whumplr-reader

[whumplr-reader]

[whumplr-reader]

The chicken and the pig

Bryce reminisces about his first days with Roman.

(This isn't really what I set out to write, but I don't hate it. Ambiguously canon for now. Proofread only once — please point out typos)

Roman is sleeping again, his breathing slow against Bryce's chest. He's sprawled more than usual on the sofa, but he's leaning against Bryce, his face pale even against Bryce's faded Dark Side of the Moon shirt. Bryce nudges the television volume down until it's just a hair over muted. He puts the remote down and tilts his head, watching Roman breath. He seems calm, in his sleep. Peaceful. Bryce is fairly certain he actually is, too, given how he usually reacts to bad dreams.

A stray lock of hair slips over Roman's face, and Bryce smooths it back without thinking. The action feels so natural.

When did … this … become his life?

It's been just over two months since he stumbled across Roman. But that wasn't when his life changed, not really. He had a plan, like he always does, a simple plan that would have gotten Roman out of danger, out of his life, just a few weeks after he pulled him from that basement.

It seemed achievable, at the time. Not easy, but simple. Straightforward. Something he could spend a few weeks working on, engaging on an intellectual level only, and then forget. Continue through his life unchanged.

And it stayed that way… For a day? Two days? Three?

The first night was easy, and Roman too exhausted to really make an impression. The next day… Well, he let everything overwhelm him when Roman begged him to stop splinting, but overall, he could have moved past that without pausing. The day after that…? That was when Roman heard his call with Corey, which he'd expected, and failed to hide it, which he hadn't. And then been exasperated when Bryce told him how to hide it, insisting he wasn't trying to lie.

He'd felt better about it then. Felt like he probably could send him off to a decent life armed with a bus ticket, a new identity and a few grand in cash. And, of course, threats ringing in his ears, what would happen if he ever came anywhere near here again, if Bryce or any of Boss's people ever saw him again.

The next day…?

No.

That night.

It was the last thing he'd been expecting, although he should have known better. Oh, he wasn't shocked at the screaming that woke Bryce. Wasn't surprised when he was able to wake him and calm him, somewhat. He remembers that he let himself imagine staying to comfort Roman, but also that he was shocked when Roman actually asked him to wait, clearly torn between between the idea of wrapping his arms around Bryce and the reality of who he knew Bryce to be.

And he remembers giving in to his own buried reactions, sweeping Roman into his arms and holding him while he sobbed. Going against every bit of discipline he's worked to drill into himself for years, decades, and responding to Roman's plea to go home.

Was that it? Was that the moment he was lost? That he became a feeling being again, after so long being numb?

He thinks maybe it was. But still… He was hurt when Roman didn't believe him, the next day in the garden, but he wasn't shattered. Could have moved past that, rationalized it away as an off day, kept his distance from Roman emotionally. Been soft, careful, but not vulnerable…

What's that saying? When you have a breakfast of bacon and eggs, the hen is invested, but the pig is committed.

He could have stayed invested only, from that point. He thinks. (Not that he'd planned on getting invested in the first place, of course. What's the cow, that made the milk you drink with breakfast? Not invested, surely. Just…involved. Contributing. That was what he expected going in, really.)

Roman's breathing stutters, his face twisting, and Bryce rubs his shoulder automatically. "I've got you," he murmurs, and Roman's face smooths out again. Bryce waits a breath, then two, focusing all his attention on the young man snuggled against him.

Oh yeah. He's been committed for a long time, now.

Well, two months. Less…

His thoughts circle back around to their first days together. Roman's clear distrust of him, after that disaster of a conversation about the future. That hurt, but, again, he's sure he would have gotten over it.

He tries hard not to lie to himself. He doesn't think he is, right now, but he's not sure.

That was the first day they'd spent on the sofa together, he remembers. Roman didn't want contact, and Bryce tried to honor that, but he wasn't able to rest without it, and when he woke up, he wasn't in a hurry to leave Bryce's side.

Bryce wasn't in a hurry to make him, to be fair.

Was he committed then?

No, he decides, he wasn't. He liked Roman, sure, but he had no second thoughts about sending him away. Not then. Not later that day, when Roman got up the courage to ask why Bryce kept him alive, and almost seemed to believe Bryce's truthful reply. Not later that day, when Roman thanked him for the bare minimum of supplies Bryce supplied him with. Bryce was happy, true, glad to help, but… Not more, he thinks. And, true, he was relived he could help Roman sleep, that night, and fierce when he told Roman not to be ashamed of needing help, but not… Nothing irreversible.

The next day…? They looked at cookbooks together, which was nice, surprisingly so, and… All right, maybe at that point he'd have felt a little bad sending Roman away. But he'd still have done it in an instant, if he could.

Well… A minute, anyway.

That night, though… Roman asked if he had nightmares, too. Pushed for an answer, gently, true, but… Roman was concerned about him, although he'd done little to deserve it. Been better than Avery, true, but a bar in hell isn't hard to clear. And Roman still didn't believe Bryce was going to send him away, not then.

That might have tipped him over. Not to committed, not like the pig, but…

He watches Roman sleep for a few minutes, just remembering. Not analyzing, not trying to understand his own emotions, just remembering.

The next few days were rough. Mal's visit and Roman's reactions to it. He tried to pretend it didn't change anything, but he wasn't good at lying, not about that.

He is good at lying, though. He listened to Boss discuss his future without even a hitch in his breathing as he pretended the earbuds drowned out her speaking.

So why wasn't he…

Bryce shakes his head. That's not what he's trying to figure out, not right now. Not that there's a good reason for his current thoughts, but now that he's started them down a path, he wants to see where it leads. Needs to see where it leads, needs to reassure himself, somehow, both that his current life is real and that he wasn't lost to it within a week.

A week…

No, it wasn't the first week. If Roman had left after that, it wouldn't have been a blip, his feelings would have lasted longer than that, but it would have been fine.

Two weeks…? That was the dinner with Avery. Two weeks after they met, exactly. Several days after Roman's catastrophic escape attempt, and therefore several days after Bryce buried himself in work and found Avery.

It couldn't have been the dinner, though. That was a Thursday, when he had online plans with Jean, and he called the previous day to cancel. Jean already knew, at that point, just from Bryce's guarded words and questions about Roman's health. Your new kid brother, he'd said then, and he'd been right.

Was he committed, though?

He might have been, he decides. He could have kept living after sending Roman off, never to be seen again, then. It would have felt like sawing off an arm or leg: life-changing, not life-threatening. His life as he knew it could have continued, somewhat.

Not now, though. It would feel like cutting out his heart, now.

And he'd still do it, if Roman asked.

Fuck, how lucky is he that Roman hasn't asked? Isn't likely to ask.

Bryce kisses the top of Roman's head, just off from the part in his hair, and leans back against the sofa. He grabs the remote and switches to a movie, turning on the subtitles as he does.

He doesn't want to bother Roman, after all.

[whumplr-reader]

Finally finished putting together a master post of my super-long RP with @hi-charlie-here .

There also will be original content for Bryce, very sporadically, probably starting tomorrow.

Bryce Stryerson RP Blog

Run by @whumplr-reader.

(Open to new RPs, mostly about Bryce's background, more whump than comfort. Bryce can be either whumpee or whumper, although I'd like to work out a few details, so please message me if interested.)

Bryce and Roman

Heavy on the comfort.

Starting with this post in July 2023, Bryce and Roman's story is a semi-planned RP by @whumplr-reader and @hi-charlie-here . Below are links to the long-form RP that started it all (still in progress). Listed with in-universe dates in parentheses. Please note, these links will behave oddly on the mobile app 😞. (Please let me know if I have made any mistakes).

July 2023 (July 18th 2023 - July 26th)

-> Following this RP prompt, we meet Bryce when he's surprised to find Roman in the basement of the person he's come to kill. He tells his companion Mal he's going to keep Roman, and takes Roman back with him. Roman overhears more than he wants to about Bryce's work.

August 2023 (July 26th - August 6th)

-> Roman attempts to escape, which does not go well. (We meet Sling, Lenny and Kyle.) Bryce is invited to dinner with Roman's former captor — along with Roman. Roman overhears another phone conversation, this time with Bryce's friend Jean. Dinner with Roman's former captor ends in blood.

September 2023 (August 6th - August 13th)

-> Following injuries suffered after being caught trying to escape, Roman gets a new method of transportation. Bryce is under the weather and suspects sabotage.

October 2023 (August 13th - August 18th)

-> Mal finds a new "trainer", Saša Petrov, to help get her project off the ground. He gifts her a new pet. Roman accompanies Bryce to warehouses to install security systems. Saša infiltrates a warehouse and meets Roman. Mal tells her new pet a little about Bryce's past.

November 2023 (August 18th - August 22nd)

-> Roman goes to the hospital to get a CT scan and has a panic attack when they try to give him contrast dye. Mal has Bryce and Saša over for dinner, and her new pet meets Roman. (Roman learns his name was James). Bryce tells Roman he can get him out after his surgery, which causes Roman to spiral.

December 2023 (August 22nd - August 24th)

-> Roman and Bryce agree Roman will stay with Bryce. Mal and Saša move forward with their plans. Bryce and Roman run some errands and eat dinner in a park.

January 2024 (August 24th & August 25th)

-> Roman gets new clothing. A storm brings a power outage and more nightmares from Roman — and a muttered statement that bothers Bryce. They begin the multi-day drive to the hospital for Roman's surgery and make a video call together.

February 2024 (August 25th & August 26th)

-> Continuation of Roman & Bryce's phone call before going to sleep in a hotel room. Mal has a meeting with Mr. Rose, where her pet serves as a table, but fails his task halfway through. Before he can be punished, he is captured by two policemen.

March 2024 (August 26th)

-> The two policemen take Mal's pet to a safehouse, where they "question" him. In a hotel room, Bryce opens up to Roman.

April 2024 (August 26th - August 28th)

-> Bryce and Roman speak about Bryce's past. Mal retrieves her pet from the police. Roman gets surgery, despite another breakdown in the hospital.

May 2024 (August 28th - August 30th)

-> Surgery arc continues. After they leave the hospital, Roman and Bryce run into someone unexpected in a hotel parking lot. Still wary of drugs, Roman refuses painkillers.

