whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Linden & Colton - 29

(masterlist)

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, vague allusions to past noncon, self hatred

-

Colton woke. His palm was sweaty and hot. A headache was slowly draining from his skull. There was no morning light, and no… bedroom. Instead, there was the dark living room. He felt as if he had slept for years. 

Shifting slightly, he realised two things: he was sweaty all over, his palm particularly so because his Master was holding it loosely. 

Col’s eyes followed Master’s arm up from his hand, and he saw that he was unmoving, breathing evenly with his eyes closed. 

Safe for now, he lay back down. He was absolutely exhausted, although he had no right to be. All he’d done was cry and slept- slept- on the furniture. 

He gasped, then pressed the knuckles of his free hand to his mouth to shut himself up. He felt so dizzy and disoriented. What time was it? Why was it dark? What on earth had he been thinking, getting up on Master’s sofa like some stray?

He suddenly realised he was squeezing Master’s hand, and Master, in his dream-state, was squeezing back. It shouldn’t have, but it made Col calm down. 

He had made an absolute spectacle of himself. Crying, howling, begging Master not to leave him. 

And Master had kept his promise. He was still here. Col felt a surge of gratitude, different to how it usually felt. The familiar gratitude that ran through him when he was allowed food, or sleep, was utterly eclipsed by this. Master had no need to stay. Col knew that his old Master would have kicked him in the stomach until he shut up, or just gagged him and locked the basement door.

Here, Col had been held, comforted, and now Master was still with him, like he was protecting him from something. 

His old Master’s friends. He winced as he remembered exactly what had set him off in the first place. No, no. I don’t want to remember. 

It was just what bad dogs got, but Master had seemed so genuinely disgusted- with Col? Disgusted that his pet was even more used up than he’d thought?

His mind whirred until he felt his brain would overheat. Master was horrified about what happened, part of him said, the part that was softer and further away, that was so naive it made Col cringe. He pictured himself - his most pure, real self, his sanity - curled up in his mind, shielding his face with his arms, his legs pulled up to protect his stomach. Things didn’t hurt as badly as they could when he was like that. If he started to believe all of the kind words that Master said, and the thoughts he sometimes had in his weaker moments, it would be like letting his inner self relax, just a bit. Taking away some of the tension in his legs, maybe even lowering his arms to look out at the world. Once he did that, it would hurt so much more the next time. Col wouldn’t let that happen. 

He frowned deeply and tried to regain some composure. Master had fallen asleep out of tiredness, not because he had granted Col’s plea to not be left. It was Col who had engineered this, who’d taken advantage of his Master’s kindness and spent the entire night curled up beside him, holding his hand like a loved one when he was, in fact, nothing. Master would wake and be so sickened that he would finally kick Col out. 

And Col was weak. He was cowardly and scared. He just couldn’t handle it, not yet. Not yet, he repeated. Soon he’d come up with a plan. He’d figure out what his next steps would be once Master made him leave. 

He once again became aware of the feeling of his hand in his owner’s. Master’s grip was light with sleep, purposeful enough to be holding him, but not pressing into his injuries or pulling or hurting. That could, would, change when Master woke up. How could he ever think he was safe? How deluded and complacent had he become? 

You’re not a lap dog, he reminded himself, although it was his old owner’s voice he heard. You’ll never be one. You’ll never be loved, or treasured. Do you understand that, Pet?

Yes, Master, Col had replied when he was first told this. The words hadn’t stung. It was important that he knew. 

Good boy. You know your place. 

His training was starting to stumble, now that he was in Master’s house. He so wanted to believe all of Master’s kind words, to slip into them like a quilt and bury himself in their warm folds, sinking deeper, deeper, believing that he hadn’t deserved what happened at those parties. 

You hadn’t, the other voice said again, and Col screwed his eyes up, because it hurt to have to fight it off. But what choice did he have? 

Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Col slid his hand free of his Master’s. The only sound was his own heart, pounding at the sudden tension. How could he have woken up and ever felt calm about this? Why had he lay there, thinking, deciding what to do next as if he ever had a choice? His own hatred for himself was growing in density. He hated the darkness, and the silence. He had endured enough of both to last him forever. Things were so much more simple when it was daytime, when the sunlight spread over the house like a balm, and his Master was happy and calm and talking to him.

God, but it was night and he was alone in the truest sense of the word, and he just couldn’t stop fucking thinking.

He unfolded his stiff legs (they used to always be stiff, from kneeling or being bound for hours on end, but now Master let him walk and stretch them, and he was taking that for granted too) and carefully lowered his hands and knees to the floor, praying that nothing would creak. Nothing did. He tried to breathe at a normal pace again. 

His eyes had adjusted to the pitch blackness by now. There was a dip in the sofa where Col had been lying, but there was nothing he could do about that. Besides, he wasn’t trying to conceal what he’d done. He was just trying to mitigate it, because he was a good boy. 

A dog, he corrected himself. A slave. God, why did you do that? You know how ugly you are when you cry. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror, it’s horrifying, it’s like a monster. You looked like that for a good half an hour last night, and Master saw, he saw everything and he’ll never forget. 

And your body looks so bad. He’ll have looked away from your face and seen your body instead. Oh my god, why would you put him through that? 

You swore you’d keep it together in this new house, you’d be good and make it work, but you fuck everything up. Everything you touch gets ruined sooner or later. How can you even go upstairs to the room he lets you stay in? 

Col stared at the floor. If Master had a basement, he’d go there. But then again, if Master had a basement he would never have needed to give up his spare room. Col could prove that he shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. 

There was a neat little space in the corner of the living room, between the wooden TV stand and the wall, where Col would fit nicely. He crawled over and nudged himself into place. There he knelt, watching as Master slept. He would probably be angry that he’d spent all night on the sofa, but Col didn’t dare wake him up. 

He hoped he looked like a good slave, on his knees and ready to serve. It must have been the dead of night, because he didn’t make it to morning. He fell into sleep with his head resting against the wall, and although kneeling was second nature, it wasn’t the position he would have chosen if he had let himself have that freedom. He would have chosen to curl up on the floor, with his legs to his chest, and his arms around his face.

-

taglist part 1:

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captain-seconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonwardsworld @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @the-monarch-whumperfly @penny-for-your-whump @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread @vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate @littlespacecastle @haro-whumps @extrabitterbrain @neverthelass @downrivergirl914

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Table

A short one, written for @whump-world NSFWhumptober 2023, "Get on the table". Set right after this piece, ["Lesson"] (explicit noncon).

With the tables turned (thanks @wildfaewhump for that pun), Tyler struggles with guilt.

[Masterpost]

Content / warning : Referenced noncon (both f/m and m/f), nudity, humiliation, whumper turned whumpee, strapped to table, referenced conditioning, facility whump. And no, he does not deserve forgiveness.

Carly swiped her card and sauntered out, the door opening and closing with the deep hiss that was deeply ingrained into Tyler's brain. The noise that separated two worlds, the one of those who signed with WRU for a job, and the ones who signed for life. The ones who could leave the white rooms, and the ones who couldn't.

Another helpless whine escaped Tyler, not quite a sob, not quite a cry, as he was left alone, strapped flat to the table, with his erect cock standing up in pure humiliation. He felt it throb painfully, with a want that wasn't there, an urge that wasn't his, and he knew they'd keep him waiting, probably only for a short while in terms of their impatience, probably forever for their subject.

Tyler felt his shoulders twitch.

No. He wouldn't cry, not when they were watching, not after mere seconds alone. He would - what could he do, really? Nothing, there wasn't even anything to look at, white tiles on the walls, white ceiling, with white cameras and white speakers worked into the ceiling panels, white floor, and the mirror, showing the pathetic figure of himself, bruised skin in front of all the white.

The only thing unique was a sequence of light gray dots on the wall, right above the card reader by the door. Training rooms looked all the same, they were meant to, but the handlers still needed a tiny bit of orientation.

He wasn't a trainee. He was a handler. He knew his name still, he could read that he was in room 120, he remembered very clearly that he hadn't signed up for this.

He also remembered very clearly how often he'd been in this exact same room with his own trainee. How often he'd been the one swiping his card through that reader, leaving her alone with the echo of the door's hiss, returning with the promise of the tiniest deviation from the overwhelming boredom.

Get on the table, his own voice echoed in his ears.

238 had obeyed, she always had, and still he'd punished her. For a moment's hesitation, for a sceptical frown, for the flinch when he pulled taut the straps.

He'd fucked her on this very table, countless times. He'd left her, tied up and helpless and unsatisfied, just as often. Stay, he'd said, be a good girl, and be more convincing when I return. Sometimes he'd left her with a toy between her legs, to keep her on edge. Sometimes he'd just left her cold.

So fucking cold.

The chill was biting at him already.

Please, come back, 238 had whispered to herself, sometimes, with tears in her eyes, carefully observed by Tyler, when he'd returned to the control room after a warm shower.

He had found it surprising, how easy it was.

He was still surprised, today, how easy it was.

When his own lips formed words now, though, they weren't for Carly to come back.

They were for 238.

Forgive me, he whispered. Please, forgive me.

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Fire Down Below

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below |

CW: Dehumanizing language, prolonged repeated choking, nonhuman whumpee, angry whumper, restrained, hanged (no death), captivity

-

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Gilly leaned forward, the wooden chair he sat on creaking alarmingly under the shift in weight, rocking slightly forward onto the one leg that was shorter than the other three for no discernable or understandable reason.

It’d been a free chair, though, so… there was that. 

He held up one hand, thumb curled over a bent forefinger, middle, ring, and pinkie fingers straight up in the air. 

The siren stared back at him, only its eyes, nose, and wet curls above the washtub’s water line. He could just barely see the strap of the gag curving around the back of its head, the barest hint of the wood visible through the increasingly dirtied water. It made no movement, no sound. 

Honestly, if he hadn’t known what it was, he might have felt some sense of guilt or a prickling at his conscience. It looked so human. As if he’d found a beautiful youth and abducted him for nefarious purposes, like in the scandalous penny awfuls he sometimes bought during times in port and read on lonely nights on the ship. He might imagine himself the villain of such a tale, if the creature had been a person.

“How many?” He repeated.

The thing did not respond. It only blinked, once. 

Gilly sighed. “Must you make this as difficult as possible, thing?”

No answer. But he could see the curve of its plush top lip over the bit between its teeth, the way it wanted to sneer and snarl at him, and he would not bear that disrespect.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Gilly wrapped the rope around his hand again and again that led up to the ceiling where his rough-hewn pulley-system had been rigged, leading back down to the rough, coarse rope knotted tight around the stupid creature’s throat. 

This it understood, and only this. It did not learn without violence. Not that Gilly had tried too many other options.

As soon as he pulled hard enough to tighten the loop a fraction around its neck, the creature shot further up to give itself slack, but Gilly only followed its movements with his own, pulling with one hand and then another to ensure that once it stood it could not hide itself again.

It was dripping, well-formed body naked as a newborn babe, and Gilly once again mourned that he had had the piss-poor luck to catch a male one and not a female. The monster croaked around its gag, in a cracking voice, “Th-eeee.”

“Good,” Gilly said, voice short and sharp. 

He let the rope go slack again.

The creature dropped right back down as far as he would let it go, until it was only bared to him from the ribcage up. It hid itself, always, whenever it could. As if it felt his eyes, as if it cared a single bit about modesty. Sirens were simply animals mimicking a human shape, everyone knew that. The intelligence he saw in those dark eyes was a false one, a trick. Only madmen thought sirens were thinking beings, madmen who sailed off to the islands the sirens were known to stay on, wanting to communicate or connect with their so-called ‘communities’.

Those madmen never returned, or the ones who did claimed to have found nothing at all, simply bare rock and empty bushes.

“Again,” Gilly said, and held up all the fingers on one hand this time. He kept his other hand tight around the rope, in a subtle, wordless threat.

The creature swallowed - with difficulty, the noose was still too tight for comfort even as the rope slackened - and managed, “F-eye-fff.”

“Close enough,” Gilly muttered, but he was secretly pleased. The longer it was trapped in the washtub, a mere speck of water compared to the vast oceans it had known before, the more it cooperated, the more it gave in to Gilly’s demands. 

Eventually, it would need to understand him well enough to do his bidding, but until then… until then, they had to move slowly. He couldn’t do anything anyway until the magic had been laid to make the creature more fully his to command.

Outside, there was a creaky, high-pitched voice, the old woman calling in baby-speak to her infernal little dog with its yapping ankle-bites and ridiculous smushed-in face. The siren’s eyes flickered to the window, its head turning with a simple, open curiosity and wonder.

It was a deeply human expression, and Gilly felt a thrill of fury and something he refused to feel as guilt for what he’d done in bringing it here. So he yanked so hard on the rope the siren choked.

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at its aborted, hoarse cry of pain. Its attention certainly left the window and the sounds outside, didn’t it? And the cries of pain it made were nearly as beautiful as its wicked, tempting songs at sea.

