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captain-bo-bob-bobby · 1 year

Text

The Mutt

Content Warnings- Kidnap Whump, Pet Whump, Pet Names, Cells, Cages, Litter Boxes, (Past) Foot Whump Mentioned, (Past) Eye Whump Mentioned, Broken Whumpee, Begging, Begging To Be Put Down, Dehumanization, Kicking.

Within the dark and dreary basement, there are rows and rows of multiple cells. In the farthest corner from the stairs that lead to the basement, is the smallest cell. The floor is covered in mud inside, the light doesn't quite reach this far, and the lock on the cell door was broken. The Whumper only had to swing it open to get inside, shutting the doors out of pure habit.

There was a smaller cage inside, sitting unused in a corner close to the cell doors. In a corner farther from the door, was a litter box- it had an open lid on it that could help a person sit on it. It was much unlike the other litter boxes provided to the other pets; who were expected to squat and go. The smell of shit wafted from it, making the Whumper's nose scrunch up in disgust.

And in the corner of the entire basement, and in the other corner farthest from the cell door; was a dirty dog bed. On top of it, lay a man. The man's ribcage was a prominent feature in his appearance, unlike a year ago when the Whumper first brought him here. The man had an eyepatch over his right eye- the Whumper remembered how he carved it out, in his anger, to punish the man for disobeying. And he had cut off his feet, a few days later- he needed a stress relief, so he had burned through the man's feet. The man's screams of pain when he burnt and then cut off the charred remains were a delight to hear...

But, now, Whumper could only find himself irritated with the man. He was the only one who he had cut off both feet, from his many pets. He was the only one who couldn't stand up when Whumper needed him to be faster, the only one who had to be carried, the only one that annoyed Whumper to see. Whumper lashed out in that moment- his steel-toed boot collided with the man's ribcage, making him scream in pain. Whumper was a little satisfied with the sound of a rib breaking, watching the man cough on the ground.

"Get up, Mutt. Or are you too useless to do that, anymore?" the Whumper ordered, spitting the words like venom. Mutt slowly got on his hands and knees, crawling towards his Master and pressing his face to the ground. It didn't matter that the ground was dirty- Mutt had to be good, he had to obey, so that he could be useful to his Master.

"Since you're so worthless that you can't even eat by yourself, I'm going to wait here until you're done. Hurry up," the Whumper growled, tapping his foot in impatience. Mutt whimpered once, pushing through the pain and crawling towards his food bowls. It was the same slop as always- unappetizing, brown, and made of some sort of unknown meat. Mutt ate slowly, and messily, making his Master groan with disapproval.

"God, you're so annoying. Why can't you do anything right, for once? You're such a stupid and dumb dog. You already look ugly enough as it is without your food all over your messy face," the Whumper groaned, and Mutt felt himself internally deflate at his words. He was useless, worthless, annoying, stupid, dumb, ugly, messy... why couldn't he do anything right? Why couldn't he please his Master correctly?

Mutt had to wipe his face off with his hand to eat the food that made it onto his countenance. Then he bent himself further down, eating all of the food that had made it onto the dirty ground. He moved onto his water bowl, lapping at the water. Mutt had every intention to be careful, but the water still sloshed over to the other side. His Master groaned, making Mutt berate himself further.

"You're the most needy, helpless pet I've ever had to take care of. You can't even drink water properly. Can't you do anything right?" the Whumper groaned, and Mutt felt like he was going to cry. He tried so hard everyday, tried so hard to be good. He didn't want to be bad, because being bad was always met with pain. And yet, he didn't seem to have the capacity to be good, as he was always given more and more pain.

When Mutt finished drinking, he turned his body around to face his Master. "Master- I'm- I'm worthless- I'm useless to you- I'm dumb- stupid- I'm a bad dog- please put me down- please let me die- please kill me- pl-please--"

"Oh my god, shut up," the Whumper growled in frustration, and Mutt immediately went silent. "Just go back to your fucking bed already, before I have to kick you there."

Mutt shuddered, putting in the last of his remaining energy into crawling onto the dog bed. His Master left, slamming the cell door shut as he did so. Mutt waited until his Master was gone, listening to his receding footsteps, before he started to cry.

He was in so much pain- so much agony everyday. He just wanted to be good, so that he could feel his Master's gentle touch again. He just wanted to serve his Master well, so that he could be rewarded again. Being surrounded in constant agony made Mutt yearn for his Master's tender caresses... but he didn't deserve it. Mutt knew it. Mutt was a bad dog.

He hoped his Master would put him down soon.

---

This is my first ever whumpy oneshot posted on Tumblr! Please be kind, I'm really nervous to post this. Concrit is welcome; let me know if there's anything else I need to warn for.

Taglist: (let me know if you want to be removed)

@eatyourdamnpears

@something-indecent-and-dramatic

@batfacedliar-yetagain

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whumpshaped · 5 months

Note

this is a disgustingly fluffy prompt so beware slfkdh

caretaker always calls whumpee a word in their (caretaker‘s) native language, which whumpee doesn’t understand. but since they are very self loathing they just assume it’s something negative, since caretaker has to spend so much time and energy caring for and „tolerating“ whumpee. one day whumpee gets too curious though and decides to look up the word, only to find out it’s a pet name and caretaker has been calling them something lovingly the entire time

(bonus points if you do it in your native language i love learning new cute pet names!!)

sorry to all hungarians i know seeing this will cause some whiplash

tw pet whump, past trauma, caretaker new master

‘Easy, szívem.’

‘Szívem, could you bring me some water?’

‘You don’t have to push yourself, szívem.’

Whumpee accepted the nickname as their own easily. Whumper had given them plenty, although never ones they couldn’t even understand; useless, stupid, mutt… who knew which one Caretaker was using on them?

They avoided asking about it for the longest time. They told themself they were prepared for the meaning, that they could handle whatever degrading thing their new master ‘friend’ threw at them, but in reality… They weren’t prepared at all. They didn’t want to know. They wanted to pretend it was something nice, a term of genuine endearment, dear, darling, honey… Something people said to each other with kindness.

But eventually, curiosity won out. Whumpee sneaked into the study one day, picking out one of the dictionaries from the shelf. They thought about using the computer, but they chickened out. It would’ve been a much more egregious crime than opening a book.

The issue was, they had no idea how to spell the word. They started at ‘S’, flipping through pages upon pages and finding nothing. See-vem. See-vem. None of the words looked right. They eventually crossed over into the next letter, ‘Sz’, unsure what sound that would even make. It was all so confusing… How did Caretaker even speak this?

“Can I help you?”

Whumpee flinched at the voice, slamming the dictionary shut immediately. “C-Caretaker– I– I wasn’t– I wasn’t doing anything! I was cleaning, and the book fell down, I was just trying to check whether it was intact–”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” they said with a smile. “I’m not mad, szívem. But if you were looking for something specific in there, maybe I could help.”

“N-no, no, it’s… it’s nothing… I…” They took a deep breath, trying to ground themself. It was now or never, really. They wouldn’t get a better chance to ask. “Well… I, I was wondering about, um… The nickname, I guess. What you always call me.”

“Ah, of course. I’m sorry, I’ve never really explained it, have I? It’s just a term of endearment.” They pulled out their phone and typed something. “I’m pretty sure the dictionary only has the root word. Here.”

Whumpee took the phone gingerly, looking at the translation program. Original word, in Hungarian: szívem. Yeah, they would’ve never gotten that right. Translation, in English…

Their eyes widened in disbelief. Next to them, Caretaker chuckled. “What did you think it meant?” they asked cheerily, seemingly unaware of all the horrible options that had been swirling around in Whumpee’s head before.

“I… I don’t even know,” they breathed.

They definitely didn’t think it meant something as innocent as ‘my heart’.

#asks #whump #whump drabble #pet whump #past trauma #caretaker new master #recovery fic #comfort

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ervotica · 10 months

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫

we’re gonna be fine (drabble)

when you think finnick’s in danger, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to protect him. or, that time the mutts impersonated your fiancé and you lost your shit.

“shhh, shhh… i know, i know” (whump prompt)

finnick takes care of you when you’re injured by the poison fog in the quarter quell.

“i’m here, i’ve got you” (whump prompt)

finnick, your mentor, greets you after you win the games and consoles your anxiety. something more ensues.

a life of our own

finnick helps you find yourself again after you’re rescued from the capitol. you’re desperate to trust him again.

𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤

peeta softly overstimming you (drabble) 18+

dom!peeta x sub!reader, praise, overstim, dacryphilia

𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲

cato protects you from another tribute

cato starts a fight with another tribute when he creeps on you

cato finds you when you hide

you hide from cato when he wants a kiss. he always finds you in the end…

cato comforts you when you cry

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠!𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰

please don’t go, i love you so

coriolanus questions his feelings and possessiveness over you.

𝐡𝐚𝐲𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲

coming soon…

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whump-queen · 7 months

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In Relief and Reverie

continuation from this

Tags: vampire whump, creepy/intimate whumper, prettyboy vampire whumpee, starvation, worship and withdrawl ~ my usual nonsense

The vampire’s knees were starting to go numb.

He had no idea how long he’d been made to kneel there, at his owner's feet.

Aris didn’t move from where he’d been placed--the heavy rings of steel locked around his neck and his wrists weighed him down and tethered him to them.

Rowe leaned back in their seat, slowly wrapping one hand around the chain on the vampire’s collar. There was a tug on the chain, forcing a sharp exhale from Aris' throat as he was forced to lean in.

Rowe smiled.

The vampire’s eyes stayed locked to the floor, perhaps not willing to give Rowe the satisfaction. But Rowe was fine with that. They knew how to get the mutt’s attention.

Rowe reached for their pocket, grinning wider. Fingers found what they were looking for; they slid a small shining object from the dark folds of fabric and flicked it open with practiced ease.

Sure enough, those red eyes darted up the moment he heard it—that all too familiar metallic shing that seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room.

It was the scalpel.

Again.

Aris flinched back, expecting the pain, before he saw his owner bring it to their own skin and his eyes went wide.

Rowe snickered and aligned the blade, smug eyes never leaving the vampire for long; they began to carefully drag the blade through the skin on their own shoulder. It slid painfully slowly through the uppermost layers of skin, and Aris’ held his breath–it was so silent he swore he could hear his master’s skin ripping.

He knew nothing cloud prepare him for what was about to happen.

The moment the first bead of blood hit the air, his eyes shot alarmingly wide—irises glowing a bright, hungry red.

He was panting; his fangs extended to full length without him even realizing. He bit back a whine and exhaled sharply through gritted teeth—his breath was coming in hot and fast—his chest was heaving with desperation—he instantly lunged forward when—

Rowe’s foot moved just slightly, the toe of their boot pressing forward to firmly meet the vampire’s sternum.

The vampire froze instantly. His eyes snapped up to his owner—wide and terrified, yet still alight with that deep hungry red, shining like glowing tail lights.

Rowe just sat there, looking casual as ever. The sole of their boot pressed more firmly into Aris’ chest, pushing him back a bit, and allowing absolutely no room to move forward. It wasn’t a rough gesture, but the message was clear enough.

“Move one more inch without permission and this boot will be buried in your mouth.”

Rowe could feel Aris shudder at the threat– poorly hidden.

“I should whip your back to shreds for what you just did.”

The vampire cringed at the whine that escaped his own lips. He wanted to sink into the floor. He sounded utterly pathetic.

Rowe couldn't help but crack a smile, a low, pleased hum buzzing just behind their teeth.

“You’re lucky you make for such a nice view.”

Rowe sat back, getting comfortable, vowing themselves to enjoy this.

“Today I’m feeling… generous. I might give you a chance to prove you can control yourself before I decide just how badly you’ve fucked up.”

They leaned casually against the armrest of the chair with their chin resting on their hand. An amused hum slipped past their lips; their features twisted into a narrow-eyed smile as the vampire desperately tried—and failed—to compose himself over and over.

Rowe let the blood drip freely.

...

It was a losing game, really.

Aris knew it was.

He knew it had been weeks now.

Weeks since he had last been allowed to feed.

But the blood was right there—fresh, delicious, hot, red, human blood—god, his owner had the best blood he had ever tasted—and it was trickling down their collarbone right in front of him and—

He didn’t deserve it.

He had lunged.

Was this all just a trick?

Was he not going to be hurt for this?

He’d rather just get it over with, so he could stop waiting around and suffocating in whatever terrifying limbo this was.

So he could just suffer and make it better.

Aris knew.

He knew.

He had lunged. He was so sorry.

God, he’d take the beating gratefully if it meant an end to this—to the twisting poisonous feeling that squeezed around his insides.

It was torture, to not know where he stood.

Maybe if Aris took it well, he’d be allowed to beg, to plead and apologize over and over, as many times as Rowe allowed.

But it was a losing game, wasn’t it?

A game against his own hunger, his instincts, his desperation—against that smell.

And then he understood.

This was his punishment.

To be made to wait.

To be made to fail.

To be locked in an unwinnable battle against the part of his mind that was screaming at him to lunge, to bite, to gnash his teeth like a wild animal, to clamp his jaws around anything he could reach.

It was right there. It was right there— in front of his face.

Rowe held him there for what seemed like ages, watching him with a pleased smirk—pressing the sole of their boot into his chest and swirling around the trickling blood on their own shoulder until the vampire was fucking drooling and whining, ensnared by the smell wafting through the room and the screaming voices in his own head.

At last, Rowe was sure that the vampire had reached his breaking point, that he would say or do anything if it got him out of this. They relished in his pitiful expression when Aris raised his gaze—the defeat in his teary eyes—and God he was pleading—

“Please— it’s been so long since… since you fed me.”

Rowe snickered, uncrossing their legs for a better view.

Perfect.

“Beg properly, pretty thing, and maybe I won’t make your punishment worse.”

The vampire bit straight through his lip trying to stop the low pained whine that slipped out through gritted teeth when he heard them say it.

’Beg.’

“Please — you— you can’t make me do this—”

“What do you think, another three weeks? Or should we do four? You know I can starve you as long as I want to. It's not like you’ll die.”

Aris choked on his words, his throat closed up at every attempt, and nothing came out but a pitiful, terrified whimper.

Oh, he loathed it. A prouder version of himself might have held out, just to spare himself the shame. But it had been weeks. It had been weeks and god—it was the smell of them.

It was the sound of Rowe’s heart beating.

The way he could feel the blood pulsing through his owner’s veins—it was driving him beyond insane—he could barely think at all—

Fuck it.

His voice cracked and he felt the tears spill over.

That was no time for pride.

A icy pang of dread accompanied the realization that he had never been allowed to beg for forgiveness like this. Not for something this bad.

