whumpsoda

[whumpsoda]

UGHHH I WANNA WRITE SO BAD BUT I CANT :( this is so sad and upsetting… soon I will I swear… I just wanna be able to put SOMETHING out there.. if anyone wants to come in my asks and talk about one of my stories feel free…

[whumpsoda]

I have decided to make a character inspired by Cowboy (from @villainhypno) and Dean (from @whumpsoda). I would like to give them both complements becouse I have fallen in love with their characters and scenarios! His name is Coyote! He's a bit smarter than the other two, he has what I call Stallion privilege. His intelligence is a privilege, not a right though. His patron (who doesn't have a name nor gender, they are simply his patron who enjoys the finer things similar to Valentine and Miss Dawn, potentially even knows them) lets him be more intelligent while alone, mostly for safety's sake. He has much more ground to cover than the other two combined, so he needs a little bit more to make sure he doesn't hurt himself stretching fence. However, how his brainwashing works, is the second someone is around him, his intelligence plummets. He becomes a sweet himbo. Furthermore, he's very protective of what his patron has said is his people. He's like a big dog and just wants to make sure his people and herd are safe. And he tries, but he struggles sometimes. Similar to Cowboy, he also has an object that intensifies the brainwashing. However, it's not his hat (After all his patron is worried the wind might blow it off). It's a beaded collar that has his name on a pair of tags (and gives a great hand hold to anyone who wants to ride that ranchhand). If you have any questions, I am going feral over him, and I will answer any questions.

[whumpsoda]

Omgggg I wanna write a little thing referencing Nevan’s bell in the earlier stuff I wrote and eventually forgot about where their trailer neighbors by a wind chime and every time it goes off and he hears it he gets caught in a little trance… either he just sits there because his entranced mind can’t figure out how to get to his master, or he just follows the sound and just kneels there until Malak finds him…

And idk I’ve thought about this before but like what if this is how they meet their neighbors! Like I’m imagining an older couple that gardens all the time and have grandkids and are overall so sweet but just don’t ever see Malak and Nevan outside yet, so their paths haven’t merged.

But like what if the wind chim is on their porch and Nevan gets caught out there before malak has noticed he’s no longer in the kitchen (maybe he was taking a nap or something) and hears the husband trying to coax Nevan off of their porch! Maybe Malak has to meet them for the first time while simultaneously trying to wake up Nevan from this state as the ringing keeps going off and trying to explain to the couple what exactly is happening :3

Maybe… idk… maybe the wife is a former hunter or something… maybe they all become besties and play games and hang out outside together… maybe the wife reassures them that she would kill as many vampires as it would take to keep them safe :3

[whumpsoda]

okay tell me why the FREAK i keep forgetting how good WOHEO is and then reread it and I’m like damn this is fire

[whumpsoda]

Small Talk - Nevan & Adrastus

WOHEO Masterlist Just a little more of Nevan and Ad talking together because I love these twos relationship sooo much

cw: hypnosis, captivity, minor negative self talk

———————————————————————

“What’s that?”

“Hm?” Nevan responded, stirring a pot of boiling hot noodles with one hand, the other flipping the page of a worn cookbook.

Adrastus' face was pure curiosity as they stood behind him, carefully watching their thrall work. “What are you humming?”

Nevan stopped his motions for a beat, surprised. He searched his mind for an adequate answer, evidently coming up with squat. “Oh, um… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Some… times music just, just pops into my head…” he stumbled, brain heavy with a mixture of their natural hypnotic aura and genuine puzzlement. His brows furrowed, face contorting. He’d never really thought about it, but now that he was it appeared odd.  Where did the music come from…?  “‘N it’s always nice… dunno… dunno where it comes from, though…”

“How silly.” They cooed, ruffling his hair sweetly and scattering his thoughts with their touch. “Silly Nevan. What is silly Nevan making for dinner?”

His expression lit up. “Oh, Master… I’m, I’m preparing some pasta for me and Malak!”

They grinned, tenderly running their fingers through his flowing hair. “How delightful! And it of course smells no short of delicious. No surprise there.”

“Thank you, Master.” Nevan’s face flushed with the warmth of praise, glee stirring inside of his chest. His second master always gave the best of compliments, always beating bubbly joy inside of him.

“You do have wonderful cooking skills, dear. Have you always enjoyed it?”

“Oh, yes, Master. I’ve always loved making my own food so my master doesn’t have to. I get all warm and fuzzy inside when I remember I’m taking off responsibilities of my master.” His eyes glazed over at the flick of a switch, shoulders drooping at the thought of such subservience.

They chuckled, patting his head. “That’s so kind, dear, but I meant before.”

“Be… before what, sir?” He stumbled, brain gradually slowing with confusion once again. He had no idea what they could’ve been referring to, before a familiar mantra floated to mind. “I’ve… I’ve always been Master’s thrall… always… always… Master’s thrall…”

“Nevermind, love, Master was just confusing themself. No need to worry your pretty little head about it.” They were quick to jump in, a honeydew smile drifting his attention back to them. “Say, may I ask what else you like about cooking?”

Easily distracted he was, face draining of difficult thoughts. “Yes, Master! I love everything about it! Most of all, um,  I love seeing Malak get all, all smiley and giggly when he eats something I made, ‘cause then I know it’s good… and I like seeing him all sleepy after he eats ‘cause it means he’s happy… ‘n I like seeing Malak happy…”

“You are just a cutie patootie, aren’t you?” The vampire exclaimed, pinching his cheek like putty, an action that elicited an airy giggle from Nevan. “This meal smells magnificent, by the way. Sometimes I do wish I could eat a full meal prepared by you. Alas, my body is sadly not built for it. I can always take a tad bit, though. It’ll have to be enough.” 

“You’re… I love you Master… You’re so very kind to a meager thrall like me.” He mumbled, melting to a puddle by their lingering touch.

They gave him a caring smile, a smidge saddened by his words. “How could I not want to smother you with my affections, sweet? How in the world could I not?”

Nevan chuckled, accompanied a dopey smile and draped eyelids. “I wanna… smother you in my affection, Master.”

They shook their head with a knowing, but gentle look, cupping his chin. “Of course you do, dear. Thank you for your benevolence.”

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @mylifeisonthebookshelf @mis-graves @3-2-whump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whumpsoda]

You're evil LMAO

Genevieve finding a ring in Nevan's stuff a while later and just thinking 'well damn'. Obviously a bit more distraught than that but yknow

WOHEO Masterlist

YES I AM >:)

cw: implied/referenced kidnapping

———————————————————————

A box.

A box with a ring, one that glimmered and glittered in sunlight, one coated with the sugary, honeydew warmth of his love. Sure, it was cheap and gaudy, but he bought it. He bought it for her, pouring his heart into a purchase he knew she would cherish no matter the look of it. A gift she would wear every day, 24/7, until the day she died. 

A gift he never got to give.

Genevieve slumped onto their- her- bed, one hand over the leather box and the other twirling the ring between nimble fingers. She studied it intensely, thinking and thinking and thinking.

When did he plan on doing it? Kneeling down in front of her, widening the box open and showing it off until she instantly gushed and burst into flowing tears, hollering yes, yes, yes! 

Obviously it was going to happen. Maybe it was soon, maybe it was a long way away. It didn’t really matter anymore, though, considering a missing man couldn’t propose. 

Not a dead man.

What would it have felt like to plan a wedding, she wondered. To buy a dress Nevan couldn’t see until the long awaited date, to buy and shop for decorations, shoes, get all done up and have her very own bachelorette party. 

What would it have felt like to walk down the aisle? Arms intertwined with Nevan’s father, the seats reserved for her own parents barren and devoid of them, their invitations never sent. 

How would it have felt to read her vows? To recite the ones she’d written for him all the way back in high school, just knowing such a day would eventually come? To see him grin, toothy and wide as he giggled, holding back his silly teases as tears pricked his deep, brown eyes?

She chuckled, sorrowful and strained. He’d hidden it in such an obvious place, too. Right behind her shoe rack. Hers! How she’d never found it before then was beyond her, and why he’d ever thought to put it there was as well. Maybe it was because he just knew she rarely wore more than one pair of sneakers, and would never notice it. 