His smile widened as he pulled, stalwart and resolute, with one hand and then another. First its navel was bared to the air, then the mimickry of a man between its legs, those long muscled thighs, water running in rivers down shapely calves and finally to its feet. Gilly’s arms shook despite the years of work on ships he’d done to build his strength, but he kept pulling, and the creature kept rising.

Its cries became shorter, whistling and airless, and then turned to nothing more than gasps. The rope was tight just under its jaw, one strong jerk from broken, like a convict hung on the gallows before a crowd. 

But Gilly was the only audience to the show.

The siren’s arms jerked, hands twisting its wrists still bound behind its back. They were already rubbed raw to bleeding and yet still it kept struggling, legs moving uselessly, fighting to breathe when its throat was nearly closed entirely.  

“Don’t worry about her,” Gilly said, in a tone of utmost genial friendliness. “She can’t hear you, and she doesn’t care about you anyway. None of them do, they just don’t care. Even if she did know what I’ve got here, what could she really do, hm? Make me leave my home here, to be sure, but what else? What would happen to you?”

The siren’s face was going dark, blood rushing into its cheeks as Gilly stood and braced his feet shoulder width apart for a better, stronger grip. He didn’t need to do this - he should stop, he would never have treated any dog, cat, or horse with such cruelty - but somehow he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stop watching its eyes go wide and frightened, then hazy as the world began to darken for it. As it stared into the death that he could give it, so easily, just by staying put like this, just by letting it dangle until there was nothing left in it but its pretty, pointless skin.

Gilly felt nearly as breathless himself, although with excitement, not with fear. He had never had power of any creature, not this sort of power. Not the power to simply take a life with no rhyme or reason, only his own desires. 

He let go, abruptly, and the rope slid hot through his hands as the creature crashed back into the washing-tub, dirty water splashing up over the sides from the violence of its landing. 

Its legs crumpled and it disappeared entirely at first, before it pushed itself back up, sucking in gulps of air and coughing, over and over in a vicious cycle. His ribcage swelled and pulled so tight the bones were visible, again and again. Its face was still red, its neck was dark as sin itself with blood running down where the rope had rubbed right through its skin. 

When Gilly moved closer, the creature flinched backwards until it smacked into the other side of the washing-tub, hunched over itself protectively, looking up at him with its dark curls over its eyes. 

It was finally truly terrified of him, after days of this.

Exactly how it should be.

He pointed to the washing-tub, the dirtied water inside it. “The water is dirty,” He said, over-emphasizing each word as if he spoke to an idiot child or a very dumb puppy. “It needs to be cleaned.” 

It swallowed, wincing at the pain even such a simple involuntary motion caused. There was no sign it understood, beyond the way its eyes flickered to one side, where he had forced it to stand in the past in the corner while he emptied the tub out and refilled it clean. 

“Yes,” Gilly said, pointing now into the same corner. “Go there.” When it didn’t immediately move, he snapped, “Now!”

The siren hurriedly half-fell over the side of the tub, landing without dignity with a thump on its side, making Gilly laugh at the sight of it wiggling to get back on its feet with its hands still tied behind its back. It skittered away from him, more bug than humanoid thing, until it was in the shadowy corner where he had pointed it to. 

“Good. Now stay there.”

He took the rope, changing it so it hung from a different hook, pulling it tight enough that the siren was forced to dance on its tiptoes to keep breathing, and tied it off. Now it couldn’t move. Stupid monster couldn’t even think well enough around its fight for air to try anything.

Which was good, because changing the water was a chore he did not enjoy, and his mood was already dark today. He didn’t need it to get any worse. He’d put way too much time and effort into training the creature to accidentally kill it or something if it upset him too much.

“I know you don’t like that,” He said, almost conversationally, as he moved to open the window. “And if you want to make it stop…”

Its voice was barely a hiss as it echoed, “May-... t-ah-p,” unable to pronounce the sss or k sound around the bit gag.

“Right. Well, you’ll have to start learning faster and start listening to me, won’t you? I wouldn’t have to do any of this if you would just understand me and obey the first time, instead of making it a fight.”

It blinked again.

Gilly had to fight the resurgence of his fury at its simple refusal to listen and learn, reminding himself that he had work to do, and he couldn’t have a nap until he had finished cleaning out its water.

There was a slight downhill slope outside, and so he simply took a bucket and began to bail the washing-tub out, tossing each bucket of dirty water outside to let it run down into the widow’s garden below. The bits of fish parts would help the plants to grow, he supposed. Although in this hot climate, it didn’t help the place smell any better. Not that you couldn’t smell the manure from the animals that lived in the barn, anyway…

He lost himself in the work, as always, simply drifted into a place of contentment even as sweat beaded up on his skin and trickled down his neck and his back. Sometimes, he paused just to watch the siren where it stood, making hoarse little guttural noises, moving from one set of toes to the other, tears trickling from the corners of its eyes down over its beautifully wrought cheekbones, its jawline, and to the floor below. 

“I suppose you need a name,” He said, thoughtfully, once he had emptied the tub, scrubbed it out, and then worked to dry it with a towel. In a moment he’d have to head down to the water pump to start the refilling process, but he allowed himself a break to wipe away his sweat and push up his glasses, watching the suffering siren. It watched him back, even though the rope kept its chin tipped up trying to escape the constriction. It whined, like a whipped dog, and Gilly shook his head. 

It was even trying to mimic other animals, now, to get him to be kinder.

“I was thinking… the people here before the colony was founded, they had a dance called areyto. I think that’s what I’ll call you… Areyto, because once you’re strung up like this, you dance.”

He laughed.

“We’ll work on teaching you your name tomorrow, I think.”

He headed out to start working on bringing in fresh water. It took nearly as long as cleaning the damn thing out had taken, and each time he left and came back the siren’s movements were slower, more exhausted, the fight to breathe taking more and more out of it. Blood began to dry where the ropes had rubbed, and so did its tears. 

By the time the water was clean, it had to move on its knees, hunched over, inch by tired inch until it made it to the metal sides of the tub. Gilly kept the rope in hand, ready to punish, but it had no fight left, not now. He watched those powerful leg muscles shake as it pushed itself clumsily to its feet, and then simply allowed itself to fall over the side and into the water.

It did not resurface.

Gilly tied the rope back off in its usual place, cleaned the splashed-out water with the still-damp towel, and walked out whistling cheerfully, closing the door and locking it behind him.

They were definitely making progress.

Once Atabei came from the northern colonies, her magic would make sure he didn’t have to worry about the monster trying to hurt him, and he could finally start laying his plans out for a gilded, influential future.

-

Taglist: @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam

-

Note: Although I am not planning any specific @whumptober this year, this piece ended up covering the first three prompts!

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Please give us Col waking up to Jaffa snuggled up against him in the middle of the night and having lots of FEELINGS about how Linden treats both of them. They both have struggles that others might not, both need extra help and compassion sometimes. Both don’t serve a defined “purpose” but are loved and cared for and valued anyway. Also, lots and lots of snuggles.

enjoyyy :-)

-

Col's first coherent thought upon being woken was I must have left the door open.

On another day he might have jumped straight to fear, and the absence of it was like a soothing balm. Some things were benign. Not everything was because he had messed up. Jaffa just wanted to visit.

He could indeed see a sliver of light coming through his door, which he had closed but not latched, and that Jaffa had made short work of pushing open with all the determination of a lonely cat.

Col always slept curled up, and Jaffa was currently kneading his thighs through the duvet, turning him into a pillow. He liked it. It made him feel special, even though he was sure she'd have gone into Master's room if his door was open.

Once she was satisfied, she flopped against him with a small smushing noise.

The weight of her small body was like a furry anchor, complete with body heat and a heartbeat, all keeping him safe in his dog bed.

Ahh, Jaffa. She wasn't the perfect pet- well, she was, without a doubt, but there were plenty of things she had trouble with. Col had seen her miss a step while going down the stairs, and thank goodness it hadn't been a terrible fall. She had skidded and caught herself quickly enough, but Master was still pleased when Col told him. Her bad eyes again, he said. Hopefully that had taught her to take extra care, or else he might need to put in a stair gate. The thought of Jaffa being locked downstairs made Col's chest feel tight.

Col didn't have bad eyes, but there was plenty of him that didn't quite work as intended. Just like Master helped Jaffa get up on the couch if she was struggling, Master helped Col come back out when his memories started taking him away. He helped Col pick up his cutlery and walk on two legs. God, Col was lucky that his owner was good to animals.

Even though it was self-indulgent, Col liked comparing himself with Jaffa. She was a creature on the receiving end of so much love.

He slowly pushed a hand from the safety of his cocoon and let it sink into her fur. Her purring was so loud, he would have given anything to bottle it and keep it with him forever. It was something he could pin his mind on, so it wouldn't run wild in the long hours of the night.

As he fell back asleep, his stream of consciousness turned from a heavy rainfall to staccato drops. Jaffa, imperfect, damaged, I'm damaged, and she's loved, and I'm, I'm, I'm...

The next morning, Col woke up before his Master. He could tell, since there was no sound of the kettle boiling or the radio playing. On his way to the bathroom he paused, noticing that Master's door was half-open.

Huh. Jaffa had wanted Colton after all.

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

firstly i love love L O V E Linden and Colton,

also, i couldn’t resist asking if you could make a part 2 to the vamp colton & human linden that @tidalwhump suggested. Vampire whump is so my weakness and i would die from happiness if you wrote a lil ~something somethingg~

tysm ilyyy

thanks for requesting another little instalment! i really enjoyed writing the first one so this was an easy request to fulfil :D

part one is here!

-

Pet pressed a hand into the bed that his Master had provided. It was strange, so strange, that he had decided to give him one. What was the point?

It was wonderfully soft, but Pet couldn’t lose himself to any sense of enjoyment. Perhaps Master didn’t realise quite what a luxury it was- it wasn’t as if he had put the bed in here specifically for his new possession- but if he did, he would surely take it away.

No, Pet didn’t want to risk it, didn’t want to get attached either, and so he quickly completed the actual task he’d been assigned.

Task might have been too strong a word, frankly: all Pet had to do was change out of his filthy rags and into clean pyjamas. Another mysterious kindness.

He pulled open the door slowly and crawled through. All his movements were trained to be slow. Anything too fast might look like an attempted attack. Master was waiting outside, looking down on him with a definite… softness. Pet knelt before him, in the doorway of his room. He stupidly wished the door was closed, worrying that if Master saw the bed, or its duvet, or blanket, or pillows, he would realise how much his new vampiric plaything didn’t need it.

“They fit,” Master declared. “I’m pleased.”

Pet nodded, and slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, opened his mouth. This was perhaps the most terrifying part of his training. One wrong move and he would be punished for hours- flashing his teeth was not to be tolerated or forgiven- and yet there was no avoiding it. He needed the muzzle back on. When the muzzle was on, he was safe. Fully domesticated.

Master frowned, and Pet realised he wasn’t holding it. Fuck. Fuck. He had opened his mouth too early. He was baring his teeth at his new owner.

He almost fainted then and there. But something in him clearly saw that as an easy escape, so instead he stayed, frozen in fear, waiting to find out what his new Master would do to him.

. . .

Linden was drawing a blank. He wasn’t scared, not quite yet, but still, this new development was unexpected… and unsettling.

The vampire’s fangs had been filed right down, and whoever had done it hadn’t done a very good job. They didn’t have razor sharp ends anymore, but the filing had made them rough and jagged. Linden could see the way they’d scraped constantly against his bottom lip until the delicate skin was torn entirely.

He was still on his knees, unmoving and apparently waiting for something, but Linden was at a loss.

“Uh… h-hey, close your mouth, please.”

He really didn’t want to sound scared. Linden made himself breathe. The pet complied instantly.

“I don’t know what that was, uh, I don’t know what you’re asking for. Can you show me, maybe?”

It was a big ask, and Linden was prepared for the vampire to shake his head and leave Linden in the dark. But, to his surprise, the vampire did start to show him. Linden watched patiently as he moved his curled hands up to his mouth, then drew each one over his cheek and around his ears. Like he was hooking something over them, something that started at this mouth.

The muzzle. He was asking for the muzzle.

Linden had taken one look at the thing when the vampire was given to him and tucked it at the back of a cupboard, out of sight and mind. It was hideous. Clearly pure silver, and Linden had almost dropped it when he saw the pieces of ripped, burnt skin still attached to it. Christ.

“The muzzle?” he confirmed, getting his answer as the vampire curled in on itself even further. He wouldn’t move his eyes from the floor, leaving Linden to speak to his pale blond hair instead. “I don’t know if that’s necessary. Will you bite me?”

That made the vampire react.

His head bent upwards, still without eye contact, but begging Linden nonetheless. He clasped his hands together and whined, actually whined like a dog. Linden almost looked away in disgust.

