#luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🧑‍⚕️ for Chris! Cookie treat:

🍪

CW: BBU, sickfic, ableism from Luke Petrus, general Luke Petrus warning, minor whump (OC is 17), brief implied noncon references

-

"What the heck did you do now, Petrus?" The doctor - barely out of med school, still young and learning the twists and turns of the Facility's labyrinth of hallways - sighs. He's been here barely a year, and already learned that Luke Petrus has a reputation for quick turnarounds because he runs his trainees into the ground. Metaphorically speaking.

His trainees aren't generally allowed to actually run much of anywhere at all. Or get out of bed.

Petrus rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "Nothing. He was being a little shit this morning, breaking all his rules. I checked and his forehead was hot, so I brought him in here."

"Well... at least you didn't OD him again."

"That was one time, and he should have been fine, it's not my fault his body metabolizes the drugs wrong-"

"Maybe don't use our freaking supplies without speaking to a doctor first to make sure next time?" Dr. Ross glances into the exam through through the window cut into the door.

The trainee lays on his back on the exam table, staring listlessly up towards the flickering florescent lights overhead. His hands are moving, constantly crushing the crinkling paper beneath him or touching himself at the throat, the collarbone, the stomach. He's humming, audible through the door. A toneless, tuneless ah ah ah ah through barely open lips.

"Okay, well. I'll take a look. Any specific complaints other than the fever?"

"Clammy as fuck, coughing, sneezing... all that shit. Complained about his food, earlier, and I know he knows better than that." Petrus narrows his eyes, and Dr. Ross tries not to feel a shiver down his own spine. "He better be burning hot enough to hallucinate or he is going to fucking regret talking shit to me about the food."

Dr. Ross pauses. "The food is pretty legendarily... um, crap, though," He points out. The look Petrus gives him is so derisive he can all but feel it eat into him like acid. "I'll take a look. Probably he'll need an overnight in the clinic."

"I only have a few weeks left to finish him up. So you get him able to take training tomorrow night, got it?"

"I can't promise-"

"This one is going to a personal friend of Karen Renford's," Petrus says in a low voice. "A personal. friend. Got it?"

Dr. Ross swallows, trying not to look unnerved. "Got it."

"Good. Message me once he's good to go back, I'm going to head home for a few hours. If he's faking this..."

"Handler Petrus. How exactly would he fake a fever?" Dr. Ross looks into the exam room again. The trainee is still humming, watching his own fingers as he moves them between himself and the light. His skin is pale, a little grayish. His freckles stand out like paint splatters all over his body.

"Wouldn't put it past him. Trainees figure out all kinds of shit. Get him better and get him to stop doing that... Shit with his hands, making those noises. Punish him if he keeps it up, it's part of his training plan."

"Hm," Dr. Ross says, noncommittal. "I'll send his test results over in a bit. Enjoy your time at home."

He steps inside just to end the conversation, walking idly over to a countertop, where he opens a cupboard above and pulls out a small canister of lollipops. "Hello, 223499."

The boy's voice cuts off like a radio. After a pause, he starts mumbling, too low for Dr. Ross to hear.

"... right. Well. Your handler says you're feeling under the weather. Mind if I take a look?"

The trainee turns his head then. He looks somewhere off to one side of the doctor, blinking a little dazedly. "... take a look?"

His voice is slow, sluggish, but each word is so carefully placed.

"Yes."

The trainee looks away again. Dr. Ross sighs and goes with it, checking his temperature. 101.7, not great, not the worst fever. Hopefully this won't be another flu like the last one. Pneumonia nearly killed three trainees that time. He checked ears, eyes - pupils reactive, ears clear - and then touched at the lymph nodes beneath his jaw. A little swollen.

"Okay. Next up, we need to take a quick look down your throat."

Another slow blink. The trainee seemed to suddenly tense up. "You... want my throat?"

"Uh, well-" Dr. Ross turns away to pick up a tongue depressor and the swab for the test. "Yes, we need to test you."

The paper on the exam table crinkles again. The boy hums, almost wistfully, and then goes silent.

When he turns around, Dr. Ross discovers the boy on his knees in a seamless Position Two, mouth wide open.

His green eyes are empty, somewhere far away.

Dr. Ross's face burns at the sight. His stomach turns sharply, and he has to clear his throat to try and cover the way bile rises. "Uh, n-no thank you-... I just need... you need to be tested for strep throat, Trainee, not that kind of-... back up on the table, please-"

The boy looks confused, in a faded sort of way, but follows orders. He manages to clamber back up, sitting this time, listing a little to one side, then the other. But he opens his mouth again, and Dr. Ross hurries through the test as fast as he can, trying not to think about how most people gag during the strep test, but the Romantics never do.

"Good, made it. Perfect. Now, does your throat hurt a lot today?"

"Yes, sir." The boy's voice is a little raspy, now that he's talking. "A... lot. Earlier, i... cried when my... handler-"

"Don't need to hear the end of that sentence!" Dr. Ross forces false charm and ease into his voice, plucking one of the lollipops at random from the jar. "Here, let me give you this. It tastes a little weird, but it'll numb your throat and keep you from coughing." He unwraps it and holds it out. The trainee blinks at him. He blinks back.