June 2024 (August 30th - September 2nd)

-> Roman and Bryce go back to the house. Saša begins to train his newest captives (we meet Madison and Ethan, as well as see Sling's perspective on the operation.) Mal's pet finishes his punishment, and she takes him on a few errands. Bryce interacts with him as well. Kyle and Roman hang out.

July 2024 (Sept 2nd - Sept 6th)

-> Bryce's nightmares lead to a discussion with Roman. Bryce's surveillance on Saša's operations lead him to plan an overnight attack. Kyle arrives to spend the night while Bryce is gone.

August 2024 (Sept 6th - Sept 8th)

-> Roman and Bryce go to eat at Mr. Rose's house. Mal's pet takes Roman out on an errand — cops find the two of them and take Roman.

September 2024 (Sept 8th)

-> Bryce retrieves Roman from the police. Saša makes progress with Madison. Kyle stops by and treats Roman's injury. Roman sees Bryce change, leading to questions.

October 2024 (Sept 8th & Sept 9th)

-> Bryce and Roman discussion of Roman's position is cut short when Boss announces she is coming over to see both of them. She questions Roman, then makes Bryce an offer he can't refuse.

November 2024 (short) (Sept 9th)

-> Bryce and Roman discuss Boss's offer. Boss returns home, where she finds Mal's pet.

December 2024 (very little!) (Sept 9th)

-> Boss speaks with Mal's pet.

[whumplr-reader]

no longer in solitude

Porter's first impression of Sonny, the new pet.

a little something from Port's POV this time (and by "a little something" I mean 2000 words). this is the night Sonny is brought to his new home.

consider this a sort-of prequel to this.

cw: BBU/pet whump, abusive master, whumpee emotionally attached to whumper

All day, the house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. It made Port a little twitchy. It seemed quieter than usual today, quiet enough that the florescent lights buzzing in his ears were making him sick. He had to step out of the bathroom halfway through cleaning the shower, scrubbing brush abandoned by the drain. He rinsed his hands and pressed his cool, clean palms to his eyes. Memories of lying alone in that cold, featureless room in the facility flashed behind his eyelids. 

He tried to think of something else, his master coming to mind easily. He had left for work that morning without a word to Port, just as he had the past two days. Mr. Oz hadn’t been speaking to him lately. In fact, he’d barely even looked at him.

Maybe something at work was bothering him. Did his boss yell at him? Could it be that the coworker he always complained about was getting on his nerves? Maybe it was unrelated to work; maybe he had lost more money at the casino. The last time that had happened, Mr. Oz lost two grand playing blackjack or poker or whatever it was and when he came home he threw one of his shoes at Port’s head. Port dodged it on instinct, which just made him angrier. Though come to think of it, Port hadn’t had any projectiles thrown at him, lately, so maybe it wasn’t that.

The grandfather clock started chiming, shaking Port out of his uneasy thoughts. He took a grounding breath and reentered the bathroom. 

After the bathroom was the living room. He pulled the remote out from between the couch cushions, itching to turn the TV on for some background noise. He set the remote in its proper place on the glass coffee table, next to a box of playing cards. He didn’t have permission to watch TV today. 

Lately Mr. Oz had been getting home around 7:00, so Port started dinner at 6:30. Talking to him over dinner was usually the most exciting part of Port’s day, but the two previous nights he had taken his dinner up to his room, leaving Port to clean up in silence. He hoped today would be better.

Dinner was finished by 6:55. He left it on the stove on low heat. When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 7:20, Port put it in the fridge. He had already cleaned the the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the living room, the kitchen, even under the fridge, under the oven, and the tops of the doorways. He supposed the bookshelf could do with some dusting. 

When Mr. Oz still wasn’t home by 9:00 and Port had truly run out of productive things to do, he grabbed the playing cards from the coffee table and kneeled on the Persian carpet, arranging them for a game of solitaire. Mr. Oz had never explicitly forbid him from playing card games, so Port figured it was okay as long as he put everything away before he got back. 

By the time the clock chimed for the second time since he’d started playing, marking 11 o’ clock, Port was starting to get concerned. It wasn’t uncommon for his master to stay out after work, but 11:00 P.M. was far later than usual, especially on a Thursday night. 

Port had been in the living room for hours, having long since adjusted to a more comfortable sitting position. His current game was not going well. Stuck, Port listened to the ticking clock while he tried to figure out how to salvage it. It was hard to think when his eyes were drifting closed. He had gotten up at 5 A.M. that morning, like usual, and he wasn’t allowed to sleep until his master turned in for the night.

Port gave up on the game and rested his elbows on the coffee table, shifting the cards underneath his arms. He stared at the blinking colon of the digital clock under the TV, willing himself to stay awake. He should probably get up and move around, but the combination of the blinking and the ticking had a hypnotizing effect.

Just as the clock blinked to 11:08, he heard the garage door screech open and jerked awake. Port hastily gathered the cards into a stack and slid them into their box. He rose to his feet and padded to the side door to greet his master, where he waited eagerly, a smile already on his face. 

The door swung open and Mr. Oz stepped through into the yellow light of the hall. His cheeks were ruddy, teeth visible in a grin. Port found it encouraging.

“Welcome home,” Port greeted. “How was your—”

Port was startled as another figure appeared out of the darkness in the doorway behind him. His first split-second thought was that it was one of his master’s friends, as it wasn’t unusual for him to invite people over. The thought was dashed as soon as he spotted the supple black collar around the figure’s neck. 

It was a boy— a young man— who stepped into the hall, eyes cast down. Port couldn’t see his features too well at this angle— only his shining black hair, which was neatly parted down the middle of his scalp. 

Port realized his mouth was still open and shut it. Once he pulled his eyes away from the pet he noticed that Mr. Oz was looking at him, eyes glimmering. “Porter, this is Sonny.” He clapped the boy on the back, who visibly jumped. (A sign of poor training.) “He’ll be helping you out around the house.”

Every question running through Port’s mind was cut short. Was he saying what Port thought he was saying? “Sir, do you mean…?”

“That’s right! You get to have a little playmate, doesn’t that sound great?”

Port blinked.

Mr. Oz was looking at the pet with some sort of fondness. “I’ve had my eye on him for a while now… you should’ve seen the look on David’s face.” His hand moved to the pet's neck, whose shoulders raised higher. “I’m gonna get him a collar like yours,” Mr. Oz said, hooking a finger under the nylon. “So you can match.”

Some buzzing feeling was spreading through Port. His chest was shivering. He felt his smile grow wider. He clasped his hands in front of him and squeezed. “This is great, sir.”

Mr. Oz smiled back at him. It felt good to be on the same page as his master, to be excited with him. Port was already imagining what it would be like to have another presence in the house. Someone to help with housework, to get to know, to talk with like an an equal. A small spike of guilt struck him at the thought. His master was supposed to fulfill all his needs. He shouldn’t be craving the company of another pet, of all things. And yet…

Mr. Oz grabbed Sonny roughly by the shoulders and pushed him closer to Port, made them stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Sonny had to be at least half a foot shorter than him. 

He watched Mr. Oz admire them both, mind working. His hand shot out to Sonny’s face so fast that Sonny jerked back and Port nearly flinched. Mr. Oz gripped him by the face, dimpling his cheek with his thumb as he tilted his head upwards. “Look at me,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll have you…” He trailed off, eyes growing dark. “What’s with that face?”

Port glanced down to gauge for himself. On Sonny’s face was an unmistakable expression: fear. 

“Are you scared?” asked their master. He was no longer smiling.

Sonny said nothing. Port’s heart beat fast for him. Mr. Oz did not like to go unanswered.

“Well?”

Sonny hesitated too long. Mr. Oz released Sonny’s face only to crack his hand across it like a whip. Sonny nearly collided into Port’s shoulder, hand raising as if to cradle his rapidly flushing cheek. Port felt a rising sense of alarm. Where was this boy trained?

Mr. Oz’s hand grasped Sonny’s wrist, halting it in place. “Please, sir—“ Sonny finally spoke.

“Who taught you to act like this?” He was yelling, now. “Were you disciplined at all?”

Port couldn’t help himself. “Sir, he’s just—” 

His master whirled on him. “I don’t wanna hear a single word outta you!” 

Port’s jaw clicked shut.

He turned back to Sonny, who was lowering towards the floor like his knees were buckling. Mr. Oz  released Sonny’s wrist and ran both hands through his short hair, something he always did when he was exasperated. “Way to ruin my damn mood.” He rubbed his eyes, and when his fists fell he locked eyes with Port. They were slightly red. “Take him to your room,” he said. “Explain the rules.” His gaze drifted to Sonny, who now had his arms wrapped around himself. Mr. Oz sighed, pinching his brow. “If he doesn’t fix his behavior… we’re gonna have some problems.” Port felt Sonny curl further into himself beside him.

“Yes, sir.” Port wasted no time in guiding Sonny upstairs with a gentle hand on his upper back. He pushed open the door to his room— their room, now. There wasn’t much. A dresser, a blanket, a pillow, the soft rug he slept on. A painting of a seagull hung on the far wall. Port would have to grab another pillow and blanket for Sonny from the linen closet— that is, if Mr. Oz didn’t decide to revoke his bedding privileges for that little display.

Now that they were out of earshot, Port felt comfortable enough to speak. He needed to give Sonny the rundown on how things worked around here. But first… “Are you alright?”

Sonny lifted his head, looking directly at Port for the first time. His eyes were so dark Port couldn’t see the pupils. They shone like black pearls, wet. His cheeks were dry, the left still colored from the slap, but his face was otherwise unblemished. He looked young. His mouth made no movement.

“You can speak, right?”

Sonny’s gaze lowered. “Sorry,” he whispered. “This is a lot.”

Port sighed, feeling a pang of sympathy. The boy didn’t seem very experienced. “It’s okay,” he said. “Let’s sit down.” 

Sonny wasted no time in dropping to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. Port went to his knees in front of him, but after a few seconds decided to readjust and sit on his bottom to be more casual. He gave Sonny a minute of silence to calm down before speaking again.

“I don’t know what that was, but—” you shouldn’t be so scared? I hope you’re okay? You can’t do that again? “—he isn’t as bad as you seem to think he is.”

Sonny looked at him again, now reproachfully. Port tried a smile. “Are you new?”

His eyes turned sharp, flicking up and down Port’s figure. “Six months outta training,” he muttered. Secondhand? Sonny seemed to be considering him. “You’re not new.”