He was holding his hands very deliberately in front of his mouth, and Linden could see he was trembling all the way through his body. He shook his head desperately, over and over, and when Linden tried to crouch down, to maybe give him a reassuring smile, or another shoulder pat, the vampire whimpered and backed away, screwing his eyes shut in terror. He finally folded completely, pressing his head to the floor and staying there, still as a corpse save for the shaking.

“Okay, okay. You won’t. Let’s just get you cleaned up a bit.”

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Have you ever thought what it would be like if Colton was a vampire or if Linden was a vampire? I feel like it'd change the narrative pretty dramatically.

such a cool idea! have a tiny thing for it <3

cw for dehumanisation and a mention of eye whump

-

The thing didn’t seem to speak.

Thing? Linden admonished himself. It was easy to buy into the cruel language- thing, pet, monster- but that didn’t make it okay.

Not speaking meant no open mouth, no fangs on display. It made sense that someone had trained that out of him.

Linden wasn’t scared. He would have let a traumatised human in, and humans were capable of much the same violence. The blood drinking counted for very little when a human could still easily punch you, bite you, let you bleed out.

This vampire had definitely been treated even worse than his human counterparts. And why wouldn’t he have been, pragmatically speaking? He could take it.

The vampire’s eyes were staring straight down, but Linden could still see the inhuman brightness of them. They looked to be a dark orange, like a harvest moon. His skin was so pale it almost shone, and although no bruises could form in a bloodless body, he was still covered in waxy cuts, and burns, and whip marks.  

Linden reached out a hand, palm down, wrist hidden. Just to be on the safe side.

When the vampire only flinched a little bit, he rested the hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Hey, can you look up? You’ll be staying with me for now. My name is Linden. I’m a human, if you couldn’t tell. And everything’s gonna be okay.”

A few seconds passed, and Linden withdrew his hand before he got goosebumps from the icy skin. The pet finally brought his eyes up to Linden’s.

He can’t do the hypnosis thing, right? Surely not. Right?

Neither broke eye contact, and Linden smiled.

. . .

The human didn’t seem to fear him.

Pet hadn’t seen such a bold display of power in so long. Not that he would ever dare act out. As he made eye contact with his new owner, he barely even felt the power ripple in his body. He remembered, in blurry half-forgotten images, the way he had once been able to put humans under his control.

Even the thought of it made him want to whine and beg for forgiveness. It had been years with the blindfold. He had knelt down and professed his unending submission as thanks for not gouging his eyes out. He had been given that mercy, at least.

Here, his new Master wanted to test if he had deserved such a mercy. Pet looked up, dog-like, lowly, pitiful, and hoped that Master was satisfied.

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Linden & Colton - Guard Dog AU #2

(masterpost)

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation

-

The walk to the bus stop was nicely cool. The trees were turning crisp and orange, whispering to one another every time the wind blew through them. Linden had his thin coat on, a chequered brown which reached his upper thighs, and every time he pulled it out from its long summer retirement he found some long-forgotten memento in its pockets; a piece of seaglass, or a train ticket, or a business card for a taxi company on the other side of the country. Col’s shoulders didn’t fit into any of Linden’s coats, so he was instead in a cable knit jumper and a scarf. 

“It’ll just be a quick trip into town, but I think it’ll be good to get out. I’m going to get you some weights so you can work out at home.”

Col’s serious expression faltered a little with surprise. “Really, Sir, that’s not necessary. I can train with anything.”

“Think of it as a nice treat, then.”

“Yes, Sir, thank you. How can I pay you back?”

Linden gave him a smile. “By carrying them instead of me.” 

They stopped and waited at the bus stop, the only two people there. Linden knew that Col hadn’t walked very far recently, and he didn’t want to put too much strain on his legs; they were streaked with scar tissue which sometimes caught the light and shone against the rest of his skin, which was in some places puffy and red, and in other places crossed with thin cuts which had turned a pale lilac. 

Col nodded. He always did so very quickly, often before Linden had even finished speaking. He had a strong suspicion that Col would get into terrible trouble if his old owner thought he wasn’t paying attention, and with the way he’d occasionally seen Col stare into nothingness, perhaps this had happened a lot. 

“It’s always busy, though, so we might need to sit separately. Is that okay with you, Col?”

He was relieved when Col paused, seeming to genuinely consider this. “Yes, Sir. That’s fine.” 

“If we do, you can take the seat further to the back. That way you can still see me. You’ll know that I’m alright, and you’ll be able to see when to get off.”

Linden cringed at sounding so self-important, but he knew it would be the first thing on Col’s mind. If this had reassured him at all, it didn’t show on his face. 

. . .

It’s not like I have a choice, thought Col. Other guard dogs, ones that were bigger and better and more trusted, would bark at someone to move, to let him sit by his Master. My place is at my Master’s side, he repeated in his head without fully thinking about it. The mantra was so old it came naturally now. But Col wasn’t good enough. Not even close. 

The bus rolled to a stop (after Col had flinched when Master put his arm out to hail it) and it was clear they would indeed have to split up. He found a seat towards the back as he’d hoped, and watched as Master flashed him a smile from up ahead. 

They made more stops than he’d anticipated, the geography of the bus changing each time, taking on parents pushing prams and letting off elderly women with dogs, until Col’s neighbour had motioned for him to let them get past and he had stood, ducking his head, watching them leave to make sure they didn’t do anything alarming near his Master. He moved to take the window seat.

This left Col with a space beside him, and his instincts told him to have his Master fill that space. But how? Col, who was still a new purchase and needed to prove himself, suddenly sagged under his self-doubt. He’d have to call out for him, or get up and go over, both of which would cause a scene. He’d be telling him what to do. He’d be assuming that Master even wanted to be sat next to him – maybe it was a welcome break, and Col was expected to keep him safe from this distance. Maybe trying to close the gap between them would seem weak. 

It still mystified him that humans hurt one another when pets existed, but it wasn’t for him to question. He wasn’t so naïve as to have forgotten about revenge, old grudges, power trips, terrorism, self-defence. And no one cared if their pet was killed. A lover or a friend would need to be sacrificed to really cause some grief.

He realised, stomach suddenly dropping, that if Master’s brother came to any harm, Col would have failed in his duties, would have failed to protect his owner. How could I guard Vik, too? he wondered. He’d have to find out where Vik lived, and familiarise himself with his entire neighbourhood, but he could hardly drag his owner along for this, so where would he get the opportunity? How would he ever be trusted after he had attacked him, anyway? Col felt stupid for even considering it. Master would probably judge that the biggest threat to Vik right now was his own pet.

He hadn’t realised how deeply he was considering this until a voice from the real world brought him back to the surface.

“Am I alright to sit here?” asked a young woman stood above him, and Col allowed himself just one second to realise that she meant the seat beside him, and more, that she was speaking to him directly. 

I asked you a question, his old owner said, so clear and commanding he could have been just behind him, and if you’re not gagged then I expect an answer. 

Except he wasn’t collared, or leashed, or gagged, and he wasn’t with his Master, and she wasn’t asking him to perform any of his normal duties as a pet. She didn’t know what he was, Col realised, giddy and scared at the same time. 

He nodded, not meeting her eye, and forced himself to speak. “Y-Yes, of course.”

“Thanks,” she replied pleasantly, and sat, pulling her satchel flat onto her lap. Col tried not to stare as she opened it and slid a laptop out. He pulled his gaze away, but a sudden movement caught his eyes yet again and he couldn’t help but look. His lifetime of training meant he had to look. 

Her laptop had a presentation on it, and with each slide the woman was gesturing, mouthing words silently. She was practising, Col realised. He suddenly felt himself so intrigued by this stranger’s life, just for a few seconds. This stranger who had spoken to him like a person. Was she a student? He didn’t dare read the words, he wouldn’t stare that brazenly, but he could see the unmistakeable shapes that only graphs made. A few rows in front of them both, Col’s Master sat safely, undisturbed. It was fine. Col hadn’t messed up by looking. 

This woman was going somewhere, with her normal human life, and it was as if a light switch had been flicked, the way Col became unbearably aware that every single person around him had a normal life of their own, too. Where were they all going? What were they thinking about? The bus was rattling down widening suburban streets. Each house would have an occupant, maybe even a whole family, or a couple. Were they happy? How many pets were there?

His fingers curled involuntarily as his training kicked in – any stretch of being lost in thought inevitably ended badly. Col blinked, again, again, as he heard his old owner screaming at him. 

You will LISTEN when you are spoken to, you slave, you useless piece of junk, you fucking dog. Pets do not have ‘thoughts’. You do not think unless it’s to follow orders. Do you fucking hear me this time? 

Yes, Master, Col thought, stamping out any more daydreaming. He fixed his eyes on the back of his current Master’s head and kept them there. 

Eventually, Master stood up, turning to Col just briefly to catch his eye, and the two stepped off.

“Was that alright, Col?” Master asked when they were both standing on the pavement, watching the bus rejoin the flow of traffic.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, thinking of nothing but his Master’s face before him. 

. . . 

As the pair walked through town, Linden noticed the space between them shrinking, until Col was almost pressed against his left shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and Col’s eyes darted to his. Nothing else changed, and Linden found it somewhat unnerving. Like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “Did you used to go out, much?” 

“No, Sir. The pub, or the racecourse, sometimes. I usually stayed in my cage.”

“But I thought you were a guard dog,” Linden said, his heart sinking when he saw the look on Col’s face. Okay, shouldn’t have said that.

“I am, Sir, I am. You can- you can trust me. I swear I’ll keep you safe. My old owner just… just had to get me trained, first. But I am trained, now.”

“Of course you are,” he said, feeling gross. “I know you’ll keep me safe.”

“Anything, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

“I know,” he said, trying to sound decisive. “I’m not going to get rid of you, I hope you can understand that.”

Col just nodded, but Linden felt like he had to ask this now, rather than let it fester.

“You were caged?”

Funnily enough, this didn’t seem to upset Col in the way he’d feared it might. Linden could almost describe the look Col gave him as quizzical. 

“Yes, Sir. I’m just a dog. But-! But I’m so grateful, so grateful for my- the bed, and the room. It’s very generous, Sir.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t own a cage and I’m not going to buy one. There’s no chance of that in my house.”

It wasn’t too busy in town, which was ideal. Their bus was always rammed, running through the main arteries of the district, but the hospital and the train station was where it spat out most of its cargo. It was term time, midweek, midday. Linden watched two cyclists wave to one another as they passed by. Turning to Col, he saw him looking at pigeons on a fence, one pruning the other. 

“Aw,” Linden said, making Col flinch. 

“S-Sorry, Sir. I’m paying attention.”

“I know. You can look. Oh, here, do you see that dog? He always sits in the window up there.”

Linden pointed past Colton’s face to a brindle whippet, which was curled up on a strategically placed dog bed, keeping an eye on the passers-by. “People call him Nosy Nigel.”

Linden wasn’t expecting a reply and he didn’t get one. Col nodded, then turned back to face the road. 

The curve of the hill had flattened during their ride, and this too would be easier for Col’s legs. 

“If walking becomes painful, you need to tell me,” Linden instructed him. “So we can go back home.” 

“I won’t let you down like that, Sir,” Col replied, keeping his voice neutral.

“It wouldn’t let me down,” he said, a little firmer. “I don’t want you to be in pain. Can you promise?”

“Yes, Sir. I promise.”

Now it was Linden’s turn to be quiet, and as they walked on, he thought he saw Col glancing at him, his eyebrows drawn tightly together.

-

Fifteen minutes later they were heading through the centre of town and Col had the boxed dumbbells held fast under one arm. Linden had made Col wait by the door to the sports shop when he paid, so Col wouldn’t be able to hear the price. They were hardly expensive, but he didn’t want Col to have it hanging over him. As they left, Linden didn’t think he’d been thanked so many times in his life. 

“We could get a coffee, if you fancy it,” Linden said, knowing they were about to pass his favourite cafe in town. 

“Yes, Sir, you should get whatever you like.”

“Would you like one?”

“I should keep one arm free, Sir, if that’s okay.”

Linden hummed an acknowledgement. That was good, he told himself. Col had told him what would make him most comfortable. He wondered what threats, if any, Col was picking out from their unremarkable walk around town. The cafe faced a small town square, in the centre of which was a once-grand statue of a general or soldier of some sort, with a traffic cone balanced on his head. Beyond him was a bakery, a newsagents, a chippy, a Polish grocer’s, in a neat row with houses on their second floors. It was normal - it was home. 

Their pace had slowed since they started out, and Linden decided to call it a day - he was well aware that Col would never admit if his legs were hurting. They’d done well - he got what he came for and Col hadn’t lashed out or scared anyone. 

“You know what… let’s head on home. We’ll both be able to have a hot drink in peace. Yeah?”

“Yes, Sir.”

. . .

