, they are going to be in a non-romantic context. i am not interested in romantic shipping in any way. this is additionally not a kink blog and the characters i am drawn towards are not attraction based. this is an extremely strong boundary for me - i am liberal with the block button, especially when people forcibly insert sexual or romantic motivation into my creative work.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 28

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CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Ongoing raid, fear of recapture, clinical/hospital setting, side-effects/consequences of medwhump (cerebrovascular). Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3 Second ask is from this list

Leo told him to stay still and pretend to sleep, no matter what. One of so few direct orders, Aiden could count them on his hand. The very same Leo had just been holding, fingers warming his, giving him one last reassuring squeeze before he’d let go. 

He couldn’t fail Leo.

Aiden pressed his hands into the bedspread to hide their shaking, to make them still. Starched-not-soft fabric in an orderly, woven grid under his fingertips. Hundreds of washes keeping it uniform for every new patient. Knuckles wrapped in the soft fabric of Leo’s sweatshirt. Left hand throbbing, forearms aching. Betadine and antiseptic sharp in his nose. The sounds in the hallway—the agents in the hallway. He knew those boots, those footfalls. He’d been here before. 

He was there. 

Beside the pool, clothes still damp from diving in, from sweating through what had to be hours of CPR. Dragged to his knees, slapped around, put in a van. The End.

He wouldn’t be able to give them his number this time, even if he wanted to. Except instead of taking a stand, he was simply too damaged. The idea of being beaten in front of Leo made his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He couldn’t shake his head, squeeze his fist, find something, anything, to anchor him to where he was, who he was. The simplest task impossible. He used to be more than a passenger, an observer, recognizing less and less with each visit. Especially when it was like this, when he fell beneath the surface, into things that were muddy and murky and meant to stay that way.

He wanted to look, to confirm what he kept telling himself was true, but he had to keep his eyes closed. 

Leo wouldn’t leave him. Leo had promised. 

But the very foundation of the conditioning was doubt. 

With Archer it pushed him toward an impossible perfection. Empty responsiveness that only left him aching to do more, to be better. 

It nagged him constantly with Harrison but there was little to be done. Harrison took what he wanted, didn’t care what kind of vessel it came from. All of his memories returned were not enough to erase the conditioning, relieve the doubt. The ache to be deserving. 

He was certain it was worse to have both: what once was housed in the ruins of what he was now. 

Leo had no idea what he was taking on. Had no idea Aiden was falling to pieces in his own head when all he had to do was stay still and be quiet. 

He wasn’t meant to open his eyes but Harrison was peeling them open for him. Shining his penlight into one and then the other. 

“I know you’re awake.” His tone was terse. Frustrated? There was a complication? A delay? It was hard to follow, his mind slow to process. He tried to turn his head but he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t, he was strapped down like always. 

Leo had told him not to move.

Harrison snapped his fingers in front of his face. “I asked you a fucking question.” 

He blinked a fraction of a second after he thought of it. He couldn’t remember hearing a question. There weren’t any quips surfacing and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to speak anyway. 

He hadn’t felt this drugged before. 

He wasn’t. 

Leo—was Leo still there? 

“For fuck’s sake.” Harrison demanded all of his attention by undoing the straps. “You’re lucky we need to do this or you’d be kissing a taste of freedom goodbye thanks to your attitude.” 

Too slow to snipe back again. 

He cried out when his arms fell to his sides, so heavy now that he had to hold them, fingers tingling as the blood rushed down to his fingers. 

He had to stay still. 

“I don't have patience for your bullshit today. Do not test me.” 

He swallowed the next whimper, the reprimand curdling in his empty stomach. Unaware that Harrison had released all of the other restraints until he folded forward. Harrison caught him unceremoniously, wrapping his arms around him in a parody of an embrace that still made his heart race and his cheeks flush as if it were earned attention, a reward. Sometimes, he’d wriggle closer, moan in Harrison’s ear or whisper a few lurid suggestions. (Anything was better than being a lab rat.) Once even licked his neck but after that, Harrison had kept him unconscious for so long. 

As much as he had nothing to lose, would push every button he could find in a fruitless attempt to force Harrison’s hand, his nerve was riddled with holes. Whenever Harrison was gone too long, he’d wonder if he’d ever come back. Doubt warping fearful anticipation into longing. He’d miss Harrison. Miss the attention, even of his scalpel, when there was a question of it never returning. He was nothing if not what they’d conditioned him to be. 

“Alright, up you go.” Harrison’s voice still had an edge. They were in the other room across the hall but he didn’t remember getting there. Harrison pulled him to his feet, placed both of his hands on the rail bordering the room. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.” 

He gasped when Harrison let go, overwhelmed by all of his muscles working together for a purpose. But there was something else too, something beneath whatever drugs Harrison always gave him before these bouts of “exercise” to make sure he wasn’t too much trouble. 

“I don’t feel right…” It came out slurred.

Harrison was busy on his phone and waved him on with his free hand. “You remember. One foot in front of the other.” He used the hard toe of his sneaker to prod against his bare heel until he moved. 

Left foot forward. One step at a time. 

His head hurt, ears ringing, vision wavering. Harrison would be furious if he passed out. 

Right foot forward. His leg almost buckled and he gripped the bar tighter. The room spun. 

“Something’s wrong.” The syllables were marbles in his mouth. 

Left foot forward. 

The fingers of his right hand slipped from the bar. 

He couldn’t raise them again, like his whole arm had been numbed. His heart sprinted and stuttered, drilling fear deep into his chest. “Harrison, what did you give me?” The panic in his voice was clearer than the words.  

“Whatever game you’re playing, I am really not—”

Right foot forward. The room tipped. 

Harrison caught him and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m fucking serious. Stand up and finish the lap.” He tried to shove him onto his feet again but he couldn’t balance. 

He was crying now, tears sliding down his cheek. The ones on the other side lost in the fabric of Harrison’s lab coat. “I—I—can’t—I can’t—” No words came out at all this time, only sounds. “Harrison!” His vision spotted. Harrison lowered him to the floor, let him slump against the wall, listing sideways. 

His expression was out of focus but his voice was stern. “This is your last chance. Stop—what—what are you doing?” 

Harrison caught him again but he couldn’t feel where, only the other hand opening his left eye for the light. He didn’t feel his fingers on the right before his vision flared. 

“Fuck.” Harrison held two fingers to his neck, checking his watch. “Look at me, talk to me.”

“I—I—I’m scared,” he cried. It was nothing, it was moans and slurs. “Harrison, help me, please!”

“No, no, no.” Harrison laid him down. “Squeeze my hand.” 

His hand was empty, he couldn’t—

Harrison raised their hands into his line of sight. His right hand limp in Harrison’s grip. “Please, come on, Nothing. It’s nothing, you’re fine. You’re fine.” 

He couldn’t feel his hand. “What did you do to me?” Again nothing came out. He whimpered when Harrison rolled him onto his side. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

He must have been high out of his mind to hear those words. 

“Talk to me, stay with me.” 

How many times he’d wanted to say that himself but now he was the one leaving. 

“Beau, come on. Hold my hand.” Harrison wrapped both hands around his left one. He didn’t think he’d ever done that without gloves on. It felt so warm. “Here, see? Stay with me, Beau.” 

But Beau didn’t belong here. 

He had died when she had, when he’d failed her. 

“No, no, no.” Harrison was holding his face now. “Hey, ‘359. Come on, keep your eyes open. Trainee ‘359. That is a direct—” His voice broke. “Fuck. Please—”

‘359 was out of place too. 

Fragments and pieces, hollow on the inside, incomplete before he’d been given Beau’s purpose. 

A clean slate would always be empty, ‘359 couldn’t exist here.

“Please.” Harrison held him more carefully than he’d ever imagined him capable of. Like he was far from nothing, precious even. “Brandon. Forgive me.”

But he wasn’t Brandon. 

Or ‘359. 

Or Beau.

He only wanted to be Aiden. 

And even though he could still feel Harrison’s fingers entwined with his, he was Aiden. Aiden being careful not to make a sound as memories drowned him. Aiden not moving a muscle or opening his eyes, pulse sprinting in his chest as they waited. He couldn’t feel anything under his fingertips anymore, was growing more and more desperate to check that he was in fact lying in a bed and not waking up on the ground beside Harrison or worse already back on his table. He—

The door opening brought everything in his head screeching to a halt.

It wasn’t Harrison’s warmth still lingering on his hand. 

It was Leo’s. 

Leo who had found him, sheltered him, been so patient and kind with him. Had risked everything by bringing him here. 

He could keep still and quiet, bury his fear of what it would mean to go back, in hopes of selling this lie. To say nothing of what consequences Leo and his sister might face. He could never be the reason someone else was unmade. He owed Leo this, at the very least, as disappointing as he may have been in the rest of their short time together. 

Or did he have a different kind of obligation now? Not just to please and obey but one of higher grounds. To earn everything Leo had given him so freely. To repay selflessness with a sacrifice of his own.

One of the agents cleared their throat and Aiden knew this was it. If he went easily, quietly, they might leave Leo alone. As long as he surrendered before Leo had a chance to try and improvise. 

And he wouldn’t look at Leo at all. To make sure to implicate him as little as possible. 

There were voices in the hallway but he couldn’t catch the words over the way his heart beat so loudly in fear, thudding through his whole body. 

He promised himself he would tear the stitches in the van later. 

Being manhandled into cuffs might start the job anyway.  

He would—Aiden would do this to save Leo. 

He sat up and opened his eyes—

In time to see the backs of the agents as the nurse ushered them out, hissing something about “immunocompromised” and “goddamn idiots, don’t they teach you to read?” 

And Leo, staring at him in disbelief.

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[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

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CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, food mention, starvation

[A/N at the end of the chatper]

Rowan spent fifteen minutes pacing in his hallway before he settled on who he would call. A lump lodged in his throat every time he passed by the box the boy arrived in - what was he even supposed to do with it now? - and his heart fluttered whenever his finger hovered over his chosen contact. 