“No.” 

“You’re W.R.U.?” Dubya-arr-yoo.

“…Yes.” Technically. 

Sonny hummed, lowering his chin. “You kinda seem like it.”

Port wasn’t sure how to feel about that, or what could have possibly given him that impression, so he just asked, “Where are you from, if not W.R.U.?” Port knew of at least two knock-offs. “I didn’t even know Mr. Oz was looking for another pet.”

Sonny just sighed and lowered his head further so his forehead touched the tops of his knees, face hidden. 

Well, alright. Considering they were equals, Port supposed Sonny wasn’t obligated to answer him.

[whumplr-reader]

On conditioned whumpees...

Y'know, I think one of the things that people get wrong with conditioned whumpees is their rules. Specifically, when a whumpee was in long term captivity/training and they later get released or escape.

Most people write them as latching onto a caretaker or new whumper, and begging for new rules so they know they're doing something right. A new set of laws to live by, a new framework to behave to.

And that's... not really how conditioning works.

Conditioning means automatic reactions. Your body doing something that was trained into you without consulting your brain first.

There is no decision making. There is no choice. The trigger hits, and you are immediately performing the correct action regardless of anything else.

You're told to kneel? Your knees have already hit the ground. You're supposed to be standing in one part of the house when a certain noise is made? You've launched into movement before you even realize what you heard.

These rules are woven into the fabric of your body. And they are insurmountable. The conditioning overrides emotion, internal conflict, hesitation, beliefs, wants... everything.

Your whumpee may very well hate what is being done to them, and after the moment has passed they're cursing themself and their whumper. They're still a person on the inside. And that person is still very much alive. Most of the time, they will have some level of awareness that what's being done to them is wrong. They'll be angry. They'll be hurt. And they will hate that there is nothing they can do about it.

But the next time that trigger occurs, the response still hits them exactly the same.

So now take your whumpee out of that situation. They ran away, were rescued, were sold. They got out. Now they're with new people, a new caretaker, a new whumper. Or they're on their own and trying to make their own way in the world.

But those conditioned responses are still there.

There's no turning them off. You don't just replace them with new rules. They are in your every fibre. They have been built into the very framework of who you are.

The next time someone says the word "kneel", your knees are on the ground again. No matter where you are, or who you're with. The response happens before you can stop it. If they don't know why, everyone looks at you like you're insane. And you feel like you are.

Deconditioning is an agonizing process that takes more effort than I can even begin to describe to someone who's never experienced it.

Every time they hit that trigger, that response will still be there. Over, and over, and over, and over.

Breaking those rules down takes YEARS. And it is a constant effort that the whumpee has to choose to undergo every single time. Progress is measured milimeter by milimeter. You're told to kneel, and you kneel. You're told to kneel, and your mind catches up with the fact that you already did it— but a little sooner than it did before. Then a split second sooner. Then as you're doing it. Then you feel the impulse just before your knees hit the ground. Then you have a split-second of resistance before you go down. On and on and on and on, inching toward progress despite the fact that you're fighting with all your might. And that progress is anything but linear.

You don't just start obeying new rules. You don't latch on to your caretaker's new way of doing things and drop everything that you were conditioned to do before. These rules don't just get replaced.

Conditioning is not a belief system. It's a flinch response. Programmed deeper than the instincts you were born with.

You can be ordered not to obey the old command, and moments later when the trigger comes, you will anyway. Because in conditioning, the action comes before the choice.

These rules, these laws of your existence, come above everything else. And if your new whumper wants to replace them, they are going to have to beat the new rules into you so often and so severely that the pain becomes stronger than the old conditioning. At which point, the newly desired response will very, very slowly start to take over.

You're not swapping out new rules. You're layering new, worse conditioning on top of the old. And your brain will spend time stuck in that split-second between both responses before one finally grows stronger than the other. And even then, the change will not happen quickly.

That is what your conditioned whumpee is up against. That is what makes it such a horrible—HORRIBLE— and powerful tool.

[whumplr-reader]

remember this piece?

unnamed guard dog is still unnamed.

TW/CW: pet whump, (former and current) dehumanization/animalization, distraught whumpee, whumpee idealizes death mentions of scars and injuries, long term whump situation, tbh not much is happening here but two old men are having a moment ig

---

The flames weren’t real. 

They were the first thing the guard dog saw when he was pulled from the abyss. Orange LED lights scattering through lenses and refractors, creating the illusion of a pile of embers that would never go out. 

And still, he noticed he wasn’t particularly cold. It wasn’t slick linoleum or cold metal against his skin, it was… fur?

He blinked and looked around, trying to get his eyes to refocus. He was on his side on a cream fur rug, facing a fake fireplace with neverending little fake flames dancing along the edges of fake logs. He turned over, biting his teeth together as his shoulders protested the movement. He was getting too old to be laying on floors, even if they were covered by plush fur rugs. 

Then again, that wasn’t up to him. 

What had even happened to land him here? It was a living room with high windows stretching up and up and up towards even higher ceilings. An luxurious-looking leather sofa, complete with a matching pair of chairs, made up the seating arrangement. There were bookshelves along the walls, a huge blue-hued painting of foggy hills on another. Everything looked needlessly expensive. 

Who had put him here? Why?

He tried to sit up, only to groan and rub his face with his palms as a sharp pain shot through his head. He hadn’t just been sleeping, he figured. He was always groggy after naps, but never like this. Somebody must have … given him … something- 

The guard dog lurched forwards, doubling over on himself and gagging violently as the memories flooded back to him, filling all his senses. The cold examination table, the clammy blue gloved hands, the bright light, the syringe… He would have thrown up, had he had anything to eat the last seven days. His pulse was racing, his hands were shaking as he grabbed onto the fur of the rug, trying to ground himself. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck…

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

The voice pierced through the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Thought I lost you there for a second. Again.” 

The voice was more familiar to him than the ache in his bones, the taste of blood in his mouth, the tight skin of his scars. 

He didn’t have to turn around and face the source of the voice to know who it belonged to. More importantly, he didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t want to believe it could be real. 

That he was back with him again. 

It took him several long, grueling seconds to find his voice. He realized he hadn’t used it for weeks, and when it finally came out of his mouth, it was gravelly and rough, nearly impossible to shape into words. For a moment there was only bare sound, akin to that of a wounded predator. 

Then, finally, did the words come. 

“I… I was supposed to feel better.” 

The voice of the man he did not want to face, scoffed, caught off guard. “What?” 

The guard dog keeled over, his scarred, wide hands digging into the rug as he yelled into its plush fur. 

“I was supposed to feel better!” 

“I fucking hope you do!” the voice snapped harshly, and a pair of fine leather shoes trod across the dark hardwood, into the guard dog’s line of sight. 

“You better feel fucking great! They were going to kill you!” 

“Yes!” the guard dog moaned, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders shuddered, the scars there dancing. “That was the point.” His voice took on a sore quality, like he was straining to control it, to keep it together. He didn’t look like the mighty guard dog he once was, hunched over on the plush rug, stifling his sobs. 

“That was the point, so why didn’t you let them.” 

The other man was silent for a beat. The guard dog could, between his fingers and through the tears fogging up his eyes, catch a glimpse of the black Oxfords he wore, perfectly shined as always. 

Derbies are for doormen and loafers are for geriatrics. If you forget everything else, remember that, pup. 

The man sighed and went down on one knee, steadying himself with a hand on the floor. He wore the same ring he always had. The red garnet shone in the fake firelight, reminding the guard dog of all the times that hand had struck him, the ring often slicing the skin of his cheek. 

 “Don’t tell me I should have let them murder you. I don’t want to hear it.” His voice was resigned, but nevertheless cold, not leaving it up for discussion. Some years ago, that voice would have been enough for the guard dog to forget even the mere thought of disobedience. 

“Why did you bring me back here? Why-” The guard dog hunched in on himself, caught in a coughing fit brought on by the sudden and harsh use of his gravelly voice. He wouldn’t be surprised if he coughed up blood on the fine fur rug. 

The man, now behind his back, did not react to the sharp onslaught. He remained silent until the guard dog’s wide shoulders had stopped their rhythmic contractions. His voice was still unwavering. “I am only reclaiming what is mine.”

“Yours?” The guard dog barked out, then groaned as his sore lungs protested. “You sold me! You didn’t want me anymore. You sent me away to the first caller!” 

“I sold you only because I had no other choice. You do not understand these things. You never did.”

The man reached out as he said this, hand folded, and slid his knuckles down the column of the guard dog’s neck. 

His touch was like an electric shock, his warm and gentle hand such a contrast to the guard dog’s cold surroundings that he flinched like he had been hit, his spine jerking away on its own accord. The skin contact was enough to wrench another violent sob from his body. 

“And I let Louie take you only because I couldn’t bear the thought of having to see you go any further. It was better to do it quickly. It wouldn’t have been healthy for either of us to wait around for the right person.” 

“There was nothing healthy about him!” groaned the guard dog. “He put me in the fights! I made his fortune when I knocked out Bruiser! And six months later he sold me on again, and after that….” His voice broke. His anger seemed to have dissipated now, replaced by violent sobs that caused his whole body to heave and lurch in between his words. 

“Oh, pup. What did they do to you…” The man’s fingers ghosted across his spine, following one particularly nasty scar, too jagged to come from a blade. “I never should have let you go, should I.” 

“I wish you never got me back.” Despite the words, the guard dog’s voice was not resentful, only fatigued and spent. 

“Don’t you like me anymore? You used to love me.” 

He was quiet for a while. The man wondered idly if he had passed out, but did not check.  

“It wasn’t love,” came the rough voice eventually. “It wasn’t about that.” 

“Then what was it about?” 

“Loyalty.” The answer came before he could even think of it. Loyalty was the fundament for everything he was, everything he would ever be. Everything he had ever done. “I will always be loyal to you. No matter what you do to me.” He recalled the very last beating they had shared, the evening before his new owner had retrieved him and brought him to the fighting rings. 

It was quiet for a while.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I will always be loyal to you, too,” the man said eventually. 

He looked up, suddenly face to face with the man he had been made for, all those years ago. Now older, rougher, gray around the edges, but still the same brown eyes, framed by the same perpetually upturned eyelids. The guard dog’s own eyes were bloodshot, tear tracks creating shiny trails down his cheeks. They were only a few inches apart, the man having knelt down to his level. 