Nevan just knew her.

He knew that as a kid she doodled little monsters in the margins of her papers when bored, he knew she only ever ate anchovies and bacon on her pizza, and he knew she still slept with a night light because she was still afraid of the dark. Among so much more, he knew her.

And he knew that she would say yes.

Would have said yes.

Genevieve gently slipped the jewelry over her ring finger, and it gleamed with little reflections of rainbows as it moved. Just right.

Just right.

But it couldn’t be just right, because he hadn’t given it to her. Because he wasn’t even there to laugh about how she’d found it and just propose anyways. He wasn’t there.

She stared at it, just before slipping it off once again. She wiped her eyes, rubbing the tears out of them before she would break. She could cry later. Amara needed her then. Placing the ring back to its intended box she smiled, lightly, content with herself.

She would wait. She would put it back where she discovered it, and when he came back he would propose and everything would be just as perfect as when he left. She could wait. She would wait, as long as she needed to till she found him. And then she would never let go of that ring unless it was pried from her cold, dead hands. Everything would be just fine. She could feel it.

Nevan was out there, and Genevieve would find him. 

No matter…

No matter who he was when she did.

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @mylifeisonthebookshelf

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whumpsoda]

Official - Adrastus & Darius

WOHEO Masterlist

Just a little something to celebrate these two <3

cw: none really, just a lot of kissing :3

———————————————————————

Adrastus was looking at him.

Lord, Adrastus was looking at him.

Darius’ heart picked up pace at the sight, their tight gaze making its piercing way into him. They stood between an avid conversation, paying their surrounding group less than no attention. Rather, to him.

He had half a mind to pretend he wasn’t staring, wasn’t studying their every magnetizing feature. Fortunately, he was no doubt utterly caught in their sultry gaze. He was simply unable to pry his stuck eyes away.

Sounds turned to buzz filtering through his ears, instead captivated by their firm stride as they headed toward him with their unfiltered determination. Heart pounding out of his chest, Darius gnawed on his lip with a flustered anxiety only they could stir within him.

“Why hello, Lord Darius.”

Creamy and smooth, their words licked his ears. “Pleasure to run into you here, Adrastus.” He tipped his head, hiding his nervousness with practiced expertise.

Brushing down his arm, their touch sent a stifled shiver down his spine. “I have some business we must discuss… mind if I steal you for a moment?” Adrastus cocked their head gingerly, a glint of knowing glittering in their eye that sucked him right in.

“N- no!” Darius exclaimed, eagerly.

“Splendid! Why don’t we go somewhere a bit more private? Follow along, love.”

They made their quick and nimble around the countless vampires bumbling around, hand in an iron clutch around his wrist as they took him along in a maze around the mansion. Although he wanted to, very much so, he failed to inquire exactly where they were going. That was, until they finally stopped and shoved him right swiftly through the door of a tightly fit closet.

Darius took a breath as they shut the door behind them. “What did you need me for?” He questioned, stupidly pretending as if he didn’t already know.

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” They waved off his words, before cupping his cheeks and pulling him to their level, upturning their plush lips. “May I?”

Darius leaned right in, welcoming their touch in full. “Yes. Please.”

Fingers messily curling over each other as they pressed their mouth to his, his own dipping over their puckered, softly tender lips. He greeted them back with his own excitement, breath hitching, following along as they danced around his skin.

Darius loved them.

He’d never loved someone like he did them, and it was no short of exhilarating.

Their grin, their giggle, their voice, all of it quickened the pleasant pulse of his heart, flushing his mind and cheeks with the red heat of attraction. He couldn’t say anyone he’d been with before, a small number of people anyway, ever did the same.

Soon enough the two descended to the floor, back pressed up firmly to the door as Adrastus trailed down his neck with their pecks of saccharine nature. He hoped they wouldn’t stop. He didn’t want them to let go, not one bit.

For a moment their movement ceased, sniffing at his throat. “Hm… perfume? How sweet. You must’ve had a hunch we would run into one another, didn’t you?”

Impossibly he flushed further, looking off from their teasing gaze. “Stop messing with me…” he didn’t really mean it, merely wanting to cover how much he adored their taunting.

“Oh, but you’re so cute! How could I not?” Chuckling, they swept right back in for another kiss.

“F- fine…” he whispered, melting right back to their touch on the spot.

…

Slumped against one closet wall, Adrastus underneath the heap of two bodies, Darius curled up over their chest with the pair’s knees buckled against one another’s. The two sat in silence, smears of dark colored lipstick spotting Darius’ pale skin, and Adrastus twirled his hair about their fingers, tickling at the pricks of his scalp. The air was warm with a twist of their breath, stuffing the closet with cozy heat.

“So.” Darius started, voice hushed and soft as he carefully shifted his weight off of them and back to his knees.

Adrastus kindly flicked a strand of his ginger hair into place, crooking their head with interest. “So?”

“What, um…” prying his gaze off of theirs, he twiddled his thumbs with idiotic nervousness. He was doing it. He was doing it. “What might this mean for us? These little meet ups of ours?”

They grinned, taking his hands in theirs and circling his pale knuckles with clammy thumbs. “What would you like it to mean?”

He bit his lip. “I’d rather… not be an occasional fling for you.” The flush of his face must have been painfully obvious, and he drooped in shame at the thought. He hoped they hadn’t taken notice in the dim lighting.

“I wouldn’t prefer it either. What would you find better than that?” They spoke so casual, so unbothered, as if they were not one bit flustered by such a topic. It only reeled him in more, the urge to connect lips once again growing.

He shook his head, holding his cheeks and straightening his posture. “I feel stupid. This feels childish.”

They giggled, drawing closer. “Don’t you say that. You must know by now I think embarrassment is particularly delightful on you.” They pinched his red cheek, pecking him right on the crooked nose.

“Hmph.” Darius huffed lightly, leaning right in to their perfect touch.

“Adorable.” With honeydew sweetness they dipped forward and into him, face tickling the nape of his neck as they nestled inside.

“I, um, Adrastus…”

“Yes?”

Gingerly intertwining thier fingers between one another’s, he could just feel their face soften with tenderness. “I’d like you to be my partner. If you so see it fit.”

The huffed a warm, lovely breath that rolled over his flesh. “What a lovely idea. I never would have thought of it.” The two vampires chuckled in a mixture, a smidge of anxiousness tinting both sounds. “Gladly will I be your partner, Darius. I look forward to it.”

“Good. Good.” His smile grew, as much as he hated it, teeth flashing and all.

“Now,” they began, supplying a sly look as they pressed a hand to his ruffled shirt, closing the distance between them. “What do you say we get back to our business, shall we?”

“A wonderful idea.”

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @mis-graves @3-2-whump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whumpsoda]

I ALMOST FELL ASLEEP BUT RAN TO YOUR BLOG TO SHARE THE IDEA THAT CAME TO ME

malak breaking one night in early captivity and having a panic attack or overall just a mental breakdown alone after a day full of conditioning. malak doesn’t trust ad not to hurt him, and he’s just so deeply terrified for days straight.

here’s the thing tho, adrastus comes in and rubs his back, whispering reassurances as malak hyperventilates and subtly charming him into a calmer state. cause like, ad loves malak and they had just spent all day trying to break his will, why not genuinely soothe the poor guy without trying to mold him for five minutes?

anyways the visuals of a pinprick figure rubbing someone’s back whispering “you’re alright love” >>

WOHEO Masterlist

This takes place about a couple days over a week of being with Ad :)

cw: brainwashing/conditioning, captivity, vampire whumper, intimate/care whumper

———————————————————————

Was the room spinning?

Or was it just him?

Malak gripped the flesh of his face with trembling fists, flesh growing moist from eyes pricking with tears. His teeth ground and creaked over one another as his jaw contorted in a strained frown, his lip quivering from fast, shaky breaths. He whimpered roughly, holding back rich sobs with intense effort.

He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand what his master was doing to him, what they wanted from him, or why his brain was so sourly dizzy and disconnected. 

He didn’t understand them. Did his brain understand anything anymore? Malak hated the thought of them already rendering his mind useless, melted to mush. From the constant brainwashing they susceptead him to though, such a future seemed horrifyingly near.