“How are you supposed to help this victim recover if you can’t even make a phone call, you idiot?” Rowan chastised himself as he rubbed his palm against his brow. Rationally, making a call was the best way to get himself and his new houseguest some help. Rationally, Rowan knew that this had to happen sooner or later. But rationality hadn’t exactly been governing Rowan’s choices over the past two days. 

It took another two minutes of anxious pacing before he sat at the kitchen table, hit the call button, and heard the phone ring once, twice, three times and-

“Hey there, Rowan,” the familiar and ever-cheerful voice said, and it hit Rowan like a ray of golden sun. “What’s up, man? You doing alright after the liquidation event yesterday? I know those are hard on you.”

Rowan paused, took a breath, and closed his eyes. Now or never.

“Listen, Grey, I might have done something a little impulsive when I was there.” The entirety of his admission wasn’t quite ready to come to Rowan’s lips. All of a sudden his throat was dry, and his knee bounced beneath the table. 

“Please don’t tell me they clocked you,” Greyson groaned. Greyson - just Grey to Rowan - was the current Vice President of the Pet Liberation Front, North American Division. Greyson also happened to be Rowan’s best friend. They’d known each other since they onboarded at PLF together more than a decade ago, and although their paths had diverged, a common mission still united them. Grey had taken on pet liberation as his full-time job, and Rowan had stuck with the weekend volunteer gigs. 

“No, nothing like that,” Rowan said hastily. “No cops, no drama, no one suspected a thing. I even got all the footage you asked for. But I uh… I saw a victim there. He was just different, okay? I can’t tell you what it was, not exactly, but there was something about him that I’ve never seen before. I looked at him and I just- I couldn’t say no, so I- I rescued him. Cash upfront for a lifetime contract, signed on the warehouse floor, delivered this morning. He’s in my spare bedroom right now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grey muttered, and Rowan could picture his exasperated face from hundreds of miles away. The other man only continued after releasing a deep sigh. “You aren’t trained as a rescuer, you haven’t been assigned a rehabilitator, and there’s no way we can get him in for a medical work-up on such short notice. You're in way over your head with this.”

“I know, I know.” Rowan could concede that he fucked up, just a little, or maybe more than a little. But the boy was alive in that spare room rather than being burned to ash in the industrial cremator. That had to count for something, right?

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” Grey asked this over the sound of distant keystrokes, the frustration in his voice already dissipating. “You purchased him at a liquidation event, which means there's something they determined was defective, so this isn’t even a standard rescue case. Give me some details and I can try to connect you to a rehabilitator for emergency intervention. If you send me scans of the purchase papers - they should be in his box with the instruction manual - I can also open a rescue file in our system for him.”

Rowan let out a soft breath of relief. Grey had shifted into his rescue-oriented mindset, which meant that if he intended to continue scolding Rowan, it would at least come at a later time.

“I- I don’t know why he was sent for liquidation. He’s only been here for a few hours, and I’ve been too focused on not making a mess of things to figure it out. The WRU agent said that he had stopped listening to direct commands, but that’s all the information I got. He hasn’t reacted to a single thing I’ve said this whole time. Physically, he seems to be in decent shape. Walking, kneeling, any kind of movement, he had no problem. There’s the usual scarring and some fresh wounds around his cheeks, ears, and neck, but that’s it.” Rowan thought back to the deep wounds gouged into the boy's head, and again wondered what sort of torment would cause such persistent injuries. A shiver crept up his spine, but Grey cut in before Rowan's imagination could get the best of him.

“Hmm. Alright. It looks like our roster has one volunteer rehabilitator about five miles from your address, an Allison Herrera. She’s been with the PLF for four years now, and she’s assisted in more than ten successful rehabilitations with different rescuers in your area. I’ve sent her your contact information, and she doesn’t have any other cases at the moment, so you should expect to hear from her soon.”

“You are a miracle worker, Grey.” Unlike just a few minutes ago, Rowan was no longer in this alone. Help was on its way. Of course, as the rescuer, he knew he would have to do most of the work. The most a rehabilitator could offer him was guidance, advice, assessment. But by god, Rowan was going to take it.

Grey gave a soft, strained chuckle. 

“No, you’re the miracle worker today. You gave that boy a second chance at life, and that’s worth more than all the money in the world. I wouldn’t ever recommend doing what you’ve just done, but I know you did it with a good heart and good intentions.”

“Yeah. I just… I couldn’t let him go. Not this one, not this time.” 

Grey sighed again, and Rowan liked to imagine that he was smiling.

“Now get back there and try to settle your new houseguest in. Remember, it's firm suggestions, not commands, are the best to begin the transition process. Conversational tone, soft voices, lots of praise. Read through the PLF rescue manual, and then read it again. Allison will tell you more when you end up connecting.”

“Alright, I’ll do my best. Thank you, really. I promise I’ll try to call you at some point when I’m not in crisis mode.”

“Not holding my breath, bud. You just take care and keep me updated.” And with that, the line went dead, and Rowan was back on his own. 

---

Pet almost let one tear fall down its face as it soaked in the newness of everything around it. Kneeling was hard after so many hours in the box, but that was okay. Pet had done things that were so much harder. These floors weren’t even cement, so it thought maybe it could even kneel all day without its knees bruising. 

The food Master left was still just out of reach, and Pet's stomach was filled with the daggers of hunger, but Pet remembered Master’s words with gospel-like reverence. Don’t eat. So it didn’t. If this was Pet's first test in its new home, it would prove itself to Master, it would show just how obedient it could be.

Usually it was easy for Pet’s mind to grow empty, for it to submit to the nothingness, to surrender wholly to a place without pain. It wasn’t meant to think, it was trained not to. But today, Pet was struggling not to think. There was too much new. It was more frustrated than ever that it couldn't quite hear its new Master’s voice. It couldn’t tell if it was a scratchy voice, or if it was a soft one, or if it was a warm, deep roar. All Pet knew was that there were distant, muted words that floated beyond its grasp. 

If Pet was going to be good, it had to learn fast. Even if it didn’t have the exact words, it had to learn what Master wanted, and what Master expected of it. The better Pet anticipated its Master's needs, the less it got punished. A reliable pet was a good pet.

Even when it got hard to hear its old Master’s commands, Pet knew him well. Pet knew what time breakfast was to be prepared, how Master liked his floors cleaned, and which tools to offer up for punishment when Master was angry. It was routine, predictable, and even if it couldn’t hear every exact command, it was comforting to Pet. Every day was the same. There were no guesses, no surprises. Days and pain all bled into one another as the silence grew. Every day was the same, every ache anticipated. 

That was, until it was dropped back off at the facility for re-training. Discarded.

Not all of this new was bad. New Master smelled like no other Master that Pet had ever had - he smelled almost like bread fresh from the oven. The house had soft wooden floors, not cold tile, and the light came from soft, yellow bulbs. It was warm here, and the space was snug with narrow halls and close walls. It wasn’t particularly clean, at least not as clean as its old Master would have expected, but Pet didn’t mind. 

And since it hadn’t heard its new Master yell, then Pet thought that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t suffer much more pain today. The idea of punishment made its heart flutter uncomfortably in its chest. 

Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t flinch. Don’t think. Calm down. You belong to Master. Master can do with you as he pleases. You are Master’s property. Your only concern is to listen to Master, please Master, obey Master’s every command. 

Before Pet could try to escape to blissful nothingness once more, Master’s feet appeared in the doorway. They sidestepped the plate - still untouched - and came closer to Pet. It braced its muscles as subtly as possible, preparing for the inevitable strike. There was another mumbling of words, just as indistinct as before.

Pet stopped breathing when a hand touched its chin, ever so gently, and titled its face upwards.

---

A/N: Wow! Thank you all so much for the outpouring of love I have received for this story. I must admit I abandoned it back in October as my life got busy, but I have a total of fifteen chapters currently written, with more on the way. So yes, this work is continuing!

Reading the kind tags and comments so many folks have left genuinely brought tears to my eyes. Your kindness has been overwhelming in the best possible way. Thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

I think I got everyone who asked to be tagged for this, but please ask if you would like to be added! Please let me know if you have been added in error, and you will be promptly removed.

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic

[peachy-panic]

Companion, pt. 2

A (slightly delayed) follow up to this chapter. Jaime & Sebastian add another member to their little makeshift household.

WARNINGS: The usual BBU stuff, animal shelter setting, collars, mentions of past foster care, anxiety, but mostly good things happening here.

The animal shelter they chose is in the heart of the city. Their website mentioned that they often deal with overpopulation, since it’s the biggest one in the area, so Sebastian thought they might have the most positive impact by adopting from them. They have a list of available animals with photos that they update daily, but Jaime turned down Sebastian’s offer to look through them.

He doesn’t tell him that swiping through a catalog of strays, deciding their fate behind the comfort of a computer screen, feels too much like how a prospective Keeper might shop for their Companion. How someone once shopped for him.

They make a plan to go on Saturday morning, and Jaime spends the rest of the week quietly stewing in an unnamed anxiety. He doesn’t bring it up—not when Sebastian talks excitedly about pet toys he found online over dinner, not when his nerves cut into his ability to fall asleep at night, and certainly not when he is buckled into the passenger seat, watching the big, yellow bridge that leads into downtown come into view. 

The building itself is large but sparse, all cement-gray walls and scuffed floors and signs of age that reflect a probable lack of funding. As they walk through the main hallway, flanked by rows of doors and cages, Jaime thinks that it reminds him a little of the training facility. He keeps that to himself, too. 

There is a volunteer—a young woman with her hair in a bun and a stain on her shirt—showing Jaime and Sebastian around. 

“The dogs are back this way,” she says. “Green tags on the doors are puppies under six months. Yellow tags mean they can be a little jumpy around people, red equals not good matches for homes with young children. Blue tags mean they’re seniors. Those are usually the ones that have been with us the longest.”

Jaime tries hard not to think about what happens to the senior dogs that overstay their welcome. 

“Cats are on this side,” she continues, pointing to her left. “We just ask that you wash your hands if you enter one of the playrooms, and avoid direct contact with any red tags. Any questions?”

Sebastian looks at Jaime, who tenses slightly at the attention but shakes his head. 

