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distinctlywhumpthing · 8 months

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Unintentional 28

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CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Ongoing raid, fear of recapture, clinical/hospital setting, side-effects/consequences of medwhump (cerebrovascular). Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3 Second ask is from this list

Leo told him to stay still and pretend to sleep, no matter what. One of so few direct orders, Aiden could count them on his hand. The very same Leo had just been holding, fingers warming his, giving him one last reassuring squeeze before he’d let go.

He couldn’t fail Leo.

Aiden pressed his hands into the bedspread to hide their shaking, to make them still. Starched-not-soft fabric in an orderly, woven grid under his fingertips. Hundreds of washes keeping it uniform for every new patient. Knuckles wrapped in the soft fabric of Leo’s sweatshirt. Left hand throbbing, forearms aching. Betadine and antiseptic sharp in his nose. The sounds in the hallway—the agents in the hallway. He knew those boots, those footfalls. He’d been here before.

He was there.

Beside the pool, clothes still damp from diving in, from sweating through what had to be hours of CPR. Dragged to his knees, slapped around, put in a van. The End.

He wouldn’t be able to give them his number this time, even if he wanted to. Except instead of taking a stand, he was simply too damaged. The idea of being beaten in front of Leo made his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He couldn’t shake his head, squeeze his fist, find something, anything, to anchor him to where he was, who he was. The simplest task impossible. He used to be more than a passenger, an observer, recognizing less and less with each visit. Especially when it was like this, when he fell beneath the surface, into things that were muddy and murky and meant to stay that way.

He wanted to look, to confirm what he kept telling himself was true, but he had to keep his eyes closed.

Leo wouldn’t leave him. Leo had promised.

But the very foundation of the conditioning was doubt.

With Archer it pushed him toward an impossible perfection. Empty responsiveness that only left him aching to do more, to be better.

It nagged him constantly with Harrison but there was little to be done. Harrison took what he wanted, didn’t care what kind of vessel it came from. All of his memories returned were not enough to erase the conditioning, relieve the doubt. The ache to be deserving.

He was certain it was worse to have both: what once was housed in the ruins of what he was now.

Leo had no idea what he was taking on. Had no idea Aiden was falling to pieces in his own head when all he had to do was stay still and be quiet.

He wasn’t meant to open his eyes but Harrison was peeling them open for him. Shining his penlight into one and then the other.

“I know you’re awake.” His tone was terse. Frustrated? There was a complication? A delay? It was hard to follow, his mind slow to process. He tried to turn his head but he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t, he was strapped down like always.

Leo had told him not to move.

Harrison snapped his fingers in front of his face. “I asked you a fucking question.”

He blinked a fraction of a second after he thought of it. He couldn’t remember hearing a question. There weren’t any quips surfacing and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to speak anyway.

He hadn’t felt this drugged before.

He wasn’t.

Leo—was Leo still there?

“For fuck’s sake.” Harrison demanded all of his attention by undoing the straps. “You’re lucky we need to do this or you’d be kissing a taste of freedom goodbye thanks to your attitude.”

Too slow to snipe back again.

He cried out when his arms fell to his sides, so heavy now that he had to hold them, fingers tingling as the blood rushed down to his fingers.

He had to stay still.

“I don't have patience for your bullshit today. Do not test me.”

He swallowed the next whimper, the reprimand curdling in his empty stomach. Unaware that Harrison had released all of the other restraints until he folded forward. Harrison caught him unceremoniously, wrapping his arms around him in a parody of an embrace that still made his heart race and his cheeks flush as if it were earned attention, a reward. Sometimes, he’d wriggle closer, moan in Harrison’s ear or whisper a few lurid suggestions. (Anything was better than being a lab rat.) Once even licked his neck but after that, Harrison had kept him unconscious for so long.

As much as he had nothing to lose, would push every button he could find in a fruitless attempt to force Harrison’s hand, his nerve was riddled with holes. Whenever Harrison was gone too long, he’d wonder if he’d ever come back. Doubt warping fearful anticipation into longing. He’d miss Harrison. Miss the attention, even of his scalpel, when there was a question of it never returning. He was nothing if not what they’d conditioned him to be.

“Alright, up you go.” Harrison’s voice still had an edge. They were in the other room across the hall but he didn’t remember getting there. Harrison pulled him to his feet, placed both of his hands on the rail bordering the room. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.”

He gasped when Harrison let go, overwhelmed by all of his muscles working together for a purpose. But there was something else too, something beneath whatever drugs Harrison always gave him before these bouts of “exercise” to make sure he wasn’t too much trouble.

“I don’t feel right…” It came out slurred.

Harrison was busy on his phone and waved him on with his free hand. “You remember. One foot in front of the other.” He used the hard toe of his sneaker to prod against his bare heel until he moved.

Left foot forward. One step at a time.

His head hurt, ears ringing, vision wavering. Harrison would be furious if he passed out.

Right foot forward. His leg almost buckled and he gripped the bar tighter. The room spun.

“Something’s wrong.” The syllables were marbles in his mouth.

Left foot forward.

The fingers of his right hand slipped from the bar.

He couldn’t raise them again, like his whole arm had been numbed. His heart sprinted and stuttered, drilling fear deep into his chest. “Harrison, what did you give me?” The panic in his voice was clearer than the words.

