#neuro whump cw

[maracujatangerine]

83. On the phone 6

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

”I’ve managed to arrange it. It wasn’t easy, but I have finally found a friend who is willing to help us.”

“Really? Oh my god, Indira, you are amazing!”

“I aim to please.” Lydia could hear the smile in the doctor’s voice. “But we will have to be careful. Have you talked with him about it yet?”

“Not yet, I didn’t want to worry him, or give him any false hopes.”

“You are worried about how he will react.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I am.” Lydia admitted. “But he deserves the chance. I will ask him soon.”

”That’s good. This has been going on for far too long.”

“I know.” Lydia sighed. “But WRU seemed to be the only option, and I would never put Coriander through that.”

“Agreed.” Indira paused, listening to some indistinct loudspeaker announcement in the background. “I got to go. Keep me posted.”

“I will. Thank you again. You are the best!”

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

[finalgirlkateausten]

I got dreams but I can't make myself believe them

Set during the Pilot ep of Transplant. Claire finds out Jed is a patient from the restaurant crash. CW for canon-typical whump and medical/emergency situations as well as cursing. Recommended listening: Homesick, Noah Kahan & Sam Fender, You're Losing Me, Taylor Swift

Claire doesn't know if Atwater calls out to her before the firm touch lands on her shoulder; on nights like these there's so much going on around her that she doesn't have enough real estate in her brain for all five senses. But if Wendy needed her for anything related to the mass casualty they're in now, she would've shouted across the ED until Claire noticed, so now Claire goes as still as she has all night and inclines her head slightly in her friend's direction, letting the attending murmur in her ear.

"Jed just came in," she says. "He's a patient from the crash."

Claire stays frozen, feeling her heart rate climbing under her sternum. "Well, that explains where he's been. Need me to convince him to sit down and get patched up?" Not that she's had much luck with that tonight, but she and Jed have an understanding. Making him hold still for sterilization and bandages is fine. It's easy. It gives her brain a plan instead of a worst case scenario.

"No, Claire, Dr. Curtis just hauled him up to the neuro team in the OR."

She bites the inside of her cheek, hard. She can't see Atwater, and Wendy can't see her; neither of them have moved from their tight position in the corner of the hallway as the rest of the chaos rushes past. "And? How bad is it?"

"EMS says they found him with a fucking hole in his skull," Wendy answers, her voice full of disbelief. "To decrease ICP, probably, but who could do that in the field-- I don't fucking know."

"Head trauma, probably had to include a fractured skull, the probability of brain damage is..." Claire shakes her head when the textbook answers are replaced by visions of Jed in those situations. "I'll go notify his emergency contact."

"Yeah, that would be you."

She's already stepping away, so she can't resist turning back to frown at her friend. "Still? No."

Wendy ticks off the possibilities on her fingers. "Psycho ex-wife, teenage son, ex-girlfriend who happens to work in the ER. Who would you pick?"

"Well." Claire stares down at the scuffed tile under her sneakers. "Keep me updated, then. I'll try to come see him if he makes it through surgery."

"Or if," Atwater says under her breath, evidently only half-listening.

"That's what I said." Claire looks her friend in the eye only briefly. "He's here now. I've got more lives to save."

Her patients don't listen, and she picks a fight with a random cop, and the whole ED is a mess. Somehow, though, Claire doesn't mind. The longer she goes without having to face the reality of Jed's condition, the better...

Even if she's just delaying the inevitable.

[kim-poce]

For Full House, from one pet to another

"How could you?"

Full House - Excuse of a Lapdog

Ryan is Little One.

Masterlist

CW: pet whump.

"How could you?" Pink shouted, "T-take it back!"

"It's true though!" Ryan shouted back, gritting his teeth, "You keep acting as if you are better than anyone else because you want to act like a pet because Master doesn't need to force you into anything. You are just a selfish excuse of a lapdog!"

"R-Ryan," Beige tried, he didn't like where things were going. "You went t-to far."

"See, Pink?" Ryan gestured to the domestic pet, "He isn't saying I'm wrong."

Pink's eyes flowed with fresh tears, he didn't want to cry, he didn't want to end that here just because he can't control his own petty tears like a child. "A-at lease, at least I'm good enough of a lapdog not to be sold as a disposable punchbag!"

The room fell silent as everyone's eyes widened, Pink flinched at his own words, not believing they left his own mouth, he was about to apologize when he felt the familiar pain of a punch straight on his face, his head was jerked sideways and his mouth filled with blood.

Ryan didn't mind rubbing his hurting fist before running back to his room, to under his bed, where is it safe. Where he is alone.

=-=

Taglist:

@cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @octopus-reactivated, @sufferfictionalcharacters, @rat-father, @badluck990, @onlybadendings, @inpainandsuffering, @mazeish, @neuro-whump, @freefallingup13, @sideblogformindtrash, @extemporary-username, @jadeocean46910, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @neverthelass, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpfessional, @sinning-shipping-trash, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @scp-1296, @dont-touch-my-soup, @damienxozmoze, @nicolepascaline, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @dyingisbadforyourhealth, @theadorelocksly, @aswallowimprisoned, @bluewhumpcrew, @fuzzybucketz, @hollowgast1, @boonasaurusrex, @nidoskull

[distinctlywhumpthing]

How old is Leo, and how old does Leo think Aiden is? - whumpinthepot

Previous ask about Aiden's age — Masterlist

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Whump of a minor mentioned.

Leo took a steadying breath. “Delia?”

“Yeah?” She didn’t even look up from suturing, so focused she’d thankfully missed the half-dozen times he’d opened his mouth and closed again, not quite ready to pull this thread.

“I—uh…”

That did it. Her hands stopped moving and she glanced up, eyes tracing his face. 

“Actually, maybe I don’t even want to know…”

“Leo, out with it.”

“Look, it’s just—Please, tell me he’s older than he looks.” He resisted the urge to glance at Aiden, convinced he’d find those dark eyes watching him, maybe even looking betrayed by this line of questioning. 

Delia did look because of course Aiden was still peacefully sedated. A state that was necessary but felt like another break of Aiden’s trust. “Well, he’s not exactly our peer…”

“Fuck, Deels. He looks about half my age though, not a day over sixteen. Tell me I’m wrong?”  

Delia sighed. “I trust you didn’t get far asking yourself?” 

He shook his head. 

“They’re trained not to answer truthfully, even if they enter the system at a legal age. So, even if he wanted to tell you…”

His stomach felt heavy. 

“Look, if we get an MRI later, we can make a fairly educated guess. Short of that, we can see what molars he has but that’s only reliable if he hasn’t had orthodontic work to remove any, and still has a margin for error of a couple of years if they came in early or late…”

Leo kneaded his brow with his fingertips. 

“What will it mean to know how old he is? Would it change anything?”

He sighed, dragging his hand down his face. The events of the day and night were really starting to hit him. “I don’t know…I guess I had hoped he wasn’t subjected to all of…that when he was so young. He just looks so young, Delia, like he never got a chance at anything.” 

“Would it be any less sad if he was your age or mine? If they had waited until he was eighteen like they’re supposed to? Because in that case, chances are he was in for a decade at least.” 

He swallowed. “See? Now this is why I thought maybe I was better off not knowing. It’s lose-lose either way.”

“That’s the System, Leo.” She picked up her instruments and resumed mending what could be fixed while Leo let himself be swallowed by thoughts of the damage he couldn’t even begin to touch.

— Masterlist —

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7  @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch@skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @the-magpiesystem @pigeonwhumps

[wolfeyedwitch]

since i sent a bad things happen bingo for bailey it's only fair to them that i send something nice too... 🤗+🧣?

🤗 - A warm hug

🧣 - A fluffy blanket

CW: past torture, touch starved whumpee

---

Zera volunteered to get Bailey settled after the horrifying mix-up that was inviting them to training. All the heroes were frazzled, but their feelings about the situation were secondary to Bailey's.

See, to the heroes, training meant, well, training. To Bailey's former teammates, "training" was apparently a code word for "torture". Or at least, near enough to make no real difference. They only learned of this when Bailey showed up to training, pale-faced and trembling, and expected to be used as target practice.

Every time Zera thought they had all of Bailey's triggers figured out, they somehow managed to trip right into another one. Fuck Slipknot and their sadistic cronies.

"Is Tempest angry?" Bailey asked, voice tiny. "That I disrupted your training?"

Zera took a slow breath before answering that. They wanted to scream, to punch Slipknot in the face, to go back in time and prevent these horrible things from ever happening to Bailey in the first place. Since none of those options were helpful, they had to choose something a little more constructive.

"Bailey, can I hug you?" they asked.

Bailey looked startled, but nodded after a moment's pause.

Zera wrapped their arms around Bailey, pulling them in tight. They were just a bit taller than the former villain, letting them encircle Bailey like they could be their shield.

Bailey stiffened at the initial contact, then melted. How long had they gone without any kind touch?

"Tempest isn't mad at you," Zera said into Bailey's hair. "None of us are mad at you."

"But... you are mad," Bailey managed, voice muffled from where their face was buried in Zera's shoulder.

"Of course we are, but not at you," Zera said. "We're mad at Slipknot, at all the villains who called themselves your teammates. We're mad at what happened to you."

"Oh," Bailey said.

Zera pulled back from the hug enough to look Bailey in the eye. "You did nothing wrong," they said. "I know that's hard to believe, so I'll repeat it as often as you need. This isn't your fault, we aren't mad at you, and you did nothing wrong."

Bailey's lips trembled. "Pretty sure I've done a lot wrong," they said.

"Not today; not here," Zera replied.

"Oh," Bailey said again.

Zera got the feeling that further attempts to convince Bailey on the matter wouldn't go over well, so they dropped the subject.

"You wanna watch something?" they asked instead. "We've got a bunch of movies; we could find something light-hearted."

Bailey nodded. "I... I'd like that."

Zera grinned, expression a little wobbly. "Great. How about you pick something out, and I'll grab some snacks?"

Bailey nodded.

As they sat together on the couch, sharing a fluffy blanket between them, Zera found themself paying more attention to Bailey than to the movie. Today had been rough; it was another unexpected difficulty in Bailey's recovery. Doubtless there would be more nasty surprises along the road.