Then he realizes. "... oh. Do you have to be... do I have to..." He leans forward. The trainee opens his mouth obediently for Dr. Ross to place the lollipop inside. Only then does his mouth close.

"'ank 'oo, ir," The trainee says around a mouthful of fake sweetener and the numbing agent already going to work. His eyes are so sweet and so vivid, and he half-smiles around the treat.

"You're welcome, 223499. I'm going to go and do your strep test. I'll be back. You just relax, okay? You can sleep in a clinic bed and get a good night's sleep."

The boy's eyebrows furrow. "Is... is it night?"

"Oh right. We're not supposed to let you know, are we? Well... I don't think it can hurt... yeah, I'm on nights right now, 11 to 9. It's about one in the morning."

"Oh." The trainee lays slowly back down, on his side, closing his eyes as he works at the sucker. "... what, what does night... look, um, look like?"

Dr. Ross swallows.

He's a fucking coward, but he doesn't answer. He just leaves, and he doesn't let himself stop and look back.

He doesn't let himself think about a boy who can't remember the sky.

God, he only has a few weeks left on this residency and he just isn't sure he can make it.

#223499 #chris the strawberry blond romantic #whump #bbu #pet whump #box boy universe #box boy #medical whump #caretaker whumper #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #ableism tw #reluctant whumper #sickfic #sick whumpee #sick whump

[ashintheairlikesnow]

'I don't fucking care if you cry'

For Luke Petrus?

CW: referenced noncon, BBU, Luke is a piece of shit, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, captivity

"Go on."

Luke kicks up his feet, resting heavy boots on the table, crossed at the ankles. He should light a cigarette or something for the effect, but he doesn't have any on him and getting up to go get some would undermine it. Instead, he just smiles.

The trainee, backed up against a wall across the room, won't look at him. Those huge, gorgeous bright green eyes are focused off to one side. Eyebrows so pale they seem nearly invisible furrow. There's a little wrinkle in his forehead, showing his confusion. Cute, but they'll have to work on showing emotions he wasn't asking for.

"... Go on...?"

The trainee's voice is hoarse. He fucked up, a couple days ago. Luke ruined his throat, and he sure apologized until what was left of his voice was gone after. It's coming back, but there's something sweet about it now, raspy and every sound halfway a whisper. Makes Luke feel sentimental, a little sappy.

"Yeah. Go on. Do it."

The trainee, swimming in the plain white shirt and black shorts they all wear, hugs himself tightly, shivering in the chill. Luke normally keeps the room warm, but he wants this trainee desperate for the warmth another body can provide. And he'll be rewarded once he seeks it out.

Until then...

The trainee blinks - once, twice. Then, hesitantly, he rasps, "... Do, do what... Handler Petrus?"

Luke catches that stammer. They'll fix that, too. He smiles and tips his head to one side. "Cry. Go on, do it. I can tell you want to, that lower lip's been wobbling all day."

"But... t-tears are for... f-fucking, Handler." The words are carefully, slowly pronounced. Trainee doesn't want to say them, but he does it anyway.

Soon he'll forget he ever didn't want anything at all.

"I know, I know." Luke waves a hand in the air, dismissing the words. "Normally that's true. But today, I don't fucking care if you cry. Get it out of your system. We have a lot of work to do, today, and I don't want to deal with it when we're training. So. Cry now, and you can hug me after. Cry when I'm in you and I'll use that whip on the wall and make you cry harder. Thoughts?"

The trainee looks at him for a long pause. The little wrinkle in his forehead deepens.

"Well? Questions? Comments? Concerns?" Luke's smile stretches wider. He opens his hands, encompassing the room. "Anything to say at all?"

The trainee swallows - Luke watches him wince with delight. He mulls over whatever two brain cells still bounce around that emptied-out little head.

Then...

"... I can have... a hug?"

Luke laughs. "Yes, you needy fucking whore, you can have a fucking hug."

Sure enough, the pretty little thing drops to the floor, face beet red as Luke laughs until his sides are sore, and starts to cry.

Again.

#whump #pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #intimate whumper #chris the strawberry blond romantic #wru #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #implied noncon #noncon reference #touch starved

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Luke, what did you want to be when you grow up? Do you think little Luke would like how your life turned out?

- sara / @justplainwhump

Luke barks out laughter. "Nah, he'd be pissed. I wanted to be a zookeeper. Although I mean, not like there aren't some similarities..."

#luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

How about Chris in a cage?

CW: BBU, facility whump, sound torture, whump of a minor (OC is 17), some dehumanization, Luke Petrus is awful, sensory overwhelm

Luke Petrus hums to himself as he works - digging fingernails into the thick pebbled skin until it breaks, the heady smell of the orange finding him like a hand touching his face. He can't hear it, but he knows there's a soft crackling as he pulls it away from the fruit beneath.

