#bbu story

[justplainwhump]

Not Products

Inspired by @gottawhump and many other wonderful BBU writers. My first piece diving deeper into the safehouse system.

This is set some years in the future of Angel's timeline, and far into her recovery. (Yet right before a certain... setback)

Content - BBU, debts, mafia structures, implied human trafficking, implied forced prostitution, threats, noncon touching, BBU romantic.

The building that Kayleigh stopped in front of was large, elegant modern structures of carefully twisted glass, to make it shimmer in the sunlight.

Orange letters were running down the side of the building, and Angel fought the nausea rising up from looking at them too long, she could read, she just needed to be strong. Coo- Coopers and - and Bard. Att-

She didn't go on trying to decipher the letters of the remaining words. Attorneys at Law. She could deduce those ones.

'Lawyers. Worst kind of people', a voice echoed in her head, followed by hearty laugh. 'But we need them, don't we?'

She didn't know whose voice it was, one of the ghosts that lived on inside her, and she'd learned to live with.

"Wow", Kayleigh whispered, putting her head back and squinting up at the sheer size of the building. "Still can't believe it. Wouldn't have thought that someone like Coopers finds an interest in helping us out."

"They wouldn't if it didn't support their business," Angel remarked dryly. "People like Coopers? They're just the ones who'd still happily own pets if it had remained en vogue."

"Angel," Kayleigh hissed. "I know you hate rich people. Your owner hurt you, I get that, I -"

"Do not go down this road with me ." Angel clenched her teeth. "This is not about me, or my past. I am your colleague, not your charge. This is about the future of our house, and the question, if we want someone like Coopers can help us. All I'm saying is: He has a price, and we'll need to decide if we want to pay it."

"Maybe he just has a conscience?"

"He works with organised crime. We're both aware of this, aren't we?"

"Well, we're criminals, too. You even more than I am. What we're doing is highly illegal. Doesn't make it wrong."

"Well, what Coopers and Bard have their fingers in, is pretty wrong often enough."

"Shut up." Anger flared up in Kayleigh's eyes. "I didn't bring you to talk me out of this. You couldn't - haven't seen our numbers, how bad it looks. We need him, or we'll have to shut down the safe house."

Angel hadn't seen the numbers indeed, she had tried once, but the headache had grown too bad. She had however seen the clumsy system Kayleigh used to track the safehouse's finances. She shouldn't judge her, for doing her best. But she did judge her for her rejection of any advice.

"Yeah," she said, somewhat of a bitter laugh on her lips. "You brought me because I look good in business attire."

She held Kayleigh's gaze, while she pinned a button to the lapel of her blazer. People, not products.

"Don't flash this to me like this." Kayleigh sighed. "I brought you because you know how to read a room."

"Soft skills," Angel intonated with a little sing song. "Yeah. That tracks." She stepped back and gestured at the door. "After you. Boss."

*

Philip Coopers was a tall man with warm eyes and a firm handshake. Auburn hair, a little longer than usually considered appropriate for a business like this, a tailored navy coloured suit, probably from London, expensive leather shoes - Angel couldn't tell how she knew all this, but the she did.

"My assistant, Mx Carter," he introduced the thin person next to him. "Nice to meet you again, Kayleigh, and this is your friend?"

"Colleague," Angel corrected. "Angelina Harris. I am in charge of the practical side of things at our... house."

She felt his gaze take him in, shortly rest on her hands as she shook his. There was a thin silver chain dangling around her wrist, a tiny bracelet, that could hide nothing underneath. And there wasn't anything to hide either. Her skin had healed, the scars from the tattoo removal so tiny they could only be seen when light caught them from a specific angle. Nothing but a faint memory.

"Well, it's a pleasure." He invited them to sit at a conference table set up in his impressive office. "I am looking forward to support you, and to do my part to help you continuing your important work."

Angel bit her tongue to hold back a sarcastic return. This was Kayleigh's turf. Even though it sometimes felt like her own.

"We've talked about the general idea, let's just nail down the specifics." He gestured at his assistant, who took over, and Angel listened - rates, book keeping, conditions, existing and future contacts that needed to be covered.

It was all too easy. Too high amounts, too few conditions. Too good to be true, not from a man like this, running a business like his.

"Oh, and before I forget", he said, and Angel's gaze perked up. He'd never forget anything, his behaviour had made that abundantly clear. This was going to be the thing she'd been waiting for. "We'd like to employ the services of a psychological consultant. To make sure the... refugees are treated according to their needs."

"They are," Angel said. "We're making sure of that."

"That's a little different," Coopers insisted with a condescending little smile. "We would want them to meet the consultant right upon arrival, so they can determine which place is best equipped for them."

Angel frowned. "Are there more safehouses that you support?"

The assistant tilted their head. "*Places*," they said. "Safe spaces."

"And what's the criteria?"

"For the safehouses?"

"No. For the people, contacting *us*, arriving at our doorstep, to be let in or turned down."

"They're not turned down, Ms Harris. On the contrary. They're going to be cared for."

"So. Your only condition for funding us is to be allowed to psychologically screen runaways and then determine whether they go to us or somewhere else." She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"Angel," Kayleigh mumbled. "Calm down."

She didn't intent to. "Running a safehouse is expensive. Food, rent, medical bills, therapies, compensations for the volunteers."

"It is."

"What's your gain?"

"Doing the right thing is not enough?"

"No." Angel shook her head. "Not from you. You know what I think? Prices for a well trained guard dog from WRU start at about 250k, as far as I know. Romantics, similar. Can be much more, depending on specifics. Seven figures, even." She leaned in. "Is that your return? Acquisition for your preferred clients? Private security? Prostitution?"

"Interesting." His mouth twisted into a smile. "You've looked into the more hidden corners of our client list."

She shrugged. "I like to be thorough." She still heard the monotonous voice of the screen reader. Even set high speed, it had cost her many sleepless nights finding the names she'd been looking for.

"I see." He smirked. "But let me ask you. What if these... wild theories were right? Worst case scenario. You'd still run a safe house, one that as I understand it has absolutely no funds otherwise. One that Kayleigh here has put her college fund into, and bet her grandmother's house on."

Metal scrapped on wood when Kayleigh pushed her chair back, pale and trembling. "I... That's..." She shook her head, gaze to the floor, almost feverish in her movements as she pressed her hand to her mouth. "I... need to use the washroom, please?"

Upon their boss' gesture, the assistant jumped to their feet and opened the door. "Of course, Miss. I'll show you the way."

Coopers looked past the two of them, before he turned back to Angel.

"Sacrifices," he said, all but savoring the word. "That's what keeps your system running. That's what saves dozens of runaways, who already found shelter in your place, who you managed to get to safety and into a fulfilling life. Your friend sacrificed all she had for the case. And you refuse to reroute a single one of these... sluts, to a place that suits them better?" Carefully embedded between well chosen words, the slur cut into her like a hidden blade.

"Yes," she whispered. Her throat was constricted all of a sudden.

"What is your problem, Ms Harris? We give them shelter, warmth, food, company - they're having each other there, something I hear some of them have missed desperately in their past lives." He cocked his head as he said it, with a soft smile, that mocked understanding and was everything but. These has been her own words once, she herself had talked like that about her past, feeling constantly alone and desperate for company. He couldn't possibly know, she told herself. She was here with Kayleigh, with her colleague, she was an activist with a spotless wrist and a normal past. And she wouldn't let him get through with this.

She raised her chin decidedly. "You want to sell them out. Abuse their conditioning, instead of helping them overcome it."

"Ah," he tutted. "Shush. Selling them out, that's a strong word. They work for a living, like the safehouse system prepares everyone for. Like normal people do. According to their specific... qualifications."