It was worth it, to see Bailey as relaxed and comfortable as they were right then.

---

Taglist:

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world @dolls-circus @pickleking8 @appleejuice @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @extemporary-whump @whumpwillow @multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-des-lore @equestrianwritingsstuff, @scp-1296 @livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi @lelly-belly @neuro-whump @newbornwhumperfly @whumpthisway, @whumpcreations, @wicked-whump @heart4brains, @myhusbandsasemni @how-to-be-a-hero @kixngiggles @kurochan @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @pattonvirglsanders @neverthelass @we-write-as-one @elrys-creates @whumperflies-and-roses @ha-ha-one

[whumpzone]

Lost Property - 12

(masterpost)

Previous - Next

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation

-

Coriander was kneeling in a corner of the kitchen, near the table. The pet had offered to do the washing up, of course, but the man - Linden - had waved it away.

“No, no,” he’d said, “you are my guest here, and there isn’t much to do. I will just fill up the dishwasher and you can take it easy for a while.”

The blonde pet had ducked its head. “Y-yes, Sir.” Now, the dark-haired man was in the far side of the kitchen, humming quietly to himself while he was rinsing off and stacking the dishes.

The pet’s muscles ached. Cory‘s body was used to kneeling, but it was a long time since it so stringently had kept the positions and the pet was out of practice. Miss Lydia often told it to sit comfortably or just generally didn’t pay attention to whether the pet held perfect form or not. With a new owner - even if this was a temporary arrangement - that kind of slacking off surely wouldn’t fly. Even with Miss Lydia, Coriander took care to be graceful, to be silent and still and move elegantly, as it had been taught. But now, it had to be absolutely perfect, and that perfection hurt.

In an effort to distract itself, the pet looked around. Just next to it on the floor was a small pile of yesterday’s newspapers, some colourful advertisements and, on the very top, a piece of paper that looked like a letter. Cory craned its neck to be able to read sideways without moving from its spot.

“Notice. Number 52 will be throwing a Pet Party this coming Saturday. This notice is to apologise prior to the proceedings for any noise disturbance during the evening. There will be several newly trained Pets who will likely need disciplining.”

The letter continued, but Coriander’s blood ran cold. Its hands started shaking so badly that it couldn’t read any further- it placed it back down, wishing it’d never read it in the first place. It was already finding it so hard to be perfect, and now it had this looming over its head? It remembered its latest pet party and Miss Lydia saying “This will never happen to you” in her most convincing tone. But it was no longer with Miss Lydia. That other pet, Colton, had had horrific scarring, perhaps the results of such parties?

Cory couldn’t do it. It was so out of practice, it was so clumsy and awkward and presumptuous these days, it couldn’t hope to be a model pet at such a high-stakes event. It would mess up, even if just once, and that would be it. Hours of pain as it was corrected for the rest of the night, lumped in with the bad pets, deserving every moment. Cory’s breathing sped up as it got wrapped up in the thought of it. Miss Lydia was so far away. It didn’t have a chance.

Too late, Coriander realised that the sound of running water had stopped. Linden was on his way back to the pet. Quickly, Cory tried to compose itself into an image of calm obedience, hoping that Linden hadn’t noticed it snooping around his private correspondence.

-

taglist part 1:

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

[whumpurr]

getting heavier

cw pet whump, disordered eating, whump recovery, male whumpee, male caretaker, whump recovery

a little non chronological thing that takes place a little further into sawdust's recovery!

--

Sawdust swallowed as he looked in the mirror. He was hardly tall enough to see down to his waist- Master was tall and the mirror was hung on the wall to suit that- but just looking at himself without a shirt felt different now.

His body was soft, he couldn’t count his ribs anymore. The valleys between the bones of his spine were not as deep. He couldn’t run his fingertips along the edges of bone in his arm any longer. Something about it felt strange, it made him feel like a stranger in his body. There had to be a way to undo it.

Old Master never liked it when he was too big. He never told Sawdust that, but that must have been the reason he fed Sawdust so little. To keep him tiny. He was easier to move and kick around that way.

Sawdust was yanked out of his thoughts when Master pushed open the door, spotted him, and immediately shut the door again.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were in there,” Master apologized. Sawdust still didn’t understand why Master would apologize to a dumb pet who didn’t deserve it.

“S-Sorry, Master,” Sawdust put his shirt back on and poked his head out of the door, eyes downcast, “I shou-shouldn’t have been in the bathroom for s-s-so long.” He crawled out of the bathroom.

“I don’t mind it,” Master reached down and pet his head, “You can go anywhere in the house.”

Master stayed like that for a moment, petting Sawdust’s head. Sawdust felt like the couldn’t accept it, he didn’t deserve it.

“Master,” Sawdust murmured, “I-If you keep- uh- keep feeding your pet then I’ll get h-heavier.”

“O...kay?” Master gave a confused smile. “That’s- yeah, that’s good?” He didn’t stop petting Sawdust. Sawdust had to pull away.

Sawdust didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say. He felt ashamed. He felt embarrassed that he was getting heavier, he felt like he failed his purpose as a pet. It stopped being about what his Master wanted and started being about what he wanted. He didn’t want to be heavier. He didn’t like it, it wasn’t him.

Sawdust hiccuped on tears that started to well up in his eyes. His face was hot and he knew that he was flushed a bright red.

“Hey, hey,” Master kneeled down in front of Sawdust and tried to look him in the eye. “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

Sawdust stammered out something but he couldn’t get the words out. He wanted to tuck his ears back and pull his tail between his legs.

--

“It’s good that you’re putting on weight!” Adrien hurried to get out, thinking that that was the issue here. “It’s good, you were too light before.”

Sawdust flinched and started to whine.

“No, no wait, I mean, uh,” Adrien pulled back for a moment, “You weren’t healthy when I got you. I don’t have some other reason for wanting this, it’s just that you’re getting healthier.” His warm hands found Sawdust’s hair again, petting him.

--

Sawdust chewed on his tongue. This was the first time he truly wanted anything and of course his master wasn’t going to give it to him. He cried. Pitiful little whimpers that would never have any bearing on how things continued. They would never be enough to change Master’s mind, and all they left Sawdust with was a deep sorrow and a stuffy nose.

“It’s okay, love,” Master sighed. “You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”

taglist: @starnight-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @neuro-whump @whump-me-all-night-long @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @whumpcreations @dancinglifeboat @pinkraindropsfell @looptheloup @cowboy-anon @meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @it-will-all-whump-out @theydy-cringeworthy @kim-poce @bluetheautisticrat @whump-in-progress @wh-wh-whu

[maracujatangerine]

80. A mysterious letter

CW: none

Yến carefully picked her way through the puddles that pooled on the concrete steps. Her purple converse were already damp, but she wanted to keep them from getting soaked.

She halted for a moment to shake off the black umbrella she’d borrowed from the newsroom, before stepping through the double doors in front of her. Warm air and the characteristic scents of steel, burnt rubber, ozone and people enveloped her.

Luckily, the train was on time and since it was the middle of the day there was a place for her to sit. She used her free hand to pull her ponytail tighter, glancing at her reflection in the window against the backdrop of never-ending night.

Checking the time on her phone, she leaned back in her seat. No rush.

Absentmindedly, she looked at the tattoo curving up the inside of her left underarm; -30- in black ink, flanked by flowers.

Yến had got the tattoo just the year before, while still in college. Her parents had been… displeased, to say the least.

But it had seemed so romantic to her, even important. She had wanted to use the old sign that indicated the end of a submitted article, to inscribe it on her own body as a way of showing her commitment to the values of truth and justice that she shared with the journalists who’d gone before her in the annals of history.

Of course, that was way before she had actually got her first job. Now, after months of reporting on cat exhibitions in Queens, petty conflicts between neighbours in Staten Island, the World’s biggest barbecue in Brooklyn and other odds and ends of community reporting that her colleagues happily pushed over to the youngest and greenest in their newsroom, her commitment to truth and justice looked more than a little ridiculous, even to herself.

This assignment was no exception. Her co-workers had laughed out loud when the letter had arrived. Written by cut-out pieces of text from newspapers and magazines, the message had been carefully taped together into what looked like a ransom letter from the opening scene of a second-rate detective series.

“Important info!” The letter read. “Bryant Park, W 42nd Street. Right lamp at entrance. Brown envelope. 14:00 hrs. Today.”

“Miss Nguyễn Thị Yến,” her editor James had said, with mock formality. “I’ve got a job for you.”

”Are you really going to send her?” Barbara had interjected. “What if it is dangerous?”

“Nah!” James had shaken his head. “It is most likely a marketing trick. Or nothing at all.” To Yến he continued. “But you can make a story about the hunt for it. Take some photos on the way, and describe the scenes for the readers. It will be a light fluff piece. Okay?”

Yến had nodded, of course. But before she left, Barbara had handed her some plastic gloves and a transparent ziplock bag.

“If it looks like a bomb, don’t touch it. And use the gloves, remember the anthrax scare.”

Now, well on her way, Yến felt a sting of concern, what if Barbara was right? But all her other colleagues had thought that it was just a joke, or some business looking for attention. James wouldn’t send her out alone if he had thought it was risky. She decided that she would use the gloves, anyway.

The rhythm of the swaying train, the hissing stops and starts, her early morning start, it all made her feel a bit sleepy. She closed her eyes, just for a moment.

Fun fact

”-30- has been traditionally used by journalists in North America to indicate the end of a story or article that is submitted for editing and typesetting. It is commonly employed when writing on deadline and sending bits of the story at a time, via telegraphy, teletype, electronic transmission, or paper copy, as a necessary way to indicate the end of the article.”

So says Wikipedia, and also adds the fascinating fact that no one knows where the term came from, but that it might have its roots in the American Civil War era.

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

[outofangband]

Maedhros and Nolofinwë take a small stroll around the quieter areas of the Nolofinwëan camp. Author’s notes at the end 

This is relatively early in Maedhros’s recovery. He’s been in the camp long enough that he generally knows where he is and what’s going on but he’s still relearning to walk, hold utensils with his left hand, etc

also wanted to link this reminder here that Maedhros was imprisoned during the rising of the sun and moon 

CW: blanket post Angband warning for aftermath of captivity and torture, implied mobility issues following extended enforced immobility, implied internalized ableism. 

