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honeycollectswhump · 2 days

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Tinytopia Chapter 9: Bloodthirst (Part 1)

Story Masterpost

On AO3

Thanks to my beta/sensitivity reader @appelsiinilight and my bonus beta reader for the next two chapters, @whumpsday!

In this chapter: Thistle indulges in getting cozy, but finds the house disturbed by yet another new arrival.

With respect to @whumpsday, the og of hungry vampire sadbois, and @entomolog-t, the og of tiny vampires.

***

There were now enough pixies for a pixie pile.

Thistle was ecstatic. He’d grown up sleeping in a pixie pile, and he’d missed it, longed for it, ached for it ever since his separation from his family.

Sleeping on top of Moon was nice enough, but he wasn’t a pixie. And with Marigold here, there were two pixies. Not enough for a pile.

But Jax had a pixie incarnation now. There were three pixies, which met the minimum number needed to be a proper pile.

Moon would be included, of course, even if he wasn’t a pixie. The pile would simply go on top of him.

Thistle made sure everyone had a nice, soft pair of pajamas. Enough thick, fuzzy socks. Enough blankets and soft pads to sleep on. Hot, sweet drinks to sip in the evening before falling asleep.

Oh, yeah. This was going to be perfect.

Thistle cleared enough space in his wooden castle–for once, he was worried he might not have enough room in there for something. He arranged everything just right, plumping pillows and layering blankets and smoothing out sheets. He wove small animals out of plant fiber–such toys weren’t out of place in pixie nests, quite similar to humans’ stuffed animals. They didn’t usually make them bears or cats or dogs, though–pixies had a completely different array of animals that were culturally important.

Thistle remembered his Mother’s Mother’s hive having a nest of ants in the bottom of the structure, tended to like a herd–he couldn’t remember if they’d done anything besides occasionally eating the larvae. It’d been such a long time ago that all he remembered was that they tasted quite good. Before Thistle had left, Mother had been in the process of trying to make space in their tree for clusters of honeydew-producing aphids. She’d also told Thistle that some hives knew how to rear moths or spiders for their silk, which Thistle had always longed to see, but she’d said moths were more complicated than aphids and spiders had a safety risk.

There had been that one time his older brother Oak had brought home a disfigured moth which would have died without help–its wing had gotten caught in its cocoon while trying to emerge, and now it was wrinkly, tiny, and useless for flying. Mother let Oak keep the moth as a pet, even though it had no practical use. It was fuzzy, nice to hold, and pretty to look at. Oak had named it Cattail.

He lovingly traced the memories as he wove, imagining himself making a toy for Dewdrop. Aunt Winter’s new baby, Dewdrop. He wanted to meet Dewdrop so badly. Thistle was really the only one in the hive good enough with his hands to make toys without using magic. He would have been making all the toys for Dewdrop. Had someone else been making them? Was Dewdrop wanting for toys?

He suddenly realized he’d begun crying when a tear dripped down onto the moth doll he’d been making. He slowly wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, then sniffled and straightened himself up.

There was no need to be sad. He was going to have a pixie pile again. Dewdrop was fine, and so was he.

He arranged a moth doll and an aphid doll so they were nicely on top of the covers, then stood back to examine his work. I should sell those on Etsy, too. Everyone would go wild for them. He started writing the listing title mentally. Miniature insect bug arthropod crochet doll lifelike fidget toy Micro realistic choose SET or INDIVIDUAL made to order. He could sell one for $20 or a set of three for $50. Yeah. That would be good.

He walked out and pushed Marigold’s wheelchair to the entrance of his wooden house. “Are you ready for bed, Marigold?”

He nodded.

Pixie-Jax flitted on the roof of the house, jumping down onto the ground. “I am too!”

“Shh,” Thistle said. “Speak quietly. We’re supposed to be calming down now.”

Jax nodded, looking very serious in his oversized pajamas that swallowed his hands.

Moon arrived five minutes after the agreed upon time, as always. He had an eye mask on his forehead and an extra pillow under his arm. “I stayed up late so that I could be tired precisely for this slumber gathering,” Moon declared. “Let us commence.”

“Okay,” Thistle said, trying not to get excited. He was supposed to be calming down. “Moon, you go in first, and then we’ll all get on top of you.”

Moon ducked to go into Thistle’s house. “Good Heavens! It’s a proper cornucopia of comfort in here.”

Thistle poked his head in and watched as Moon arranged himself, pulling the covers back. Moon held his arms up. “I’m ready for dogpiling, boys. Have at me.”

“Okay, Jax next.”

Jax dashed into the wooden structure and snuggled up under Moon’s arm. “Like this?”

“Yes, perfect. Okay, now Marigold.”

Thistle lent Marigold a hand to stand up out of the wheelchair. He supported him by the elbow to help him inside. Marigold’s face twinged with pain as he went down into a kneeling position.

“You all right?”

“Yes–just a moment.”

He shifted to a position that apparently lessened his pain, then gingerly lay down under Moon’s other arm, head on the crook of his elbow.

That just left Thistle. He crouched down and situated himself on top of Moon, so Moon’s chest fluff was his pillow. “Everybody comfy?”

There was a round of assenting sounds.

Thistle reached down and pulled the blanket up, swathing them all, and turned off the light. “Good night, everybody.”

“Thistle my boy, would you pull down my eye mask? My hands are quite full.”

Thistle reached up and pulled the mask over Moon’s eyes.

“Perfect, thank you.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Thistle.”

“Good night, Jax.”

“Good night, Thistle.”

“Good night, Marigold.”

No response.

“Marigold?”

“Good night, Thistle.”

“Good night, Marigold.”

“Good night, Jax.”

“Good night, Moon.”

“Is this really quite necessary?”

“You’re supposed to say good night.”

“...Good night, Jax.”

“Marigold?”

No response.

“Marigold, you didn’t say good night to anyone.”

“Good night Thistle, Jax, and Moon. There.”

“Good night, Marigold.”

“Moon? You didn’t say good night back to Marigold.”

“Good night, Marigold. Are you quite satisfied now? Have we somehow missed a possible permutation here?”

Thistle snuggled closer to Moon, and Jax copied his motion. “No,” Thistle said contentedly. “I think that’s everyone. Thanks. Good night. I love you all.”

“I love you, Thistle.”

“I love you, Moon-”

“We are not doing all that again. I would like to go to sleep sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”

Thistle tugged on the sleeve of Moon's silken pajamas. “Just once? Just one, Moon? Please?”

Moon sighed. “I love you, Thistle.”

Thistle happily flicked his ears and settled in. It seemed like Marigold had already fallen asleep.

They dozed like that. Thistle could hardly get sleepy with how happy he was. It was so warm and fuzzy, and a soft glow of magic welled up inside him. He just lay there enjoying it.

