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highwaywhump · 1 year

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Would you be up for writing a little piece about kill shelters, from the pet’s POV? I saw that you said you wouldn’t write about pets actually being PTS - completely understandable! - what if someone were to come in at the last second with the news that the pet’s original owner had been found? I’m so curious on what the process would be for the shelter handling this- since it would technically be murder, how would it be done in a way to remain ‘legal’? And what would the pet be told? Would they tell them what was going to happen, or just ‘get on with it’? :o

TW/CW: A CHARACTER THAT IDEALIZES DEATH/HAS SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. to be clear, he doesn't die, but another character does (this comes through very vaguely - never voiced outright). brief and vague mention of a gun, talk of scars, low self image, talk of collars and chains and cages/kennels, description of a hit and run victim (still alive), brief description of a dislocated hip, talk of restraints, talk of syringes and needles.

i know our community has suffered these past few days, and i was seriously debating whether i should post this piece or not. in the end, i figure that writing has been my way of overcoming difficult feelings for many years now, and i have been dealing with a lot of them lately, including intense stress and depression. if anyone feels i am doing something wrong in posting this piece, please let me know and i'll see what i'll do about it.

i am also painfully aware this ask was sent over a month ago (in reference to this ask), but i had to sit down and think about how i wanted to go about it. BE AWARE that the following piece features a character that idealizes/wishes for death - please sit this one out if you are struggling with such thoughts. i'm putting everything under a read more so that you can avoid reading a single word if you don't feel comfortable. my dm’s are always open if you want to talk about anything. <3

this character might seem familiar to some. spoiler, this is how poker from this piece ended up. he was about 35 when joey met him and he’s a few years older in this piece. and i'm sorry but there’s just something about men in cages… (also, let’s ignore that i add a bunch of details here that weren’t present in the first piece with him. also also, i don’t know what happened to the verb tenses in this one. it’s the middle of the night. roll with the punches i guess)

It might’ve been months since the guard dog saw his owner last. He doesn’t know. He’s stopped counting.

Well.

He never really started.

He doesn’t remember much about him. He’d lost another fight, the last one in a long row of losses. He’d been pulled into the back of a car by his thick collar afterwards, dazed and hot and sputtering blood all over the leather seats. They’d hit him in the ribs for it and he knew he’d deserved it.

Whoever was driving had been given orders in his owner’s rough voice.

“Go down to the docks. Get rid of him.”

He knew there was a lethal piece of metal stuck down the waistband of the driver’s jeans.

He’d been taken a few hours outside the city instead, deposited on the wet asphalt outside of a brick building and chained to a drainpipe. The driver had gotten back in the car and sped off.

The guard dog had leaned against the hard brick, watching as the brake lights disappeared. He didn’t think much, other than okay. As if he had anything else to say about his situation.

His surroundings turned into a shapeless blur from there. Hands touching him, cold and unfeeling and clad in blue rubber. A couple were soft and took their time to stroke his hair, scratch the hard to reach place between his shoulder blades. He savored those moments, and tried to remember the hands and the face they belonged to, but none of it lasted.

Nothing ever lasted around him, it seemed. He couldn’t keep an owner for more than a few months, never more than a year. Couldn’t keep winning. Couldn’t keep anyone safe, even though that was the thing he was made for. The only thing that kept, were the scars.

And the fucking tattoo on his wrist. Not even the facility that had made him, wanted him back when the shelter called them about him. Too old. They had no prospects who would want someone like him.

That was what the visitors said too, few and far between as they were. Too old. Too big, too many scars, too scary, too ugly, too old, too dumb, too old again. They talked about him as if he wasn’t even there, huddled up in a corner just on the other side of the chain link.

He knew it was his fault. He should be, or at least seem, happier to see them. Smile. Wait at the kennel gate, like all the others did whenever somebody stopped by.

But to what end? Another owner who would put him in the ring again, just to be angry at him when he loses? Or someone he can take bullets for again, even though he isn’t quick and bright enough to anticipate them anymore?

He doesn’t dare hope that anyone else would want him, not in his condition. It’s true, what they say. He’s old. Scarred, slow. There are sunshine stories of even the most unwanted of pets, expenses in every way, who somehow end up on the couches of kind people who just want a companion, their head resting in their laps, petted by soft fingers.

Those people get platonics, though. Domestics. Even the occasional romantic can adapt to such a lifestyle.

But not an old ex guard dog, like him.

He’s no use to anyone, not anymore.

They remove him from the kennel one day. For a moment, his heart beats a little faster. He can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement, but it turns out neither is warranted. He’s taken to another room, a chain attached to his collar, the other end pin shackled to a ring in the wall. Another pet, younger and prettier, is put in his kennel. He can see them through the frosted glass on the door.

He turns away.

He doesn’t cry.

Visitors don’t come through this room, he realizes, and for the first few days he’s happy for it. Nobody talks about him now. It’s quiet and the cold linoleum floor is almost comfortable on his joints. The only bad thing about this room is the other pet, chained to the wall opposite of him. The man is curled up, breathing shallowly through dried blood in his nostrils, and the sound is annoying. He’s younger than him, and he was probably very pretty once, but now his face is bruised and swollen, and bloody in the crevices even though they washed him with a damp cloth when he came in. Hit and run, somebody had said in passing.

That was four days ago. The guard dog watches him, mostly because there isn’t much else to look at in here. His leg is in a weird position, he’s noticed. It’s as if the thigh has rotated where it attaches to the hip. He wonders if it’s supposed to be that way. It doesn’t look very comfortable. His stomach is weirdly distended, too. It looks out of place on a body that is otherwise slim and smooth.

Two workers descend on him one day, kneeling down beside the misshapen figure. They talk to him, sweetly, as they gently lift him over on a gurney and start wheeling him through another door. “You’ll feel a lot better when you wake up,” one of the workers say, a vinyl clad hand patting his shoulder. The one part of him that isn’t broken.

The guard dog catches the faint smile visible through a swollen cheek as they pass him. The other pet is happy they’re coming for him, making him feel better. Finally.

Maybe twenty minutes have passed when the workers come back. One of them wipes their hands on their worn jeans. “Glad that’s over,” he mutters. "Should have been done when he came in," the other says. The guard dog meets his gaze as they pass. Neither of them say anything.

They’d come for him a few days later. They wear the same smiles and the same gloves as they did with the other pet, but he doesn’t need the sweet talking. He goes with them willingly. He’d stopped eating a while back and his muscle tone had disappeared a long time ago, so it was easy for them to help him up to his feet. He’s taller than them, still, and keeps his head down the way he’s always done.

He’s known cold. Heat, pain, pleasure even, in small stints. Grief, fear. Rage. As he places one bare foot in front of the other on the beige linoleum, obediently following the worker in front, he knows he will soon know death.

And he isn’t afraid.

“You won’t feel a thing,” one of them says as they help him sit on the steel table in the next room, as if anyone has ever cared about how he’s feeling.

“You’ll feel much better after,” the other worker says, without specifying exactly what was supposed to be better, as they gently lay him down. The table has leather straps hanging down the sides, ready to restrain its more unwilling cases, but he doesn’t move and they don’t use the straps. In the corner of his eye he can see two syringes on the counter. One of them is skinny and filled with clear fluid. The needle is small and will slip into him easily. He’s had many needles before. This won’t feel any different, he decides. The other syringe is larger, the needle too big to be used on somebody who was awake feel it.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll feel better after. The guard dog refocuses his gaze on the bright light overhead. He closes his eyes.

“Small pinch, now,” one worker says, and he can feel a pinprick at the crook of his elbow, the cold liquid fanning up his arm as it is being pushed in. His heart beats a few more times before the serum reaches it. He can feel his pulse, docile to begin with, calm down even more. He feels sleepy, his body heavy, as if he’s being pushed into the table from above. The hard metal digging into his joints doesn’t matter anymore. He knows he won’t even notice the other syringe. He knows he’ll feel better soon.

A grating ringtone interrupts his silent mind. One of the workers picks up, speaking in a low voice. Sleep tugs at the edges of his mind, and he wants to follow. Right before he goes under, the sound of hard plastic hitting metal and a few words make it through the fuzzy walls inside his head.

“No trouble at all. You’re just in time, sir.”

to answer your other questions, anon: in the legal sense it wouldn't be murder, as the pets aren't people anymore, they're only human at the biological level (again, in a legal sense). it's necessary :) and humane :) euthanasia :). the pets aren't told anything/they're gently reassured and told they're going on for surgery, or something similar. i think "you'll feel better when you wake up," is a classic in these circles. i'm sure some understand what is about to happen (hence the restraints on the table), but the majority goes quick and silent. i have no idea what happens to them after though so don't ask me about that :)

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ilasknives · 16 days

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THE LONG WAY HOME | One

<- Previous

Hi, hello, it's been. A very long time. Well over a year, I think? I finally have the second part! I'm so sorry it took me so long, life and full time university have been kicking my ass. I haven't done writing in a long time, so it felt stiff and hard to get through, and only half of it is actual whump, but the rest sets up the story. I really missed writing it, though. I hope you enjoy!

CW: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, pet training, collaring.

1: Nine Hundred and Thirty-Three

After:

"Get on your knees.”

"What? No, please, I don't -"

"Knees."

He drops to the floor to avoid the baton that this man keeps touching the handle of, looking up at him from below with his hands in his lap, fingers twisting into the shitty thin fabric of his shirt. Maybe it will rip. He doesn't want it to. It's the same one he walked in with, and he's getting the feeling that he won't get it back again if it breaks. He digs his fingers in tighter, anyway, unwillingly.

"I need to - please," he tries again. He needs to go home. His voice is hoarse, rough from the night of pleading with the empty room, tucked into a corner, fighting waves of exhaustion with terror, trying and failing to keep his eyes open. He'd scrambled to his feet when the door opened, desperate for someone to talk to, to reason with, to see that he wasn't supposed to be here -

And now he's on the floor again.

He swallows, mouth dry. "This was a mistake."

The handler ignores him, looking over him like he's assessing him for something, then sighs, mostly to himself. "Okay. So, Domestic."