This piece is pretty mild though, just some good uncle Fingolfin for you all 💙

I go into more detail about what exactly causes his mobility issues in other Post Angband pieces but please feel free to ask any questions

masterlist 

Tag list: @much-ado-about-whumping @elarinya-nailo @iwenttomordor @tears-and-lilies

The gardens here were far from the expansive landscapes surrounding the homes of the residing Noldor lords. They were primarily practical, little rows of medicinal herbs and flowers, a small square patch for root vegetables and a few fruit trees. None of this could be a top priority in the chaos of the war but those who were tasked to tending to the garden did so with as much care and effort as they could afford. It was a blessed relief from the horrors that, despite the best efforts of the host, could not be fully kept outside the walls of the camp. They were certainly the most peaceful spot the Noldor here had created and Fingolfin was glad to show them off.

Nolofinwë was careful to support Maitimo without attempting to influence or restrict him. He could tell his nephew was displeased with the fact that he still required an arm to guide him when he tried to walk but eventually, the restlessness and desire to move and to leave his little room in the healing house won over his initial refusal to accept help of this sort. Maitimo agreed to allow Fingolfin to support him for a short walk around the outskirts of the camp. They had chosen the evening hours when most tasks had moved indoors and when the light was not at its brightest, Maitimo was still adjusting to the intensity of the sun. 

The younger elf’s right arm was still heavily bandaged. It was clearly difficult for him to raise it and allow his uncle to hold his elbow while his arm rested against his chest. With his left hand he gripped a cane, the positioning of his fingers  awkward. Nolofinwë swallowed the urge to offer a correction for this. Now was not the time. 

Nelyo’s thin body was wrapped in several layers. Buttons, laces, and similar were still very difficult for him but with the light gown and many shawls he at least seemed comfortable in what he was wearing. Nolofinwë smiled as the two strode out of the healing house, Nelyo blinking slightly despite the twilight. 

“Thank you for agreeing to this, My Lord.” His voice stiff but sincere.  Nolofinwë wasn’t surprised by the overly formal language though he felt a small twinge upon hearing it.

“I am glad to accompany you, Nelyo.” He had struggled for a moment with how to address his nephew, wishing to return the respect but apprehensive that his use of a title would be interpreted as mocking.

They walked through the garden, the air smelling mildly of the herbs and flowers. Their pace was rather slow but not uncomfortably. The cane dragged on the ground every few steps; Maitimo had not yet become used to using it. But the evening air seemed to have a calming effect on him. Nolofinwë did not like to think of the last time that his nephew has spent any period outdoors like this. The weather was cool and Fingolfin was hesitant to have Nelyo out of his room for too long, his health was still vulnerable. But he did not want to force him back inside and so merely lead the way to a table by the gardens. Nelyo took a seat beside him. They were in silence for several minutes. The older elf saw that Maitimo’s left hand, still resting on the cane, was clenched into a fist. He was clearly frustrated with his condition. 

When they stood up, Nelyo was leaning more heavily on his uncle for support, Fingolfin using both hands, one still on his elbow, his other arm on his back. His right leg was starting to drag slightly again. But they made it back to the healing house together, a faint tinge of red to Maedhros’s notched ears as Fingolfin helped him into a chair.

“We will manage longer walks yet, nephew,” Nolofinwë says quietly handing him back his cane which had fallen to the ground upon entering, “Do not become discouraged, understandable though it is.”

author’s note: to be honest this isn’t great writing from me, I just had this image I couldn’t get out of my head and I can’t draw so I wrote it up! It will be edited in the future to be more cohesive! I hope it’s ok to read!

(Note: so I headcanon that Maedhros used a cane for awhile following his rescue. I do have some mobility issues myself due to neuro reasons but I do not currently use any mobility devices. I did some research but I welcome input from anyone who has more direct experience with this.)

I should also note that while Fingolfin has the best of intentions and Maedhros’s difficulty walking is certainly very frustrating to him, Fingolfin doesn’t yet know exactly what’s primarily bothering him.

[albino-whumpee]

Fallen Bridges part 2

Goodness, its finally all getting together. lmao. Hope you enjoy!

CW//Pet whump, slavery, human trafficking, muzzles, shock collars, kidnapping, recapture, betrayal, shovels and death imaginary. Getting kinda dark at the end. Angst, hurt comfort and conditioning. 

Taglist:

If you wish to be taken out or added, please send me a message. 

@castielamigos-whump-side-blog @giggly-evil-puppy @cowboysrappin @haro-whumps @burtlederp @neuro-whump @comfortforthepain @whumps-the-word @whole-and-apart-and-between @broken-horn @ashintheairlikesnow @rosesareviolentlyread @starnight-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @as-a-matter-of-whump  @whumpasaurus101 @grizzlie70 @twistedcaretaker @wingedwhump @unicornscotty @melancholy-in-the-morning

The road to Robert´s house was often without traffic. A big house by the woods with nobody around. A young Rupert Glass had chosen that house in specific because he couldn´t stand busy traffic or stupid neighbors. When he found it on sale, he didn´t even have to ask his wife, as the only thing she said was: 

“I will put roses on the entrance”. 

Those same roses were now withering, Sann noticed. 

The pet had heard the story from Rupert himself once, and when he was there and allowed to, Sann helped Rupert take care of the flowers. 

“C´mon Sann,” Robert said pulling him inside the house. 

The boy offered no resistance. Once Robert´s hand rested on his neck and his tongue sizzled in his ear, his body had simply given up on fighting. Like a switch, one simple touch, one simple order from that man, and he would be on his knees in that dirty basement again. 

A mean burn exploded inside his chest, but he had become an expert in suffocating any flare of defiance. 

With this man, nothing was off the table. 

As he handcuffed him to an anchor on the floor, Sann kept his head down. Something his owner had always liked when he brought him there to punish him, but then, he grabbed his chin and lifted it. 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

Sann looked back in misery while Robert studied his face in silence. 

Robert noticed the tiny changes that had naturally happened when he wasn’t forced to fulfill a dead man’s shoes. At that moment, Robert saw him as Sann, and not that terrible copy of his husband. 

Sann, that murderer´s whore lover. 

Suddenly, he thumbed his cheek with a strange look in his eyes. The pet knew when he was demented, in a frenzy to turn him to a pulp, but even then, his body showed signs. He would have done something else when he flinched away.

“Welcome back” The man grabbed his chin between his thumb and his middle finger, munching up his lips in a bruising hold. “Don’t worry, Sann. You won’t be alone for long”

Sann´s heart stopped. 

What? 

Sann tried lifting his hands on instinct, but the handcuffs would only allow him to rattle the chain a little. 

Kidnapping him was one thing, he had even expected it at some point, but the timing was off. There was also no time to ask about what happened. Wait, could it be it was related in some way to why Albus had run away? But then...Sann´s mental gears turned at full speed, concentrating that he almost missed his owner going away. 

Impulsively, he tried to lift himself, try to beg for answers, before the man threw a cutting glare at him. 

“...what a few months do to you, seriously” He snorted, before pointing at the floor with his finger “Stay. Don´t make me restrain you for real” At the threat, Sann sat back down. When he kept glaring at him, he bowed his head. Then, he grinned. “Good boy” 

A few months away had changed him, indeed. And that´s why he lifted his eyes, trying to ask with just one look why take him back now when he could´ve done it before? when it didn´t hurt.

Somehow, the man stopped climbing the stairs. Turning around to look at him from the corner of his eye. 

Right there in the quiet of the abandoned house, Robert told him something.

“I do this for you too, you know?” he said, before walking outside.

As much as he wished to stay and give his former pet a proper welcome-back party, his favored guest had yet to arrive.

On his way to the car he was pleasantly surprised with the news the 3rd den for runaway and lost pets inside the PCS training facility had the pet numbered 778900 under their jurisdiction, now waiting for the owner, Mister Robert Glass to further instruct them on how to proceed.

Robert took the folder resting on the passenger seat before pulling his phone on his ear. 

“Rob?” he heard Claude say from the other side of the line. 

“Do you want to make him pay for what he did?”

—

When the recovery team found him, they saw a 5 feet, weak pet. They never expected to find themselves thrown on the ground or have the goddamn bastard move like a snake and choke them. 

They had a team of four and all of them sported bruises and scratches from the tiny pet being escorted inside the den. 

“Down” the guard ordered him pushing him to his knees while another worked the chains and locks. The den had long chains hanging from one wall to the other, hooks every few steps to chain the pets. The chains were so close to the ground they could only sit or kneel. It was designed in such a way, a pet that tugged on the chains would injure the others, thus, any insubordination would be quickly fixed by their peers.

 Albus looked around the room and was surprised by how crowded the place was. All of them, including himself, were muzzled and handcuffed. Their shock collars turned on, waiting for the light to turn red the moment they tried anything. 

“Now,” the man started, reaching for a machine in his belt and fishing the boy´s left hand, uncovering his wrist to find the code bar. Knowing he would be scanned, Albus jerked back. The man wasn´t phased and simply passed his leg over his arms and pulled him. Forcing Albus to either bury his face against his butt or let him work.

He clenched his teeth against the bit before going limp. The man hummed, pleased. 

“There you go, done,” he said, reading the information that appeared on the screen. “Albus, huh? Let´s call your owner and see if he wants you back, hm?”

Ah, if he had noticed them earlier, he could´ve gotten away. Maybe get to those safehouses Sasha mentioned. Maybe he should´ve waited for Sann, maybe he could´ve...

He was taken out of his thoughts when the guard smacked his head on his way out, laughing at him when Albus tried to kick his shin and got zapped in return.

Still feeling the tingly feeling in his throat, Albus tried to relax, to stop his shaking, and focus on what he could do once they took him back. 

What would he even say? They had made it clear they would punish him. It was only natural. Sarahi was a merciful owner, but this crime was beyond it. Maybe, they would choose to return him to PCS, and then he would be refurbished again. But would they even attempt to resell him? He had been so cheap, he was sure the losses would be greater if he was refurbished and trained again. 