He choked back a strangled cry, breath hitching from the depths of his chest as he let slip a horrid, tangled moan. 

Adrastus had been messing with Malak all day. All week, for that matter. Conditioning him bit by bit, minute by minute, working to twist his defenseless concious to that of a mindless pet. 

Finally he relented, allowing the waterworks to flow.

Was he going to throw up? His stomach churned as he cried, shriveling up around his guts and making him gag. Nausea gripped his head, the aftertaste that seemingly came with constantly having to fight off the dreaded dominant clutch of vampiric hypnosis.

He just wanted to go home. He wanted his bedroom, not the one he’d been left in, with the vampires old and peeling furniture that burned his gaze. He wanted his plants, his desk and chair, his stuffed animal collection. Most of all, Malak yearned for his own bed. The one they supplied him, the one closer to a dog bed than a mattress, made him sick with disgust in terms of his strip of dignity.

Maybe…

Maybe a feeding would make him feel better. Maybe that would help. His head was always so foggy with pleasant bubbles and fuzzy wool during and after, leaving him in a cloudy daze with the biggest beaming smile. They’d whisper sweet nothings into his ears, petting him kindly while he floated through a dream-like state. He would like that. 

Wouldn’t he? 

His master liked it, he knew that. They told him he liked it. Did they make him think so? That he enjoyed it? Did he think he did, by their own accord? Did he like any of it, the captivity, the title, the sweet gifts and touches? 

Would they hurt him if he didn’t?

His throat was ripped apart by the sound of a guttural, raw wail that pounded in his melted head. Fists clenched over his tightly wound eyelids as he melted to a sobbing puddle, hiccups tightly fit between wretched whines and whimpers.

Even with such a large frame Malak retreated further into the cramped crevice that was the corner he stuck himself in, back pressed crudely up to the wall and knees knocked against his chest. 

“Oh, hello, love.” 

He hesitated, peaking his eyelids open a smidge.

A hand. In his face. Reaching toward him, slowly and cautiously, outstretched to touch him. Who was he to know if they are there to pet or to hurt him? “Love, why are you crying?”

His master. His master. He couldn’t recall when he’d begun to think of them as such. When they had first bent his mind to their will, putting him in such a degrading position. 

His master.

Malak tried to protest their touch, feebly shaking away from them, and instead of words he only managed a pitiful gurgling noise. He couldn’t tell if he meant to make such a sound or to speak words, his brain still slipping under an even heavier fog with Adrastus by his side.

“I suppose I must’ve overworked that little mind of yours, didn’t I?” They mumbled, but speaking with a tone sweet and light. Uncharacteristically so. Gentle, with a kind smile and compassionate eyes to accompany. “My apologies, dear.”

“Nngh! Nn… no…” he whined, words slurred and cracked as he wrenched his head away from their fingertips.

The attempt proved futile with him quite literally backed into a corner, stuck cramped between elegant antique dressers, proving it easy for their hands to continue their way intertwining between curls. “It’s alright, sweet. You’re alright.”

He jerked his sore, heavy head to hit the wall behind him, much lighter than he had meant to with his muscles so hard to control. “Nooo… noooo…!”

“Shh… I’m not going to hurt you, remember? There’s no need to be afraid of Master.”

Right. Right. That’s what they told him, what they beat into the walls of his mind for whoever long he’d been with them. He couldn’t remember anymore. So why didn’t it feel right? Why did his still chest tense up every dusk he awoke in the bed seated upon the floor beside them? 

“Goodness, I’m so sorry I’ve been so harsh on your adorable little head.” Their palm slipped over his cheek, sending his jaw falling slack. “Everything’s okay, love, it’s alright. I’ll be gentle, see? No more conditioning for tonight, okay? You’ve done so very well for me… you deserve a nice break.”

They gestured their way. “C’mere, baby.”

He groaned again in protest, before Adrastus grabbed his wrist and gently tugged him out of his corner. Unable to refuse, he let them pull him to their side.

With a voice low and deep, the vampire began soothing him as he pathetically whimpered and sniveled. “You’re okay, love. Everything is okay. You’re safe, and you’re loved, and you’re cared for by your master.” Swiftly subduing him, they pressed both palms to Malak’s supple back, whispering directly to his open ear.

“You trust Master right?” No. No he didn’t. But… “You trust Master. Master loves you. They would never hurt you, you believe me… don’t you?”

Did he? Their words were flipping about in his mind, creeping into each crack and crevice, starting to make sense. Starting to convince him they were right. That their words were true and genuine from the heart. The confusion was settling to acceptance, Malak providing the faintest of a nod as they spoke.

“Wonderful, just wonderful. You’re such a good boy, Malak. Master is so lucky to have you.” A pleasant sensation stirred in his mind, warmth spreading into the start of a smile. Lucky? They were luck to have him? No one had ever told him that before.

Their fingers stroked up and down his spine, nails ever so slightly tickling his skin, an action that served for the slightest of a gasp from his lips and the tiniest wriggle of his abdomen. Adrastus huffed a light chuckle.

“See, dear? Isn’t this nice? This is what Master wants. For you to feel all those little cotton candy clouds that dance around your head. For you to feel such a magical way all the time. Wouldn’t that be just magnificent?”

He groaned a yes, easy to agree with whatever incoherent words licked his ears. Adrastus trailed their fingers from his back around to his forehead, pressing their fingers to his tender temples and beginning mind melting circular motions. 

They were still speaking. Weren’t they? Malak’s vision and hearing turned blurry, fuzzing as an overwhelming sense of calm overtook him. A sense he eagerly gave in to.

It okay to give in then. To let go. He’d learned. It was going to happen wether he liked it or not, and he didn’t mind. His master only wanted what was best. They were helping him, not hurting.

He needed them.

“It’s okay, It’s okay. Everything is okay. Master will take care of you. You can relax.”

He sighed a deep breath of relief. Relax. He could relax. For the first time in forever, Malak could relax.

Ever so carefully, as their nimble fingertips continued their movement around and around his temples, Malak slumped onto his back, head resting in the vampire’s lap. With full lips parted and eyelids fluttering to a close, Adrastus continued their methods of relaxation until his body was like putty sloshing about in their hands.

“Goodnight, sweet. Master loves you.”

They leaned down, right above his drifting off frame.

“And you love Master.”

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whumpsoda]

The masterlist has been wiped :3 gonna work on it tonight!!!

So like what if I rewrote WSFSP but like better… and more organized… maybe…

[whumpsoda]

Maybe I’ll just rewrite a bunch but keep the ones I like and tweak them only a little bit… I think this is what I will do

So like what if I rewrote WSFSP but like better… and more organized… maybe…

[whumpsoda]

So like what if I rewrote WSFSP but like better… and more organized… maybe…

[whumpsoda]

“Care to Remind Me?”

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse, amnesia, memory

———

With knobby, weak knees buckled, Joey took on the much needed task of holding Florence upright, keeping him from falling to the concrete like a rag doll.

Handler Thurman.

Florence could recall himself just a bit, the white uniform, white walls, and white lights blooming against his dark curls. The glimpse was that of a reflection, mirrored in a circle of metal - a dog bowl. He hissed at the sight, tripping over his stumbling legs.

The pet took on his training well, straight faced and stone cold, although visually fearful.

If he could just set his head straight he could do something-

“Dear, are you annoying passersby?” 

The voice rigged itself calm and collected, so much so that the rage full temper beneath cracked through, enough to halt each former or current pet in place. A shiver crawled its way from head to toe, each pet but Florence dutifully finding its source.

“I thought you had learned your lesson from the last time, silly.” This owner was different from Florence’s, the facade of kindness there, though the threat still loomed right over. “And I keep giving you second chances, don’t I?”

He chuckled at that, and Joey flinched. Florence couldn’t manage to move, blotted vision plastered on the pet - ‘463, designation domestic - unable to be shifted.

The owner danced onto Joey, the only one able to pay any attention to him. “Dear, I must apologize for the pet. He can be a real dummy sometimes, and doesn’t seem to know how to handle himself.” He tapped gently at the metal railing seperating them. “I sincerely pray he hasn’t ruined your day with himself.”