"I'm not meant to be anything-"

"You don’t need to speak unless you’re spoken to."

“Please,” he whispers, but the look the handler shoots him is enough to make him close his mouth. Something flashes, in the back of his mind. A hand through the air, a stinging across the side of his face. He flinches, but the handler hasn’t moved. Every part of him is screaming that he’s done something wrong, that he needs to hide away and wait until it dies down, until it’s safe again - but there isn’t anywhere to hide here. Just white walls and a heavy door. God, he hasn’t felt like this in years. It’s hard to breathe. Like a hand around his throat.

The handler lets a moment pass, and then two, and when he’s been sitting quietly for long enough, he speaks again. “My name is Handler Phillips, I’ll be your primary Handler for the duration of your training. You are WRU Trainee 297933.”

“I’m not.” It’s whispered, terrified, but he can’t just… give up. There has to be someone who will hear him out. There has to be some way to go home. “My name is-”

“You don’t have a name, you have an identification number.” The handler sighs, and crouches down so they’re face to face. “Look. I don’t want to do this the hard way, and I don’t think you do, either. You’re gonna have to work with me.”

“I’m not meant to be here.”

"We're just doing intake today, alright? Do you know what that means?"

"I want to go home." He doesn't want to do intake, he wants to go back to where he lives and curl up in his bed and never take another stupid fucking bet in his life. He's supposed to be walking back through the door and gloating about his victory right about now. Yesterday. The day before? How long has he been here? "Let me go home."

"I can't do that, mate. I have a job to do, and so do you." The Handler stands and unhooks something from his belt. "This is a collar. It will be yours. It's fitted with…"

The Handler's voice fades into the background behind the ringing of his ears and the bile that rises in his throat. A collar. Fuck, no. Fuck that.

"No," he interrupts. "No. No. You're not putting that on me. Let me go. I need to go home.”

Handler Phillips sighs again. “297933,” he says.

“That’s not my name.”

“It’s your WRU identification number. The collar is mandatory; it’s part of your training.”

“No.” The handler’s fingers touch, briefly, the handle of the baton. He draws back into himself, swallowing thickly, eyes on the floor. “Sorry,” he says quickly. The words taste sour. “I’m sorry.”

Another sigh from above him.

“You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” The handler hesitates, like he isn’t meant to continue. “I know this is scary. Take a breath.”

He draws in a breath that burns the whole way down.

“Think you can sit still enough to let me put this on you?”

“I don’t want to,” he whispers.

It happens anyway. The fight just… leaves him. He sits and trembles on the floor while Phillips slides the thick collar around his throat and clips it into place with gentle hands.

Before:

They’re all at Nell’s house.

They’re always all at Nell’s house, because she’s the only one of them with dogs, and with a couch, and with more than one shitty, battered Wii controller like Benny has. Nell only has two, but that’s double Benny’s, and the rest of them have none, so Nell’s place is the place to be.

They’re playing Mario Kart while they wait for Benny. Rhys is sandwiched between Luca and the arm of the couch, and one of the dogs has its head resting on his foot, and he can’t even move, because it’s Luca, and he’s got his legs slung over Rhys’s lap and his head pillowed on his shoulder.

Luca jerks his arm, swerves, and runs his Yoshi off the side of the track right as Matteo wins the race. Rhys jabs him in the side. “My go.”

“What – that doesn’t count!”

“In what world does that not count?” Rhys already knows he’s going to lose the argument, but he entertains it anyway. He rarely actually plays Mario with the group, even though they say they’ll swap controllers after every race. Matteo’s already clicked his controller into the wheel attachment and handed it to Owen. Rhys usually hands off his turn to Luca and watches as he comes dead last every single time.

Luca’s opening his mouth to start the usual ‘I’m going to get it next time’ spiel when Benny waltzes in through the front door with his arms full of Nell’s mail.

Rhys raises an eyebrow at him. “You know that’s illegal, right?”

Benny, mouth full of – something, what the fuck is he eating this time? – says, “Huh?”

“Opening someone else’s mail.”

Benny rolls his eyes and dumps the pile of envelopes – bar one – on Luca and Rhy’s laps. “Helenaaaa.”

Nell’s voice comes back from the kitchen, instantly dry, wary. “What do you want from me?”

“I have something for you.”

“I swear, if you’ve been going through my mail again - ”

Benny darts off, cackling like an idiot, and Nell – also like an idiot – chases after him. Rhys shoves the pile of mail off his lap, and it clatters to the floor, all over the dog.

“… Sorry, Benedict.”

“You’re so mean to her,” Owen says from the other side of the couch. “Come here, baby.”

Benedict heaves all god-knows-how-much of her entire great dane self off the floor and meanders over to Owen. He’s already got Chef curled up with his head shoved under his rollator, and Benedict slumps at his feet and goes back to sleep.

“Thief,” Rhys says. “You’re a dog thief.”

“You dropped mail on her head!”

“Weird mail,” Luca muttered, leaning down to snatch an envelope off the floor. “The hell is this?”

It’s a thick white envelope, decorated in gold trim, a wax seal on the back – and it’s snatched from Luca’s hand as soon as Benny swans his way back into the room.

“Whatcha got there, Luca?”

Luca snorts. “Ask Nell, it’s hers.”

Benny does not ask Nell. He never does, but Nell hates opening her own mail, so she shoots Rhys an exasperated look and slumps down on the couch with Matteo.

“We seem to have abandoned Mario,” Matteo muses as Benny tears open the envelope. He doesn’t even try to remove the seal. Absolute animal.

“Dear resident, we hope this letter finds you well,” Benny reads, pacing in front of them like some grandiose loser. Rhys considers tripping him. “We have recently started a movement to bring clinics to smaller cities, and we’re searching for partici- oh my god, this is that – Pet shit, right?”

Nell makes a face. “Yeah, they’re building some new complex for it, or something, right? I read the first one, some initiative to ‘bring business and economy flow into rural areas’ or whatever.”

“We’re not even rural,” says Matteo.

“I know. God, I thought I unsubscribed from their mailing list. Just tear it up, Benny.”

But Benny’s eyes have gone wide. “Holy shit, have you seen how much money they offer you?”

Rhys snatches it from Benny’s grip. Holy shit was right. The number is in the high ten thousands – more money than any of them have seen in one place in their lives.

“I want it,” says Benny. It’s always Benny who starts this shit. Rhys can practically feel his brain turning.

Luca laughs. “You want to be someone’s house pet, Benny?”

A grin, a shrug. Benny’s never been the type to admit that he’s wrong. “Why not? Cozy up on the couch, no job, no bills.”

“Dumbasses,” says Nell, taking the envelope off Rhys and ripping it in half.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want that kind of money, Nell.”

“What am I gonna do with the money if I’m signing up to their program, Benjamin?”

There’s a lull. It should be the end of it. It should. But Benny is Benny is Benny, and Benny doesn’t know when to stop.

“... I reckon I could get the money, anyway.”

“You’re a coward,” Rhys says, because he’s just as bad as Benny, “and a liar.”

Luca jabs him in the side.

Benny’s eyes narrow, and he squares his shoulders like he always does when he thinks that he’s been challenged.

“Wanna bet?”

Taglist (please ask to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot @whumpcereal @whumpsday @whumpworld @littlespacecastle @anonintrovert @honey-is-mesi @warm-my-whumpee-heart @whumping-seven-days-a-week @alexmundaythrufriday

#it's been a LONG time so i understand people no longer being interested #but i had a random burst of inspiration #this is the first writing i have finished in a long long long time #i hope it's alright!#pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #whump #whumpee #whump writing #writing: tlwh #writing: the long way home

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itsawhumpsideblog · 2 days

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BBU Community Days 2024, Day 13

April 26 / Writing Prompt: "MADE FOR IT" / Write a BBU story based on the prompt and share it!

CW: for institutionalized slavery, whipping, foot injury, blood, emotional abuse

Most boxboys were transported to their new owners after purchase in the boxes that inspired the term- long, narrow crates into which they were packed and shipped- but not KV1946. On the day he was sent to his Master, KV1946 was washed and dressed in slacks and a sport coat and ordered into the back seat of a car. He was careful not to wrinkle the clothing when he fastened the seat belt and he folded his hands carefully in front of him and sat very still during the ride.

He would have liked to spend more time looking out the window, but he had been instructed to sit properly, which meant straightening his spine and looking directly ahead. KV1946 tried not to feel nervous and instead focused on remembering his training. There would be cleaning to do, household management, serving at meals... he could do those things. He had been trained. Perhaps he would be able to please his Master.

It was slightly more than an hour before KV1946 saw a large house come into view. It was situated in the middle of extensive, beautifully manicured grounds and the car pulled up in a circular drive out front. KV1946 sat very still until the WRU employee who was driving ordered him to get out and stood to greet her client.

Someone had opened the door and his Master was coming down the wide front steps, smiling broadly. He was in middle age, dressed in a fine suit and adjusting his cuffs in a way that suggested he didn't need to adjust them but wanted the WRU lady to know he was the kind of man who wore cufflinks on a Tuesday morning.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, spreading his hands wide as if showing the WRU lady that the grounds were hers to enjoy, for the minutes she would be present on them. "Is this my young man, then?" He strode over to KV1946 and peered closely at him with a smile that was as much a show as the cufflinks.

KV1946 stood quietly, as he had been trained, with his hands clasped loosely in front of him; his new Master circled him very slowly, examining the merchandise.

"I'm told you did very well in your training," he said. "I was pleased to hear it. We hold very high standards, here." He looked KV1946 in the eye in a way that seemed to require a response. KV1946 lowered his eyes deferentially and said quietly, "Yes, Master."

The man gave a delighted little laugh. "Very good! Very good, indeed." Then he ignored KV1946 to speak briefly to the WRU employee and hand her an envelope with a discreet but substantial tip.

When KV1946's Master had finished speaking, even though the WRU lady was still right there, standing outside her car, he turned away from her and shifted his attention to the Pet as thoroughly as if she had never existed.

"Come inside," he ordered his newest purchase. "I will show you the house and acquaint you with your tasks. Referring to you by serial number is vulgar; you will be called Francis." And off he swept with KV1946- now Francis- following as quickly as he could.