Col grit his teeth, feeling his jaw pulse, forcing himself to ignore the ache steadily growing in his feet. The pain shot up his legs with each step. It felt like there were screws in his ankles, driven in good and deep, and even the smallest movement made them reverberate off his bones like a church bell. How could he stay alert? How could he be ready for anything, any threat, checking every angle and street and person they walked past? His head was spinning with the responsibility.

His foot came down hard. It took everything not to gasp in pain; he was aware he was slowing down, and the clock was ticking before Master noticed what a defective nothing he’d accidentally bought. 

I told you to admit it when your legs hurt, Colton heard Master say, his soft voice finally cracking in frustration. You thought you could hide it? That you’d carry on like this, trying to fool me, forever? 

Hurry the fuck up. I’ll decide what to do with you at home. 

Col saw possibilities playing in his mind like the young woman’s presentation. Each new slide carried a new, and equally likely, outcome once Master got fed up with him. The cage, the darkness, the whip, being thrown out entirely. The worst scenarios always ended with him alone and scared.

He came back to reality with his heart pounding. What had made him resurface? He looked over at his Master and saw that they’d come to a stop. Master was staring at something just behind Col’s head, squinting. 

“Oi, oi!” Col heard a familiar voice shout.

“I knew it was you!” Master replied, patting Col on the shoulder gently and indicating for him to turn around. 

Vik stopped his car in front of them, leaning out of his window with a smile. “Hey, guys. You alright? Done a tour of the town?”

“Yeah, just bought some weights,” Master replied, returning Vik’s casual wave. Col was frozen by his side, trying to find a neutral spot to cast his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do with aggravate Vik. 

“Oh, great stuff! I assume they’re for you, Col?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” Col stammered, not expecting to be addressed directly. Wouldn’t Vik be sick at the sight of him? 

“We’re just heading to get the bus back,” Master explained. Vik scoffed.

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got time. Col, you sit in the back, it’s cleaner back there.”

Col could see that the front passenger seat was host to a lanyard, an empty crisp packet, a phone charger and an unopened packet of socks. Master was already pulling open the door and laughing at the mess, which Vik breezily said he could push into the footwell. Col opened the back door and slid inside. 

“You’re going to lose all this stuff. It’ll go under the seat and you’ll never find it again.”

“I won’t, I’ve got a very complex system of storage going here. You wouldn’t understand it.”

“Where are you going, anyway?”

“Just the gym. Sounds like you’re gonna have a home gym set up pretty soon.”

“Oh yeah, premium spot. Hundred quid a month. I’ll be your personal trainer.”

“Ha! You’d be the worst personal trainer ever. You’d probably lie down on the bench and fall asleep.”

“You look like you’ve been sleeping in the gym, look at those flimsy arms. For shame.”

Vik laughed, hard, and Master laughed back. It was a sound Col didn’t hear very much, and he let himself enjoy it. 

The drive back to Master’s house really was incredibly short - Col reflected on the fact that Master probably only made them take the bus for Col’s sake, and cringed at the pure hatred he had for himself - and soon they were back inside, being welcomed in by Jaffa. 

“Go and sit on the stairs to take your shoes off, Col, it’s easier.”

Col couldn’t disobey, and as much as he wanted to protest his strength, his legs were still in pain. He accepted the mercy with thanks. The day had been… fine. Col was okay. Master didn’t seem angry at him yet, and Vik had kindly ignored him, and Col was still owned. Maybe I can do this, he thought to himself foolishly.  Just for a bit longer. Then when this all ends, I’ll be ready.

-

taglist part 1:

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captain-seconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonwardsworld @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @the-monarch-whumperfly @penny-for-your-whump @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread @vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate @littlespacecastle @haro-whumps @extrabitterbrain @neverthelass @downrivergirl914

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Lmao, casually scrolling TikTok and there’s a vid with *150k* likes of a girl talking about how she finds (fictional) men attractive when they’re beat up and doesn’t get it but it’s true, and then thousands of comments of people listing super whumpy scenes that they loved inexplicably and wondering what’s wrong with them and I’m like !! You are not alone!!! Come onto tumblr and indulge yourself!!

Anyway, it’s always fun to find out whump is so much more widespread and popular than it seems <3

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Linden & Colton - Guard Dog AU

(masterpost)

exactly what it says on the tin! as you may know I've not written in months so I'm super super happy that I enjoyed this and got it done!!

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation + dehumanising language

-

The guard dog had been taken in. Everyone at the shelter was shocked, but none more shocked than the pet himself. Even better than that, he had been named. He was Col now, or sometimes Colton. He had figured that Col was the nicer, more affectionate version, but his new Master used it all the time, so perhaps he’d misinterpreted. Humans named all sorts of possessions, from plants to cars to, it seemed, guard dogs. Col happily accepted the gift.

The second he laid eyes on his owner, Col felt every ounce of loyalty he possessed being placed squarely at this man’s feet. He would be a worthwhile purchase, and protect his Master no matter what.

Master had come as a bit of a surprise at first, when Col was taken from the dog shelter to his home. He didn't look like the kind of person to make much use of a guard dog. Col stayed up all night, watching for threats, but Master's entire road was as peaceful as the man himself. The worst he'd ever seen was a few teenagers letting off fireworks.

Everything was just... a bit strange, with this new Master. He didn't have any heavy weights, no punching bag, nothing to keep Col strong. He never doled out punishments, never made sure Col knew where his devotion was placed. Col knew anyway, he was a good boy after all, but he thought all Masters needed to enforce it. His old owner had talked a lot of weak minds and needing to keep the lesson fresh. Clearly Colton's new Master had quite a bit more trust in him.

Which was weird, considering Col was a stray. But it made him all the more determined to prove himself.

Col made sure to keep busy during his otherwise unnaturally quiet new life: he lifted plastic bottles of milk for hours until his arms finally gave out; he filled a suitcase with books and squatted with it; he recited his rules at night, fighting off sleep, fighting off complacency. He spent the daylight hours pacing the house unless Master told him to calm down, which he soon realised was an order to come and kneel by his side.

The day Col fucked everything up was a day the same as any other to begin with. Master had gone shopping without him, like Col was useless, and that always made him frenetic with anxiety. He had begged, knelt with his head to the floor, to accompany him, to do his job and keep his owner safe, but Master had refused. I'll be fine, Col, he'd said softly, and then as a follow up, you can guard the house, right?

Col had done step-ups at the bottom of the staircase to try and work through his wasted energy, and when that hadn't worked, he'd stared out of the kitchen window like a hawk, every wail of an ambulance siren or police van sending his mind spiralling downwards. By the time Master returned unharmed he was a nervous wreck (utterly unfit for a guard dog, no wonder he wasn't allowed out) and he'd thrown himself at his owner's feet in relief. He knew what a wonderful rush of power his old owner had got from such an imposing pet cowering below him, and Col hoped Master might want to take him out next time, keep that feeling of power going.

In the present, Col was dutifully following Master's order to do some yoga.

The cat, Jaffa, was doing her own set of stretches alongside him, something that pleased Master greatly.

The sound of the front door unlocking pulled him from his meditation. Someone was trying to get in, Col realised, with a burst of aggression.

He sprang up like a startled animal and ran into the hall, but he still wasn't fast enough: the stranger was inside. Col noted a lean, strong build, with no obvious weapon, and tried to plan accordingly in the split second before he collided into him. He grabbed the human roughly by the shoulders and slammed him against the back of the door, letting his head crack against it with the momentum. Not enough to do any real damage, just to make him see stars. He wasted no time in pressing one forearm against his neck, letting it sit snugly against the windpipe, tight with pent up force. There was no mistaking that if he needed to press harder, he would. His other hand stayed gripping the man's shoulder, holding him in place.

'Who are you," he growled.

"Whoa! F-fuck, Linden! Get off me you crazy bastard!" the man shouted, but there was a smile on his face, which only made Col angrier.

Before he could bark his question again or tell the man to shut up, his Master appeared, running over to them. Col bent his head just enough to see both him and the intruder- he had been trained that dealing with a threat was not an excuse to ignore his owner.

The intruder gasped in what sounded like a sigh of relief, or a strained laugh. Col was still pushing on his throat.

"Mate, get off me," he said, and it was infuriating that he didn't seem at all bothered by Col's presence. Col had the upper hand, didn't he? Was there something he didn't know? Maybe this man did have a weapon concealed somewhere?

"I take orders from my Master only," Col replied, and hoped he would get one.

"Let him go, Col," Master said, "and come over here, please."

He obeyed instantly and moved to stand behind his Master's left shoulder, arms folded, glaring at the stranger. Hoping he knew that it would only take one wrong move for Col to knock his lights out.

He expected Master to tell the man to get the fuck out of his house; Colton was more than a little confused when the stranger instead threw one arm out for a hug, and Master leaned in happily.

"Hey Vik."

"Hey. Nice bodyguard you've got there."

"I'm sorry about that. Col," he turned to face his dog, "this is Vik. My brother."

His brother?

Oh, fuck.

All the blood drained from his face and he actually flinched back, his arms unfolding and instead resting hesitantly by his side. Now wasn’t the time for him to look dangerous.

He looked between the two men. Their physical similarities were suddenly glaringly obvious.

Col had fucked up. He'd fucked up and he didn't know how to make it better. He'd just tried to choke Master's brother for god’s sake, and Col was strong, sure, but he still howled when the belt was used on him, or when his owner had held his lighter to Col's arm, or when his back was slashed open and his owner kicked him between the shoulder blades. He was going to have to pay dearly for this.

"-hear me? Col? Hey, hello?"

Col blinked. His mind had wandered- a bad habit he never shook off despite hours of training. Master and his brother were stood together, eyeing him.

He pulled himself together enough to curl his hands against his heart and bow in submission.

"I'm so sorry for my mistake, Sir, it was unforgiveable, and I'm sorry," he said, forcing the words out mechanically. He didn't sound remorseful in the slightest, and he'd said he was sorry twice, it sounded stupid. His panic was starting to seep through. "I didn't know, b-but that's no excuse, and, and I'll take any punishment you see fit."

The sentence was familiar, and Col managed to dig deep for some composure. He'd be a big brave dog for this. Guard dogs didn't feel fear- they didn't feel anything. Col didn't feel anything. He straightened up, but kept his head bowed, and listened to his heart pounding in his ears. He waited to see if Vik was the type to show mercy.

Master spoke first. "No, it's okay. Just a misunderstanding, right? Vik has a key, so that's how he just appeared-"

"Hey, stop giving me evils."

"-and you were just doing what you thought was right, Col."

Col looked up slowly. Master seemed to be waiting for a response.

"What I did was unforgiveable," he tried, the panic smothering his thoughts. He had to get this right and he just didn't know how- except through pain. "I promise I'll take my punishment well, Sir, very well."

He saw Vik's eyes widen as he tried to catch Master's gaze, but it stayed fixed on Col.

"Well... you could apologise to Vik, I suppose, for- for-" Master's words were eaten up in an outburst of laughter. Col's fear took a sharp, and weird, left turn. What the fuck? "I’m sorry, I just can't believe you almost bollocked my older brother, that’s fucking hilarious!”

"Stop laughing!" Vik snapped, giving Master a mild shove that made Col bristle. "Or go do it while making me a cup of tea."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, haha, I'll leave you two alone for two seconds, I'm gonna-"

Master put a hand to his mouth to contain his laughter, and breezed past Col towards the kitchen, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he went. Master figured this was all a big joke, then.

Left alone with Vik. That would be Master's strategy, and Col figured it was more than fair. Vik had been the offended party.

He was about to lower himself to his knees, but Vik reached out a hand, stopping Col. He tensed just a fraction, no more than that: he wasn't allowed to mitigate pain.

"Fair play, mate, you were very quick. Good form, too. Got the jump on me like that." Vik snapped his fingers, making Col stiffen even more. "But we can be cool now, yeah? Now you know my face. You'll probably see me a lot, I come round all the time. So let's put this behind us and shake on it like two gents."

Col realised why Vik's hand was held out.

He thought about protesting for half a second- his old owner had always reminded him how dirty he was- but the last thing he wanted to do was look like he was buying time.

Vik would probably grab his hand and pull him down, try to throw him to the floor. Col didn't think he had the strength, so he prepared to fake it.

The handshake was the most human thing Col had ever done. Vik did pull, but towards him, and not in the rough way Col had expected. He'd forced himself to go so limp that he almost stumbled into him- he caught himself at the last moment and stood still, grazing Vik's shoulder.

"My brother's a really good man," he said, and Col was sure he knew the threat that would follow it up. So if you make one wrong move, I'll break you.

But instead, Vik's voice stayed low, and calm, with no hardness that Col could discern. There was even a smile on his face. "You're gonna be fine here."

. . .

"You're gonna be fine here," he said, doing his best to use his inside voice because he couldn't let Linden hear him being nice about him for once.

And also because the big guy still holding his hand seemed shit-scared already.