It wasn’t the first time they had been this close, but the guard dog watched him with fresh eyes this time. Nigh on two decades of life away from his master had forever changed the curious atmospheric aura they once used to share. 

“You’re right. I will never believe you again.” 

The familiar brown gaze studied him for a second, jumping down and back up, roaming the litany of scars and blemishes on his skin, several stretching into his hairline. His lips made a peculiar twitch before he suddenly sat back up and got to his feet, limber and flexible despite his age. 

“In any case, you’re getting a hosedown before dinner. You smell like shit.”

---

tags:

@maracujatangerine (were there more of you? lmk, also lmk if you don't want me to tag you)

[whumplr-reader]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 1

Rowan is an activist with the Pet Liberation Front. He has spent the better part of a decade assisting the cause as a multimedia specialist, but never spends much time with the victims he is so intent on saving. After going undercover as a buyer to capture systemic abuse on camera, he finds a broken boy that steals his heart. Before Rowan knows it, he has a rescue pet at home. Both Rowan and his new houseguest must take steps to heal and adjust to their new normal.

Masterlist

// Chapter 2 (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, mention of noncon, noncon touch, sexual and nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

“ID, please.”

Rowan handed over his driver’s license with a smile to the woman behind the counter. Marie, her name tag said, with a smaller typeface beneath that read she/her/hers. A faded cartoon sun sticker was wrapped halfway around the edge of the badge, almost completely covering the familiar WRU logo.

“Mr. Bailey,” she said with a soft smile in return, “welcome to today’s Opportunity Sale. Is this your first time attending one of WRU’s most special events?”

“No, I’ve been before.” 

It was hard to keep his voice level, especially at first. He’d been to dozens of these events around the country, and each was proving to be harder on his spirit than the last. The weight of the phone in his shirt pocket, already recording, weighed him down as much as his words.

Opportunity Sale. He loathed the euphemism. It was a liquidation, a fire sale, a last chance for the souls the institution had broken beyond repair. These so-called pets up for sale today were what WRU considered damaged goods, defective products. These are pets who don’t live up to WRU standards of excellence, they’d say, so we’re offering them at a discount, each sold as-is.

The “defects” varied. Some were marred by years of physical abuse, no longer able to perform the tasks they were trained for as their bodies failed. Others had simply lost their minds, slipped into catatonia, a permanent dissociation that rendered them a husk of the person they’d once been. Sometimes, albeit rarely, there were victims that WRU couldn’t fully break and bend to their whims, pets who were marked by attitude and defiance that no typical buyer would tolerate. Some were simply old, the incessant labor and abuse having weakened their bodies, unable to fulfill their purpose with the grace and ease that was expected.

They called it an opportunity, but It was nothing more than a last-ditch effort to recoup the costs that went into each “product.” Fully breaking a person’s mind took considerable time and money, and a broken pet sold for pennies on the dollar was still better for WRU’s books than a total loss. 

Those pets that weren’t sold before the close of business would be unceremoniously euthanized before the next sunrise. 

“If you’re familiar, then I’ll spare you the usual spiel about how this works,” Marie continued as she ran his ID through the desktop scanner. If she noticed the edge to his voice, she didn’t show it. “But I’ll give you a few reminders, just to refresh your memory. WRU salespersons will be stationed throughout the sales floor, wearing yellow shirts and WRU name tags just like mine. They’re available to answer any questions about merchandise or to help close any sales. We also ask that you refrain from live video or photographs for the privacy of our staff.”

“Got it.” Rowan felt the lie sticky on his tongue. The staff present today would be afforded no privacy, not if he could help it. Their atrocities, their complicity in this system, would soon be aired to the growing world of people who cared. Even this interaction at this front desk would be on tape, ready to share with the world in a matter of days. 

“Wonderful,” Marie said as she handed his ID back with a pamphlet tucked beneath it. “You can find the map of our sales floor in this brochure. Domestic will be in the front right through the double doors, Platonic towards the center, Romantics and all other classifications behind the black curtain on the left. I will say that we’re particularly low on Platonic inventory for this event, so if that’s what you’re after, I’d recommend coming back for next month’s Opportunity Sale. If you’re looking for anything specific, a WRU salesperson would be happy to assist.”

Rowan retrieved his ID and the map out of her hands, and he silently hoped she wouldn’t notice his fingers shaking. 

“Got it, thanks for your help.”

A final smile was all he afforded her before turning to the heavy double doors beyond the entryway. 

As he stepped closer to the threshold of purgatory, a familiar memory rose from the back of his mind. It always did at these places, the familiar sensation overwhelming him as his subconscious dragged him back nearly fifteen years.

---

“Hey, prof, are we there yet?”

Benny’s familiar voice cut sharp through the otherwise low murmur of conversation on the bus. 

“Benny, please,” Professor Engelhardt groaned, exasperation obvious in both her face and her voice. “I would appreciate it if all of our volunteers could act their age. You’ll know when we get there, I promise. In the meantime, try and exercise even a modicum of patience”

Rowan felt Grey squeeze his knee, and when he looked over the other young man gave him a toothy smile.

“For once, the loud-mouth has a point,” Grey said as he stifled a giggle.

“I have to agree,” Rowan agreed as he swallowed a laugh of his own. “It feels like we’ve been staring at nothing but cornfields for the last two hours. Where could we possibly be going this far out of the city?”

“Professor Engelhardt did say it was essential to our training as PLF volunteers, and I know that it’s a requirement for anyone who wants to do investigative work for the PLF. But as far as I know, there’s no WRU facilities out west of the city like this.”

“You’d be correct.”

Rowan looked up as his ears burned in embarrassment, the tired professor looking down at both him and Grey from the aisle. She continued, seemingly unaware of the blush that also tinged Grey’s cheeks. 

“This is a required journey for all volunteers who are looking to take the next step in their PLF activism. We’d rather you each know now whether this kind of environment will be too much for a sensitive stomach. And you’re also correct on a second count, Greyson. We’re not going to any WRU facility, at least not yet. You each have a considerable amount of training ahead of you before you go quite so far.”

By now, Professor Engelhardt’s voice had grabbed the attention of the other volunteers squeezed into the rattling and repurposed school bus. Faces of all ages, from the hopeful university students to the equally tired retirees, were rapt as their chaperone continued. Rowan’s stomach felt like it was doing somersaults as she spoke.

“We’re going to a cattle slaughterhouse. It’s time that you all experience for yourselves what it’s like when blood soaks the floor and all you can hear is screaming and heavy machinery. You need to see what happens when a collection of personal choices and systems meant to harm come together to determine whether something lives, or whether it dies. These aren’t humans, and they can’t speak to you to share their stories, but you’ll have plenty of time to see those horrors with your own eyes as you continue as volunteers. For now, let’s get you accustomed to keeping a straight face amidst the suffering and bloodshed. Given some of your aspirations, that shouldn't be much to ask.”

This time, Grey grabbed Rowan’s hand. Rowan gripped it back until his knuckles turned white.

--- 

That same smell followed Rowan now, the acrid stench he first experienced in the slaughterhouse on that humid August day. It was a lingering copper heavy in the air, a whisper of blood among festering wounds and fluids. WRU certainly tried to cover their tracks, make this place seem welcoming and inviting to the public, hide the litany of abuse that propped the system up. But to Rowan, and to anyone who knew better, there was no hiding the stench of ammonia and waste that clung to skin as much as sweat. These were sins that neither Pine Sol nor bleach could cover.

Rowan pushed through the double doors and entered the sales floor. It was showtime. 

The repurposed warehouse was milling with bodies. There were throngs of buyers meandering between yellow-clad WRU salespeople and black-clad Handlers, some chatting cheerfully while they contemplated buying a living being, others already busying their hands with prodding the “merchandise.” 

Opportunistic buyers hoping to get a pet at a discount came in a few standard flavors. There would be the middle-class families, unable to afford a brand-new pet, but still hoping to score a Domestic that was good enough to help around the house. There were the desperate perverts who were looking to try out a Romantic, see if flesh was better than silicone to get their kicks. And then there were the truly depraved, those hoping that they can find a legal way to torture - and likely murder - a living being without the threat incarceration hanging over their heads.

Rowan was posing as a long-curious buyer who might finally cave and get a Romantic all for himself. He wanted to be charismatic and sure of himself, but prove to be a bit more hesitant when it came to the “merchandise” itself. He was dressed smart, like he had money, but erred towards frugality. This would drum up the sales people, get them to incriminate WRU and its horrors under the guise of a sales pitch, the very thing that would generate sound bytes perfect for the pro liberation materials. 

He started with the Domestics, he always did. They were typically positioned at the entryway, intentionally so, as both the most in-demand and publicly palatable part of the system. Most families and prospective buyers wouldn’t wander past this point of the warehouse, not needing to look any further. 

A few of the victims were kept in cages, others on long leashes for handlers to parade around. It all depended on the state they were in, how well they’d be able to sell themselves as much as the salespeople did. 

“You look like a busy man,” a woman clad in WRU-issued yellow said with a smile in Rowan’s direction. “What do you say about never having to cook for yourself again? What about coming home to clean laundry every day without needing to think about it?” 

“That does sound tempting,” Rowan answered as he slowed to a halt. 

He looked at the man attached to the saleswoman’s lead, a tall and gangly thing, hunched shoulders with a distant look in his eyes. The defect was readily apparent: he was standing and leaning on a pair of forearm crutches, rather than the expected kneeling, because he was missing most of his left leg.

“This is one of our best deals of the day,” she continued her pitch with practiced ease, “I can guarantee you that. A flawless all-around Domestic, with great command responsiveness and attentiveness. It’s perfect for a busy working man or a family with a few kids. We’ve got it marked down today due to an obvious defect with its legs, which means it moves much slower than we’d expect from one of our model Domestics. Likewise, it can’t assume many of the expected kneeling positions, and struggles to move from position to position otherwise. This pet requires a patient owner, but the reward for that patience is a model that otherwise works as expected.”

This man would likely live another day. Rowan couldn’t see many other physical signs of damage beyond the amputation, and so long as this one ended up with someone who kept up with his medical equipment and any other treatments, he’d likely have many more years of service ahead of him. Maybe he’d even live long enough to see the whole damn system dismantled.