In the air hung an expectancy of a response from Florence, one Joey couldn’t give, some sort of thank you but it’s fine. It took nearly all of Florence’s strength to simply turn his crackled, splitting skull. Sweat dipped over his lips, curling down his drenched, silent face. He did his best to try a smile.

The owner - Florence still blanked on his name even with the blaring white - looked just as Florence had remembered. He stood on the porch of a restaurant, hair gelled back with more gray than he recalled, but still in dapper attire. He looked eerily like Mr. Franklin, and that only nudged Florence closer to the edge.

The owner’s face flattened for a second, just as Florence’s, head cocking. Mutual recognition. And for just a flicker, his cold, creeping gaze slipped to Florence’s arm.

His barcode was long gone - stripped of his skin like they stripped him of himself - but the owner glanced at it like he’d find something there. It was covered with a bracelet like always, and it didn’t even matter if it was because there was nothing there but a tiny fucking scar, but even so Florence yanked his arm from the owner’s assualting gaze.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise, Mr…,” the owner trailed off, licking his lips expectantly, before continuing. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’ve forgotten your name. Care to remind me?”

For once, Florence couldn’t speak.

He knew.

Florence paused, hesitating to say something, anything, with nothing managing to fly past his throat. He wiped the trickle of moisture -tears or sweat - from his cheek, sucking in a trembling breath.

Lip twitching, his smile faltered. “H-,” he swallowed, gulping down disgust. “Handler Thurman.”

The owner clapped his hands in amusement. “Ah, yes. I remember now!” He exclaimed, resting his chin back into his hand, clearly entertained by the fact that he’d somehow come across his pets old handler-turned-pet. What owner wouldn’t be? “My pretty boy’s handler.”

Laughing, sickly and gross, Florence more than easily slipped back into the handler persona, with a tint of hesitancy lingering. “T- that’s me.” He said, smiling strange as he licked his lips, running his fingers back through his sweat stained curls.

“What a pleasant coincidence.” The owner scratched at his silver slick beard. Squinting, he looked Florence up and down for a long, strung out second. “I certainly don’t mean to pry, but might something be wrong? You simply don’t look well.”

“‘M just sick.” Florence said, with stumbling lips.

His eyebrow pricked up at that, and Florence’s throat winded. “While out and about? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Florence went to respond, but was cut off almost immediately. “Ah, excuse me for my intrusion, it’s really none of my business. I simply like to look out for other pet enthusiasts like myself.”

Swallowing, Florence nodded. “Thank you, sir. You really shouldn’t worry about me, we were, uh, heading home anyways.” His grip on Joey’s sweat drenched hand firmed. Her gaze hadn’t lifted from her feet in minutes, bangs shielding her face completely.

“Y’know,” the owner continued, chin getting comfortable in the palm of his hand, “I did hear a couple fanciful rumors of a handler Thurman being fired from WRU.” His eyes thinned.

“R- really?” Florence laughed, the beat of his heart filling his ears.

“Oh, yes. It was a good while ago, but I even heard some stories in which the handler ended up a pet!” The owner slipped a chuckle, hearty and matched by Florence. “Very fanciful rumors, of course. People just love to gossip, don’t they?”

“Oh, definitely.”

He clicked his tongue. “Very funny to think of, though, isn’t it?”

“E- extremely.” Oh, they were fucked.

If he could just keep up the facade for a little longer, just long enough to end the conversation, maybe they wouldn’t be fucking done for.

The owner waved him off, and the fog of fear peaked away. “Ah, well I’ve kept you for much too long now. I would feel simply terrible if I kept you from your rest any longer, now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Letting slip a short chuckle, he motioned for his pet to follow. “C’mon, pretty boy, our food is getting cold.”

“Y- yes, sir.” The pet, with flickering vision, scrambled to make his way off his knees and back to his master. His owner clutched him by the back, a threatening hold that said I own you. Florence flinched as he watched the two depart past the wall, feeling the phantom touch of his own master.

The air was ever so tense, even as the owner and pet clicked away, departing.

Joey didn’t say a word, and neither did he.

She knew. He knew.

Handler Thurman.

The wall he was holding started to blur, and as he stepped back as if to run his foot caught on a crack of sidewalk almost tripping his jelly like legs as he whimpered a cry from the sore of his body, and his head was all woozy and so were his flailing limbs.

Handler Thurman.

For little flashes of seconds everything was white, and so were his knuckles as he squeezed anything he could grab, and he felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same fucking time, and he couldn’t fucking see anymore because everything was white and he was-

Handler Joseph Thurman.

Releasing a crackling shriek, Florence’s brain burnt on like the flick of a switch, flickering from a constant, throbbing ache to as if a fucking bomb had just gone off in his head.

He could sort of sense as his knees hit the ground, and the quivering grip of his hands holding himself tightly. He could sort of let the blistering heat of the sidewalk plaster his forehead as he keeled over, letting it burn him, still wailing. He could sort of feel the split of his throat as he screeched, curling around his vocal cords in a choking manner.

Not being able to clearly sense anything was horrifying enough, but the blinding white that held him - suffocated him - was a million times worse.

And it wasn’t all white. There were little glimpses of times before him and times after, all twisted together to form a sputtering mess, faces, places, sounds and scenes all rushing through him at once. There were so many people dancing around the white, so much blood and laughter and fear and tears.

His jaw turned and strained as he giggled, but it wasn’t really him, buzzing like a horn in his white filled brain.

Please, handler Thurman, please I didn’t mean to I don’t want to I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ll do anything, please! I’m trying to be good, so good, please…!

The pets gaze soon curled into something softer, the woman with his face but much less disgusting. Her touch was sweet, too sweet to be for him but his still.

C’mon, Joe, eat your veggies, they’re good for you. Momma will eat them with you, okay?

And soon enough she was another woman entirely.

You’re pretty handsome for a pet guy, y’know. Most of you guys’re weirdos, but you seem pretty normal. You could say I like normalcy in a guy.

He felt the shock even through the white, sending him further reeling, cracking and hot in his neck, splitting through the images.

Now that’s your first lesson, good boys don’t bite. Got that?

He nodded, desperate in that time but not another, sobbing through the scald of his face. And then his head was cracked to the floor, a hand choking and his own sending a slap another’s way.

Hey-! Ow, fuck! Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to hit? Leave me- alone, Joe! Get offa me!

The face of the little boy - chubby cheeks and squished features - contorted, elongating and growing into that of a man’s.

Alright dummy, get over here and take a kneel. Oh, don’t give me that scared look ‘065, you know it pisses me off.

The man only got older, graying hair and a gruff beard, except with a growling, rumbling voice.

You are a real idiot. Get up, dog. I don’t care if you’re hurtin’, I need another cig.

Even with so much to feel he couldn’t feel anything real, only the numb of the memories twisted with the emotion of so many different times, so many different lives he had lived.

The pricking, searing pain of his own hands grabbing at chunks of his own hair wasn’t enough to cover that of his head. Hey- s- stop, Florence, I’m calling-, stop, said a voice drowned out by all the others, the ones flooding his senses and making it practically impossible to feel.

And just like the fiery way it started, the ordeal flickered out like a light. His breathing settled, hiccups scattered between. His shaking continued, a violent tremble. His limbs curled into his abdomen, stuck in position and unable to move.

The memories swiftly found their place in his mind, each slipping into their respective spot.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump @toads-and-gremlins

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whumpsoda]

[whumpsoda]

It's Juneteenth yall. And I'm not letting this day go unmarked.

Black people fight for everybody. We stand in solidarity with women, lgbt people, poor people all over the world of every skin color and background. Every religion and nationality.

Today, stand with us. Be with us. Tell a black person you love them. Hug a black person (with consent). Ask that hot black girl out today. Make a black person smile. Black lives matter to everybody and you matter to us.