It was a while later, after he’d finally managed to fall asleep, that he woke up. He wasn’t sure why. But-

Oh.

Oooh.

Marcy’s necklace.

It was sitting on the table–Marcy had left it there today. It was glowing. It’d been soft white all night–but now it was bright yellow.

Yellow. Yellow. What had yellow meant?

Thistle disentangled himself from the pile and snuck over to the door, peeking his head out. He didn’t see anybody.

“Hello?” he whispered. “Is somebody there?”

There came a sound, then–a sort of tittering, accompanied by light flapping. He turned his attention upwards and saw some small fuzzy creature way, way high up near the ceiling. It frantically dashed into the room and smacked into the wall, then tumbled down. When it finally stopped its erratic movements, Thistle saw it was a bat with tawny red fur.

No, not a bat–the real creature emerged from the form of the bat as soon as it touched the ground. It was a fuzzy humanoid with protruding fangs and triangular ears.

The fish tank flipped open. “Yo, Thistle!” Jewel shouted. “Are you gonna wake anyone else up and tell them there’s a fucking vampire in the house or do I need to do it?”

“A vampire?” Thistle squeaked.

“Gotta be. I mean, just look at him. Right?”

The new arrival flipped himself upright from where he’d fallen on the ground, still on all fours, ears pinned back against his head nervously.

“Thistle?” said Moon’s sleepy voice, and his head appeared out the door, eyes still half-closed. “What are you shouting about?” His eyes widened as he saw something was up. “Oh?”

“It’s a vampire,” Thistle said. He looked over. “Right?’

“Well yes but, I’m not–I don’t want to hurt you,” the creature said. His ears were still flat and his voice trembled, as though not entirely sure he would be believed.

Oh, he was speaking Pixish. The language a predator would typically speak if their primary prey was Pixies.

“I’ll go get Marcy,” Thistle said. He looked behind him and saw Marigold stirring in the bed, with Jax not far behind. “...I’ll stay here with Marigold. Moon, you go get Marcy?”

“Am I your messenger?”

“...Yes?”

“...All right.” Moon drew himself out of the house and spread his wings, then took off upstairs.

The new arrival watched him with wide eyes. Clearly he’d never seen one of Moon’s kind before.

“Thistle, who’s that?” Jax whispered.

“Just stay inside. I’ll handle this.” He gave a nervous wave to the creature. “Hi. I’m Thistle.”

“I’m Auburn,” he said. Pixish actually had more words to describe colors than English, with Pixie’s sensitive eyes able to see more with minute differences. He wasn't sure if vampires could see the same way, but the word he gave as his name, Kasabrua, the closest translation of which was Auburn, actually referred to the very specific shade of red in the coat of a fox’s fur. That was exactly the color his fur was, so it was fitting–it was basically the equivalent of calling him “Foxy” or “Vixen,” although Thistle knew those two words had…. connotations in English that they wouldn’t have in Pixish.

“Hi, Auburn. It’s nice to meet you. My friend Marcy is coming downstairs. She’s a human. Is that okay?”

Auburn hugged the wall, like he was afraid Thistle was going to attack him. “Yes. Yes, please, I’d like to meet her.”

Thistle and Auburn kept tense eye contact with each other as Moon came back down, followed by Marcy, still in her pajamas. “Oh my gosh, hi!” she said with restrained enthusiasm. She knelt down beside Thistle, who fluttered onto her lap.

Auburn kept his eyes on Marcy, body tense. He was clearly terrified, but he made no motion to leave.

“He speaks Pixish,” Thistle said.

“Hi,” Marcy said gently. “I’m Marcy.”

“I’m Auburn. You’re really big.” He swallowed. “Sorry, um… I'm not supposed to be seen, and I’ve never met a human before. So, so it’s a little scary.”

“She is pretty big,” Thistle said. “But she’s nice. Do you want to tell us a little bit about yourself?

“Well, um… I heard that all kinds of creatures live here together in peace, even predators. So, so I’m interested in. That.” He flattened himself against the ground, as though to disappear. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course that’s okay,” Marcy said. “Where did you hear it? Who?”

“A, um. A tree creature told me. A dryad.”

Marcy and Thistle looked at each other.

“Could it be the same dryad that told Jax?” Thistle poked his head into the house. “Jax?”

Jax crawled forward, just peeking out. “The dryad that told me was a big tree.”

Auburn shook his head. “The dryad that told me was a holly bush.”

Okay, they were definitely going to have to coerce Trilloras to come out and answer questions. They’d already tried every combination of begging, coaxing, and threatening they could think of to get her to come out, yet her sapling remained totally inert. They were starting to think that maybe she was asleep or unconscious and couldn’t hear them.

“It sounds like they’re different dryads,” Marcy said. “But that’s okay. We don’t have to talk about them. Let’s talk about you.”

Auburn nodded nervously. “Right, right. Um. I just want to live in peace. So, so if this is a place where I can do that. Then I want to stay here. If that’s okay.”

“Sure!” Thistle said brightly, absolutely delighted. “Sure, we’ll figure out a way you can live here.”

Auburn drew forward slightly. “Real, really? Um, mostly I was worried about…where I would hunt. Um, since–if–it seems like everyone here–”

“We can figure that out,” Thistle said. “We have a trick.”

“Can we talk about it in the morning?” Moon said. “I’m not ready to be awake yet.”

“Right!” Auburn squeaked. “Sorry, sorry for interrupting. Um, you can, you can go back to sleep.”

Marcy looked from Auburn to Thistle, then sat on the couch. “I’ll stay down here.”

“Okay,” Auburn said bashfully. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s just to watch things. You’re probably not tired because it’s night, huh?”

“I’m… tired. I could sleep.” He sounded dejected.

“Okay. Um. How do you sleep?”

“On the ceiling.” He looked morosely up at the ceiling. “But there aren’t any footholds.”

Marcy tapped her chin. “Oh! Hold on, I know.” She went into the next room and retrieved Colin’s pullup bar, mounting it in the doorway. “There, like that?”

Auburn clung to the wall with his creepy little hands, shimmying up it until he was far enough to push off and jump into the air. His arms transformed into wings as he flapped them, and he propelled himself up to take hold of the bar.

He hooked his feet around it and hung upside-down, ensconcing himself in his wings like a blanket. “This, this is wonderful. Thank you. I can stay up here?”

“Yeah,” Thistle said. “That’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

Auburn seemed peaceful enough, but Thistle was still glad that Marcy was nearby.

Despite being too tired to function, he wasn’t sure if he would sleep much with a vampire hanging over the room.