She took a breath, trying to calm her racing heart, setting out to speak, but he talked over her. "Imagine one of them trying to do my job." He reached for a one of the documents scattered over his desk and held it up, presenting it to her. Little letters danced over the paper, twisting and turning, a garbled mess in front of her eyes, all but mocking her. It was sickening. She averted her gaze, and he chuckled. "Some people are made to think, Angelina. To make decisions, to manage large businesses, to read and understand things, you know. Others, however..." He waited until she looked up, holding her gaze for another moment. She couldn't breathe. "Others," he went on, "are simply made to fuck."

She stumbled to her feet, shaking her head. Her elegant blouse was too tight, the collar tightening around her neck. "We're not," she struggled to say, fighting the voices in her head, Handler Nguyen, Handler Parker, Sir, telling her the same words. "We... They, they're not, nobody is."

The man was grinning now, and it took her too long to realize. She'd played right into his hand. "Oh, Angelina. You're making this about yourself, aren't you? How come you're relating so hard, hm?" He closed in, the sort of casual, measured steps that she knew should make her run, but they made her freeze instead. "Tell me," he whispered, tucking a strand of her hair back behind her ear. His touch was soft, almost gentle, his hand warm on her skin, and she knew how she should react, and she knew she shouldn't. "Tell me, Angel, what were you made for?"

#bbu #bbu story #bbu pet lib #angels story #angel #kayleigh #philip coopers #mafia whump #bbu romantic #recovery #no idea how to tag this #I guess it's kinda obvious #anyway #this is fun

[sleepyone232]

Will you ever continue the story on wattpad with Billie finding her sibling?

Yeah, I will! I'm just currently brain strorming for ideas. You know, things to add and stuff. I'm also a little busy, but i'm really trying to continue the story!! Thank you to everyone who's patiently waiting! <3333

#bbu #billie bust up #bbucommunity #bbu story #story #wattpad #sorryyyy #that story is going to be so emotional #just you wait lol

[robinfollies]

arthur being canonically bad at cooking is important to ME!!!!!!!!!

(part two)

#robin’s art #robin’s follies #billie bust up #bbu aristotle #bbu arthur #arthurstotle #2024 art #so funny story actually. a couple years ago bbu did a stream and the topic of headcanons came up #and i was like. arthur would be really bad at cooking. because that was my headcanon. #AND WHAT WOULD U KNOW! THEY THOUGHT THAT WAS REAL! #AND ITS JUST. ITS REAL. HE SUCKS AT COOKING #this headcanon is my baby. my special guy. i think about it all the time. i cant even call it a hc its just CANON #comicfollies

[peachy-panic]

BBU: Hollywood

This idea took root and wouldn't let go. Can't say for sure if this will be A Thing, or just a one-off teaser of a thing, but here it is nonetheless.

WARNINGS: BBU, implied noncon, implied noncon drug use, the fucked up film industry

“Cut!”

He doesn’t realize the cameras have stopped rolling until the shrill ring of the bell jolts him back into his body, and out of the one he’s been inhabiting since the last call of action. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink for a few moments, still caught in the blurry line between characters. Sometimes it takes a few seconds to remember which mask he's wearing.

There is a flurry of movement around him; PAs rush past, murmuring into their headsets, toting plush robes and glass bottles of sparkling water. Hair and makeup swoop in to invade everyone’s space, making their minute adjustments before rolling begins anew. 

When he returns to himself, Henry's cheeks are cold with drying tear tracks, and his heartbeat pulses lightly in his lips. 

His scene partner is already turned away, her attention attuned to the phone in her hand while a woman with frizzy hair attends to her smudged lipstick. Distantly, Henry knows if he touches his fingertips to his own mouth, they will come away in the same shade of red. Seconds ago, they were locked in an embrace, their tears mingling in the neckline of her silk gown, whispered words of affection spilling between them, and now Henry doesn’t exist. He won’t again until the cameras are pointed at him. Only then does he become alive.

A cold, acrylic nail hooks his chin and turns his head. His personal makeup artist is a woman named Kat in her late thirties with a sleek, blonde bob and smile lines around her eyes. She’s worked on every one of Henry’s films, and she has never spoken to him directly. On instinct, Henry lets his eyes fall shut, slipping back from the surface as she goes through the familiar routine of touching him up. 

From behind the wall of his own little world, he allows himself the indulgence of tuning into the conversations around him. A couple of new production assistants—not much older than him—talk about the food truck that production ordered as an end-of-week treat. (This doesn’t apply to Henry. He is on a strict diet of kale and boiled chicken while he's filming. He is always filming). The wardrobe team talks about grabbing a drink at Stanley’s after wrap today. (He knows that Stanley’s is everyone’s favorite spot because it’s less than a mile from the studio, but he’s never seen it for himself). The assistant director comments on her third cup of coffee of the day. (Henry wishes he could ask for some).

The voices fade and flutter until one cuts through the rest.

“One last take, and we’re calling it, David.”

Henry opens his eyes, and Paul stands directly in front of him.

His sleek, black suit stands out among the crew's workwear, and probably costs three times as much combined. It’s hard not to notice the ways everyone’s demeanor changes the moment the Executive Producer steps onto set. In a way, it’s almost reassuring to know Henry isn’t the only one who shrinks in this man’s shadow. But that’s where the commonality ends. They may fear him, too, but at the end of a fourteen hour day, they are not the ones who return home to Paul Maxwell’s bed. 

“Our star needs to be red-carpet ready in an hour-thirty.” Though he’s addressing the director, Paul stares directly into Henry’s eyes. “Be sure that he is.”

He doesn’t need to nudge the makeup artist away so much as she instinctively pulls back when Paul lifts a large hand and touches the tips of his fingers to Henry’s jaw. Henry keeps his eyes where they’ve been beckoned and pretends not to notice the assistants in his periphery who duck their faces away from the display of ownership. Paul’s thumb swipes across the corner of Henry’s mouth, taking with it a smear of Eliza Darling’s expensive lipstick. Then, wordlessly, he releases him. 

There’s a renewed sense of urgency as Paul retreats from the chaos, but also one of relief that comes with the last shot of the day—for everyone except Henry. 

He was up before the sun, and he knows he’ll be out long after it has set. The worst part about interior days: he doesn’t get to see daylight once. Normally, even the call of his Keeper’s bedroom feels like a reprieve after this many hours of shooting. But tonight, his previous film is set to premier on the other side of Los Angeles, and there is no premier without Paul Maxwell’s shining star.

More importantly, there is no after party without him.

There is no time for exhaustion, not for him. When the caffeine pills have run their course, he’ll be given something stronger, and he’ll take it. Whatever it takes to get through the night that will inevitably become a very long weekend.

“You heard the boss,” David says, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Let’s make it a good one. Clear frame.”

The makeup brushes make a few last frantic swipes across his skin before they scurry away. Liza Darling tucks a blonde curl behind her ear and presses her phone into a nameless PA’s hand. Henry closes his eyes and slips into another man’s skin.

People tell Henry all the time that he’s lucky to lead the life that he does, in his position. It is only in these fleeting intervals of fiction between reality that he might just agree with them.

For the next three minutes, he does not have to be Henry, nor is he the boy with the name from a life he is not allowed to remember. For the next three minutes, he is Brock Layton: twenty-three, rich, and madly in love. 

For the next three minutes, he is as free as he’ll ever be again. 

“Sound speed,” the mixer calls out, raising the boom pole over his head. 

“Rolling,” camera echoes back. 

“And, action.”