“I think we’re all good.” Sebastian says. 

She smiles. “Just let us know if you have any questions.”

With a nod, they set off down the hall on their own, Jaime sticking close to Sebastian’s heels. 

“So,” Sebastian says, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “Anywhere in particular you want to start? Young? Old? Big? Small?”

Jaime looks around at all the cages, suddenly overwhelmed—by the decision, by the sharp whines and barks for attention, by the closeness of the other prospective adopters, by the sad, watchful eyes of the animals as people pass them by. By the collars fastened around their necks, reminding Jaime of the weight of his own, the visibility of it peeking up through the dip in the sweatshirt neckline. Absently, he touches the warm metal with his fingertips. 

Sebastian seems to sense his discomfort, because he eases back. “You know what? Maybe we just take a lap or two and see what happens,” he says. “Maybe there will be an instant connection.”

They start with a black lab with a green tag on his cage door, who instantly jumps up and tries to paw at them when Sebastian sinks into a crouch.

“Well, aren’t you full of energy?” Sebastian’s voice lifts into a high sing-song tone when he speaks to the dogs, and the surprise of it is so endearing that it momentarily pulls Jaime from his inward spiral. “Only five months old,” he says to Jaime.

Against his wishes, memories of a long lost life in foster care rise to the surface. Jaime had been old enough when he entered to know that his chances of finding a family to adopt him were low, and only getting lower with each passing birthday.

“I’m sure she’ll be very popular,” Jaime says.

“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees, sticking his finger through one of the holes in the grate so that the puppy can sniff him. “You’ll find a home in no time, sweet girl.”

They move past a few more cages, Sebastian seemingly thrilled with the prospect of bringing any one of them home, but Jaime’s anxiety only grows. It’s when they come upon a cage with a golden labrador puppy—one that looks a little too similar to the fading image he has of a puppy from his childhood—that he reaches a breaking point. 

He takes a few steps away—not so far as to wander away from Sebastian’s watch, but a couple of doors down the row. Jaime takes slow, deep breaths as he looks down at the sleeping dog in the kennel in front of him, trying to imagine her laying on Sebastian’s living room rug. Trying not to imagine what it might look like to feed her every day, to brush her, to walk her, to love her, and then to leave her behind in six months when Jaime is called back to the facility. 

Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind Jaime’s straying, so he allows himself the space, moving slowly along the row of animals. He makes it all the way to the end of the hall when a flash of movement catches his eye. At the corner, secluded away from the glass-walled play rooms, is a singular cage with a black cat inside. The flash of movement he saw, it seems, was the cat’s abrupt recoil from a pair of reaching hands.

“Don’t put your fingers in the cage!” A young mother scolds, grabbing her child’s wrist and pulling him back from the cage. “You’re going to get bit.”

The kid gies a grumble of complaint but moves onto the next door quickly, not sparing a look back at the cage. Jaime watches as the black cat shrinks even further behind a wadded up blanket, pressing herself to the back corner of the cage, where no one can reach. Her bright, green eyes scan the area, back and forth, watching for invaders. She doesn’t look aggressive, Jaime thinks. She looks scared. 

Without realizing it, Jaime has taken a step toward the cage. He sees both a blue and a yellow tag on the door and tries to remember what the codes mean. On a small slip of paper at the top of the cage, the name “Bella” is written out in sharpie. 

“Hi Bella,” he whispers, barely audible. “You’re okay.”

Slowly, broadcasting the movement as much as he can, he lifts a hand and places the tip of his finger just at the edge of the cage; not enough to intrude the walls of her space, but hopefully enough to be a show of invitation. Bella looks at his finger for a long few seconds, then up at his eyes. Stupidly, Jaime smiles, like it might soften her to him.  

“Pretty eyes, right?”

The sudden voice startles him, even more for the fact that it isn’t Sebastian’s. He pulls his hand away like it was burned and turns to find another young woman with a volunteer shirt on. 

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

“No need,” she says, then nods her head toward the cage. “I think you’ve got her attention.” 

Jaime looks back at the cage and finds that the cat has taken a few steps out from her hiding spot, a curious nose pointed where Jaime’s finger had been. Carefully, darting a quick look at the woman for approval, Jaime lifts his hand again. This time, the cat only stares at it for a few seconds before she bumps her nose against his skin. A breath of a laugh startles out of him. 

“That’s the most contact she’s had with anyone on her own terms,” the girl says. “She must like you.”

“Can I ask…?” Jaime starts then hesitates. The woman's gaze dips, almost unwittingly, to Jaime’s throat. He watches something flash across her expression before she schools it with a neutral look. 

“You can ask me,” she tells him. 

“Why is she in a cage by herself? Away from the other cats?”

“She’s FIV+.”

Jaime glances back at the cat. “She’s sick?”

The woman nods. “It’s an immunodeficiency virus. There’s no cure for it, but it’s entirely possible for cats to live full, happy lives with it. But it’s best that she goes to a home with no other cats.”

“I think he… My…” Jaime clears his throat. “I think he is looking for a dog.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “I see.”

As if summoned, Sebastian appears at his shoulder. “Oh, look at this cutie!”

Jaime tries to conceal his startled jump. “Her name is Bella,” he says quietly. 

“Look at her,” Sebastian croons, crouching beside the cage but not attempting to make contact. “She’s a love bug.”

“She’s actually quite shy,” the woman says, taking the smallest nudge of a step in front of Jaime to stand between them. “I was just telling him how he must be special to win her over so quickly.”

Sebastian’s first instinct is to shoot Jaime a smile. He stands slowly, knees cracking, and says, “I can’t say I’m surprised.” Then, to Jaime, he adds, “I didn’t know you were a cat person.”

“I’ve never had one,” he says honestly. 

“Hmm.” Sebastian turns back toward the cat, studying her for a few long seconds before he says, “Do you like her?”

Jaime blinks, letting his hand slowly drop to his side. In his periphery, he sees Bella raise a paw to tap impatiently against the cage wall. 

“I…” He looks to the cat, to the volunteer, and back at Sebastian. “Yes.” 

Sebastian nods, once, decisively, then turns to the volunteer. “We’ll take her.”

There’s a moment’s pause. They both turn to him, surprised. “I… I thought you wanted a dog,” Jaime says. 

He shrugs. “I think Bella has made the decision for us, really.” He nods toward where she is still perched at the edge of the cage, nuzzling against the bars to reach Jaime. “I mean, look at her. It’s out of our hands.”

He is fawning over the cat—who has decided to regard him with a look of skeptical displeasure—but Jaime only has eyes for Sebastian. He blinks up at him, trying to tame the spread of warmth in his chest. “Really?” he asks. 

Sebastian gives an uncertain smile, one that Jaime is becoming more and more familiar with. “Is that okay with you?”

Jaime swallows tightly, lowering his voice. “You’ll keep her?” he asks, trying to ignore the inquisitive glance from the volunteer. “Even when I’m gone?”

It looks like there’s a lot more that Sebastian wants to say, but in their present company, he only meets Jaime’s eyes and says, “Yes. Of course”

Jaime breathes out and gives a single, decisive nod. 

“Alright then,” the woman breaks the silence after a few tense moments. “Let’s get the paperwork started.”

***

On the way home, Sebastian drives carefully enough that his knuckles go white around the steering wheel, trying to avoid every bump and crack in the road. Jaime is in the backseat, which is an arrangement Sebastian normally wouldn’t prefer, but it’s only because he wants to be able to sit next to Bella’s carrier. 

He casts a glance in the rearview mirror to see Jaime gently running the back of his finger against the mesh wall, ducking his head so he can peek inside. 

“What should we name her?” Sebastian asks, almost regretting breaking the moment of reverence. 

Jaime sits up, meeting his eyes in the mirror. A dip of confusion forms between his brows. “You don’t like the name Bella?”

“Oh.” Sebastian blinks. “I—no, it’s cute. I like it. Just… I think most of the time the names they’re given in the shelter are temporary things? People usually change them to whatever they want when they bring them home.”

Jaime is quiet long enough to make Seabstian think maybe he’s stepped in something he didn’t mean to. Then, he asks, “Do you think she had a name before the shelter?”

Sebastian shrugs. “They didn’t know much about her history. If she was a stray her whole life, I guess she probably didn’t.”

He looks back down at the carrier, continuing the slow, soothing motion of his finger. “I’m okay with whatever name you decide for her,” he says, and Seabstian can’t help but hear a bit of dejection slip through. 

The pieces connect, and Sebastian considers the kind of weight a name might carry for someone who has had his stolen. 

Sebastian tightens his grip on the steering wheel, keeping his voice as even as he can. “No, I think you’re right,” he says. “Bella suits her just fine.”

****

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing@whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort  @termsnconditions-apply  @cyborg0109  @whumplr-reader  @pinkraindropsfell  @whatwhumpcomments @honeycollectswhump @pirefyrelight @handsinmotion @alexmundaythrufriday @scoundrelwithboba

[bbu-on-the-side]

BBU Community Days

[Image description: A visual representation of the prompt list following in this post]

Here it is - the official prompt list for the very first BBU community days!

The event is open for BBU writers, roleplayers, or plain enjoyers of that world. If you wonder if you're "allowed" to take part, yes, you are. Includes BBU AUs and "BBU-adjacent" universes.

All prompts are suggestions, there's no reward for completionists and no need to do them all - this event is a success if it allows any of you to find and connect with other creators and to make new friends.

Looking forward!!

Rules and prompt descriptions under the cut

The prompts are structured in "days", but you can do them at any time; they'll be reblogged during the event duration.

This blog @bbu-on-the-side will do its best to reblog what you either @ this blog in or#bbucommunity! Please also #day1, #day2... according to the prompt you chose.

One overall thing I'll be strict about is to indicate any nsfw content. This sort of content is welcome in this event, but readers should be able to make an informed decision if they want to click on that read more or not.

Community prompts

* {Day 1: Introduction} Introduce yourself and give a little overview about your BBU writing / creations. If you want, this is the moment to advertise yourself!

* {Day 6: Inspiration} How did you find the BBU, and how did you go down the rabbit hole? Are there any particular writers, characters or stories that inspired your journey?