If those rumors about the contract having an expiration date were true...then if being refurbished wasn´t an option anymore...

He shook the thoughts away. 

But if he went back to them, he was sure he would have to face Robert at some point. He had traced Sann´s scars with his fingers, he remembered well when he came on “playdates” covered in horrible wounds. 

That man was bad news and he had more than enough reasons to take revenge on him. He would do the same if their places were switched. 

Tears slipped down the muzzle. 

What a pitiful thing. Crying like that when he deserved punishment. But...But even if he didn´t remember what happened, he was sure he had never wanted to hurt anyone. 

But he had. And he hurt people that had become so, so important to him. 

He couldn´t hold his tears back any longer and began crying in silence. 

It was unexpected to feel something bump against his back. When he turned, he found another pet leaning against him, his hands were restrained as well, so he couldn´t do much but slightly rub his cheek against his back. 

He noticed then most of the others were in pairs or groups, leaning against each other, rubbing their shoulders or their cheeks, or even attempting to try and pat another pet´s legs. All of them were there waiting for their owner´s verdict on what to do with them now that they had shown they couldn´t be trusted to not run away. 

The other boy stayed there, leaning on his shoulder before Albus rested his head on his. The boy´s warm presence was enough to slow down Albus´ mind which had jumped into survival mode. 

Enough to notice the mistake in what the den´s watcher had said when scanning him. Albus frowned.

Him? 

Claude, maybe? No, he wasn´t on his papers besides as an emergency contact. His real and only owner was Sarahi. So why..? No, there was no way he had figured out his plan without his letter, right? He still hadn´t received the news! Or...Or maybe... 

For a few minutes, Albus hoped the person who came for him was one freckled guy. He tried to drown his hopes, but thinking maybe he could be saved from a painful future was a beautiful feeling. So, as the den began to empty, and even when the boy that had leaned on him was taken away by what he supposed was his owner, sneaking a wave at him as he was pulled away, the hope for salvation didn´t extinguish entirely. 

Not until he saw a familiar face on the other side of the glass. 

“Hey, mophead!” Albus' stomach churned at hearing that awful nickname again. He looked up, annoyed before his blood froze. “Your owner is here. Lucky you, he still wants you back”

Albus shot a glare at the den´s guard coming his way, the man on the other side of the glass smiling wide at him. 

No fucking way.

In a panic, Albus jerked, paddling away from the man taking off the chains to his handcuffs. A shock quickly froze all his limbs, but even when he was lifted by his armpits, Albus planted his feet and jerked back.

That man wasn´t his owner!

“Stop it!” the guard yelled at him, delivering yet another, longer, shock through his collar that made him howl. However, when the man tugged on his arm to force him to walk, Albus put his hands together and used the momentum to punch him straight in the head. 

The man´s scream alerted the other guards, who burst into the den looking for the pet who had run to the far corner. 

“You little-!” one of the recovery team guys said, trying to grab him. Effortlessly, Albus avoided him, “Grab him!” 

Albus was quick. Like a snake, he slid through openings when they jumped at him. But when he thought he had avoided all of them, he was violently pushed against the wall. The pressure on his trachea was so strong, he couldn´t even scream. 

“I´m truly sorry for the problems my pet has caused you,” Robert told the watchers as he pushed Albus´ face against the wall. “I will be sure to discipline him thoroughly once we get back home” 

Albus whimpered behind the muzzle when the man pulled him to walk, grabbing him tight by the neck. When the pet immediately tried to dig his heels into the ground, the man dug his fingers into his throat. 

“Ack!” Albus cried. 

“Let´s go, Albie. You are not running away from your punishment,” the man said dragging him to the reception. When the pet jerked back, a shock made his world turn white. 

It was just one moment, but it was enough for Robert to drag him out. Once they reached the front desk, Robert slacked his grip making the boy collapse on his knees still trembling from the aftershock. 

“I will only need you to fill these papers and you will be free to take him, sir,” the lady at the other side of the table told him handing him a few blue papers. The man gave her a smile and a short thanks. 

On the floor, Albus watched in horror. How did they not know their mistake? This man wasn´t his owner! This man shouldn´t even be mentioned in his papers! 

"That´s yours?” one bruised guy approached Robert. The terrified pet shook his head when the man smiled. “You should keep it muzzled and collared”

“I will. I´m very sorry for the trouble” 

“We were told he was quite tame, so it was a surprise to see him move like that” the man eyed the pet being held by his collar by Robert. He weakly squeezed his arm, but Robert held his smile as if it was nothing. “You seem able to handle him. Care to tell me how he escaped? Is just for paperwork” 

Robert stared at the man for a second before telling him he had tried escaping as a punishment. 

Albus froze on his knees for a moment. That was not entirely false...but even then! He kept trying to get free from the man´s grasp.

The man hummed, scratching his chin before shooting a glare at the lady behind the table. “You know? When we received the alert, it was a woman who talked with us. Was it your wife that called us?” 

Albus' dizzy head cleared up for a second at the man´s words. 

He knew something was wrong! It was Sarahi who call them! Sarahi was his owner! He had to tell them.

“Oh no, she is--” 

With great effort, Albus launched himself up to grab the pen in Robert´s other hand. Even when the man tried choking him again, his hand rushed to write on the floor. 

“Knock it off!” Robert yelled, tugging on his collar so hard he had to twist on himself. However, the damage was done. 

“He´s not my owner”?” the recovery team member read out, shocked to see a pet being able to write, but drowining the amusement to lock eyes with the girl on the desk. Albus felt Robert ease his grip on him and used that chance to scurry away to the recovery guy´s feet. Out of reflex, the guy grabbed him by the collar.  But even then, Albus felt victorious as he watched the lady whisper something on the radio and Robert stared at the guard in complete silence. 

“As I said over the phone with miss Lauren, my pet has yet to get used to his new home. He is refurbished. You know how refurbished pets always have trouble adapting” Robert exhaled loudly. The man looked unconvinced, but Robert didn´t push. Not until a security guard arrived. “I understand your mistrust. It´s not occasional some guy comes here to steal someone else´s pet, isn´t it? But this boy is mine. If you don´t believe me, why don´t you scan his wrist?”

Albus snorted, utterly amused that he thought that would work. 

The guard reached towards his reader and didn´t expect Albus to extend his wrist so readily. 

As the guard worked the scanner, Albus stared at Robert with a mocking grin hidden by the muzzle.

The reader´s alarm went off, and Albus craned his neck to read, knowing he would find Sarahi´s name and address. But no matter how much he squinted, the blurry words didn´t make any familiar names. Instead...

“778900 aka. “Albus”. Owned by: Robert Glass” the man read out loud. 

Huh?

The pet snatched the machine off the guard´s hands before he could even react. Seeing with his own two eyes that man´s name appeared on the screen. Even though the address was the same, even if his photo was correct...why?

An electrifying pain shot through his whole body. 

“Gimme that,” the guard snatched back the reader and showed it to the woman as Albus panted on the floor.

“If this isn´t enough, would this help?” Robert smiled easily. Then, slowly, he took out a folder from the inside of his coat. “Here is his contract, the receipt, the shipping date, the details of his training -- both of them. I had no need of a romantic for the work I wanted him for. Oh, that reminds me, his work permit,” the man smiled as he took the documents one by one. 

By then, Albus was already kneeling before them, stretching his neck to catch even a glimpse of those documents. He had seen them all before, a long time ago, so he should be able to tell if they were his papers, but he couldn´t see them if the guy kept tugging on his collar. But, there just was no way. They had to be fake!

As the woman looked over them, Robert tilted his head, holding his chin with one hand, “Hm, I feel like I´m missing something...”

“His pet I.D.” A man said from behind Albus, freezing all the blood on his body.

Slowly, Albus turned to find the mountain of a man towering over him with severe eyes looking down at him.

“Oh right, thank you, Claude” Robert said taking the card and showing it to the woman and the guards. “The woman who called is his wife. We were enjoying a great night when Albie did a little fuck up and chose to run for it. Isn´t that right, Claude?”

“...Yeah” 

Albus began to shake as Claude pulled him up by his arm and kept a firm grip on him. Albus' heart began to pound.

“The names match” The woman announced, making Albus snap at her. He shook his head slowly. How? Even his card? But...But how? He looked at Claude again, but the man´s eyes were nailed on Robert.  

“Do you need anything else or can I take my pet home to continue where we left off?” 

Albus shook his head vigorously as the guard and the woman exchanged looks. But his heart dropped when the guard put away the reader and knocked his head so the other man went away.

“Apologies, sir. As you said, it´s not unusual some opportunist wanders in trying to get a quick buck from the pets. I heard he was one hard catch, so please, be sure to keep an eye on him. Escapists tend to relapse” he told him, giving him back the folder. Robert laughed lightly. 

“No worries officer, I´ll make sure he learns his lesson very, very soon” 

Albus watched as he signed all the paperwork, mind blank until the corners of his mouth began to taste like iron with how hard he was clenching his teeth around the bit. 

Noticing something else was rolling down his eyes, he rushed to wipe them off as Robert finished the paperwork and signaled Claude to bring him over. The man wasn´t gentle when he pulled him out the door holding his head down as they walked their way to Robert´s car.

“In you go,” Robert said opening the trunk and shoving Albus inside despite the boy´s thrashing. But Claude´s size and force were enough to throw someone half his size inside a car´s trunk. 

“AGH!” The boy cried as his back crashed against something hard and metallic, knocking the air out of his lungs. He tried to climb out when Claude grabbed his legs and handcuffed his ankles together. 

“Stop moving” Claude growled and when the boy tried to climb out, the man grabbed his shirt and shoved him back inside hard enough to make the car shake. “STOP” Albus trembled violently, but didn´t try to climb out again. 

The trunk was shut closed on his nose and Albus could hear the engine start and the car starts moving. 

He desperately tried to even his breathing, go still and clear his mind already wondering what exactly was gonna happen to him. 

Were they gonna kill him? What kind of punishment could “correct” this? Robert was set on finding it, that was for sure. All the punishments Sann had the trust to tell him about, all the others he had to figure out himself, and the ones he was sure Robert was depraved enough to try, rushed through the pet´s head at a shocking speed. 