#bbu #like bbu adjacent? #whump writing #whump #whumplr #Henry The Sad Little Starling #I've thought a lot about how BBU workers would potentially be used in the entertainment industry #because it is such a brutal and demanding work environment #and how they would have this exterior of glamor and stardom #but it would be a gilded cage as they say #and nothing would be as fun as it seems #I have an urge to write the follow up chapter #the follow up chapter being the red carpet (and the after party which is worse) #and i know what youre thinking: #hey peachy what about the 800 other stories you have started and neglected #and to that i say:

[dee-does-arts]

Definitely living up to the Multifandom Mania title

Here we have a mix of meme redraws that I did. Some of these are older, but others I made today.

#Oh gosh the tags #Minecraft story mode #mcsm #mcsm jesse #mcsm lukas #mcsm radar #billie bust up #bbu billie #bbu barnaby #ocs #original characters #morningstar series #My first contribution to the tadc fandom and it’s this #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc ragatha #tadc jax #tadc kinger #meme redraw #definitely making more of these in the future #oc: inky #oc: ancient #oc: draxx #oc: eyevee #oc: ajax #oc: dusty #oc: avery #oc: windsor #oc: kio #oc: solstice

[we-were-so-beautiful]

4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit. 

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

#whump #pet whump #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu #box boy universe #vanessa + juniper #disaster caretaker #imperfectly consistent #tw dehumanization #tw conditioning #tw illness #tw injury #tw infection #do I like... need to tag for language? #I know using swears is pretty standard for bbu/pet whump stories #but I also use them kind of a uh. non standard amount. #I kinda feel like vanessa's house needs a tw of its own lmao #I honestly have fun making up all the increasingly ridiculous rich person shit #anyway I've got a decent bit of the next chapter written already (wrote it at some point back when I was working on 2 or 3 tbh) #and that's more or less it for stuff I have fully written out in advance #(from the main storyline at least) #but a lot of the stuff that follows that is stuff I've had in my head for ages #so hopefully it won't be too hard to write out! knock on wood #sometimes the things you think about that much come easily when you finally write them #and sometimes they're nigh on impossible bc you get obsessive with doing them justice #or at least just like. remembering all the ideas you've ever had for them when you finally sit down to write #hello it's me writing a novel in the tags again #anyway I've been falling asleep since somewhere in the middle of proofreading so I should probably wrap this up lol #if you read all this for some reason hi!

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Ghost Story

Jameson's masterlist (scroll down)

-

CW: Traumatized whumpee/PTSD, references to past murder and torture, some dehumanization references, chronic pain, grief, a wee teensy bit of choking at the end

-

He fell asleep on the couch with a movie playing, Vincent Shield and Nat settled into armchairs on either side. Shield holds his water bottles like they'll vanish if his knuckles aren't white from the effort, and Jameson had watched him off and on, catching the way one hand shakes a little, the bouncing of his knee. The nearly visible craving for a drink that he tries to drown in juice and water and coffee.

They were there, when the movie started. When he wakes, they're both gone and there's a heavy blanket laid over him. That'd be Nat, always taking a second to do a good thing when she could just ignore it and no one would mind. His crutches are still leaning against the wall, waiting for when he gets up.

He can, vaguely, hear Trash Cat trying to break into a the cabinet in the pantry where her food is kept. The sound of her little paw trying to force it open despite the baby-proofing cabinet lock Nat bought is a constant soft thunk. thunk. thunk. thunk.

"Fuckin' quit it," He groans. The thunking sound briefly pauses.

Rrrrrow? Her little chirp is barely audible, curious and surprised. She must've forgotten he was down here. He hears her tap-tap-tap her way into the doorway, look at him, and then tap-tap-tap her way back to the pantry again.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

His eyes barely blink, working hard to squint and see the time on the clock.

2:45 am.

"Jesus fuck." His voice is a mumble, heavy with his exhaustion, as he rubs a hand over his face. There's stubble around the spaces where scars stay smooth and hairless, the cockeyed lift of one side of his mouth pulled always where a knife had been dragged like cutting cold butter.

Even goddamn better: his legs won't unbend. They stay curled, bent at the knees, throbbing agony down to his toes and up into his hips when he tries to straighten them. He can damn near feel the buckles from the braces he hasn't worn since he stabbed Brute to death. He can damn near hear Robert's echoing, rasping laughter.

He can't walk. He could hardly crawl.

He doesn't want to crawl around like a fucking dog anymore.

Maybe he'll just stay here til dawn. Why the fuck not?

The house is silent around him, with that particular empty weight of a home waiting for its people to bring it back to life come morning. A place between something and nothing, and Jameson isn't enough on his own to fill it.

He's barely a drop in the bucket of what you need to feel alive, at a time like this. Absolutely alone in the darkness, staring up at an old popcorn-style ceiling where a fan spins lazily, barely moving air.

Hey.

His head whips to the side at the voice, wide-eyed, pushing himself up on his elbows, heart pounding. There's someone in the doorway between the entryway and the living room, where Trash Cat had been before, watching him in shadow.

You passed out on the couch again. Gonna go to bed any time soon, or am I going to have to tiptoe around your dumb ass in the morning?

His head hurts. Maybe from having woken up from dreaming at the wrong time, it pulses pain with the same rhythm as his heartbeat, at the throb in his knees. They pull up even tighter, and he has to bite back a whimper he absolutely will not let out.

"... who the fuck-"

Call Mom, by the way. You haven't called her in like a week. She says you have 48 hours or she's calling the cops.

He collapses back against the arm of the couch, breathing slowly. His headache is taking over, wiping everything away but itself. Jameson closes his eyes.

Is he still goddamn asleep?

He counts to ten, breathing more slowly and evenly with each number. Then, on the final, torturously slow exhale, he cracks his eyes open again.

The shadow is still there. It hasn't turned into a person, only sort of smudged outline of one. There's a hint of blue jean seams down the legs, the suggestion of hair very much like his own. Even the glimmer of dim moonlight and streetlight from outside against a pair of hazel eyes.

Not that he can see what color they are from here.

He just... knows.

Just like he knows the taste of that voice, even though he can't remember having ever heard it in his life. It's a taste he's known his entire life.

Did you hear me, dumbass? I said call Mom.

"... who the fuck are you?"

Hey, so, while you're here. It's like he didn't say anything, or like the shadow is acting out the words of a script, not actually present or hearing anything he says. It moves, and Jameson flinches violently backwards only to see a beam of moonlight pass right through it as it goes past him, to the window. One grayish-nothing arm lifts, like peering through the blinds. I wanted to say... fuck. I guess just... sorry. About the other night.

"Wh-what-"

It was stupid. I knew you liked her and I still asked her out. That was really shit of me to do, Johnny, I'm sorry about that. You're just way better than me at getting girls to, like, see you...

"I d-don't know what the fuck you're talking-... who's-"

His head.

The pain is like a flash of lightning, bright white and chilled ice behind his eyes. He can't hold this sound back and whines like a goddamn animal as he curls up, hands up over his head, pressing his palms against his eyelids like somehow he can force the pain out of him if he only tries hard enough. The flashes keep sparking, again and again.

"Oh, God-... oh fuck, jesus-"

I broke up with her anyway. So, like. Sorry. Again. Can we not fight about shit like girls, anyway? I hate it. Who am I supposed to talk to if I can't talk to my brother, you know?

Tears run hot like tracks of sun-soaked water through desert down his cheeks. He's sure they'll leave rising blisters in their wake, as he chokes back one sob, and then another. His heart is twisted up in his throat and his legs are bent and useless, his hands hurt where his fingers are twisted into his hair, yanking at it ineffectually, unconsciously. "Please, it h-hurts, fucking stop-"

It's not your fault, Johnny. I was the idiot, you know? We had a fight, fights happen. I didn't have to leave it like that. I shouldn't have left it like that. Still. You didn't have to leave it like that, either. Takes two to fix a fight, right? You could have apologized, too.