* {Day 11: Exploration} Is there a premise you like to follow in BBU settings? A focus on a specific character dynamic that you want to explore deeply? Themes that resonate with you? What drew you to BBU, and what made you stay?

Worldbuilding prompts

* {Day 2: Questions} What's an open question you've always asked yourself about the BBU? Ask it, and see if other writers have found answers to it!

* {Day 7: Details} What's a detail of BBU worldbuilding you always wanted to dive into? (Newly emerging professions, legal aspects, pet fashion, economic side effects, societal aspects, facility workplace ethic, history, safehouse organisation, deconditioning…) Do it now, and ramble a bit!

* {Day 12: Decisions} What is something special about your setting (be it BBU or adjacent)? Does it differ from the "standard"? In what way does this decision influence the story you're telling?

Writing prompts

* {Day 3} Discipline

* {Day 8} Barcode

* {Day 13} Safety

Showcasing prompts

* {Day 4: Facility} Make a post linking a favorite facility / training piece (one by you, one by someone else) with commentary on what makes these ones special to you

* {Day 9: Owner} Make a post linking a favorite piece during captivity / time with owner (one by you, one by someone else) with commentary on what makes these ones special to you

* {Day 14: Recovery} Make a post linking a favorite recovery piece (one by you, one by someone else) with commentary what makes these ones special to you

Creation prompts

* {Day 5: Meme/Prompts} Create a BBU meme (that would work in-universe or as a meta commentary - your call!), or curate a little BBU prompt list to inspire fellow writers, artists or roleplayes!

* {Day 10: In-BBU-media} Create a piece of media that could exist within the BBU - everything from twitter post to newspaper feature to ad transcript to WRU press release! Pet lib call for action to desperate owner self help reddit thread. Go wild!

* {Day 15: Collaboration} Create any piece of BBU content together with another community member! Could be a crossover scene with both your characters, a collaboratively developed concept, an illustration to their story, an RP, … Anything goes, as long as you worked together within the BBU!

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2024

Day 24. “I’m doing this because I care about you”

Content: Pet whump, BBU adjacent, fear of punishment, caretaker is new master, family dynamics,

—

The ride home was eerily quiet despite Ratty’s sniffling. They looked out the window at the passing houses, away from the woman who had taken them. They had promised Auggie that they wouldn’t fight her, and to listen to her, but they didn’t promise they wouldn’t be difficult for her. The car was too hot, and the seat belt clung to Ratty’s chest much like the restraints at the Pet Facility.

“Are you going to be silent the whole ride home?” The woman’s voice was sharp in Ratty’s ears. Her slim hands clutched the steering wheel and she only glanced at Ratty, then back to the road.

Ratty flinched, and their training pulled an answer from their lips against their will. “I would rather that, ma’am. I don’t much want to talk to you.” Ratty silently cursed themself out for even speaking, and dug their nails into their palms, ready for a blow to the head.

The woman’s mouth stretched into a thin line but she never struck them. Instead, she reasoned. “I know you’re angry with me, Ryland, but I’m doing this because I care about you. You need to be with your family where you’re safe while you recover.”

“I’m not sick… ma’am.” Ratty felt a tug of annoyance, and dared to side eye this woman. They didn’t believe her at all, and if it wasn’t for their promise they would have been long gone by now. The thought of jumping out of a moving vehicle was not lost on them.

“No honey, I know. You’ve been through a lot. We all have. I know it’ll be an adjustment but you have to trust me. It won’t be as bad as you think.” She spouted more nonsense and Ratty grit their teeth in refusal to respond to it, even with the training pulling at them to be polite.

They expected punishment once they got to her house, but they didn’t care. If this was the only way they could lash out, they would keep it up.

They were angry at her, sure, but they were even more angry at Auggie for giving them away. Ratty really believed that he wanted them. He made them believe that.

What a fool they were…

—

Thank you @ilasknives for looking this piece over for me <3

Febuwhump tag list: @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @blackrosesandwhump

General writing tag list: @frogkingdom @coppercoyoti @alittlewhump

[sideblogformindtrash]

Alright. A rebranded version of Orfeu, Farlan and Haru's part of the story. It's heavier than it was last time, and everyone's morals are worse. It will have more explicit content, as well. And I really don't know how much of it I'm up to writing, so let's just see how it goes.

CW: human pet; dehumanization; noncon; past and present; noncon alcohol use; BBU-adjacent;

It's not too explicit in this one, a bit more towards the end.

Farlan opened the door of the car for him. He smiled, the man knew how to be a gentleman when he wanted to. 

Stepping outside in the gravel he took a moment to look at the house towering over them. He had been to houses like this one before, some lived in and some abandoned, each telling a story in their carved up stones. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what it would look like, once it was left neglected, with its foundation rotting and paint peeling off the walls and the memories of those who lived there once impregnated on the old cement like grooving smoke.  He couldn’t help but wonder if someday a part of his own soul would be stuck within those walls. After all, Farlan said he could stay for a couple of months, as long as his dad was away.

“Do you like it?” Farlan asked, hooking a hand around his waist.

He smiled, throwing himself against the man’s chest, tip toeing to be able to kiss his cheek. He was so tall, and smelled so good. He knew he was a little fucked up from the times they had chatted a bit… but still was one of his preferred clients. 

“It’s lovely” He winks, suggestively tracing up his back. Although he returns the affection, he doesn’t seem satisfied.

“Be honest. This ain’t you”

He giggles, glad he’s picked that up. Means at least he was paying attention to their conversations. 

“...It 's too big. You know, houses are alive. It will rot and die and crumble and be filled with ghosts and we’ll all be stuck inside it forever. It will someday become a maw”

Farlan glances up at the house, furrowing his brow. 

“That 's alright. I kind of already hate it”

Orfeu smiles. Sometimes it’s not the place itself, but the people inside it that turn a cozy home into a trap.

“Is it really okay for me to be here?”

“Yeah. Dad will be gone for a while. Business and all”

He smiles, swinging on his feet. It’s exciting, and honestly unexpected too.

Over the years, he’s worked his way up to richer and richer clients, till he had a pretty good list of them. They’d take him on travels who could never dream of paying for himself, or meet him at these lavish hotels. Never at their own home. Always a hidden, shameful secret.

Not that he was complaining. He’d be spoiled to the hell and back either way, all he had to do was have some class and give these fuckers some attention. At least Farlan didn’t seem ashamed of him. 

After a last look at the house, Farlan gently pushes him towards the door.

“Let 's go in. It’s cold”

A smile creeps up his face when he sees the inside. It’s even more lavish than he could have expected, every wall and ceiling painted in rococo-like style, every corner filled up with details and golden furniture, the walls built in archways, spiraling staircase in old varnished wood, a golden hanging chandelier. There’s so many trinkets all around… he is sure they won’t miss it when he takes a few.

Well, and there’s a living ghost at the doorstep, white curly hair framing his face like a fallen snow, a perfectly practiced kneeling position, hands softly curved over his lap and a soft pleasant smile. His eyes have nothing but burning devotion. 

“Is that your pet?” 

…The reply is a twitch on Farlan’s face, as it stares down almost hatefully at the kneeling boy.  What the pet could’ve done to deserve such anger he’d never understand, but Farlan had told him about the pet before.

He didn’t want it. He didn’t like them growing up, didn’t like hearing them scream, he didn’t want one now. Yet he was given one and now he just… Hated it. Except he learned to like the screaming.

Orfeu smiled and pretended that didn’t make him a little uncomfortable, but he had met his fair share of pets at this point. It was almost mandatory for his richer clients to have one, and not uncommon for them to want the pet to participate. At the end of the day, having absolute control over someone seemed like a common fetish among those circles, almost as much as being controlled. Even more so when the ‘partner’ was someone who couldn’t safeword out of it. 

And Orfeu would just. Take a deep breath, swallow down his feelings and go along with it. What the fuck was he supposed to do anyway, other than just make sure to keep himself safe?

“He’s adorable” He smiles at the pet. He was infatuated with Farlan up to a second ago and now… Just staring at Orfeu with big scary eyes “May I…?”

He asked the pet, but it’s Farlan who answered. 

“Go ahead. You two will become… very intimate anyway” Farlan nudges the pet with his foot. It's cue enough for the pet to lean forward and kiss his shoe “He’s a desperate little slut. He’ll get wet just from you looking his way”

The pet’s face goes red with shame, the softest mew under his breath, but there is some truth to that When Orfeu touches his head, he seems to melt, exhaling deeply and leaning into the touch so much, he’d fall if Orfeu took his hand away. 

Makes him wonder how much conditioning that took. 

“What is his name?” 

“...Father calls him a songbird sometimes. Ain’t really that” he twists his nose in scorn, but the pet can’t see this time. He’s got his eyes closed, in heaven just from being petted. 

“...You didn’t give him one?”

“He doesn’t need a name. He’s just my thing”

Orfeu smirks, gently pushing the pet back. It mews, sad as the hand is taken away, but he goes back to kneeling, like hands clasped on his lap.

“Well. Your thing. Like me?” 

Farlan fixes up his glasses, glancing away and cleaning his throat. His face flushes a little bit.

“No. No. Not like you”

“...Oh love. Exactly like me. Kinda like you, too~”

There was an abyss between him and the pet, and an even larger one between the two of them and Farlan. But they were all the same dust in the end. They’d all lose a part of themselves in this house and be stuck in here forever, someday becoming ghosts made of smoke. And their lives, in the hands of the same uncaring god. 

“Pet. Bring us wine” Farlan demands, just as a way to interrupt that discussion. The little thing away to fulfill the request “Let’s go up. I’m tired”

He follows close behind, noticing the way Farlan struggles up the stairs ignoring the elevator despite being clearly in pain. He’s pretty sure he left the cane on the car. 

The pet joins them halfway, steps so light he barely notices till he’s right behind them, wine in hand, but not daring to run past his Master. He wonders what his name was before, and where he came from. If at some point in his life, he was held by loving arms, or was it all just misery and pain? Because he remembers being in a lot of pain himself, when he tried to sign away his own life.