Leaning back in his chair, he drops peels on the ground of the training room until he can break the segments apart, droplets of juice running down his knuckles. He crosses his legs over each other, boots clanging down on the top bars of the cage.

He can't hear that either.

He pops a segment into his mouth - burst of bright, sweet and acid, giving way between his teeth.

The heavy noise-canceling headphones he wears shift a little, and he grins, leaning forward as he bites down on another piece of the orange.

Beneath his boots, shadowed by metal and leather, the trainee rocks back and forth, hands over his own ears. But the noise blaring all around them can't be pushed out by simple skin and bone.

"Enjoying yourself, trainee?" He asks cheerfully. A scream drowns him out, but he can't hear it. Piped in through speakers on every side of the room, it continues, punctuated by the sharp snap of the lash. It's not the trainee's own whipping, of course - Luke would never be allowed to cause that kind of damage to this pretty little thing. Already bought and paid for, he'll make a lovely little decoration to that creepy asshole's life soon enough.

The trainee is curled into a ball, his copper hair gleaming under cold white lights where the shadow of Luke's boots doesn't darken it. He stares wide-eyed, mouth open. Luke can see the tension in his neck, veins and muscle standing out as he tries to scream louder than the sound digging into his mind.

He can even hear it, just a little, through his headphones. Must be quite the shriek without it.

The trainee's hands pull away from his ears only to slam down against the floor, again and again. He half-throws himself forward, then back, then forward again. Still popping slice after slice of orange into his mouth, Luke watches him.

The boy's head shakes, hands sliding back up over his ears. Tears run down his cheeks, face ruddy and marked with tear tracks drying already.

God, he's fucking gorgeous.

Luke watches him, intent on not missing a second of his suffering, as he eats the last piece of his orange and sucks the remaining juice off sticky fingers.

When Luke turns the sound off, lets him out, and then eases him up onto the table... He'll be so grateful for the chance for silence.

And Luke knows exactly how to take that pathetic gratitude for small mercies and use it to make him beg for the cruelties, too.

#whump #pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #creepy whumper #chris the strawberry blond romantic #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #sadistic whumper #noise torture #sound torture #captivity

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Luke Petrus was having a really bad day.

- sara / @justplainwhump , because I love to hate the man

CW: BBU, handler being an asshole, referenced beating/noncon, derogatory language

(Micheal belongs to @card-games-and-pain)

-

Luke Petrus was having a really, really bad day. Bad week, if he was honest. And the goddamn culmination was in being called up like some dumbass kid to the principal's office.

Karen Renford didn't stand up when he entered, even though she had been the one to tell her receptionist to send him in. She barely looked at him, too busy sipping from a delicately shaped ceramic mug while dictating some sort of memo to her stupid fucking assistant, Micheal.

He didn't dare cross his arms, or sigh, or do anything to show Karen frustration. Any emotion she could pick at, in a bad mood herself the past few weeks since everything went wrong, would just be weakness. He'd worked for her way too long to give himself up like that. Now she was the CEO and held all of their lives in her hand.

No, all he did was stand, and look out the high windows that lined her new office, and wait. Like a good boy. Like a fucking pet.

The whole thing was bullshit to begin with.

All he did was put one of the dumber, more obstinate trainees he'd been working with in the clinic with a couple broken bones and not even that serious of a concussion.

A few years ago, WRU wouldn't have batted an eye beyond maybe a wag of the finger or a slap on the wrist. But ever since that bullshit press conference where one of Luke's own past trainees had run his whore mouth on global television and another - one of Everly's old jobs, apparently - had talked about abduction and the way the Acquisition team's secret work operated... Now it all had to be careful. Above-board or kept deep below ground.

Luke had been pissed about all of it.

Then he slept through his alarm and was late to work.

Then the trainee had mouthed off to him just a little too much. Now, here he stood.

One damn trainee in the clinic, one fucking maintenance pet beat to shit for trying to interfere and stop him, and here he stood.

Waiting for discipline.

Like he's one of them.

If he ever saw that little trainee again, the one that went to the governor, he'd break every goddamn bone in the little whore's body.

Karen finished her memo, and finally... finally... Turned to look at him. Her face was carefully expressionless.

But just behind her, Luke Petrus saw her assistant, in his perfectly tailored suit and soft leather collar, smile at him. Arrogant little shit.

Maybe he'll get the chance to bash Micheal's head in too one day.

Bad days didn't used to be this bad.

Now they only seem to get worse.

#whump #bbu #pet whump #box boy universe #box boy #sadistic whumper #handler pov #whumper pov #luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

can handler luke take me as his pet plz :))) promise I’m well behaved

I... really don't think you would want that, Anon. @card-games-and-pain's Marco can tell you what that experience is like...

#luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Luke, Marco wants to leave you. Eventually he'll go where you can't follow, and what will you do if Robbins tells Karen of what you've done? Surely you'll just have to cut your losses eventually...