He only had one chance.

What if he got it wrong?

What if Rowe changed their mind—and—

please, I don’t know what you—

I—I don’t—

I don’t know how to please you.

He gazed desperately at the cut on Rowe’s shoulder through teary, glistening eyes.

Please—this has to work.

Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, all the way down to Rowe’s shoes.

When that boot didn’t immediately rise up to crack across his face, he allowed himself to exhale, brushing his lips just barely against the cool leather.

The steel toe.

Kissing the thing that could slam into his face at any moment, that could shatter his entire jaw in a second, if Rowe so chose it. He was desperate.

He could only pray that this would please them.

His voice was a shaky whisper against the freshly shined leather—

”Please—please, please, please-”

Slowly but firmly, Rowe's boot hooked under his chin, forcing his head up to face them.

“Almost there, sweetheart.” A sickly sweet smile spread across their face. They could feel him shaking through the leather.

‘God, you're so gorgeous like this.’

“Please what... Come on, pet, tell me what you want.”

Rowe looped the chain that connected to his collar around in their palm once more, and Aris nearly choked when the metal tightened around his throat.

But he stayed down.

He knew better.

“Don’t be shy now, pretty. Tell me what you need.”

Every time Rowe opened their mouth, Aris felt another pang of humiliation hit his chest. He wanted to curl in on himself and cry.

But he knew better, and he pressed his lips once more against the leather of Rowe’s shoes, trailing slow kisses from the steel tip to the laces.

Though the thought of blood never faded from his mind, he started to drift into the task without realizing it.

His head felt fuzzy and so... heavy.

He heard Rowe give a pleased hum from somewhere above him, and felt his mind slowly melting into a foggy, desperate sludge—disorienting waves wrapped around his chest and his head until he was open-mouthed and tonguing at the laces and whining again.

Each breath was laced with an edge of something from deep within his chest. Something that had long since wound itself around his mind--a slow, slithering python that had now found its moment strike.

And when he felt the weight of Rowe’s other boot rest heavily on the back of his neck, he groaned.

It was bliss.

It was forgiveness.

It was a relief to be good.

To obey.

To have pleased them.

It was a relief dwarfed only by an imagined end to his hunger, but a relief he would take nonetheless.

Aris remained there, lips and tongue pressed to his owner’s shoe, worshiping in relief and in reverie, for as long as Rowe decided to keep him there.

—

Update 11/23: I did a rewrite of this I think its much better now <33

general taglist: @whumpshaped @whumpsday @emmettnet @a-whump-sideblog @whump-it-like-its-hot @wolfeyedwitch @whumper-soot @unorganisedalienrubbish @hidden-dreamland @whumpedydump @lonesome--hunter @ashh-ed @whump-in-the-closet @oriantthegiant @banditosong @anonymustyou @feralwhump @jieunie-23 @whumpasaurus101 @morning-star-whump @whmp @captain-bo-bob-bobby @the-beasts-have-arrived @spooky-scary-vampires @burningkittypoet @veyroswin @painsandconfusion @skittles-the-whumpee @demondamage

#im gonna send a knife to every house in Florida. one of them will reach you.#vampire whump #I barely proofread idgaf enjoy this self indiulgent shit hell yeah #horrible terrible #akia.txt #me write thing #rowe and aris #Rowe oc #Aris oc #my writing #whump writing #starvation whump #starved whumpee #begging #Mm tasty #blood #tw blood

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whumpcereal · 10 months

Note

i want to see will's eventual rescue!!! :D:D:D

Do you, @hold-him-down? Here you go...

part of the kennel. set a year after will and tommy's disappearance. tommy and annie have been free for nearly six months; will has been sold away to whumper extraordinaire, pat deangelis, whom you'll get to know here. master list here.

content warnings for: extreme dehumanization, depersonalization, derealization, pet whump, references to noncon, noncon body modification, references to organ harvesting, forced nudity, collars, electrocution, captivity whump, creepy whumper, conditioned whumpee, thoughts of death, adult language

will's rescue, he's coming home

There is some awareness. The mutt knows that he exists. He is real. And at the same time, he isn’t real at all. The pain he feels is real. The feeling of Pat’s knife blade against his skin, the grinding pressure of the bolts in his jaw, the wet heat that seeps from deep inside after he’s used; he feels it all. But then, he doesn’t.

He isn’t–he can’t. He isn’t himself. There is no self to be. Not anymore. There is sensation and there is darkness and there is nothing in between. Everything happens to the body that used to belong to someone with a name, someone that people knew, but someone that no one cared very much about. No one will ever care for him again. That much he knows. It’s easier to retreat into the darkness than to entertain the thought that someone might love him. He’s not meant to think anyway. So he doesn’t. He won’t.

There is a man with Pat when feeding time comes. The syringe is full of the usual brown slop, but the mutt doesn’t care. He takes what he can get. When Pat lifts the lid on his tank, he scooches dutifully onto his ruined back. He’s still bleeding from yesterday, but he can’t really feel it; so much of what used to be skin is scar tissue now. His nerves are dead.

He thinks he might be dead soon too. He isn’t sure he knows how to look forward to it, but there’s something comforting, knowing that, soon, the darkness won’t be interrupted by any more pain.

“You got a visitor, pup,” Pat says dryly.

He kneels beside the mutt’s tank and reaches to cradle the boy’s head in preparation for his food. The mutt doesn’t make a sound; he’s not even sure that he can. When he can think, he idly wonders if his vocal cords are swiss cheese beneath the scabs and scars left by Doc’s bark collar. Doc never took it off, even after he’d wired Will’s jaw shut. Pat soldered the collar’s lock permanently closed; he did the same with the little locks that keep the mutt’s mitts in place too.

The mutt hasn’t seen his own hands in he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t even remember what they look like. But he remembers the white hot shards of molten metal splattering against his skin. He hadn’t screamed, even then. He knew his purpose just as well as he knows it now: to suffer. That’s why Pat bought the mutt in the first place. Perhaps Will had been a whipping boy at Doc’s; here, the mutt is even less than that.

Sometimes, when the mutt comes back to himself for a stretch of time, he misses Tommy, even though he knows it is wrong. He wonders what it would feel like to be used gently again, to know any kind of apology or affection, even at the expense of his body.

He misses Annie even more.

Not that it matters. Not that he can think about it. Just now, there is nothing but the feeling of Pat’s hand beneath his snaggled and greasy hair; nothing but the rubber tubing that Pat shoves between his cracked lips.

The dim outline of another man hovers over Pat’s shoulder. For just a moment, the mutt’s eyes strain to see, but there’s only a faceless body, a voice that he doesn’t recognize. He isn’t sure if that’s good or bad.

“He looks like shit,” the other man says. “There’s nothing to him.”

Pat laughs, and at once, the piston of the syringe shoves forward and a slosh of blended dog food and water hits the mutt’s teeth. The mutt sucks dutifully at the little tube, swallowing whatever he can. There won’t be any more until tomorrow.

“Well, I didn’t think you were after him to win any beauty contests. It’s not his outsides you’re interested in.”

The mutt closes his eyes. His insides hurt. Everything hurts, and the hurt means he’s still alive. He doesn’t know if he wants it to stop. He knows he should roll onto his stomach, that he should let the man feel his insides. He doesn’t have to think to know that.

But the other man drops into a squat next to Pat and peers into the tank. “Lemme see his teeth.”

“His jaw’s bolted–”

“Yeah, I gathered. But I still want to see his teeth.”

Pat pulls the syringe away, and the mutt doesn’t whine. His head falls back against the plastic bottom of the tank, and Pat’s hands reach for him again. Pat uses his dirty thumbs to pull the mutt’s chapped lips backward from his teeth, which are permanently joined by Doc’s wires and bolts.

“I brush them every now and again.”

It’s a lie, of course, but the mutt won’t disagree. If his teeth hurt, he hasn’t noticed. That doesn’t mean they don’t hurt, but what the fuck does it matter either way?

Still, the mutt’s breath picks up. Why? The thought is tiny, like a knifepoint in the back of his mind, but it’s there. Why is this happening? Why won’t it stop? Why?

“I think he likes you,” Pat says with a soft laugh. He rubs his thumb over the mutt’s lips, catching the dry skin with the edge of a callous. “He’s getting all worked up.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” the guy grumbles back. “If he’s not healthy, it won’t be worth using him for parts. I mean, look at him. He’s fucking gray. He’s, like, two seconds from sepsis. People don’t want kidneys that are already failing, you know?”

The mutt jerks against the floor of the tank. His insides. The man doesn’t want to use him; he wants to gut him. The mutt shouldn’t care. He should just let it happen, let everything fade into darkness for good, but the thought is growing now, slicing through his gray matter. Why? Why me? Why isn’t it ever over?

The mutt can’t breathe.

Pat dangles his arm over the edge of the tank. He’s still laughing. “Well, now! That’s the most excited I’ve seen him in weeks. Guess there’s still someone in there after all.”

Someone. The mutt used to be someone, that’s true. He shakes his head, only just swallowing the moan of protest that he can feel building in his abused throat. He wishes he could open his mouth to gasp for breath. He tries. His jaw stays firmly shut.

“It doesn’t mean he’s healthy,” the guy shoots back.

“And what do you care if he’s healthy? Does it matter to you if he dies on the table? You want the things that are keeping him alive, and damned if he isn’t still kicking. He’s got working lungs, doesn’t he? A heart that’s still beating. Just look at him!”

The mutt closes his eyes and squirms against the plexiglass walls, pulling in as much breath as he can through his nose. He remembers a movie he watched with his father, when he still had a name. In the movie, a man’s beating heart is ripped from his bare chest. The mutt imagines his heart being ripped out; it must be small now, like the rest of him. Tough and ashen.

He can’t feel his heartbeat, though. Maybe it isn’t there at all.

He is drowning. Pat tucks a hand against his throat in warning. The mutt has to get it together. He has to impress the new man. He has to be prepared to suffer and like it.

Pat slaps the mutt across the face, shoving the soft meat of his cheek into Doc’s hardware. The mutt whines without thinking. The collar deploys. His throat snaps and burns. He seizes against the walls of the tank, but when it subsides, he is breathing again. He feels his heartbeat.

He is still alive, and the new man is going to kill him.

Another memory of his father. A book. To die will be an awfully big adventure.

The mutt doesn’t want an adventure; if he could want anything, it would be relief.

The new man leans over the tank. His face looks funny.

“You’ve kept him this way the entire time you’ve had him?” the man asks.

The tank. That’s what he must mean. When the mutt was still Will, he’d laughed when Pat showed him the tank. It set off the collar, but he didn’t care. The whole thing was just ridiculous. Like something you’d put an overgrown lizard in. Glass walls, a mesh top. Just enough room for a body to lay flat. It made Tommy’s dog house look like a motherfucking palace.

It’s a fucking coffin masquerading as a terrarium. It’s a coffin. His coffin. Will’s. Oh, God–

He doesn’t want to think anymore. He wishes he could scream.

“I take him out when the mood strikes me,” Pat replies, and the mutt freezes when Pat’s rough hand cups his face. “He’s still nice and tight, even after all this time. The doc trained him well. I will miss that once you take him to play Operation, but I’m sure I can find another boy somewhere. Maybe one whose jaw has more range of motion, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not interested in that,” the man snaps.

“You’re pretty touchy for a guy who wants this little fucker’s organs on ice.”

The mutt whines again, before he can stop himself. The collar responds. As he twitches and burns, he looks up at the man who is going to kill him. Their eyes meet. The mutt doesn’t understand the look on the guy’s face.

Derringer winces as the kid’s body stills in the tank. It’s not like he wasn’t prepared for this; it’s not like he’s new. He’s been on the task force for the better part of a decade, and he knows how depraved people can be. But this—everything that’s come out of Barker and his contacts, it’s next level shit.

He looks down at the body in the glass tank. Christ, the kid looks barely human. He’s emaciated—of course he is; according to what the Mahoney boy told them, his jaw’s been wired shut for the better part of a year—and his gray skin stretches too tightly over his bones, some of which have been obviously broken and poorly set. And that’s concerning, but somehow not as concerning as the webwork of thin, deliberate scars that covers most of the boy’s naked body. He’s been defaced. Decorated.

Ruined, Derringer’s mind supplies.

He can’t imagine the pain. The boy must have spent hours under Pat DeAngelis’ knife. And when he wasn’t being slit open like a fish, it was worse. He can see the blood and pearly smudges that line the boy’s inner thighs. Derringer doesn’t want to think of the scars he can’t see.

There’s no question it’s Will Cartwright, but whatever resemblance exists between the photos and videos Derringer’s seen and the broken person in front of him is limited at best. How could it not be, after what the kid’s been through?

Will watches him, brown eyes wide, and Derringer looks back. Their eyes meet for just a second. Hold on, kid, Derringer thinks. It’s almost over. You’re almost home.

He hardens his face again and looks back at DeAngelis.

“I’ll take him.”

“At the price we agreed on?”

Derringer shrugs. He can’t make this seem too easy. “He’s pretty beat up.”

“So you can’t skin him and make a profit,” DeAngelis laughs. “Though I’d buy it back from you if I could. I’m a little disappointed you’re going to destroy all my handiwork when you cut him open.” The jackass rakes his nails over the boy’s chest, opening wounds Derringer hadn’t realized were fresh. The kid flinches but stays silent. DeAngelis nods his approval. “I’ve worked hard on him.”

“I can see that,” Derringer says.

“But he’s outlived his usefulness, and I thought, waste not, want not, you know?”

Will’s eyes slip closed again. Derringer wonders how much the kid really hears, if he even has it in him to be frightened anymore. He hopes not. It will make this next part easier.

“Sure, waste not. But he is in rough shape. And you can’t personally guarantee his health, so—“

DeAngelis’ eyes narrow. “How much?”

“I’ll give you five grand for him as is.”

It’s an insult, and they both know it. Will probably knows it too, if he understands any of what’s going on around him.

“We said ten. And you know you’ll make more off of all his bits and pieces. That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know that. He might not have anything viable. He might die before our people open him up. He’s practically dead already.” Derringer ignores the twist in his stomach; it’s too close to the truth. “If we can move his heart and lungs at least, I’ll kick you back a percentage.”

Will turns his head suddenly, and a tear slips down his soiled, sunken cheek.

Derringer sucks in a quick breath and forces himself to look away. He’s still in there. The kid is still alive, even if he is in pain.

Just a little bit longer, I promise.

The mutt wants to die, but at the same time, he doesn’t.