Farlan groans, sitting on a big cozy armchair in the bedroom, and relaxing a little as he takes the weight out of his hips. The pet puts the wine on the table, and kneels by his side. 

“Come on. Sit” He gestures to the other armchair. Orfeu considers just going on his lap instead, but Farlan seems to need a moment so he just obeys.

“That’s some fancy fucking wine” The label on the bottle says it’s a least eighty years old and imported. Truthfully, it is wasted on him. He couldn’t differentiate it from a cheap one anyway. Not that he’s complaining, as he swirls it around and makes a whole show of tasting the wine. It’s red and it’s sweet and that’s about all he can say. At least, Farlan seems amused by it. 

“Shouldn’t he get some too?” He asks, glancing at the pet, kneeling quietly on the floor.

Farlan seems to ponder for a moment, then with a gesture, makes the pet crawl towards Orfeu. He kneels at his feet, eyes wide, having a harder time hiding his fear and anxiety now as Orfeu tilts his chin up and takes the cup to his lips. The pet takes an hesitant sip, a line of red dripping down his white skin. 

From there, it is easy enough to finish off the bottle and then move into bed. 

Farlan is brutal with the pet making it cry and whimper, the bed creaking under them. He leaves the pet’s light skin colored with purple bruises, makes him croak and whine and cry. He’s rough with Orfeu too, of course. But hey. Unlike the pet he likes it. And truly… he’d rather invite that attention all on himself.

He does what he can, eventually managing to shift Farlan’s attention, keeping the pet underneath himself, gently petting his hair. 

At some point, they fall asleep together, in a messy, sweaty pile. 

Farlan leaves early in the morning, mumbling something about being late for class, leaving an empty space in the middle of the bed.

Orfeu yawns, and pulls the pet towards him instead, letting it bury his head on his chest, falling asleep again.

tag: @whump-blog (im guessing you wanna tag-)

[whump-in-the-closet]

idk what this is. no i’m not gonna try to explain it i’m sorry it just happened

cw: bbu-adjacent (i stole the white room and contract and erased memories from the bbu, otherwise it’s nothing alike), implied murder, weird weird pov, implied torture, also i say boy in the beginning but he’s 18-19, dehumanization

The boy wanted soup.

They gave him a knife.

It was a deal, they said. Training and expertise and money. Everything he wanted. Never have to go back on the streets again.

He signed the contract.

A deal.

In the white room, he tried to think of soup.

They didn’t like that. They sprayed him with a hose, water set on jet. Powerwashing every unwanted thought away.

—Tomato soup on the stove. The smell of grilled cheese, burning in the old blue kitchen—

One by one, the memories slipped through the drain in the white room. They spun and spun until they swirled away entirely.

He clung to the scraps of memories he had left…like the one where he thought he could smell cilantro.

—The flash, flash, flash of a knife in a worn hand, chopping the greens—

They took that too. They took it all and left his mind squeaky clean and empty.

Now he had his own flashing knife. It went in and out of throats, as he had been trained. He went skulking and crawling, like he’d been trained.

He imagined if you put a marble in his head, he’d be able to hear it rattling. Around and around and around.

Mind-empty, ready to do whatever he was told.

But that didn’t stop him looking for soup where he wasn’t supposed to.

Funny, where he found it. It was under the corpse’s skin— tomato soup, scarlet and golden with olive oil— spilling out of the corpse’s slit throat.

Couldn’t eat for a long time after that.

—Stop thinking stop thinking—

It was splashed on the walls. Mushroom soup, grey and creamy. A handprint smeared here and there, left behind on the concrete.

And that brought static. They didn’t like it when he thought about his life Before. Stop thinking stop thinking stop thinking—

The numbers on his wrist were his life now. No soup, just blood and screaming and static.

***

They called him, affectionately, T15.

“Twist.” said one of Them. “I’m going to call him Twist. Because of how he used to talk about soup in the beginning.”

“Shut up,” said another.

“You know, like Oliver Twist.”

The buzz of electricity. Snap. Static in his head. “Don’t look at us like that.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s T15. Not Twist. Stop trying to humanize him.”

Twist, said a voice beneath the static.

[ilasknives]

THE LONG WAY HOME | One

<- Previous

Hi, hello, it's been. A very long time. Well over a year, I think? I finally have the second part! I'm so sorry it took me so long, life and full time university have been kicking my ass. I haven't done writing in a long time, so it felt stiff and hard to get through, and only half of it is actual whump, but the rest sets up the story. I really missed writing it, though. I hope you enjoy!

CW: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, pet training, collaring.

1: Nine Hundred and Thirty-Three

After:

"Get on your knees.”

"What? No, please, I don't -"

"Knees."

He drops to the floor to avoid the baton that this man keeps touching the handle of, looking up at him from below with his hands in his lap, fingers twisting into the shitty thin fabric of his shirt. Maybe it will rip. He doesn't want it to. It's the same one he walked in with, and he's getting the feeling that he won't get it back again if it breaks. He digs his fingers in tighter, anyway, unwillingly.

"I need to - please," he tries again. He needs to go home. His voice is hoarse, rough from the night of pleading with the empty room, tucked into a corner, fighting waves of exhaustion with terror, trying and failing to keep his eyes open. He'd scrambled to his feet when the door opened, desperate for someone to talk to, to reason with, to see that he wasn't supposed to be here -

And now he's on the floor again.

He swallows, mouth dry. "This was a mistake."

The handler ignores him, looking over him like he's assessing him for something, then sighs, mostly to himself. "Okay. So, Domestic."

"I'm not meant to be anything-"

"You don’t need to speak unless you’re spoken to."

“Please,” he whispers, but the look the handler shoots him is enough to make him close his mouth. Something flashes, in the back of his mind. A hand through the air, a stinging across the side of his face. He flinches, but the handler hasn’t moved. Every part of him is screaming that he’s done something wrong, that he needs to hide away and wait until it dies down, until it’s safe again - but there isn’t anywhere to hide here. Just white walls and a heavy door. God, he hasn’t felt like this in years. It’s hard to breathe. Like a hand around his throat.

The handler lets a moment pass, and then two, and when he’s been sitting quietly for long enough, he speaks again. “My name is Handler Phillips, I’ll be your primary Handler for the duration of your training. You are WRU Trainee 297933.”

“I’m not.” It’s whispered, terrified, but he can’t just… give up. There has to be someone who will hear him out. There has to be some way to go home. “My name is-”

“You don’t have a name, you have an identification number.” The handler sighs, and crouches down so they’re face to face. “Look. I don’t want to do this the hard way, and I don’t think you do, either. You’re gonna have to work with me.”

“I’m not meant to be here.”

"We're just doing intake today, alright? Do you know what that means?"

"I want to go home." He doesn't want to do intake, he wants to go back to where he lives and curl up in his bed and never take another stupid fucking bet in his life. He's supposed to be walking back through the door and gloating about his victory right about now. Yesterday. The day before? How long has he been here? "Let me go home."

"I can't do that, mate. I have a job to do, and so do you." The Handler stands and unhooks something from his belt. "This is a collar. It will be yours. It's fitted with…"

The Handler's voice fades into the background behind the ringing of his ears and the bile that rises in his throat. A collar. Fuck, no. Fuck that.

"No," he interrupts. "No. No. You're not putting that on me. Let me go. I need to go home.”

Handler Phillips sighs again. “297933,” he says.

“That’s not my name.”

“It’s your WRU identification number. The collar is mandatory; it’s part of your training.”

“No.” The handler’s fingers touch, briefly, the handle of the baton. He draws back into himself, swallowing thickly, eyes on the floor. “Sorry,” he says quickly. The words taste sour. “I’m sorry.”

Another sigh from above him.

“You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” The handler hesitates, like he isn’t meant to continue. “I know this is scary. Take a breath.”

He draws in a breath that burns the whole way down.

“Think you can sit still enough to let me put this on you?”

“I don’t want to,” he whispers.

It happens anyway. The fight just… leaves him. He sits and trembles on the floor while Phillips slides the thick collar around his throat and clips it into place with gentle hands.

*

Before:

They’re all at Nell’s house.

They’re always all at Nell’s house, because she’s the only one of them with dogs, and with a couch, and with more than one shitty, battered Wii controller like Benny has. Nell only has two, but that’s double Benny’s, and the rest of them have none, so Nell’s place is the place to be.

They’re playing Mario Kart while they wait for Benny. Rhys is sandwiched between Luca and the arm of the couch, and one of the dogs has its head resting on his foot, and he can’t even move, because it’s Luca, and he’s got his legs slung over Rhys’s lap and his head pillowed on his shoulder.

Luca jerks his arm, swerves, and runs his Yoshi off the side of the track right as Matteo wins the race. Rhys jabs him in the side. “My go.”

“What – that doesn’t count!”

“In what world does that not count?”  Rhys already knows he’s going to lose the argument, but he entertains it anyway. He rarely actually plays Mario with the group, even though they say they’ll swap controllers after every race. Matteo’s already clicked his controller into the wheel attachment and handed it to Owen. Rhys usually hands off his turn to Luca and watches as he comes dead last every single time.

Luca’s opening his mouth to start the usual ‘I’m going to get it next time’ spiel when Benny waltzes in through the front door with his arms full of Nell’s mail.

Rhys raises an eyebrow at him. “You know that’s illegal, right?”

Benny, mouth full of – something, what the fuck is he eating this time? – says, “Huh?”

“Opening someone else’s mail.”

Benny rolls his eyes and dumps the pile of envelopes – bar one – on Luca and Rhy’s laps. “Helenaaaa.”

Nell’s voice comes back from the kitchen, instantly dry, wary. “What do you want from me?”

“I have something for you.”

“I swear, if you’ve been going through my mail again - ”

Benny darts off, cackling like an idiot, and Nell – also like an idiot – chases after him. Rhys shoves the pile of mail off his lap, and it clatters to the floor, all over the dog.

“… Sorry, Benedict.”

“You’re so mean to her,” Owen says from the other side of the couch. “Come here, baby.”