***

The pixie pile did manage to get a decent amount of rest in the end. Thistle woke up feeling recharged and energetic–ready for a day full of art. Because that would be step one to welcome a new resident: it was his responsibility to befriend Auburn so he wouldn’t have to hunt. Now that he’d already done it with Severa and knew it was possible, it didn’t seem so daunting. If anything, it was exciting.

True, Auburn was scary. He was almost as tall as Moon. His fangs poked out of his mouth. He clearly was a lot stronger than Thistle. He slept overhead, hanging menacingly. And he drank blood–probably, they hadn’t seen that yet. He’d probably attacked and maybe even killed people. But he was already here peacefully and seemed willing to do what they asked. This couldn’t be harder than Severa, surely.

Auburn was still in the same place hanging from the pullup bar in the morning–true to his word, he was fast asleep and looked exhausted when everyone else was stirring. Teddy and Colin came down, and more introductions were had. Teddy very valiantly hid her disquiet at seeing Auburn, while Colin was concerned about rabies. Marcy reassured them it was safe and that she would handle it, although privately she was also a little bit worried about rabies.

Thistle made the rounds to gather a group for a painting session. Marigold, Jax, and Severa were on board without needing any cajoling. Moon declared he was going to try it, since he was warming up to Thistle’s silly projects. Jewel said he didn’t want to do anything involving paint, since it got all over his skin and felt bad in the water, even if it was nontoxic. Violet couldn’t be coerced to come out even though Petunia definitely would have enjoyed it, but whatever.

“Art is a great way to bond,” Thistle said, laying out his paints. He had Marcy lay out some canvases for them to paint. “It’s a great activity to do together, and you can talk while you do it. This will be a great way to get to know each other.”

“I admit I thought it quite useless at first,” Severa admitted. “But I am starting to enjoy it more.”

“It’s growing on me, too,” Moon said.

Auburn knelt next to the paints, touching one of the tubes. “Great! Um, so, what, what do I do?”

“You, um…” At this point Thistle noticed that Auburn’s hand was shaking. “Hey, are you okay?”

Auburn drew his hand back, then gave a pained smile. “Oh, sorry. Um, I haven’t, um, I’m pretty hungry, that’s all.”

Thistle felt like he’d been smacked in the face. That was why Auburn was tired enough to go to sleep last night? He simply hadn’t eaten and therefore had no energy? He’d been sitting there hungry enough to start trembling and didn’t say anything?

“Hey, we can’t have fun and bond on an empty stomach,” Thistle said gently. “Come on, let’s take care of that first.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Auburn said quickly. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“We want to, though. We wouldn’t tell you to stay here and then make you starve.” Oh whoops, Thistle had said that and then remembered that Auburn would presumably have to drink someone’s blood. Thistle certainly wasn’t eager to volunteer himself for that.

Fortunately, Severa spoke first. “I will help you. You drink blood, yes? I have plenty of blood, and my magic is strong.”

Auburn practically wilted with relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Severa reached down and pried one of the scales on her abdomen back, exposing vulnerable, soft flesh. Auburn crept near. “It’s really okay?”

“Yes.”

Auburn leaned over, shaking, and gently made a soft cut with his fangs, then clamped his mouth over the wound, taking small sips.

Severa put her hand on his head. A tear leaked from his eye.

After a moment, he drew back, wiping his face. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Severa pushed the scale back down, wincing but not complaining.

“There,” Thistle said. “Everyone is okay and feels good. Right?”

Severa and Auburn both nodded.

“Good. Now let’s get painting.”

Thistle guided Auburn, Severa, Moon, Marigold, and Jax through laying out their canvas and starting to apply the paint to it. Marcy participated too, sitting on the floor with a proportional paper.

“So,” Thistle said conversationally as they worked. “Auburn, can you tell us a bit more about yourself? What made you decide to seek us out? Why did the dryad tell you to come here? If you know.”

“Oh, um.” Auburn had red paint all over his hands and was putting paw prints all over his canvas. “Well, my family kicked me out of my colony. So, so I didn’t really have anywhere else to go.”

“That’s horrible!” Jax cried. “I can’t imagine if Thistle kicked me out! Why would they?”

Auburn’s ears drooped, and the motions of his hands became slow and unenthusiastic.

“Jax, he might be sensitive about it,” Thistle chided. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Auburn.”

“No, it’s okay.” He dipped his hands in yellow and started making yellow pawprints. “Well, I’m, um, I’m a Worthless, so when things got tight, I was the first to go.”

The exact word he used was Struntajo, which meant roughly worthless, but he said it like it was supposed to mean something more. Thistle had never heard anyone use it that way.

“What’s that mean?” Jax said, once again failing to understand what a sensitive topic is.

“We can talk about it later if you want,” Thistle offered, wincing.

“No, it’s okay. I didn’t realize you’d have no way to know what that is, I guess.” He clasped his paint-laden hands together. “Um, when prey is plentiful, vampires will sometimes have an extra pup in their litters that’s small and weak. If there’s enough to go around, the runt gets enough food to grow up strong. But, but if there isn’t, then the runt is there to take the hit when they have to make sacrifices if things get worse.”

“Sacrifices?” Severa said.

Auburn shuffled his feet. “Leave it to die, usually.”

“That’s horrible,” Severa said, utterly horrified. “They have an extra baby on purpose for the sake of having something to sacrifice if their gamble doesn’t pay off?”

“I mean, it makes sense if you think about it. At least, I mean. My siblings all contributed more to the colony than I did. So, so when resources started getting scarce, it’s better that they could cut me off rather than someone who actually helped. You know? As soon as I became an adult they made it clear I had to leave if I didn’t contribute more. It wasn't a surprise or anything.”

Severa clenched the paintbrush she was using so hard that it snapped in half. “That is a horrible way to think about it. I could never dream of even considering sending someone I’d raised from a little baby out to die just because they weren’t useful enough.”

Auburn shrunk away from the anger in her voice. “Er, well, if there isn’t enough to go around…”

“Then you get more, or you yourself go hungry. That’s what being a mother means, not this- this perversion where children are seen as an investment you expect returns on in the future.”

Auburn rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, well I’m not a parent, so I guess I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re right,” Severa snipped. “You wouldn’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” Thistle said, trying to rein the conversation back in. “That sounds very difficult. So that’s why you were looking for somewhere else to go?”

Auburn nodded. “I’m bad at hunting. I’m small, weak, not a strong flier, and not good at magic. My family got tired of helping me, so I haven’t been back to the colony.… I’ve been.” Tears welled up in his eyes again. “I’ve been just barely hanging on. You’re the first ones who have been nice to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Marigold said. “I’m surprised to find myself sympathizing with a predator at all, but I truly can’t imagine what I would do if my family were like that.”

Thistle was intimidated to think about Auburn being a runt, considering how very large he still was. Thistle very bravely stood near him. “Do you want a hug?”