The next hour was a whirlwind tour of the home and, to an extent, the grounds. Francis' responsibilities lay entirely inside, but Master wanted him to know where things were around the property, in case of some need. Francis hoped desperately that he could remember all of it and when he was told to go begin fixing lunch, was relieved to find that he knew the way to the kitchen.

Lunch was served without any particular difficulty and then Francis cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled. Afterwards, he retrieved Master's laundry and spent some time treating stains and loading the washing machine. After that, there was dusting in the office.

All the while, Master sat on the porch in the sunshine with a long-stemmed glass in hand. When he saw Francis, he looked very satisfied and said, "I don't know why I didn't get one of you a long time ago."

The satisfaction made Francis' heart leap. Master's happiness was his own sense of security and he found that he desperately wanted to hear another approving word. He would be perfect for Master. Master would like him and keep him and he would never be sent back to the WRU, like bad Pets were. Even the thought made Francis shiver. He had seen, at least enough to have an idea, what happened to Pets who were sent back.

Late that evening, Francis began to feel overwhelmed. It was hard to remember the long list of chores and the order in which they were to be completed. He wracked his brain, ignoring a slight headache, to remember whether he was to do the ironing before setting out Master's clothes for the following day, or after.

He guessed incorrectly and Master, now dressed in a smoking jacket, entered his room and frowned. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded of Francis, who froze and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Master?"

"No, no 'Master'. You were to lay out a suit and then begin the ironing. I want to have my room all to myself, not spend my evening waiting on your pleasure to have clean clothes." He shook his head. "This is not what I was led to expect when I purchased you."

"This Pet is very sorry, Master." Francis hung his head. He could hear the rough, nervous edge in his voice.

"Finish the ironing and then go to the basement," Master said in a very firm tone.

Francis' hands were shaking as he finished the last few items and although he wasn't sure what would happen in the basement, he did know that he wasn't looking forward to finding out.

When he got there, Master was already standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed, with a small switch in his hand. There was a chair in the center of the room, away from the walls and the bit of bedding Francis was allowed- or would have been allowed, he thought. He would have to see if Master took it away for his infraction.

"I am going to be lenient on you, because it's your first day here," Master explained. "Sit in that chair and hold up one foot."

For a moment, Francis was mystified, and then he realized what Master planned to do. He sat and gripped the sides of the chair so that Master wouldn't see his hands trembling. Master took Francis' heel in one hand and raised the small whip, bringing it down on the sole of Francis' right foot with surprising force.

Francis let out a soft cry and then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Master looked at him with something like disgust.

"What are you crying for already?" he asked. "It can't possibly hurt that badly. You were made for this, after all." He didn't seem to want a reply, which was as well. Francis kept his hand over his mouth as the whip connected again with the sole of his foot.

On the third blow, Master let out a small cry of his own and jumped back suddenly, letting Francis' foot fall to the floor.

"I've cut myself," Master exclaimed. He was holding up his left hand, which was bleeding from a single laceration across the backs of his fingers. Master made a noise of frustration and pain and then said through gritted teeth, "Wait here, I don't want you making a mess."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic box, which he thrust towards Francis. "It's a first aid kit. Bandage my hand for me."

The absurdity of the situation never occurred to Francis; he simply opened the kit, found an individually wrapped wipe to clean the wound and then the gauze and medical tape. While he dabbed away the blood, Master hissed and swore under his breath and when Francis had taped on the bandage, he shook his hand as if it smarted.

Francis almost dared to hope he would give up on the rest of the punishment, but there was no such luck. "Hold your foot out," Master said. Francis did so, holding his leg up with both hands under his knee. Using only one hand, Master continued the flogging, ignoring the drops of blood that fell to the floor. Francis pressed his lips tightly together to prevent another upsetting display of emotion that would only make this worse and waited for it to be over. When he thought he might not be able to stand any more, Master finally straightened up and nodded once.

"Clean that up," he said, gesturing to the blood spatters on the floor. "And I expect you on duty as I told you in the morning." Then he stalked up the stairs, taking the whip with him.

In the basement, Francis sat in the chair and tried to collect himself. His breath coming in shuddering sighs but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought to stay quiet and controlled. When he rose to clean the floor, he walked gingerly on the outside of his foot. His vision closed to a pinprick of light as he worked, shutting him off from the pain, pushing it away so that it felt almost like another entity. But when he finally lowered himself carefully to his cot, the agony washed up over Francis and he hugged his knee to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning, Francis was woken early by the pain. He was still clutching his knee and his foot still stung so badly that he was almost afraid to look at it. When he worked up the courage, the news was not good. The foot and ankle were badly swollen and the sole of his foot was covered in dried blood.

When he dressed, slowly and painfully, Francis found that his sock fit, though tightly, but he couldn't get his shoe on over it. He pulled at the shoe, tugging at the tongue and trying to force the heel, until he was crying again and was about to risk being late for his duties. At last, Francis gave up and ascended the stairs, fully dressed except for his wounded foot in its soft, white sock.

Master wasn't downstairs yet and Francis began the first chores of the day, limping badly as he made the rounds of the house to water the plants and then headed back to the kitchen to begin breakfast. He cooked eggs, toast and sausage and fried some tomatoes and arranged it all on a large plate. He brewed coffee and set a place at the dining room table with understated-but-elegant china and a crystal glass for orange juice. He placed a newspaper above Master's place and kept the food warm until Master seated himself at the table and rang for it.

Francis brought out the plate and went back for a mug of coffee and then for the orange juice, ready in a clear carafe to be poured fresh for Master. It was on the third trip that Master, nearing the end of the page he was reading, caught sight of Francis out of the corner of his eye and looked up in displeasure.

"What is that?" He asked, gesturing dismissively at Francis' feet.

"This Pet was unable to get his shoe on," Francis said in a very small voice. He found that his mouth had gone dry and it was hard to speak.

"This Pet has orders not to appear above stairs in less than immaculate condition," Master corrected him coldly. "I took care that you would be fit to serve. Go below stairs at once and fix the issue. Do not appear above stairs under-dressed again. My guests will be here for a morning garden party in one hour. I expect the porch swept and mimosas staged on the table. There will be finger sandwiches for lunch and you will stay outside to serve." He turned back to his newspaper, which meant that Francis was dismissed.

Shaking in the aftermath of his fear, Francis limped back down the stairs and almost fell onto his pallet, where the odd shoe sat. He eyed it with distaste for a moment, but there was no time to waste. It was going to be a busy morning and he would need to use all of the time to prepare. Francis tried again to put the shoe on, but still without success.

He took a moment for a deep breath and a sigh and then began to unlace the shoe completely. With the laces off, he was able to place his foot inside it and lace the shoe up, after a fashion. His foot was already beginning to throb and when he stood, it took all his training to keep him on his feet and headed up the stairs.

Francis was driven nearly to distraction by the pain, but he was somehow still upright and had even managed to put out a clean, white tablecloth and a vase of flowers to display the mimosas before Master's guests arrived. As ordered, Francis stationed himself next to the table with a tray to collect empty glasses and to keep the table supplied with drinks and light canapes.

Master greeted the guests and showed them to the back porch, handing each a drink as they passed through the door to mill about on the flagstones of the porch. The hand he had injured while punishing Francis remained bandaged and Master had placed it in a narrow black sling to go with his morning coat.

"You poor thing!" one of his guests cooed. "Whatever have you done to your hand?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Master said, clearly pleased at the attention. "Just a little cut, the doctor says everything ought to be fine before many weeks have passed." He waved the other hand languidly, dismissing the opinions of doctors who, he implied, fussed too much.

"You bear it very bravely, I'm sure," the woman assured him, patting his shoulder sympathetically. She finished her drink and held it out, secure in the knowledge that the help would be by to collect it immediately.

Francis moved away from the safety of the table to take the glass. He tried not to shuffle, which would probably make Master angry, but his foot was throbbing so badly that he could hardly think of anything else. He hoped he could go back and stand behind the table, in the shade, and put all his weight on his left foot for just a few minutes.

"Doesn't your pet mind just standing there like that?" another woman asked his Master. "Won't he get bored?" Master looked over as if he had only just noticed Francis standing there, as if he was so used to Francis that he was no more noticeable than the trees.

"I can't imagine so," Master said in a musing voice. "After all, isn't that what they're made for?"

The party lasted for a few hours and by the time he brought out the finger sandwiches, Francis was shaking and sick with pain. At each step, he wondered whether his leg would give way and drop him- and, more importantly, the sandwiches- to the ground, right there in front of all of Master's guests.

Somehow, he got through the rest of the morning and then the afternoon as well; luckily, Master seemed to be tired out by the effort of hosting and went to take a nap. Francis could limp as much as he needed and stand on his left foot only while he cooked and cleaned. The day went by very slowly, but in a strange haze. The foot went numb after several hours and Francis was a little relieved, although the numbness made it hard to balance when he walked.

At last, Master turned in for the night and Francis went back to the basement. He sat down on the top step and eased himself down with his right foot held in the air. At the bottom, he very carefully untied and unlaced the shoe and drew it off, his heart pounding uncomfortably as feeling came back into the swollen flesh. With feeling came terrible pain and Francis could feel the small supper he had been allowed turn over in his stomach. He hopped desperately to the toilet in the corner of the room, but nothing came up and after a few long moments, he finally collapsed onto his cot.

Later, Francis barely remembered that day. It was not so different from many of the ones that came after it and working while he was in pain became the most ordinary thing in the world for him. But it was one late night, in a different house entirely, that Master's words came back to him.

It had been a long day; Francis was still expending more energy than he knew in trying to understand his new home. Sir and Ma'am were kind, but could be confusing sometimes. Francis was always waiting for them to change, to become angry, to begin ordering him about. He did not expect to live without fear, but the relentless struggle to make sense of his new life was taking its toll.

That night, Sir carried Francis up to bed while Mikey and Nathan stayed downstairs with Ma'am. It was not so late, really, and the sun had only just dipped below the horizon, but Francis had been running hot all day and the pain in his feet was making him restless.

"I'm so sorry you aren't feeling better yet," Sir said, sounding like he meant it.