Terrified of his brutal imagination, the boy grabbed his head between his hands.

Why did it have to go this way?

His heart was pounding so hard, he feared he might die of a heart attack before he could be punished. It was so hard to breathe and there was something below him poking him, so in a sudden outburst of rage, he tugged on the blanket to see the offending object.

Well, seeing wasn´t one of his strenghts, and the trunk was illuminated by one tiny red light, but Albus didn´t need his eyes to trace his fingers around the metal end of the tool. The shape of it was so easily recognizable when he connected the shape of the handle with the one in the other end.

His mind froze for a second when he identified the shovel. 

His body tensed, as he allowed himself to shriek inside his head.

Where did dead pets end up? 

He had sometimes wondered about that in the cold floors of the facility. Maybe some people would cremate them. Maybe others would use their own land as grave. He had never felt the need to ask himself that question while living with his mistress. But he didn´t belong to her anymore, did he?

A second later, fearing he would actually vomit, the pet curled further into himself, covering his mouth with his hand as he sobbed.

[kim-poce]

Full House 31 - Schedule

I'm coming back slowly

Previous | Next

Masterlist

CW: pet whump (in the series not in this one), parent's death mention, Eri boy is in denial.

=-=

“So it’s take care of this myself or let these money hungry people do, hug?” Eri said to himself with a sigh while looking at the growing pile of documents in front of him. “It’s not like I even have another choice at this point really.”

He didn’t even know if he should be grateful that the bureaucracy allowed him to have enough time to take care of his… roommates for this long before his parent’s company was officially his.

Eri was never too interested in his parents businesses, for a while in his childhood it was just something he would need to run once he was an adult, and in his teen years it was the sick source of the money that allowed him to live comfortably, either way it didn’t matter, for as long he had a little critical thinking he had decided to leave that house and that family.

It was coward of him, he knew, he could have stayed and tried to make things right, tried to change his parent's mind and ways, but he didn’t want to fight them, he didn’t want to… end up truly hating his family so it was… safer, more comfortable to leave and pretend he didn’t see anything, to keep in mind just the good side of his parents.

As much as he wants to, he can’t run away again, not when he can see and talk with the victims of his parent’s deeds. Eri flinched at his own deep sigh, for a second worrying one of the pets had seen it, not that they ever entered —his parents’ office— the office anyway.

I have to focus. Eri thought with himself, his mind was starting to wander into his childhood memories —again— and it wasn’t useful right now. So… the to-do list is… long.

From meeting Beckett as payment for the consult, and buying Celine a small apology gift, to contracting a lawyer to know how his parent’s old partners will try to take the company from him, and another lawyer to know if the first lawyer is tricking him.

It would also be good to go out with his colleagues from the army soon too. It's nice to keep contact with them, he wasn’t a close friend of any of them, but they all had the same deceased close friends that still link them together.

No time for that now. Eri glanced at the rest of the list, fixing in one single word: Funeral.

His parents were buried already, he had ordered them to be even before he traveled to the house, he hadn’t seen their bodies, he hadn’t visited their tombs, he certainly hadn’t organized a funeral. Their old business partners said something about a funeral ceremony, to show a good family relationship to the employees or something, but time was passing and no ceremony was made. He would need to… at some point, right? He just… hadn’t time for that, that’s it, just no time, he has no time to face this fact straight on, no time to see his parents names written on a tombstone, no time to let the fact that he truly won’t see them ever again sink in. He is too busy, just busy.

Eri, once again, put an “>” on the task “Funeral”, it was a Future Eri problem, and Future Eri will certainly hate Current Eri for that.

He sighed deeply once again and opened a new worksheet, for the next hours he made schedules, first for the next week, then to the next month, adding every single important thing, putting counted time to eat, sleep, work, spend time with the pets, filling in every free time, he can’t plan a funeral because of the lack of time, so he can’t have any free time.

By the time he was done it was morning already, he should really stop giving up his sleeping hour, he would stop doing that from now on; he had a schedule he needed to follow, and if he follows it right everything will get better.

=-=

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @octopus-reactivated, @sufferfictionalcharacters, @rat-father, @badluck990, @onlybadendings, @inpainandsuffering, @mazeish, @neuro-whump, @freefallingup13, @sideblogformindtrash, @extemporary-username, @jadeocean46910, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @neverthelass, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpfessional, @sinning-shipping-trash, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @scp-1296, @dont-touch-my-soup, @endlesscyclezz, @nicolepascaline, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @dyingisbadforyourhealth, @theadorelocksly, @aswallowimprisoned, @bluewhumpcrew

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 5

Previous — Masterlist — Next

CW: Institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, scars, surgical/medical whump implied, let’s just go with “side effects” for now, explicit language.

The kid was all knees and elbows. He was tripping even walking across bare, flat sub-flooring, and would have fallen if Leo hadn’t been holding him. Each time the kid stumbled he tried to pull away from Leo, only to falter more so Leo had to reach to catch him. Their path across the house was curving and for every one step in the right direction, there were two in the opposite.

Leo finally got him to just sit down on the staircase and wrapped him up in a few of the drop cloth blankets. The little thing looked like he’d fall to pieces shivering so hard. Leo offered him the bread again to nibble on, mostly just so he could get some hot coffee in him next.

Once he’d eaten enough to start on the coffee, told him, “I have to get back to work. My partner called earlier and his kid has a snow day so he won’t be coming.”

Wide eyes blinked up at him.

“You finish that coffee while I work, okay?”

The kid nodded, one jerky dip of his head.

Leo hesitated for a moment. The kid was still shaking. He wondered if he had misjudged how long they’d been lying in that snowbank. The house wasn’t particularly warm since it was empty, not to mention the kid wasn’t wearing warm clothes. He clung to the blankets, keeping them tucked tightly around himself and curling smaller to hide under them. He kept the lip of the open thermos against his chin so that all the steam hit him in the face. His eyes never left Leo’s hands, from the moment he’d stood in front of him.

Leo thought it was like the kid had never felt warmth in his life. He dug through his bag and pulled out a beanie. “Here,” he said, moving to pull it over the kid’s head.

As soon as he got within touching distance, the kid realized what he was doing and scrambled backward. Half climbing the stairs in a crab crawl, half flattening to lie against them. The insulated water bottle clanged down the steps, splashing coffee onto Leo’s white coveralls.

The kid didn’t know where to look, still eyeing the hat—and more importantly, Leo’s hands—but also staring at the coffee everywhere.

Leo pulled back and held his hands up. “Easy, easy. You’re okay, I just thought you might be warmer with a hat on,” he explained.

The kid looked like he was on the verge of crying again.

Leo could have kicked himself. Of course, the kid wouldn’t want him anywhere near all of those scars. In fact, when he had gotten close, he was pretty sure one of the incisions still had stitches in it. He didn’t want to imagine the pain, although side effects from drugs could explain the kid’s wobbliness and general confusion.

“Don’t worry about the coffee. It’s no big deal,” he said, trying to catch the kid’s gaze.

His eyes were fixed on Leo’s left sneaker which was now stained with coffee but it was like he wasn’t really seeing what was right in front of him. It reminded Leo of how he reacted when he’d grabbed his wrist in the back of the van.

“Hey, look at me.”

It took a minute but, eventually, shaking as much as ever, the kid raised his eyes.

“They’re painting clothes, they’re meant to get messy. Hell, they’re already messy.”

It was true. There was a collage of different splatters, flecks, full-on spills, and sprays in various neutral shades with the occasional color from top to bottom of the coveralls. His slip-on Vans looked like the by-product of a YouTube tutorial but with the wrong palette to be trendy.

The kid looked him over again, chewing his lip. Leo waited until those wide eyes returned to his. Rather, directly below, he realized. The kid was staring at his cheekbones—only feigning eye contact.

“Does your head still hurt anywhere?”

Now he did raise his eyes to Leo’s. The kid shook his head emphatically, shrinking backward, and tugging at the blankets but they’d been pinned in the scrambling and weren’t budging to provide the cover the kid was seeking.

“Will you put on the hat yourself? I really think you will feel warmer.” Leo stayed back and held the hat out.

The kid slowly reached to take it with two hands and fumbled a few times trying to pull it on. Leo didn’t miss the wince as the knit acrylic finally pulled down over the freshest of the incisions. It probably needed to still be bandaged but it seemed unlikely he would let Leo get that close. What was he going to do with this kid? There was no way he could just send him away again.

“Do you know where you came from?” Leo asked.

The kid furrowed his eyebrows, eyes flicking around Leo’s face. “You…mmm…” His chin wobbled a little and he started gesturing with his hands.

It looked like he was solving a Rubik’s cube but Leo didn’t say that out loud.

“Boy…mmm…here…” The kid let out a shaky breath, punctuated by an almost-inaudible whimper.

“Okay, okay. Not that one.” Leo wanted to stop him from getting upset. “How about we try for a name again? What should I call you?”

“No…mmm…only…mmm…boy…” He swiped the tears running down his face and fruitlessly tugged at the blankets he was still sitting on.

Leo reached out to help, slowly, pointing to the blankets, and the kid still flinched violently against the wall. He continued to quake as Leo wrapped the blankets around his shoulders again. His fingers came out from the inside to grip the edges and he tucked his knees up against his chest. All Leo could see were the shoes, the tips of the kid’s fingers, and his face from his chin to where the hat hit his eyebrows. It made something knot in his chest when the kid immediately returned to closely watching his hands.

Leo stepped back and tried to cover his shaky exhale with a cough. What had this kid been through? Who could have been party to any of this? Why wasn’t someone taking care of him? Leo had no idea what he should do but this had immediately become so much more complicated than giving someone his coffee on a snowy day.

He softened his voice a little more. “I can’t just call you ‘boy’, that’s worse than ‘kid’.”

The kid didn’t look up but his forehead creased. “Before…mmm—” and then he started spouting numbers again. His eyes grew wider as he went on and he looked into Leo’s face. He started pressing himself back against the steps like he was leaning back to lounge, but there was nothing relaxed about the way his face was tightening.