Auburn nodded miserably.

Thistle wrapped his arms around Auburn’s midsection, and Auburn’s arms came around him gently.

“Ooh, you’re soft,” Thistle said into his fur.

Auburn chuckled. “Glad there’s something good about me, at least.”

“I am not jealous,” Moon announced mechanically. “I am also soft, and it’s fine that there are multiple soft people in the house that Thistle likes to touch. It does not reflect on my worth as an individual.”

Thistle sighed and looked over his shoulder. “Good job, Moon.”

Moon gave him a thumbs up.

***

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#waaaaa auburn is such a sweetheart 💕#also moon. hes. hes doing his best #g/t #giant/tiny #whumpee and caretaker #tinytopia

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honeycollectswhump · 2 days

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Angie Has A Cold

CW: colds and associated symptoms, but nothing major. This is just good old-fashioned sickfic and fluff.

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement:

Although it can be difficult to do, try to find time for yourself. Continue your hobbies if possible and take advantage of opportunities for self care. You still have needs and taking care of yourself is not only a smart choice, but also models good boundaries for rescuees.

Angie had only been away for a long weekend for her sister's wedding, but Tim found that he was looking forward to having her back. Of course, it wasn't that he couldn't handle the work of taking care of the rescuees and they were all perfectly happy to pitch in when they could, anyway. But Tim missed having someone else to talk to who saw the world the way he did, who he could interact with without having to put all his words through what he thought of as "the Pet filter".

When he heard Angie's car pull into the driveway, Tim found himself grinning ear to ear. He went to open the door for her- it was raining hard and she had a suitcase to manage. You needed to pack a lot of things to be a bridesmaid, it turned out.

Tim wasn't a moment too soon and opened the door to find Angie standing there, shifting her heavy suitcase to her left hand so that she could fumble for her key.

"Thanks!" she gasped as she ducked into the safety of the front hall. "Whew. It's really coming down! Would you believe I was dry until I got out of the car just now?"

"I might," Tim said.

"And how are the guys? And you? Did you guys do okay?" She set the suitcase down and wiped wet hair out of her face.

"Yeah, we were fine. We watched a lot of movies. The weather's making everyone feel a little... achy. Not quite themselves, I guess. We're just passing the ibuprofen around the room every few hours and that helps."

"Good." Angie sneezed into the crook of her arm and then straightened up and stretched. "I'll take this upstairs and change into something less... soaked. Be right back!"

She was downstairs in just a few minutes and settled onto the couch in her usual spot to watch the end of their movie before joining Tim in the kitchen to cook dinner.

"Anything in particular sound good to you?" Tim asked, standing in front of the open pantry with his arms crossed. "I didn't get to the store this weekend, so ingredients are a little scarce right now."

"It's fine," Angie assured him. "I'll go tomorrow." She peered at the shelves. "How about soup and sandwiches? We have enough for everyone and it sounds amazing." She shivered and added, "I just can't seem to get warm."

Tim peered at her. "Are you okay? You don't think you're getting sick?"

"Nah, I'm fine. It's just cold out."

Tim accepted the answer, but found himself studying her closely when, later in the evening, she sneezed again and began coughing. She swore that she had swallowed something wrong, but when she went to bed immediately after the rescuees were settled for the night, Tim had his doubts.

Sure enough, the next morning, Angie was nowhere to be seen. Tim helped Francis downstairs, saw the rescuees settled in their usual spots, and made breakfast for all five of them before he began to worry.

"No Angie this morning?" Nathan asked. "Think she's jet lagged?"

"She might be," Tim said doubtfully. "I'll go check on her after breakfast."

They ate and then Tim stood and said, in the most casual voice he could, to hide his worry, "Still no Angie- I guess I'll go knock on her door and make sure everything's okay." He tried to seem unconcerned and ignored the anxious look that Francis and Mikey exchanged.

Tim strolled out of the room, but as soon as he had rounded the corner, he picked up the pace. He wasn't sure why he was so nervous, he thought. Then he silently admonished himself for lying. He did know why- it wasn’t that he was afraid something uniquely awful had happened, only that Angie was the one person in the house he could count on to be well and normal. She was always cheerful and energetic, even when she was tired and it would just be so strange if she were to be anything else.

Then, stopping in front of her door, Tim gave himself a mental shake. Angie was not required to perform, he reminded himself. She was allowed to have an off day, too, and he would do whatever she needed. If that was even what was happening.

Tim knocked on the door and Angie's gravelly voice answered. "Come in."

He opened the door a little tentatively to find her still in bed, wrapped up in a blanket and looking thoroughly miserable. A box of tissues sat on her nightstand and some of its contents was now wadded up in and around a wastebasket.

"Morning," Tim said, entering very slowly and picking his way around the tissues to sit lightly on the edge of her bed. "Just came to see how you're doing."

"Not great," Angie admitted. She took another tissue and blew her nose, then leaned back against the pillows with a tired groan. "You were right," she admitted. "I guess I was getting sick."

"Poor you," Tim said sympathetically. He stood, left the room, and returned a moment later with a thermometer. "May I?"

"Go ahead." Angie accepted the thermometer under her tongue and held her head while they waited for it to beep. When it did, she watched him expectantly.

"Yeah, you definitely have a fever. Not bad- not, like, Francis-bad, but it's there."

"I can tell. I'm hot and cold and everything aches." Tim patted her hand and she sniffed and smiled at him.

"Think you can keep some breakfast down if I bring it to you?"

"I can come downstairs," she said, but she didn't look like she meant it and Tim shook his head.

"I'll be right back," he said and it was a sign of exactly how she felt that Angie lay quietly back against her pillows and watched him go.

Downstairs, Tim put some bread in the toaster and checked in with the rescuees. They had looked up in an almost synchronized movement when he came down the stairs and then watched him, waiting for news.

"She's sick, all right," he confirmed. To the nervous look that flashed across Mikey's face, he added, "Nothing too serious. She just has a little feverish cold. We'll take good care of her and she'll be better soon."

"Poor Ma'am," Francis murmured.

"If there's anything we can do to help, we will," Nathan told Tim, and Mikey nodded, ignoring the casts on his hands that would make it hard for him to help anyone. Tim smiled.

"Thanks, guys. I'll pass on the good wishes and start her off with some breakfast."

Angie didn't appear to have moved since Tim left. This was worrying, but he pushed it aside. She was sick; she was allowed to act unlike herself if she needed to. Besides, he noted, she pushed herself up in the bed when he came in and gave him a thin smile. He stayed and kept her company while she drank some of the juice and nibbled at the toast.

"Sorry," she said when she had put the second piece of toast back on the plate half-eaten. "I don't think I can take any more right now."