There's a long beat of silence.

His headache starts, finally, to slide somewhere further back in his mind. It's still there, still a throbbing immovable force, but he can just barely manage to open his eyes.

The shadow is an inch away, staring at him.

Why didn't you apologize first?

He flinches backwards again, and the sharp spike feels like ice picks right through his eyes as his back arches, a tense bow of pain everywhere. An electric shock, discipline for the wrong thoughts, false memories clawing their way to the surface.

He hasn't worn a shock collar since training, but his body knows what happens when he remembers the life he left behind.

It punishes him anyway.

Why did you let me walk off by myself in the dark, Johnny?

"No-... no-... I s-signed up, I don't want you, I didn't want you anymore, it was t-too much, fuck, fuck off, fuck you, I didn't want to hurt anymore they promised I wouldn't miss you anymore, go away go away go away they took you out of my fucking head go the fuck away this hurts-"

Everything would be okay if you had stopped me. But you just let me walk away, like an asshole.

The shadow of his dead brother watches him with unsettlingly calm eyes, the thatch of his dark hair, the glint of teeth straightened by years of braces.

You let me walk away angry at you. You let me walk right up to him, didn't you? You never even tried to stop me from leaving. Who would I be if you hadn't let me die?

"Please... please, Hank-"

I was still alive when he threw me in that ditch near the woods, remember? Do you think I was awake? For that last hour or so? Do you think I was conscious? Do you think I was thinking about you?

The shadow of his brother might be smiling.

Do you think that I was still angry when he slit my throat?

Jameson pulls the blanket over his head. He can't think of anything else to do but hide.

The shadow can't find him here. The reality of everything he did, everything that's his fault, can't follow him this far into the warm darkness. The murder he could have stopped by being a better brother just one night out of a thousand belongs to the cold and the light.

It can't find him here.

It's ridiculous and childish and yet the voice goes silent, then, and his tongue goes numb. Seconds tick by, tracked by a clock Nat has on the wall. The quiet is heavy and Jameson fills it with every single thing WRU ever taught him.

His lips move mindlessly. He's never forgotten a single sentence. Every chant, every mantra, every constant repetition of his own lost humanity pushes the reality of what led him to it further and further away.

He keeps his eyes closed tightly, shivers in the chill of a cold white room entirely in his own mind, and whispers I signed up for it for a reason, I signed up for this, I was a slut with no future, I didn't want to be a person anymore, I ruined lives, it's all my fault, I'm better off this way, I don't have to hurt anymore, no one else will die because of me, I was made for this I was made for this I was made for this again and again.

The sense of the shadow watching him doesn't fully fade until he closes his own hands around his throat and tightens just enough to feel like a collar, just enough that he has to fight a little for air.

How long he stays like that, he doesn't know.

But eventually he realizes he can hear Trash Cat again, still trying inexorably to find a way into the cabinet where her food has been maliciously kept away from her need to constantly eat at all hours of the day.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rrrrrow? Rrrrow. Thunk. Thunk.

He had a nightmare, he thinks.

Thunk.

Some kind of weird-ass dream. Something that tasted like a voice, frightening enough to have his heart beating and his body feeling wrung out and aching, like he was throwing punches in his sleep. Fighting something. Or fleeing from something.

What did he dream about?

There was a shadow, and hazel eyes, and a voice...

Thunk. Thunk.

Trash Cat apparently gives up. He hears her little paws tap-tapping along the floor as she tries her luck at shredding the toilet paper in the bathroom.

The nightmare's gone. He can't remember what was bothering him any longer. Still, his heart races and fear is a cold stone in his stomach. Fear and the sense that he has done something terrible. Something he can never make up for or take back.

He doesn't go back to sleep.

He waits, watching the ceiling fan spin, for the safety of dawn.

#whump #jameson bb #grief tw #haunting #ghost whump #ghost story #a ghost story #haunted #wru #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #recovering whumpee #pain #chronic pain tw #self-loathing #choking tw #only a tiny bit but just in case #conditioned whumpee #creepy whumper #creepy #original writing #horror fiction #horror writing

[pigeonwhumps]

(Re-)Introduction

@bbu-on-the-side

Hi!

I'm Ruth! I write mostly British BBU (or at least, including British characters). My favourite parts of the BBU are the worldbuilding and the mundane whump parts, and people who might not be the focus of the story but are still part of the world - people who aren't pet lib but will turn a blind eye to escaping pets, people who know someone with a pet, little cogs in the machine. And how the BBU differs from our world too, besides the general 'human pets exist' - how does it work? I especially love reading works that contain stuff like that.

Also, I enjoy reading/looking at created media from that universe! This community is very creative and I adore it.

I have some standalone works here and here, and my main stories:

Bug and Company

Bug's 18 when they're handed over to BetterPets by their foster parents, going through various owners and sets of training before being freed for good. This is their life, and that of those they've touched.

Finding Safety

After being kidnapped, dumped at WRU, and shipped to the USA, Cass isn't having a good time. And then Tyrone takes him to be his ring-fighting Guard Dog, alongside Aaliyah, a Romantic he already owns. Now he's definitely not having a good time, and nor is Aaliyah. After losing everything, they need to build their lives again, but with Aaliyah not remembering her past and Cass unable to reach his, it's a challenge, even with assistance.

Pets of the Silver Screen

In the silent film era and the early days of the WRU, young pet number 95, real name Eloise, is bought by film producer Hayes Fletcher to star in his productions. A few years later, he hires Agatha from Foster Montgomery to be her stunt double (read: to scar in scenes where it's necessary, because Eloise is too valuable), and the two young woman strike up a somewhat unwilling friendship.

Over a decade of working on- and off-screen later, it's the roaring twenties, pet liberation is starting to grow, and they're more than ready to leave. Enter Ira Waterhouse – a woman who's had just about enough of the pet industry and is willing to take in two runaways.

But WRU is expanding, and running a newly-acquired safehouse in London's docklands isn't a piece of cake. Especially when the two former pets Ira's running it with are a) famous, b) wanted for burning down a film studio, and c) even more traumatised than she originally assumed...

Sanctuary

Anita and her grandmother Indira are thrown into the world of pet ownership when Theo, a profoundly deaf unwanted box boy, is mistakenly delivered to the animal shelter Anita works at.

Meanwhile, 785, Theo's bonded, is now struggling to survive Eleanor alone.

As long as she's useful, anyway.

When 785 is refurbished and sold, meeting a defiant illegal pet named Cass along the way, she ends up living alongside a Pet who seems to know her far too well. Meanwhile, Theo discovers that the person he cares about most in the world barely remembers his existence, and Anita is in way over her head.

#whump #whump writing #bbu community #bbu #box boy universe #i promise all my stories are very much ongoing despite the dates on the film onr #*one

[someonefromyt]

Got bored so made a voting poll

#voting #poll #don't starve #wx 78 #2b #nier automata #fantoccio #billie bust up #bbu #angel dust #hazbin hotel #vivziepop #m3gan #m3gan movie #murder drones #glitch productions #liam vickers #liam vickers animation #scary story time with liam

[befuddled-calico-whump]

AMOW Winter Whumperland 2022

@amonthofwhump Day 4: BBU AU

I haven't given myself time to do every day this year, but I was very excited about this one. Presenting, Riot Kings BBU AU! Details+ more art under the cut. I overthought this one lol

In this AU, Melchior leads a well-intentioned extremist pet lib group that has a tendency to cause a lot of collateral damage. He's turned over to the WRU in an assisted walk-in by a detective with a personal grudge, and purchased by that same detective.