"Francis will be in working order soon," Francis replied. He hoped it was true.

"Don't worry about working," Sir said, for some reason, but it was in a cheerful tone that might almost have been a joke and Francis was more confused than frightened by the words. He wasn't sure how to respond, and so he didn't. Instead, he lay still and watched Sir bustle about.

Sir straightened his blankets so they laid across his shins, not over his bandaged feet where they would feel heavy and hurt Francis. Then Sir put a thermometer in his mouth and waited patiently for the result. After three minutes, he removed it, peered at it, and shook his head.

"It's about what I expected," he said and then placed a cool water bottle on Francis' head. It was soothing to his hot skin and racing mind and almost made Francis feel like he might be able to fall asleep.

Maybe it was the high fever that made him so bold, but Francis looked up at Sir, sitting there quietly, watching him with such worry on his face and he dared to ask a question.

"Sir- if Francis might be permitted- er- why are you and Ma'am doing all of this?"

"What, taking care of you guys?" Francis nodded and worried that maybe he shouldn't have spoken, in case Sir thought he was ungrateful.

Instead, Sir smiled and shrugged a little. "Humans take care of each other- it's just what we do. I guess we were made for it."

Master List

Notes: Some backstory for Francis!

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

@starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

#bbu #bbucommunity #box boy universe #box boy whump #whump #the safehouse #pet whump

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maracujatangerine · 1 month

Text

83. On the phone 6

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

”I’ve managed to arrange it. It wasn’t easy, but I have finally found a friend who is willing to help us.”

“Really? Oh my god, Indira, you are amazing!”

“I aim to please.” Lydia could hear the smile in the doctor’s voice. “But we will have to be careful. Have you talked with him about it yet?”

“Not yet, I didn’t want to worry him, or give him any false hopes.”

“You are worried about how he will react.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I am.” Lydia admitted. “But he deserves the chance. I will ask him soon.”

”That’s good. This has been going on for far too long.”

“I know.” Lydia sighed. “But WRU seemed to be the only option, and I would never put Coriander through that.”

“Agreed.” Indira paused, listening to some indistinct loudspeaker announcement in the background. “I got to go. Keep me posted.”

“I will. Thank you again. You are the best!”

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#pet whump #bbu #whump fic #box boy multiverse #box boy universe #wru #pet whumpee #lydia and coriander #writeblr #original writing

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gottawhump · 3 months

Text

Choices

Maia

CW/Tw: pet whump, institutional slavery, BBU/WRU, death/euthanasia mention

It takes forever for the rich kid to decide who he’s taking home, like it always does, but she’s not surprised when he chooses the little dark-haired Romantic.

When the shelter gets a Romantic, they usually get snapped up quickly. Usually, they’re eager to go, trying out all their practiced charms to win over a new owner.

Not that one. He’d been an owner surrender. He was being replaced by a cat, apparently, from the pet shelter a few blocks down. His skin was heavily marked by hard use, with signs of past owners. Any potential new owner would only take him to destroy him, not to cherish.

She hopes that won’t happen to him with the rich kid.

He shrunk into himself in the shelter kennel, refusing to interact with staff or possible adopters. Eventually refusing to eat, which slated him for the end-of-life section.

She hopes he’ll be okay, in his new home.

Now there are only two in the EOL section. The Guard Dog, due to be put down for inappropriate aggressiveness, and the Domestic, because they need more space.

Their adoption fees are heavily discounted, but even at the employee rate, she thinks she can only afford one.

She has to choose.

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue

#pet whump #institutionalized slavery #bbu/wru #euthanasia mention #old friends #Maia the shelter worker

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justplainwhump · 2 months

Text

Shifting

Under the hands of rogue WRU handlers - and her best friend - Angel falls apart.

Written with @wildfaewhump, and part of the very fun (for us) AU where rogue handles Fin and Piers make themselves at home in Angel's house to teach the runaways their place. Lourdes and Fin are their characters. This complements this piece from Lourdes' pov, written by Vic; the AU is kicked of by this and this piece.

Cw BBU, recapture scenario, (re)conditioning, dubcon, referenced past and implied future noncon, past beating, dissociation home invasion, pet whump. Whumper POV in the beginning (whumpee POV later).

"Alright, Piers. I’ll bite." His boss has been rummaging through Freckles' freezer. When he turns around to face Piers, there's a bag of frozen edamame in his hand, pressed firmly to his bloody chin.

Piers smirks. Fin looks like an idiot. Getting himself punched by that pet, as she was almost getting away - there’s not much more humiliating for a seasoned handler like him.

Fin grimaces. "Ten bucks says Freckles is just as much of a bitch when your Doe-eyes is done with her. She almost broke my skull with that fucking bolt cutter. She would've pulled through, if we hadn't fucked that dumb stubborn strength right out of her."

Shrugging, Piers reaches for his beer and takes a swig. "She looked hot doing it though. And you got all your punches in in return. Trust me. Her body is worn down. Some... softer persuasion now, and her mind will follow suit."

"Bitch was about to sacrifice herself for Doe-Eyes."

"And Doe-Eyes is about to sacrifice her to us." Piers grins, remembering the little talk with his own pet before. Oh, they were devoted. They wanted to be a good pet - and they wanted Freckles to be a good pet with an adorable, naive despair. As if it'd do any of them any good. "Who's suited better to wipe out all the idiot beliefs she clings to, than the sweet little pet she claims to love?" He points at the dossiers on the pets' training they've gotten from the WRU servers. "All she needs to be is hardwired in her stupid head already. Let Doe-Eyes push her buttons, and Freckles will be as good as a factory reset."

Fin clicks his tongue. "And just how are they going to do this?"

"Sharing a bath." Piers points upstairs. "Freckles is pretty much out of it, but Doe-Eyes is pulling all the stops. It's fucking hot. You might want to go watch, I'll hold the fort. My gift to you."

Fin scoffs. "It needs to be a lot more than a sexy bath to earn you those ten bucks. I want my pet sweet, stupid and docile; and if she ever gets her hands on a fucking bolt cutter again I want her dumb little brain to know that the only way she's going to use it is to fuck herself with it, while I watch."

"Mhhh." Piers just smiles, as he raises his beer. "Bet."

"Please," Angel whimpers in the bathtub, as Lourdes’ expert fingers wander between her legs. Her friend’s touch is soft on her torn body. Gentle. Loving.

Relentless.

They don’t hear her. They just go on. Kissing her. Touching her. Soothing, promising, arguing.

She’s loved them, she thinks. They’ve loved her, too, differently.

Do they, still?

Does she, still?

Does it matter?

"It doesn’t matter," Lourdes whispers, as their fingers circle her clit. "You can keep making it hard, and keep hating it, and it's still going to happen. Why not let it be good? You know it could be so good."

Angel lets her head sink back against the side of the bathtub. There’s a bath cushion mounted there, softening the edge. She’s bought it, for them both, after they moved in, when they established their tradition of bath day, entire evenings spend in the warm bathroom and each other’s company, talking, drinking, listening.

Bath days are over.

It was an interlude.

Lourdes’ lips are on hers, tender and unrelenting. Their fingers slip into her, just as their tongue slips into her mouth.

Why not let it be good?

It’s up to her.

She can make it good. She knows. She’s been made to be good. Just as they have.

She just has to let go. Of the past, of the pain, of the lie she’s lived. Let go of Angel Harris. Let go.

Just be good.

Angel lets go.

The pet kisses back.

She still kisses back, when the face in front of her is pulled away, pressed down, replaced by someone else, a man, a handler with a deep gash on his chin and a cruel smile. The pet - 238, Freckles, Angel, it doesn't really matter, as long as she's being good, as long as she's feeling good - doesn’t even flinch.

She's still good.

Good pets don't remember.

They don't, they shouldn't remember being in this very same room, being a person, being assaulted by that same man in their own bathroom. Good pets don’t remember the dread, the struggle, the resistance.

Good pets don't care about anything but their owner's pleasure. Good pets don't care about other pets. Good pets don't have friends, who they need to worry about, drowning or hurting or dying. Friends are for people. Pets only have owners.

Handler Fin is the centre of her world, and he's kissing her, he's making her feel good, and she's kissing him back, with desperate passion.

Her hips shift as she spreads her legs wider for the attention of the other pet, a tool in her owner's hand, she doesn't know how to worry. She knows how to fuck and to kiss and to be good.

The other pet, the one kept under water, the one she doesn't worry about, is keeping their mouth over her clit, gently sucking at it.

"Good girl" he whispers in her ear. "But Freckles may only come if she persuades me that she wants it. Tell me how badly Freckles needs this."

Underwater, the other pet twitches, the handler’s hand pressing keeps them down.

The pet kisses him like she's she one drowning, desperate, needy, letting the warmth in her lower body simmer, wait, hold back for him. "Sir," she whispers, voice husky, just as she's learned. "I... I want this, I need this, but... I need you more. I... My pleasure is yours, Sir, please, allow me be good, let me finish, please."

Let the pet finish, please, let them go, let me stop caring, please, let me be good.

His free hand rests on her throat, squeezes lightly, almost loving. "Freckles has forgotten that I and me are no longer terms for her," he says mildly. "Freckles is not being very good. Why should a bad pet be allowed any pleasure?"

Under the surface, a hand digs into her thigh painfully.

The pet closes her eyes. She doesn't care. Please.

That's what pets are for.

That’s what the one under the water is for. The one whose mouth has lost its former expertise, whose tongue is just twitching desperately. Who still sends ripples of pleasure through her body, because she's made for pleasure, for giving and receiving, always, whenever.

That's what she's for. Her. Freckles.

"Freckles," she breathes. "Freckles is sorry, Freckles' learned other words for herself in training. Freckles mind is slow, because she's so confused, she has to learn so much, but... But she... She'll be better, she... Freckles is yours, Sir."

"Yes, Freckles is slow," he says. He tilts her head back against the tub, pulls her body by the neck until her back arches. "But Freckles will learn eventually. She has the rest of her life to learn."

She feels him shove the other pet’s head firmly against her cunt. "Come, Freckles," he commands.