"That's okay," he replied in his most soothing voice. "You rest and I'll come back up in a little while to see if you need anything and check on your fever."

"My fever will probably be right here waiting for you," Angie said dryly. "But I'll be okay. I promise."

"I'll hold you to it."

Angie slid down again in the bed, shivering, and smiled as Tim reached over and tucked the comforter around her.

Tim tried not to be exasperated later that morning when Francis asked, for what seemed like the tenth time, "Sir, ought we not to go and see to Ma'am? Francis would be more than willing to sit with her, if she is in need..." he trailed off, unsure.

"I'm pretty sure she's fine," Tim said, also for the tenth time. He looked at the clock and shrugged. "But you know, it has been two hours. I'll go up and just see if she's even awake. Will that make you all feel better?"

Francis wasn't able to answer such a direct question, but Mikey nodded and Nathan grinned sympathetically at Tim. He had memories of being sick in a similar way and was more sure that Angie really would recover without long-term adverse effects.

Tim tried not to sigh as he went upstairs. The questions were only annoying because he was asking himself the same thing, he had to admit. And if he took another perspective, it was really a positive thing that Francis was able to ask repeatedly for something he felt was important. It was progress.

Once again, Tim tapped very lightly at the door. He half hoped Angie wouldn't answer, which would mean she was sleeping.

"Come in." No such luck, and she sounded horribly congested.

As he had suspected, the pile of tissues was noticeably higher. She had also thrown her blankets aside and was clutching a sheet to her chest as she coughed into her elbow.

"At least I got sick after the wedding," Angie managed to say. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand over them. "Sorry. My head hurts."

"And your face is bright red," Tim noted. "Your fever must be up."

"Yeah, probably. It feels worse. I'm all dizzy." Then, illogically, she swung her feet over the side of the bed. "I should get some medicine, though."

"Already brought you some." Tim was anxious to keep her from exerting herself and he held out the pills and a small cup of water.

"You're the best." She took them and laid back with a sigh. "Sorry I'm not more help around the house today. Are the guys okay?"

"They're worried about you," Tim told her. "Francis is almost being annoying about it- not that I really mind, of course. But he got very insistent that I should come check on you."

"Good for him," Angie hummed with a small smile. Tim had known she would understand. Then she sighed. "Tell them I'm fine- more or less- and I'm going back to sleep. If I get bored later, I'll come downstairs."

"I'll leave you alone," Tim agreed. "Want me to come check on you at lunchtime? You should probably try to eat again then, if you can. There's always more toast, or I can make soup. Those are classics for a reason and we have a lot of soup in the backup pantry."

"Ugh," Angie groaned. She held her stomach and looked a little green. "Don't talk to me about food. But thanks."

"Sorry. I'll see you in a few hours." She murmured some inaudible assent and Tim saw himself out.

Tim's report from the sickroom kept the rescuees' anxiety at bay almost until the agreed-upon next visit at lunch. As the hour approached, though, Tim couldn't help noticing Mikey and Francis glancing over at him every few minutes, clearly waiting for him to leave the room.

When Tim stood up, they visibly relaxed and then tensed again as he walked into the kitchen instead of upstairs. Tim, who hadn't done it on purpose, felt guilty at this.

"I'm going to put some soup on," he told them, "and then I'll go look in on her. I know you're worried, but she really will be okay and we all have to eat lunch, after all."

There was no grumbling, of course, but Tim suspected that if they hadn't once been Pets, Francis and Mikey would have protested. Everyone would be fine, Tim reminded himself, and put the soup on to warm before finally heading up the stairs.

This time, he knocked and let himself in without waiting for an answer. Angie was sitting up again, dozing against her pillows, and opened her eyes when she heard him come in.

"Welcome back."

"Thanks, I think. How are you feeling now?"

She shrugged listlessly. "About the same, but bored. Is it lunchtime already?"

"It is. Do you think you could eat something?"

She grimaced but said, "Maybe a little. It doesn't sound great, but I should eat, even if I don't want to."

"That's the spirit."

"Can I come downstairs?" Angie asked, sounding like a child who was prepared to plead for what she wanted.

"If you feel up to it," Tim said. He didn't want to pressure her, but he hoped she would come downstairs. It would help Mikey and Francis relax if they could see her, he was sure.

"Okay, great. Give me one second." Tim turned his gaze slightly aside so that he wasn't staring awkwardly at her as she climbed out of bed and made her way across the room to retrieve a flannel robe that was hung over the back of a chair. She drew it tightly around her and shivered, but headed for the door.

"You need a hand?" Tim asked in the same fake-casual voice he felt like he had been using all day.

Angie’s feverish head felt faint and she was a little unsteady on her feet. She reached one hand out to brace herself on the doorframe and pressed the other hand to her brow.

"I think so," she replied reluctantly. "My poor head's all dizzy, still."

"Well, let's get you downstairs and settled on the couch, then." Tim gave her his arm to lean on and they made their way very slowly down the stairs.

When she entered the room, all three rescuees- even Nathan, who had not been so nervous- brightened up.

"Hi guys," Angie croaked and made sure to smile at them. Mikey beamed at her and Francis smiled warmly. They both looked happy to see her and more relaxed than they had been yet that day.

"Come sit down," Nathan said in a concerned voice, gesturing to the other end of the couch. "You look like you're gonna fall over."

"I'll be okay," Angie assured him, but she kept a hold on Tim's arm and let him help her across the room. She tucked her feet under her as she eased herself down onto the couch and leaned back with a light sigh.

"I'll get everyone lunch," Tim said, not that anyone was listening, and bustled off.

"Francis is very sorry that you're ill, Ma'am," Francis said in a shy voice. "He hopes you are not suffering very much."

"Nah, it's not that bad." She made the effort to smile. "Just... not quite myself today, that's all. It happens."

Tim returned with bowls of soup for Nathan and Francis and then set up a tray in front of Angie. She found that she didn't have much stomach for food and stopped after a few spoonfuls until she felt something brush her leg.

When she looked down, it was Mikey, touching her knee lightly to get her attention. She smiled wanly at him but he looked concerned. He reached up with his heavily bandaged right hand and tapped his mouth, telling her that she should eat.

Angie almost explained that she didn't want to, but then she took another look at Mikey's wide, earnest eyes and he tapped his mouth more insistently, then gestured clumsily at her bowl.

"Okay, I'll have some more," she agreed. "You're right. It'll be good for me." For his sake, she finished most of the bowl, although the meal was heavy in her belly and made her a little sick. Mikey and Francis- and Tim, she noticed- looked satisfied, which mostly made it worth it.

After lunch, Angie sat shivering on the couch while Tim cleared away the dishes. When he returned, he was carrying the thermometer.

"Time for another temperature check," he announced cheerfully, and stuck it under her tongue.