He knows what the new man is planning. He understands. And even if he doesn’t quite know why, he knows he doesn’t want it to happen. Staying alive isn’t really worth it, but it is. It is. Because maybe–maybe this isn’t forever.

It’s a stupid thought. He hasn’t had a thought like that in he doesn’t know how long. This is why he shouldn’t think. He should let the darkness take him. He should let the pain slip away.

But the pain that’s going to come before–he can’t stomach it.

Okay, poor choice of words.

Behind his closed eyes, he imagines himself cut open, his scarred skin peeled away from his chest like flaps. He can almost feel hands reaching inside to grab the things that are keeping him alive; he knows he will feel it when the time comes. Fuckers who do things like this, they get off on the pain they inflict. He will feel himself being disassembled piece by piece.

It’s more than he can bear.

“Fifty percent of his proceeds,” Pat is saying.

“Jesus Christ, you must think I was born yesterday. He’s not worth fifty percent.”

The mutt isn’t worth anything. There’s nothing he can do to keep Pat from going through with this.

Except–

“Twenty five,” the man shoots back.

The mutt blushes, but the men aren’t looking at him now.

He doesn’t make a sound–the two shocks he’s already had were plenty–but he starts to rock his body gently back and forth. He’s got to roll over. He isn’t much to look at, he knows, but Pat likes to look at his handiwork, likes to know the mutt is his creation. It excites him. And if the mutt can just get Pat excited, remind him of how good he is–

“Twenty-five? I’m giving you a fucking treasure trove here. You don’t have to hunt for any of the goods; he’s got them all. I should be charging you a fucking finder’s fee, not knocking down the price. I paid a pretty penny for this little mutt; he’s worth more than five grand and a measly twenty-five percent.”

Fuck, the mutt should be touched, shouldn’t he? He’s worth something after all.

“What the fuck is he doing?”

The mutt doesn’t stop moving. He’s almost made it.

Derringer bites back a gasp. This is worse than the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter let on. Of course, they don’t know what’s happened since Will was sold away. His back is completely destroyed. The thick, ropey scars from Barker’s bullwhip are as bad as he expected, but what DeAngelis has done–it’s like he’s traced every one of the boy’s veins with his knife. It’s a root system of carnage. It looks like DeAngelis reopens the wounds at will; there are a few still weeping. The smell is gut churning.

DeAngelis laughs. “Awww, pup! You want to show the nice man what else you have to offer, don’t you?”

The kid forces himself onto wobbling hands and knees; Derringer doesn’t know how he manages it. He dips his head and shoves his bony backside a little higher. His hips are a mess of black and blue fingerprints, and a silicone plug swells from between his red-striped buttocks.

“I told you, I’m not interested in that,” Derringer spits. Christ, how is this kid still alive?

DeAngelis sighs and nudges the plug with his fingers, and Will dutifully grinds backward. Derringer has to fight not to look away. The poor fucking kid.

“No, mutt,” DeAngelis says, swatting softly at the boy’s naked ass. “That’s done now. We had a good ride, but it’s getting a little sad, isn’t it? And besides, apparently we’ve got to protect the integrity of the merchandise if I want any return on my investment.”

Derringer has been doing this for years. He sees people at their lowest points on a regular basis. But damn if his heart doesn’t feel like it’s breaking when Will throws his body back against DeAngelis. Will’s dark, greasy head swoons against DeAngelis’ chest, his brown eyes pleading where his mouth cannot. Tears slip down his cheeks, but he only presses himself closer to DeAngelis. It’s a grotesque thing to watch: the kid is begging to be used with every ounce of strength he’s got left.

How do you ever get over that, Derringer wonders? Will is begging for pain because he thinks it will keep him alive. What happens when that stops? When the pain isn’t a memory, but something that’s carved into your skin for everyone to see? Tomorrow, when Will Cartwright is safe in a hospital, how will he live with what Barker and DeAngelis have done to him? How will he live knowing the things he’s had to do?

Will’s hips press backward again—almost instinctively, Derringer thinks—but DeAngelis only shoves him away, letting the boy fall face first into the tank.

“I said no. Don’t fool yourself, mutt. You’re no prize. That’s why you’re here in the first place. If anyone had wanted you, you would never have ended up with me. I don’t want you. I never did. I just needed something to do, and I’ve done all I can with you. Now it’s time to let this nice gentleman do all he can. At least now you’ll be doing something useful, huh?”

Will’s decimated back heaves with a silent sob. Derringer’s hand clenches into a fist at his side.

“If you don’t want him,” Derringer says, “then you should be willing to let him go for five.”

“7500.”

“Six.”

“Seven, and forty percent of whatever you get for his bits and pieces.”

“Seven and thirty.” Even as he says it, Derringer has to remind himself that Will Cartwright will still have a beating heart days from now, that there will be no percentage for his bits and pieces at all.

DeAngelis looks down at the naked boy with impassive eyes; the open wounds on the kid’s back shine under the fluorescent light.

“Fine. Seven and thirty.”

“Done,” Derringer says quickly.

DeAngelis leans over the tank. “Did you hear that, mutt?” he says to Will’s back. “It’s time for you and I to say goodbye.”

And then, Will shrieks. The sound is more animal than human, lodged somewhere deep in the boy’s scarred throat, and when the sensor on his collar picks it up, there’s a cruel snap of electricity. But Will only screams again. And again. And again.

Derringer starts forward. “Hey—“

DeAngelis only shakes his head and heaves the mesh lid back onto the tank. Will’s body thrashes against the glass walls of his prison, and he doesn’t stop screaming, even as the collar pops against his throat.

He thinks he’s fighting for his life. There is a part of Will Cartwright that still believes he’s worth saving, that wants to go on living even if it means being trapped in DeAngelis’ fucking tank until he dies.

Hold onto that, kid. You’re so close. Don’t let go now.

But still, Derringer knows that a part of Will Cartwright will stay trapped here, even when the rest of him is safe. The kid’s real fight is just beginning.

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Derringer says. “His heart—“

DeAngelis kicks the side of the tank. “He’ll pass out soon enough; it’ll save you the trouble of drugging him for the trip.”

Derringer wants to wrap his hands around the fucker’s neck, but it isn’t part of the plan. The others are waiting outside. DeAngelis will be in custody in minutes. He will never be able to hurt anyone like this ever again. He and Barker and all of their disgusting contacts are going to rot in prison. They are going to pay.

But it doesn’t mean Derringer doesn’t want to inflict some pain himself. For the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter. For Justin Huang, whose husband is still lost somewhere overseas. For every soul they’ve pulled from the depths of hell since Barker’s operation was blown open—and for the ones they were too late to save.

But right now, all he wants is to make DeAngelis suffer for Will.

But Derringer is a professional. He manages to smile, even as Will’s close-mouthed sobs keep coming.

“Well, thanks.”

Will can’t hear everything they’re saying. He can’t hear anything but his own screams, really—it turns out, when you can’t open your mouth to scream, the sound just echoes in your own head. Still, it feels good to hear some version of his own voice. To know he’s there, even if it’s only for a few more hours.

And he is there. Will is there. The mutt is too, but he’s already slipping into the recesses of Will’s brain, silent where Will is screaming. Will will scream until he can’t. He will scream and he will fight until his heart is cut from his chest, and they cannot stop him.

He doesn’t notice when Pat locks the mesh top on the tank. He doesn’t quite feel it when the tank is hoisted onto a push cart. He doesn’t care when he starts to roll away. He doesn’t stop screaming.

The pain from his collar dulls with every shock. It’s no worse than anything else he’s suffered, and it matters less now. He gurgles against the electric current, but he doesn’t stop himself from making noise. He won’t give Pat the satisfaction. He won’t give the new guy a break. He gets to decide how this goes, even if it’s the last decision he ever makes.

Will rides the electricity until his whole body shakes, and he beats the sides of the tank with his shoulders, his elbows, his heels. They ignore him, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.

His jaw aches to open, and he feels himself fighting against the bolts and wires that Doc installed all those months ago. Nothing budges, but he pretends that it does. Another throat-shredding scream, another jolt of electricity. Over and over and over again.

With every snap of current, Will lets himself think of the people he’s leaving behind. No one wants him, not like this, and he gets it, he does. But he is himself for the first time in a long time, and he isn’t going to waste it.

He screams and the collar lights up, and when he closes his eyes, he sees Annie. She is smiling at him, her big brown eyes crinkled at their corners. She reaches for him with her little hand, and Will tries to reach back. His mitt brushes the mesh top of the tank. Annie fades, and he screams again.

Tommy is there when the shock comes, wrapped in his favorite hoodie and leaning against something Will can’t see. Tommy’s head tips back, and he laughs. He is happy. But looking at Tommy hurts, and Will screams, and he is relieved when the shock sends Tommy away.

Will’s father takes Tommy’s place, young and a little sad, like he was when Will’s mother took off. Bud? he says, but somehow, he doesn’t say it at all. He looks so tired. Bud, I miss you so much. I’m sorry—

Will screams so long and loud that the shock stops before the sound does. He wilts on his bloody back, exhausted. He’ll go again, he will, he just needs a minute—

“What the fuck?!”

“On the ground! ON THE GROUND!”

The tank isn’t moving anymore. Will can’t see Pat or the new man. All he can see is a metal ceiling beyond the mesh top. It’s dark around him, but there is light, just outside his range of vision. He doesn’t scream again. He stills. He waits. He listens.

“Get his hands behind his back and make sure they’re real fucking tight.”

It’s the man. The man who is going to kill him. Will doesn’t understand. He tenses against the glass bottom of the tank, his bloody skin smooching awkwardly along the smooth surface. His mouth twitches, as if to bite his lip, but too late, he remembers that he can’t. The pain starts to build again, needling at him from every direction. Still, Will strains to hear. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the voices, even as the world begins to gray.

“You fucking son of a bitch—you’re a Fed—“

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, DeAngelis. Turns out, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Not that it will matter too much once my team sweeps your depraved little Xanadu here. I only wish they’d put you in a fucking tank.”

Will’s brow wrinkles. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. The pain washes over him again, and his atrophied muscles seize. He groans, but the collar doesn’t react.

“Get him in the car. I’ll help the kid. Make sure the ambulance is en route.”

The floor beneath Will stutters a little, and then the man is kneeling over the tank.

“Will?”

Will shakes his head, trying to force his eyes back open, trying to understand. No one’s called him by his name in so long. How does the man know his name?

The mesh disappears from overhead. The man leans over the tank. His face is dark and stubbled in the dim light, and Will presses his body somehow flatter against the bottom of the tank, even though it hurts. Somehow, he finds the strength to scream again, and the snap of the shock flares against his throat.

“Will, no–no, kid, I promise, everything will be okay.”

The man’s voice is suddenly soft. He leans closer, and Will can see that he has blue eyes. The man doesn’t smile, but his face isn’t unkind. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Will, my name is Special Agent Christopher Derringer. I’m here to take you home.”

Home. Will’s eyes sting with fresh tears. It can’t be true. The man is lying. Will doesn’t have a home. No one wants him. How could they? He needs Pat. He needs someone to tell him what to do.

“Will? You’re safe now.”

But Will isn’t safe. Everything hurts so badly, and he is so tired. He knows he should keep fighting, that he shouldn’t believe what this man is saying, but he can’t do this anymore. It’s too much.

His eyes close, and he lets himself go. When they open–if they open–maybe he will understand.

The boy loses consciousness before the paramedics get there.

“Christ almighty,” one whispers under her breath. “The poor kid. How on earth–”

Derringer nods, standing by as they carefully lift Will from the fucking tank. They lay him gently on the gurney. His skeletal body looks too small on the blue sheets. One of the paramedics covers him with a space blanket, and for a moment, the boy looks like he must have as a child; for all that his body bears the marks of Barker’s and DeAngelis’ cruel treatment, his face is untouched, innocent.

Well, almost, Derringer amends, thinking about the bolts and wires that have kept the boy silent for the better part of a year. But like this, it almost looks like he’s just fallen asleep; like maybe, everything that’s happened to him was just some kind of fucked up nightmare.

It isn’t, of course, and when Will wakes, he’ll know it too.

Derringer follows the gurney to the ambulance, and he prays that the kid will stay asleep as long as he can. What comes next might be some kind of relief, but it certainly won’t be easy.

The heavy doors close, and Derringer digs in his pants pocket for his phone. He scrolls for the number, and he ignores the clenching in his gut as it rings.

“Mr. Cartwright? Agent Derringer. We’ve got him. He’s coming home.”

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone

#the kennel #will cartwright oc #pat deangelis oc #chris derringer oc #tw noncon #please heed all warnings #whump #whump writing #whump series #pet whump #hi it's been a minute and i'm sorry

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cupcakes-and-pain · 2 months

Text

Charles & Ollie: Past

Hey guys. Um. It’s been a while since I’ve written. Sorry. Anyway! I really love this piece. It’s also much longer than most chapters I write, I’m pretty sure. Almost 2.8k words. So that’s fun.

Enjoy!

CW: pet whump, slave whump, refusing to use someone’s name, insults, perceived abandonment (technically not real), fear of punishment, self hatred, unreliable narrator, drug trafficking, drugging mention, police, starvation, escape/running away, homelessness, fear of death

Masterlist

— — —

It had been a normal day.

Wake up, make breakfast for Master, kneel quietly, and hope that he did well. Hope that he wouldn't have to spend the next few days tied up, bleeding, and starving in the basement. It was always his fault for being so stupid and deserving to be punished, but he could hope. Not want, of course, that'd never be allowed. But he could secretly wish and dream for a time when Master was forgiving.

Luckily, Master didn't find anything wrong with his pet's behavior that morning, so he set out. But not before giving his slave a strong kick to the ribs to keep him in his place. Pet preferred the kicks, the other choice for a daily reminder was a slap. Pet hated the hand marks. They made his already hideous face look even more ugly.

Pet set about his chores, washing the dishes and wiping the counter. He caught his blurred reflection in the polished granite. His collar was tight around his neck, the little tag hanging from it jingling.

He touched it gently, longing to hear his Master say the name written on it, just once. He knew that he needed the reminders because he was so stupid and useless. He'd forget his place if he wasn't called names all day. "Slave. Pet. Stupid. Ugly. Mutt. Useless. Fleabag. Bitch. Dog." On and on, all the cruelest things Master and his friends could think of, perfectly suiting for the crushed and bleeding thing that so often laid at their feet.

But Pet longed to hear his name, his real name, so badly. It had been so long, he knew it was bad, he knew he was selfish and worthless and dumb. But... no one would know, right? If he said it, just this once? Such a tiny word, only two syllables.