"He's too smart to do anything that stupid," Luke says. He has Marco laid out on the couch, his head in Luke's lap. Luke carefully combs fingers through his hair, rubs soothing little circles on his scalp, again and again. "He knows if he runs from me, that I will find him and I will simply make sure he can never run again. The tendons in his ankles are strictly a privilege but I can take that privilege away."

#luke asks #luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Humiliating moments for Luke 😤 I want to see him humiliated for once not that my boy doesn’t live to be shamed

Luke Petrus lost Chris once during training. There was a sudden lockdown due to an attempted escape while he was leading him back from the showers, so he stashed the little redheaded trainee in a random cell just to keep him safe, but forgot to note which cell it was. It took a few hours to get everything back under control, and Luke forgot that he'd left 223499 in a room other than his usual. He went home at the end of the day, like normal, and when he returned the next morning 223499 was... not in his cell where he was supposed to be.

Now, every trainee cell is subject to nonstop video monitoring, but there's a lot of cameras and you kind of need to know which one you're looking for.

It took them until after lunch to realize where 223499 had been left so Luke could go get him.

At which point he remembered that it had been post-showers, and the trainee was naked. And damp. In a cold cell all night with no food or water.

223499 ended up in the clinic, and Luke ended up getting his knuckles rapped by Karen and with his trainees given to someone else for a week while he took cleanup duty.

#pet whump #institutional whump reference #luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I HATE (read: love) Luke!😾😾😾🫶🫶

HE IS SO AWFUL.

I love him.

#luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

You know what we don’t explore enough in Luke’s obsession with ‘his gorgeous?’ FUCKING WAXES. I just had one and JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. THE SUGAR STOLE MY HAIR, TOOK IT HOSTAGE AND MASSACRED IT.

WAXING WHUMP, LET'S GOOOOO

#luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"You deserve this, sweetness." for the five sentence fics?

CW: Pet whump, implied aftermath of dubcon, referenced noncon, referenced torture, vague reference to minor whump

"There we go. Off the table, come on, there's a good boy." Connor helps the trainee, who moves with shaky legs to carefully, hesitantly stand on his own. When Connor's arm goes around his shoulders, the pet leans heavily into his touch, eyes half-closed.

They're both breathing a little hard, flushed and sweaty - Connor's already redressed in his uniform, but the pet is still stark naked - and it's a nice sort of muscle stretch Connor feels as he aids the obedient, pliable trainee moving across the room towards the heated mat in the corner.

"You put up a fight for Collins today, but you're sweet as pie for me, hm?" Connor grins as the pet nuzzles against his neck, the trainee's mouth seeking out spots they've learned through experience help earn a little bit of kindness and favor from the right handler at the right time. "Good boy."

"I like you better," The pet breathes against his ear. "You're the one who does it just right." It's practiced, a performance that never ends, but it's perfect, or nearly so.

It'd perfect if the trainee wasn't shaking as he bites down on his lower lip, looks up from under those beautiful black eyelashes.

"Nice," Connor praises him, helping him to settle onto his knees on the mat and then encouraging him to lay on his side. He takes the folded blanket off to the side and lays that over the beautiful boy as well, watching him curl into a ball, eyes already closing. "You're just about ready for a prospective to take you home, you know that? Out of here and home to somewhere warm."

"I hope so," The trainee says, and reaches out to touch him, just a little, fingers grazing over the back of Connor's hand. He looks up, head tilted just enough to let some of his sweaty hair fall around his face and frame it.

Just... about... perfect.

"Thank you, Handler Manning," The trainee says, and smiles for him. His eyes sparkle mechanically. The act is not quite seamless - not yet.

It will be soon.

"You're welcome, Triple Five," Connor says, and gives his hair an affectionate tousle before he stands and walks away, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him. It locks automatically with a soft sssshhh-click that is a sound Connor knows as well as he knows his own breathing.

He leans his back against the wall, staring at the door across from him.

Petrus is using that room right now.

About two hours ago, the sound of screaming came so loud from inside that Connor's trainee was utterly useless and had to be held while he shook until it finally ended. Only after that had Connor been able to take the pet through his paces for the day. And that was the third fucking scream-session this week. They last for hours, whatever's happening in there.

Connor knows what's happening, but-... this kid isn't that kind of Special Request, what's going on in there shouldn't sound like this.

Screaming and screaming, with Luke's laughter layered over the top.

Now, though, the only sound he can hear through the door is a low, hoarse sobbing, a soft thump, again and again. Luke's gone, Connor can tell - the little panel next to the door marks it as 'Lunch - 1 Hour'. He's left the trainee in there.

The pet in Luke's room lets out a muffled wail that must be nearly deafening inside, and the thumping continues.

Back to sobs.

It's the little redhead and Connor knows it.

He's seen Luke leading the kid around, stuck to his side like a terrified little burr, all big green eyes and floppy red hair, hazy and stumbling, hands hanging at his sides with heavy weights attached to make sure he... something or other...

Luke brags about his technique, but fuck if Connor doesn't zone the hell out as soon as the slimeball gets going.