The sound of his voice almost tips her over the edge almost as much as the pet's mouth, desperately sucking at her clit.

Waves of pleasure wash over her, make her forget the ache lingering deep in her body, as she lets her back arch even further, gives him everything she has to offer.

She's his. She knows. She's always been.

Her owner hauls the other pet out of the water by their hair, choking and fighting for breath, but Freckles has only eyes for him, and the affection she sees in his eyes. She is still trembling in the afterglow of her orgasm, the smile on her face all perfect, natural instinct.

"Good girl, Freckles," he praises. "Freckles is beautiful when she comes for me."

There's blood on her owner's chin, still. He's been hurt, by someone who didn't understand. Her fr-, Lou-, the other pet, they had always known.

It's stupid to fight. Pets are meant to lose. Made to lose. But if they accept that, if they do lose in just the right way, if they do what pets do and they are pretty and desirable and fuckable, they can be rewarded still. And she wants to. She wants to be good and loved, and safe, she wants his hands on her like just now, not like - not like on the previous her. The before. The bad pet.

He reaches into the water, lifting her out with ease. It's a short shock, when he lets go of his hold. She finds footing, but the muscles in her legs aren't prepared, are too weak to hold her upright. Her legs give in, and she yelps, as she collapses on the tiles at his feet, almost forgotten aches flaring up again all over her, echoes of him, her resistance, his anger. "I'm sorry," she whispers, gaze cast down in instant submission, "Sir, Freckles is so sorry, she's... You've had to punish her, and she's still hurting, still learning. It’s her fault."

"It’s alright." He smiles and strokes her head. "Freckles can crawl, if she can't stand." The affection in his touch makes the pet feel warm, in a way she hasn't felt warm for a long time. She nods, grateful for his guidance. Pets should always be grateful.

"Yes, Sir."

She can crawl, she can be on her knees, or on all fours, like a good pet.

"Dry yourself first," he commands, settling himself on the side of the bathtub.

She smiles at him, as she gets on her knees and lifts the towel to dry herself, careful and sensual, making sure the movements of the towel emphasizes every part of her body. She knows he likes her breasts, she's seen him leer at them so often, and thus she starts there, working through the pain when the towel runs over welts and bruises.

She knows he likes her pain, too. She’s known before, she knows now, as he palms himself lazily through his pants, watching her.

By her side, she knows the other pet is drying themself as well. She doesn’t look over. She doesn't care about them, because it would only hurt them. Which doesn't make sense, because not wanting them to get hurt is caring, and she does not care. She bites her lips. It's okay to not understand. Pets are stupid. And she's nothing more than a pet.

"Let's go to your room," her owner orders. "Get you ready."

She tries to push herself up to her feet once again. Her legs still can't make it. And he's leaving, steps out on the corridor expecting her to follow. She lets herself sink down on all fours and crawls after him, fighting through the burning sting of the soft carpet on her chafed knees.

"Gonna find you something cute and fuckable to wear, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. The pet name soothes her pain, and she lets the warmth of her own affection for him wash over the strange feeling of wrongness. This is not his house, but she is his - and so it's natural for him to move around like he's a ruler, and for her to follow.

He stops in front of the bedrooms, as if waiting for her to show him which door to open, and she glances at the one he's looking for, crawls into the room when he opens it.

The bedroom is large, all oriented towards the big windows, decorated with soft colours and light wood. The pet remembers being happy about this room, about it catching the vibes of the sky on a spring day. A bouquet of fresh flowers stands on a desk in the corner, next to a computer and headphones and a half finished glass of water. The bed isn't made, the blue duvet crumpled next to a stripped off set of clothes. The person who lived here has just left to take a shower.

The pet knows she won't come back.

#bbu #pet whump #nsfwhump #lourdes the romantic #angel the romantic #handler piers scott #handler fin somers #noncon cw #dubcon cw #conditioning #bye angel #lourdes did it #shes gone

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ashintheairlikesnow · 10 months

Note

"I/You made a mess." - five line prompt for boost lol.

CW: BBU, pet whump, institutionalized whump, dehumanizing language, aftermath of dubcon

Boost's Stuff

Handler Thompson - Clint - never even takes his pants all the way off. He lays there panting afterwards with them off his hips, his black uniform shirt rucked up to show a flash of stomach paler than his arms and his face and his neck, the only bits Boost usually ever sees.

"Good boy," Clint says, breathy, leaning down to nuzzle along the angle of his jaw. Boost shivers, eyes wide, staring with his head tipped back because he can see the blue sky.

Outside smells like cut grass and rain. Smells he can't remember but knows anyway. The air is humid and hot, the pavement parking lot drying after the storm passed. The sky is so, so blue.

He hadn't realized it would be so incredibly blue. He hadn't understood that it would seem so immense, so far overhead. He hadn't known it would be frightening, like it could crash down any second, cracks in a ceiling larger than his imagination had ever been able to grasp.

Clint chuckles, warm air against his ear, and Boost shivers again. Instinctively, his arms go up. Bizarrely, Clint leans into it, shifting so Boost can hold onto him as if fighting for an anchor to keep him close to earth. "Hey. You made a mess, did you notice?"

Boost blinks, briefly confused, and then realizes what the handler means. His stomach is marked, sticky, familiar only from his own hand in the showers or those brief times he is utterly alone.

But this time...

"I've never... with someone else before," He whispers. He doesn't know if his body ever has, but he hasn't. Not from someone else's hand, someone else's moving hips, someone else's stinging pain and wavelike pleasures. His skin itches. Messes are bad, and must be cleaned.

But Clint is heavy, and the sky through the window, where he lays on his back on the backseat of Clint's beautiful shining car, is so so blue.

"Yeah, I guess we don't usually give a fuck if you have fun or not," Clint says, careless. He doesn't sound guilty or regretful. Just stating a fact. His fingers graze down Boost's side until he shivers again, tightening around the softening fullness inside him, making Clint groan and lean even more heavily on him. The closure for a seatbelt digs into his other side, down near his hip. The leather sticks to his back. The door handle jams into the top of his head, aching after the rocking rhythm they kept up for so long.

"You really like it out here," Clint says, thoughtfully. "Don't you? You like fucking me out here."

I like the sky, Boost thinks. I don't care about you. I just want more of the sky.

"Yeah," He says, trying to think of how the Romantics do this. Flirty smiles and batting eyelashes don't feel right. But he softens his voice a little, shifts his legs apart as if urging Clint to do it again, what he just did, what they do twice a week now. "I do like it. A lot. Will you bring me out here more often?"

"Sure. You're a fun time." Clint, to his surprise, kisses him. A full on kiss on the lips, and Boost stills but then, clumsily, tries to kiss back. "Next week. I have a long weekend out of town. But next week, huh? You, me, condoms, and a good time had by all."

Boost swallows, and gently kisses Clint. "Yeah, please, Handler Clint. Thank you, sir." He keeps his voice low.

A few more weeks of this and he'll ask to get fast food somewhere. French fries. He smells them sometimes when handlers bring in outside food as treats for the good pets who did well in training.

Weeks of being good, getting food and drink. Maybe things he can sneak back to the others. Then ask to see the handler's apartment. Get off of WRU property, away from those walls topped with razor wire and spotlights. Get somewhere with more grass and trees. Spend some time making Clint think they're so good together. Boost is a good maintenance worker even if he's a failed pet.

Boost can be so, so, so good.

Until Clint thinks he'd never try to run. Until he is trusted and believed and has his chance. Then, he'll have all the blue sky he wants.

But he feels bad about what he'll do to Clint to get it. Just not bad enough to stop.

#whump #boost has a brain #dubcon tw #aftermath of dubcon #bbu #pet whump #box boy universe #box boy #intimate whumper #sorry Clint you are not a hero here #and boost can rescue himself

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pigeonwhumps · 2 months

Text

Betrayal

Bug and Company masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @den-of-whump @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Sarita is betrayed.

1.7k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, rape, rape with an object, attempted gang rape, gagged, collar, betrayal, manhandling, talk of past rape, gang rape, violent sexual assault and forcing to rape, victim-blaming, victim-shaming, derogatory sexual language, implied drugging, electric shocks, seriously unsafe sex (in an "I looked up the possible medical consequences and wrote it anyway" kinda way), wrist slashing

Sarita's halfway down the upstairs hallway when she hears voices.

Annie, one of the younger safehouse owners (leaders, they insist, but she can't think of them as anything except owners), asked her to stay in her room today. That's okay. She's not supposed to be in the common areas with the others anyway, and she doesn't want to go near them while they're talking. They might insult her again (dumb slut, whore, lucky pampered pet), and it's easier to pretend they accept her when she can't hear them.

Annie's nice to her, at least, even if nobody else is. Everyone else avoids her, or talks down to her, her opinion worth less because she was fucking raped, apparently. But Annie smiles and talks to her, not treating her like she's a fucking plague carrier. She's not so full of all that Christian hypocritical bullshit that's uncomfortably close to what her last owners and their pastor used to spout.

In fact, the food she ate this morning was from Annie. She didn't manage to eat much, it's too long since she had a chance to and now she can't, but it was tasty anyway. She's saved some for later, just in case. Annie also had a long conversation with her about how they can make her feel more comfortable.

Annie's the only one here who doesn't either actively avoid her or insult her. At least, not within earshot. That's something Sarita's never really had.

And if she has an ally and she's warm and dry and her stomach is full, she can bear anything else. She feels warm and sleepy right now, just a little bit.

Annie asked her to stay in her room, so she will, but she needs to use the toilet desperately. So she leaves, padding silently down the corridor, and pauses at the sound of her own name.

"The Romantic. Sarita. Yes, she's just upstairs. She should be ready by now."

Sarita peers over the banister to see Annie, talking with– with–

She swallows. She didn't train with WRU, exactly, but she's seen the adverts, knows the uniforms, recognises the demeanor from her own centre.

These are WRU handlers.

What are they– why–

Except she knows why, doesn't she. They're here for her. Annie, Annie who she liked, who she thought liked her, Annie who now makes startled but completely unrepentant eye contact with her and points.

"There. That's her. She must've woken early."