Jin, another detective who was working to catch the Riot Kings, stumbles upon Melchior (who's been missing for about a year) at a party when his owner gets drunk and starts showing off. Jin is understandably disgusted by this, and against his better judgement, smuggles Mel home.

Nabi is a psychology student who shares an apartment with her brother. (Not psychic, just scarily good at reading people). She volunteers at a local safehouse, but due to Melchior's criminal history, he's unable to stay there. Still, the siblings do their best to hide him on their own, getting help from a few individuals who are sympathetic to the situation.

(Mercury is a handler at WRU. The primary whumper in this AU is based on a one-off whumper in a scene I cut from Riot Kings)

general art tag:

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast @whumpsday

#i had a lot of fun with the first image lol #this one is very fun! but BBU is something thats very complex so exploring it in depth takes a lot of time #i cut the rk scene because id decided to make the story more sfw and ace friendly but it did have some significance originally #riotkingsau #bbu au #pet whump #box boy universe #stress position #tw blood #tw scars #blindfolded #collar whump #this one is fun because the whumper takes out his long-held frustrations on mel meanwhile mel is just like ???????? #whump #whump art #character whump #whumpy art #riotkings

[justplainwhump]

Good (Unboxing)

Angel arrives at her owner's home.

@angst-after-dark, Vee, you know this is for you.

[Making Angel] - (vary) vaguely references No.

Content / warning: BBU, claustrophobic vibes, dehydration, humiliation, implied dubcon/noncon.

The pet had lost track of time. Of time, of space, of herself. There was darkness and there were walls, and there was pain. 

But it all vanished behind the thirst.

238's mouth was dry, her tongue like a heavy, dried out sponge. Her throat was rough and hurting. Even her eyelids felt like sandpaper, whenever she moved her eyes. A persistent ache spiked in her temples.

She'd been given water at the facility, water and some pills, and then someone had lifted her into a box. The same box, she thought, that she was in now. The box had been handled and carried and driven somewhere, and she'd been dozy and happy and expectant. She was ready. She'd been sent to her owner, to the man who'd ordered her and wanted her and loved her. The men whose voice on tape, in the facility, had soothed her and taught her and made her good.

She'd been so ready to be good.

She thought she'd heard his voice again, earlier, outside. The box hadn't been moved in… she couldn't tell. Long. 

She tasted blood, seeping from rough split lips, metal and salt.

A sharp clink echoed through the box, when something was placed on top of it. There was her owner's voice again, talking, laughing. She felt a sob stuck in her throat, but her tears had long dried out. He was there. She loved him. She wanted him. She needed him. 

Weakly, she lifted her hands against the padded inside of the lid. "P… please," she whimpered. It didn't sound like a voice, only a hoarse scratch. He couldn't hear her.

The box rocked, when something - someone? - pushed against it. Pain exploded in the pet's head. A whine escaped her throat.

It didn't stop. The box shook and rocked, and she heard muffled noises, slapping and groaning, her owner's voice, closer than it had ever been, but then again it grew more and more distant as she drifted into a deeper, crueler darkness.

It ended, eventually. She couldn't tell when, or how long it had been, she just knew her body ached more, and different, yearning for water and her owner and something else. 

She wanted to lift her arms again, but she couldn't, her body to feeble to answer to her will. She moved her lips, tried to say a name, his name. Nothing came out.

She-

Bright white light exploded over her. She couldn't make out anything but a dark shape against white light.

"Look at that," a voice hummed, his voice, the voice she loved more than she'd ever loved anything in the world. "Remember me, Angel?"

"Sss… Ssir." She sobbed in relief. 

Strong arms reached into the box, grabbed her shoulders to pull her up. She couldn't make out much, just understood that the arms weren't his, they were someone else's, carefully lifting her, presenting her to the man she loved.

"Water," the other person said. "She's dehydrated."

The pet tried to nod, but even that didn't work out.

"Not just yet," her owner said softly. "I like her like this."

She felt another hand on her, lifting her chin, tilting her face up. 

"Isn't that a fun twist of fate?" he mused. "I own you, now. My new little fucktoy. My property. Mine."

She tried to search for his gaze, to take him in, his face, his smile, his eyes. His. Yes. She was his.

She tried to return his smile, shaking, aching, desperate. "Yours," she whispered. "I… I'm… yours, Sir."

She felt his hands on her body, roaming over her breasts, her sides, slip between her legs. 

"You are," he said. "Oh, yes, you are. Come on. Open up for me."

"Sir," the other person urged. "She's going to faint."

"Good," her owner said.

Good, the pet thought. Good. She was good. Everything was good. She smiled, as he spread her legs, when he pushed into her, when he took up pace, when the world around her went dark again. 

Good.

#bbu #bbu unboxing #implied noncon #bbu romantic #angels story #angel the romantic #thane barlow

[darkchocolatepot]

I was just thinking about BBU Romantics the other day and it occurred to me that it's a little odd that they're always described as youthful, slender, perfect to one particular beauty standard. The idea is that someone in the market to buy a person would of course want the sort of person generally seen as physical perfection ... but would they?

In reality, you'd have buyers with all kinds of tastes beyond, like, hair color - people who like a sexual partner with some body fat they can grab, people who like body hair, people who want a Romantic that reminds them of their tenth-grade English teacher, people who like a partner older than them, etc. You'd think the facilities would take in all sorts of people to train so that they can meet any fetish.

I have sooooo much writing of my own to do, I don't have time to explore this ...

#lmao I never use this sideblog #but it seemed like a lot to put this on my OFMD followers #but like rich people who can buy anyone they want aren't catering to their own tastes and fetishes? #this thought brought to you by me considering that I've never encountered a story with a Romantic who looks remotely like me #and there's always the enforced workouts/diets #whump #bbu

[robinfollies]

some design comcepts for older lily + lewis!!! my latest and greatest headcanon for them is that in the future they get gems and can do magic of their own :33 i just think it’d be neat,,, something to do with their love of magic!!!! 🥺

#im normal about stdwolom. number one fan have been since i was 15 #i need them EXPLODED AND GONE THEY MEAN SO MUCH TO ME BYE #anyways these designs are still. rather up in the air #definitely need some more refining and all that #but yknow!!! for now theyre pretty good kickoff points 🥺 #lewis’s fit is loosely based off a wizard fit i gave him in a halloween piece from 2022 hehehe!! #I THINK THEY SHOULD GET MAGIC. I THINK THEY SHOULD AS A TREAT #billie helps them learn ofc!!! AND SO DOES STOTLE. THEM AND THEIR THREE WEIRD KIDS OR WHATEVER #i love them so bad. stdwolom….☹️☹️☹️ #dont overthink the gem colours or anything btw. i think theyre just… general ones? question mark? #IDK MAYBE ILL PUT MORE THOUGHT INTO THE SPECIFICS LATER #BUT FOR NOW THEYRE JUST. GENERAL ONES WITH NO SPECIFIC POWERS IN PARTICULAR LMAO #robin’s art #billie bust up #2024 art #bbu billie #bbu lewis #bbu lily #stdwolom #this all started bc i looked at stdwolom and went ‘i think they should be she/her they/them cool hat coded. lewis should get a cool hat’ #then i brain blasted. #whats more cool hat than a wizard and whats more wizard than ACTUAL MAGIC #i like to think im smart sometimes #okay hi update these guys are part of my… oc lore? now so uhhh guess theyre getting the story tag #The Panderity Chapter

[peachy-panic]

Family Line - Chapter 1

Remember a couple of days ago when I put out a poll asking if anyone would be interested in a whumpy wlw/sapphic story? Well, here is this thing.