Stand with us on Juneteenth like we stand with you all year round, and I hope a happy Pride month continues for all of us

💝

[whumpsoda]

The Rare Bookseller Part 99: Oliver's Reading

Previous > Masterlist

tw: mind control, abuse, torture, burns, memory modification

December 1925

Oliver stirred fitfully, woken from an uneasy sleep by a dull and persistent ache in his leg. It hadn't given him that much trouble since his master had hypnotized his pain away, and insisted on carrying him everywhere to boot. Tonight, though, it was bothering him quite a lot. He groggily rolled over, seeking his master's presence, and found no one.

The surprise roused him from his stupor. He wasn't at his master's manor. He was in a cold and lonely bedroom, the one presented to him by his master's sire, huddled under a scratchy wool blanket. His leg ached because he had been doing chores that evening. He had been afforded a cane -- without it, he was hardly capable of walking -- but that had been the only concession to his condition. Oliver suspected that his leg would be in agony if it weren't for the lingering effects of his master's spell.

Would this treatment permanently damage his leg before he could heal and learn to walk properly again?

Would it even matter if his fate were to be turned into a vampire?

Oliver shuddered, remembering the events of the previous night, staring out into the gloom. Even though he knew it must be the middle of the day, the room was pitch black except for a thin sliver of sunlight that escaped from around the shutters on the room's only window. Perhaps that would be the only sunlight he'd ever see again, if the Maestro had his way.

What would it be like, to be turned into a vampire, to die and find himself in a kind of eternal hell on earth? What would it be like, to feed on humans as his master did? He couldn't imagine being able to bring himself to do it, regardless of what monstrous cravings he might have. That thought sat uneasily beside his devotion to his master. Could he truly capture and drink from some innocent person?

And what if the process of being turned did change him completely, make him eager to feed on humans? Would there be any of him left, or would there instead be a stranger wearing his face and puppeting his corpse?

Despite Oliver knowing that he would need what sleep he could get in order to survive his time at the Maestro's manor, these thoughts kept him awake for some time. When he did fall asleep, it was unsatisfying and plagued with nightmares.

He woke up again, too soon, to an even darker room. This time, he knew instinctively what he needed to do. It had been drilled into his head the night before, and even now he could feel the commanding pressure of the Maestro against his mind, compelling him to rise to his feet despite the pain.

In the dark, he somehow found his cane, and then the clothes that he had folded up and placed on the dresser. With great effort, he was able to clumsily dress himself, the first time he had done so since he'd been at Vivian's safehouse.

Vivian -- would she end up in the Maestro's clutches as he was? She may have been hypnotized into accepting Miss Lily as her master, but serving the Maestro would be a fate far worse than either death or Miss Lily's enthrallment. He hoped that she wouldn't find herself here.

Oliver's fingers brushed up against the faded scar where he'd practiced the rune of protection. He didn't have a silver knife to execute the rune, and even if he did, it was unlikely he could successfully hobble from the Maestro's manor, even if he could resist the vampire's mental powers. He was grateful that the thick fabric of the uniform covered the scar entirely, so that the Maestro wouldn't get an unnecessary hint as to what Alexander was planning.

If Alexander was even still planning it -- maybe he wasn't. Maybe he would lose his nerve and bow to his sire's will. Maybe he would take Fitz and run far, far away, leaving Oliver behind.

Maybe Oliver would never leave this place and never find out what became of his master.

Just as he'd finished dressing, there was a soft knock on the door. Oliver opened it to see a gaunt young woman with a sad and oddly familiar face. There was something vaguely familiar about her that Oliver couldn't place.

"Our master instructed me to bring you to him," she said dully.

Oliver swallowed hard, feeling the compulsion to obey weighing against his mind. Even if he hadn't been ensorcelled, there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. All he could do was obey and try to survive and hope for rescue.

He nodded his assent, and the woman led him out of the door. As haggard as she looked, she walked with a well-trained grace and beauty, like a dancer -- and then Oliver realized where he had seen her before. She was the ballerina that Alexander had stolen, taken from the stage and sequestered in the dark for the rest of her life.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, even though there was nothing he could have done, so firmly caught in the vampires' web.

She turned away. "I don't want pity. I don't know you."

She probably didn't recognize him, and why would she? She'd been deep in Alexander's song when she'd been spirited away, one last bit of pleasure before her downfall, so there was no reason to think she'd notice the cowering thrall in the corner. Still, he wished he had been able to help her, to spare her this fate.

The former ballerina opened a carved wooden door, and inside Oliver saw one of the few things that could give him some comfort in this situation: a library.

It was a fraction of the size of Alexander's, but still held shelves packed with dusty books. Given the Maestro's age and wealth, it was likely to be a treasure trove of rarities. Perhaps his chores could include tending to the library? Perhaps, if he were perfectly obedient, he might be allowed to read, as a reward? He didn't want to allow himself to hope, but then again, why else bring Oliver here?

The Maestro rose from a high-backed seat, sharp eyes observing and judging every inch of Oliver, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from shying away under that gaze. "You wanted to see me, sir?" he said with a small bow, the picture of docile submission.

"I need to train you further," he said simply.

"Yes, sir."

"I have put some thought into this. You're quite different from many of the other humans I've trained. You're already so obedient, and it isn't merely because of how thoroughly my spawn have mesmerized you."

Yes, that's who he was, obedient and docile even before Miss Lily had invaded his mind. It was self-evident from the way he'd lived his life so quietly and made himself so small, hardly daring to leave the confines of his little shop. "Yes, sir, I strive to be obedient and docile."

"Your mind barely requires any further molding," he seemed to concede, and Oliver allowed himself that dangerous glimmer of hope again. Perhaps if he realized that Oliver had no desire to make any trouble, he could escape the worst of the punishments? He felt awful for wishing this when he knew that others in the manor would likely be tortured, but the sentiment remained.

"There is only one way in which your mind would possibly escape my grasp," he continued. He picked up a thick book from a table and beckoned Oliver to sit in the chair. Oliver's hands were shaking as he sat down and accepted the book. The Maestro opened it to a particular page and pointed to the start of a paragraph. "Read," he ordered.

"Out loud, sir, or to myself?"

"Out loud. Carefully enunciate."

Oliver had never been so nervous at the prospect of reading a book before. Perhaps he was being trained to narrate books to the vampire? That seemed like a tolerable, even pleasant activity, and therefore too good to be true.

"In the late 1600s, colonists from overseas brought with them a significant population of vampires," he read. "While most vampires can barely stomach crossing the ocean, the New World proved an exciting temptation for vampires seeking greater freedom to conduct their business."

So it was a history concerning vampire society. Oliver had read similar books in Alexander's mansion.

The Maestro's face was grim as Oliver read on, doing his best to make his voice pleasing. He wasn't sure why this book had been chosen for him to read, what he was meant to take from it.

"…and so the fledgling colony was ruled from the shadows by a dangerous vampire from the Old World, one who had grown bored with inflicting cruelty on his countrymen. Ever consumed by greed, he had come to the colony seeking greater opportunity. With none to meaningfully oppose him, he was free to run the villages, their industry and their trade as he saw fit, and to take as many humans as he pleased. Few vampires dared to challenge his power, as his aura was so forceful that he could drive even other vampires mad, compelling them to chop their own heads off or leap into the ocean."

Oliver was already suspecting what the purpose of this passage was when the next paragraph confirmed it. "His reign of terror lasted for over thirty years, ended he was staked by one of his many spawn. This new vampire had been the fourth son of a wealthy shipwright in his mortal life, intensely cold and severe even while alive, discarded by his family and shunned by all other humans."

"This spawn was immensely powerful even shortly after his change," said Oliver, glancing up at his new master, "said to be a cruel vampire capable of controlling any human as easily as a toymaker controls a marionette."

"Look at me," said the Maestro.

"Yes, sir," said Oliver, gazing into those eyes. Assuming the Maestro was the vampire spawn from this passage, he had existed for centuries, and he had spent that entire time as harsh and bitter as he was today. How could he stand to live like this, dark and cold and lonely, with only terrified and tortured servants to provide some semblance of company? The thought of spending even a few days in those conditions was abhorrent to Oliver, and yet the vampire had purposefully chosen this, day after day and decade after decade.

Why?

Had anything brought him pleasure over these centuries? Was he even capable of joy?

And if Oliver were turned into the same sort of monster, would he be the same? In life, he'd been isolated and lonely, confined to his bookshop by his own choice. Would death change that?