Still, it was Rowan’s job today to get incriminating sound bytes and video, so he pressed back. 

“I don’t like how tall it is,” he said, staring at the man who’d tower over him if he wasn’t slouched over his crutches. “I’d hate someone to think it has any kind of authority or power over me. It would be embarrassing in front of guests.”

“Rest assured, this model is fully obedient and appropriately subservient. After nearly a decade of service, there have been zero complaints of defiance or insubordination. Its last owners simply couldn’t bear the aesthetics of a Domestic like this. They’ve left glowing reviews of its service, and had it receive additional training in hand washing and minor repairs of delicate clothes. Really, this is a steal, and it’s more than discounted for the cost of a leg.”

“I understand,” Rowan said. “Still, I’m not a very tall man, and this one is just too much for me to handle. Your pitch is good, though, I’m sure you’ll have someone take it off your hands.”

“Of course, we want to make sure that each customer gets a pet that’s best suited for their needs, even if it is at an Opportunity Sale like this. If you’re interested in a shorter Domestic designation, we’ve got one over there with my colleague Dominic.” She pointed to the far end of the Domestic zone, to a tall man in yellow with a pet in a cage beside him. Rowan swallowed disgust once more.

“I’ll go check it out, thanks.”

And he did. He walked slowly, moving deliberately from side to side so his camera captured everything. This included the sight of a Platonic falling to their knees as an electric collar went off around their neck. The would-be purchaser gave a lecherous smile and ran her hand through the panting pet’s hair once the crackle of electricity faded. There would be no fairy tale ending for that unfortunate soul. 

“I saw my colleague Debbie point you over here,” the WRU employee said as Rowan came within earshot of the cage tied to the warehouse floor. “Do you mind if I give you the sales pitch while you look the merchandise over?”

“Well, the fact you’ve got this one in a crate while the others are out and about isn’t promising,” Rowan tried to lament as he gazed through the bars of the cage.  

“Ah, but that’s part of the story.” Already the salesman was working to weave a tale, and it was one Rowan would listen to with well-practiced feigned interest. The man gestured at the crate with an expression of false sorrow before he continued. 

“This one isn’t in a crate because it’s a danger to you. No, it’s a danger to itself, and only then because it’s so stricken by grief. You see, this pet is from our very first Domestic-Care line of products, the latest from WRU in home-care solutions. Its extended training made it perfect for older buyers looking to have a Domestic with a bit of extra training in handling low-complexity medical equipment like wheelchairs, walkers, shower chairs, stair lifts, and more. It was paired with a loving owner, carried out its tasks dutifully, and went years with a perfect record. All check-ins from WRU were met with glowing reviews. 

“Given the opportunity, it follows routines to a degree of meticulousness few of our pets have a predisposition for. Genuinely, this pet has always been one-of-a-kind. However, its owner passed away from circumstances entirely beyond this pet’s control. It went out of its mind with grief, and no matter how many new homes we’ve placed it in, and no matter the attempts we’ve made to re-train it, it escapes and runs right back to its old master’s home.” 

Even now, Rowan could see the pet searching for the door, their eyes following the flow of people in and out of the sales room. The human feelings were there. They always had been, and Rowan could all but feel the grief himself. That panicked searching for a way out, that desire to run into the arms to the person that this human felt they belonged to. A desperation for a door to an old life, a familiar voice, an expected touch. Grief as manifest through complete brainwashed devotion. 

Rowan knew better by now than to let his emotions seep through onto his face.  

“So, it’s a runaway risk. A certain runaway, in fact.” 

“I wouldn’t say anything with certainty,” the employee said with a nerve-tinged laugh. “In fact, the reason this particular model is on the floor today is with the hopes it connects with someone as deeply as it connected with its first owner. There’s no guarantee of that, we know, but it’s worth the shot. We’re hoping the right person will come along today and help them find peace. In the meantime, we’d recommend a home outfitted with windows that lock, and doors that are equipped with biometric verification that the pet can’t bypass.” 

The only peace this pet would find would be its death later this evening. No one in their right mind would take a runaway, not a casual purchaser, and not even a liberation group. The risk of a successful escape was just far too great.

The pet wouldn’t meet Rowan’s eyes even now, as it returned hunting, searching for the familiar face it was expecting. A face that would never come. There was no solace in knowing that soon, for the faithful at least, pet and owner would be reunited. 

“Unfortunately, I’m not equipped to handle a runaway,” Rowan said as he looked up from the crate with a sigh. “Honestly, I feel like these Domestics have just sidetracked me. I was here to look at the Romantics, really.” 

“Then you’ll want to head right behind that curtain over there,” the man said with a gesture to the tall velvet curtains that cordoned off nearly a third of the warehouse. “There are plenty of additional WRU employees there to help you find a model that’s suitable to your needs.” 

With a nod, Rowan turned to walk towards the curtains. He lingered for a moment, just long enough to stick his fingers through the bars of the cage at his side, a chance to let the pet seek out comfort if they wanted. No touch came, and Rowan walked away with a familiar pang in his heart. He knew by now that he was never going to save them all, not yet, but it didn’t ease the pain. 

Another flash of his ID was all it took to get him through the foreboding curtains. WRU absolutely didn’t want families and reporters seeing this side of the system, after all. The Romantics division might have been the second best-selling of all the WRU models, but it was also the most secretive. There was good reason for that. 

As soon as Rowan passed the threshold he was hit with the thick aroma of sex and fear. There was a more sinister atmosphere in the rooms that existed behind the curtain, air heavy with that adrenaline-twinged sweat of broken pets who were fighting for their lives, some being used live for demonstrations on the sales floor. Even after all this time, Rowan’s stomach wasn’t quite accustomed to it. 

He kept his chest forward and shoulders out. That was the best way for his camera to capture the sights and the sounds, because after all, that was the reason he was here. He wasn’t here to save these victims, as much as he wished that was the case. He was here in the hopes that their suffering would give those that came after them a fighting chance, that airing these atrocities to the world would bring the system to its knees one day.

The first sight that drew his attention was a man cinched to a table, an unusual arrangement for even the most “defective” Romantics. There were already two potential buyers there, hands on the naked pet, touching his body and fondling his genitals. The pet was unflinching, his chest rising and falling steadily, lips giving out soft sighs and moans in a practiced rhythm. 

“I didn’t expect this one to be so popular,” the WRU employee said with feigned exclamation as Rowan meandered over. “But young man, you certainly have good taste. This model is one many once would have believed was unsalable, but here, at the Opportunity Sale, it’s being given a second chance. Not only that, but it’s proving to be the center of attention.” 

‘What’s wrong with it?” Rowan asked bluntly, still surveying the scene. Something had to be wrong, and even his own seasoned eyes hadn’t figured it out yet. The pet’s gaze was unfocused, its body still, just as a Romantic was trained to be unless given the command to engage. 

“Another tragedy, I’m afraid.” The salesperson didn’t sound saddened at all. “There was an incident during its training that left it paralyzed from the mid-back down. This means that, as a Romantic, its functions are limited. It can’t sustain an erection anymore, and it can’t engage in certain types of play. However, it's still just as tight as our standard buyers would expect, and its mouth is an absolute dream. You’d be responsible for the additional care costs of a paralyzed pet, but for someone with limited sexual needs of their own, this model will more than fulfill.” 

At least once each Opportunity Sale, Rowan swore to himself that this was finally the time he was going to be sick on the job. He’d see something so horrific that there was no answer except to choke up bile and spit there on the sales floor. He’d likely out himself as a PLF agent in that same breath - after all, who else would be so concerned about the well being of pets? - but it almost didn’t matter. These horrors were too much to witness, much less bear as the victim was bearing them now. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. At least that sales pitch would make a great sound byte for the pet liberation materials. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s not what I’m looking for. I’d definitely want one that’s younger and, uh, more mobile.”

“Understandable,” the salesperson said with a nod. “There are plenty of other options here today that might suit your fancy. Feel free to keep browsing, and as always, you’re welcome to ask a WRU employee for any assistance or further direction.”

“Thanks.”

And Rowan did keep browsing. He browsed carefully, angling his chest to capture all of the angles he could, kneeling down to “inspect” pets that were sprawled naked on the floor. The path he took around the Romantics section was methodical. The disabled pets, the catatonic pets, the ones with abuse written on their skin, Rowan tried to capture them all. When he could he gave their hands what he hoped was a squeeze of comfort - possibly the last they’d receive in their too-short lives. 

He was nearly to the back corner, at which point he’d loop around to the front and make a graceful exit, when he saw another Romantic in a crate.

Unlike all the others, this one made Rowan stop in his tracks.

The man in the crate was young, possibly ten or so years younger than Rowan himself. He had a thick hair of black curls and he was looking through the bars of the crate with searching, hopeful eyes. It was almost like he was waiting for something, someone, to notice him. Most of the pets here were defeated, on their last chance at redemption, already chewed up and spit out. Their spirits had been dampened. Somehow, some way, this one was still fighting. 

It was like a thread in his chest pulled Rowan up to the crate. His feet were moving without him commanding them, unlike anything he’d experienced at a sale like this before. He was caught up in something special, something different, about this victim. 

“You have a good eye,” the saleswoman said with a warm smile. “This is possibly one of the best deals we have on the floor today, so long as you’re willing to be a little patient.”

“What’s wrong with this one?” Rowan asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy kneeling almost eagerly behind the bars. 

“Let me start off by saying that this pet is in great physical condition. Not only is it one of the youngest we have here today, it has passed almost all of our physical examinations with flying colors. Its strength, speed, and tactile abilities are within or exceeding our typical parameters. Not only that, but this particular pet has something that is typically reserved for only our most exclusive customers: it has dual training, and is classified as both a Romantic and a Domestic.” 

“That’s not something you typically see at an Opportunity Sale, I suppose,” Rowan pretended to muse. He already knew that what she had said was the truth. Dual-classification pets took many more months of training than single-classification, and it often showed in both the abuses and expenses associated with keeping one. A Dual-classification pet could easily cost as much as a down payment on a house. 

“Exactly why this is such a great opportunity,” the saleswoman beamed. “As a Domestic, it even has specialty training in French cuisine. You’ll be eating like royalty every night if you so please. As a Romantic, its skills and abilities are considered quite standard, with experience in training for light bondage.” 