Angie's fever had apparently become a spectator sport, and she wasn't too sick to feel awkward with all four of them watching her as the number on the thermometer climbed.

"101.7," Tim announced. "And time for the patient to take her medicine."

"Francis would like to help," Francis said. He looked nervously from Angie to Tim and clasped his hands, which were shaking slightly. It made him nervous to speak up like that, but he was desperate to do something for poor Ma'am, who had so often comforted him when he was ill.

"Sure," Tim said, putting on his casual voice again so that Francis would know he was welcome to express himself freely. "I bet Angie would appreciate that. Right?"

"Sure," she agreed. "Thank you, Francis."

Tim got the bottle of medicine and helped Francis cross the room to sit in a chair next to Angie.

"Sir, could you please bring a cool washcloth?" Francis asked. "For Ma'am," he hastened to add.

Angie almost couldn't believe the sudden change in Francis, who had actually managed to communicate an intention and was now very nearly taking charge of something. He had even made a direct request of Tim. She realized why and her heart was so full that she almost cried. The slight red tint around Tim's eyes when he returned from the kitchen suggested that he had cried. Francis, who couldn't even refer to himself in first person, had asserted himself for Angie's sake.

She knew she would be thinking about the implications of that for a long time, but for now she tried to remain in the present.

Francis poured Angie's medicine into a spoon and held it out. At first, she started to raise her hand to take it, and then realized he was holding it towards her mouth. She tried not to smile as she let him administer it to her, just the way he fed Mikey when it was his turn to do so.

When the spoon was empty, Francis lay it neatly down on a napkin and took up the damp washcloth, folding it into a long rectangle. He leaned towards Angie and pressed it to her brow.

"This is an excellent thing to do when you are feverish," he said, looking very gentle and solemn. She wondered if he knew a cold washcloth was an ordinary fever treatment, or if he thought it was something special that only Tim knew about. "Francis found it very beneficial when he had a fever." He held the cloth in place for her, as if she was too feeble to do it herself, and Angie remembered how many hours Tim had sat with Francis just like this.

"Thanks, Francis," Angie said. "It does feel good."

"Francis is very sorry to see Ma'am so poorly," he replied in that same caring tone. "He hopes you will be much better soon."

Angie smiled around the room. "With all of you to take care of me, I know I will."

Master List

Notes: I've got so many ideas for the Safehouse characters, but some of them fall outside of any specific spot on the timeline. Also, to be honest, I don't want to have to worry about the passage of time for every story I do in that series. So, while I'm definitely going to continue doing longer plot arcs, those plot arcs won't always have to follow one after the other. I'm also going to start letting myself just do standalone stories or short arcs like this one. Enjoy!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump,

@starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

#francis 😭😭😭#i wonder if he realises what he did and what was so special about it #box boy universe #whumpee and caretaker #conditioned whumpee #multiple whumpees #caretaker turned whumpee #sickfic #the safehouse #recovering whumpee #pet whump

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honeycollectswhump · 3 days

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whumpee had drank before, but never this much.

they were finally back home after being released from the hospital. they had been prescribed painkillers, but only to take "as needed", per their doctor's instructions. that was useless. everything hurt, and whumpee didn't expect to feel better anytime soon.

so the painkillers sat unopened on the table by the front door, and whumpee instead found themself rummaging through their cabinets in search of alcohol.

they took the biggest bottle of liquor they could find and curled up with it on the sofa. they didn't even bother with a glass; it was easier just to take sips directly from the bottle. the whiskey was sharp and bitter, but eventually their pain began to be smoothed over as the alcohol made its way into whumpee's body.

whumpee woke up groggy, aching, and the most hungover they had ever been. they didn't remember falling asleep. truth be told, they had hoped to build up the courage to drink the whole bottle at once and let their body shut itself down. that would've been easier than figuring out how to keep going from here.

so whumpee just took another sip from the bottle as they got up. they had never drank this much before, but they needed to now, to face living in the aftermath of everything that had happened.

#recovery whump #addiction whump #alcohol whump #whump aftermath

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honeycollectswhump · 4 days

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guys i need everyone to back me up rn im in a discussion with @honeycollectswhump abt cars and their personalities/fuckableness

also send me cars if u want i'll rate them based on a very accurate scale

#zi‘s car shenanigans……..

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honeycollectswhump · 5 days

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Big thanks to @entomolog-t for this commission of Thistle and Moon from Watch Your Step!

The first image is how a human would see it. The second image is how it would look to a species that can see in UV wavelengths, and is how Thistle sees himself!

He buzzes his wings when he's happy :)

@static-stars

@cloudwatchingtoday @theepiccreatorofmagic-blog-blog @waitisthatgt @itssmoltime @ratcatcher0325 @crazytinygirl @bittykimmy13 @whumpsday @theroyaleemily @kitn-underfoot

@tinyguy42069

@jewel-fan-wys

@cheeseybeans8

@whumpshaped

@lucentbliss

@alilbitlesbian

@aceouttatime

@alarcomet

@becca-but-bitty

@tiny--pineapple

@bittykimmy13

@whumpsday

@kitn-underfoot

@gt-brainrot

@silent-orchid-lady

@starfields08000

@predacon-skydrift

@vidawhump

@whumpdreamz

@honeycollectswhump

@imber-rose

#HOLY SHIT THEM!!!#IM GONNA SOB #g/t #giant/tiny #watch your step #g/t art #whump art #<- untrue but it’s a tag i use for frequently. so i can find it again

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honeycollectswhump · 7 days

Note

16 and 18 for the ask game!

16. Do you have any whump media recommendations (whump blogs, books, movies, etc.)?

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm i always get carried away when asked to make lists but LETS GO

recently reread the devil's highway from @lonesome--hunter and i cannot recommend it enough. it gets pretty dark but also its just so good its unreal. i love it.

some other timeless classics include

kane & jim from @whumpsday

the rare bookseller from @oliversrarebooks

the ashtray from @honeycollectswhump

a new beginning from @a-crumb-of-whump

things end | people change from @whumpcloud

fruit of the wicked from @whumpyourdamnpears

watch your step from @not-a-space-alien

cat and mouse from @t0rture-me

in the woods somewhere by @knivestothroats

ace and hunter by @null-whump

blogs where i literally can't choose just one story because all the writing is exquisite include

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@oddsconvert

@the-bloody-sadist

and @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

i always feel like i forgot things when i do lists like this but alas. also i can never recommend any media other than blogs because i dont consume anything😭 but i hope i managed to recommend something you end up loving!