"You will continue reading," the Maestro said, as Oliver became mesmerized once again, lost in the dark and the cold. "As you read, the letters will dance and blur before your eyes, and your knowledge of them will fade."

"Are you blinding me again, sir?" Oliver asked, stomach churning with dread.

He scoffed. "You're already lame. What use would you be blind?" he said. "No, you won't be blinded. But since I have no need of you for music training or other knowledge, I'm fixing you so you cannot read."

Oliver reeled in disbelief, his hopes for merciful treatment shattering. "But why, sir? I can't do any harm by reading."

"No, you can't. However, you are too fragile to torture and so inherently obedient that further mesmerization will do little to improve you. No, you have only one temptation of note -- books. Books that can harness your mind and allow you to fly far away in spirit. Without your books, there will be no such escape. You cannot be allowed even that small freedom."

"Please, sir, don't," Oliver begged pitifully. "Please don't take my reading from me. I'll serve you, I'll follow your every command, but please --"

His pleading was cut short as the Maestro pulled him by his hair, yanking him upwards. "Just because you are too easily broken doesn't mean I can't inflict pain upon you. Have a care, and remember your place." He tossed Oliver back down onto the chair. "Continue reading."

It was impossible to keep his voice from shaking as he tried to read the rest of the page. "N-no other vampire in the young colony w-was able to ch-challenge…"

"Read," he commanded. "The more you read, the more my influence will take effect, dazing you, making you forget. Forget your education, your abilities, even the shapes of the letters. Forget."

There was a spark in Oliver's chest, a small ember of defiance that he didn't know he had. If obedience wasn't good enough, if begging wasn't going to work, if nothing could change the mind of the implacable vampire before him, then all he could do was resist. Finding his determination, he kept plowing through the passage. The words were swimming and blurring before him, but that was only because of the tears in his eyes that he didn't dare shed. He could still read.

"Allow your knowledge to drain," the Maestro intoned softly near his ear.

It was a small distraction, but just enough to cause Oliver to lose his place -- and to his horror, he was scrambling to find it again. The words were dancing now, taunting him.

No, it couldn't end like this. It couldn't.

"Attempt to read it, and find that you cannot."

Oliver tried to refocus. "In… the winter of that… year, the…" There was a word in front of him. It was a word he knew. He could recognize it, but he couldn't seem to connect the knowledge in his mind.

The spell was taking hold, despite all of his best efforts.

He swallowed the bitter lump in his throat. He would sound it out like a child if he needed to. The first letter was 'v', and the second 'a'… "vampire." There, he had done it. Emboldened, he read the rest of the sentence with little trouble, until he hit another somewhat long word. He could sound this one out as well. The first letter…

The first letter…

He couldn't make sense of it. He couldn't think of what sound that letter made. He knew they were ordinary letters forming an ordinary English word, but they may as well have been Chinese characters. Despair gripped him.

"You will keep reading."

"I can't, sir," he admitted. "I can't do it."

Oliver had failed, failed to hold on to the one thing that was truly important to him. At least, perhaps, his new master might be happy with that. But Oliver would never be happy again. Reading was the only thing he'd ever truly loved, the only skill he'd ever been proud of. For all he had worried about losing himself in Alexander's thrall, that was nothing compared to this. He would be robbed of even the simple pleasure of reading a book by the fire.

"In that case, you will need to prove it to me," said the Maestro, pulling a slender metal rod from his coat and dipping it in the lamp's flame.

"Sir?"

"Read the passage or you will be burned."

Oliver looked back down at the page, but the words were no more sensible to him than they'd been a moment ago. In fact, the entire page was blurring together, as though it had been left out in the rain. "Sir, I can't read the passage," he said. "You mesmerized me so that I'm not able to do it."

And yet, when Oliver looked up, the red-hot metal was drawing closer to his collarbone.

He grew frantic, trying to guess at the letters as they dripped and spilled. And then, all of his senses were lost to intense pain, his voice producing a bloodcurdling scream, as the hot poker found its way to his sensitive flesh. Any hold the vampire had over his body was released, and he crumpled to the floor, the book falling open near him.

"Why, sir?" he said before he could think better of it.

"Why?" the Maestro repeated, raising an eyebrow.

And Oliver looked up at him from his position writhing on the floor, and he'd never hated anyone as much since he was a small child and his father flew into a drunken rage. All too familiar feelings welled up inside him, and he couldn't stop himself. "Why would you do this, sir?" he demanded. "You have all of the power here. You have money, you have servants, you have books to read and instruments to play. Instead of treating people cruelly, you could be happy. Why do you live this way?"

That icy glare was boring into him, and Oliver knew what a mistake he'd made. If his attempt at perfect obedience still resulted in his mind scrambled and his flesh burned, then what price would he pay for outright defiance?

But the blow didn't come. "Happy?" he intoned. "I have no desire to be happy."

Oliver's brows furrowed. He wanted to ask further questions -- if he didn't pursue happiness, then what? Why do these cruel things? What was the aim? But his senses had returned enough to keep his mouth shut.

The vampire reached out and slowly drew Oliver up by the front of his shirt until their eyes were level, Oliver's feet dangling below him. "Look into my eyes once more and lose yourself."

Perhaps this was his punishment. Oliver had little to lose by fighting, but his resistance was still as weak as paper, and he found himself lost in a cold void once again.

"Now you will forget. You will forget what was done here, how it was accomplished. Forget."

Oliver didn't try to resist that command. He'd rather forget all of this. He didn't want to remember the terror of familiar words dancing on the page, unintelligible.

"You will remain utterly illiterate, letters incomprehensible to you, but you will not remember how it came to be. You will forget."

No, he didn't want to remember. He welcomed his thoughts going fuzzy around the edges. He didn't want to think about how his beloved skill and pastime was lost to him forever. Forgetting would be a mercy.

And that was suspicious.

Through the fog, he remembered something else: how Miss Lily had cured his blindness. She had asked him to recall how the Maestro had blinded him, and reversed the mesmerism by imitating it.

If he didn't remember, would that prevent Miss Lily from reversing this? Could even Vivian's spells undo it?

Frantically, he tried to recall the memory, and found that he couldn't. His realization was too late. His fate had been sealed. Even if he somehow found himself free of the Maestro's grasp, he might never read again.

Previous > Masterlist

Next week is the 100th chapter of The Rare Bookseller! Thanks for coming along with me on this journey. There is no way my attention span would have held for a hundred chapters if it weren't for all of the kind comments, asks, fanart, and fanfic I've received!

In addition to the new chapter, I'm planning a short choose your own adventure story, and perhaps more. Thanks for reading!

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @und3ad-mutt

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @light-me-on-pyre @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

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@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

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@strawbearydreams @ghost-whump @tippytappytyping @natthebatt @fire-bugg14

[whumpsoda]

“Care to Remind Me?”

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse, amnesia, memory

———

With knobby, weak knees buckled, Joey took on the much needed task of holding Florence upright, keeping him from falling to the concrete like a rag doll.

Handler Thurman.

Florence could recall himself just a bit, the white uniform, white walls, and white lights blooming against his dark curls. The glimpse was that of a reflection, mirrored in a circle of metal - a dog bowl. He hissed at the sight, tripping over his stumbling legs.

The pet took on his training well, straight faced and stone cold, although visually fearful.

If he could just set his head straight he could do something-

“Dear, are you annoying passersby?” 

The voice rigged itself calm and collected, so much so that the rage full temper beneath cracked through, enough to halt each former or current pet in place. A shiver crawled its way from head to toe, each pet but Florence dutifully finding its source.

“I thought you had learned your lesson from the last time, silly.” This owner was different from Florence’s, the facade of kindness there, though the threat still loomed right over. “And I keep giving you second chances, don’t I?”

He chuckled at that, and Joey flinched. Florence couldn’t manage to move, blotted vision plastered on the pet - ‘463, designation domestic - unable to be shifted.

The owner danced onto Joey, the only one able to pay any attention to him. “Dear, I must apologize for the pet. He can be a real dummy sometimes, and doesn’t seem to know how to handle himself.” He tapped gently at the metal railing seperating them. “I sincerely pray he hasn’t ruined your day with himself.”