Tagging a couple of people that expressed some interest - but let me know if you want to be on an actual tag list (assuming this story goes somewhere :)) @hold-him-down @thecyrulik

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, predatory men, death in the family, fucked up family dynamics, rich people shit

Against her better judgment, Dallas Radley stepped into the elevator. Watching the metal doors slide shut grated on every survival instinct in her body, but taking twenty-seven flights of stairs was out of the question—not that she hadn’t briefly considered it—and the longer she drew this out, the more time she put between herself and a flight home. So she took a breath and did her best to ignore the hair-raising prickle on the back of her neck.

She just wanted to get this over with. More than that, she wanted to have never been involved in the first place. But of course, even in death, her brother succeeded in dragging her down with him. 

“This place is a shit hole.” 

She didn’t need to turn around to sense the sneer in her stepfather’s expression. Dallas flicked her eyes to the side, though, just enough to catch the line of him in her periphery. She rolled her neck, hard enough that a ripple of cracks were audible in the small space, but she didn’t grace him with a response. 

One hell of a shit hole, she thought. The luxury apartment building was a glittering circle jerk of sterile-sleek decor, a doorman in a suit worth more than Dallas’s entire wardrobe, and amenities that no one ever used. And she had only just seen the lobby. But of course, in his eyes, it was beneath her brother’s name, and therefore a disparaging mark on the whole family. 

Dallas had no doubt her mother would have agreed. The two of them were probably duking it out in hell about it that very moment. Really, Jared, they’re going to mention that godforsaken embarrassment of a place in the obituary. What will people think?

Never one for reading the room—or for giving a fuck what the room had to say—Charlie continued. “He could have taken over any one of our properties. I told him a hundred times.”

The problem with the penthouse being on the twenty-eighth floor was that this elevator ride took for-fucking-ever, and she was increasingly doubtful they would both make it out alive. 

“Have you considered,” she said as flatly as she could manage, “that his distance was intentional?”

His answering silence was somehow worse than his speaking. It was the kind of quiet you felt like the tip of a blade at the back of your neck. Still, she resisted the urge to turn around. 

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

She was sure it was just in her head, the way his voice sounded closer. There had been no shuffle of dress shoes on the tiled floor, no warmth at her back, but she could feel it anyway. 

Don’t turn around. Don’t give him that. 

The elevator bell broke whatever seal that had vacuumed the air from her lungs. She pulled in a breath, forcing her legs into unrushed, even strides through the open door. The clinking of metal on her boots followed her down the short hallway, making it easier to ignore the soft pad of dress shoes trailing behind her. 

Jared’s apartment was hard to miss; it was the only entrance on the floor. Dallas reached into the pocket of her leather jacket, fingers closing around the key card the building manager had given her. Despite the rush to get this done, she couldn’t help but pause. She had never seen Jared’s home. She hadn’t spoken to her brother in years, and it was even longer since she’d seen him in person. She didn’t let thoughts of her family bother her anymore—at least that’s what she told herself—but there was a haunted feeling in seeing the place he lived for the first time once he was already dead. 

No point in stalling, though. Before Charlie could come to a stop behind her, Dallas swiped the key in front of the sensor and pushed inside. 

Jared’s apartment was, unsurprisingly, massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up three out of the four walls, with a spiral staircase near the center leading up to a lofted space. The only real blessing was the bare-bones approach to minimalist decor. The place looked barely lived in, like the museum of a home rather than someone’s actual apartment, but that would prove helpful in the unloading process. The less time she had to spend in the same room with Jared’s father, going through her dead brother’s shit, the better. 

Charlie wasn’t even supposed to be a part of this. The only reason Dallas bothered flying home in the first place was because she was almost certain that Charlie wouldn’t. He had been overseas on a business trip when the hospital called him, and had so graciously passed along Dallas’s contact information. (She still didn’t know how he got it in the first place, but she made a mental note to change her number the second she landed in Vancouver). Jared was dead before Dallas even got to the airport, and Charlie had surprised her by showing up at the funeral. 

Sure, in a perfect world, it wouldn’t be surprising for a father to show up to his only child’s funeral. But the world was a far stretch from perfect, and her family was even further. 

And now, despite not helping with any of the arrangements—the cremation, the ceremony cost or the planning—he insisted on helping manage Jared’s estate. Dallas shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“It shouldn’t take long,” Charlie commented with the air of someone who knew what the fuck they were talking about. “I can have Miguel arrange the transport of the large furniture pieces tomorrow morning. We’ll take it to the upstate property. It can go in the guest house.”

“What about the furniture that’s already there?” she asked, running her fingertips over a cashmere throw blanket on the back of the couch. 

Charlie shrugged. “We’ll throw it out. It’s a few years old, anyway.”

It really should have been none of her business. She shouldn’t waste her time engaging in conversation that wasn’t entirely necessary, but she couldn’t help herself. 

“There’s a donation center twenty minutes away. They do their own pickup.”

He wrinkled his nose in a way she really should have seen coming. “So a twenty-five thousand dollar sectional can go to a secondhand store? Seems a bit of a waste.”

She didn’t bother pointing out the hypocrisy. Instead, she rolled her eyes and made her way toward the spiral staircase to check out the bedroom. As she stepped off the last stair, her feet skidded to a halt beneath her, nearly knocking her back down. She grabbed onto the railing to balance herself. 

“Holy shit,” she yelped. Because there was a person curled up in the center of Jared’s king size bed. The woman had her back to the doorway, long, red hair strewn behind her like a flood of fire. Her form was still and silent, the only indication of life in the steady rise and fall of her ribs. 

“What is it?” Charlie trailed up behind her a few seconds later, more curious than concerned. He came to a stop by her side, taking in the discovery for himself. “Oh.”

Dallas blinked, calling on a distant memory. A piece of mail. A wedding invitation. A flash of bright red hair in a photo with her brother, looking up at her from the trash can before the lid dropped shut.

“Jessica?” she said.

“No,” Charlie said. “Jessica died. Three years ago. I’m glad to see that the therapy I paid for went to good use. He clearly found some… uncreative coping mechanisms.” With more force than necessary, he tapped the leg of the bed with his shoe, jolting the girl. “Alright, sweetheart. Time to get up. Free stay is over.”

The girl startled awake, the line of tension in her back pulling taut like a puppet in strings. She scrambled up and onto her knees, and when she turned to face them, a stunned silence fell over the room. Dallas’s eyes narrowed in on the thin, metal band around her neck.

This girl in her dead brother’s bed was a Companion.

His Companion.

“Jesus, Jared.” The breathy sound Charlie made could only be described as bemused, and it set Dallas’s blood on fire. “That makes more sense, I suppose.”

The girl didn’t say a word, but the panic emanated from her like heat from a furnace. Her eyes—a preternatural green behind copper lashes—were wide and terrified, rimmed in red and puffy from crying. She was wearing one of Jared’s oversized Cornell tees, which draped to the tops of her thighs. 

“It’s okay,” Dallas said without really knowing why. She supposed she just wanted to say something—anything—that might take some of the fear out of her expression. “You’re okay. We’re not going to hurt you.”

The girl’s eyes snapped to her when she spoke, but they retreated back to Charlie as she parted her lips, opening and closing them twice before pressing them tightly together.

“Hey,” Dallas said, pulling her focus back to her. It made her stomach turn to say the words, but this was far from the first time Dallas interacted with someone in the system. Unfortunately, she knew how this worked.  “It’s alright,” she said. “You can say whatever you want to say.”

She hesitated another couple of seconds before she softly cleared her throat. “You… Jared? You know Jared?” Her voice had a rough, raw edge to it, as if she hadn’t spoken in days. 

“He’s my brother.” Dallas caught herself, grinding her teeth. Was my brother, she corrected internally. 

“He…” The girl blinked, dazed. “He didn’t come home. He hasn’t… he didn’t…”

“You didn’t call the police?” Charlie snapped. “Or anyone?”