(also honestly these people are awesome writers in general so if i recommended one story from them but they have more... or they have oneshots... do check those out. i bet theyre all sooo so so good even if i havent gotten around to reading them all yet)

18. What whump content are you currently craving?

CULT WHUMP!!!!!!! and lady whump of any flavour

#zi you are literally the sweetest ily!!#also shoutout to the other authors <3 #if anyone is looking for some more whump to read! look no further!! :)#whump rec

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honeycollectswhump · 7 days

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drabble request: whumpee who doesn't know that their life isn't normal, because it's the only thing they've ever had. Maybe they were born into it or taken at such a young age that they don't remember but either way to them it's perfectly normal. Like they'd tell you in the most regular measured voice Well sure i don't deserve food unless I do good, I'm an object that's how it works. Of course they hurt me, how else am I doing to do better next time. (Bonus points for explaining this to a horrified Caretaker)

content: conditioned whumpee, rocky recovery

Whumpee stared at the full plate Caretaker had placed in front of them in confusion. They hadn’t been given tasks today — why was Caretaker rewarding one of their lazy days?

No, the food was probably not meant for them. Maybe they were supposed to guard it? Maybe Caretaker had placed it there for safekeeping. Maybe they were going to eat it in a bit.

“Is something the matter?” Caretaker asked, and Whumpee snapped back to the present, fully at attention.

“No, sir.”

Caretaker furrowed their eyebrows. “You like the food I prepared, right? Or did I make something you don’t like?”

“It’s perfectly fine sustenance, sir. I would love to earn it sometime, if that’s pleasing to you, sir.”

Caretaker only seemed more confused with every word. “Earn…? Whumpee, that’s yours. I prepared it for you.”

Now it was Whumpee’s turn to be confused. “For me? But I haven’t completed the necessary steps to earn it, sir. I assumed… I know I mustn’t assume, but I— I assumed you placed the food here for me to guard it…?”

“Whumpee, you’re not some dog.”

“Of course not, sir. I would never dream of putting myself on the same level as a beloved pet, sir. I know my place, sir.”

Caretaker swallowed audibly. “I’d like for you to have dinner with me. Even if you don’t think you’ve earned it.”

Whumpee even stopped breathing for a moment. The appetising dinner morphed into a death trap in front of them, and they suddenly felt nauseous. “Sir?”

“Go on. Have a few bites.”

The orders they had received were in clear opposition to their conditioning, and Whumpee would’ve rather killed themself than detangle that mess. Their latest order was always to be obeyed. But their latest order was wrong. It was just so, so wrong.

Whumpee was shaking now. They couldn’t look away from the food. They hadn’t earned it. They hadn’t. They hadn’t, they hadn’t, they hadn’t—

“Whumpee?” Caretaker reached across the table and took them by the hand, and Whumpee flinched violently. “Hey. It’s just me.”

“Yes, sir. I apologise, sir.”

“Maybe we don’t… force the dinner thing tonight. If it’s too distressing for you.”

Whumpee let out a sigh of relief, although their muscles were still tense from having disobeyed an order. It was easier to go against Caretaker than their conditioning. Much, much easier. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do better tomorrow, sir. I swear it.”

#I AM SUCH A SUCKER FOR ROCKY RECOVERY CONDITIONED WHUMPEE #i have thoughts prepare for rambling #because like. if you’re caretaker in this situation how do you proceed #whumpee needs food #i always love it when caretakers kind of play into the conditioning to whumpee‘s benefit #for example giving them tasks every day #but kind of mundane tasks. maybe at first it starts with stuff that makes whumpee feels useful #oh please fold these clothes. take the trash out. vacuum the living room #and maybe caretaker feels bad but it’s for the purpose of making whumpee feels comfortable enough to eat #and none of the tasks are actually damaging to them #and then with time they make the tasks more personal for whumpee #like a task being whumpee cleaning their own room #so the tasks devolve into self care #and at the end the tasks are just. brush your teeth. change your clothes. eat #and maybe at some point whumpee doesn’t even need any tasks anymore #or maybe they’ll live with tasks forever because it makes them feel safe and secure #but in reality the tasks are just self care things <3 #just. slow recovery with care for whumpee‘s mental state #going with their flow instead of throwing them into a new situation #whumpee and caretaker #conditioned whumpee #pet whump #pet whumpee #recovering whumpee #deconditioning #issues around food

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honeycollectswhump · 8 days

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⛓️Milestone Whump Art Raffle🔪

🔒 Rules - Reblog this post, and have your dm’s open so I can reach the winner!

Winner gets a free whumpy art commission 🎨

(Commission info here and mature art blog here)

I will discuss details with the winner (What I will and will not draw, the type of commission, estimated time to finish the piece, ect.)

Also consider following my art blog if you’re entering the contest!

If you’re not entering but still want to boost by reblogging just tell me in the tags.

Raffle Ends May 15th 2024

If the winner doesn’t respond after three days a new winner will be selected.

Art Examples:

#oh this looks very fun!!#im obsessed with the upper right drawing!!!!#whump art #art raffle

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honeycollectswhump · 8 days

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@whumpmasinjuly 2023 day 15. Buried.

Credit goes to @zobodahobo

#your mind…….#but poor poor whumpee 😔#whump meme #buried alive

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honeycollectswhump · 8 days

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I love u angry female characters. I love u deeply misunderstood and problematic female characters. I love u cold hearted and sharp female characters. I love you prideful and reckless female characters. I love u unbeautifly destructive female characters. I love u prickly and snarky female characters. not everyone understands u but I do and I'm listening

#i need more female characters who are so full of rage #not in a sexy way but in a #clawing through bloody flesh with their bare hands #ugly screams and tears and spit #gory threats and following up on them. digging out someone’s eyeballs as revenge #because they cannot conceptualise another way to deal with their anger #they are so full of emotions they have to destroy or else it will destroy them #aveline vibes

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honeycollectswhump · 9 days

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me irl jumpscare

so! all the detail is in the gofundme description but to summarise: hi, i'm a transmasc living in the uk and it sucks here! i've already had to go private with my hormones because of the waiting times and the struggle to even get on the waiting list at all and by god it costs money. so if you can throw even some spare change my way for my top surgery fund, i would really appreciate it <3

#reblogging again #for loving purposes

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honeycollectswhump · 9 days

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Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided.

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor.

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long.

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship.

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship.

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her.

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering.

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value.

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone.

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision.

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for.

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it.

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up.

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching.

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around.

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed.

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it.

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes.

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork.

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use.

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all.

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else.

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through.

Bone.

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done.

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know.

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3

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honeycollectswhump · 9 days

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the audible damage to a whumpee's voice from the harm that's come to them... hoarse and quiet from being choked, or from screaming until their voice gives out, or from crying so hard for such a long time. the raspy way everything is forced out, the way their voice cracks and squeaks, the way they wince and cringe and swallow hard before trying again. it hurts to listen to them.