Leo was sure his expression was blank, if not confused, but whatever the kid saw there must have set him off because he stopped speaking and tucked his chin into the blankets, not just shrinking back but cowering.

He shook his head at Leo. A sob hitched out of his chest, a bitter sound that was painful to hear. He fixed his eyes on Leo’s hands again but had pulled the blankets even over his nose. Leo was sure he would have been completely buried inside them if it weren’t for the threat standing right in front of him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said quietly, knowing his words were useless.

The boy started softly again, face screwed up, “Eight, ten—” he stopped and shook his head.

Leo swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure if the kid had misunderstood his question but that had been the second time he’d asked for a name. If it hadn’t surfaced by now, there must be a good—

“Oh!” Leo forgot to control his voice and the kid jumped at his exclamation. He was pressing himself against the wall now, too. Leo made sure to take it down a notch. He considered holding his hands behind his back if they were causing the boy so much anxiety but thought that might be worse. He kept them where they were, held out a little from his sides, fingers extended just slightly. “Did you say Aiden? Is your name Aiden?”

The kid tilted his head and raised his eyes to search Leo's face. He nodded slowly, biting his lip, forehead creased. His eyes never stopped moving as they traced Leo’s expression.

“Aiden,” Leo repeated, smiling.

The kid nodded even more.

Leo remembered his mom always saying eyes are the windows of the soul. Aiden’s were like trying to see into a window whose curtains were drawn. Leo could only see his own reflection in the glass. It was impossible to tell if there was someone looking back at him from the other side but at least now it looked like there might be a light on.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Taglist: @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Like Love: Dex

CW: Incredibly mentally messed up but still perfectly consensual and sweet spice! PG-13/Mild R spice levels, non-graphic. Referenced past abuse. Pet whump and some dehumanization (not during the spice).

Tagging the #FreeDex2020 Crew: @whumpiary, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @whump-it, @neuro-whump, @spiffythespook, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @brightside-blue, @pepperonyscience, 

See end of piece for a special note.

The only person who allows Dex his voice is a man he hates so deeply, and fully, that somewhere in the past twenty years it has begun to feel like love. 

Each visit, every moment alone was another break in the iron wall Dex had built between himself and the hell on earth he was living. 

Each time the man’s fingers skimmed his skin with expert care not to hurt him - and every time they even more expertly did hurt him, in exactly all the wrong and right ways - every direct command or murmured suggestion… 

Every soft you’re fine, Dex and gentle darling or good boy has built, in him, a solid foundation of feeling that started as loathing and, at some point, became something else. The man broke down the wall but had rebuilt something else in its place. 

He goes to the man by her design - with her allowance - at her command. 

Dex cannot lie to her; his ability to deceive her disappeared long ago, under the downward swing of her discipline and the endless days of blaring, featureless white that live in his memories from training. 

Dex drifts through his life in a dream he cannot wake from, but he jolted to awareness when she told him the man was in a hotel room nearby. So close, after five years apart.

“He asked about you. Do you want to see him, Dex?” Madam had asked, looking up at him from her seat at her desk in the home office, looking over some papers with her half-lens reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. 

Madam has gray starting to grow into the roots of her hair that she dyes away. Dex has gray, too - a scattering of pale hairs beginning to speckle through the dark. His is left as it is, to filter in a little more each year.

He was nineteen when she took him for her own. He was twenty-two the first time the man was alone with him and crooked his fingers, murmured, Come here, Dex, and he went. 

By twenty-four, he was lost.

When she asked, Dex had stood there staring at her, too aware of his idle fingers, the way his shirt felt shifting over his skin. He told himself absolutely not - the man deserved prison, or worse, had done terrible things. Dex had stood by and watched him do terrible things.

On occasion, Dex was the person he had done those terrible things to.

Still there was a part of him, the small tiny warm bit that he had wrapped deep inside of himself, held for his very own and away from her cold, all-seeing eyes, that had whispered he asked about me.

He had merely signed to her, in response to her question, that he would allow her to decide as always. He did not dare let the bit of him that did not belong to her show.

She wouldn’t like it, to know that there was a part of him that might belong to anyone else - the part that still felt anger, and loathing, and defiance, and the hate like love. He hid these things under a placid surface that no stone could disturb. The perfect pet, the picture of serenity. He could be fully trusted. He was so perfect for her that he was avoided even by Madam’s other Boys, because he would tell her anything she asked… anything, of course, but this one small thing.

I want to see him.

She had simply looked at him for a moment, in the silence, with a smile he could not read but did not like. He did not like any of her smiles, not even the ones that meant relief for him, or that the worst was over. It was only a matter of time before the worst came around again, after all. 

“Obedient as always, Dex. You have always been a particular favorite of his. I’ll make the arrangements.” She had paused, tapping her pen on the papers in front of her. 

Dex had tilted his head to see, unobtrusively. It was some kind of sketched-out jewelry design, perhaps - little metal circles with stones set into them, what looked like silvered thread or wire stringing them together.

She had tapped louder until his eyes jerked back to hers.

“That is not your business,” Karen Renford said coldly to the man she had kept kneeling at her feet for twenty years. There were days she spoke to him more like a friend than what he was - but in this moment she was as cold as ever. “He is your business now. I don’t care how you feel about him. You’ll go.”

He nodded, slowly, and it was only when he was back in his bedroom that he had allowed himself a smile - because she would have cared so much if she had known what Dex’s feeling actually was.

He was not going for her. Not this time.

“Good evening!” The clerk working behind the desk greets him as he enters the hotel, automatic doors sliding open on either side of him. If he were anything else, Dex thinks with no small hint of bitterness, they might have added sir.

He looks the part of a sir, after all - tailored black pants and a custom-made deep green sweater that the man had bought for Dex himself during a visit maybe ten years ago. 

Dex had kept it immaculately cared-for, and it had been wrapped and packed away while the man was in prison.

Five years. It has been five years since he has seen him except for over Karen Renford’s shoulder, with thick panes of bulletproof glass between them, in the prison the man was meant to stay in for life. The hate twists in him, only it’s not really hate any longer. 

Or if it is, then maybe Dex has lost track of which feeling is which.

He looks the part of a sir… but the small, brightly colored blue booklet he holds in one hand - and the band of green leather around his neck, dyed to perfectly match the color of the sweater - ensures he can’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. Not that Dex would even know where to begin feigning freedom he doesn’t have.

He walks up to the desk with a small, placid smile on his face, sets the duffel bag he carries in one hand down and the blue booklet on the counter of the desk, open to the page with a photo of his face. When he turns forty, he’ll need a new one - and Box Boys his age are so rare that he watches the clerk’s face move from a blank lack of recognition to bafflement to a slowly dawning understanding.

“Oh… oh… oh! You’re one of, of, those-… um… oh, okay. So you have your passport, um, do you… what name is the room under?”

Dex holds up one finger, and presses it against his own lips, then mouths, mute.

The clerk only stares at him.

Dex sighs and holds out his hand for the pen and pad of paper he can see on the other side of the desk, pointing at it politely. The clerk stares down at his own hands, blinking, then back up at Dex.

“I swear to God,” a second, female voice says from the office door hidden just to the side behind the desk. A woman with bright red hair leans slowly out, only her head visible. “He’s telling you he needs to write it, Brent. Oh my god. If you get us another customer complaint, I will murder you. And it will be slow and it will be messy, you cretin.”

“I’m pretty sure you get fired for murdering your coworkers,” The clerk - Brent, apparently - snaps, his face flaring red with embarrassment. “I’m, I’m sorry, sir- uh, I mean I’m sorry, pet… I haven’t dealt with-… just a second-… don’t tell your owner, okay?”

Dex’s smile doesn’t change - but it stiffens somewhat. He nods.

If it weren’t for the blue book and the collar around his neck, they would call him sir. Before he was ever old enough to be a sir, that possibility had been taken from him, and he knows no other way of living.

The clerk hands him the pen and paper, and Dex neatly writes the room number he was given over the phone, in the pointy, angular handwriting that he sometimes wonders about… did he write like this before they took his identity away? 

Was he a child, once, with pointy handwriting, struggling with the swirling, rounded shapes of cursive? It’s hard to think he ever was a child. That he hasn’t always been this.

He hands the pad back over the desk, to the clerk who looks at it, then up at him, and then turns to the computer. He doesn’t thank Dex, the common overly-sincere, totally false customer-service friendliness that Madam often bemoans as so uniquely pervasive in America. No, Dex is a pet and so the moment the name is given, he is dismissed until they have to speak to him again.

His hands do not tighten into fists. They stay neatly, calmly at his side. He has lived like this, after all, for his entire adult life, the only life he knows.

He is not quite human… except with the man he hates. Unless the last five years have changed them both too much. But Dex is fairly certain he has never been allowed to change at all, except for those ways the man himself is responsible for.

“Oh! Looks like your owner’s already checked you in. Cool, cool. Okay. All right. Okay, Earnshaw, you head right up, Mr. Heathcliff is waiting for you.” Dex blinks - once, twice - at the names. 

It’s only after a full second has passed that he realizes two things simultaneously… the clerk has no idea that those names are references to one of the most recognizable love stories ever written… and that if he used such blatant names, the man must have thought the clerk was the stupidest creature he’d ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

A smile twitches, just slightly, on Dex’s serene, nearly-expressionless face.

That, at least, he and the man he hates agree on.

He takes the keycard he is given and his passport back, ignoring the stamp that marks him as PET and prints his Box Boy number and barcode along the bottom edge… as if they weren’t already tattooed into his left wrist, like all the others. He’ll be forty soon and it won’t matter at all, he’ll still be marked PET on his passport until the day he dies.

His stomach starts to twist in knots as he walks across the lobby to the bank of elevators. The man is on the top floor, because of course he is - nothing less for him, even on the run, even having just escaped from a prison that had given him multiple life sentences.

He deserved those life sentences.

He deserves worse.

But still Dex’s stomach is in nervous, excited knots as he presses the number 14, notes absently the missing thirteenth floor between 12 and 14. Superstitious hotel owner, maybe. His heart is beating hard inside his chest, and he tells himself it’s fear… but it isn’t.