It's drugs, mostly, and they all know it. Luke's a big fan, drugs his trainees to oblivion. It works, well enough, but it's got no finesse, no art. Those trainees learn to move their hips, sure, how to arch their backs and roll just right, but they don't really learn how to want it. Just how to more or less black out while wide awake and come back when it's over.

Plus... the kid...

Kid's too young, too fucked-up too fast, some kind of personal project Director Renford is overseeing for some political big-whig. Connor keeps his nose out of politics, but this...

This is affecting his work.

He digs his phone out of his pocket and dials, putting it to his ear. "Hey, yeah, Hannah? Can I talk to Linda, please?... hey, Linda. How do I put in an HR Complaint against a coworker? Yeah, another handler... no, he's fine to me in person, just... yeah. Affecting work stuff. Can we have a meeting? Tomorrow, 9 am. Got it."

Connor isn't one to talk behind a coworker's back, not to anyone who matters.

But if he has to do another workday listening to the kid across the hall scream himself hoarse, he'll lose his fucking mind.

#whumper pov #intimate whumper #implied noncon #implied dubcon #nsfwhump #not really but still #pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #connor manning just wants to be friends #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #223499

[ashintheairlikesnow]

“He bit his lip, tasting blood, as his broken finger was tightly bound to the one beside it with hands deceptively gentle for the agony they just doled out.”

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, noncon touch (nonsexual, but creepy), broken bone, minor whump (whumpee is 17)

The trainee bites his lip, tasting blood, as his broken finger is tightly bound to the unharmed one beside. His handler's touch is deceptively gentle, considering the pain he'd doled out as punishment for the trainee's momentary defiance.

"You see now," Handler Petrus says, his voice low. This is a conversation for just the two of them, too soft even for the camera in the corner of his training room to pick up. "You understand?"

The trainee nods, worrying at the spot on his lip that keeps welling blood. The copper taste at least is different from everything else he gets to eat here. It's something.

"Hey." A hand cups his face, warm palm, rough fingertips. The trainee's jaw is gently pressed against, making him lift his chin and raise his eyes to meet the cold, cold blue of his handler's. "Look at me, 223499. Do you understand?"

His finger hurts. It throbs, pulsing pain up his arm, making him feel sick. The drugs in his water already set the world to spinning if he moves too fast - with the addition of the pain, he feels dizzy-sick. He swallows against a lump in his throat. "Y-Yes, Handler Petrus," He whispers. "I understand."

One word at a time. Drip dropped out of him, cold stones from mouth to air. One at a time.

"Look," Handler Petrus says quietly, firmly. "Look but don't touch. That's what we've learned here today. You don't do anything unless you are told to. If it happens again, no more naps on the heated mat. I can't whip you, but I can make you fucking sorry for stepping out of line even so."

The trainee's lips tremble at the threat of losing the only warmth he ever feels here. He nods quickly, to show how good he is, how well-trained. When Handler Petrus pats the side of his face, he holds very still, and searches his expression for some hint of whether or not he has sidestepped further discipline.

"Good boy," Handler Petrus says softly, and the trainee feels a shudder of relief run through him as the handler stands and walks away, leaving him kneeling where he is, on a cold tile floor.

He had only hugged the other trainee for a second.

But a second was too long. His broken finger is proof of that.

The trainee follows the handler's movements across the floor as he crouches in front of the other, a larger trainee, one who must be years older than he is. The trainee had hugged back, so he has to be disciplined, too.

The boy watches Handler Petrus murmur to the other trainee, whose face is ashen gray and whose eyes are wild with fright. He watches Handler Petrus pick up the other trainee's hands.

He closes his eyes just before the snap of breaking bone, and tries not to hear the cry of pain that comes just after.

He won't touch another trainee again.

#223499 #box boy #box boy universe #whump #broken bone #sadistic whumper #creepy whumper #noncon touch #pet whump #pet whumpee #bbu #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #chris the strawberry blond romantic #dehumanization tw #multiple whumpees

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Mr. Petrus is somewhere in public when a meek stranger approaches him on the street. They immediately recognized him as a Handler—formerly theirs. They appear alone, and half a second from falling to their knees should he so much as look at them a certain way. They try to tell him something but the words catch in their throat and only a quiet noise slips free. How does he react this unexpected interaction?

CW: Pet whump, whumper POV, creepy/intimate whumper, escaped whumpee returns to whumper, dehumanization, collared, implied dubcon/noncon at end, dubcon touch, dubcon kiss

He isn’t usually the type to go out to bars - Luke’s a workaholic on a good week, content to all but live in his Facility sleeping quarters, leaving for supplies or to spend a day out in the sun and then coming right back.

When you love what you do, as they say, you’ll never work a day in your life.

Still, Renford's essentially mandated he take a damn vacation for once. He’s left behind his trainees and headed out to enjoy himself at a bar he used to frequent, back before he found he preferred to frequent the cells the frightened young men are held in, waiting for the slightest touch to remind them they exist.