#ASHTRAY #his voice is never the same #he could speak in theory but it is both painful and with little result #his voice is forever horse and raspy and barely audible #he has issues articulating words properly since his tongue also doesn’t work properly anymore #so in recovery he learns sign language!! (current plan is bsl)#and also uses a speaking tablet (i hope that’s what they are called in english? correct me if i’m wrong)#vocal damage #whump prompt #recovery whump #screaming #permanent damage

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honeycollectswhump · 10 days

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EVERYONE PLEASE LOOK AT THIS!! IM GOING TO FUCKING CRY IM GOING INSANE

this commission was done by the lovely @whump-blog PLEASE consider reaching out to them too!! (here's their commission sheet)

[Holding Up The Sky] <- my whump story where this character is from

adding the taglist because you need to see: @octopus-reactivated, @sodacreampuff, @topsheepstudent, @clickerflight

#bringing this back <3 #i already have a second commission in mind (when i have money)

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honeycollectswhump · 11 days

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WAAAAAAAA ASHTRAY 🥺🥺 HE DOESNT EVEN KNOW WHATS GOING ON!!!!

finally wrote something for @honeycollectswhump's ashtray story <3 mireille and ashtray belong to her ! for this i was reusing my oc grace from dollhouse

content: pet whump, human furniture whump, objectification, doll whump, needles, gagged, restraints, lady whumper, dehumanisation

Grace was having a perfect, perfect day in her perfect, perfect dollhouse. She was princess of the manor, queen, even, and her loyal servants gave her no trouble while she played with them.

But she wasn’t really paying attention to them — she was eyeing the clock the whole time, wondering when her new toy would arrive, the one she saw while visiting her friend, Mireille.

She decided she needed to have it the second she laid eyes upon him. He was perfect for a dollie: pretty and quiet, unable to understand the simplest of words. He wouldn’t give her trouble either. He would look so adorable strung up and paraded around.

So where was he? Surely, her employees hadn’t failed her. Because if they had, then she would have to dish out some punishments, and punishments were such an ugly, boring thing, and she would much rather spend her time playing with her toys, so where was her new toy, why wasn’t it here already, what was taking so unbearably long—

Ding dong.

The doorbell.

Grace leapt from her chair, her pretty pink dress flowing in the air as she rushed to open the door. Two of her guards stood outside with a box between them, and one of them patted the top of it. “We’ve got him,” he said with all the pride of a man who’d done his job well. Grace couldn’t have cared less.

“Perfect,” she said with a wide grin. “What about Mimi?” Mireille absolutely despised being called that, so Grace made it a point to stick with the nickname.

“She was out of the house when we entered. She doesn’t know where we brought her Ashtray, nor that we’re associated with you.”

Grace nodded and stepped aside. “Bring him in, bring him in! I wanna unbox him immediately.”

The crate was brought inside and the lid was pulled off with a crowbar. Grace bounced over to it and looked inside, her curious eyes searching the petrified and gagged Ashtray’s features for any sign of defiance. There was none.

There were, however, ugly blue bruises blossoming on his arms and neck, probably where the guards had grabbed him. What a shame. She looked up, now completely deadpan.

“Why’s he all beat up?”

The guard who had been so proud of himself a minute ago now seemed nervous, and for good reason. “Not beat up,” he said awkwardly. “We had to drag him outside and force him into the box… He just bruises easily. We didn’t hit him at all.”

“I don’t pay you to bring me ugly dollies.”

The guards were both squirming under her gaze, but Grace decided this wasn’t the time to be so harsh. Maybe they were telling the truth. Maybe her new dollie was just defective and pathetic. Maybe a nice dress would cover all the imperfections.

“Whatever,” she said, and both of the guards let out relieved sighs. “You can go now. I wanna play with him.”

Grace was having a horrible, horrible day, with her horrible, horrible new dollie. He was supposed to be the prince of the manor, the crown jewel, the prettiest and most obedient of them all — and yet, he was giving her trouble. The well-trained, perfect Ashtray was not only full of the ugliest scars she’d ever seen, but he was being defiant.

“I told you to stay still!” she snapped when she accidentally poked him with a needle again. She was trying to get his measurements and get him fitted for a dress, but the stupid thing kept squirming and it was just impossible. “I know you’re dumb, but you can’t be that dumb.” She flicked him on the forehead and went back to working, all the while Ashtray kept making his pitiful little sounds.

How bothersome. How annoying. How absolutely, unbearably stupid.

“I want to make you very pretty,” she went on, even though she knew the stupid thing didn’t understand a word. “But I’m gonna need you to stay still for that. Still. You understand that? Being still?”

The Ashtray looked at her with some sliver of understanding in his eyes — but then he moved again, and Grace couldn’t decide whether he was being dumb or purposely defiant. She sighed and stuck the needle straight into his arm for good measure. Ashtray could only sob.

“You did that to yourself,” she muttered. “Stupid, stupid doll. Bad doll.”

Bad seemed to register. Finally. Ashtray sagged in his restraints and went back to just crying, which was an improvement from crying and squirming about.

Ashtray was such a horrible name for a doll. She’d have to look for something nicer.

“Oh, fuck!” Grace quickly pulled the fabric away from Ashtray’s skin, but it was too late; the blood that had bubbled up from the hole left by the needle had already tainted it. “Bad! Bad, bad, bad, bad Ashtray! Why can’t you just be nice! Why do you have to ruin every single thing I’m trying to do for you?”

She tore the fabric away from his body, throwing it on the floor in frustration. Now she had to start all over again! With clean fabric! And this was the last of the pretty pink fabric she had, and it was supposed to be used up, and now she couldn’t use it until she got the bloodstain out of it!

“I don’t understand how Mimi could even stand you! You’re impossible!” She grabbed a few other needles and stuck them into Ashtray’s arms, fuelled by sheer rage. “Bad, bad, bad, bad doll! Horrible doll! Stupid doll!”

Ashtray tried to whine and failed miserably, his busted vocal cords not allowing more than a few pitiful sounds to get through. Grace stuck him as full of needles as a pincushion, then grabbed the fabric from the floor.

“I’m going to be back once this is cleaned and drying. I’m going to make this dress for you whether you like it or not, so you better get used to the idea.”

#he wasn’t made for this pain he doesn’t know how to react #maybe he will catch on with time #though i don’t think mireille will let this go unpunished :3 #sowhumpshaped #The Ashtray #ashtray/skye (oc)#human furniture whump #objectification #doll whump #lady whumper #dehumanisation #needles

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honeycollectswhump · 11 days

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Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long.

Her little ashtray.

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her.

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering.

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for.

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it.

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching.

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around.

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed.

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

Bone.

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done.

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know.

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

#next day reblog

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