Vik had a damn good view being so near to him: Colton's face was absolutely littered with scars. That was meant to be a bad sign when it came to guard dogs- meant they were volatile or picked fights constantly. Vik wasn't so sure. He'd backed off the minute Linden intervened, and Linden had already told Vik that Colton was clearly terrified of him, even though he tried to hide it. Standing with him now, Vik reckoned he wasn't hiding it very well at all. He could feel Colton's heartbeat thrumming from his wrist like a drum.

He briefly imagined a scene in the far future, when Linden's gamble had worked out and this man was alright again, where the three of them were hanging out together, where they were all close friends. Vik would tease him for the time they first met, when Col had tried to chuck him straight back out onto the street. Linden would probably make some joke that he should’ve gone through with it. They’d all laugh – Col would be laughing hardest of all.   

Right now, Vik felt like laughing wasn't a physical possibility for Colton.

"Please punish me as you see fit, sir," Col replied, just as quietly.

"Ahh, well," Vik said brightly, giving Col a pat on the shoulder - making him flinch - and drawing back to a normal distance. His voice raised with it, giving his brother a hint that all was okay. "You weren't to know. No harm done."

Except for the back of my head which hurts like fuck, but whatever, I don't want this guy to start grovelling.

Col looked at him, his frown loosening a little bit. “Really, sir? You’d give me mercy?”

Ew. “Er, yeah, man. We’re cool.”

Linden’s voice came from the kitchen, accompanied by the sharp rings of a teaspoon being tapped against the rim of a mug, shaking off the final drops. “Tea’s ready!”

Col looked at Vik, waiting for something- instruction, probably. Vik gestured forward. “After you, mate.”

. . .

The rest of Vik’s visit passed without incident. The two brothers settled on the sofa so fluidly that Col got the impression they both sat in the exact same place every time. He felt overwhelmed with shame and apprehension as his mistake replayed in his mind. Running at Vik and pinning him to the wall, snapping at him, intending to hurt him. His Master must feel so embarrassed to have such a poorly-behaved pet.

Col knelt behind his owner and stared at nothing, keeping his back straight and his ears on the world outside. Occasionally the cat threatened to distract him with her purring and big eyes, but Colton didn’t allow himself to enjoy the sight of her. She wasn’t for his enjoyment, anyway.

“Come to mine next time, yeah?” Vik asked.

“Sure, it’s been a while. That’d be nice.”

“Alright, well I’ll head off. Nice to meet you, Col.”

Vik’s face appeared in Col’s peripheral vision, and Col looked over, giving him a nod and looking to his owner for permission to speak.

When his Master gave him an encouraging smile, Col said quietly, “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m sorry again.”

“It’s alright, Col,” Master said, reaching down and giving Col’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Col flinched that time, too. The shame only twisted deeper in his guts. Master turned back to his brother. “I’ll wave you off.”

“You’re always keeping me out of trouble, aren’t you,” replied Vik with a wry smile.

. . .

Linden didn’t have to catch Vik before he walked out the door – they clearly both wanted to have a debrief. Their chat had been more than a little stifled with Colton kneeling right there, ramrod straight, his eyes wide and unfocused. Vik bent to put his shoes back on and stared up at Linden with a face that said what the fuck.

“Yeah,” Linden whispered. “Someone’s clearly done a number on him. Did he hurt you?”

“No, no,” Vik said, unconvincingly. “It was funny anyway. But he really is fierce when he wants to be.”

“At least I know he’s… loyal, now. Not that I took him in to be loyal. Or violent. Ah well.”

“I know, but I get it, it’s good to know he doesn’t want to use any of that strength against you. You’re safe as anything as long as he’s around.”

“Bless him. He’s so nervous all the time. He won’t even pet Jaffa.”

“You’ve got this, mate,” Vik said sincerely. “He’s still new. Maybe you’ve gotta be a bit more clear with things. Next time he looks at Jaffa, just tell him to go and pet her.”

“I’ll try. You should still come round whenever, I’ll tell him not to worry about you.” The thought of Vik almost having his ass handed to him made Linden’s lips curl up again. “Maybe buy a helmet for next time just in case.”

“Oh shut up, I could still batter him and you, you better not start thinking I’m soft. I’ll see you later. And buy him some weights or something, for god’s sake. He’ll go crazy otherwise.”

Linden laughed as Vik headed off. When he walked back into the lounge, Colton was still kneeling. Of course he was – Linden hadn’t ordered him to do anything else.

“Uh…I’m glad you’ve met my brother. Please don’t fret about earlier, Col. You’re genuinely not in trouble. Vik wasn’t mad in the slightest.”

Col didn’t move except to cast his eyes towards Linden’s face. It made him look creepy, like a mannequin. “Thank you, Sir. It won’t happen again. Thank you for this mercy.”

“It might be helpful to mark Vik as someone who’s completely trusted, you know. You don’t have to be afraid when he’s around. You don’t have to be… on high alert. He’s not going to do anything.”

. . .

Col nodded. If Vik made a move to attack, it would be for him, never his Master. Col wasn’t to fight back. “I understand, Sir. Thank you.”

-

taglist part 1:

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captain-seconds @grizzlie70  @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonwardsworld  @cupcakes-and-pain  @bumbumbea @whumpfigure  @yet-another-heathen  @secretwhumplair  @whumps-up  @as-a-matter-of-whump  @getyourwhumphere  @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @the-monarch-whumperfly  @penny-for-your-whump  @briars7  @legallylibra @angel-stars  @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies  @badluck990  @rosesareviolentlyread  @vickytokio  @neuro-whump  @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight  @whumpsy-daisies  @control-whump  @theydy-cringeworthy  @starnight-whump @cursedandtired  @jo-doe-seeking-inspo  @justabitofwhump  @glamrockgregory  @rippedjeansandfadeddreams  @genesissane  @justbreakonme  @addyez @httyd-chocolate  @littlespacecastle  @haro-whumps  @extrabitterbrain @neverthelass  @downrivergirl914

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Lesson

Tyler's ordeal begins.

[Masterpost]

Content / warning: Explicit noncon (female whumper, male whumpee), creepy whumper, intimate whumper, facility whump, whumper turned whumpee, humiliation, multiple whumpers; there's really not a lot of plot going on. So, have fun.

The echoes of Grimm's steps leaving the room and the drumming of his own racing heartbeat in his ears were the only sounds Tyler could hear. Carly's hand was still buried in his hair, her face in front of his, just studying his face silently. He'd never seen her this close. Light green eyes, narrowed, as she was taking in her prey. The faintest beginning of wrinkles, etching the shape of her smirk into her skin. Her lips were thin, pursed, but it couldn't cover the overwhelming glee she was radiating with.

"You know, T," she said eventually, after the door had slammed close. "You fucked up my day yesterday. Robbed me of a lot of fun. But this? This is going to make up for it, big time." She smiled now, and it did nothing at all to make Tyler feel any better.

He balled his fists, tentatively, tried to tug at the straps fixing him to the padded table. He'd seen trainees do this, ever so often. Always wondered, how they thought they could get out of them. Or how they thought, that even if they could, it would make any difference.

It was nothing but a waste of energy.

Carly had seen it. Of course she had, and she chuckled, letting her other hand run over his tense shoulder. "You are a pretty one, T. I've wanted to fuck you up since forever, you know. That body is absolutely wasted on the handler side of this facility."

Her hand ran down over his bare chest and stomach, not light and teasing, but cruel and purposeful, pressing into each of the bruises she passed and chuckling as he tensed in reaction.

She didn't stop at his waistband, just pushed her hand into his shorts. Tyler gasped as her cool fingers closed around his cock.

She moaned a little, eyes sparking with sick joy. "Oh, T, we need to work on this. A good Romantic is always ready." Her wrist twisted, before she took up some pumping strokes. Tyler winced. It hurt.

"Please." It was a mere whisper, not much more than a breath, and it took him a second to realize it had come from his own lips.

Carly laughed in delight "Oh, what a good boy! Knowing your words already." She let go, only to swing a leg over his hip and climb on the table, straddling him between her legs. "You beg so good."

She settled back on top of him, looking towards the training room's one way mirror. "How long was that? 10 seconds?"

A static click sounded from the speakers hidden in the white ceiling and Tyler felt himself tremble, when he understood, what he'd already known. Carly wasn't the only one here for him. Your colleagues, Grimm had said, and they were over there in the control room, seeing this. Watching.

Someone laughed over the microphone, almost breathless, before they replied. "55, Thompson. You're way too excited to keep time."

"Huh." Carly shrugged and patted Tyler's cheek. It burned with sudden shame. "Less than a minute still. Means you guys owe me ten bucks." She grabbed Tyler's chin and leaned in, licking a slow, teasing strip down his neck.

He twisted his head, tried to get himself away from her, but her hold was relentless.

"Mmmh. I've got more bets going, you know," she breathed into his ear. "Next one is, how quickly I can make you cry. And..." She let go of his face for one beautiful second, pushed herself higher on her knees -- and reached down to jerk his shorts down to his knees, exposing him fully. Just like he had, so often, with his own trainees. "There's also the question, if we can get you hard hands on, or if you need some chemical support. But whatever it is, we're definitely..." She pried something small out of her uniform's pocket and casually presented it to him.

A silicon cock ring.

He felt sick.

"Going to keep you that way." With a horribly practised motion, she grabbed between his legs and slid the ring over his cock, pushed it down until it sat snugly at the base. "What do you think, T, huh? What does it need to get you going?"

Nothing. He knew it, and she did, too. It was his job to fuck his trainees, in any state.

They were meant to be ready for him, always. But to demand it, he needed to be ready in return.

Carly's hand was still wrapped around him, and she started working him again, deft and efficient. She knew what she was doing - just as he did, just as their trainees did perfectly after just some weeks with them.

He couldn't escape it. The leather straps bound him to the sides of the table, Carly's weight on his thighs pinned him in place.

She chuckled, as his body began to react, his cock twitiching in her hand. "Good boy," she cooed. "Oh, T, you're craving to get fucked by us, aren't you?"

He shook his head, afraid to speak, ashamed of his own voice that was about to break.

She didn't mind the lack of an answer, just went on with her strokes.

"So," she said. "We've had this thing in the group chat, little poll, how exactly we're going to fuck you." She pulled out her phone out of her pocket with one hand and moved it in front of his face, before she scrolled down. "Ass. Face. Ass. Ass. Ride him. Huh. There's one that only says pecs." She raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, I know a lot about weird fucking, but i have no idea how Beckett wants to go about that"

"Wait and see", Beckett's voice came over the speaker. "I've been dreaming of this since I saw him in the shower the first time." Laughter followed. Tyler closed his eyes. He knew her. He knew all of them. People he had worked with, every day, chatted about their hobbies, vacation destinations, the horrible food options at lunch. He'd never wanted to be one of them, it was enough to feel vaguely accepted.

He never had been.

On top of him Carly chuckled and scrolled further down. "Anyway, T. I must say, I kind of envy the dick-havers in that one. They can just shove it down your pretty little mouth already. Getting an invol trainee to actively use their mouth on a clit - takes a while, until it's enjoyable. But I mean, that's the beauty of it. We've got time." She put the phone down on the table next to his head and ran a finger down his cheek, her other hand not stopping the relentless motions. "I volunteered to be your primary."

"Please, Carly," Tyler croaked. "Just do it then."

"Do what? Wipe you?" She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh no. Grimm wants to hear you talk, first. And us? We can fuck a trainee all day, every day. But fucking Tyler Parker, pathetic junior handler who always thought he was better than us?" She twisted her hand, caressed the tip of his already hard cock. "There's a waiting list, T, and you're going to serve every single one of them."

Tyler couldn't fight a weak moan falling from his lips when her thumb pressed into the soft spot just beneath the glans.

Tyler squeezed his eyes shut, forced back hot tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. "Gotcha." Carly slapped him across the face, almost casually. "Crying. No need to hide it. And I didn't even hurt you."

"Queen, Carly. Another ten bucks for you." This time, it was Kurt, jeering over the speaker. "And cheers, Parker. That's the size of cock that ladies are going to get in line for."

He didn't open his eyes. Unwanted pleasure was throbbing between his legs, even with Carly's hand gone. His skin was burning with shame. Tears were streaking down his face. But it didn't matter. He'd just get through this. Shame couldn't kill him. It would be over. He'd survive.

As a pet.

"No," he whispered.

Carly's hand ran through his hair, as she laughed. "You know, you can say no all you want. I love it in all my invols. Will make it even more fun to train you out of it."

Her weight on him lightened for a moment. He didn't need to look to know why. Their uniforms' belts didn't make much noise when removed, except for the soft tug when she pulled it from the loops. The zipper did though. Fabric rustled, when she pushed her own pants down.