Luke sits back on a barstool with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Oh, he’s not supposed to smoke, but this bar doesn’t push the issue and he’s not the only one filling the air with the familiar, acrid scent.

Out on the floor, people dance together, barely lit by dim lights changing color every so often, Red, blue, and green move over sweaty skin, curves and straight lines. Luke enjoys it all. He quirks a smile. He can see, just looking, who here would look fucking gorgeous with a collar buckled around their neck and a little more emptiness inside.

Get ‘em so empty they need someone to fill it up.

Luke’s probably ten years older than the oldest of the people on the dance floor, but that doesn’t bother him. Plenty of people like an older man, and those who don’t… well, if he gets them on the wrong end of his baton, they don’t really get to choose what they like or don’t, now do they?

The beat is a deafening rumble that rolls against his skin in rhythm and Luke hums contentedly. His beer is cool and rolls with citrus sourness along his tongue and down his throat, slightly fizzy compared to the darker stuff. Bright enough to flirt with tasting like cider, or nearly so.

Some local craft brewery shit, probably. In his Facility studio, Luke just keeps some basic Coors. No need to get fancy at home, after all.

Does he even have beer in his actual home? It’s been so long since he’s been there…

Something touches his arm, pulls just slightly at his sleeve, and Luke turns, head tipping to the side, a grin already on his lips.

There’s a lithe, beautiful young man there, with hair dyed a brilliant, ridiculously bright purple, eyes ringed in eyeliner. He has a lip ring, Luke notes, his tongue moving out to run over his own lower lip in thought.

There’s something familiar about the young man, although Luke can’t quite place him. Not exactly.

But the shiver of trepidation mixed with a desperation to have eyes - and more than eyes - on him… Luke knows that well enough. It tells him what he wants to know. His smile widens, just a little. “Evening, pretty boy.”

The young man looks up at him, his hand still hovering just over Luke’s bicep, and his mouth opens like he’ll reply. All that comes out is a soft sound that Luke only hears because a new song has started, slightly off-key piano playing over a heavily-synthesized voice and the slow introduction of a beat.

“What?” Luke’s eyebrows raise. “Use your words.”

The young man takes a step closer, and then another. He’s moving like a newborn fawn, on suddenly-awkward legs like he might fall to his knees at any moment. Luke was watching the dancers before, but now his gaze is wholly caught by the absolute goddamn sexiness of a runaway pet who can’t stop himself from walking back into a cage.

“H-Handler Petrus,” The runaway says, and when Luke’s hand moves to cup his face, the young man tips his head immediately into it. His eyes are watering, wet with tears that haven’t yet fallen. As soon as one slips out, Luke leans slowly forward and licks up the side of his face. The runaway whimpers at the wet heat of his tongue, the casual ownership of the action.

“That’s me,” He murmurs into the young man’s ear. “You know it. Why aren’t you running from me?”

The young man swallows, hard, and turns his head, pressing his own lips in a shivering, fearful brush against Luke’s cheek. “I-I’m hungry,” He says, voice almost too low to pick up. “And… and I don’t-... I don’t w-want-...” His voice trails off, and Luke’s smile only widens as the runaway leans forward and rests his forehead against Luke’s shoulder.

He sighs, setting his beer down half-drunk and turning to run his condensation-cold fingers through that garishly bright purple hair. “You ran away, huh?”

He already knows the answer.

The runaway pet nods without speaking.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, is it?” Luke slides off his barstool, shifting to slide an arm around the runaway’s shoulders. He slaps a ten-dollar bill on the bar and walks away, heading for the door, the beat of a song bouncing off his skin right up until they step outside. It’s chilly out here, with a stiff breeze blowing the scent of saltwater through the air around them. It feels a little like walking through the surf, down here at the old warehouse district.

“No. I’m… hungry all the time, I still have to fuck for a place to sleep, people are… mean sometimes, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do, where to go.”

Fuck. He has to make sure the lib people don’t get ahold of this little beauty. He’s exactly what they’re looking to save.

“What’s your number?” He asks, casual as can be. The runaway isn’t wearing long-sleeves or a bracelet, he’s scarred on the inside of his left wrist when Luke takes a peek. Looks like he cut the tattoo off of himself, or had someone else do it, once upon a time.

“654338,” The pet says automatically, without hesitation. “Designation Romantic, Facility 001-”

“Yeah, I got that part.” Luke cuts him off and the pet falls back into silence. “Why’d you run away?” With his blue eyes as cold as ever, Luke lights another cigarette, takes a deep, deep drag, exhales smoke into the air in front of them as they move. The runaway coughs into one hand.

“I just… didn’t want to, anymore. With my owner.”

“You should know that what you want doesn’t fucking matter,” Luke says amiably, but the runaway winces and hunches into himself. Luke watches from the corner of his eye, his own mouth watering at the sight of the pet’s shame, his nervousness. “You don’t exist to get what you want. So why come up to me?”

“I thought maybe-... maybe you could help me.”

“Get back to your owner?”