In the air hung an expectancy of a response from Florence, one Joey couldn’t give, some sort of thank you but it’s fine. It took nearly all of Florence’s strength to simply turn his crackled, splitting skull. Sweat dipped over his lips, curling down his drenched, silent face. He did his best to try a smile.

The owner - Florence still blanked on his name even with the blaring white - looked just as Florence had remembered. He stood on the porch of a restaurant, hair gelled back with more gray than he recalled, but still in dapper attire. He looked eerily like Mr. Franklin, and that only nudged Florence closer to the edge.

The owner’s face flattened for a second, just as Florence’s, head cocking. Mutual recognition. And for just a flicker, his cold, creeping gaze slipped to Florence’s arm.

His barcode was long gone - stripped of his skin like they stripped him of himself - but the owner glanced at it like he’d find something there. It was covered with a bracelet like always, and it didn’t even matter if it was because there was nothing there but a tiny fucking scar, but even so Florence yanked his arm from the owner’s assualting gaze.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise, Mr…,” the owner trailed off, licking his lips expectantly, before continuing. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’ve forgotten your name. Care to remind me?”

For once, Florence couldn’t speak.

He knew.

Florence paused, hesitating to say something, anything, with nothing managing to fly past his throat. He wiped the trickle of moisture -tears or sweat - from his cheek, sucking in a trembling breath.

Lip twitching, his smile faltered. “H-,” he swallowed, gulping down disgust. “Handler Thurman.”

The owner clapped his hands in amusement. “Ah, yes. I remember now!” He exclaimed, resting his chin back into his hand, clearly entertained by the fact that he’d somehow come across his pets old handler-turned-pet. What owner wouldn’t be? “My pretty boy’s handler.”

Laughing, sickly and gross, Florence more than easily slipped back into the handler persona, with a tint of hesitancy lingering. “T- that’s me.” He said, smiling strange as he licked his lips, running his fingers back through his sweat stained curls.

“What a pleasant coincidence.” The owner scratched at his silver slick beard. Squinting, he looked Florence up and down for a long, strung out second. “I certainly don’t mean to pry, but might something be wrong? You simply don’t look well.”

“‘M just sick.” Florence said, with stumbling lips.

His eyebrow pricked up at that, and Florence’s throat winded. “While out and about? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Florence went to respond, but was cut off almost immediately. “Ah, excuse me for my intrusion, it’s really none of my business. I simply like to look out for other pet enthusiasts like myself.”

Swallowing, Florence nodded. “Thank you, sir. You really shouldn’t worry about me, we were, uh, heading home anyways.” His grip on Joey’s sweat drenched hand firmed. Her gaze hadn’t lifted from her feet in minutes, bangs shielding her face completely.

“Y’know,” the owner continued, chin getting comfortable in the palm of his hand, “I did hear a couple fanciful rumors of a handler Thurman being fired from WRU.” His eyes thinned.

“R- really?” Florence laughed, the beat of his heart filling his ears.

“Oh, yes. It was a good while ago, but I even heard some stories in which the handler ended up a pet!” The owner slipped a chuckle, hearty and matched by Florence. “Very fanciful rumors, of course. People just love to gossip, don’t they?”

“Oh, definitely.”

He clicked his tongue. “Very funny to think of, though, isn’t it?”

“E- extremely.” Oh, they were fucked.

If he could just keep up the facade for a little longer, just long enough to end the conversation, maybe they wouldn’t be fucking done for.

The owner waved him off, and the fog of fear peaked away. “Ah, well I’ve kept you for much too long now. I would feel simply terrible if I kept you from your rest any longer, now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Letting slip a short chuckle, he motioned for his pet to follow. “C’mon, pretty boy, our food is getting cold.”

“Y- yes, sir.” The pet, with flickering vision, scrambled to make his way off his knees and back to his master. His owner clutched him by the back, a threatening hold that said I own you. Florence flinched as he watched the two depart past the wall, feeling the phantom touch of his own master.

The air was ever so tense, even as the owner and pet clicked away, departing.

Joey didn’t say a word, and neither did he.

She knew. He knew.

Handler Thurman.

The wall he was holding started to blur, and as he stepped back as if to run his foot caught on a crack of sidewalk almost tripping his jelly like legs as he whimpered a cry from the sore of his body, and his head was all woozy and so were his flailing limbs.

Handler Thurman.

For little flashes of seconds everything was white, and so were his knuckles as he squeezed anything he could grab, and he felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same fucking time, and he couldn’t fucking see anymore because everything was white and he was-

Handler Joseph Thurman.

Releasing a crackling shriek, Florence’s brain burnt on like the flick of a switch, flickering from a constant, throbbing ache to as if a fucking bomb had just gone off in his head.

He could sort of sense as his knees hit the ground, and the quivering grip of his hands holding himself tightly. He could sort of let the blistering heat of the sidewalk plaster his forehead as he keeled over, letting it burn him, still wailing. He could sort of feel the split of his throat as he screeched, curling around his vocal cords in a choking manner.

Not being able to clearly sense anything was horrifying enough, but the blinding white that held him - suffocated him - was a million times worse.

And it wasn’t all white. There were little glimpses of times before him and times after, all twisted together to form a sputtering mess, faces, places, sounds and scenes all rushing through him at once. There were so many people dancing around the white, so much blood and laughter and fear and tears.

His jaw turned and strained as he giggled, but it wasn’t really him, buzzing like a horn in his white filled brain.

Please, handler Thurman, please I didn’t mean to I don’t want to I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ll do anything, please! I’m trying to be good, so good, please…!

The pets gaze soon curled into something softer, the woman with his face but much less disgusting. Her touch was sweet, too sweet to be for him but his still.

C’mon, Joe, eat your veggies, they’re good for you. Momma will eat them with you, okay?

And soon enough she was another woman entirely.

You’re pretty handsome for a pet guy, y’know. Most of you guys’re weirdos, but you seem pretty normal. You could say I like normalcy in a guy.

He felt the shock even through the white, sending him further reeling, cracking and hot in his neck, splitting through the images.

Now that’s your first lesson, good boys don’t bite. Got that?

He nodded, desperate in that time but not another, sobbing through the scald of his face. And then his head was cracked to the floor, a hand choking and his own sending a slap another’s way.

Hey-! Ow, fuck! Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to hit? Leave me- alone, Joe! Get offa me!

The face of the little boy - chubby cheeks and squished features - contorted, elongating and growing into that of a man’s.

Alright dummy, get over here and take a kneel. Oh, don’t give me that scared look ‘065, you know it pisses me off.

The man only got older, graying hair and a gruff beard, except with a growling, rumbling voice.

You are a real idiot. Get up, dog. I don’t care if you’re hurtin’, I need another cig.

Even with so much to feel he couldn’t feel anything real, only the numb of the memories twisted with the emotion of so many different times, so many different lives he had lived.

The pricking, searing pain of his own hands grabbing at chunks of his own hair wasn’t enough to cover that of his head. Hey- s- stop, Florence, I’m calling-, stop, said a voice drowned out by all the others, the ones flooding his senses and making it practically impossible to feel.

And just like the fiery way it started, the ordeal flickered out like a light. His breathing settled, hiccups scattered between. His shaking continued, a violent tremble. His limbs curled into his abdomen, stuck in position and unable to move.

The memories swiftly found their place in his mind, each slipping into their respective spot.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump @toads-and-gremlins

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whumpsoda]

“Care to Remind Me?”

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse, amnesia, memory

———

With knobby, weak knees buckled, Joey took on the much needed task of holding Florence upright, keeping him from falling to the concrete like a rag doll.

Handler Thurman.

Florence could recall himself just a bit, the white uniform, white walls, and white lights blooming against his dark curls. The glimpse was that of a reflection, mirrored in a circle of metal - a dog bowl. He hissed at the sight, tripping over his stumbling legs.

The pet took on his training well, straight faced and stone cold, although visually fearful.

If he could just set his head straight he could do something-

“Dear, are you annoying passersby?” 