"Ol-"

The door flung open, and Pet jumped back, arms above his head. It was like the ground crumbled beneath his feet, and his stomach dropped. He fell to the floor, curled up, trying desperately to protect his most vital organs from attack. Had Master been waiting for this? He knew that his slave would mess up, didn't he? And he was just waiting to beat the living daylights out of the useless, worthless, disgusting piece of flesh that he owned.

"Hey, no, stupid dog. Come here." Master hauled him up off his feet and dragged him towards the basement. Pet whimpered but was in awe that Master was able to hold his fury in until they got to the basement. Usually, he'd just beat Pet wherever he was and make him clean up the blood from the floor and carpeting later.

"M-master, please, I-"

"Shush. You know what, hide! I'll be back in a few days. Some guys might come through, maybe a cop or two. Listen to me, you pathetic excuse for a dog." Master grabbed Pet's face roughly, fingernails digging into his cheeks. He was forcing Pet to look into his eyes, something that was rarely allowed. But it must be okay this time if Master was the one causing it.

"You have to understand.” Master said, “Do. Not. Come. Out. For. Anyone. However you need to do it, just get it through your thick skull. Don't stop hiding until I come back and say it's okay to leave, okay?" Master half-heartedly threw him to the floor, his slave more confused than he had ever been or probably ever would be. With one last disapproving glare, Master left.

Pet never saw him again.

- - -

It was true, he soon learned, that many people would be coming through the house. Pet feared he would feel lonely and bored while waiting, but there was a lot to keep his thoughts occupied and off of... other things.

First, cops searched the entire building. Pet heard them and dashed to a tiny closet in the basement, wedging a piece of wood in the handle on his side of the door. The police tried and failed to get in and even discussed cutting it open with an ax. Pet trembled, sweat dripping off his forehead while he tried to stop himself from hyperventilating.

Eventually, though, one of them protested, not wanting to do more work when they already had evidence. And so they left, making the house silent and (somewhat) stress-free once more.

Other people came and went too, talking and cursing. Most of them Pet recognized as the voices of Master's friends. He knew better than to listen to people's conversations, but they all kept mentioning drugs and pills, the type that had once been used on Pet. He remembered the experience, although things were still a little fuzzy.

It made his head hurt for days afterward, but at the moment, everything had felt so nice and peaceful for a few minutes before the blackout. When he woke up, he was covered in bruises and cuts, but it had still taken a few minutes for the relaxation to wear off and the pain to settle in.

Master had gotten very upset that his friends wasted the pills on a pet, after "everything he went through to get them." Despite already being beaten just an hour ago, Pet was punished severely for taking the pills. He had wanted to protest that the men had made him, but he knew better. The men were superior to him. They couldn't be faulted for it. So the blame must lie with Pet. It must. Master was never wrong.

In the present day, after many days of hunger and freezing nights down in the basement, Pet felt like he couldn't go on like this. No one had visited in a while. He knew what he was thinking about was bad. He knew that if Master found out what he was about to do, he'd be furious. He made it absolutely clear that his pet was not to leave the basement.

And yet, Pet finds himself sneaking up to the kitchen. He filled two bags with dog food and then, with some careful consideration, took three apples. Master never liked fruit but would still buy it; Pet was never quite sure of the reasoning behind that. And Pet had already been so bad, a few apples that would've rotted away even if Master had been there was nothing.

Pet then made his way to the living room and took several blankets and pillows. Then, noticing the mail had been delivered, he also took the newest copy of Pet Paper. Most of the articles either were boring or scared him, but they usually had fun pictures and a few games.

Carrying all of his loot and feeling surprisingly okay for a disobedient mutt who may have been abandoned, Pet made a little camp for himself in the basement. He decided to put the pillows and blankets in the closet where he had previously hidden from cops. The tiny space felt almost like his cage upstairs and he knew now that it was suitable for hiding.

Then he sat on the floor, grabbed a handful of dog food to munch on, and started reading.

Several more days passed before Pet started to get incredibly worried. He had heard the garbage truck pass by this morning. That was the second time since he had last seen Master. More than two weeks had gone by and still, no sign of where he had gone. What was previously just another anxious thought had transformed itself into a legitimate concern. Had Pet been abandoned?

Of course, it didn't make any sense. Why would Master leave everything just to get away from his pet?

But he couldn't deny that something was wrong. Even Master's friends had stopped visiting too. He didn't get it. Of course, he was so stupid, he could never understand why humans do the things they do. But he just couldn't think of any other explanation. So Master must've abandoned him.

Pet waited another week before finally deciding to leave. The dog food was running out, even after he had made several more disobedient trips upstairs. And if Pet had been thrown away, shouldn't he get out of his Master's house? Maybe Master was waiting until he left to come back to the house. Pet was probably being bad for staying there for so long. He was so selfish, not wanting to leave the comfort of the building for the scary outside world.

But he had to now. At least there would be food outside. And also cruel people, the cold, sickness, and probably death. But a bad pet like him deserved all of that, surely. He was such a rotten animal.

Pet's first steps outside were cautious and weak. He nearly stumbled from the sheer shock of it all.

He had done it. Ollie had done it. He couldn't believe this... this... this whole new world.

but it wasn't new, not really. It wasn't new at all. He just hadn't been here in a very long time, if ever.

He felt like he had stepped into a fantasy world after only hearing of it in fairytales. The outside world, the land beyond the kitchen window, was never allowed to him before. It might as well be something that only existed in legend.

- - -

Ollie sat huddled under the bridge, violently shivering. He hadn't eaten in two, maybe three days? He didn't know.

He was cold, wet, tired, and starving. He deserved all of it for leaving his Master's house. He should've accepted his fate and died there.

He was horrible.

- - -

Earlier in the day, Ollie had run away from some police. It was only because he was so small and capable of hiding that he got away. His muscles were very weak as of late, so he could've been easily caught. He'll have to be more careful next time.

But now, because of all the distance he had worked hard to put between him and the officers, Ollie had found himself in an entirely new area.

It was late at night, so restaurants had probably thrown out their leftovers already. If only he could find a place and dumpster dive for spare food.

As he wandered, he spied yet another cop. He was so frightened that he ran into the first available hiding place he saw: a bright, bustling building. He hadn't been thinking. He was so stupid. He dashed in and joined the crowds, trying to hide himself in the large group.

When someone first noticed him, in his dirty, smelly, roughed-up state with no shoes, she shrieked and backed up so fast she bumped into a man, who fell on a waiter, who spilled two glasses of wine they had been carrying.

Soon enough, everyone was in a great commotion, trying to get away from Ollie and call security.

The pet began to cry, overwhelmed and tired and hungry and not at all wanting to deal with this. He was sorry, he was, and he would do whatever they wanted to make up for it. Just please don't hand him over to the police. Please. He didn't know what they'd do to him, and he wasn't eager to find out.

The guards approached Ollie and he fled, going deeper into the crowd, until he tripped over his own feet and fell. He curled up and lay trembling on the floor, sobbing and so terrified.

He heard a bunch of people shuffle and he looked up to see the crowd part as a man walked through, headed straight for Ollie. This man didn't look like a security guard but rather was dressed in an expensive suit and had a stern, irritated expression.

When the man saw Ollie, however, his expression changed a bit. Ollie didn't know how to describe it, having never been looked at with such a visage. But it seemed less upset than the previous one, so that might be a plus? Maybe? Maybe this man won't kick Ollie as hard as he could, or won't insult him while throwing him out.

The man looked around.

"Whose pet is this?"

Of course, no one stepped forward. The man looked back at Ollie and asked if his owner was here. He shook his head.

"Are you lost?'

"Um, yeah... I-... I was abandoned, sir."

"Oh. I am very sorry to hear that. So you need a place to stay, then?"

Another nod. The man bent slightly and extended a hand. Ollie flinched away, bracing for a slap, but none came. He looked back and the hand was still there, just resting in the air. Ollie hesitated, but the man nodded encouragingly, and so Ollie took his hand and got helped up.

He whimpered as pressure was put on his ankle, then froze. He was bad.

His ankle must've been injured when he tripped, which was his fault, he shouldn't have run. And now he had the audacity to whimper?? He was so, so bad. This man would realize what a pathetic mutt he was and hurt him for it.

Glancing up fearfully, he saw that the man was indeed frowning. Ollie shrank back, hand slipping out of the man's grasp. He started shaking even harder.

"Oh dear, easy, it's alright," the man soothed. "I didn't mean to further injure your ankle by forcing you to stand. I will call a doctor for you immediately."

Did he think Ollie was upset because his ankle hurt? But.. why? Sure, the pain was intense now that he was trying to stand, but it was nothing compared to what he's been through.

"There's no need to be so concerned, sir. I'm alright. I can take it and more. I can take whatever you want me to."

The man frowned again and Ollie nearly cried.

"No, no, don't be ridiculous. I have no reason to harm you. You've done nothing wrong, dear. I don't want you to be unnecessarily hurt."

The man hesitated, then spoke again.

"That's not how I want one of my workers to be treated."

...

...what?

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I do not wish for you to be harmed, regardless of your status, but especially if you agree to work for me. You don't have a home or... employer, do you?"

"No, sir, I don't have either of those. But really, you don't have to, I'll only be a bother and a burden-"

"Nonsense. I have heard of how they train you guys. I'm sure you are wonderful. And besides, I am forgiving, I promise."

Ollie couldn't help but notice some of the crowd looked doubtful at that, which was very concerning. But at the same time, the man did not possess the same cruel glint in his eyes, the expression of deceit, the glee in waiting until the perfect moment to strike.

Of course, the man could just be better at hiding those things, or Ollie was dumber than he thought.

But what other choice did he have?

This person was offering him a lifeline, a chance at a new home and a new life. Ollie would die if he continued to be homeless. Maybe not right away, but he'd eventually catch an illness or upset someone or get caught, and then it'd be all over.

He didn't want to die.

"Okay. Of course, sir, I'd be happy to be your slave."

The man just nodded tight, and the pet was certain that he had already messed up.

But still, the man didn't do anything to him. Instead, he addressed the crowd.

"Apologies for the interruption," He announced, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "I have urgent business to attend to with my worker, so I must leave. Enjoy the showing, it will continue until 10:30 PM as planned. My accountant will be handling any further purchases. Good night."

Then, looking back at his new slave again, Master spoke much softer.

"What is your name, dear?"

Oh god. Oh no. He knew what he was supposed to say, he knew he had to be good. He should tell the man that he can call him anything, even horrible insults, and the slave would readily accept it. He had to show his new owner that he could be good. But the man had asked. Please. The pet wanted to be allowed his name, his real name.

"Ollie, sir. My name is Ollie."

The man nodded, not seeming angry at the slave's terrible presumption that he could demand a free person use a particular name for him.

"I am Charles Durand, please to meet you, Ollie. Come with me. I'll help you to a couch to rest until the doctor arrives."

Given no other option, Ollie followed him, allowed to dangerously lean on his arm as he hobbled along.

Hopefully, this man wouldn't be too cruel to him.

— — —

Tag list: @whumpzone @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpsweetwhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @apples-and-whump @professional-idiocy @nicolepascaline @cowboy-anon @wolfeyedwitch @kim-poce @guachipongo @badluck990 @secretwhumplair @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @morelikepainsley @catawhumpus @starfields08000 @mylovelyme

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skittles-the-whumpee · 3 months

Text

Left to die...

TW: blood, implied death, implied captivity

"Oh...you thought I was going to keep you forever? Stupid mutt...when did I ever say that?" My first bit of whump art done with my brand-new tablet! I know I'll only get better as time goes on, so I'm gonna keep on creating! >:3c

#sweet skittles posting #whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump art #captivity #tw blood #tw implied death #tw injury

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honeycollectswhump · 10 months

Text

Warmth

[masterlist]

it doesn't look like it but this is a comfy drabble, i promise!! the inspo (and wish for some comfort) is from @whumpcloud. you've read this already but here <3

CW: dehumanisation, abandonment issues, pet whump, self-loathing

It is still dark outside when Mutt wakes up, drenched in sweat, panting from memories that haunt his brain. A moment later, he realises what woke him up, as the night sky is lit up by a flash of lightning, a growling thunder following only moments later. Mutt can feel the rumbling deep down in his bones, making him shiver.

He had been locked outside once during a thunderstorm, the punishment still fresh in his mind. Bound and gagged, of course, so he couldn’t draw attention to himself with his pathetic whimpering and keening.

There had been rain and hail, soaking him to the bone, making the Mutt even more susceptible to the unforgiving cold seeping into his joints. He had wanted nothing more than a shred of his old Master’s mercy, as the thunder rolled over him.

Mutt shakes his head to rid himself of the memories, his fingers twitching. He won’t be able to fall back asleep, he knows, but he needs to be fit enough to serve his Master in the morning!

Almost on auto-pilot, Mutt gets out of bed. He has to be careful when standing up, his mangled legs still struggling to hold him up. When he walks to his door, he no longer avoids stepping on the rug.

Aimlessly, he wanders onto the dim corridor, the old wood creaking under his irregular and heavy steps. Mutt tries not to be too loud, lest he wakes Master up. Fatigue tugs at his eyelids, making them droop, and his stroll does little to clear his muddy mind. He stumbles around, losing time.

Suddenly, he feels something cold and hard and when his eyes focus again, he is holding the handle to his Master’s bedroom in his ruined hand, the door already opened a crack. Just barely, he can see the sleeping form of his Master, curled up under the covers, her hands loosely clasped together in front of her face and oh–

He is Atlas now, isn’t he?

As if in a trance, Atlas enters her room, still not quite here, not quite there. Something pulls him forwards, a pressure getting stronger with each step, like a moth fluttering towards the light. He forces himself to stop a couple of steps away from her, ignoring how empty it makes him feel.

Hasn’t she given enough for him? Must he now also take her sleep? Her rest?

Atlas forces his mind to blank and himself to stop, to turn around as silently as possible. She needs her rest for all the troubles he’ll inevitably bring her in the morning, when he can’t get a hold of himself, can’t do the things a human is supposed to do. He can’t keep taking and taking and taking from her, but some part of him craves her presence so much and he despises himself for it. Maybe he will never be anything but a Pet but for some reason he can’t place, that seems so intrinsically connected to his very being, he only feels whole when he’s with her.

For a moment, he is outside again, chained and gagged in the freezing rain, thoroughly unwanted. This time, it is Atlas who holds the key, dangling it just out of reach from his desperate self. He understands his old Master now, he thinks, understands why he locked a creature like him out. It is only right.

Before he can take another step, he hears a sleepy groan right behind him, freezing up. Atlas fears looking around, fears seeing Master’s hateful gaze, even though he can’t conjure up a fitting image, no matter how hard he tries. He still does –of course he does– his breath catching in his throat.