The girl shrank back from his tone. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He doesn’t allow—I… I don’t have a phone. I’m not allowed to leave without him.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dallas said quickly, stepping between her and Charlie. She shot him a glare he didn’t seem to notice. “But there is something I need to tell you. About Jared.”

****

Dallas sat on the couch across from the red-haired stranger, the quiet heavy between them. The only sound was the faint carry of Charlie’s voice from the loft as he spoke with whatever fucking WRU representative he had on speed dial. 

He hadn’t seemed surprised, exactly, to discover an enslaved woman in Jared’s apartment, but he didn’t clearly hadn’t known about it in advance. In all likelihood, he was probably a little bit proud.  And Dallas… Well, it was hard to be disappointed in someone for whom your expectations were already below ground level, but some part of her had wanted to hope for more from her brother. They had grown up around Companion workers—in their home, in their parents’ company—and they knew how fucked up the system was. Even if he never admitted as much out loud. 

Dallas had been involved in the anti-contract system as a teenager. Never as much as she wanted; a protest here or there, a few letters to congressmen and reposts on social media. She had tried to get a little more into it in college. But since graduating, work kept her busy. And, as ashamed as she was to admit it, moving to Canada had been something of a mute switch for her. The system had been outlawed there for more than a decade, and it was easy to become complacent in a place like that. To pretend it wasn’t happening at all just because it was no longer happening in your own backyard. 

This… made her reevaluate that inaction. 

The girl was curled into herself, her arms wrapped around her legs in the corner of the sofa. Dallas had found a pair of joggers in Jared’s closet and shed her own leather jacket for her to wear. That particular pairing looked a little strange, but it was better than having her sit half-naked in the living room. In front of Charlie. 

“Are you hungry?” Dallas asked, unsure of how to fill the silence. It had been years since she was in the same room as a contracted Companion, but it filled her bloodstream with the same uneasy buzz as she remembered. 

She looked up at her, blinking her red, puffy eyes. The answer was apparent in her silence. 

“Have you eaten?” Dallas tried carefully. “Since Jared’s been away?”

Her pale fingers tightened in the fabric around her knees. “No, Miss Radley.”

“Dallas, please,” she corrected gently. “Or Dal. Let’s find you something to eat, yeah?”

The girl unfolded herself and trailed softly behind her to the kitchen. She swayed on her feet, leaning one hip subtly against the counter as Dallas scoured the pantry for something more than olive oil and seasoning. She could see her brother never quite got over his tendency to order out for every meal, but at least she was able to scrounge up some bread and peanut butter for a sandwich.

“Am I going to be taken back to the facility?” The question from behind her was so meek, Dallas almost didn’t hear it. 

She set the butterknife she had found slowly down on the counter, turning to face her. “I…” She swallowed. “I’m not sure what the plan is right now.”

At that moment, Charlie’s footfalls descended on the stairs. The girl’s posture went rigid. 

“Well,” he said, walking over to join them in the open kitchen. “This certainly makes things more interesting.” He spared a glance to the girl, then turned his attention back to Dallas as if she wasn’t in the room at all. “Apparently he has been contracting this girl on a rolling basis for the past two-and-a-half years. They’re only three months into the current six month term.”

The girl’s eyes had found a spot on the countertop and hadn’t deviated since Charlie entered the kitchen. Dallas eyed her dubiously, the sense of dread crawling higher in her throat. 

“What is their policy for this kind of circumstance?” Dallas asked.

“They have a couple of options. The first is a mortality clause, where fifty percent of the remaining contract fee can be recouped to the Keeper’s family upon early termination. The second is a transfer of title on her contract for the remaining duration. It only applies to legal or blood relatives and spouses, unless someone else is named in the initial contract. In Jared’s case, there was not.”

And there was the peak of the dread. 

Their options were to return this girl to the nearest WRU facility to be abused and assaulted and repurposed for a new sick fuck to take her home, or for one of them to claim her for themselves like a piece of expensive art in someone’s will. 

Charlie leveled his charming grin in Dallas’s direction. “I don’t suppose there’s any purpose in asking if your views on the system have changed since last we spoke?”

“Fat fucking chance,” she said. He laughed like she’d said something funny, then trailed his gaze back to the girl, who curled even further into herself. 

“What’s your designation, sweetheart?” 

Dallas tensed at the prospect of him speaking to her directly, but the girl answered smoothly and immediately. 

“Domestic, sir.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

That may or may not have been bullshit. WRU was known for not being entirely truthful when it came to the matter of age—in either direction, depending on the type of Keeper they were trying to appeal to. 

“Have you been in the system a long time?”

There was the slightest pause before she answered this time. “Since I was nineteen,” she said quietly. Dallas’s fingers squeezed down around the handle of the butter knife.

“Hm.” Charlie pushed back from the counter, nodding decisively. “That could work out. Molly’s contract is up in a month, and I wasn’t planning to renew anyway.” He was no longer addressing her directly. “Some overlap could be good. She could show her the ropes. Okay. Yeah. I’ll have Miguel handle the paperwork.”

What happened next was never the plan. Was never even the realm of possibility until she suddenly felt her mouth moving without her permission and heard the words in her voice as if spoken by a stranger. 

“I’ll take over her contract.”

Both sets of eyes turned to her, one full of apprehension, the other full of delighted surprise. 

“Oh, will you, now?” Charlie lifted an eyebrow, and Dallas swallowed back the urge to fling the butter knife into his jugular.

Instead, she fixed her eyes on his, refusing to back down. “Are you going to fight me on it?”

He held her gaze for a few long seconds, and she was prepared for the likelihood that the answer was yes. It wouldn’t be a hard-won fight, and they both knew it. He was a wealthy, respected regular customer of WRU’s services, and she was an outspoken protestor who lived outside of the legal zone. 

But then he broke with a chuckle. “Of course not,” he said. “I’ll even help you with the logistics, if you want. It can be a bit of a headache the first time around.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“If you insist.” He raised his hands, backing off. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Let me know if you need any help jumping off a fucking cliff, asshole.

As Charlie walked toward the staircase again, Dallas turned to the woman who would soon become her legal—if temporary—property, desperate to explain herself. But before she could, Charlie called out to her from across the room. 

“Dal?” He smiled, his white teeth showing in a viscous smile. “Your mother would be proud.”

#bbu #like bbu adjacent? #Family Line: Dallas & Dylan #whump #whump writing #lady whump #wlw writing #wlw story #sapphic story

[tragedyinblue]

4. Named

CW: "it" in reference to a person, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, fetal position, uncomfortable confinement, reference to past abuse, scars

“Now you listen to me!” Abigail yelled into the receiver. She rarely raised her voice nowadays, but was glad at least that her old vocal cords could handle the strain. “I don’t want one of your little Pets in my house snooping around and messing with my things!”

Lyle sighed, likely pinching his nose. “First of all, I didn’t send you one of my Pets. We ordered this directly from WRU. Secondly, it’s not there to snoop, it’s there to help you. If you don’t want it in your house then keep it in the shed in the back. No one’s used it in years.”

Sarah’s voice cut in before Abigail could give Lyle the tongue-lashing he deserved. “Look, Mom, can you just give it a chance? It’s trained to take care of you.”

“That skinny thing doesn’t look like he could even take care of himself. Why should I believe he can take care of me?” she snapped. “And I don’t need help!”

“Please just try it out for two weeks,” Sarah said tiredly. “That’s all I’m asking.” 

Abigail’s expression softened. The phone went quiet for long enough that Abigail felt a twinge of guilt through her rage. Sarah was only trying to help. She knew that. It still didn’t make her feel like swallowing this lemon.