Sarita turns and runs. She's not going to make it down the stairs, not with Annie and the two handlers blocking her path, so she goes for her room. She picks up a lamp and hits the corner of the locked window, shattering it. There's a flat roof below which she jumps down onto, and then onto the ground.

Ow, fuck, her ankle. Well, she's run on worse, it's not that bad. She sprints around the side of the house and hits something vaguely soft.

Fuck, fuck, no. She doesn't manage to scramble away fast enough to stop the sweaty hands grasping her arms, tight enough to bruise.

She won't go down without a fight.

She kicks and squirms, trying to pull away. An arm loops around her neck, almost throttling her, and she tries to bite it.

It doesn't work. It doesn't fucking work. She screams as something cracks hard against her side, electricity coursing through her body. It stuns her, and when she can move again they keep stunning her until they can throw her into a nearby alley.

She jerks for a bit, the pain and sensation of numerous electric shocks still hitting her. And then she squirms when she's able to, but it's useless as a woman pins her down, fitting a collar that's one notch too tight. Sarita gasps.

"There. That's better," says a man. They're both smirking down at her maliciously and she knows what that smile means even before he says it. "We're going to have our turns with you and then return you to WRU. That okay? Well, I don't actually care about your opinion, because you're a pet and you don't have one. Spread your legs, little pet, and bring your knees up. Let's see what we're working with."

Sarita considers her options. She can't escape right now. The handlers are too alert. So she needs to get them to let down their guards.

Hating herself for it, she does as they say.

They examine her visually, and poke at her with their fingers and batons. The woman whistles.

"Damn. You look good. I bet you were popular. Had a lot of sex, little whore?"

Sarita closes her eyes, because yes, yes she has. She's never had an owner who didn't rape her or hire her out to be raped, or both, and on the streets it was even worse. When people paid in money, or shelter, or food, that wasn't too bad. She chose them, and they were usually okay. But sometimes she let herself be raped so she wouldn't be ratted out, or she was forced upon because as an escaped pet she had no recourse. She's been gang-raped more than once, and some people were so violent she thinks she probably has permanent damage.

Some people forced their own pets to hurt her. That was the worst.

She always had to move when people assaulted her on discovering she was a pet. She had to move a lot.

One of the handlers slaps her across the face and she snaps out of the memories, jerking her eyes open.

"Don't disappear on us just yet. It's less fun. Open your mouth." She obeys, and the woman inserts a pecker gag, tightening it around her head. Sarita gags on the fake penis. "Sorry. But we've decided what we're doing and we can't have you screaming the neighbourhood down. Also, it just looks good."

The woman strokes her cheek and she has to fight not to jerk away. "Look at the fear. It's intoxicating. That's why I joined the recapture squad. Well, that and the perks." She looks Sarita directly in the eye, seemingly soaking up every emotion that Sarita tries desperately, fruitlessly, not to give her. "You know, it doesn't actually matter if we damage you. We can just tell our bosses you were already damaged. The baton has a very low setting, anyway, that no-one ever uses. Consider that your warning."

Sarita really, really doesn't want to go through this. But she can't escape without it.

The man holds up his baton, smiling gleefully as her eyes widen. No. No no no, fuck no, please.

It has a fairly thin end, this one, but she still screams as he forces it inside her.

And then he turns it on.

It's the lowest setting, she knows that, it's not going to kill her, but it still hurts, the shocks burn, it's way too much and she's not aware of anything else as she screams herself hoarse.

She's limp and drifting on pain when the handler finally removes the baton and inserts his penis instead. It takes a huge effort to desperately pull herself together. She'll never escape if she's not ready after this. She wants to escape now, but she stands no chance.

So she waits. She hates it, but she waits, letting him do what he wants without struggling. A sated owner– user– rapist– whatever is easier to escape from.

She scrabbles around with one hand, finally finding the piece of broken glass she was looking for. They're all over these alleys, and she certainly felt it in this one.

Eventually, he finishes up with a groan and withdraws, spilling all over Sarita's face.

"Oh, that was good," he moans. "Wish I could do it again but we gotta get you back to work."

"Hey. It's my turn first," objects the second handler. "Come on, little slut. I reckon we'll start with some knife play, how does that sound? I have a blindfold right here."

Sarita puts on her best puppy dog, Romantic, oh-look-at-me-I'm-such-a-helpless-and-vulnerable-pet expression. It helps that she's already scared out of her mind. Both handlers relax.

Then she moves.

She knees the first handler in the balls, springs to her feet, slashes the second across the wrist with the piece of broken glass clenched tightly in her hand, and runs, ignoring the yells and curses of pain, the unsteady footsteps, the pain in her groin, the blood running down her hand to her wrist, her forearm, sharp pain emanating from it.

She needs to cover the barcode again, she needs to remove the gag and the collar, she needs to get away, she needs– she needs–

She needs to breathe.

She doesn't know where she's going to go now. She's sure as fuck not going to another safehouse, though. She doesn't know why they're called 'safe'. There must be another definition of it that she's not aware of.

Or maybe they're just not including people like her. Dumb sluts who lie on their backs all day because they're not good for anything else, nevermind her actual skills outside of that fucking area.

She runs unsteadily, staggered, through the back alleys, the pain catching up with her. She disposes of the collar and gag, throwing them in the opposite direction at a junction in disgust, hoping to throw the handlers off her scent. She's covered in blood and grime and torn clothes and pained tears and she's limping, she needs to find somewhere to clean up or she'll be found out immediately.

But she doesn't know where to go. She wants to cry and scream and rage at the world that just keeps pulling the rug out from under her but she doesn't have time for that. She doesn't have time to think about what just happened, because if she does she'll throw up.

What the fuck is she supposed to do now?

#whump #whump writing #nsfwhump #pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #box babe #lady whump #whumpee and whumper #sarita oc #bug and company #ftr the other rescues are out of the house #annie and mrs jones and any others wouldnt want to traumatise the 'good ones' like that

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snakebites-and-ink · 4 months

Text

Going Home

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Not entirely happy with the chapter title, so I may change it later, but it was bugging me not having a proper title. So this will do for now.

CW: BBU, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioned whumpee, Stockholm syndrome it's fluffier than this makes it sound though

Asher pulled into the driveway. The car his owner used was already there, which meant he’d made it home before Asher, as happened more often than not.

Asher opened the door and went inside. He hung up his jacket, then sighed contentedly. He was glad to be back home. He loved the freedom and privileges that came with his unusual—or unusual for a pet, anyways—lifestyle, but he could only fully relax at home with his Master.

The pet followed the faint sound of sizzling to the kitchen. Master was making dinner. He often did. Asher wasn’t a good cook. Master was wealthy enough that he could have simply ordered them food every night, but he believed in having at least half of their dinners home-cooked. Occasionally Asher had felt bad about leaving his Master to do all the work in that regard, but Master had reassured him that he didn’t mind; if he’d wanted a Domestic, that’s what he would have bought.

Master glanced up when Asher came into the room, likely alerted by some small noise. He gave Asher a smile.

“Hi, Master,” Asher said, smiling back.

“Hey, Asher. How was work?” Master’s eyes went back to the food he was sautéing, but Asher could tell he was still paying attention.

“It was okay. A little tense, like it often is.”

Master nodded once and hmmed sympathetically.

“What about you? How was your day?” Asher asked him.

“Oh, same old. No complaints. You know I don’t have as many stressors at work as you do.”

Asher nodded slightly. He did know. Master didn’t have to deal with being a pet in a human workplace, obviously, but that wasn’t the only thing which made his work more on the easy side. Master was a higher-up in his company, so there was less pressure for him to do much work himself as long as he made sure everyone else was doing their jobs right.

Master turned off the stove, and moved the food to the table while Asher grabbed plates and silverware from the cupboard. He set them down in their places.

“Alright, dig in,” Master said.

Asher happily did so. It was tasty. The food Master gave him pretty much always was, but no matter how often he ate good food, Asher knew not to take it for granted. Not after the months in training when he’d been given nothing but the dreadful stuff that passed as food in the WRU.

The two made a little idle chat as they ate, talking about their days and a few recent interactions they’d had with people.

Asher and his owner often hung out together after dinner, since they didn’t see each other much earlier during the day, at least on weekdays. One of the downsides to being a pet with an actual job. Tonight the two of them picked out a few boardgames to play together. They had fun, and it made Asher feel warm and happy. One-on-one time with his Master made Asher feel wanted. And as a pet, he needed to be wanted.

When it was time to turn in for the night, both went to Master’s room. They nearly always slept in the same bed, but it was entirely platonic and chaste. After all, Master had bought a Platonic, not a Romantic. Asher loved the cuddles. A soft bed and warm blankets were nice, but not nearly as important as fulfilling his deep need for touch. Master seemed to enjoy the cuddles too; he often held or petted Asher.

Asher contentedly snuggled into the blankets with his owner. He nuzzled into Master’s side. As he settled there, he felt a hand in his hair, making pleasant stroking motions. Asher let out a happy sleepy sigh. “Good night, Master.”

“Good night, bud.”

#oh you sweet boy. You are so brainwashed #yes Asher’s owner calls him “bud” I make no apologies #and he makes no apologies #pet whump #box boy universe #BBU #whump #whump writing #conditioned whumpee #stockholm syndrome #original fic #writing #fiction #oc #ocs #my writing #my posts #Asher #Asher series

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pumpkin-spice-whump · 11 days

Text

Try

Wow a new Jesse! I've finally been thinking about him more. Not a ton happens in this piece but hey content!

CWs: bbu, grief, OCD, anxiety, references to noncon

Masterlist

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Jesse couldn’t take it anymore. He had been at the safehouse three weeks -- almost four -- and he had hardly slept more than four hours a night the entire time.

His whole chest just ached. He felt so -- he had no idea what he felt, but it was bad. It was as if all his insides had gone rotten. He was decomposing from the inside out, and it started with his heart. The heavy hole in his chest couldn’t be explained any other way.

He could hardly function at all. He couldn’t pay attention when people talked to him or during group. They all thought he was simply still ‘adjusting’, but Jesse was never going to be adjusted. He couldn’t, it wasn’t in his DNA. He was always going to hurt, always going to be scared and sick and unsatisfied.