“So, why aren’t you telling me what’s wrong with it?” 

A sigh. Dramatic, almost despairing. It was an act of practiced sympathy that soured Rowan’s stomach even further. 

“Unfortunately, this one seems incredibly selective with the orders it follows, if it follows them at all. No amount of effort from our most experienced WRU handlers have been able to adequately refurbish it. As I said, its behaviors and capabilities are within or exceeding WRU standards, and it certainly seems eager to please its keepers, but I can make no promises on its compliance with specific commands.”

The boy looked up at Rowan for just a moment before turning his gaze back down. From that brief glance, Rowan wouldn’t have put him a day over twenty-five. But God, he just looked so lost. He didn’t seem lost in the way that many others at the sale today did, that catatonic, too-far-gone glaze over their eyes, the will to live entirely sapped out of them. Instead, it looked like this boy was hunting for something, someone who would notice him, give him attention in return.

Rowan couldn’t help himself. He saw it as a sign that this victim wanted to live, wanted to make it off this floor alive, wanted to connect with any human being that came by and could give him a chance. It was a spark, and against his better judgment, Rowan hoped that he could one day stoke it into a fire. 

“How much?” 

The words left his mouth before he was able to swallow them down. His heart began to race almost instantly: this wasn’t the plan, it was never the plan. He was supposed to get in, take some footage, and get out. He wasn’t trained for anything else. He wasn’t prepared to engage in rescue activities, especially not like this. 

Yet Rowan had never known anything with a certainty such as this: he could not leave here without saving this boy. 

“Wow, you’re won over already?” The saleswoman’s voice was light, but she was already pulling out a clipboard with a stack of paperwork on it. “I haven’t even given you all of its physical details yet. You can’t see quite how tall it is in the crate, can you? Here, let me get you its height, weight, vaccine record, some of its other statistics-” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Rowan managed, almost breathless from the sudden influx of stress. “I want this one. How much?” 

“Because it’s lacking in one of the most essential features of a WRU product, the ability to listen to owner commands, it’s offered at a significant discount. This one is seven thousand and five hundred dollars before tax, and the seven percent state and local sales tax will be applied at checkout. We also have optional add-ons, like the pet care package that insures all well-being visits, vaccines, and dental care at any WRU-sponsored pet clinics, as well as training class vouchers to impart additional skills.” 

Rowan had already retrieved his wallet from his pocket, fingers trembling as he pulled out his ID and method of payment. That was a lot of money, yes, but who was he to put a price on a life? His car could hang on another few years, probably. Maybe. It was just money, he’d be fine. 

“I’ll take the base package. I don’t need anything else.” 

The rest of the sales floor became distant, dull, and Rowan took the pen into his hand as the saleswoman shoved a pile of paperwork in his direction. Tomorrow morning, she said, this boy would be delivered to his front door. Initial on this line, sign here, what’s today’s date? It was a blur and Rowan was hardly aware of what his own hands were doing. 

He couldn’t hear her over the thundering of blood in his ears, and the rush of adrenaline made it hard to steady the pen in his hand. He penned his signature on the final line and the saleswoman congratulated him with words he could hardly make out. It didn’t feel real, like he was walking through a dream. 

Rowan was going to be a pet owner. 

---

The din of conversation in the massive room almost overcame the incessant ringing in the pet’s ears. Not much was capable of drowning it out these days, not since it had become so loud. It never stopped, anymore. 

It couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged all around it, those busy groups of people moving back and forth, their legs passing its crate by without stopping. It had a hard time hearing words, no matter how hard it tried, and whether it was somewhere busy like this or otherwise. It wanted to be good, it wanted to listen, it wanted to make its master and its handlers pleased. But the pet couldn’t do that anymore, and deep in its gut, it knew that’s why it was here today. It was here with all the other pets that were broken, that were missing things, that cried when they were brought into the room this morning. Those pets were bad, and the handlers had no trouble saying as much.

The pet wanted to believe it wasn’t like those broken pets. That it would go back to Master, or have a new master, and be able to please them like a good pet should. But for that to happen it had to be on its best behavior. Handler Green had said so, that the pet would be thrown out if it didn’t try its very best to listen and be good. Handler Green had shouted this over and over, as though the pet was being disobedient just by existing, rather than unable to hear him. It didn’t want to be disobedient, and it wished that the handlers didn’t have to repeat themselves so much. It wished it could hear right, like the other pets were able to.

A pair of legs stopped beside the crate, toes pointed towards the yellow-shirt woman that wasn’t a handler, but the pet was told to behave for nonetheless. The pet looked up, eager to see who might be interested, perhaps someone who wanted it. The man’s eyes met the pet’s, and it quickly averted its gaze back towards the ground, cheeks burning. It was a novice mistake to make eye contact with a person like that. If it didn’t get itself under control, remember its training and very best manners, the pet knew that it was destined to fail. 

Maybe it was a broken pet after all. It certainly had the bruises and scarring from seemingly endless corrections by handlers, anyway. 

Those legs finally walked away and a blanket was thrown over the top of the pet’s crate. It yelped in spite of itself as the darkness descended. Did this mean that it had failed? Was that single glance enough to seal its fate, destined it to never have another Master to serve, no second chance to prove itself? Was this the end - alone, in the dark, unable to hear anything but the shrill ringing that had become its only companion? 

I want to be good, it thought to itself, tears splashing down from its watering eyes to its knees. Its fists balled up, hands shaking from the sadness and the longing. I just want to be good.

---

Taglist (please ask if you would like to be added or removed, I know it's been a while :))

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[whumplr-reader]

Training the new slave – the first part of an interactive whump story

Content warning: slavery, imprisonment, dehumanizing language, implied future torture, characters express fantasy racism (slave owners are surprisingly not good people).

The slave auction was a grand building, standing tall and proud of its purpose and the wealth of those coming there. It was a place of privilege – on one side of the grand stage, at least. Or on one side of the iron bars, if you were afforded the honor of seeing the stock before the official bidding began – a rare, sparingly given to the most esteemed of patrons opportunity.

Lord Edarwis Teelo greatly enjoyed being one of them. He passed by the row of cells with the dignity that fit his status he had to fight to present – getting to choose before anyone else laid their hands on the collection was exciting. It'd taken many years of work and effort. He couldn't wait to have it all pay off.

Most were boring offerings. People from all over the kingdoms, a few criminals but mostly those sold to slavery to pay off debts. A servant went on about each of them before Lord Teelo threw him a quick glance. The boy was clever enough to close his mouth, letting the lord enjoy the walk in silence, rarely interrupted by any of the scared prisoners. They watched his every move, of course, at least most of them – eyes wide and scared or shut tight or cast away. All pretty faces (the auction only sold the best), skin ranging from deep browns of the Ashai coast to pale pinks from the northern border.

One of them caught the lord's eyes and he paused, studying the boy closer. Young, barely of age, either shaven cleanly or still unable to grow a beard, with such cute little curls on his head and wide hazel eyes. He was a candy for the eyes, shivering in the corner of the sell, twisting his naked body to preserve some sense of modesty.

"He's from Deruveer," the servant chimed in. "From the province. His family needed money after the draught and he was the youngest son. He's rather timid, a great choice if you want someone to do the chores and not bother you much."

Lord Teelo hummed. The boy was pretty, and convenience didn't always mean boredom. He decided to let him be for now, continuing on his way.

The next thing that got his attention was a dull distant clanging, like metal meeting stone with force. "What's that?" the lord wondered.

The servant answered readily, "Ah, it's from our special collection. They're not trained very well yet – you see, my lord, they are from the Northern Steppes."

"A barbarian?" Lord Teelo drawled out, impressed.

"Not just. They were a chieftain of some tribe there, – one of the bigger ones, I've been told. Our army hunted them for a while, until the chief decided to finally surrender. I don't think they expected this kind of a future, though. They are rather unruly."

"Show me," the lord demanded.

It didn't take long for them to reach the special section, and the clanging became all the louder as they came closer. "They want attention," the servant explained with a vaguely apologetic tone. "Their rations have been cut since they bit the handler, and it hasn't improved their temper, yet. It will eventually though. They are sturdy, but nobody is unbreakable."

The lord hummed, turning the corner and finally being able to take in the person they'd been discussing. He expected – something impressive, matching the tales of unruly northern barbarians, dressed in furs and carrying strange weapons, their skin white as silk or even the snow they saw every year there and covered in nasty scars from constant skirmishes against each other. They were all tall as giants and muscular as lions, – all but the one Lord Teelo saw before him, it seemed.

The barbarian sat in the corner of their cell, naked as all slaves were, even though they didn't seem to even try covering anything. Their skin was pale but in a disappointedly human-like way, adorned with iron cuffs and chains going to the wall and a muzzle fitting tightly around their face and leaving only blue eyes and greasy hair out. They caught Lord Teelo's gaze with determination and moved their arm out as far as they could before jerking it back towards the wall. The chain clung against the stone.

"I expected them to be taller," Lord Teelo expressed their disappointment.

"Yes, yes, I also found their look underwhelming when I first saw them," the servant agreed quickly. "But even though they're rather skinny – they can put up quite a fight! If you decide to buy them, my lord, it is advised you keep them in chains and with guards by your side, at least at first. They're a piece of work for sure."

The lord hummed. "Who else do you keep in this special collection of yours."

"Ah! You're gonna like her," the servant brightened. "A real royalty in our modest house! Follow me, my lord."

The cell he led the lord to was bigger than the rest, and less bare. There was a table, a chair, an honest to gods rug, even, and a whole tea set a woman was enjoying in silence. She wasn't dressed as a queen, Lord Teelo noted, her clothes were rather revealing and obviously made to showcase her beauty more than cover her modesty. But she was dressed – more than most people here could say for themselves.

"Royalty?" Lord Teelo mused. The woman turned her head, deeming him worthy of a long look – and it did feel like she was obliging him. The lord gave his best unimpressed stare back.

"She's the princess of former Terzita."

"Ah. The Night of Storms?" the lord guessed as the princess looked away. He watched her, noting the faint bruises running over the tense shoulders.

"The poor thing watched half of her family murdered before her eyes," the servant agreed. "Such terrible fate. It doesn't make her for a more obedient slave, of course – she's still thinking she should be treated with special dignity. We humor her here – but you are not obliged to do the same, my lord."