"Oh, T. You look pathetic like that." She huffed. "But I'm horny for pathetic. And you got me all worked up." Carly's hand wrapped around him again, and he almost cried out at the harsh onslaught of sensations. Swiftly, she guided him between her legs. She was dripping wet.

"No," he croaked, desperately twisting in his bonds to get away from her. His heart raced. "No, don't."

She lowered herself onto him, took him in, all tight pressure around him. His hips bucked helplessly, just buried himself deeper into her, as treacherous pleasure flooded his nerves.

Carly moaned obscenly, hands pressing onto his chest, and before he could even understand, a wave of pain surged through his body from where her fingers dug into his bruised ribs.

His cry turned into a moan when she shifted her hips, and pain mingled with the need for relief.

"Masochist training. Suits you, T," she breathed. "You're made for pain."

He shook his head, hands balling into fists. He wasn't, he wasn't made for any of this.

Her teeth grazed his neck, and before he could prepare himself, she bit down hard. Tyler yelped, as her teeth broke skin. His whole body spasmed, only prompting her to take up speed.

Carly's moan vibrated through his core, and she sucked down hard, her hips at a relentless pace while she fucked herself on him.

It hurt, everything hurt, and still Tyler felt himself react to her, his nerves taut, hungry for unwanted pleasure.

"Fuck," she groaned, hand buried into his hair, yanking his head back, as he felt her climax constricting around him, and her words dissolved into a relieved scream.

Tyler sobbed.

"Fuck, Parker," Carly panted, licking up the blood from his neck. "You're just made to be used."

And then she was gone.

Her weight lifted, the heat of her body vanished, cold air hitting his heated skin, chilling the slick wetness on his thighs.

Just the smell of sex and an echo of her breathless laughter still filled the air.

Tyler couldn't help but shudder.

"You know." It was a mere whisper by his ear, inaudible for anyone but him. "Technically, making you beg wasn't even the first bet I won today. That one was - I've always known that I'd get to fuck you like this. Some people are just made to be ruined."

She kissed the bite mark on his neck, sending another helpless tremble through his body, before she raised her voice again.

"Well, guys. Who's next?"

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

are you looking for names for your characters and can’t think of any you haven’t used? try looking up yearly hurricane names

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

thank you to everyone who has messaged me and just been so kind <3 I am doing a lot better now and my family is too

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

I wish I could do something to help. But sending you hugs.

thank you 💞💞💞

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Warning for talk of real life suicide

I am having a really horrible day. And I am feeling really fucking hopeless.

My little sibling is the baby I’ve loved my whole life, the other half of my heart. They tried to kill themselves for the third time in two years. Not today. No, a fucking week ago. And nobody fucking told me. I only fucking find out because I got a fucking shared calendar alert.

They have been depressed for years and in treatment the whole time. “They’re doing much better now,” my parents said. But that’s the fucking problem. They’re always doing much better now. They have a job they love, a passion they’re pursuing, great friends, supportive family. But all it takes is one bad day. And before we even know something’s wrong, they’re gone. The first time they slit their wrists. The second time I found them with a noose. This time they OD’ed. I don’t know what they’ll do next time but I’m so so scared that will be the time it kills them.

They’re in a residential hospital now. My parents are hopeful. They’re always so hopeful.

I feel like I’m loving a ghost. Like it’s just a matter of time before they’re only a memory, because no matter what I do, how I try to change, how much I try to be there for them. They always tell me they’re ok. And they always do it again. Every time feels like it’s my fault. How could my love be enough if it’s not enough to save them? Every time my life explodes along with them, and then I get back on track, and then it fucking happens again.

I don’t know what to do.

If you’ve ever been like them, in a cycle like this, could you please tell me what helped you? I don’t know what to do.

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Three

CW: Drunkenness, alchohol in general, some implied dubcon starting at *** and ending at the next ***, magical mind manipulation, restraints, religious talk

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

-

One year prior to present-day

He still thinks of himself as Brother Grigori, in his mind, even though he walked away from the temple in the middle of the night months ago. He abandoned his goddess and her open arms in a fit of rage and grief, in the aftermath of a week’s worth of nightmares. 

In his mind, he’s still Brother Grigori. To the world outside, though, he’s Greg. Or, well, mostly he’s the drunk over there.

He keeps his white robes carefully wrapped in canvas and twine, hidden in a bag on the bench beside him. He’s anonymous like this, just wearing a simple linen shirt and pants, rope sandals to take the edge off the boiling summer heat. His skin’s tanned to a constant warm, light brown now and his hair’s a mop he doesn’t bother to brush more than once every few days, grown out and streaked from sunshine. 

No one would know him for a priest. Dromada’s Chosen seclude themselves in the temples, spend little time in the light. Priests are pale men in white robes who smile without pain or bitterness, and they certainly don’t hate themselves and sit up at night wishing they were dead. They absolutely don’t drink themselves into a stupor every single night so they won’t wake up screaming. 

He looks nothing like the hero they made of him through well-intentioned lies and constantly expanding gossip, and that’s exactly how he likes it. 

There are already four separate popular songs about his supposed courage and bravery. Standing up against the wicked bandits who want to tear the kingdom apart in the name of his goddess, his stalwart and true faith terrifying the evil men and women back into the dark of the great, thick woods. 

None of these songs tell a story he recognizes as anywhere close to what happened.

He’s come to this tavern every day this week because it’s the one place where he never has to overhear any of the tripe they’ve made about his life. The barman, who also owns the inn upstairs, hates him - or rather, hates the idea of him from the songs, and has banned all the music that mentions his name, or even the thought of him.

Grigori is deeply grateful for him for it. 

All the pretty nonsense played on lutes or sung in warbling voices about Dromada’s son, who stood up to the evil spat out by the Kaila trees… It’s all just lies, pointless lies to comfort the people. They want to think one man can make a difference. What could he even tell them? He couldn’t even save his own brothers in the temple. The men who had raised him from his infancy, and taught him to be holy and pure. When they could have used him, he wasn’t there.

If I had been there, I’d just have died with them.

The thought brings no comfort. It’s what should have happened, but didn’t. 

He takes another drink, letting the liquor burn hot down his throat. He had never had anything stronger than watered-down wine in the temple before it all happened, and now he isn’t sure when he’s last been sober at all once the sun goes down.

Sobriety, for him, comes in bursts of hangovers - headaches and nausea and a stomach desperate for bread and butter nonetheless. Sobriety is the return of his self-hatred after he had spent the night before successfully drinking it away. Or sometimes not as successfully, but on those nights he just drank more and sooner or later he fell asleep with his head on the bar.

As long as he keeps paying, the barman doesn’t mind mopping up when ‘Greg’ spills a tankard or two when he forgets to keep holding onto it. Even if he suspects the man goes through his things when he’s passed out, he hasn’t said anything and he hasn’t kicked him out for being a priest who broke the vow of sobriety.

Grigory lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. So many vows. He’s broken, what, two of them? To always wear his robes and make himself known as a Chosen of the goddess, and to pursue always sober living, staying away from wine that isn’t watered and all alcohol otherwise. 

That leaves… poverty, chastity, obedience, and serenity. 

He’s probably broken serenity, too, actually. Is being drunk all the time serene? Or the opposite? His hair brushes against his cheeks, and he wonders if blood vessels have begun to break, if he’ll get ruddy like the drunks he saw sometimes as a child, leaving offerings to Dromada and begging her forgiveness for the sins they confessed to the priests.

Dromada forgives, you have only to ask. So you have requested, so Her forgiveness is given. Walk in new peace and be free of your chains. 

He hasn’t confessed any sins since the day the temple priests died and he didn’t. Not that it matters, not anymore.

Dromada isn’t listening. He isn’t sure if She ever did.

A cheery voice speaks entirely too closely to him, making him jump as his heart skips a beat. The voice is bright, slightly raspy and deeply masculine. “Well, don’t you need a haircut, a bowl of stew, and some clean shoes? Not necessarily in that order, of course.”

He blinks his eyes open, wincing a little as the light stings - even as dim as it is in here, the light stings. He needs to drink more. “What?”

A handsome man smiles down at him, a knit hat pulled low on his head, until it covers even the tips of his ears. White-blond hair sticks out the bottom over his forehead like hay, straight as a bone and every which way, but there’s a hint of closely-shorn hair just above his ears that suggests the sides are shaved. Unusually, his eyes are a thick and glossy black, with no sign of the shift between iris and pupil. It’s all one color, and seems to suck light in rather than reflect it. The stranger’s tall, having to lean over just to talk to Grigory where he sits, but he’s also lean, like a sapling ready to bend in the wind rather than break. “I said, you need a haircut.” The stranger reaches out and twines a bit of Grigori’s curly brown hair around his finger, letting it brush against his cheek.

He watches Grigori shiver with a slight, half-cocked smile, black eyes sparkling with a kind of good humor and interest that feels as dangerous as a threat. 

“You also need a bowl of stew and some clean shoes. Sadly, only one of those can I be of assistance with. Bowl of stew, bit of bread? My treat, of course.”

“I… are you asking me?” The stranger nods, and Grigori hesitates… then sighs, and looks down, eyeing his sandals. Are they that dirty? They look fine to him. “No, but thank you. I am not hungry.”

“Don’t eat much these days, do you?”

Grigori’s frown deepens. “I eat when I am hungry.”

“No, you drink when you’re hungry. But you’re going to eat now.” The stranger laughs, bright and kind of beautiful, and Grigori blinks, his frown fading. He watches the man cross the room, calling out his order to the tavern’s owner, who looks over at Grigori with eyebrows raised. Grigori just shrugs, and goes back to his drink.

Or he tries to.

He has to stop when the stranger swoops in with two bowls of stew and a plate of bread balanced on the inside of one elbow, like a man who has waited tables in inns all his life. He then swipes the tankard from Grigori and chugs it all down, drops running from the corners of his mouth down over the long line of his throat.

Grigori’s mouth feels, suddenly, rather dry - for reasons Dromada would frown on, but Dromada already allowed his brothers to be sacrificed. He’s not sure he believes in her forgiveness and mercy anymore. No goddess who cannot protect her most devoted can be much of a goddess at all, can she?

“I see you undressing me with your eyes,” The stranger teases, and Grigori blushes even more deeply, dropping his eyes hurriedly back down to the steaming bowl of stew on the table before him, picking up his spoon with fumbling fingers and getting a bit of meat - cheap cut of beef cooked slow over a fire until it tasted as good as the richest man’s steak - and faking a consummate interest in the shimmering fat that had settled atop the broth. “None of that until we’re done getting some food in you. And no more beer until you’re full, either. Try dunking the bread in, it’s great.”

Grigori nods without looking up, afraid to see the sparkle in those eyes again. He’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Being raised by the priests, well… when you’re wearing Dromada’s robes, the people know you’re pure.

He feels like the stranger isn’t very pure at all.

“What’s-... thank you, for the stew,” He says around mouthfuls, discovering once he starts eating that he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His stomach growls after the first bite and somehow he finishes the bowl and starts sopping it up with bread in record time. “What’s your name?”

“Ooooh, he’s curious now that he can think,” The stranger says, still bright and cheerful. Grigori watches the line of his body as he sits back, fingers interlocked behind his head and elbows bent, kicking up his feet to rest his heels on an empty chair. “The formal name is Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, which I hate. Call me Bohli.”

“You have a nobleman’s name?” Grigori’s curiosity gets the best of him and he looks up, eyebrows raising. “Or… partly. Maks is a noble house-”

“My mother was quite the little lady indeed,” Bohli says, and his smile twists sharp and cynical. Somehow it suits his equally sharp features, and Grigori feels an unsettling, unfamiliar shiver roll through him at the sight. Something about the room feels a little overheated, but when he glances over, there’s no fire in the fireplace, no reason for it. “My father… well. Ygridsen-”

“I know what it means.”

“You do?” Bohli’s smile stretches somehow even wider. 

“Yes. We do training, in such things at-... at school.” He catches himself almost too late. He doesn’t share that he was a priest - no priest leaves his order, and they might find out who he is. He couldn’t stand it if that happened. He’d shrivel up and die, if the people had to see what their great hero really is. “Ygridsen means ‘god’s son’. You don’t have a father.”

“Well, I mean. Technically I have one. Just not the one my mother was married to when I was born.” He winks, and Grigori’s eyes narrow more in confusion than distaste. Bohli must misread it, though, because he sighs almost dramatically and grabs a hunk of bread himself, spreading it with thick butter. “Oh, what. Listen, my mother had an idea. It didn’t pan out for her, and here I am. Besides, you should be happy with me being a bastard.”

Grigori finds himself oddly fixated on the sight of Bohli’s long, thin fingers as he lifts the bread to his mouth and bites. A bit of butter sticks to one lip, melting against it. There are crumbs at the corners of his mouth. Grigori wants to do… something to it. But he doesn’t know what. “Why?”