With her eyes still closed, Aveline has lifted one arm to hold her blanket up, as if inviting him in. Like a man dying of thirst discovering a miracle oasis, Atlas stumbles closer. It seems too good to be true and if there is one thing he has learned, it’s that no good ever befalls a Pet like him. Still, he wants to hope.

“For me?” Atlas croaks into the dark, as hushed as his damaged vocal cords allow him.

Her response is nothing more than a drowsy mhm and a light, lazy gesture with her hand. Hesitantly, Atlas steps closer. He shouldn’t know how this goes, should be overwhelmed with the very real possibility of doing this wrong and subsequently being thrown out. But he isn’t.

The movements feel like second nature, even as he navigates his bulky frame first onto her bed and then into the embrace of the much smaller woman. Atlas doesn’t have to think, his body moves on its own, which is undoubtedly a good thing because if he allowed himself to process what he was doing, he’d surely panic.

As he lays down on his side, Aveline lowers her arm to cover him with the blanket too, then settles it over the side of his chest. It should be the worst crime a Pet like him could commit, to lay his head on her soft pillow, to curl up against her warm body, to feel her snuggle up against his marred back. But for some reason, it doesn’t feel like a crime. It just feels like home.

Atlas deflates in her arms, sighing. Her touch is tender, not restricting, tethering Atlas to this world, as sobs start to build up in his chest against his will. If he cries now, he will surely ruin the best thing his life has ever allowed him.

Maybe this is a dream and tomorrow he will wake up alone in his own bed but none of that matters in this moment. Unconsciously, his crooked hand searches for hers, clinging to it. Aveline squeezes it back, as a couple of stray silent tears start to escape his eyes.

Her body is warm and she holds him tight. Atlas can feel her resting her head softly against the nape of his neck, whispering that Everything is going to be alright.

Atlas sniffles, his tears soaking into the pillow. They lay like that for a while, Aveline’s thumb stroking soothingly over the back of his hand, careful with the raised scar tissue.

Pets like him aren’t made for this kind of comfort, this all-encompassing warmth; her kindness feels like an unbelievable gift. He’d do anything for her, Atlas decides, as his eyes grow heavy and start to slip close. He can’t hear the harsh thunder anymore, can’t feel the cold rain.

Atlas knows he doesn’t deserve it, even as he falls asleep, but–

He wishes someone had been this kind to him before.

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breannasfluff · 7 months

Text

Wolf Bait

Whump Rating: 3/5

TW: Hurt animal (it’s Wolfie), animal trap, blood/injury, Not an ambiguous ending

AO3 Link

When Twilight wakes, it’s to the bump of wheels over stone and rattle of metal. He blinks, then blinks again to clear the lines from his vision. No, those aren’t lines, those are bars. He’s in a cage and he’s stuck as Wolfie.

He raises his head, only to hit metal immediately. His ears pin back and one hind foot throbs and burns. Twilight can barely turn his head enough to see his bad leg.

Metal teeth sink deep into fur and blood drips from the trap. That’s right. He was patrolling as Wolfie and stepped into the animal trap. The hunters might not have been expecting a wolf, but they were a little too prepared with sleeping darts for his taste.

The fact that they left the trap on his leg doesn’t bode well. Nor does the fact that, except for the throbbing burn, he can’t feel it. The trap is sharp enough that it likely did damage. Whether it’s leftover from the sleeping dart or because his foot is going numb is unclear.

The cage he’s shoved in is tiny; too small for a wolf of his size. Certainly, too small to transform back into a hylian. How long will it take for the others to find him? When he doesn’t come back from patrol Time will know something is wrong. Will they be able to track a wagon, though? He has the nose for tracking in the group.

Trapped as he is, there’s nothing Twilight can do but lean his head against the bars and wait.

The two men who unload the cage are not gentle. It drops to the ground and Twilight yelps as he’s slammed against the metal. His leg gives another throb, then dulls. That’s not good.

Then the back of the cage opens and there’s a rattle of metal. Something pulls on his foot and he yelps again.

“Get out, you mangy mutt!”

Twilight scrambles to push against the bars and back out awkwardly. His hind leg won’t respond the way he needs it to.

It’s not until he’s out of the cage that he can see why. There’s still a chain attached to the trap on his leg. One of the men is pounding a stake through the end link. Twilight’s heart sinks as he watches how far down it goes. He’s not pulling it off the stake, that’s for sure. Maybe he can dig—

The other man slaps a charm on the top. Even in wolf form Twilight can feel it sink into the earth and anchor it. The stake isn’t moving, then. He’s trapped.

Task done, the men load the crate back in the wagon. “You’ll be the perfect bait for the monster.” Then they turn, climb the cart, and leave.

That’s it? They’re just…leaving him here?

Twilight paces the length of the chain as best he can. His back foot is numb and drags, now. That can’t be good. He waits and then waits longer for the men to leave. He sniffs the air, testing for their scent.

Only when he’s sure he’s alone does he reach for the transformation.

Twilight screams, then clenches his teeth together to stop the sound. Sharpened canines sink into his lip and his mouth fills with blood. The hind leg, numb in wolf form, is not numb as a hylian.

The teeth of the trap sink even further into his flesh and fresh blood oozes. The foot itself is discolored and swollen from the restriction. He wraps his hands around the jaws of the trap, pulling as hard as he can.

It doesn’t budge.

No, no, he can’t be trapped, not like this! If he can heft rocks and bags of feed, he can pry open one trap. He tries again, whimpering as his muscles bulge. It gives a tiny bit, rust flaking off, then tightens again.

Twilight is sweating and panting from pain. His hands tremble. Giving up for the moment, he transforms back into a wolf. At least like this, the foot is mostly numb. Blood flecks his saliva as he lays there. Lost and alone in the forest, bait for a monster, and the Chain has no idea where he is.

An awful thought worms its way into Twilight’s head. Animals often chew off their paw to escape traps. If he can’t pry the metal apart…well, he’ll lose the foot either way.

Twilight whines, tail tucking tight against his side. Where’s Time to offer soft words of reassurance? Or Wild, forever getting into scrapes and testing his patience?

There’s no one here, just an empty clearing and an injured animal. Through the woods, a wolf’s howl echoes. ~

Time holds up a hand and the group stops. His ears flick and he turns, listening. “I think I heard Wolfie, that way.”

Wild is already darting into the brush, ears pricked for the next howl. Whatever Twilight needs, he’ll get it.

And when he he finds the wolf, those with power bracelets are more than happy to pry the metal apart.

#animal trap #tw blood #tw injury #whumptober2023 #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu whumptober #breannasfluff #mywriting #lu twilight #lu wolfie

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whumpshaped · 6 months

Note

For when you're looking for a prompt, can we get more pet recovery whump?

A former pet just brought to Caretaker's home to be rehabilitated? Maybe with the help of another former pet who's been there longer and made more progress? Someone for them to cling to and to help them feel marginally safer until, with their help, they can come to start trusting that their new Caretaker won't abuse them?

anon i have the perfect people for this. zeddy, mari, meera, and dr pax belong to me, lucky and the other pets belong to @hidden-dreamland :)

tw pet whump, past trauma

Lucky had no idea who his new owner would be. If he was being perfectly honest... he didn't really want to leave the guaranteed security of the hospital for something uncertain and possibly dangerous. Dr. Pax had told him that it would be fine, that Meera's men ran extensive background checks on every person who'd volunteered to help pets reintegrate, but...

All too soon, the two of them were standing in front of a big house, and the doctor was lifting a hand to knock. Lucky was staring at the ground, taking deep breaths, just like he'd been taught.

It's fine. Dr. Pax wouldn't betray you. He even gave you a name. Your new owner won't be calling you mutt... probably.

Lucky heard the turn of a key in the lock, then a soft click as the man opened. And oh, dear. He was... big, and imposing, and intimidating, and part of Lucky wanted to make a run for it immediately. He wasn't a small pet by any means, but he was weak, and he knew how easy it was to overpower him, hold him down, hit him–

"Lucky, this is Zed Hansley, one of our most trusted friends," Pax said, gesturing to the man. He gave Lucky a sheepish smile and a wave, which he returned through great effort. Scary. Scary, scary, scary. "And Zeddy, this is Lucky."

"Hi, buddy," he tried softly, and Lucky attempted to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Hello, sir."

"I'll go ahead and fetch the rest of the family while you guys make yourselves comfortable in the living room. Pax already knows where everything is."

Mr. Hansley disappeared into the house, and Lucky could soon hear him calling names that reminded him a lot of other pets' he'd met while staying with his previous owner. Dr. Pax seemed to read his thoughts perfectly. "He's adopted three pets before you. I thought it'd be beneficial for you if you could see how happy and healthy they all were, not to mention all the experience he has dealing with rescues." He nodded towards the door with a soft smile. "Shall we?"

Lucky willed himself to take a few steps forward, crossing the threshold and committing to giving this process a chance. He wanted a kind owner. He just wasn't sure whether that was something he deserved at all. Whether life would get in the way. Twenty years as a neglected, borderline unwanted pet had taught him nothing but fear, and he had no reason to believe that if he wasn't good enough at twenty, someone would suddenly decide to care for him now that he was forty. Pets his age... there weren't many pets his age.

Dr. Pax sat down on the couch, and Lucky settled on the floor by his feet. He watched nervously as Mr. Hansley ushered everyone in: three pets, just like the doctor had said, and a beautiful woman he introduced as his wife, Mariama. Mari, as everyone apparently called her.

The pets looked... alright. As in, unhurt. All their scars looked old and faded, and while one of them was missing a couple parts, their prosthetics seemed like the nice, expensive kind. They actually looked quite happy.

They introduced themselves one after the other, and Lucky tried to keep up with all the names and tidbits of information. Berry, Cupcake, Spots... Spots was the newest of the bunch, and they already seemed to be getting along quite well with everyone.

Lucky found himself wishing he could experience that too.

"So," Mr. Hansley started, and he quickly looked away from the pets, back up at him, "this is the family you'd be joining. Now, I know what you're thinking– Here's this huge guy with arms thicker than my torso, how could this ever work out in my favour? Or, well, some pets have said that. But I can assure you, if you decide to come live with us, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and happy."

"I will, too," Mrs. Hansley added with a smile. "And we both mean it. We're very passionate about helping people in need."

"I'm a pet," Lucky said timidly. Her smile didn't waver.

"Pets and people. Anyone we can help, we try to help."

Lucky glanced at the other pets again, and all three of them gave him nothing but encouraging grins and nods. Berry even did a thumbs-up. "Um..."

"You can ask questions," Dr. Pax prompted. "You don't have to, of course, since you can call me at any time if this house isn't the right fit for you, but it might be nice."

"I, I'm just wondering... I don't... I don't know why you'd want to help a mutt like me. All the others... they seem..." Sweeter. Bubblier. Better. "I'm not sure I can be of any use to you, sir."

Mr. Hansley hummed thoughtfully. "Believe it or not, all the others had the very same doubts. I'll tell you what I told them, yeah? I just want to help. This community has helped me more than I can ever explain, and now that I have the means, I want to give back. Besides, the house is too big for just Mari and I."

Lucky shifted on his knees. It hurt to kneel. "I see," he muttered.

"You should tell Lucky about your job," Cupcake suggested, and Mr. Hansley's face lit up.

"Oh, I have the best job. My wife and I run a little soap business, and we handmake a lot of the stuff. There's always a DIY project in at least one room in the house, if you ever feel like you want to unleash some creativity." He stood up from the couch and walked over to the table, picking up something Lucky had assumed was a decoration. It was very pretty, soft pink and shaped like a rose. "This is my latest obsession. Ever since I learned how to make flowers like this, I've been making dozens every day."

"Is, is that what smells so nice?" he asked, and Mr. Hansley handed the soap to him with a grin.

"You tell me."

It was the soap. It was the most gorgeous scent, rich but delicate at the same time. Lucky thought he would like to stay in this home for sure, if only to have access to something to amazing on the regular.

"What was that last one? The last big era?" Spots asked quietly.

"The swirly ones," Berry chimed in. "Swirly and striped. Everything was swirly and striped."

"Oh, right! All of them looked so tasty."

"You're not eating soap, are you?" Dr. Pax asked with all the concern of a well-intentioned doctor.

"Zeddy makes me edible soap now!" they clarified, and it made Mrs. Hansley chuckle.

It all seemed... so innocent. Even Mr. Hansley seemed less threatening like this, chatting away about scented soaps. Lucky handed him the rose to he could put it back on the table, then glanced at Dr. Pax for confirmation that he really was allowed to stay here.

"It's your choice," the doctor said softly. "And it's not permanent, if you don't want it to be. I'm always just a call away."

Lucky looked back at his potential owners, and all the new friends he would gain by agreeing to this. The new life he could live, so far removed from dingy basements and cattle prods.

"I think... I think I'd like to try, sir."

When the pets erupted in cheers and excited clapping, Lucky dared hope that their joy was honest.

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @whumpkinpie @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @whump-em @cyborg0109 @morning-star-whump @justanotherlokifan @2in1whump @lthrboy @justletmereadmywhump @florissimps @anonymous-tiangou @whump-kitty

#whump #whump drabble #comfort #recovery fic #past trauma #pet whump

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livelaughwhump · 1 year

Text

Whump Fic - Worthless - Part 2

Content: degradation, dehumanization, implied past captivity, self-depreciation, emotional whump

Whumpee shivered as they sat on the porch outside of their team's safe house. Their thin t-shirt and shorts did little to shield them from the harsh winter air, but they didn't dare go back inside. They knew where they belonged.

Tears were streaming down their face, snot freezing as it dripped from their nose. They sobbed loudly, hugging themself in an attempt to keep warm. They were completely barefoot, and they hadn't bothered to grab a coat on their way out.

Animals don't get coats

Flurries of snow drifted down from the sky, landing delicately on Whumpee's eyelashes and atop their head. Their teeth were chattering. They longed to go back inside, but that heinous voice in their head refused to let them.

Bad dogs get put outside. This is where a stupid, worthless mutt like you belongs

It was hard to disagree with the voice. Whumpee had ruined their friends' supper. They needed to be punished.

"Whumpee?" Caretaker's frightened voice exclaimed. Whumpee glanced over their shoulder, their frozen muscles protesting as they did so. Caretaker was staring at them with genuine concern in their eyes. "What are you doing out here? You're going to freeze!"

Whumpee sniffled and ran a hand beneath their dripping nose. "Maybe that's what I deserve," they mumbled.

Caretaker quickly moved to sit beside them on the frozen porch. "Whumpee, why would you say something like that?"