Benedict heaves all god-knows-how-much of her entire great dane self off the floor and meanders over to Owen. He’s already got Chef curled up with his head shoved under his rollator, and Benedict slumps at his feet and goes back to sleep.

“Thief,” Rhys says. “You’re a dog thief.”

“You dropped mail on her head!”

“Weird mail,” Luca muttered, leaning down to snatch an envelope off the floor. “The hell is this?”

It’s a thick white envelope, decorated in gold trim, a wax seal on the back – and it’s snatched from Luca’s hand as soon as Benny swans his way back into the room.

“Whatcha got there, Luca?”

Luca snorts. “Ask Nell, it’s hers.”

Benny does not ask Nell. He never does, but Nell hates opening her own mail, so she shoots Rhys an exasperated look and slumps down on the couch with Matteo.

“We seem to have abandoned Mario,” Matteo muses as Benny tears open the envelope. He doesn’t even try to remove the seal. Absolute animal.

“Dear resident, we hope this letter finds you well,” Benny reads, pacing in front of them like some grandiose loser. Rhys considers tripping him. “We have recently started a movement to bring clinics to smaller cities, and we’re searching for partici- oh my god, this is that – Pet shit, right?”

Nell makes a face. “Yeah, they’re building some new complex for it, or something, right? I read the first one, some initiative to ‘bring business and economy flow into rural areas’ or whatever.”

“We’re not even rural,” says Matteo.

“I know. God, I thought I unsubscribed from their mailing list. Just tear it up, Benny.”

But Benny’s eyes have gone wide. “Holy shit, have you seen how much money they offer you?”

Rhys snatches it from Benny’s grip. Holy shit was right. The number is in the high ten thousands – more money than any of them have seen in one place in their lives.

“I want it,” says Benny. It’s always Benny who starts this shit. Rhys can practically feel his brain turning.

Luca laughs. “You want to be someone’s house pet, Benny?”

A grin, a shrug. Benny’s never been the type to admit that he’s wrong. “Why not? Cozy up on the couch, no job, no bills.”

“Dumbasses,” says Nell, taking the envelope off Rhys and ripping it in half.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want that kind of money, Nell.”

“What am I gonna do with the money if I’m signing up to their program, Benjamin?”

There’s a lull. It should be the end of it. It should. But Benny is Benny is Benny, and Benny doesn’t know when to stop.

“... I reckon I could get the money, anyway.”

“You’re a coward,” Rhys says, because he’s just as bad as Benny, “and a liar.”

Luca jabs him in the side.

Benny’s eyes narrow, and he squares his shoulders like he always does when he thinks that he’s been challenged.

“Wanna bet?”

Taglist (please ask to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot @whumpcereal @whumpsday @whumpworld @littlespacecastle @anonintrovert @honey-is-mesi @warm-my-whumpee-heart @whumping-seven-days-a-week @alexmundaythrufriday

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, jack's recovery

part of behavior modification (masterlist here). takes place after lightning glass, and references events during jack's captivity, specifically this piece with vile whumper bill chester.

content warnings for: EXPLICIT noncon, references to previous CSA, threats of noncon body modification, knives and related injuries, bbu/bbu-adjacent, intimate whumper, some blood, brief suicidal ideation, consensual spice, adult language

jack's recovery, a special secret

“What do you want, Jackie?” 

The question still makes Jack’s heart stop. It’s been the better part of a year; he should know it’s okay to want. And he does, in theory. It’s just hard to remember sometimes. But it’s easier when he looks at Joe. 

Joe’s hand is soft in Jack’s hair, his cheeks very slightly pink from being snuggled close to Jack for their impromptu afternoon nap. He smiles when Jack looks at him, and Jack smiles back, closing his eyes again when Joe’s hand slips to his face. 

“What do you want, Joey?” Jack counters. 

Joe laughs, more breath than sound. “You, silly.” He sneaks forward and kisses the tip of Jack’s nose. Jack raises his chin, and their lips meet. 

They’ve been making love more often. It started at the beach after the press conference, and it’s built up steam since then. It isn’t like it was, but that doesn’t matter. It’s sweeter, somehow. Softer. 

Jack starts to pull back, but he presses one more quick kiss to Joe’s lips before he withdraws. “I want you too.” 

Joe’s laughter is a low rumble against Jack’s belly. “Well, that’s fantastic.” 

Jack wraps himself around Joe, hooking his leg over Joe’s hip and nudging himself forward until there is no possible confusion about just how badly he wants Joe. For his part, Joe captures Jack’s mouth in a kiss that isn’t sweet or soft. Jack moans beneath Joe’s lips. 

“What do you think, baby?” Joe asks, his voice husky. 

“I think you’d better fuck me,” Jack answers, rocking his hips against Joe’s. It’s still thrilling to take control this way. He doesn’t ask; he demands. 

“Oooh, alright,” Joe purrs. “But all in good time.” 

Jack practically vibrates in anticipation as Joe extricates himself from their tangle of limbs. Joe threads his fingers with Jack’s and pulls him to sitting, tugging Jack’s shirt off and tossing it behind him. He gently shifts Jack until his legs are dangling off the side of the bed, lifting him up for a moment so that he can slide Jack’s boxer briefs and sweatpants over his hips and away. 

“You work quick,” Jack laughs as Joe sets him back on the edge of the mattress. 

Joe taps his index finger to Jack’s nose. “When I have the motivation, absolutely. But this next part–” he spreads Jack’s knees and smiles up at him, “this next part won’t be quick at all.” 

Joe sinks to his knees, kissing a soft trail from Jack’s bare knee and up the inside of his thigh. Joe’s breath is even and warm, his touch gentle, and already, Jack can barely contain himself. His head drops backward as Joe’s tongue slips against the cleft where his thigh meets his pelvis, and he spreads his legs wider. 

“Joe–”

Joe suddenly pulls away. “What is that?” 

Jack’s head snaps back up. “What?”

“Jackie–” 

Jack barely feels Joe’s thumb cresting over his skin, and when he looks down, he sees. 

He’d forgotten. It was meant to be their little secret. His and Bill’s. Joe wasn’t ever supposed to see it, and Jack’s hidden it well so far. But the sun is still in the sky, and it bares Jack’s secrets in a way they haven’t been yet. Jack has other scars, of course, and Joe has seen them all. But this one–

Joe doesn’t know. He knows about the intimacy consultations, of course; that Jack was sent to WRU for a brief period before he was packed home. But Jack didn’t tell him about Bill. 

Joe braces his hands on Jack’s thighs and looks up in distress. “Jackie, what–” 

Jack takes a deep breath, and he reaches down to touch Joe’s face, glancing his thumb over Joe’s stubbled cheek. “It’s fine, Joey. I’m fine.” 

“What is this from?” Joe asks, voice breaking. 

“Joey–”

“Tell me.” 

Jack sighs. “Come here.” 

He slips his boxer briefs back on, and Joe settles beside him on the bed. 

“What happened, baby?” 

- - -

Bill promised he would come back, and he does. Jack is laid out on the same steel table as the day before, and he knows exactly who he is waiting for this time. 

“I could have them administer another spinal block, sweet boy,” Bill coos. “And then none of this would hurt. But I gave you a reprieve yesterday, didn’t I? I want to see what you’re made of now that they’ve turned you into what you were always meant to be.” 

Jack knows he should be stronger. That he should remember how to deal with Bill, even if it’s been a while. But he isn’t, and he doesn’t, and he just wishes that he could disappear. 

Jack has disappeared, in a way. He isn’t anything like the man he was a few months ago. Ivan’s training stripped him down and away, and all that’s left is the scared little boy who would’ve done anything to avoid becoming what he is now. What Bill always said he would be. Because Bill knew, even if Jack was naive enough to hope for something better. This is what Jack deserves. He was only ever fighting the inevitable. He knows that now. 

Bill’s hands move over Jack’s bare chest, stuttering over the leather straps that fasten Jack’s body to the table. Only two, across his shoulders and chest; his legs must be kept free, after all. The straps are the only sign that Bill might be a little concerned. He’s never tied Jack down before. He never had to. When Jack was a boy, he didn’t know he should fight. The only paralytic he needed was his own fear, the idea that he’d end up somewhere worse if he didn’t let Bill have what he wanted. He can’t even remember where he found the strength to fight back the one time he did. Was he ever strong? Good boys, sweet boys, aren’t. No, sweet boys take what they are given, and they do not complain. 

Jack doesn’t complain, but the buckle of his collar jitters against the cold metal; he can’t stop shaking, even with the straps holding him down. 

Bill smiles, pushing Jack’s hair away from his damp forehead. “It isn’t fair. No one should look so beautiful when they’re frightened. But you–oh, Jack–you. You are just delicious. This suits you.” 

Bill’s mouth finds Jack’s throat, his teeth pinching at the skin just above Jack’s collar. Jack whimpers, and he feels the soft warmth of Bill’s laughter against his neck, a reminder that Jack’s fear is exactly what Bill wants.  That somehow, it “suits” him. Jack wishes it didn’t, that he could look as grotesque as he feels. That his body would break into pieces and never reintegrate. That he could die, right here, and all of this would stop. 

But nothing stops Bill Chester. That much is clear. 

“Now, sweet boy,” Bill says, sliding his nose against Jack’s flesh and stopping his mouth close to Jack’s ear, “I told you last night: there will be no chemical interference this time. I want you to feel everything. Do you understand?” 

Jack nods, clenching his jaw. 

“Out loud, sweet boy. Let me hear you.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack’s voice breaks, just the way it did when he was a boy. 

“Good. That’s good, Jack. Now, we have some scores to settle, you and I, don’t we?” 

Bill stands up, his body a great black shadow beneath the overhead lamp. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small leather case. Jack doesn’t understand at first, but when Bill pops open the button on the case and dumps a sturdy folded knife into his palm, Jack has to bite back his own scream. 

He’s almost successful, but Bill must hear the scream rebound in Jack’s mouth. He opens the knife and touches his fingertip to the blade. 