He didn't, did he. It would be so fun to put her in her place. Oh, yes, he could enjoy a royal maid. And if she didn't feel like playing the role – he would enjoy teaching her what would come of disobedience.

"You have anything more impressive?" Lord Teelo wondered, not taking his eyes away from the woman.

The servant didn't think for long. "We do," he smiled brightly. "Very special. This might be the most special slave of them all, one you can only see once in a lifetime."

"Oh?"

"It's not a human," the servant declared proudly. Lord Teelo perked up with interest. "Nor is it from the archipelago."

"Ah," Lord Teelo responded and the boy smiled at him, seeing right to his excitement. He showed the way without needing to be prompted.

The thing – the creature, – was huddled in the corner, lying on the ground as the two men approached. Its ears – long, obviously inhuman – perked up at the footsteps, but it didn't move from its place. The lord studied its back, the weird patterns streaming down in swirls of color against the unnatural, obsidian black of its skin – furless, at least, and slightly more human in this. Its spine ended up a tail, curling by its legs. A tail!

"Hey!" the servant called out and rattled a key against the iron bars. The creature moved abruptly to face the sound. Lord Teelo was mesmerized by the yellow of its iris and the black of the rest of its eyes. The pupils retracted into slits when they caught the light.

"Is this a fey?" the lord let out a astounded gasp. Even bringing up the fairytales felt childish, but what else could it be?

"We don't know for sure," the servant replied in a whisper respectful of the marvelous situation. "It doesn't speak Tragesh – or any language, for this matter. It doesn't seem incapable of learning – oi! You, want some food?"

"'uud?" the creature mimicked, flashing fangs in its attempt. Its face made some movement Lord Teelo couldn't read. "Yuu hath no 'uud."

"Astounding," Lord Teelo shook his head. Even if he didn't end up owning the creature, just seeing it was a miracle! "Can it do magic?"

"We keep it in a Shiel's collar," the servant explained. "It hasn't shown any, but – we like to be cautious in this case. It is included with the purchase, of course."

"I see," Lord Teelo tore his gaze away with some difficulty. "Anything else?"

"I'm afraid not, my lord," the servant smiled apologetically. "Was something from our collection to your liking?"

Lord Teelo nodded and then thought about it. Money wasn't a problem, but he was only allowed to buy one slave before the auction – which one would it be?

Updates every 7-10 days (depending on how much time I have and how obvious the poll result is)

@isikedmyself878

Tell me to be tagged in new parts!

[whumplr-reader]

A few days back I learnt that interactive whump exists, which means that I need to make one right now!

I have assembled a list of prompts I would have fun writing. Every single one of them would be fantasy, and as SFW as you can get with the topics of slavery, torture and death -- I'm not interested in writing smut (nor can I do it well).

Each prompt states the main role of the character the decisions of which you would control.

1. Whumper/caretaker. A slave owner purchases and begins training their new property. Would they be an intimate and kind master or a monster turning their existence into hell?

2. Whumper. The leader of a rebellion captures the king's siblings to extract information and use them in their plans. Would they be able to break the royals' wills and take over the country?

3. Whumpee. Three friends are taken captive and struggle to find the means to survive and escape. Would they survive the cruelty of their captors together or choose their comfort over the lives of those they love?

4. Whumpee. An adventurer is lost in a mystical forest and seeks shelter in a suspicious manor. Would they be able to convince the owner to let them go, or spend the rest of their lives following their every whim?

5. Whumpee/caretaker. The leader of a small adventuring party watches their friends slowly die one by one to an unforgiving dungeon. Would any of them manage to escape alive and sane?

6. Caretaker/whumper. A young person finds an escaped slave on their doorstep. Would they hide and help the poor thing or use their privileged position to torment them more?

Please tell me whichever one you chose and what exactly you found the most appealing about it. If you have any ideas of what can happen during the story, please tell me about them too -- it will make them this much more likely to be incorporated into the plot, if not in substance than in vibes!

I will also need character names, please write if you have any ideas! Or any ideas about the personalities, appearances, everything!

[whumplr-reader]

i know we've all been warned that art is the biggest snitch but no one tells you that reading your own writing will make you realize things about yourself that you wouldn't confess to while being waterboarded

[whumplr-reader]

Whumper who taxidermies Whumpees who have outlived their use.

[whumplr-reader]

Chapter 1. Stowaway

Discovery and capture, threat of violence to a minor, past whump of a minor, past whipping, referenced minor character deaths, referenced alcohol use, smoking mention

Masterpost | Next

Sunshine sparkled on the sea, its obsidian black depths dotted with blinding diamonds and cut by the wake of the Gorgon. A few stray gulls circled over the ship, wary of the rowdy occupants and the smell of fresh gunpowder and blood. Had Flint been an older captain, he would have curbed his crew’s enthusiasm by now – their drunken revelry had continued through the night and into a new day, the rum and festivities celebrating the lives of those they lost as well as the victory over a pompous Icarian Fleet ship.

If Flint was being honest, he hadn’t quite expected to take the larger ship with as little blood as they had managed. Two naval officers slain in retribution for the bullet they put in Cairn’s heart, and the imperials surrendered. Flint wasn’t sure if the captain was a coward or a compassionate man for so swiftly deferring to the pirates’ terms but knowing the Icarians it was likely the former.

Still, the loss of Cairn was hard on his crew – he was a spitfire hellion that always managed to make even Kell laugh at his jokes, and he would be sorely missed. Who was Flint to cut the crew’s rambunctious mourning rituals short?

“Cap,” He felt his firstmate step onto the upperdeck before she spoke, a shadow settling next to his own as they looked over the main deck of the Gorgon. “Friar found something of interest in the cargo below deck.”

Keep reading

[whumplr-reader]

Tenets of Growth: Part 9

Honor and Obey

First: The Path of Cultivation Prev: Groundwork || Next: title

CW: conditioning, kneeling, restrained, stress position, humiliation, conditioned whumper (whumper is also a whumpee, who believes they are doing the right thing), religious themes, religion used to justify torture, fantasy world.

Word count: 2,300~

Author's Notes: This chapter is a little lighter on the whump itself, and is more a way to exposit some stuff and set future scenes up, but there's a little bit of whump there too!

— — — 

After a successful replanting, Initiate Cedar has responded relatively well to his first meditation. The subject was the Vow of a Seed. Additional goals for his first day of study include the Initiate’s Code of Conduct, and I hope to introduce the First Tenet of Growth either today or tomorrow. 

Aster hesitated, her quill hovering over the page of the logbook Lady Lantana had given her. Her instructions had been to write about every aspect of Cedar’s training for the Cultivator to review, but something held her back from putting her question to paper. She had learned that she was not to show any doubt, so how would Lady Lantana react if she expressed her difficulty? 

A challenge I have encountered is my own inexperience with the– 

She paused, considering her words. 

–physical aspects of cultivation. I find myself wishing for the knowledge that Pruners have of the human body, of how much it can take before succumbing to pain or exhaustion. Still, I remain optimistic about Initiate Cedar’s progress. 

Nodding to herself, Aster set her quill down on the desk and stood. It had been perhaps two hours since she left Cedar’s cell, instructing the youth to meditate privately on the Vow of a Seed. In that time, she had taken a meal, spent some time in personal study in the Nursery’s library, and meditated on the Vow of a Cultivator. The shape of the Vow in her soul was still new and unfamiliar to her, and she knew she had many more hours of meditation ahead of her before she truly understood it. But for now, she had to put all of that from her mind. 

“When you are working directly with Initiates, your focus must be entirely on their growth,” Lady Lantana had instructed. “For as a Cultivator, their growth is your growth. You yourself become closer to Perivyta as you guide others to her.” 

Aster took a deep breath, then turned and left her room, leaving the log open on the desk. She attempted to find her way through the Nursery’s corridors on her own, but she was still so unused to navigating the Nursery without a leader. Eventually, after ten minutes of wandering, she was forced to ask for directions to the kitchen, where she procured a bowl of thin, watery porridge to bring to Cedar. Thankfully, she managed to make it from the kitchens down to the training cells without further incident, and soon found herself outside his cell door. 

She took another breath, straightened her spine, then opened the door and stepped into the room. 

Cedar was still chained so that he knelt on the floor, unable to look up, but the flinch at the sound of the door clanging shut let Aster know that he was awake and aware of her presence.

“Initiate Cedar, what is the Vow of a Seed?” she asked. 

“I am a Seed,” Cedar said immediately. “As a Seed, I am helpless. I am dependent on Perivyta for every gift of life. I owe my very breath to Her, and so I give Her thanks.” 

“And what does this vow mean?” 

“I am a Seed. As a Seed–” 

“I did not ask you to recite the vow again,” Aster interrupted. “I asked you to tell me its meaning. Or has your time of meditation been in vain?”

“No!” Cedar said quickly. “Um, it means…” he took a shaky breath. “It means that without Perivyta, we can’t survive. She gives us everything, and we…we are nothing, without her.” 

Aster nodded, though Cedar could not see the motion. 

“You are beginning to understand,” she said. “Though you have not yet fully embraced the meaning of the vow in your heart. The sooner you do so, the sooner the fullness of Perivyta’s gifts will be made known to you.” 

She sat the bowl of porridge down on her cart, then leaned forward and put her hands on the collar around Cedar’s neck. As she suspected he would, the boy flinched and tried to jerk away from her touch, but she simply gripped the leather edges tighter.

“Be still,” she commanded, and after a moment, Cedar complied, his breath coming in shaking gasps. 

He clearly expected to have his air cut off again, and for a moment, Aster considered doing so. He would need to meditate on the Vow of a Seed many more times, why not do so now? But no, this was not the right time for such an exercise. She didn’t want him fainting while trying to memorize the Initiate’s Code, he needed his strength for now. So instead of pulling the collar tight, she unclipped the chain that forced him to keep his head down. 

Cedar began to straighten, looking up at her with fear and confusion in his eyes. Aster’s heart twisted at his expression, but she did not let it show on her face. 

“Did I give you permission to move, Initiate?” she asked, and Cedar immediately bowed back down, nearly touching the floor with his forehead. 

“No,” he whispered. 

Already, he is learning to show proper deference, Aster thought to herself as she selected a longer chain from her cart. He’s a faster learner than I was. 

She attached the longer chain to his collar, then retrieved the bowl of porridge. 