The voice rigged itself calm and collected, so much so that the rage full temper beneath cracked through, enough to halt each former or current pet in place. A shiver crawled its way from head to toe, each pet but Florence dutifully finding its source.

“I thought you had learned your lesson from the last time, silly.” This owner was different from Florence’s, the facade of kindness there, though the threat still loomed right over. “And I keep giving you second chances, don’t I?”

He chuckled at that, and Joey flinched. Florence couldn’t manage to move, blotted vision plastered on the pet - ‘463, designation domestic - unable to be shifted.

The owner danced onto Joey, the only one able to pay any attention to him. “Dear, I must apologize for the pet. He can be a real dummy sometimes, and doesn’t seem to know how to handle himself.” He tapped gently at the metal railing seperating them. “I sincerely pray he hasn’t ruined your day with himself.”

In the air hung an expectancy of a response from Florence, one Joey couldn’t give, some sort of thank you but it’s fine. It took nearly all of Florence’s strength to simply turn his crackled, splitting skull. Sweat dipped over his lips, curling down his drenched, silent face. He did his best to try a smile.

The owner - Florence still blanked on his name even with the blaring white - looked just as Florence had remembered. He stood on the porch of a restaurant, hair gelled back with more gray than he recalled, but still in dapper attire. He looked eerily like Mr. Franklin, and that only nudged Florence closer to the edge.

The owner’s face flattened for a second, just as Florence’s, head cocking. Mutual recognition. And for just a flicker, his cold, creeping gaze slipped to Florence’s arm.

His barcode was long gone - stripped of his skin like they stripped him of himself - but the owner glanced at it like he’d find something there. It was covered with a bracelet like always, and it didn’t even matter if it was because there was nothing there but a tiny fucking scar, but even so Florence yanked his arm from the owner’s assualting gaze.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise, Mr…,” the owner trailed off, licking his lips expectantly, before continuing. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’ve forgotten your name. Care to remind me?”

For once, Florence couldn’t speak.

He knew.

Florence paused, hesitating to say something, anything, with nothing managing to fly past his throat. He wiped the trickle of moisture -tears or sweat - from his cheek, sucking in a trembling breath.

Lip twitching, his smile faltered. “H-,” he swallowed, gulping down disgust. “Handler Thurman.”

The owner clapped his hands in amusement. “Ah, yes. I remember now!” He exclaimed, resting his chin back into his hand, clearly entertained by the fact that he’d somehow come across his pets old handler-turned-pet. What owner wouldn’t be? “My pretty boy’s handler.”

Laughing, sickly and gross, Florence more than easily slipped back into the handler persona, with a tint of hesitancy lingering. “T- that’s me.” He said, smiling strange as he licked his lips, running his fingers back through his sweat stained curls.

“What a pleasant coincidence.” The owner scratched at his silver slick beard. Squinting, he looked Florence up and down for a long, strung out second. “I certainly don’t mean to pry, but might something be wrong? You simply don’t look well.”

“‘M just sick.” Florence said, with stumbling lips.

His eyebrow pricked up at that, and Florence’s throat winded. “While out and about? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Florence went to respond, but was cut off almost immediately. “Ah, excuse me for my intrusion, it’s really none of my business. I simply like to look out for other pet enthusiasts like myself.”

Swallowing, Florence nodded. “Thank you, sir. You really shouldn’t worry about me, we were, uh, heading home anyways.” His grip on Joey’s sweat drenched hand firmed. Her gaze hadn’t lifted from her feet in minutes, bangs shielding her face completely.

“Y’know,” the owner continued, chin getting comfortable in the palm of his hand, “I did hear a couple fanciful rumors of a handler Thurman being fired from WRU.” His eyes thinned.

“R- really?” Florence laughed, the beat of his heart filling his ears.

“Oh, yes. It was a good while ago, but I even heard some stories in which the handler ended up a pet!” The owner slipped a chuckle, hearty and matched by Florence. “Very fanciful rumors, of course. People just love to gossip, don’t they?”

“Oh, definitely.”

He clicked his tongue. “Very funny to think of, though, isn’t it?”

“E- extremely.” Oh, they were fucked.

If he could just keep up the facade for a little longer, just long enough to end the conversation, maybe they wouldn’t be fucking done for.

The owner waved him off, and the fog of fear peaked away. “Ah, well I’ve kept you for much too long now. I would feel simply terrible if I kept you from your rest any longer, now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Letting slip a short chuckle, he motioned for his pet to follow. “C’mon, pretty boy, our food is getting cold.”

“Y- yes, sir.” The pet, with flickering vision, scrambled to make his way off his knees and back to his master. His owner clutched him by the back, a threatening hold that said I own you. Florence flinched as he watched the two depart past the wall, feeling the phantom touch of his own master.

The air was ever so tense, even as the owner and pet clicked away, departing.

Joey didn’t say a word, and neither did he.

She knew. He knew.

Handler Thurman.

The wall he was holding started to blur, and as he stepped back as if to run his foot caught on a crack of sidewalk almost tripping his jelly like legs as he whimpered a cry from the sore of his body, and his head was all woozy and so were his flailing limbs.

Handler Thurman.

For little flashes of seconds everything was white, and so were his knuckles as he squeezed anything he could grab, and he felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same fucking time, and he couldn’t fucking see anymore because everything was white and he was-

Handler Joseph Thurman.

Releasing a crackling shriek, Florence’s brain burnt on like the flick of a switch, flickering from a constant, throbbing ache to as if a fucking bomb had just gone off in his head.

He could sort of sense as his knees hit the ground, and the quivering grip of his hands holding himself tightly. He could sort of let the blistering heat of the sidewalk plaster his forehead as he keeled over, letting it burn him, still wailing. He could sort of feel the split of his throat as he screeched, curling around his vocal cords in a choking manner.

Not being able to clearly sense anything was horrifying enough, but the blinding white that held him - suffocated him - was a million times worse.

And it wasn’t all white. There were little glimpses of times before him and times after, all twisted together to form a sputtering mess, faces, places, sounds and scenes all rushing through him at once. There were so many people dancing around the white, so much blood and laughter and fear and tears.

His jaw turned and strained as he giggled, but it wasn’t really him, buzzing like a horn in his white filled brain.

Please, handler Thurman, please I didn’t mean to I don’t want to I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’ll do anything, please! I’m trying to be good, so good, please…!

The pets gaze soon curled into something softer, the woman with his face but much less disgusting. Her touch was sweet, too sweet to be for him but his still.

C’mon, Joe, eat your veggies, they’re good for you. Momma will eat them with you, okay?

And soon enough she was another woman entirely.

You’re pretty handsome for a pet guy, y’know. Most of you guys’re weirdos, but you seem pretty normal. You could say I like normalcy in a guy.

He felt the shock even through the white, sending him further reeling, cracking and hot in his neck, splitting through the images.

Now that’s your first lesson, good boys don’t bite. Got that?

He nodded, desperate in that time but not another, sobbing through the scald of his face. And then his head was cracked to the floor, a hand choking and his own sending a slap another’s way.

Hey-! Ow, fuck! Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to hit? Leave me- alone, Joe! Get offa me!

The face of the little boy - chubby cheeks and squished features - contorted, elongating and growing into that of a man’s.

Alright dummy, get over here and take a kneel. Oh, don’t give me that scared look ‘065, you know it pisses me off.

The man only got older, graying hair and a gruff beard, except with a growling, rumbling voice.

You are a real idiot. Get up, dog. I don’t care if you’re hurtin’, I need another cig.

Even with so much to feel he couldn’t feel anything real, only the numb of the memories twisted with the emotion of so many different times, so many different lives he had lived.

The pricking, searing pain of his own hands grabbing at chunks of his own hair wasn’t enough to cover that of his head. Hey- s- stop, Florence, I’m calling-, stop, said a voice drowned out by all the others, the ones flooding his senses and making it practically impossible to feel.

And just like the fiery way it started, the ordeal flickered out like a light. His breathing settled, hiccups scattered between. His shaking continued, a violent tremble. His limbs curled into his abdomen, stuck in position and unable to move.

The memories swiftly found their place in his mind, each slipping into their respective spot.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump @toads-and-gremlins

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)