He just needed to know. If he knew they were okay, he would breathe easier, he knew it. An integral part of him was ripped away -- as important as his heart or lungs, and he needed to know his girls were safe and okay and alive --

Of course they’re alive. Why wouldn’t they be? They had to be because if they weren’t and it was all Jesse’s fault then he wouldn’t be able to live with himself and -- well. He just couldn’t do it.

Jesse kept being told he was so lucky for getting out, so brave for taking that step. What step? Abandoning his family? It wasn’t brave it was pure hostile cowardice. Contessa said it mostly. She won’t stop saying she’s proud he left -- especially because he’s a Platonic. But he wasn’t brave and he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stay in that house.

If being free was constantly feeling this awful, he didn’t want it.

Even if Mr. Bakeman took him back to WRU… At least they would get rid the memories and free him of this torment.

So Jesse was leaving. He had to, he couldn’t stay anymore. He couldn’t bear the pain. He didn’t let himself think through how’d get there. He was far away -- hours of driving. He had no idea how he’d make it on foot, but surely he’d hitch rides from people. He could…. He could pay them somehow. It made him shudder to think how, but if it was necessary he’d do it.

He saved all the food brought to his room for a couple days prior. It wasn’t much, but it would do. He hadn’t really left his room in a week or so, he hardly left before that either. No one would miss him.

Well. Maybe August, the other platonic. He tried to talk to Jesse whenever he had the energy to leave his room. Jesse could tell he wanted a friend. That made him feel a little guilty. Not enough to change his mind, though.

The stairs creaked as he hurried down, but Jesse tried not to care. He’d be gone so fast no one would have time to come looking. He thought anyway.

He had hardly pulled the thrifted coat he was given over his shoulders when he heard the footsteps behind him.

Jesse whipped his head around, heart in his throat. Would Cooper stop him? Would he drag him upstairs and lock him away, yelling about how ungrateful he was? Would he finally hurt him? Jesse should run, he needed to go now before hands wrapped around him, dragging him away from freedom--

“Jesse?”

It’s not Cooper. It’s Gwen. Jesse hadn’t really talked to her since that first day, when she had a migraine. She was better after a couple days, Jesse could hear her melodic voice and laughter through the door to his room. Even though his palpable misery, Jesse could see how the orange nightlight lit up her skin, casting shadows on the gentle curve of her jaw, her round nose. She wore a baggy t shirt and sweatpants, hair tucked up in a bonnet.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of herself.

Jesse faltered at the sadness in her voice. How could she be sad for him? She didn’t even know him.

“I--” he cleared his throat, eyes darting to the stairs. Did others hear him come down? “I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“I need to go back. I need to -- I just have to go back.”

“To your owners?”

“Yes.” He took a step back, one hand on the doorknob. Leave. Run. Go before you can be stopped. You have to see them.

“Wait!” Gwen took a couple steps closer, but not too close. Jesse got the distinct impression of trying to get a stray cat to come to you without wanting to scare them off. That’s how he felt, prickly and terrified. “Don’t go.”

Jesse raised his free hand, turning his collar around. One, two, three, four. He was the only one still wearing a collar. He couldn’t make himself take it off and lose that last connection to Abi, Eva, and Harper. His girls. “You don’t get it.”

“I know. It’s different for platonics. But August gets it. And Cooper can help--”

Jesse was shaking his head before she was even done talking. “No, no August doesn’t get it.” His voice was suddenly thick with tears, and he did his best to swallow them down. “No one gets it. I have to -- I have to do this.”

It’s not a Platonic thing. Even he knows it wasn’t supposed to go this far. It’s Jesse. It’s just a Jesse thing. He’s broken, something’s wrong with him. And he has to do this.

“Even though they hurt you?” His eyes snap up to hers. “Isn’t that why you left? They hurt you too badly? That’s why I left.”

He mind flashed to that night, the one he didn’t let himself think of, the one that made him leave. He’d see his girls if he went back, yes, but… but what if Mr. Bakeman didn’t decide to kill him or send him back? What if… what if he kept him and forced him to endure what he did that night? Rented him out, strung him up naked and terrified, allowed others to destroy him again and again for the rest of his life? The pain from that night was finally gone, and the thought of being used like that for as long as Mr. Bakeman wanted made the tears he was holding at bay fall.

Jesse swallowed, trying to soothe the tightness in his throat. The brass doorknob was warm in his hand.

“Will you stop me?” he whispered. He couldn’t tell if it sounded like a question or a plea. “Are you going to get Cooper?”

Gwen shook her head. “Even if I did he wouldn’t stop you. I won’t either. You can do as you please. I don’t want you to leave but I won’t stop you.”

Jesse should’ve opened the door and run then. Guilt ran hot and heavy as tar down his back, coating him in a thick layer of it. He felt ill. “Why don’t you want me to leave?” he found himself asking.

Gwen shrugged, suddenly shy. One of her hands went to instinctively push hair behind her ears, instead just pulling down the edge of her bonnet. “I want to know you, Jesse. And I -- I think you can get better. I know you can. If you give yourself a chance.”

Jesse sniffed. He twisted his collar round again, thinking of his positions like a good little pet. Good little pets don’t live in safehouses and run away from home. His hand was starting to slip off the doorknob. “I just miss them,” he confessed miserably. “I need to know they’re okay.”

Gwen nodded. “The children?”

Fresh tears fell. “Yes.”

“What will happen to you though? I don’t want you hurt. You just got here.”

Jesse’s eyebrows raised in -- he didn’t know what emotion. Everything inside him was so tangled up there was no telling which way was which. He couldn’t think through anything, just feeling the overwhelming despair and misery and confusion and confliction -- what could he possibly do?

Gwen stepped closer. “Try. Or just try to try. Talk in group. Go to therapy. Give it -- give it a month at least. Four more weeks and see how you feel. Please, Jesse?”

“What do I do?” he said aloud, voice weak and desperate.

Jesse had spent a good portion of his time in this house crying and panicky, eyes red and throat raw. He started to fall apart again, right in front of Gwen. His hand slipped off the doorknob, hanging uselessly beside himself as he struggled to get ahold of his breathing.

But Abi and Eva and Harper and Mr. Bakeman and WRU and Abi and Eva and Harper and the house and safety and pain and suffering and Abi and Eva and Harper and rape and pain and death and Abi and Eva and Harper--

How can I ever be happy again?

His face screwed up, eyes on the floor. He slumped his shoulders, backpack falling with a muted thump. Gwen closed the distance between them and helped Jesse out of his coat, hanging it back up. She led him upstairs, back to his lonely room where he fell into the bed unceremoniously. Gwen was the only thing holding him up on the way there.

Gwen left, closing the door behind her. Before it clicked, Jesse heard her speak. “Just try Jesse. I hope you’re still here in the morning.”

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Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @boxboysandotherwhump @hold-him-down @winedark-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @cyborg0109

#bbu #box boy universe #whump #pet whump #recovery #tw ocd #tw anxiety #tw referenced noncon #847481: jesse #gwen is sweet #coopers safehouse

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ocean-blue-whump · 9 months

Text

Goodbye for Now

End of an era for Star and Comet.

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Tagging - @ashintheairlikesnow @painful-pooch @whumpinggrounds @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump

CW: brief mention of weight, mentions of injuries, BBU/WRU

***

Comet was trained to be invisible. He was trained to walk silently, trained to never make a noise, to stand quietly in the corner until he was needed by his owner. Every single step he takes was carefully programmed and then beaten into him until he knew how to behave perfectly. Every single memory he has was built to make him into the best dog he could be. And yet, it’s these skills that he’ll use one final time to disobey his owner.

He doesn’t make a noise when he sneaks across the hallway to the coat closet. Already, he’s broken a rule. They’re not supposed to leave the pet room after Hunter puts them to bed, but he snuck out, taking care so the door didn’t creak on his way out.

The next rule he breaks is so much easier. He moves silently to the coat closet and opens the door, reaching in to grab one of Hunter’s jackets. It’s a long wool waistcoat, and it’ll dwarf Star, but Comet knows it’s an expensive jacket so it must be warm. He won’t get far if Star gets too cold, and he might need her to look out for him.

His heart races, but not once does he make a noise. Silence is the only thing in Hunter’s hallway. The pet goes perfectly unnoticed, unheard. His handler would be proud. It takes a lot of work to take the noise out of something, but here he is. The silent Guard Dog.

Hunter will regret having Comet in the background. He saw everything, had hours and hours to memorize every detail of this place. He knows the layout more than he knows his own hands. Tomorrow morning, their owner will come in to hurt Star more, but they’ll be long gone.

Hopefully.

It’s been so different since Sunny died. Star…what’s happened to her…it turns his stomach. He might have trained him to be quiet, but he wasn’t trained to watch and be okay with what happens.

He loves her. That’s supposed to be a word for humans, but it’s what he feels for her. And that love is why they can’t stay in this godforsaken place anymore.

Hopefully.

The door to the pet room opens just as silently as it did before, and Comet can’t help but stare at the beautiful Romantic in the center of the room. Her too skinny body is sprawled out on the sheets, covered by a thin pink slip. It’s barely enough fabric to cover her sensitive parts. Bruises and cuts mark her pale skin, not an inch that doesn’t have an injury or a scar. When Comet stares at the bruise on her cheekbone, all he feels is rage. He wants to slam Mr. Bianchi into a wall. He wants to tear his throat out with his teeth. He wants to break every single bone in that man’s body and he wants him to feel the pain that his Star feels every day.

He wants to murder Mr. Bianchi like that man murdered Sunny. And he knows it makes him a bad pet and he knows he should be put down for these thoughts but he can’t help it. She’s gorgeous. She’s suffering. She needs to be safe.

If he has to watch Mr. Bianchi beat her again, he’ll lose his mind.

Comet gently kneels next to Star, running his fingers over her bruised skin. She’s so pretty…she’s always been so pretty but it’s not his Star if she’s not spitting fire at everyone who comes close to her. He signed up for this, they both did, but this…

She has a black eye. Comet didn’t notice that before.