“Because the man my mother was married to was ugly as a dog with mange and about half as graceful,” Bohli says, bright and cheerful, and then grins at Grigori’s shocked half-laugh in return. “There we go. See, I knew you’d be fun, given the chance.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let me buy you another drink, since I finished yours.” Bohli lifts a hand and the barman finds his way over, pints of beer already ready to go.

Bohli pays for it all, seemingly no end to the coins he has on hand. At some point beer becomes whiskey, heady and too strong, and the room runs together along with all the people in it. Grigori opens up, a little - he doesn’t tell the truth about who he is, but he and Bohli talk about the dangers of travel in the countryside. Bohli nods sympathetically as Grigori explains how careful he is to avoid the Kaila and the bandits within, and how it means that he must always take the longer, winding route everywhere he goes. His words slur but Bohli seems to understand, or at least is polite enough to pretend to.

Grigori hasn’t realized just how lonely he is until he has someone to talk to and discovers himself utterly unable to stop.

Couching his words carefully, he even shares with Bohli that he is traveling because of the untimely murders of his family a year ago, and Bohli nods and murmurs comforting things and puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing one thumb back and forth in a way that sends a strange heat deep in Grigori’s stomach. He tips his head, looking at that hand, a little confused by its placement there. And far more confused by the fact that he doesn’t want it to stop being placed there, unless it moves down. 

“I think I know how to help you,” Bohli says, and Grigori doesn’t know when it happened but the man’s lips are moving against his ear. His breath is hot and Grigori has to hold back a sound, something odd and helpless. 

Is this-?

This is temptation. Sins of impurity, unchastity. This is his body wanting another’s, more shameful than the nights he wakes up in damp sheets from sweat and has to furtively clean and purify himself after the impure dreams that the priests say are natural, but will fade, in time. 

Dromada’s priests are dead. The men who found him, raised him, made him one of their own… slaughtered by the Kaila-born bandits, destroyed. What use is chastity to a priest with no temple?

Grigori has to hold back a groan when Bohli’s fingers drift up to graze up the side of his neck, up into the nape, into his hair. 

“You have a room here?” Bohli asks, all hushed voice and too much breathing against thin, sensitive skin.

Grigori nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs his bag and stands so fast he knocks his chair over, making Bohli laugh that beautiful brilliant bell-like laughter, drawing the eyes of the room. 

Everyone knows what they’re about to do.

Everyone.

Just by the sight of Grigori all but fleeing to the stairs and the back half of the building, Bohli hot on his heels, still laughing.

****

Grigori has barely dropped his bag and closed the door when Bohli slams into him, surprisingly strong for such a lithe body, shoving his back against a wall and kissing him with a fervor that steals every ounce of willpower he might ever have had to resist.

The world is still spinning, from desire or drink he can no longer tell, when Bohli drops to his knees and yanks Grigori’s pants down until they tangle around his ankles. “Stay still,” Bohli orders, and takes him - already half-hard even not quite knowing what comes next - into his hand. The heat and grip makes Grigori shudder and let out a sound like a cry. It’s nothing like his own hand, nothing at all.

“Ssssshhh, keep it down,” Bohli says, but that teasing smile is back and his hand starts to move, stroking languidly. Grigori has to grit his teeth against the urge to simply spill right here and now, before anything has even gotten started. He swallows and closes his eyes so he can’t see the incredible sight of Bohli’s black eyes as his mouth closes slowly over him.

Grigori probably cries out again, but at some point Bohli stops shushing him and he no longer cares. He comes once and his knees buckle, but Bohli refuses to stop and brings him back to hardness again too soon, his back on the floor and the man straddling him, before he strokes him off a second time, laughing in a way that would be sinister if the pleasure weren’t so overwhelming.

Somehow they find their way into the bed, and Bohli brings him to his peak a third time, a mix of hands and mouth.

“Three,” Bohli whispers, when Grigori is boneless and sated. “That’s a sign if there ever was one.”

“Sign of… of what?” Grigori murmurs, eyes closed, drifting somewhere just before sleep claims him. Bohli is still fully clothed next to him, murmuring sweet soft things and tracing little patterns on his skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bohli whispers. “Just sleep, pretty man.” He kisses Grigori on the cheek, sweet and soft, and Grigori falls into the darkness, content in his sin, reveling in the broken vow. He can feel guilty and go to Confession tomorrow. He can worry about that when he wakes and has to feed the hangover again.

He sleeps without dreams, grateful for the peace he’s been given by this stranger he only just met, how his body’s release unlocked some rage and horror he’d been holding tightly within him and gave it the freedom to go.

***

He wakes with a groan, finding his arms stretched above his head, arching his back as he stretches further.

“Oh, damn,” Bohli’s voice says, husky and low. “Now that’s a pretty sight. They breed all your priests to look that good with your robes off?”

Grigori’s eyes fly open, and he moves to jerk himself upright, but his wrists catch. Wide eyes roll back to look up, and he finds his wrists tied with firm knots to the headboard of the bed. His ankles are tied to the posts at the end, forcing him to lie spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born. 

“Wh-... what-”

He turns to look, wincing against the stinging headache and the hangover throbbing behind his eyes, and sees Bohli standing over in the corner. He’s surrounded by the contents of Grigori’s bag, the white robes laid out on the floor, picking up the first hints of dust, along with everything else he has brought with him or bought since he left.

“Why-... I have nothing to steal,” Grigori starts, his body washing cold with something close to fear. He broke his vows for a man who will rob him? What a small mean awful thing to commit such a sin for. “Nothing worth buying!”

“Mmmmn, beg to differ, but I could see how you might think so.” Bohli steps carefully over and around Grigori’s only possessions, until he sits next to him on the bed. He leans over, patting him on the stomach as if soothing a frightened animal. “You have lots to offer, though, Brother Grigori.”

His heart skips a beat. “Why-... why did you call me?”

“Oh, silly holy man. I’ve been looking for you for a year. I’ve been following you for a month. I guess I owe you the twenty marks, though, since it took me this long. Guess I didn’t know where you’d go. Never occurred to me you’d just… fucking stop being a priest. I’ll pay you later.” Bohli grins. “In kisses.”

Grigori’s eyes widen. In a burst of panic and rage, his vision blurs and then clears again, his headache fading. “You!”

“Me!” Bohli grins. “Me indeed. You didn’t forget me completely, then?”

“You… you bastard-”

“Right again!”

“-you killed my family-”

“Technically, that wasn’t me, but Harren did it on my orders, so I guess kind of-”

“Why?!” The cry is one of sorrow, a barely-human wail. Grigori’s grief wells back up and washes out of him, tears burning and running down his cheeks. “Why?!”

“Damn,” Bohli whispers.

Grigori can’t tell if he sounds guilty or like he wants to bed him again.

“Listen. I’ll explain later, once I get you back home.”

“Home?” For a second, Grigori stupidly thinks of the desecrated temple and its empty halls.

“To the Kaila. We live there-”

“Never!”

That just makes Bohli sigh, as if disappointed in him for his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, hush. You’re going with me whether you like it or not, you know, Brother Grigori. I have need of a priest.”

“You… no.” Grigori struggles against his bonds, the ropes pulling tight, red marks growing on his wrists as the skin rubs raw. “No! I will go nowhere with you!”

“Now, see, you’re lying. I guess if you don’t realize it, it doesn’t count. But, look. You’re going. And you’re going to tell everyone who you are on the way there.”

Bohli leans over, slipping something over his head. A chain with a pendant on the end, simple stone with a runic mark carved in the middle. Grigori feels the burst of elven magic, his mouth dropping open in shock, and then-

His mind feels cool, like slipping underneath the water in a pond, only he has no need to breathe. He can’t imagine needing to breathe. His thoughts are still and calm, contented. Bohli leans close and Grigori wonders how he could ever have felt anger at such a lovely, kind man. The trap spell in the pendant, the elven magic that takes hold of him, feels like being held in such a sweet and soft embrace. It feels like the water closing over his head.

“There we go,” Bohli murmurs. “Pretty-pretty. I’m going to untie you. When you get dressed, make sure you put your robes on, all right? I want everyone to see who you are. I want you to show them off.”

Grigori swallows, nodding. 

He can do that.

“Good. Then we’re going to my house, and that’s where you’re going to live now.” Bohli’s fingers made quick work of the knots on the rope, and Grigori sat slowly up, blinking as if he had to push through a haze to do it. 

When Bohli hands him the robes, he dresses, clumsily. Bohli has to help him tie the belt at his waist.

“Good. You look great. I’m going to pack your bag back up, and then you’ll come with me and be my useful little traitor to the crown, won’t you, Brother Grigori?”

Another nod. He’s not even sure he hears what Bohli is saying. Or cares. He just likes the sound of his voice.

“Good,” Bohli croons. “Very good. Let’s go. I have a king’s reputation to ruin, and you are going to be my secret weapon.”

Grigori follows him downstairs, smiling when the people there eating their breakfast gasp at the sight of his robes. He’s happy to tell them exactly who he is. 

Happy to tell them he’s the Hero they sing about.

Happy to tell them he’s joining the bandits, now, in the Kaila, because the king cannot protect them.

Happy to get on Bohli’s horse, sitting just before him with Bohli behind resting his chin on Grigori’s shoulder, and ride away.

The pendant bumps against his collarbone, and when Bohli whispers, “Sleep upright,” Grigori closes his eyes and lets himself sleep deeper into the pool in his mind, until all is dark and quiet and calm and he knows no more.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

🪢 and 🦷

For anyone you want

Medical restraints + bite down on this

-

CW: Fantasy creature, restrained, gagged, intimate whumper, nonsexual nudity, dehumanizing language, use of 'boy' but only because the Captain's in his forties and thinks everyone younger than 25 is a boy

-

"Well, how is he?" The ship's captain stuck his head into the small room that was more or less what passed for a surgery. The smell as always made him wrinkle his nose, but a little blood and viscera never hurt anyone. Well, unless it was coming out of them. Still.

He stopped short in the doorway, staring with shock at the sight that awaited him.

The tall, lithe young man they had found floating on a bit of broken wood lay stretched out on the large table the captain had had bolted down to the floor when he took over the ship. Tanned skin was a handsome warm brown, the lad well-enough-formed, if your tastes ran that way. A blanket had been draped over him started at the waist, offering some small modesty. His hair had dried into unruly black curls, crusted with salt.

His face was stunning. To the captain it seemed too lovely, almost womanly, softness instead of hard angles. Had a man ever been so beautiful?

But what stopped him was not the young man's beauty, but the ropes tied tightly keeping the young man's hands behind his back, and the bit of polished wood forced between his teeth and tied behind his head. The young man gnawed in it, yanking at his bonds.

When he saw the captain, he froze - and then his eyes went wide and startled, sweetly soft and pleading. The brown of them was darker than his skin, not quite black. Eyes made to drown in. The young man hummed, trying to form words.

"My God, Wentworth, what have you done?"

"What I had to, for my own safety. Oi, stop that!" The ship's surgeon - who acted also as a barber and butcher the times they caught or bought anything of decent size - smacked the lad hard enough to bounce the boy's head off the table. The captain blinked, feeling suddenly as if cold water had washed down his spine. The lad grunted, twisting to glare up at Wentworth, hissing around the wooden bar between his teeth.

"Better. Stay silent or I'll cut out your tongue."

"Wentworth!"

"May need to, captain." The surgeon looked up, pushing a small pair of wire-rimmed glasses further up his nose. He wore a heavy apron like a blacksmith, although his was stained and smeared with blood old and new, not with soot. "For starters, Captain, it's not a he."

"What? When my men picked him up, he was naked as the dawn itself and they were quite certain as to his sex organs, Wentworth. They were indeed the focus of quite a bit of conversation and... gesturing, during their reports."

"Mmmn. You've got a point. I guess I should say, it's not a human he." The surgeon sighed, patting the lad on his flank through the blanket. The boy jerked away from the touch. "Captain, we didn't find a shipwreck survivor, sir, we found what caused the ship to wreck."

The captain paused. He took in the sight of the lad all over again - his unearthly beauty, twisted with inhuman rage, the way his teeth around the gag seemed just a little too sharply pointed. "... what are you saying, Wentworth?"

The surgeon turned away, rummaging through a large bag he kept off to one side, next to a dried brownish stain that had been in the wood since long before Wentworth had even taken the job. He turned back, holding a length of cord in his hands. He made quick work of the knots he needed. "I'll show you. And you'll see why I had to gag it."

When he slid the loop in the cord over the lad's head, the boy struggled with sudden ferocity, fighting his bonds. The rope creaked, but it held. The lad hissed again, and earned himself a hard crack upside the head from Wentworth's hand. Once the loop had settled around his neck, there was a long silence, the lad's deep brown eyes focused on the surgeon with seething hate.

The lad didn't seem to understand the cord or what purpose it served - once it hadn't caused immediate pain, he settled down, although his teeth still gnawed with fury at the gag that kept them from biting. Confusion flickered, a terribly human expression. Wentworth began to undo the knot tying the gag on behind the lad's head.