“Now you may rise, Initiate Cedar.” 

Slowly, Cedar obeyed, straightening as far as the longer chain allowed. He was still on his knees, but now his back was straight, and he could lift his head to look up at her. Nodding, Aster dipped a spoon in the porridge and held it out to him. He stared at it, and she could see the conflicting emotion in his eyes. 

He had to be starving; Aster knew that this was the first meal he was being offered here in the Nursery, and Perivyta only knew how much he’d been fed at the prison they’d brought him from. But to accept the spoonful was to relinquish this final bit of control over his life. It would not come naturally to him, which was why these few early days were so crucial. Aster herself had failed to submit fully to Perivyta and the Order as a young Seed, and she had paid dearly for that failure. She would not allow Cedar to suffer the same fate. 

“You will eat this now,” she said simply. “Or you will not eat at all.” 

Cedar hesitated for a moment, then his eyes dropped to the floor and he opened his mouth. Aster bit back a smile as she fed him the first mouthful. 

A much faster learner than I was.

“This too is meditation,” she found herself saying as she spooned the porridge into his mouth. “And meditation is a gift. We rely on the Goddess for every aspect of our lives, but it is so easy to lose sight of her presence in our day to day existence. But when we walk the Path of Perivyta, we are constantly given opportunity to take notice of her gifts and give her thanks for them. Whenever we finish eating, we say ‘I give thanks to Perivyta for this gift of her bounty,’ to acknowledge our reliance on her.” 

Aster set the empty bowl on the cart behind her, and looked down at Cedar expectantly. 

“I…I give thanks to Perivyta for…this bounty.” 

“For this gift of her bounty,” Aster corrected, and Cedar repeated the words. 

“Now,” she said, clasping her hands together in front of her. “We return to your training.” 

— — — 

“You embark on the Path of Perivyta, a path that others have walked ahead of you. In order to prevent you from going astray, there is a Code that you and all Initiates must follow.” 

After his meager meal, Cedar had been forced to lower his head back into a bow while the girl swapped the longer chain she’d briefly given him back for the short one. His skin chaffed uncomfortably beneath the leather collar around his neck, and his back and knees ached from being forced to kneel for so long. 

Still, he forced himself to pay attention to Lady Aster’s words. He still wasn’t quite sure what was going on or what she wanted from him, but an “Initiate’s Code of Conduct” sounded an awful lot like “rules” to him, and he had a feeling that knowing what exactly the rules were to be in his new life would be very useful. Every time he had failed to uphold one of these standards that he hadn’t known about, he’d been met with pain and derision, which was something he’d like to avoid as much as possible going forward. 

“Understanding the guidelines of this Code is paramount to your walk with the Goddess, and thus, questions for clarification will be permitted during this lesson. Now, repeat this after me: 

“As I honor and obey Perivyta, I honor and obey her Cultivators, in my heart, in my mind, and in my actions.” 

“As I honor and obey Perivyta…” Cedar said slowly, trying to match the girl’s words exactly. “I honor and obey her Cultivators, in my heart, in my mind, and in my actions.” 

There was a pause, and when Lady Aster didn’t speak immediately, Cedar hesitantly asked, 

“What’s a Cultivator?”

“Cultivation is one of the Paths of Perivyta that one may walk when one’s time as an Initiate is over,” Lady Aster explained. “Cultivators lead the Order, and guide all its Priestesses, Priests, and Initiates.” She paused for a moment, and Cedar glanced up just enough to see her straighten her spine. “And I am your Cultivator. Now, repeat the first guideline again.”

For what Cedar could only assume was hours, Lady Aster drilled the “guidelines” into him. His head was swimming with flowery language and redundant points, but for better or worse, he could at least understand what was being asked of him with each part of the Code. 

As I honor and obey Perivyta, I honor and obey her Cultivators, in my heart, in my mind, and in my actions. 

Always follow a Cultivator’s orders. Simple enough to understand, at least.

To walk Perivyta’s Path and to study the Tenets of Growth is the truest purpose of my life, and I will not forsake these teachings.

Be a good student of all the spiritual lessons that said Cultivator kept rambling on about. 

All work done in the Nurseries and in Perivyta’s name is sacred in nature, and I will perform this work with humility and gladness. 

Apparently, he’d eventually be unchained and expected to perform manual labor, and he was to do so without any complaint.

Posture is a reflection of the spirit. All who look upon me will know the truth of my heart and the Path that I walk.  

From what he could gather, this is why he was chained on his knees with his head bowed. The “Posture of a Seed,” as Lady Aster called it, was meant to both be a constant reminder to him of his place and to show others at a glance what that place was. Eventually, he’d be expected to hold the pose without restraints, but for now, the chains were to help him “learn the posture’s shape.” 

As I heed the will of Perivyta and her Cultivators, I also heed those who have walked the Initiate’s Path before me and are rich in the Goddess’s fruit. 

Cultivators were only one kind of Priestess, and Cedar was expected to obey any Priest or Priestess who gave him an order, so long as that order did not contradict the order of a Cultivator. 

As I am not fully grown in my walk with Perivyta, I associate only with others who are on this walk with me and with those who guide me. 

“What does that mean?” Cedar asked bluntly. He’d understood the other mandates well enough, only needing minor clarification, but this last one made no sense to him. 

“You are freshly replanted, Initiate,” Lady Aster explained. “It is important that you are surrounded only by those who will help in your growth. You are not to have any contact with those who do not also walk the Goddess’s Path.” 

“So don’t talk to anyone who’s outside the Nursery,” Cedar clarified. 

“Or even those within the Nursery who do not walk the Path of Perivyta.” 

Cedar frowned. 

“Who in the Nursery isn’t on that Path?” 

Lady Aster paused, and for a moment Cedar thought she wasn’t going to answer at all. 

“Sometimes there are visitors, or those who have come seeking guidance,” she said eventually. “As a general practice, simply do not speak to anyone who does not wear the robes of the Priesthood. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, my lady,” Cedar said aloud. But inside, his thoughts were racing. 

There was something more to this rule, something that the girl was unsure how to speak about. Why was this so important that it got a special entry in the Initiate’s Code of Conduct? Don’t speak out of turn, don’t act out of turn, follow orders, memorize the rituals, all these rules he at least understood the purpose of. But this last one… 

“Initiate!” Lady Aster snapped, and Cedar realized she had spoken without him hearing. 

“Yes, my lady?” 

“I said recite for me the entire Initiate’s Code.” 

Cedar grimaced. He knew he wouldn’t remember every word perfectly, which meant more “meditation.” Taking a deep breath, he began to speak. 

“As I honor and obey Perivyta, I honor and obey her Cultivators…”

— — — 

Aster picked up her quill, and wrote a final line in her logbook. 

I also am in need of guidance on the best way to introduce the subject of the Chaff.

— — — 

Prev: Groundwork || Next: title

[whumplr-reader]

An oldie, but a favourite.

Happy Glorious 25th of May.

[whumplr-reader]

i do not ghost purposely i just have no idea what to say ever

[whumplr-reader]

Common types of fracture lines

Transverse fractures are perpendicular to the long axis of a bone.

Oblique fractures occur at an angle.

Spiral fractures result from a rotatory mechanism; on x-rays, they are differentiated from oblique fractures by a component parallel to the long axis of bone in at least 1 view.

Comminuted fractures have > 2 bone fragments. Comminuted fractures include segmental fractures (2 separate breaks in a bone).

Avulsion fractures are caused by a tendon dislodging a bone fragment.

In impacted fractures, bone fragments are driven into each other, shortening the bone; these fractures may be visible as a focal abnormal density in trabeculae or irregularities in bone cortex.

Torus fractures (buckling of the bone cortex) and greenstick fractures (cracks in only 1 side of the cortex) are childhood fractures.

— https://www.merckmanuals.com/professional/injuries-poisoning/fractures/overview-of-fractures

[whumplr-reader]

Non-human whumpee ideas

They have wings? Antlers? Animal ears? Make your whumpees regret they do, it's always fun :)

tw: mentions of non-consentual intimacy and other similiar, horrible things, under the cut just in case

One thing for whumper to do would be to dehumanize them

Slowly strip their 'cultured' nature, until only the primal instincts remain

Refuse them clothing - they wouldn't have that in the wild, right?

Whumper puts a shock collar on them, using it when the whumpee tries to speak, to make them slowly forget how to speak/prefer to remain silent

Cattle tagging, anyone? Placing strips of paper on the ears, strapping rings on the ankles, or even branding the unfortunate whumpee

Have the whumper feed the whumpee meals associated with their species. Give the predators raw meat, the avians seeds and worms and the herbivores plants

^Bonus points if you force them to get their calories the 'natural' way - by hunting and killing living animals, or having them eat plants off the ground

Showing them off like some zoo attraction, maybe selling them to the highest bidder (potentionally a caretaker?)

Obviously, taking away their bathroom privilages as toilets and showers don't just pop up in the woods, now do they?

Keeping the whumped in an enclosure ("with glass walls - animals don't need privacy" - whumper, probably) or cage, worse if it's in a visible spot

Forcing whumpee to go on all fours

Taking them to a vet instead of a doctor

Teaching them commands like 'heel' or 'sit'

Forcefully breeding them with other members of their species

^Maybe whumper feeding them aphrodisiacs at a party to 'give a good show'

Advertising whumpee as an exotic joytoy

Selling/collecting/using/eating any unique substances they produce

^ can be blood, hair, milk, skin, tears, saliva, fur, scales, fangs, nails, semen, feathers or anything else

^^making the whumpee believe it's their only value, and the reason they are still alive

Or...

Shaming the whumpee for being the species they are

Beating, torture and abuse for no other reason than their cat ears/tail/horns/whatever

Making a whumpee previously proud of their uniqueness hate themselves for their race

Scarring them permanently by damaging their characteristic anatomy beyond repair...

...or making the whumpee do this to themselves in a moment of desperation/insanity, maybe even after being rescued

Public humiliation

Filing down fangs to 'make them look normal'

Making them believe they are worse than others just because of their unusual nature

I honestly think these are both really intresting and really disturbing (more than the averege whump stuff), but that's just my opinion. For clarity, I DO NOT fetishize this type of stuff, nor am I fascinated by the idea of harming someone this way. Kind of a given here, but saying that puts me at ease anyway.

Feel free to use these on your unlucky muses :)