Whumpee's sobs didn't let up. "I'm worthless," they cried. "All I do is mess things up."

Caretaker gently took hold of Whumpee's trembling hand. "Whumpee, that's not true. We love having you around."

Whumpee pulled their half-frozen hand out of Caretaker's warm grasp. They decided that they didn't deserve Caretaker's comfort. "All I'm good for is to be laughed at," Whumpee sobbed. "I'm nothing but a big joke to all of you. The only time anyone took me seriously was when I was kidnapped." Their voice broke on the last word and they buried their face in their hands. "Whumper was right," they cried, muffled by their hands. "You all see me as nothing more than a dumb pet, just like they did."

Caretaker frantically shook their head. "Whumpee, you are not a pet."

"Of course I am," Whumpee argued. "The only reason you all keep me around is for entertainment, but now that Whumper broke me, I'm worthless. It's only a matter of time before you get rid of me."

"Whumpee, stop," Caretaker said sternly. Whumpee looked up from their hands, only to find Caretaker glaring at them. The sight made them shrink into themselves.

Now, look what you did, you stupid mutt. Now, they're angry. They're definitely going to throw you away like the worthless heap of garbage you are

"Stop talking about yourself like that," Caretaker demanded. "You are not a pet and we are not getting rid of you. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you talk about yourself like you're worthless."

Great, now they're mad at you, you good-for-nothing bitch. You really can't do anything right, can you

Whumpee's chin was quivering, their eyes flooding with tears again. "I'm sorry, Caretaker," they said in the smallest, most pathetic voice Caretaker had ever heard. Whumpee lowered their head and hunched their shoulders. They were violently shivering. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm so sorry." Caretaker's frustrated expression softened, but Whumpee didn't see it. "I ruin everything," Whumpee sobbed. "I'm a bad pet." They said it more to themself than to Caretaker. "And bad pets sleep outside, where they belong. This is where I belong. I'm worthless, I'm ugly, I'm no better than a dog."

"Oh, Whumpee," Caretaker cooed. "That's not what I meant. You didn't-I'm sorry. You're not a dog."

Whumpee paused for a second and thought about that statement. "You're right," they whispered. A smile almost graced Caretaker's face, until Whumpee followed up with, "People like dogs. People want dogs. So-So, that means, I'm worse than a dog." Whumpee pulled their knees up to their chest and buried their face between them. "Who could ever want something as useless and broken as me?"

Caretaker didn't know what to say. They had never seen someone so broken before. They'd known Whumpee to make self-deprecating jokes before, but Caretaker could tell this wasn't a joke. They could tell that Whumpee believed every horrible thing they were saying about themself, and that broke Caretaker's heart.

"Whumpee, what-what can I do? How do I make you stop hurting?"

Whumpee only seemed to sob harder at that, which Caretaker didn't think was possible. "You can't stop it," they said. Caretaker struggled to hear their muffled words. "I deserve to hate myself."

Caretaker shook their head. "Whumpee, just come inside, please. If we don't go in soon, we're going to freeze."

Whumpee lifted their head from between their knees. They didn't look at Caretaker. "You should go inside, Caretaker. You shouldn't have to suffer with me."

Caretaker shook their head. "No, I'm not leaving you out here to freeze. If you're staying out here all night, then so am I." Caretaker crossed their arms over their chest.

Whumpee finally lifted their eyes to meet Caretaker's. "Wh-Why?"

"Because I care about you, and if you're not willing to come inside with me, then I'm just going to stay out here with you."

"But I deserve to be punished. You don't."

"Whumpee, you have never done anything wrong in your life. What would you need to be punished for?"

Whumpee's lower lip started trembling and they fought the urge to burst into tears once again.

They want to remind you of what you did wrong. They want you to admit how much of a screw-up you are

Whumpee was shivering violently now. Their lips were turning blue, but they didn't care. They knew they deserved it.

"I-I ruined supper and-and I m-made you m-mad," they stammered, half-frozen and struggling to get the words out.

Caretaker shook their head. "Whumpee, you didn't do either of those things. You're a good person and you make people happy. It breaks everyone's hearts to see you so scared and upset."

Whumpee hunched their shoulders. "I'm s-orry."

Caretaker frantically shook their head. "No, that's not what I-" they broke off when they noticed Whumpee flinch. They didn't know what to do. They audibly sighed. "Whumpee, please, come inside." By now, Whumpee's lips had started to turn blue. Their teeth were chattering and their tears were freezing on their face. "Please, Whumpee. I'll draw you a warm bath, we can reheat what's left of your supper, and then we can curl up on the couch and watch a movie, if you want."

Whumpee refused to look at Caretaker, lowering their head to hide their quivering lip and red-rimmed eyes. "R-Really?" they stammered.

Caretaker nodded. "Sure! We can invite the whole team and have one big slumber party in the living room! Or it can just be the two of us. Whatever you want. As long as you come inside with me, please."

Whumpee sniffled. "Why-Why would you do that for-for me?"

"To prove to you that I really do love and care about you, and I want you to be happy and safe and warm." Whumpee turned their face even further away from Caretaker's view. "I don't want you to feel like you have to punish yourself. I don't want you to be afraid of making a mistake. I don't want you to think of yourself as little more than a dog. I want you to love yourself as much as the rest of us do. I want you to be happy, Whumpee. That's all I want."

Whumpee's chin was trembling, along with the rest of their half-frozen body. Another stream of sobs rose out of their chest as they threw themself into Caretaker's arms, weeping into their shoulder. Caretaker happily wrapped their arms around their shivering friend before they gently pulled Whumpee to their feet and led them inside.

Part 3?

I have a couple more ideas for this story, if anyone is interested. It probably won't be more than 3 or 4 parts if I choose to continue it. Let me know if that's something anyone would be interested in!

#writing #amwriting #whump #whump writing #writer #whump blog #whump prompt #whumpee #whumper #whump community #whump fic #hurt/comfort #tw degradation #implied captivity #pet whump #caretaker #asks are always appreciated #not a prompt

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flowersarefreetherapy · 4 months

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Sunshine House: When Skies are Grey

CW: Mentioned minor character death, dehumanization, BBU typical violence, dubcon kiss, light dubcon, blood, violence, pet whump

001 is silent. They stare at nothing, ignoring the cries of the newer members. Lance punches the bars of their cage as he walks by and all 001 does is bare their teeth in a snarl. 002 watches them out of the corner of his eyes, though he drops his gaze when Lance passes him.

The screams and cries echoing through the room wash over 002 like waves. The squeal of rusting metal stabs his head as the handlers grab one of the newer fighters. Fighting and screaming and then they go limp with a blow to the head. They aren’t coming back, not after a hit like that. He’s seen it happen all too well.

“Damn,” 003 whispers. She crouches back on her heels, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one mitted hand. Dirt smears across her cheek. “I forget how loud they are.”

002 dips his head a fraction. Enough for agreement, but not enough to be noticed by the handlers. He watches 003 in envy. Her small frame allows her to fully sit up in the cage. Not only that, but she doesn’t mouth off or bite when the handlers are near, so she doesn’t wear the muzzle that so many of the other fighters do. His cramping jaw and back scream in protest as he faces front again.

001 growls as Lance steps back in. As the door swings shut, they hear the roar of the crowd. 002 can smell the bloodlust in the air. Lance saunters over and crouches in front of 001. He slips his fingers through the bars of the cage and cups their face. Behind the muzzle, they bare their sharpened teeth.

“I know, baby, you’re so excited to get out there.” Lance grabs a handful of their short hair and twists their head to the side. “Ready to go get your little paws dirty?”

002 ducks his head. It’s never good to get in the sights of a handler. 005 had his hand broken because he didn’t snap to attention quick enough. 010 was beaten unconscious and one of the fighters who didn’t live long enough was taken from the room every night. He’s seen what happens to those who capture attention and he wants nothing to do with it.

“Sadly, you’re not fighting yet.” Lance tugs on the muzzle, pulling 001 close. They growl. “Hush, little puppy. You know your mouth has better uses.” He pushes himself to his feet, both knees popping, and snaps his fingers. “002, here, mutt.”

He shuffles back from the door, keeping his head lowered as Lance unlocks the cage. 002 lets the handler grab his collar and pull him out into the center of the room. The gazes from the other fighters burn the back of his neck and he lets out a slow breath.

“Heel,” Lance orders. 002 crawls at his side, keeping pace until they reach the entrance to the ring. “Good boy.”

A small flush of pride overrides his fear at the screams of the crowd. He doesn’t need to be dragged. He follows orders. He is a good mutt, not like the others. Not like 001, who has to wear a shock collar. Not like 003, who keeps her anger hidden and lashes out at the other fighters.

Good boy. I’m a good mutt.

“Ready?” Lance asks, unclipping his collar. 002 dips his head in agreement. His muzzle is next and he slowly opens his mouth, relaxing his jaw as much as he can. Tensed muscles will do nothing to save him in a fight. “Good mutt, knew you were. You’re gonna fight good tonight. There’s a reward if you do, puppy.”

002’s snaps up. A reward? He doesn’t get rewards. He’s just a stupid mutt, he doesn’t deserve rewards. He only does what he’s told. It’s nothing special.

Lance smirks and scratches behind his ear. 002 melts into the soft touch, whining a little as the crowd quiets and he hears the muffle voice of the announcer. Lance pulls up on his hair and he gets to his feet, rolling his neck and stretching out his arms.

The door opens and he walks into the ring with all the confidence he doesn’t have.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The bell digs and the crowd roars in approval, along with the few cries of disappointment as bets are lost. 002 staggers to the edge of the ring, blood dripping from his fingertips. His gaze stays locked on the body in the middle of the arena, the young man gasping his final breaths from a throat torn beyond recognition.

002 swallows hard, mouth thick with the taste of blood. Something is stuck in his teeth. Bile slides up his throat, burning against the blood. A whistle sounds behind him, breaking his concentration.

“Come, mutt,” Lance says. “Now.”

Several handlers wipe the blood from his hands and mouth and Lance hands him a cup of water with the order to drink. He does as he’s told, nothing snapping into focus. All he can feel is the thrashing body under him as he tears out the young man’s throat.

“Heel,” Lance orders.

002 follows him out of the room and into a maze of staircases and hallways. He swallows, his heart racing faster than in the ring. The collar he doesn’t remember being placed around his throat seems to tighten with every breath. Where are they going? What is happening? Is this his reward?

“There he is, our champion fighter!”

His head snaps up. He stands in the middle of a room, staring down his master. With a flinch, he drops to his knees, ducking his head in an effort to appear invisible. A chuckle makes its way through the room, then conversation returns. He knows his master’s voice, but there are a few others he knows from meetings before.

“Here, mutt,” his master orders. 002 crawls to his side, the carpet soft under his fingertips. There is blood still caked under his nails. “Good boy. You did good today.”

“Thank you, master,” he whispers in a voice like gravel.

“I won a lot of money on you, mutt.” A different voice, someone he knows. “You’ve made us both very happy, so I thought a reward was in order.”

“You’re going to spoil him, Patrick.”

“It’s not spoiling. Cam doesn’t mind, does he?”

“No, master.”

A shudder races down his spine. No, no, no. 002 draws in his shoulders and the back of his neck burns. No, he doesn’t want this. This isn’t a reward he wants. He whimpers softly, twisting his hands in his lap.

“Mutt.”

His head snaps up. Cameron is there, dressed in nothing but a too-long shirt. Icey blue eyes stare 002 down, calculatingly watching his reactions. The coppery smell of blood assaults his senses. His master’s fingers snap, catching his attention. 002 ducks his head again.

“Be nice,” his master orders. “I don’t want you injuring Patrick’s merchandise.”

Bare feet enter his vision and cool fingers slide down the dent left behind by his muzzle. The flesh on 002’s arms raises and he whimpers as Cameron lifts his face upward. He can’t breathe. He swallows back the urge to rip his hands off him.

“Hey, fighter,” Cameron croons, crouching down. His shirt slides up his thighs. “I saw you fighting today. I didn’t miss a single second. How could I not pay attention?” His other hand slides down 002’s arm. “Not with strength like this.”

002 whimpers again. The word “no” balances on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it back, acutely aware of his master watching him. His fingers twitch at his side, desperate to push Cameron away with each brush of his skin against his.

Cameron leans forward, lips brushing against 002’s ear. “The way you held that poor fighter down? So easily, didn’t even break a sweat, hardly noticed. You know, there are far better ways to be using that strength of yours. Want me to show you?”

His hand slides up 002’s thigh, slipping between his legs. He freezes, staring into the middle distance as he fights to breathe. Everyone continues their conversations, ignoring the two pets. 002’s gaze darts to his master. He’s talking and doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

“Please,” 002 whispers, taking the risk. “Please, I don’t want this.”

“It’s what we’re made for.” Cameron smiles up at him through his lashes, fluttering them a little. “We want this. This is what we’re made for. All of you want this, you just pretend you don’t.” He smiles, like he’s telling a joke. “I’ll make it good. You know that. You know you want me.”

002 shakes his head. “Please . . . I don’t-”

“You aren’t allowed to say no.” Cameron’s voice drops, taking on an edge. “Hurt me, make me scream, make me bleed. You aren’t allowed to say no, they won’t let you.”

002 closes his eyes. If he isn’t allowed to escape, then at least he doesn’t have to see. Cameron’s lips press softly against his collarbones, then his neck, teeth scraping along the edge of his jaw. It doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t feel good, and that’s stupid, because he’s a dumb mutt, this is what he wants, this is what Cameron is good at. This should feel good.

Yet all he wants to do is throw Cameron across the room.

Laughter from somewhere far away. Weight in his lap, Cameron’s hands running through his short hair. His lips press to his ear. Words that he doesn’t hear and his eyes burn with tears he forces away. They have to perform. Like in the ring. Give them a show and they will be happy.

“Come on,” Cameron whispers. “You have to give me something to work with. I can make you feel so good, so please, help me.”

002 finally opens his eyes. Cameron’s face is split in a smile clearly meant to charm and disarm, but all he can focus on is the pain in his eyes. They have to play a part and he takes all his emotions and shoves them into the dark corners where they will stay hidden.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” 002 whispers. His hands shake as he rests them on Cameron’s hips. Bloody fingers on white shirt. He winces at the sight. Will he get in trouble for that?

“Oh honey, I would love you to.” Cameron’s smile is all teeth. “Make me bleed and scream and I will get on my knees for you.”

“I won’t. I won’t do that.”