Then Lyle, the boor, leaned in. “If you don’t like having it around after that, then just call and have them pick it up.”

The thought of those delivery men tramping through her home again brought the rage right back. “Absolutely not! Come here and take him away from me right now!”

Her earpiece crackled at the sound of the receiver hitting its cradle on the other end of the line. Abigail responded in kind, petulantly annoyed that Grisham wouldn’t hear it, too. She wanted to throttle that man with her wrinkled hands. Instead she took a few long, calming breaths before heading back into the parlor and carefully lifting the lid completely off. 

The young man inside—a Pet—was curled into a fetal position, a moving blanket his only padding. Having witnessed how roughly the delivery men handled the box, Abigail could only imagine how many bruises hid beneath the black shirt and drawstring pants he wore. Slowly he shifted into a kneeling position with his head bowed, blue eyes looking up at her through dark brown hair. 

“Hello. Are you this Pet’s new Mistress?”

Abigail blanched, letting out a startled laugh. “I certainly hope not!” 

The Pet cocked his head and blinked, confusion furrowing his brows.

‘Right,’ she thought. ‘He wouldn’t understand that as a joke.’

She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, I suppose I am for now. My name is Abigail Cooper, but if you must call me anything then Miss Abigail or Miss Abbie is fine.”

“Of course, Miss Abbie,” he said, nodding. The slight dip of his chin drew her gaze to the thick band of scar tissue, roped and puckered like a burn, that circled his neck. Even so, he smiled sweetly and her heart bled at the sight. Damn it. They’d given her two weeks to decide whether or not to keep him; apparently two minutes was enough.

“What’s your name, dear?”

“It is known as Combination Domestic/Caregiver Model 049113-C47,” he recited without the slightest hesitation. “Any further names are a privilege granted by the master or mistress claiming ownership of the Pet in question.”

The clinical phrasing sent a chill through her bones. She’d seen other Pets and Pet owners, of course, aside from Lyle. Did they feel as unnerved as she did, or were they simply numb to the horror? 

‘Focus,’ she thought, catching the Pet’s gaze once more. ‘A name. This young man needs a name.’

Abigail had only two children, both daughters, so boy names had never been a concern. At one time, though, she’d had a list just in case. Groping through her memories was like wandering through dense fog at times, but blessedly her mind tripped on one. It might have been her favorite. 

“In that case, I’ll call you Chase. Is that alright?” 

The Pet brightened immediately, looking strangely like a puppy; if he’d possessed a tail it would’ve thumped against the box. “Yes, thank you, Miss Abbie!” 

“You’re welcome, Chase. Now let’s get you out of there.”

------------------------------- I binge-wrote this and the previous section in one sitting. No promises that I'll go this fast. Things are rosy with Miss Abby for now, but they won't be forever.

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Taglist: @maracujatangerine

#inheritance-story #bbu #box boy universe #C47 no more

[flowersarefreetherapy]

Hold On: Drive Your Young Mind Crazy

CW: Dysfunctional family dynamics, depression, romanticization of the BBU system, that weird breed of dysfunction that large homeschooling families have

Someone runs past his room, screaming at the top of their lungs. He presses his hands over his ears, staring at the math problems he has been working on for the last hour. Only two of them have been completed. Another kid runs by screaming. 

“Shut up!” Logan yells at the door. “I’m trying to, to, to, um, to do my homework!”

“Don’t tell me to shut up or I’ll tell Mom you didn’t make dinner!”

He screams into his book. He wasn’t able to make dinner because he had to go get Leon from football practice, then Mary Ann wanted to go to the park, then Lisa and Louis needed help with their homework and by then it was six o’clock. It was all he could do to throw snacks at the kids and turn on the television for a few seconds of peace. 

Apparently it wasn’t to last.

“Don’t you, don’t you dare!”

“Then don’t yell at me!”

He swallows back another scream and turns his attention to his homework. He still has to finish his math homework, then read the book for English and start the essay that was due last week. His Spanish homework lies forgotten in his bag. He’s failing the co-op class, but has no time to make up for the missed homework. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water focusing on just math and English. 

Logan raises his head and stares at the posters on the wall. None of them are his. They’re all his younger brothers’ who share the room with him. Nothing in this room is his. Just the top bunk in the corner and the dresser drawer he has to fit all his clothes in. 

“Logan!”

The door slams open and he yelps, dropping his pencil. “Edward!”

“Where’s my shoes? Erin wants to take us to the park again and I can’t find my shoes!”

“Check the, the closet.” 

Edward steps on the edge of his notebook, crumpling the page. Logan sucks in a deep breath, his nose burning with the familiar promise of tears. He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes, desperate to keep from breaking down. Again. 

If this happens again, we’re taking away your phone until you can focus on helping your siblings. You’re the oldest. This is part of your job. 

“Mom doesn’t get home for two more hours,” Edward throws over his shoulder. “Do you think we’ll have enough time to get there and come back?” 

“Yes,” Logan whispers, praying his voice doesn’t crack. It’s started doing that recently and everyone seems amused by it every time. 

“Logan? What’s this?”

Edward steps back, holding his shoes in one hand and a magazine in the other. The blood drains from Logan’s face when he sees it. 

“Nothing!” he gasps, yanking it from his brother’s hand. “It, it’s nothing.”

“Isn’t that Dad’s sports magazine? Why do you have it in the back of the closet?” 

“No reason. Stop, stop asking!”

Edward rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Be weird about it.”

Logan clutches the magazine until his brother leaves the room. His palms stick to the pages with sweat and his heart races so quickly he can feel it in his toes. He sets it down gently, hating why he kept it even after his father wanted to throw it away. 

It’s his fifteenth birthday soon and his family is always asking when he is going to get a girlfriend, if there’s a girl he finds cute. He doesn’t know how to respond. How to answer that it isn’t a girl who’s caught his gaze, but Phil in second period whose hair is always falling into his face and he has to hold it back with a clip? There’s no way he can. Just another thing he keeps to himself. 

Along with the flier further back in the closet he’s so thankful Edward didn’t see. He found it on the edge of the football field. Glossy, bold gray lettering, a phone number he’s stared at so many times he practically has it memorized by now. Along with the nearest WRU location. It’s an option.

You shouldn’t talk like that. The counselor. Sitting on a hard plastic chair. The walls a stupid bright color that hurts his eyes. You have a whole life ahead of you. One that’s full of potential and possibility.

There’s nothing for him here. Just responsibility and pressure and taking care of his siblings as if he was their parent instead of their actual parents. 

That’s unfair. You know they’re working so much to keep a roof over your head and the lights on. 

Doesn’t change the fact they missed my birthday last year. 

Instead, they worked double shifts and he had to watch his siblings all day. 

Logan presses his forehead to his knees, rocking back and forth. Tears run silently down his face. There’s no way he’ll be able to focus on his homework now. He crawls into his bed. Presses his face into his pillow, phone clutched tightly in his hands, and cries. 

He can fail the essay and the test and his math quiz. It’s okay. What does it matter? He has nothing to look forward to anyway. At the end of the day he’ll still be here, trapped in this house, watching the clock for his uncaring parents to come back. 

He runs a hand through his hair, pretending it's someone else. He’s seen them before. In shows and movies and music videos. They are happy and excited, master or mistress right there beside them, giving them attention. What would that be like? To have someone give their undivided attention to him? His eyes burn at the thought, tears sliding down his cheek. 

Someday, that’ll be me. Someday. 

Tagging: @blood-is-compulsory @darkthingshappen @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinggrounds @pigeonwhumps (let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

#dysfunctional family dynamics #depression #bbu universe #bbu #star my beloved #hold on: i still need you #me? Putting vicarious trauma into my stories? #it’s more likely than you think!