In five years, he has not seen the man he hates, and five years is long enough to admit to himself that he misses him. The man he hates - hated - gives him his voice back, will wait to hear it, bring it out patiently, and afterwards whisper into his ear I want to hear you again, darling.

Each time the elevator moves past a floor, the light changing number by number, Dex’s eyes jerk to it, as though he can make it happen faster simply by staring. Faster or slower, he doesn’t know which he wants it to be, because he can’t stay long.

Madam will want him back.

She’ll want him to report to her if there’s anything he sees that Madam doesn’t know about. Karen and the man have been friends since just before Dex came to live with her (before she broke you, he thinks, and then he locks that thought down as tightly as he can) and still Karen has plans, and thoughts, and a purpose she doesn’t always share.

She wants Dex to share that purpose with her.

He is here for his own purpose - and the man’s - not hers.

Fourteenth floor.

The elevator beeps once and he balances through the final drop as the elevator stabilizes.

He takes a deep breath as the doors open, trying to steady himself as he steps forward and out into the hall. Hotel carpet - swirling abstract geometrics in vibrant nonsense patterns of reds and yellows and blues, textured walls in a simple cream color. Mirrors hang across from the elevators, and Dex looks right at himself when he comes to a brief stop to check the sign to know which way to turn.

He checks one more time to ensure that his hair is combed just to the side, that his sweater hangs just right on him still - the way it did when the man first gave it to him - that he… looks good.

If they were any other people, he might be a man going to meet a lover.

But they are who they are, and he is a human pet sent to give his body as a welcome home present to a convicted murderer. They are a broken man who isn’t even legally considered a full citizen… and a man who tortured people for decades until he was finally caught.

And still he wants to look good for him, to live up to what he expects.

I was broken before you, Dex thinks. But I am broken for you, now.

He turns left into the hallway following the numbers on the doorways, feeling with each step a little dizzier, breathing more shallowly. The sound of his own pulse is deafening inside his mind, in his ears, at his wrists and neck. 

Dex floats down the hallway as the human wreckage he became a long time ago, intent on his purpose - not Madam’s purpose, his. He’s a man made of drifting boards from a shipwreck, floating boxes and crates. He is the twisted coil of rope that washes up along the coast of Madagascar months after a volcano erupts in Polynesia.

But the man is the coastline that wants the wreckage, just as it is.

He stops in front of the door - room 1432, and Dex wonders absently if there was ever a Box Boy given that number, before they had to keep adding digits.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and knocks - two long knocks, three short raps. Just as Madam said to.

When he hears steps, he takes in a breath and forgets to exhale. 

The doorknob turns and Dex stands there like any other man - except for the leather around his neck, except for the very foundations of him that were shattered and remade.

Except that he is not any other man, and neither is Wright Farling.

For the time Dex’s breath is held - the door swung open - he and Wright simply stare at each other.

Wright had always looked young for his age, but time, it seems, has caught up with him. The shift from forty - the last time Dex had seen him without the orange prison jumpsuit - and forty-five has taken its toll, etching new lines into a handsome face.

They’re smile lines, mostly - the same ones that had been forming before he was locked up. Wright was always smiling, always joking except for when he wasn’t, always ready to listen to another’s joke… even ready to laugh at Dex’s humor, when he signed his own wry commentary to the movies they watched or the music they might listen to.

There are other lines now - on his brow, around his mouth - that indicate not humor but an increase in ferocity.

“Dex, darling,” Wright says, and there’s an edge to his voice, something that brings a twist of some terrible, wonderful anticipation in Dex’s core. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

His whitish-blond hair is whiter, the change in his easy former lifestyle to prison life and his exposure to the other inmates has left a harder set to his features… but the confidence is still there, the hint of winsome pleasantness that suffused his expression.

Dex drops the duffel bag at his own feet without thinking and holds up his hands to sign, I have been waiting, too.

The smile he receives in return is brighter than any he’s ever given him before. There was something genuine, there. Wright leans down to pick up Dex’s bag and tosses it behind him carelessly, and Wright Farling is never careless.

He looks like a man who has gone five years without something precious, and has suddenly remembered how important it really is, how much he had appreciated having it.

Dex knows his own face must look exactly the same.

I hate you so much, he had mouthed once in Wright’s arms. He has said it a thousand times, a thousand different ways, and now he can’t find it in him to say it at all.

Wright tilts his head, his eyes dropping from Dex’s to his mouth, taking in the first hints of lines at the corners. Dex smiles so rarely that laugh lines struggle to etch themselves into him. 

He smiles now, for Wright. What do you want me to do? He signs, and Wright grins.

An old song and dance, and they both know all the steps.

“Come,” Wright says in a low, soft voice, and crooks two fingers to beckon him forwards.

Dex moves to him and the door has barely closed behind them before Wright grabs him and slams his back into the wall, Dex huffing silent laughter and Wright not even bothering to keep his own laughter quiet as he kisses him with all the desperate intensity that five years of loneliness has built. 

Dex’s arms are around his waist, and his hands are up on either side of Dex’s face and the kiss is nearly painful but neither pulls back or away.

Wright is a drowning man and Dex is air - or the other way around, he is drowning and Wright is the air, or he is drowning in Wright… he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.

The press of lips, tongues sliding against each other, the pressure of Wright’s hips pushing hard against his - and Dex shifting so he can press back, making a low soft sound in his throat at the dim pleasure already beginning to coil into real heat, the way he comes to life immediately at his touch - it’s everything he’s been missing.

He missed the convicted murderer in his arms, a man who has cracked him apart a thousand different ways, but the man who wants to see the cracks.

“Dex, you wore the sweater,” Wright murmurs when they break apart, rocking his hips forwards until Dex’s own knees buckle just slightly. Wright’s fingertips slide down Dex’s face and to the sides of his neck, almost as though he would choke him. He lingers over the green leather there, the sign of Karen’s total control of him. “Did you do that for me?”

Dex nods, leaning forward just slightly to brush his nose against Wright’s. For you, he mouths, and after twenty years Wright reads his lips as well as he reads every other part of his body and mind.

“Did you miss me so much…?” Wright asks, and for a second there is something like a real vulnerability on his face. By the time Dex blinks, it’s gone, and back instead is the winsome smile. “Of course you did. Let me get this off you, darling.”

His fingers slide along to the back of the leather collar, and Dex tilts his chin up to make it easier for him, arches his back. One of Wright’s hands stays on the buckle and the other slides up into Dex’s short dark hair, twists around the strands. 

“Haven’t felt your hair in five years, either,” Wright says, more to himself than Dex.

Dex lets Wright pull his head back and back by the grip in his hair, breathing harder, jolts of pleasure straight down his body from the fingers that run along his scalp.

“Good boy,” Wright says in his ear, and Dex nearly moans. “Still such a good boy for me.”

Wright’s fingers deftly undo the buckle, making quick work of Karen’s symbol of ownership, and he drops it to the carpet with a soft thump, as if it’s nothing. As if Karen doesn’t control him at all.

Wright taking off his collar isn’t meant to mark him as free - it’s a reminder that he belongs to Wright in deeper ways, ways that cannot be marked with a strip of leather and a metal buckle.

His marrow belongs to Wright Farling - his bones, his nerves, his heartbeat, his mind.

Karen Renford only owns his skin. He gave everything else to Wright so long ago, and she has never noticed.

“That’s better.” Wright’s smile is nearly a smirk, and his hands slide down over Dex’s chest, down his sides to hook into the belt loops of his pants and pull their hips back together. “Much better. Will you speak for me, Dex?”

Once, there had been humiliation in Wright forcing him to speak, pushing him to an edge where his desperation, despair, or anger pushed him past the conditioning and pulled it out against his will.

That has changed, too.

Now, Dex only smiles at him - I am helpless for you, I will do anything you say, anything, forever - and nods. Wright tells him to speak and, despite twenty years of what they have made of him, he tries.

In a life surrounded by evil, Dex will choose the evil that wants to hear his voice.

“Wr-… Wright,” Dex says, hoarse and guttural. He has not spoken in more than five years, since the last time he saw Wright before he was caught at his evil, before they locked him away for it. It’s not a beautiful voice - it’s an ugly sound, and Dex knows it, but Wright never seems bothered at all. He still isn’t.

“There it is,” Wright breathes out, and Dex doesn’t know if he’s happy to hear the name or happy to know that none of his control is gone. Maybe both. “Come, darling. It’s been so long… I’m not letting you off the bed until you can’t leave it.“

What happens when Wright takes him by the arm is less like allowing Wright to lead him and far more like falling into his inevitable gravity, once more, down and down into the darkest parts of himself.

“God, I missed having you, Dex,” Wright says, and he pushes Dex hard in his chest until he falls onto his back on the soft, warm white comforter, hands already at the hem of the pretty green sweater to pull it up and over Dex’s head, mussing up the hair he’d combed so carefully. Dex wriggles to try and help him, Wright sitting on him straddling his hips and holding him down.

Not that he’d run. Not now, not ever again, not from Wright.

“Missed you, Wright,” Dex croaks out, forces from beyond the conditioning that has kept him mute with everyone else. “Missed me?”

Wright pauses, looking down at him with his head tilted, lips parted. There is some analysis behind the smile on his face, the way that his eyes always bare the deepest parts of Dex, pull them out to the light. “Do you need me to miss you, Dex? Do you need me, now?”

“Yes.”

Wright doesn’t answer the question Dex had asked him. Instead, he only watches him for a moment longer and then says, softly, “Beg for me.”

“Please.” In his hoarse, grinding voice, rough from disuse, he begs without hesitating. There is time to hesitate, to think too much, for Wright to tear him apart, later. For now, he runs his hands up over Wright’s thighs to his hips through the fabric of his soft pants, lets them settle there, feeling the heat coming from his skin, and bucks his own hips up to show Wright how ready he is. “Please. I need you, Wright.”

“Good, Dex. That’s very good,” Wright says, and his smile widens. He drops down to hold his weight on his hands, leaning down to kiss him again. “I love hearing you say my name. I’m gonna make you scream it.”