He wraps her in the jacket and lifts her up, holding her close to his chest. One last thing. He already took his collar off, but now he works on hers, finally popping the latch free. Her neck is red and scarred and he feels like he should look away, but he doesn’t.

He walks with the girl held in his arms, and he stops right at the front door of this godforsaken mansion. Behind him, he was forced to beat Star on his first day here. To his left, one of the guests at a party was slapping her around. To the right, Hunter Bianchi killed Sunny, and with him, a part of Star died too.

They signed up for this, but Comet can’t take it anymore. Maybe it makes him a bad pet. Maybe he should be scared or sorry or maybe he should just turn around.

He opens the door, steps out into the cool night air, and doesn’t look back.

She’ll be okay. Tomorrow they’re going to be in a new place, tired and cold and hungry, but he’s got her. Hunter can’t hurt them anymore.

Comet would run and fight forever to keep her safe.

#bbu #box boy universe #comet #star #hunter bianchi #pet whump #blue's words

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itsawhumpsideblog · 7 months

Text

The Safehouse, pt. 2

CW: for institutionalized slavery, mentions of abuse, treatment of people as things

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement:

"It can be difficult to know how to welcome rescuees into your home for the first time, so begin by considering the hierarchy of needs. Most rescuees will be undernourished, exhausted, and in need of a wash. Be gentle with them. As far as is possible, respect their autonomy and preferences, if they are able to express them."

Tim was the first one awake the next day and he was glad of it. Although he didn't know what time their new charges would arrive, it was unlikely to be before 9 o'clock and the early hour gave him the chance to make coffee and sit quietly in the recliner and gather his wits about him. He rocked back and forth, slowly, gently, and wondered how the next morning would be, with five of them present.

Very different, he was sure.

It was nearly an hour before the silence was broken and Angie came down the stairs to start her day. Tim blushed slightly as he realized that he was still in his bathrobe, while she had showered and dressed.

"I should-" he started, putting his coffee down and shifting to stand, but she shook her head and waved a hand in friendly dismissal.

"Don't worry about it. I mean, I don't care and we're supposed to do things normally- like in a normal home. As much as possible, anyway."

"That's true." Tim smiled nervously and sat back. He watched out the back window at the birds sitting around the bird feeder, feathers fluffy in the cold, and went over some of the things their contacts had told them during training.

You will have to give them explicit instructions. Ask them if they are able to speak and tell them they are allowed to do so. Monitor their meals to be sure they are eating. Watch them closely, because they won't tell you if something is wrong, but also don't hover or crowd them. Don't take it personally when they're afraid of you. Never speak angrily or raise your voice in front of them.

There had been so much. Tim hoped he would remember it all and that he would be able to do the right thing when the time came. Above all, he did not want to fail his charges.

You will get a lot of things wrong without meaning to, their trainer had said, because rescuees are traumatized and conditioned not to trust you. Don't give up.

When the coffee was gone, Tim went upstairs to get ready for the day and then back down to the couch. He and Angie had breakfast and put something on TV, but neither of them paid attention. They sat quietly, pretending to watch the show, until, shortly before lunch, the doorbell finally rang.

Tim met Angie at the door as she flew down the stairs and they exchanged a look that was apprehension and excitement all at once. Tim remembered to take a breath and Angie to smooth her hair down, as if they were what they appeared to be, an ordinary couple who had bought and paid for human beings. Just the perception of it made Tim want to be sick, or punch something, but the ends, he felt sure, justified the means and he could play the part just long enough for the delivery to be completed.

"Where do you want 'em?" asked the man who stood at the door with a large crate on some kind of hand trolley. A white van idled at the foot of the driveway and Angie wondered how many people were inside it.

"Here in the foyer is fine," she said, when she remembered that a question had been asked. The man tipped the first crate off the trolley before he returned to the van to retrieve what looked like another large dog crate.

"Gotta take these back with me," he said. "WRU can't afford to give them away, but we do sell them in our online store."

"Thank you for letting us know," Tim said, without making any promises.

"I thought there were supposed to be three?" Angie asked, peering out the door at the van.

"I only have two for this address," the man said. "You'll have to call the WRU, ask what happened to the rest of the order." Tim looked over at Angie, who shrugged and nodded. It would probably be best to look like they were no more concerned than any other "customer" would be.

"Alright, well," the man went on, "They're yours now. Remember, you asked for used so there's no returns and you get what you get." The man looked bored, like someone who wanted to finish his deliveries and go out for a drink.

Tim tried to keep his hands from shaking as he opened the first crate. Angie unhooked the other and they swung the doors open and stepped back, leaving enough room for the crates' occupants to exit.

"Well, I'll just go, then," the delivery driver was saying as he piled the crates back on to the trolley, but Angie and Tim barely heard him and did little more than wave as he left. He had been expecting a tip.

Inside the house, Tim found himself staring, a little more shyly than he would have liked, at the two young men kneeling in his front hall. They must be about his own age, he realized, and was unsure what to do with the thought.

Fortunately, Angie was there and didn't seem nervous at all. If anything, she was excited. "Welcome to our home," she said in a gentle voice, but Tim could hear the adrenaline behind it. "We're very glad to have you all here."

"Thank you, mistress," one of them murmured. Angie looked at Tim, who nodded reassuringly. This was what they had been told to expect.

"You can call me Angie," she said. "And this is Tim."

Tim smiled shyly and waved a hand in greeting. He studied their first rescuees as Angie continued talking.

"Do you have a name?" she asked the boy on the right, the one who had spoken.

"This pet was called Francis, previously," he said. "But you may name him anything you like."

"Would you like to go on being called Francis?" she asked.

"You may name this pet anything you like," he repeated and she nodded, although he couldn't see it. Francis' posture was graceful and tightly composed, which almost disguised the fact that he was shivering slightly; he was kneeling with his hands placed delicately on his thighs and his elbows tucked in. His head tilted just slightly downwards so that he was looking somewhere around Angie's feet. He had curly brown hair that would need a wash and Tim wondered what color his eyes were.

"How about you?" Angie had moved on to speak to the other boy, crouching down so that she wasn't looming over him.

He did not reply, but looked shyly up at her and glanced at Tim, too, nearly meeting their eyes. His expression held an anxious question, but he did not open his mouth.

"Can you speak?" Tim asked, as carefully as he could. "That is- are you able..."

The boy looked very nervous and dropped his eyes to the floor as he shook his head, a small movement that Tim nearly missed.

"That's all right," Tim assured him. "We don't mind. Angie, did we get any papers? Those might have a name on them."

She looked around the entryway as though papers might have fallen out and gone unnoticed, but there was nothing. "No matter, though," she said to the boy. "We'll come up with a good name for you."

He raised his head again and his eyes were shining, with something approaching a smile on his face. Angie returned the look, warmly. In truth, Tim found this boy a little difficult to look at. Francis was in need of a wash but had no outward signs of injury, whereas this boy had clearly been though something terrible. His hair would probably be some sort of blond when it was clean and his eyes were blue; his fair skin was marked with bruises and one eye was badly swollen. Worst, he held his hands folded across his body and Tim could see that they had been terribly injured. Still, he was watching Tim and Angie with a kind of expectant hopefulness that made Tim want to cry.

There was no time for that, however. Both boys were both too thin by far and Tim itched to start lunch and feed them adequately. Angie evidently had the same impulse, because she straightened up and said, "Who's hungry? I think it's time to go explore the kitchen and see what we can find."

Next time: The house has lunch together and the rescuees begin to form first impressions.

Master Post

#box boy universe #box boy whump #BBU #whump #whumpee

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maracujatangerine · 11 months

Text

77. Safety

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

White planes sped up on the tarmac outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, faster and faster until they rose up into the cerulean sky.

Brutus ignored them. If one of the pilots would lose control his Master might die, but that was a threat that was beyond his control. Focus on the threat that you can affect.

Instead, he let his dark eyes sweep over the crowd inside the airport. Walking half a step behind his Master’s left shoulder, Brutus saw passers-by swerve to avoid crossing their path, idle glances snagging on his collar in curiosity or apprehension.

This was normal, the way that young, bespectacled father pulled his small daughter aside, the way the two elderly ladies in hijabs took a few steps back, the wave of attention rippling through the crowd as they passed. This was, in a way, what his Master had paid the WRU for.

What Brutus was looking for was something out of the ordinary, someone moving with unexpected purpose, someone running or throwing or standing still in just the wrong way. The state of hypervigilance felt almost like meditation, a singular focus that absorbed all thought.

This time, it was not needed. No threat appeared. After an uneventful taxi ride through bustling streets they arrived at a double suite on the fifteenth floor. After taking a quick shower, the pet’s Master told the guard dog to stay.

“I won’t be needing you tonight.” Wayland Jones said, as he walked out the door.

Brutus did his exercise routine, sit-ups and push-ups and stretches. He also had a shower, in the second, smaller bathroom.

With his still damp hair curling around his face, Brutus sat down at the ebony desk and disassembled and cleaned his handgun with smooth, well-practiced precision.

A guard dog should be like a gun, his handler’s voice echoed in his mind, collected, calm, unmoving as long as the safety is on, but capable of tremendous violence if your owner releases the catch.

Reassembling the weapon, Brutus laid it to the side. He did feel twinges of concern at his Master being out and about alone, but Wayland Jones had ordered him to stay. Master knows best. Brutus tried to reassure himself.

The guard dog straightened out the room and drank some water in the bathroom to make his rumbling stomach quiet down. Then, finally, he turned off the lights and sat down in front of the large windows.

The night in the foreign city was filled with neon coloured signs for shops, restaurants and nightclubs. Dark shapes of trees swayed in the breeze. Windows in the buildings around left binary messages of alternating warm yellow or deep dark rectangles. Cars, motorbikes and buses crawled back and forth with their red and white lamps painting streaks of light.

Work was over. There was nothing more to be done. Brutus sat in the quiet, cool and dark hotel room and enjoyed the view.

This post is a part of the 2023 BBU Community Days organised by @bbu-on-the-side. This is my entry for day 13: Safety.

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#bbucommunity #pet whump #bbu #day13 #guard dog #box boy multiverse #box boy universe #whump fic #whump event #lydia and coriander #original writing

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