The pet turns to look up at him, with gorgeous warm brown eyes full of pleading. “No, Handler Petrus. Please, please no. Just… just, to someone else, please, someone who won’t-... hurt me so badly. Please. Please.”

“It’s my job to get any runaway I see back to the Facility, gorgeous thing. Then back home."

“No. No, don’t take me back there! Please, I can’t-... I can’t do the lights again, please. I can't take how he h-hurts when, when he-"

"Yeah, yeah." Luke rolls his eyes. "Wimp."

The pet's eyes close against more tears.

Luke snorts at the sight. Pathetic. “We have pretty strict contracts that ensure runaways go right back to their rightful owners.”

“No, please, just-... can you help me another way?” The runaway goes up on his toes, presses his lips to Luke’s chin, against the corner of his mouth. Those pretty hands move to slide up under Luke’s shirt, cold fingers against his warm stomach. They tease moving downward. There’s a distance in the pet’s eyes, now, separating himself from what he’s doing to earn what he’s desperate for.

Luke considers. Then he has an idea, and he sighs, as if he's won over.

“Tell you what.” He rubs a thumb over the runaway’s lower lip, toys with his lip ring. The pet opens his mouth to show the silver stud on his tongue. Luke’s smile goes slightly cock-eyed, a jolt of heat straight to the pit of his stomach, spreading from there. “I’ve got a friend who might be able to keep you. I’m not going to just hand over anyone, though.”

The pet takes Luke’s thumb into his mouth, sucks lightly, rolling the tongue piercing against the underside in an unspoken promise. He pulls back just to ask, “What do I need to do?”

“I have an apartment, a week’s worth of vacation scheduled, and you can show me just how good you are at earning your keep.”

The runaway swallows with an audible click in his throat, then nods. “I-I can do that.”

“I know you can, baby. I’m the one who trained you. Now, let’s go find out how good you are with that tongue ring.”

Luke leads the pet away, towards his car, smiling contentedly into the night. He can enjoy a week of desperate eagerness, then drug the fuck out of the pretty thing, buckle a collar right back around his neck, and throw him into a cell at WRU to be wiped and put back where he belongs.

Once he’s on the Drip for a couple of days, he won’t even know Luke broke a promise.

He’ll be the same puppy-eager for Luke’s hands and mouth and anything else he wants to give him that he is right now. Plus, Luke’ll get a nice little bonus for turning in a runaway.

This is shaping up to be an excellent vacation.

#luke petrus is a piece of garbage #whump #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #implied dubcon #dubcon touching #dubcon kissing #dubcon kiss #escaped whumpee #referenced starvation #referenced drugging #pet whump #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #luke is such a fucking asshole #the red letter anon

[ashintheairlikesnow]

“Prove it.”

CW: Intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, implied noncon (fade to black), noncon touching, talk of noncon/dubcon, who asked for luke and marco? somebody did...

(Marco belongs to @card-games-and-pain)

Luke keeps the pet cuddled close to him, his chest pressed against Marco's back, curled around him. Enveloping him. An arm rests over his side, fingers drawing lazy little patterns over his pelvis.

He pretends to sleep. Luke knows better.

"You've never had it better than you have it with me," He murmurs against Marco's ear. The man shivers, eyes still closed, but his eyebrows furrow slightly. It's sign enough that he's awake. "That's what you hate, isn't it? What digs inside and won't let go of you. That you love it with me."

"I hate you," Marco hisses, eyes opening, glaring ineffectually at the wall across the room. They're snuggled together in the large guest bed, Marco the unspoken bit of furniture that comes with the room. "And I hate it when you touch me, Luke."

"No you don't." Luke nuzzles into the crook of his neck, places soft, gentle little kisses there. His hand flattens, pressing palm to Marco's pelvis, pushing him back even more into Luke's space, against the heat of him.

Marco stiffens, hitching in a breath. "No. We just did, it's barely been-... Luke. I don't want this."

"You always say that." Luke hums, letting his hand glide lower, just a little lower. Teasing, grazing, feeling the way Marco shudders as he tries not to respond. He turns his head to bury his nose in that beautiful hair, still smelling like shampoo from the shower they'd shared. "But then you beg for it, in the end."

"Because you made me learn to do that-"

"Because you love it," Luke counters, easy and rational. The sane one in this conversation. How can Marco ever begin to disagree with his logic? "Gorgeous boy, I know your body better than anyone else."

Marco's eyes close again, pain etching itself clear as rain on a windowsill on his face. "That's not t-true. Lee-"

"Hmmm, but you won't get to touch him again. So it's just me, isn't it? And that body needs touched, doesn't it? Needs someone who knows what they're doing... needs to have hands on it..." He laughs, a huffed breath against Marco's ear. He shudders again, but his body is responding, whether he likes it or not.

It always responds.

"No," Marco whispers. It's almost more of a whimper. "N-No, it doesn't."

"Prove it." Luke rolls his hips forwards. He wonders how hard Marco has to work not to grind back against him. "Prove it, gorgeous, and I won't touch you for a week."