It is when Wright calls his name later, while buried deeply in Dex - when they are both so tangled in each other that Dex barely recognizes he is anything more than an extension of Wright at all - that Dex realizes that it isn’t that twenty years has made the hate feel like love.

It is that, after twenty years of this man’s voice whispering through his blood, his bones, his mind… what he feels for Wright is love.

ENDNOTE: Wright Farling belongs to @spiffythespook. He is used with permission, and Spiffy collaborated with me on Wright’s actions and dialogue!

[whumpurr]

Adrien and Sawdust pt 10

cw: pet whump, unreliable narrator, pet whump in public

masterlist

It wasn’t a stretch in the slightest to say that over the past couple of days, Adrien had honed his reaction time. He knew now that he couldn’t let seconds slip by when the pet in his care was potentially in danger or trouble; whether that be self caused or otherwise.

Swinging around the corner of the aisle’s end, Adrien searched with frantic eyes for Sawdust, finding him in a matter of milliseconds.

His eyes locked on his pet, knelt down on the floor next to a white and brown spotty dog with long fur. Next Adrien saw the confused looking woman who he assumed to be the dog’s owner.

It was a pet friendly shop, open to both pets like Sawdust, and like the woman’s dog. It wasn’t as though pets of Sawdust’s caliber were unknown, maybe uncommon, but certainly known. The issue then was about the stereotypes often associated with the owners. That they were cruel and unforgiving, taking in pets simply to torture them. The woman looked up at Adrien.

“‘He yours?” She asked with a little gesture down to Sawdust, who was nuzzling and playing with the dog on the floor.

“Uh, yeah,” Adrien nodded, trying to look as friendly as he could, “I got him recently.”

She smiled. Adrien was never the best at reading people, but she didn’t seem too perplexed or off put.

“He’s a sweetie, looks like he’s getting along well with Reggie.” She said, probably referring to her own pet.

“He was raised with dogs,” Sawdust’s list of rules had mentioned other dogs, Adrien recalled, “I don’t have any, he’s probably missing seeing them as much.” Adrien hated small talk, but he’d hate even more if people just went around thinking he was torturing Sawdust. He was sure that the freshly bandaged wound on Sawdust’s ear wasn’t helping his case all that much.

“My- my sister has a friend that owns two. Um, two like yours, I mean.” She says, “It must be hard living somewhere so urban with him, I hear they don’t like all the noise and business.”

Adrien has to stop himself from correcting her, that he doesn’t live anywhere near any noise. He stops himself at the last minute. The less people who know where he lives, the better.

“Right, yeah.” Adrien mutters. The woman tucks her hair behind her ear. Adrien is incredibly out of practice talking with people, but he didn’t want to pull Sawdust away from his new friend.

“I’m Cynthia, by the way.” She wedged in an introduction. Adrien did the same. Cynthia checked her watch, “I’ve gotta finish the rest of my errands, maybe me and Reggie’ll see you around.” She gave Adrien a wave as she tugged Reggie away by his leash, the pup whining as he was separated from his new friend.

“Sawdust,” Adrien stooped down to Sawdust the instant Cynthia is out of earshot. “Buddy, you can’t run off like that, okay?”

--

Sawdust’s blood ran cold. He’d disappointed Master, he’d made Master upset, and in public no less. He’d just let everyone around him know what a bad pet he was, and he could only hope that the people around them didn’t think that Master was a bad owner because of it.

“S-S-Sorry, Master,” He whimpered and looked down at the floor, seeing his own pathetic reflection in the reflection on the tiles. “Pl-Please pun-n-nish your pet a-accordingly.” He hated being punished in public, it was the worst. He felt like a complete failure. Maybe Master would just shove him to someone else to punish for fun, or maybe he’ll shove him away and give him to someone else.

Master put his hand on Sawdust’s head. Sawdust tensed up, ready for Master to grab and tug, maybe throw him into the shelves next to him.

“I’m not gonna punish you,” Master sighed, petting Sawdust on the head. “Just please don’t do it again, alright?”

Sawdust blinked a couple times, blinking the tears away before he nodded and smothered the whimper building in his throat.

“Come on, let’s see if we can get something else for you. I wanna show you something.” Master stood back up to his full, intimidating height, then went back to his cart and allowed Sawdust to crawl along and follow him. They turned around one of the shelves and Sawdust’s eyes went wide.

“Here, you can pick anything you want.” Master gestured at the aisle.

Toys. All kinds of toys lined the aisle, and Sawdust couldn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing. He could pick anything he wanted? Was he being rewarded? Was he good? He wanted to bound down the hallway and snatch something off the shelf, but no.

He had to repay Master for taking care of him. He wasn’t supposed to be taking and taking and taking like he had been.

He didn’t want to be bad.

Sawdust remained rooted in his spot, like a good dog.

taglist: @starnight-whump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi@neuro-whump @whump-me-all-night-long @cupcakes-and-pain @whumpzone @whumpcreations @dancinglifeboat @pinkraindropsfell @looptheloup @cowboy-anon @meetmeinhellcroutons @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @it-will-all-whump-out @theydy-cringeworthy @kim-poce @bluetheautisticrat @whump-in-progress

[maracujatangerine]

77. Safety

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

White planes sped up on the tarmac outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, faster and faster until they rose up into the cerulean sky.

Brutus ignored them. If one of the pilots would lose control his Master might die, but that was a threat that was beyond his control. Focus on the threat that you can affect.

Instead, he let his dark eyes sweep over the crowd inside the airport. Walking half a step behind his Master’s left shoulder, Brutus saw passers-by swerve to avoid crossing their path, idle glances snagging on his collar in curiosity or apprehension.

This was normal, the way that young, bespectacled father pulled his small daughter aside, the way the two elderly ladies in hijabs took a few steps back, the wave of attention rippling through the crowd as they passed. This was, in a way, what his Master had paid the WRU for.

What Brutus was looking for was something out of the ordinary, someone moving with unexpected purpose, someone running or throwing or standing still in just the wrong way. The state of hypervigilance felt almost like meditation, a singular focus that absorbed all thought.

This time, it was not needed. No threat appeared. After an uneventful taxi ride through bustling streets they arrived at a double suite on the fifteenth floor. After taking a quick shower, the pet’s Master told the guard dog to stay.

“I won’t be needing you tonight.” Wayland Jones said, as he walked out the door.

Brutus did his exercise routine, sit-ups and push-ups and stretches. He also had a shower, in the second, smaller bathroom.

With his still damp hair curling around his face, Brutus sat down at the ebony desk and disassembled and cleaned his handgun with smooth, well-practiced precision.

A guard dog should be like a gun, his handler’s voice echoed in his mind, collected, calm, unmoving as long as the safety is on, but capable of tremendous violence if your owner releases the catch.

Reassembling the weapon, Brutus laid it to the side. He did feel twinges of concern at his Master being out and about alone, but Wayland Jones had ordered him to stay. Master knows best. Brutus tried to reassure himself.

The guard dog straightened out the room and drank some water in the bathroom to make his rumbling stomach quiet down. Then, finally, he turned off the lights and sat down in front of the large windows.

The night in the foreign city was filled with neon coloured signs for shops, restaurants and nightclubs. Dark shapes of trees swayed in the breeze. Windows in the buildings around left binary messages of alternating warm yellow or deep dark rectangles. Cars, motorbikes and buses crawled back and forth with their red and white lamps painting streaks of light.

Work was over. There was nothing more to be done. Brutus sat in the quiet, cool and dark hotel room and enjoyed the view.

*

This post is a part of the 2023 BBU Community Days organised by @bbu-on-the-side. This is my entry for day 13: Safety.

*

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

[maracujatangerine]

74. Discipline

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

“I don’t enjoy hurting you, you know.”

He said, calmly unbuckling the dark blue leather collar.

“Yes, Master.” The pet replied. “Discipline is a necessary and humane event ensuring the continued obedience and wellbeing of a pet.” Despite the dire situation, Coriander felt a small spark of pride at its ability to keep its voice steady. An obedient pet, at least, if not a particularly clever one.

“You have to learn.” Harold said, as he laid the other collar around the pet’s neck. “You mustn’t lose our medications like that, it could be dangerous.”

After the weeks and months with only the soft, blue leather around its neck, the pet had almost forgot the feeling of the unforgiving synthetic material. As Harold snapped the heavy-duty plastic buckle closed, the pet felt its throat constrict together with it.

With the scratchy fabric came the fear, making the pet’s heartbeat race. It had to force itself to take long, slow breaths, to keep its hands open on its knees instead of curled into fists at its side.

“I’m going to chock you three times.” Harold warned. “I think that is a fair punishment, don’t you?”

“Yes Master.” Coriander replied, trying to keep the panic out of its voice.

Three times. One time, maybe two times, it could stand, but three… Would it be able to keep its composure? To take its punishment with dignity like a well-behaved pet rather than crying and pleading? How long would Master shock it? Would it fall unconscious? Perhaps even soil itself?

This is what bad pets deserve, Coriander told itself sternly. Your lack of attention could have hurt your masters.

Without a word of warning, Harold pressed the button. Every muscle in the pet’s body seized. Intense, fiery pain raged along every nerve. It couldn’t breathe. Time felt frozen as it toppled over, hitting the side of its head against the wooden floor.

After it finally stopped, the pet had hardly time to take a breath before the second shock came.

It wanted to beg for mercy, but before it could open its mouth, Harold shocked it again. As if the pet’s Master also wanted to have it over with.

“Stop, Harold, stop!” Mistress Edna hurried into the room. “I found your pills. They were in the drawer with your tobacco, and you know that Coriander never goes in there. You must have misplaced them yourself!”

Gasping for breath on the floor, the blonde pet saw its Master’s eyes widen in dismay.

“I - I forgot? How is it even possible? But…. but I must have.” He looked down at his pet, contrition in his eyes. “Coriander, I’m so sorry. Let me get that off you.”

Even that night, as the pet was kneeling next to its Mistress’ rocking chair, helping her winding up some yarn for her knitting, it could feel the aftershocks running through its body, making its hands tremble.

Like a memory of pain.

*

This post is a part of the 2023 BBU Community Days organised by @bbu-on-the-side. This is my entry for day 3: Discipline.

*

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