Cameron cups his face and leans in close, pressing their lips together. This time, 002 responds, leaning into the kiss with all the enthusiasm he can fake. Tears burn his eyes as Cameron’s hands slide down his chest. He lifts his hips slightly, swallowing back a whimper.

“I told you,” Cameron breathes. “I’m good, aren’t I.”

He doesn’t know how long the Romantic kisses him for, how long it is before he slips from his lap to between his legs, bent in half to take him into his mouth, taking his sweet time drawing him towards release. 002 throws his head back, nails digging against Cameron’s scalp, tangling in his hair and yanking without thought. The urge to destroy wars with pleasure. Cameron groans after a particularly harsh tug and he swallows back bile.

Then Cameron is leaning back, wiping his mouth with a smirk. 002 sags, chest heaving as he fights to regain control of his body. He hates this feeling of his body, which has never failed him, acting without his permission. A betrayal, of a kind he can’t name.

“Good boy,” Cameron’s master says. The Romantic returns to sitting dutifully on his lap, his master’s fingers stroking lazy lines down his throat. “Look at your strong fighter now.”

002’s master laughs. “Such an animal. My fighters are the best, but they are too often driven by their carnal urges for me.”

002 crawls to his master’s side, trying his best to subtly fix the waistband of his shorts. In theory, it shouldn’t bother him, but knowing that Cameron watches him makes his hair stand on end. He kneels, resting his weight on his heels, keeping his gaze lowered. For a moment, he wonders what it would be like to have his master treat him with the same kindness as Cameron’s. Tell him how well he’s doing, run his fingers through his short-cut hair, give him a place to himself.

It’s a foolish dream, one he shouldn’t entertain. He is his master’s champion Fighter and Guard.

There is no reason for him to be anything else.

Tagging: @pigeonwhumps@blood-is-compulsory (please let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

#merry Christmas y’all #come and get your Cameron content!#minor character death #dehumanization #violence #dubcon kiss #dubcon #blood #pet whump #bbu #bbu universe #thad #cameron #sunshine house

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sunshiline-writes · 1 month

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A Rose Amidst Thorns #16: On Being Human

This chapter is a bit of a break chapter, mostly dialogue and a bit of some character backstory teehee. Hope you enjoy!! CW: lady whump, POC whump, references to abuse, references to past murder, domestic abuse, drowning, water torture, past torture mention, Henriettas fucked up inner monologue lmfao

word count: 3k Previous | Masterlist | Next

There were times where silence was calming, a necessary break from the horrors of the day. Then there were times where the silence was soul consuming. The lack of sound was festering in the house like a poison. It was killing her. Henrietta was sure that she was going crazy.

Xavier barely talked to her and when he did it was short clipped answers and questions. He used to at least talk to her. He left the house early and came back late. It was like he was trying to stay away. Perhaps he was waiting until he was less angry. If he was less angry, he’d be less likely to kill her. But she didn’t even get to see or talk to Solomon.

He’d gotten over his sickness a week ago, according to Xavier. He was up and moving, but she’d only seen glimpses of him, slipping in the house. Walking past doorways. Solomon had healed nicely, though his left cheek now had a permanently sunken look. He still had bruises all over his face, his eye was still swollen. But he was alive and that was what mattered. Besides, what would Xavier do without his resident doctor?

They had met gazes once, when she was outside hanging the laundry. He had left the house and he turned and they stared at each other. It was just a moment but it was enough. Solomon didn’t blame her, he didn’t blame anyone. She could see it written on his face. It made her heart hurt less at least. To known she wasn’t blamed this time. But she missed him. Missed the gentle camaraderie that they had with each other. Henrietta missed her friend.

She even missed Miguel. Even when all he would do was sit at the table and watch her as she cooked dinner. He was always making noise despite everything. His hands tapping on the table, or his foot tapping on the wooden floor. He even made noise when he spoke with his hands, noises escaping his mouth. But he’d been banished back to the hayloft in the barn. She hadn’t seen him in nearly three weeks. Not even a glimpse. She half expected that Xavier had actually killed him, dumped his body in a ditch and left him there to rot.

A few days ago, she had gathered the courage to ask.

“Is he alive? Miguel?”

Xaviers answer was plain and simple, “Yes. The mutt is alive. Don’t ask again.”

Henrietta did not ask again. She wouldn’t. She was afraid that Miguel would suffer the consequences. Miguel had suffered enough. He had especially suffered enough at the fault of Henrietta. She did not want to be the cause of his suffering anymore. It was too much guilt. It was all too much guilt and it was also the fact that she had no interest in changing her actions. She did not have remorse for asking Solomon to braid her hair or for killing Terrance three years ago. She had no interest in trying to change her past actions. The past was done, it could not be undone. All she had left was to finish the song she started.

The song wasn’t finished. Her song was not finished. Even as she swept the floor, her song was still here. This was just a single note in a long song. All she had to do was keep playing. One note at a time, one day at a time. Henrietta was going to escape. All she had to do now was wait. There would be an opportunity, a rest in the song. A mistake that Xavier would make. All she had to do was utilize it.

So Henrietta swept the floor, cringing when the door slammed open. The sounds of a scuffle. She stopped, broom in her hands. Half ready to use it to hit someone if she needed to. Instead, all she saw was Xavier dragging Jesse inside by the collar of his shirt, throwing him forward.

“I am not going to tell you again Jesse, fucking bathe. Pinche kid, you smell.”

“Xavier please,” Jesse begged quietly, stepping backwards. “I don’t want to. You know I don’t want to. I’ll use a cloth, I’ll do whatever just don’t put me in the water again.”

The boys eyes were wild, searching for a way out. There were few times she ever saw him truly terrified. Each time, it was when Xavier was around. She’d known Jesse since Xavier took him in almost fifteen years ago. It was near when they met and he always struggled with getting Jesse to bathe. He was like a feral street dog who did everything in its power not to touch the water. She never quite knew why.

Usually Xavier let him do as he pleased, he’d go weeks and sometimes even months without even a wet cloth touching his skin. He always smelled like shit and there were times it got so bad she swore he stunk up anything he touched too. The little shit was always dirty, grimy, filthy. It was why she hated that he had taken to Miguel in the way he did. She feared it would rub off on him. Luckily, it did not.

Right now, she only felt contempt as Xavier grabbed him by the hair and started to drag him to the bathroom. Henrietta had filled it earlier, assuming it was for Xavier or Solomon. Now she knew exactly who it was for. The water was cold by now she thought idly. Following them to the bathroom out of sheer curiosity.

Xavier dragged him to the bathroom, Jesse kicking and screaming the entire way. So much so that his voice cracked when they finally made it through the doorway. Henrietta didn’t follow them in, she watched from the hallway. Her heart raced, wondering if this would be the mood he would be in all day. If he came to bed like this, she was sure she would have more bruises than usual.

The scene before her was hard to look away from. Xavier started with tearing Jesse’s shirt off, literally tearing it (Henrietta would have to mend that later).

“Get in Jesse.”

“You fucking get in,” came the kids reply.

“Jesse,” Xavier started, tone terse, strained. “You won’t go to town like that. Fucking bathe.”

“Then I just won’t go to town, Tio please.”

“I won’t ask again,” Xavier said finally. Henrietta could hear the coldness in his voice. There was nowhere for Jesse to run. He was pressed up against the wall, shaking his head. His whole body was shivering. Xavier sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he reached out and grabbed Jesse by the throat, effortlessly bringing him to the edge of the tub. Then he shoved Jesse into it. Xavier’s nephew screamed and clawed at the edges of the tub. Splashing water everywhere. Xavier used his other hand to shove the boy's head under, silencing him for the moment.

Henrietta swallowed thickly, fear churning in her gut. Everything around her seemed to fade out as she watched, white knuckled grip on the broom. Jesse’s struggles would cease, Xavier would bring his head up from the water, Jesse would wheeze and cough, and then the cycle would start again. It wasn’t until Jesse stopped struggling completely, that Xavier hauled him out of the water, depositing him on the ground. He turned around to face Henrietta, eyes dark.

He strolled toward her, soaked from Jesse’s thrashing, “Make sure he gets up. Solomon and I are going for a supply run in town. There are some men stationed out at the entrance and outside the house and barn. Don’t run. Don’t even try. You’ll never make it.” Then he walked past her, bumping her shoulder. When he reached the end of the hallway, he stopped, speaking again, “Do you want anything from town?”

Hen found it hard to speak, but she swallowed the fear and did so, “Oranges, if they have them.”

Xavier nodded, sighing softly. “I’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon.” Then he left.

She did not move until she heard the front door close. The tension in the air melted as soon as it did. Hen sagged her shoulders and leaned against the wall for a moment. Taking in a deep breath. She glanced at the bathroom door. Listening to the choked sobs from inside the room.

Henrietta really did not want to go in there. She had nothing to say to the sociopath of a man. One that so effortlessly and constantly hurt and burdened someone she cared about. Yet, she forced herself to move. Gathering a towel and making her way up to Jesse’s room to get some clothes. Then she forced herself every step down the stairs and through the hallway. She forced herself through the doorway.

There was water all over the floor, probably ruining the wooden flooring. Jesse laid in a corner curled into a ball back towards her. The brand on his lower back was clear as day and she winced at the memory of her own. She laid the towel and clothes on the counter. Henrietta didn’t know that he had been branded. That was reserved for people that belonged to Xavier completely. The brand was a symbol of ownership.

“You have a brand,” she said idly, smoothing out the creases of the towel.

There was no response to her, there were only a few sniffles from him as he shifted further away from her. Henrietta was too tired to deal with this. Slowly, she gathered the towel and leaned over the boy. There were fading scars of a whip, cutting through the array of freckles across his back. It seemed that even Jesse was not immune to the wrath of Xavier. Henrietta always assumed that he was safe from the worst of it. Now, seeing him curled on the floor like this, it seemed that she had been proven wrong.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked the shivering mass on the floor. Jesse was still dripping wet, shaking furiously. She never knew anyone who feared water as much as him. She was surprised he would even drink water when he did.

“Fuck.. off..” Jesse growled.

“I brought a towel. Figured you might want to get dry.”

A beat of silence and then he turned around to face her from the floor. He forced himself to move, stretching out a hand with weird, choppy movements. Henrietta held it from him.

“Why do you hate water so much?”

“Give me the towel.”

“Answer the question and I might.”

Jesse stared up at her for a moment, his eyes red from tears. He bit his lip and forced himself to sit up with a low groan and a cough. He pressed his back against the wall and licked his lips. Preparing himself for what he was going to say. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Probably debating whether being dry was worth talking about whatever it was that scared him so much.

“Water makes people decay slower,” Jesse whispered, voice hoarse now for a reason Henrietta couldn’t fathom. “It also makes people bloated and weird. They turn blue. She was blue. And I tried to get her out of the water and she was too heavy.”

“Who was?”

“It also, it also makes skin slippery, like, like,” he paused, a glazed over look in his eyes for a moment, “like when you skin a rabbit. It feels like that. Raw and, and, it falls apart when you give it too much force.”

“Jesse,” Henrietta said gently, “It’s okay, you can stop now.”

“She fell apart in my hands. The water.. It had pieces of her floating around when-” “Jesse stop.”

“My mother died in the bath. In the water.”

Henrietta gently placed the towel in his hands. Tears were streaming down his face and he let out another choked sob. Burying his face in it. It muffled the sounds and Henrietta couldn’t help but feel grateful.

“There’s dry clothes on the counter. I’ll make you something to eat.”

Jesse lifted his head, staring her down.

“Why? Why are you helping me?”

Henrietta stood up straighter, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Was there a proper way to answer that? Not really. She sighed softly.

“You’re only human Jesse. You’re such a filthy little rapist, who likes hurting people for fun. But you’re still just human.”

Jesse stared at her, but she turned around and started to walk, stopping in the doorway.

“And your uncle told me to make sure you get up,” she said, then she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

___

It wasn’t until later that Jesse came out of the bathroom, dry and in the clothes she had brought for him. He sat himself at the kitchen table, eyes having a far away look to them. Henrietta handed him a mug of tea that she made, sipping some herself. She leaned against the counter, watching him carefully.

“Did.. Did you ever meet her? My mother?”

Henrietta nearly spit out her drink. Staring him down. She did meet her once. Ximena had the signature green eyes of the Reede family. Dark hair that waved slightly, but it was tied in a ponytail. Her face was sunken in and her eyes were dark. Ximena never really looked well, the few times they spoke. She was quiet in nature, always smiling. Henrietta knew she was sickly, she hadn’t expected the extent. Half the time Ximena was bed bound, the other half, she spent with migraines that rendered her useless. Jesse was a lively little thing, the little energy Ximena did have, was spent trying to control her son.

“I did a few times. She was a very kind woman,” Henrietta answered finally. It was a wonder that Ximena gave birth to the little demon that sat in front of her.

“She was,” Jesse agreed, looking up at Henrietta. He took a sip of his tea, hands shaking still. His breathing was a bit wheezy too. Probably from the water in his lungs.

“Breathe in the steam. I think I heard Solomon say once that it’s supposed to help.”

Jesse, surprisingly complied, breathing in the tea’s steam with a few ragged coughs. He settled after a moment, frowning for a moment. “Did you know my dad?”

“No. I didn’t. That was before I met your uncle. Maybe Solomon knows more about him.”

“Oh.. that’s right.”

“Why are you suddenly asking me questions about your parents? You’ve never asked before.” After running a hand through his hair and fidgeting slightly in his seat, Jesse shrugged a bit. Staring into the brown color of the tea. After a minute, his voice was quiet, the quietest she ever heard, barely above a whisper.

“He never lets me ask. Never lets me talk about her either. He’s not here.. so I thought I would ask,” he paused, eyes glassy, “while I have the chance you know.”

She found herself dumbfounded at the sudden vulnerability that she was confronted with from Jesse of all people. Jesse the boy who skinned a racoon that was found in the barn, who raped Miguel on his seventeenth birthday, who beat a man half to death in a bar in town, was asking about his parents in a childlike manner. Jesse was here with her, acting human. Perhaps, Jesse would be more likable if he acted more human. If he were like this all the time, she could almost bear his company. Humans had feelings, regrets. They felt sadness and fear. If they showed it more, maybe people would get along better. That was probably just a rude sense of optimism, getting in the way of seeing who Jesse really was.

“Why did he brand you?” she found herself asking, her hand ghosting over her own brand on the middle of her chest. Jesse winced and took another sip of his tea. “When did that happen?”

“A while ago. I was eighteen, so about five years ago? You were out of town visiting your dad I think. When he was dyin’.. I wanted to leave. The ranch. I wanted to join the military.”