"P-Prove it how?"

Luke grins. He already knows Marco won't win this game.

And yet he can't resist wanting to play.

#whump #nsfwhump #intimate whump #noncon touching #implied noncon #fade to black noncon #non con tw #minors dni #pet whump #luke petrus is a piece of garbage

[ashintheairlikesnow]

WIJ: “Look at me.”

@whumpmasinjuly​ day 9: “Look at me.”

CW: Minor whumpee (OC is 17), dehumanization, pet whump, BBU, creepy whumper, brief noncon touch (nonsexual), drugged whumpee

The man is familiar, a foggy, unreal sort of way. He’s been to the facility, the boy thinks, has seen him in training... but he can’t hold on to any memories of exactly when or what happened then.

The pills they feed him every day make things float around him. He sits still. He does Positions. He is fed, or isn’t. He trains. He sleeps. Then there are pills again.

Somewhere in there, the man has been to see him. He is supposed to love this man, the boy thinks, and feels a shudder of fear when he realizes that he doesn’t.

Is he broken?

Should he say something?

The boy sways lightly where he stands, flanked on either side by handlers who keep a grip on his arms. It’s not because he’s a runner - the boy has never been a runner, he’s always been good. They tell him so. 

The handlers’ hands are warm and keep him on his feet, when the drug coursing dully through his veins might otherwise send him crashing to the ground. His knees buckle, a little, and he has to force them straight again. When he does that, though, his head tilts too far to one side. 

There’s been no box - just the backseat of a small dark unremarkable car, already forgotten beyond the thought that it was probably blue. There has been the night sky, a flat matte black-blue tinted orange around its edges from the nonstop lights of the city. 

He wanted to watch the sky, but he fell asleep instead. He sleeps so much, with the pills. He misses being awake when he wants to be awake. 

There are steps, and a woman who opens a door with an unhappy twist to her mouth that the boy unconsciously echoes, all his responses delayed.

Then, once they’re inside, there is the man.

The man is already in his head - there is a sense of nightmares, of fear and pain. But he can’t hold on to the feeling, it slips through his fingers like everything else. He’s been to the facility. He’s been with the boy. But the individual moments are locked away, somewhere under the cold white light in his mind.

He holds himself carefully, perfectly, still and silent. Exactly like they want him to be.

His gaze wanders over the huge room with a high vaulted ceiling, the view of a railing off to the side, like a hallway open to the entryway below. There are paintings and then photographs of men along the walls, one by one by one by one. 

His mouth drops open, slightly. He doesn’t notice.

Then there’s a snap of fingers just under his nose and the boy jumps - a second too late - and a low, deep voice with a soft southern drawl saying, “Look at me, boy.”

Aren’t you beautiful.

He knows that voice already. The boy’s heart starts to race.

The boy’s foggy green eyes meet the man’s sharper ones. He’s seen these eyes before - staring into his, as he cried. Watching his tears. When?

His head starts to hurt just trying to think about it. He draws back a little, as though he could find some safety behind the handlers who have ruled his world.

His primary, Handler Petrus, gives a smirk and lets go, ruffling the boy’s short strawberry-blond hair, hand coming to rest at the back of his neck, just over the soft, smooth leather collar he’d been given when they knew he was good enough not to need the rougher shock collar any longer. 

“What’s his name?” The new man asks, looking him over. His eyes aren’t as cold as Handler Petrus’s, but they send a chill down the boy’s spine just the same. 

The boy presses himself to Handler Petrus’s side, turning his face to hide it against Luke’s arm. The handler chuckles, his thumb rubbing a slow circle along the nape of the boy’s neck. “Whatever you want it to be. His number is 223499, for the record.”

“Hm.” The man looks at him, eyes slightly half-lidded, and holds out a hand. With a gentle push from Handler Petrus, the boy stumbles forward to take it. The man’s hand is too hot. The boy feels like he’s been frozen in ice.

“I’m going to name you Baldur,” The man says in a low voice, something husky and promising there that makes the boy - Baldur - shiver as his words sink in. “Beauty like yours being your downfall and all. Welcome home, darlin’.” 

He reaches out with his other hand, pressing one finger under the boy’s chin to slowly push it up until their eyes meet again.

“You can call me Sir.”

-

@burtlederp​ @finder-of-rings​ @endless-whump​ @whumpfigure​ @astrobly​ @newandfiguringitout​ @doveotions​ @pretty-face-breaker​ @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow​ @boxboysandotherwhump​ @oops-its-whump​ @cubeswhump​ @whump-tr0pes​ @downriver914​ @whumptywhumpdump​ @whumpiary​ @orchidscript​ @nonsensical-whump​ @outofangband​

#whump #wij21day9 #prompt: look at me #223499 #chris the strawberry blond romantic #pet whump #pet whump tw #dehumanization tw #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #oliver branch is gross #noncon touch #(nonsexual) #non con touch #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #minor whump #box boy universe #bbu #box boy #dehumanization #drugged whumpee #drugging tw #whumpmasinjuly