"You'll want to be out of arm's reach, Captain, sir," Wentworth said, and the captain indeed moved back just outside the doorway. Wentworth was never a man to exaggerate the danger of a thing. If he said space was needed, the captain believed him.

Wentworth, too, took a sudden shift back away as soon as the gag fell from the young man's mouth. The lad hesitated, eyes darting from one to the other, then began to struggle with his bonds again. The knots were too well done for freedom - Wentworth had been quite the expert on them during his time with the Royal Navy - and all they did was tighten further, until the lad hissed in pain and the captain saw bright red blood smearing the boy's wrists, soaking into the coarse fibers.

"Wentworth-" He started, but his surgeon shook his head, holding up one finger. Wait.

The boy swallowed, thinking. The corners of his mouth were reddened from the gag. He looked almost debauched, this way, laid out naked and bound. He was like a creature from myth, Ganymede abducted by Zeus, and it only enhanced his beauty. The boy hummed, softly. As if testing the sound.

To the captain's surprise, the lad began, in a voice soft and mournful, to sing.

"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more... men were deceivers ever... one foot in sea and one on shore, to one thing constant, never..."

It was the most beautiful sound that the Captain had ever heard. The boy's voice was high and clear, twining tenor notes into a sweet sorrow that wrenched at the captain's heart and made him think of the ladies he had loved, in his life, two dead and one left behind.

No boy who could sing like this should ever be so bound.

He took a step closer, watching the young man's face. Everything else in the world was a haze by comparison. Those brown eyes met his, no longer flashing fire and fury but instead soft and warm, promising kisses and adoration beyond compare.

"Then sigh not so," The boy sang, watching the captain as he took one step closer and then another. "But let them go, and be you blithe and bonny... converting all your sounds of woe into hey, nonny nonny... sing no more ditties, sing no more, no dumps so dull and heavy..."

If he would only untie the lad and set him free, the captain knew with perfect certainty, the boy would cover him with kisses and they could swim together in the sea.

"The fraud of men was ever so since summer first was leavy... then sigh not so, but let them go..."

He was nearly close enough. He reached a hand out to touch the young man's face, inhaling sharply at the perfect smooth warmth of his skin.

The boy turned his face to press his mouth against the captain's hand, sending shivers up his spine as the final notes were slightly muffled, but still sure and true.

"And be you blithe and bonny... converting all your sounds of woe..."

The captain leaned over, reaching for the knots that kept the boy's hands tied so tightly. His fingertips just brushed one.

"Into hey nonny, non-"

The creature jerked backwards and away all at once with a sudden undignified squawk, yanked off the table. He fell with a sickening thud to the floor below, gasping and choking as the surgeon pulled the slipknot tight enough around his neck to steal his air.

The haze around the captain faded, and he blinked as the last firm notes seemed still to ring inside his mind. Then he shuddered, backing with terror up to the doorway. "Wentworth!"

"Aye, Captain." The surgeon held onto the cord, shoving one booted foot against the boy's - the thing's - side to hold him down and keeping the cord pulled right so the thing could not breathe enough to sing again. Wentworth pulled earplugs out of one side and then the other. "Sorry. Easier for you to hear it than to just believe what'd sound like a madman's ravings. I doubt we even hear it sing the same song. This is magic, is what this is. Real magic and true, like in the tales of serpents and mermaids. But you see now, aye, Captain? It isn't human. And no mermaid, either."

"I believe you, Wentworth. I dare say not human in the least." The captain's fingers twitched in an old urge to cross himself, but he had left the priesthood and the Catholic faith behind a long, long time ago. "It is a demon!"

"A siren, more like."

The captain frowned. "We are nowhere near the Sirenum Scopuli."

"Men wander through the world, why not sirens?"

He had no argument against that. "Fair enough, Wentworth."

"Besides, I think we ain't the first to pick him up. Bettin' the wreckage we saw came about because this one-" He yanked on the cord again, and the thing on the floor gasped, flopping like a fish out of water indeed. "-played sad some survivor and sang a ship onto rocks to get himself and his friends some dinner. And he planned the same for us."

"... aye." The captain watched Wentworth jam the wooden gag back between the creature's teeth as it fought him, twisting like a wild animal... which of course it was. And it would have had him free it, no doubt spelled the whole ship with its wretched-

Beautiful, perfect, lovely-

-voice, and led them to their deaths as well. The thing was forced back up onto the table, naked now as the blanket had fallen away. It was perfectly formed to echo a man from head to toe, with shapely muscles, hard angles and soft curves in equal measure.

A lie from the Devil to tempt the less than innocent to damnation.

The captain swallowed and raised his chin, looking at the thing as it glared with baleful loathing right back at him. All softness gone, if indeed it had ever had any to begin with.

The captain's lip pulled back in a sneer. "Kill it, Wentworth. We are near to shore."

He turned and left without waiting for the order to be acknowledged.

Wentworth exhaled once the captain had left, running a hand up and down the siren's side. It hissed, but when it tried to get away from him, he jerked on the cord until it choked. Over and over, until it finally went still, shaking beneath his touch. Fear finally overcoming its animal hate.

"Ssssshhhh," Wentworth whispered, leaning down so his lips moved against its salt-tipped hair. "Ssssshhhh. Don't you worry, beautiful thing. No death for you, not today. We are going on shore together."

The thing understood nothing, he knew that. It echoed and mimiced men but knew nothing of the meaning behind the sounds. But that didn't matter.

"I will take you to shore, and take you home. Quit the work here, set up in the city." He tickled his fingers idly over its ribs until it shuddered in disgust and twisted away. Then he choked it again, this time waiting and waiting, watching its face redden and then pale, eyes wide and bright, gnashing with helpless terror against the gag. After a while, its eyes fluttered closed, and it went limp, slumping back against his chest.

He sighed happily, letting the loop go slack now.

"There we go. Let's pack you in a box." He patted the unconscious creature on the head, tying the cord to a hook in the wall he usually hung his tool bag on. If it woke, it couldn't move without choking again.

He stopped in the doorway to look back at the beautiful creature that had nearly killed them all. He smiled, fondly.

"You," he announced, "are going to make me filthy rich."

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Oskar😍😍😍

I love him too!

Just to let you know!

CW: BBU pet whump, Oskar is very naive in this, referenced past noncon and talk about sex, some fuzzy boundaries in that Oskar doesn't really have any, caretaker whumper

Next to Arvid, there's rustling. The sheets pull a little as Oskar shifts and moves. Arvid can guess by the sounds what he's doing - stomach, side, back. Hold pillow. Let go of pillow. Roll back to his stomach again.

Finally, Arvid groans and rolls onto his side to face the pet beside him. "What the fuck is your problem tonight, Oskar? It's almost two in the morning and you're keeping me up."

Oskar stills. "... sorry, Arvid. I didn't know you were awake."

"Hard not to be when you haven't stopped this shit long enough for me to fall asleep in the first place. What is it? Huh? You have been weird as hell all night, ever since my last appointment left."

Oskar is silent for a long time. Then he pushes himself up to sitting, back to the headboard. Arvid can just barely see him in the dark. "... can I ask you something?"

"Mmmn. Shoot." When the silence draws out again, Arvid groans and sits up as well, blankets falling away. He has on a loose T-shirt and boxers to bed like usual - Oskar just wears sweatpants, he overheatz sometimes under Arvid's heavy blankets.

Used to cold, he said at one point. Because of the training facility being kept chilly enough to make them desperate to get warm.

"Either ask or don't," Arvid snaps, tipping his own head back. "I'm fucking exhausted. I don't want to be here til dawn waiting for you to finish your dramatic pauses."

"Sorry." Oskar sounsds sincerely apologetic, at least. "I just don't know how exactly to ask."

"Well. Ask however is simplest."

"Okay."

Arvid glances over when no question is forthcoming to see Oskar fiddling his fingers together, worrying them at each other, looking down. "... Oskar, for the love of fuck-"

"Are you going to want to have sex with me?" Oskar asks the words in a rush. As if he has to say them all in one exhale or he'll lose his nerve.

Arvid blinks. "Am I going to what?"

"Going to. You know. Want to... to havesexwithme."

The words get small, barely audible. Oskar hunches his shoulders, looking away, before he puts his hands over his face entirely.

That. That is not what Arvid expected the question to be. His mouth opens and closes like a fish on land, and he feels about as suffocated by the air around him as a fish, too. "I... Jesus Christ, no, that's disgusting."

He pauses. Swallows. Rakes a hand back through his hair and catches on a tangle, yanking roughly until his fingers are freed again. Some strands of pale white hair come out still wrapped around them.

"Oh." Oskar's voice is small. "Okay. Just. Earlier, your, um. Your appointment..."

"Sarathiel. Now he's a piece of work. What's he got to do with it?"

"When you weren't in the room, he told me... he told me to... go down on him." Oskar sounds miserable, lips barely forming the words. Arvid feels a burst of possessive rage - if that motherfucker made his pet give blowjobs without even talking to him about it, or actually even made him at all considering Oskar isn't for that...

"And?" Arvid hisses more than speaks.

Oskar flinches away from him, his hands moving to his neck to press over his collar, pushing it harder until his own skin. "... I said you didn't tell me to... do that stuff. And he asked if you, uh, have sex with me and I said you don't and he said well that's a waste and that you probably would eventually. He kept trying to make me but I, uh, I said you wouldn't like it because I was yours-"

"Damn straight you are."

"-but he kept saying somebody should and you need to... fuck me or let someone else do it. He left all pissed off about it, but... and... if you-... if you want to, why... haven't you? Is something wrong with me? Are you going to get a new one that you, that isn't... disgusting? Like a Romantic, or... someone prettier?"

Arvid finds himself once again caught wildly off guard by the direction the conversation is taking. "... what the utter fucking bullshit nonsense is... okay. Wait. Back up. It's not disgusting because of you, Oskar. You're probably deeply hot to the right people. I'm not saying you're gross. I'm saying sex is gross. All the noise and... damp parts and... having to put something in somebody? No thanks. I have scalpels in people all the time, that is way more than enough penetration for my taste."

"So it's not... me?"

"Nope. You do everything I want you to, and make me go outside, too, which sucks but I forgive you. I don't need or want blowjobs. From anyone. Ever. Especially not from someone who I got to hang with me and do video games and just... have somebody around. If I wanted a fuck buddy I would have gotten one of those."

"Okay. Okay, good. Just..." Oskar exhales through his nose and leans sideways, until he touches Arvid's shoulder. That's when Arvid realizes Oskar is shaking, his whole body trembling with some kind of bone deep terror, and he slides his arms around his pet and pulls him close, right up against him. Oskar's head tucks into the crook of his neck. There's a feeling Arvid thinks is probably tears.

"It's okay," Arvid murmurs, speaking more softly. "That really scared you, didn't it."

Oskar swallows, his voice a little thick. His arms go around Arvid's waist and hold tight. "Yeah. In training, it... happens. A lot. I hated it and I was scared that you... because I really like you, Arvid, you're the best owner, you buy me plants... but if... if Samethiel-"

"Sarathiel-"

"If he was right, then you... you're just a handler, or just like them, doing good stuff just because we'll do anything for it, and if that's all I get why even leave the Facility at all?"

"Mmmn. Well. For starters, fuck you for thinking I'm that kind of guy. Secondly, I just wanted somebody around so I have someone to talk to. I don't fuck people and I'm not changing that rule. You're here..."

He trails off, then sighs and tightens his arms around Oskar, tipping his head to rest his cheek against the pet's hair.

"You're here because I was lonely, dumbass. And now I'm not. Simple as that."

"Yeah?" Oskar mumbles against his neck.

Arvid exhales, and shifts so he can pet his fingers through Oskar's hair, feeling him relax into the gentle affection. "Yeah. Next time one of my coworkers is a dick to you, tell me first, okay? Don't sit around and dwell. It's irritating.'

"Okay."

They sit in silence for a while. Arvid drifts, dozing lightly sitting up in the bed. Then Oskar whispers, "Arvid?"

"Mmmmf. What."

"Thanks. For not wanting to. That helps."

Arvid huffs a silent laugh. "Yeah, well. My mom would disagree that it helps anything, especially giving her grandkids. Not that I give a fuck, or that you and I could do anything but make... gross messes together. But sure. You're not here to be... whatever he thinks. You're here to be my friend. Now go to sleep before I smother you with a pillow, dumbass."

Oskar slides down Arvid's body, head briefly in his lap before he rolls onto his back, lying in the bed. When Arvid lays back down, Oskar snuggles right up, like a puppy. You can just about hear his tail wag.

The whole pet thing is the creepiest shit on earth, if you let yourself think about it.

So Arvid doesn't.

He just settles Oskar in against his shoulder and finds himself sliding back into sleep, warm, comfortable, and most importantly - not alone.