“It’s no kitchen knife, but in a pinch…” 

Jack can’t help it. “No. No, please–”

He shouldn’t have opened his mouth. Almost without hesitation, Bill slips the knife in between Jack’s lips and presses the flat of the knifeblade against his tongue. Bill slides the blade toward the corners of Jack’s lips with perfect deliberation. He won’t hurt Jack yet, but he wants Jack to know that he can. And he will. Oh, God, he will. 

“Oh, sweet boy,” Bill murmurs. “That’s not a word you get to say. Not anymore. Not ever again. You should never have let it creep into your vocabulary in the first place, should you?” 

Jack doesn’t move a muscle. He’s too afraid even to close his eyes, and Bill leers down at him with an oily smile. 

“You know, when Sally and I took you in, I knew you were special. That you had talents no one else had seen–that you hadn’t even seen yourself. But I knew, Jack. One look at you, and I knew exactly what you were right for. And you were, too. There were other boys who didn’t understand the love I had to give, but you? Oh, my sweet boy, you understood, didn’t you? You were always so good.” 

Tears squeeze from the corners of Jack’s wide eyes, slipping down his temples and onto the table below. He wasn’t good; he was just afraid. Like he is now. 

“I thought you were going to last. That you’d be the one to complete our family. But that’s not what happened, is it?” 

Bill pulls the knife from Jack’s mouth, wiping the flat of the blade against Jack’s chest, first one side, and then the other. He lets the edge kiss the raised pebble of Jack’s nipple, but he doesn’t slice. Instead, he jockeys the handle so that the sharp tip of the knife is positioned over Jack’s skin, and he draws it downward. He doesn’t press hard enough to draw blood. It almost tickles, and Jack has to fight not to squirm beneath his straps. 

“You got a little too big for your britches. You didn’t appreciate all that Sally and I gave you. And that hurt me, Jack.” 

The knife glances over Jack’s belly, and his muscles contract, but Bill doesn’t stop. He guides the knifepoint down between Jack’s legs, and then he scratches a path over the thin seam of Jack’s scrotum. 

“I could take these from you, you know,” Bill says evenly. “I could cut them off right now. Wouldn’t that be poetic? Some grand statement about manhood and all of that. You’d be worthless then. At least to whomever your buyer is now. They want you intact, apparently.” 

Joe. Jack’s body is rigid, the tremors so intense that his body seems still, even though it is anything but.

“But you wouldn’t be worthless to me. I’d have to fork over a good chunk of change to the nice people at WRU, more than your asking price, but then I could have you, lock, stock, and barrel.” 

No. Jack’s protest is silent, but it’s a desperate plea nonetheless. He wants to go home to Joe. Even the Joe who sent him here. But Joe can’t know about this. He would never let Bill anywhere near Jack. Jack knows it. Doesn’t he?

“You could spend the rest of your days repaying your debt to us,” Bill goes on, lazily dragging the knife up and down, up and down. “You still have so many good years left, you beautiful boy. I could teach you everything you failed to learn that first time.” 

The knife twitches, and Jack yelps. Goddamnit, he’s only human, after all. At least, he used to be. 

Bill shakes his head, and blessedly, he lifts the blade. “But then I remember what you did to me, Jack. And I don’t know why I would risk bringing you home with me again. Shit, I don’t think Sally would stand for it. She hates you, you know? So, I guess it’s much better for us to have this time to put things right, isn’t it? To make things even.” 

Bill settles the knife just to the right of Jack’s navel, and Jack understands. That’s where he drove the kitchen knife into Bill the night of his fourteenth birthday. He remembers the strike of the knife, the way he couldn’t seem to pull it back out again, the warmth of Bill’s blood against his pajama shirt, the stunned look on Bill’s face. 

Bill doesn’t look stunned now. He smiles, and this time, the knife sinks in just far enough that Jack knows his flesh is broken. There’s a sharp stinging, and Jack’s breath winces in his chest. 

“Please!” he chokes out. He’s never been in this position before, never been quite so frightened. Ivan never pulled a knife on him. Even here, they’ve never threatened him this way. They won’t damage the merchandise. Even if Jack isn’t good or smart or strong, he is supposed to be beautiful. The only person who gets to mark him is his owner. 

Or maybe Jack isn’t pleading to be saved. Maybe, what he’s pleading for is for Bill to plunge the blade so deep that it never comes out again. 

Bill only tuts, like he knows what Jack is thinking. “Oh, I can’t mark you permanently, my boy. Not in any place visible. But I don’t think it would be fair if I left you entirely untouched, do you?” 

As if he would. Bill digs the knife just a hair deeper, sawing it gently back and forth. “I have a scar here. I’ll never be able to forget you because of that scar, sweet boy. And maybe I can’t leave one in the same place, but you’re not going to be able to forget me either.” 

Jack lets himself groan as Bill moves the knife. It’s the only release he knows he can afford. And, even as he feels the heat of his own blood rise where his skin has been split open, it doesn’t hurt so bad. Not really. Not compared to everything else. 

Not compared to what’s coming. 

“Not so deep,” Bill says with a note of practicality. He pulls back to examine his handiwork. “Not yet.” 

“Bill–” Jack tries, but Bill sticks the knifepoint beneath Jack’s chin. 

“Ah, ah, ah. That isn’t how you address your betters now, is it? Stay still and hold your tongue, sweet boy.”

Jack closes his lips, grimacing as Bill’s free hand presses against the slash on his gut. But he doesn’t scream. Not yet. And this is it, isn’t it? What Bill has always wanted from him. Silence. Compliance. No, not even that: complete submission.  

Jack remembers well enough what it was like. The things Bill did. What Bill pretended to ask of him–what Bill took, because he wasn’t really asking at all. Jack had cried and squirmed and pleaded and pretended to be sick, and Bill still took what he wanted because he could. But there had been part of Jack that knew he didn’t want it, that what Bill was doing to him was wrong. That he didn’t deserve it. He held onto it for as long as he could, let it solidify and crystallize inside of him. 

But even diamonds can turn to ash. 

If that part of Jack exists anymore, he can’t reach it. He is a good boy now, and Bill knows it. Jack can tell by the smile on the older man’s face. 

“Do you remember, Jack? What I asked you to call me back then?” 

Jack’s mouth goes dry. He nods, even as heat collects in his ears. 

“Say it now.” 

“D-Daddy.” Jack’s voice wobbles, and Bill’s smile grows even wider. 

“Good boy. It’s not so hard now, is it?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Sir?”

“No.” Jack swallows, and his collar suddenly feels too tight. When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper. “Daddy.” 

“That’s it,” Bill says. He gently kisses Jack’s lips; Jack wishes that it hurt. “That’s all I ever wanted, sweet boy. Just you, in your place, just like this.”

Mercifully, there doesn’t seem to be anything he expects Jack to say. Instead, Bill unfastens the leather straps across Jack’s chest; he knows Jack won’t fight now.

“Sit up,” Bill commands. He slides his hands down Jack’s arms and grabs Jack’s wrists, guiding Jack upright until he’s sitting at the edge of the steel table. Bill reaches for the surgical tray beside the table and grabs for a white towel. “Hold that against your little cut. Nice and firm, okay?” 

Jack obeys. Hasn’t he always? His shaking hands press the towel against his skin, and he watches as the fabric turns red. 

Bill grips Jack’s chin and forces his eyes back up again. “Kiss me like you mean it.” 

Almost instantly, Jack’s eyes flit to Bill’s lips. His tongue slips out of his mouth, and he wets his own lips. He’s so well trained that he almost doesn’t feel it when his stomach drops. 

Bill chuckles and lets Jack’s chin go. “Don’t be a tease, sweet boy. I’m waiting.” 

Jack leans forward, still clutching the towel to his belly. He softens his mouth, and he closes the space between him and Bill, pressing his lips against Bill’s, gently at first, and then harder. Bill’s groan echoes inside Jack’s mouth, but Jack doesn’t pull away. He can’t. He has to do what he’s told. He has to mean it. He has to make Bill happy, or he will never be allowed to go home to Joe. So, he slips his tongue between Bill’s lips, and he lets Bill wrap around him, one meaty hand against the small of Jack’s back, and the other tight at the base of Jack’s skull. Their mouths are crushed together, the corners of their lips straining against each other. 

Jack hopes that Bill can’t taste his tears. 

“Wrap your legs around me,” Bill growls into Jack’s open mouth. 

Jack does what he is told, and Bill yanks his hand out of the way, wrapping his fingers tight around Jack’s wrist. The last time they were close like this, it was Bill’s blood between them; this time, it is Jack’s.  

Bill’s teeth sink into Jack’s bottom lip, and when Jack responds, it is with a moan. Just the kind Ivan liked. The kind that shows what he wants, what he’s worth–that he’s made for this. 

“Tell me you’re sorry for what you did to me,” Bill pants. He is hard against Jack’s thigh, and the hand at the back of Jack’s head knuckles into Jack’s hair. 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, letting Bill yank his head backward. He isn’t sorry. He isn’t. He can’t say it. 

But he does. “I’m sorry.” Another sharp yank. Jack sucks in breath through his teeth, and his cheeks sting beneath his tears. “Daddy.” 

“Yes, you are. I can tell that you are. Just look at you.” 

Bill’s rough thumb slips over Jack’s salty cheek and then dips into his mouth, pinning Jack’s tongue. 

“I’m going to let you make me feel good, just the way you used to,” Bill says, and even though his voice is soft and warm, Jack’s naked flesh breaks out in goosebumps. “Because you’ve been such a good boy. But I told you, Jack, it’s time we were even. And that means that I’ve got to leave you a little souvenir. A special secret, just between us.” 

Jack swallows a sob before it can escape. A special secret. That’s what Bill always used to say. And it was a secret. No one ever knew. No one but Joe. And Joe didn’t protect Jack from this. No one will protect Jack ever again. He isn’t worth the trouble. 

Bill’s weight pulls away, and Jack, whore that he is, shivers in the absence of the other man’s body heat. Bill sinks to his knees, and Jack is so disoriented, so bloody and tired and fucking terrified, that he doesn’t even notice that Bill has the knife in hand again. 

“It’s alright if you scream,” Bill says with all the sweetness of a lover, and Jack doesn’t understand until he feels the knife point saw into the crease where his pelvis meets his thigh. 