Henrietta had to keep herself from barking out a laugh. She couldn’t imagine Jesse in the military. Or maybe she could. Him with a rifle in his hand, shooting at people. Yeah… she could picture that. Maybe it would have been good for him. Give him some real structure.

“I assume Xavier wasn’t happy with that.”

The laugh that came out of him nearly startled her. It was dry and humorless. He shook his head. “Nah.. he beat me within an inch of my fuckin’ life. Hit me until I begged him to stop. Then he strung me up in the barn. Like you in the kitchen. Took out the whip. Fucked me up real good. Then he branded me. Said it was a reminder or somethin’. I dunno. It was fucked. Solomon helped. I begged him not to tell. It’s embarrassin’.”

“Jesse,” Henrietta said softly. God, why was she starting to pity him? This fucking kid with his red hair, who was sadistic in nature. Why was there room in herself for pity? He was just like his uncle. But he also could have been different. Maybe if Xavier hadn’t taken him in after his mother died, if he’d let him join the military, who would this kid be? He’d be unrecognizable.

“Don’ fuckin’ do that. Don’t pity me. I don’ need it. I don’ want it either. Fuck off.”

“I am not pitying you Jesse. I’m just realizing something.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” he said, standing up, tea forgotten on the table. Cold now probably. His hands were flat on the table, snarl curling his lip.

“You could have been a normal human once. But your uncle ruined that. Like he ruins everything. He likes his control over you. Over all of us. You’re just as trapped as we are.”

Jesse stared at her, eyes downcast as he stared at the table. His jaw was working. He looked more tired than angry. But he grabbed the cup of tea and threw it off the table, letting it fall to the ground with a crash. Then he stormed out of the house.

Henrietta let out the breath she was holding.

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@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @angst-after-dark @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghetti @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi

@flowersarefreetherapy @badgerwhump @whumpbees @whumplr-reader @cyberwhumper

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#whump #whumpblr #whump blog #sunshine writes whump #a rose amidst thorns #ARAT #arat #Henrietta Belaqua #Jesse reede #complex character dynamics #references to abuse #references to torture #poc whump

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whumpasaurus101 · 11 months

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i NEED alicia pinning somebody up against a wall and just purring into their ear with a gloved hand wrapped around their neck as their face turns purple and their vision slowly fills with black spots and she's just laughing and drops them and kicks them when they're barely conscious mhm

...you know an ask is good when it pauses your scheming of starting a new story-. ive stared at this ask alot DHUIDKDHD SAY LESS ANON I GOTCHYUUUUUUUUUUU

The whump is a slow starter BUT I PROMISE THERE IS JUST STICK WITH ME HDUIHDKDH or just scroll to the end- you do you HUIDHD

Cw: Beating, alicia being a creepy bastard HUIJDHKD

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Alicia smiled, looking adoringly with sparkling eyes as she looked Jack over, straightening his tie, “Just perfect,” She smiled, her velvet-red lips curving perfectly. Jack smiled, a light blush filling his face. Alicia brought her hand up, cupping Jack’s face as she brushed her thumb along his cheekbone, “Just perfect,” She hummed, smoothing Jack’s shirt down.

Jack couldn't even hide his smile, he was so lucky he had Alicia. Alicia treated him so well, made him feel special! Alicia’s fingers gently carded through his hair, her finger gently dipping behind his ear as her maroon painted nail scratched his skin gently, just how Jack liked. Jack closed his eyes with a smile, leaning into the touch.

Alicia chuckled, looking at her pet with a gentle smile, “My love,” She beamed. Suddenly there was a bang on the door, Alicia chuckled as Jack flinched, “It’s alright, baby, just Rodger.” Jack stiffened, watching Alicia fix her hair in the mirror, “Ro-Rodger’s coming?” Alicia hummed in response and Jack nodded, “I-Is Asher coming too, the-then?”

Alicia chuckled, topping up her lipstick, “Oh that mutt? Nah, I think he pissed Rodger off too much- think he’s locked in his room for the night.” Jack gulped but nodded. Another bang on the door, this time louder but Alicia just rolled her eyes, taking Jack’s hand in hers before guiding them to the door.

“You know, normal people would use a doorbell, jackass.”

Rodger smirked, “Well I guess I’m not normal, hm?”

Alicia rolled her eyes, walking past him and bringing both her and Jack to the car, “Far from.”

The car was.. practically a small limo. A driver sat in the front, eyes staring straight ahead with an earpiece in. Alicia opened the door and with a gentle hand on Jack’s back, she guided him inside the car. The back of the car was open. Three seats with a mini fridge either side of the row. Alicia sat at the furthest seat, bringing Jack to sit beside her as she gently played with his hair, whispering gentle words to relax Jack.

Rodger sighed, slumping down into his seat, “Dang, I need to get myself one of those.” Alicia smirked against Jack’s cheek, “Get what- a limo or a well-behaved pet.” Rodger almost choked on his water, laughing as he wiped his mouth, “Both.”

Jack scooched slightly closer to Alicia, catching Rodger’s attention and the car started moving, “You're lucky to have such a broken pet.” Jack flinched slightly, making Rodger’s grin grow even wider. Alicia just hummed, scratching behind Jack’s ear with her nail, “He’s an angel.”

Roger rolled his eyes, chugging the rest of his water before throwing the bottle on the floor.

As Alicia and Rodger broke into conversation, Jack’s eyes didn't leave the bottle, he bit his lip before slowly bending down to pick it up. A tight grip on his wrist soon stopped him right before he could touch the bottle, “And just what are you doing?”

Jack yelped out quietly, his eyes slowly raising to Rodger’s, “I-I was just go-gonna pi-pick-”

“And are you being paid to pick it up, hm?”

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed as he gulped, “N- uhm no, si-sir…” Alicia chuckled, gently running her finger along Jack’s spine, “Oh come on, leave him alone, dude.” But Rodger’s burning eyes never left Jack’s. “You see, people actually are getting paid for cleaning up after me. And if they have nothing to clean and they’re taking my money? Then I’m being robbed.” Rodger’s second hand moved to grab Jack harshly by the chin and forced his face close to his, “And you don't want me to be robbed, do you?”

Jack’s eyes widened, “NO! N-no, sir, no-not at all!”

“That’s what I fucking thought.” And with that, Rodger let go, leaning back in his chair with a chuckle. “You’re so mean,” Alicia giggled. “He makes it too fucking easy,” Rodger grinned.

Once they arrived at the restaurant, the three of them sat at a table. Jack was grateful to be allowed to sit at a chair this time. He didn't mind the floor but at places like this, people tend to stare. Alicia’s palm rested against Jack’s knee, she knew Rodger made Jack nervous which quite honestly humoured her.

“Rodgerrrrr!!!” Came an unrecognizable voice, “Shit man, it’s been ages, how have you been??? Rodger’s eyes widened as he grinned, standing up and doing a handshake with the other, “Quinn mc-fuckin-crae, how are you?” Alicia looked Rodger up and down for a moment before his eyes widened, “Shit- yeah, sorry, Alicia, this is Quinn. Him and I went to college together.” Alicia smirked and held out her hand, “A pleasure to meet you.”

Jack watched as Quinn’s eyes widened, smiling at the sight of Alicia. He gently took Alicia’s hand and to her surprise, he bent over and placed a kiss against her knuckles, the pleasure’s mine, darlin.” Jack had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Alicia’s smirk widened, “Care to join us?”

“Ah I-I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“I insist!”

Rodger dragged a chair over and Quinn let out a sigh of content as he slumped in the seat, “Rodger, you didn’t tell me you had a missus,” he grinned, swatting Rodger playfully against his arm. Rodger’s eyes widened, “Nono! Hah, she’s not- we’re not- we’re just friends I swear.”

Quinn burst into laughter, “Alright mate, take it easy,” His eyes then roaming to Alicia, “That's good to know though.” Alicia’s eyes closed as she laughed, “Hmmm, I’m flattered.” Her hand trailed up to Jack’s hair as she gently traced circles in his hair. Quinn’s eyes flickered to Jack and he raised an eyebrow, “Any who might this be?”

Alicia smirked, “My darling. His name is Jack, Jack, say hello,” She cooed. Jack gulped, blinking a few times before speaking, “G-good evening, sir.”

Quinn's eyes widened, his eyebrow slightly quirking up, “Well fuck me, if I hadn’t thought of getting one of them myself, I’m seriously considering it now.” Alicia smirked, her eyes falling to Rodger, “Yeah, he seems to have that affect on people.”

Half an hour later they were served their food, Jack looked down at his food, unsure how his stomach felt. He didn’t like the feel of Quinn. Not one bit. Alicia looked over at him and smiled, gently swirling a fork in Jack’s pasta. She gently cupped his chin, her thumb brushing along his skin gently as she brought the fork to his mouth. Jack smiled before slowly opening his mouth, letting Alicia feed him.

Alicia smiled gently, her nail gently scratching at Jack’s skin as he chewed. Quinn watched the admiration glimmering in Alicia’s eyes, he couldn't help the burning fire that roared in his chest. Jealousy. He knew it well. He shook his head and continued into his meal.

As time passed by, conversation continued. Jack listened as Alicia continued to feed him. Quinn’s English accent was thick, lacing each word. Jack’s eyes drifted closed, his mind at ease as he relaxed into Alicia’s touch. He felt eyes on him but ignored it for now- his focus only on Alicia, where it belonged.

Alicia’s eyebrows furrowed as the back of her hand brushed against Jack’s face and she sat up slightly. Jack looked up at her as her hand brushed against his forehead, “Sweetheart…you’re burning up…”

Jack bit his lip anxiously, “‘m o-okay, I’m sorry there’s… there’s just a lot of people here and-and I-”

“Hey, baby, don't apologize, do you want to get some air?”

Jack nodded fast, blinking hard, “Ye-yes please, ma’am, tha-thank you s-s-so mu-”

“I can take him outside, no problem!”

Alicia paused for a moment, considering.

“Oh come on, I come here practically every week, I know my way around here!”

Alicia’s eyes squinted in thought but she nodded, “Alright, alright fine…” she raked a hand through Jack’s hair and smiled, before kissing him gently, “Feel better soon, baby.”

Quinn stood up quickly, rubbing his hands together before walking to Jack, “We’ll get you better, sprout, no problem.” Jack had a bad feeling about this from the start but his head was spinning and he needed air, quickly.

Quinn gently placed his hand against the small of Jack’s back, causing the other to shiver. “Nice and easy, sprout, we’ll get you out in just a second.”

He was led out a back door, practically stumbling over his feet. “Christ, you really are an anxious one, huh?” Quinn snickered. Jack just gulped hard as they continued walking. The second the door was open and the cold air met Jack’s face, he suddenly felt human again. He gasped and let out a shaky breath.

“There we go,” Quinn cooed, running his hand through Jack’s hair, gently rubbing circles against his scalp, “Deep breaths, sprout, good job.” Jack couldn’t help but lean into the touch, his breaths slowly calming, “Tha-thank you.. Mmthank you, sir.” He let out a final sigh, his lungs feeling full once more.

Quinn’s emerald green eyes shone in awe as he watched Jack close, gently brushing a strand of hair that rested over Jack’s eyes, “You're a pretty one,” he smirked. Jack blushed and looked away, “Can…can we go inside please…”

“Oh no darling, not quite yet,” Quinn practically purred against the shell of Jack’s ear, warm breath fanning over cold, pale skin. A whimper caught in Jack's throat as he tried to lean away, “I-I want to see Alicia… pl-pease…”

Jack flinched as Quinn chuckled, closing his eyes as he savoured this moment, “Christ, you're just perfect, aren't you? Begging before I even cut skin.” Jack’s eyes widened, “Nonono, do-don't hurt me… Ali-Alicia.. She- she’s-” A gasp escaped his throat as he felt the familiar feeling of a cold blade resting against his skin, a threat.

“Alicia’s not here though, is she?” Quinn smirked.

“Ohhhh, but she is.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he heard her voice. Alicia! It was Alicia!

Quinn spun around, quickly pocketing the knife, “Alicia! He just had a little itch, thought I would help him,” He smirked. Alicia stepped forward, arms crossed, “Let me set something straight for you, Quinn; I don't like people touching my things,” She hummed, making a show of putting on her leather gloves, “And that right there,” She smirked, jutting her chin at Jack, “Is my angel. And no one lays a finger on him unless allowed.” She had managed to back Quinn against the stonewall of the building, knife in her hand, her favourite knife. In a sudden, her hand shot out and she grabbed Quinn’s throat, slamming him hard against the wall as she leaned in close, this time whispering into Quinn’s ear, “I believe you have something to say…”

Quinn shuddered, his breath stuttering “I- I’m sorr-”

“Ah ah ah,” Alicia’s hand squeezed tighter, making Quinn gasp, “Not to me, hun, to him.”

Quinn swallowed his pride before moving his eyes to Jack’s, “I-I’m sorry, Spr-” He coughed as Alicia’s grip grew tighter, “GUH- I-I’m sorry, s-sorry, Jack.”

Jack shrank back slightly dipping his head.

Alicia smirked, stroking her thumb gently against the side of Quinn’s neck, soaking in every heartbeat she felt against her thumb. Each thump like a scream- a cry for help.

“Good boy,” She cooed, feeling the other shudder. She trailed the blade along each of Quinn’s ribs, relishing each short gasp, “Not so cocky now,” She smirked, slowly digging the knife in, “NH-” He cried out but Alicia’s hand squeezed his throat tighter. He couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, this is my favourite part,” Alicia murmured, “The pleading eyes. You look so weak right now, pathetic,” She spat but with a smile, “All control in my hands, your faith literally in my hands!” She giggled, “Oh, if you could see yourself right now…”

Quinn squeezed his eyes shut, his body shook as it desperately hunted for air. “Nonono, open your eyes, honey, I want to see you.”

The blade slashed across his side and he choked out a scream, eyes bursting open. Alicia chuckled, “Muuuuch better. I’d say you’ve got another ten seconds before you fall unconscious at my feet,” She smirked as she felt him whimper.

“I’m only going to repeat myself once,” She whispered, causing the hairs at the back of Quinn’s neck to stand, “Never ever touch him unless I allow you to, am I understood?”

Black spots swam in Quinn’s eyes as he shook, slowly nodding. The pressure lifted and he dropped to the floor, choking on gasps as he coughed and spluttered, clawing at his throat for more air.

Alicia chuckled, “Fucking pathetic,” She drove her foot back before kicking Quinn once more- full force into his stomach, making the other cry out. She turned to Jack quickly, pocketing her gloves as she cupped his face,

“Let’s get out of here, baby. I’m glad you're feeling better.”

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THANKIE FOR READINGG <333

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