He does scream then, loud and throaty, but it doesn’t do any good. Bill carves into him with singular focus, steadying him with a firm hand on Jack’s hip. 

“Don’t squirm,” Bill growls. “I don’t want to knick anything we can’t repair.”

And God help him, Jack stills. Because he can’t resist an order. Not anymore. Not ever again. 

Almost. 

Jack can’t say no, but he can plead; good boys are allowed to beg. “Please,” he whimpers. “It–it hurts.” 

“It’s supposed to,” Bill says cheerily. “But once it heals, only you will be the wiser, sweet boy. Who will see it? After all, no one’s going to care about satisfying you ever again. That’s not what you’re for, is it? It’s your job to keep your owner satisfied.” Bill looks up at him with a grin, his fingertips slick with Jack’s blood. “And this weekend, it’s your job to satisfy me. Now, scream, baby.” 

Jack screams. 

An hour later, Bill leaves, his hip stained red. A medic in a white uniform comes in. He straps Jack back down and pours antiseptic on Jack’s wounds and begins to stitch. There is no anesthetic. It doesn’t matter. Jack’s throat is so raw he can’t scream anymore, and Bill will be back in the morning.

- - -

Joe is holding Jack’s hand so tightly that his knuckles are white. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Jack touches Joe’s cheek, forcing the other man to look at him. Joe’s eyes are red. Jack cradles his face. “I couldn’t. It was right before I came home, and you know–”

“I know,” Joe says shortly. “I was there.”

“I couldn’t tell you, Joey. And then I didn’t. I knew you would be upset.”

Joe laughs cheerlessly, and Jack looks away. “How many times?” 

“What?” 

Joe’s grip is somehow tighter, but Jack doesn’t dare flinch. “How many times did that bastard–” 

“Three.” 

Joe lets go of Jack’s hand and collapses over his knees, tearing at his dark hair with shaking hands. 

Jack forces himself to take another deep breath, but he doesn’t touch Joe just yet. “He came in for a long weekend. He–he was subscribed to the rolls for the intimacy consultations, and he saw me and–well, yeah.” 

Joe launches off the bed and crosses the room so quickly that Jack doesn’t realize what’s happened until he hears the dull thud of Joe’s fist against the bedroom wall. 

Jack rises to his feet. “Joe! Baby, don’t–”

“No!” Joe cries, slamming his fist into the wall again and again and again. “I can’t–it isn’t fair! It isn’t fair! You’ve never done anything to deserve this, and–Christ, Jackie, why?”

Jack doesn’t know how to answer that, so he changes the subject. “Joey, you’re bleeding.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Joe is crying now. He turns to Jack, hands outstretched like a supplicant. “It doesn’t fucking matter. I wish I could make that motherfucker bleed.” 

“No, you don’t,” Jack says softly. 

“Yes, I fucking do!” 

Jack takes a careful step forward. “They arrested him. He–he won’t touch me ever again.” It’s something Jack tries to remind himself of every day. It wasn’t true the first time. It has to be true this time. 

“Too late,” Joe mutters, cradling his swollen hand against his belly. “They arrested him too late.” 

“I know.” 

Jack closes the space between them, taking Joe’s injured hand gingerly between both of his own. Joe’s knuckles are scraped open, and bright lines of blood catch the light as Jack brings Joe’s hand to his lips. 

“I know that what he did was wrong,” Jack says softly. “I know that I didn’t deserve it. I know that I’m safe now. And I know that I love you, and that you love me, and that if you could have, you would have done whatever you could to keep him away from me. I know that. For sure and for always.” 

“But I didn’t,” Joe whispers. “I didn’t protect you.” 

“You brought me home, Joey. That’s all that matters.” 

“No, it isn’t!” 

Jack shakes his head and presses their foreheads together. “Yes, it is.”

“I should have–”

Jack silences Joe with a gentle kiss. “We can’t undo it, Joey. The only way out is through. No looking back.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–” 

“I know,” Jack says. “But I’m here now. We’re here. And they’re not.” He kisses Joe again. “Be here with me, Joey.” 

Joe’s forehead falls to Jack’s shoulder. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

They hold each other until the sun starts to fade, and this time, it is Jack who lets Joe cry on his shoulder. And then, Jack tucks his fingers under Joe’s chin and kisses him again. 

“You killed the mood, Prescott.” 

Joe’s smile is watery but real. “Yeah. I guess I did.” 

“Think you can make it up to me?” 

“What did you have in mind?” 

Jack bites his lip. “Take me to bed or lose me forever,” he says in his best Meg Ryan drawl. 

Joe laughs, and the sound sends tingles all the way to the tips of Jack’s toes. “I guess there’s only one thing to do.” 

Joe’s arms are around him then, and they stumble back to bed. This time, there will be no napping.

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

[flailingfrog]

Nikole and Kit: Will Reading

TW : BBU/BBU-adjacent setting, dehumanization, conditioned whumpee, mentioned character death as a central focus

-

So Nikole’s inheriting everything. There’s no way Nikole isn’t inheriting everything. She’s the only kid, her mom never particularly cared for any of her cousins, Dad’s been dead—Who else is it going to go to?

Don’t take her the wrong way: she’s obviously ruined inside from her mother dying. There’s a hole in her life now, a hole where used to sit a woman who could be depended upon to wear a stupid purple quilt coat with her pet in a stupid orange quilt coat sitting next to her at a formal fucking dinner, Mom… and that hole could be, if not filled, then at least stuffed with her mother’s formidable collection of assets. The house alone has to be worth, what, two mil? And she must be able to get something for the Platonic.

This is what Nikole’s thinking about as she waits to meet with her mother’s lawyer and read the will. Holly’s here, too, maybe getting one of those aforementioned quilt coats. There isn’t a good place for her to sit in here that Nikole doesn’t have to look at her, the walls cramped to make the waiting area more like a mini hallway than its own individual space, the plant at the end barely aiding in the illusion. If it was anyone else, maybe she’d be a bit nicer, but she can admit to herself that she is not the bigger person when it comes to Holly—Maybe it’s the way her and Mom could get going on about quilting, or her weird crochet projects—She crochets teeth, and not cute teeth like you might find on a sign advertising a dentist. Teeth that seem designed to disturb Nikole in specific—or the way she seems to think her tie dye crocs are an appropriate choice of shoe to wear to everything, including a will reading, or, honestly, one of a thousand other ‘quirks’ Nikole finds distasteful. She doesn’t like her. Sue her. She’s polite to her face and that’s what matters, right? She can’t decide what she’d prefer: Her next to her? Directly across? Anything but this barely in her eyesight thing she’s doing?

Judy opens the door leading to the offices, serving them both a smile warmer than the weather outside. “Sorry for the wait, ladies. You ready to get to business?”

It’s enough for Nikole to forget about Holly, at least for the moment. She picks her bag up from the chair next to her. “Whenever you are.”

She leads them down the hall, the same beige as every other room Nikole’s ever seen in this building. The sparseness of the halls, unpersonal look of the front office, doesn’t follow into Judy’s office, all bulky dark wood furniture covered in books and files, paintings of boats everywhere.

They all take their seats, Judy teasing the manila folder her mother’s will is in. Theatrics. “First of all,” she starts, eyes flicking to Nikole, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The hole in her threatens, for a brief moment, to swallow her. She smiles easily, swallows down it and all the agitation that threatens to flow out from it. It just wouldn’t do to get agitated. “Thank you.”

Judy nods, as if she’s done something important, and opens the envelope. Of course, Judy already knows what’s written there—She helped write it. “Now,” she begins, “Daphne’s will is a bit… unusual.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Holly’s face sets like she knows what Judy’s talking about, which isn’t fair considering Nikole certainly doesn’t.

“I need you to know, Nikole, I really did urge her against this, but she insisted the two of you were the most important people in her life and she needed you to get along.” Her face has been twisting into something as she keeps talking.

Nikole’s own face stays neutrally polite, even as the intense urge to shake her and demand she get to the point begins to overwhelm her.

Judy’s eyes search her face, only increasing the urge, but when she finds nothing, she sighs and passes the document to Nikole to read as she speaks. “Holly is receiving $25,000 from one of her savings accounts, you can see which one in the papers there. She’s also the executor and trustee of Paul and Kit’s… trust.”

Nikole can read all that well enough, granted in much more legal language, but she looks up at Judy regardless, attempting to maintain her same veneer of politeness. There’s a reason Judy hesitated, and she’ll be damned before she makes it justified. “The pets got a trust?” Sure, there’s other things making her insides sting, but none of the other ones are taking her money right now.

For the first time since they’ve entered the room, Holly speaks. “It’s not unusual for concerned owners to provide for their pets in the event of their death. And your mother loved those two very much.”

Nikole stares at her. “But fifty percent of what’s left after the house and your cut? That’s not right.”

“Well, Kit’s not exactly a dog. She’s got to be taken care of for a long ti—”

“Did you tell my mom about this?” It seems the kind of thoughtless, wholly destructive thing Holly would do.

“Your mother was worried about them. I gave her an option to protect them as best she could.”

Heat burns at her neck and face. Holly’s voice didn’t even waver. She really believes this inane shit. Nikole shuts her eyes, smiling tightly.

For a long second, there isn’t a single sound in the room.

Then, Judy says, “Your mother wanted you to care for them.”

She’d read that part. Frankly, she doesn’t want to. But the money… It kept coming back to the money, which, again, should’ve been hers in the first place.

Of course, Holly has to speak. She’s so gentle, like she doesn’t hate Nikole’s guts as much as she hates hers, as she says, “You don’t have to. I understand you’ve never liked her. I’m more than willing—“

And really, more than anything that’s what seals it. Because fuck Holly, and fuck the way she’s acting like she actually cares what Nikole might feel, especially when she knows it’s more about some stupid boxbabe than her.

“No, I’ll do it.” She turns to Judy with the most winning smile she can muster, but she must fall flat given the uncertainty that’s returned. Nothing she can do about that. “Who can deny a dead woman’s final wish?”

So Nikole guesses she has a pet Platonic now.

-

@angst-after-dark