“Whatever game you’re playing, I am really not—”

Right foot forward. The room tipped.

Harrison caught him and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m fucking serious. Stand up and finish the lap.” He tried to shove him onto his feet again but he couldn’t balance.

He was crying now, tears sliding down his cheek. The ones on the other side lost in the fabric of Harrison’s lab coat. “I—I—can’t—I can’t—” No words came out at all this time, only sounds. “Harrison!” His vision spotted. Harrison lowered him to the floor, let him slump against the wall, listing sideways.

His expression was out of focus but his voice was stern. “This is your last chance. Stop—what—what are you doing?”

Harrison caught him again but he couldn’t feel where, only the other hand opening his left eye for the light. He didn’t feel his fingers on the right before his vision flared.

“Fuck.” Harrison held two fingers to his neck, checking his watch. “Look at me, talk to me.”

“I—I—I’m scared,” he cried. It was nothing, it was moans and slurs. “Harrison, help me, please!”

“No, no, no.” Harrison laid him down. “Squeeze my hand.”

His hand was empty, he couldn’t—

Harrison raised their hands into his line of sight. His right hand limp in Harrison’s grip. “Please, come on, Nothing. It’s nothing, you’re fine. You’re fine.”

He couldn’t feel his hand. “What did you do to me?” Again nothing came out. He whimpered when Harrison rolled him onto his side.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He must have been high out of his mind to hear those words.

“Talk to me, stay with me.”

How many times he’d wanted to say that himself but now he was the one leaving.

“Beau, come on. Hold my hand.” Harrison wrapped both hands around his left one. He didn’t think he’d ever done that without gloves on. It felt so warm. “Here, see? Stay with me, Beau.”

But Beau didn’t belong here.

He had died when she had, when he’d failed her.

“No, no, no.” Harrison was holding his face now. “Hey, ‘359. Come on, keep your eyes open. Trainee ‘359. That is a direct—” His voice broke. “Fuck. Please—”

‘359 was out of place too.

Fragments and pieces, hollow on the inside, incomplete before he’d been given Beau’s purpose.

A clean slate would always be empty, ‘359 couldn’t exist here.

“Please.” Harrison held him more carefully than he’d ever imagined him capable of. Like he was far from nothing, precious even. “Brandon. Forgive me.”

But he wasn’t Brandon.

Or ‘359.

Or Beau.

He only wanted to be Aiden.

And even though he could still feel Harrison’s fingers entwined with his, he was Aiden. Aiden being careful not to make a sound as memories drowned him. Aiden not moving a muscle or opening his eyes, pulse sprinting in his chest as they waited. He couldn’t feel anything under his fingertips anymore, was growing more and more desperate to check that he was in fact lying in a bed and not waking up on the ground beside Harrison or worse already back on his table. He—

The door opening brought everything in his head screeching to a halt.

It wasn’t Harrison’s warmth still lingering on his hand.

It was Leo’s.

Leo who had found him, sheltered him, been so patient and kind with him. Had risked everything by bringing him here.

He could keep still and quiet, bury his fear of what it would mean to go back, in hopes of selling this lie. To say nothing of what consequences Leo and his sister might face. He could never be the reason someone else was unmade. He owed Leo this, at the very least, as disappointing as he may have been in the rest of their short time together.

Or did he have a different kind of obligation now? Not just to please and obey but one of higher grounds. To earn everything Leo had given him so freely. To repay selflessness with a sacrifice of his own.

One of the agents cleared their throat and Aiden knew this was it. If he went easily, quietly, they might leave Leo alone. As long as he surrendered before Leo had a chance to try and improvise.

And he wouldn’t look at Leo at all. To make sure to implicate him as little as possible.

There were voices in the hallway but he couldn’t catch the words over the way his heart beat so loudly in fear, thudding through his whole body.

He promised himself he would tear the stitches in the van later.

Being manhandled into cuffs might start the job anyway.

He would—Aiden would do this to save Leo.

He sat up and opened his eyes—

In time to see the backs of the agents as the nurse ushered them out, hissing something about “immunocompromised” and “goddamn idiots, don’t they teach you to read?”

And Leo, staring at him in disbelief.

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @lavbug

#bbu #bbu-adjacent #box boy whump #box boy rescue #bbu whump #sympathetic whumper #carewhumper #pet whump #is it? idk #institutionalized slavery tw #hospital setting tw #CVA tw #stitches mention tw #medical whump #clinical whump #hospital whump #whump #whump writing

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generic-whumperz · 2 months

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The Aid: Chapter 7- Sicko Fantasies and Haunting Memories (NSFW)

(Buckle the fuck up, you are now aboard the Hot Mess Express🚂)

CWs & TWs (not in order): graphic & violent non-con flashback (end of chapter and between the red *****—not to be confused with the black *****—you can read around it without missing any vital details!) including use of a knife and gun and gross details of bodily fluids (it’s a bad time, skip over it if your sensitive to nastiness, don’t say I didn’t warn you—like for real it’s gross), explicit language, insults & name calling*, Whumpee called “boy” even though he’s 24, talk of bodily functions (pee habits and general grooming after months of being deprived of toiletries and self care), suicidal ideation and past suicide attempts/details of past self harm practices (asphyxiation), recollection of being forcibly restrained to bed to prevent further self harm, illicit drug use (❄️&🧊) mixed with alcohol (Whumper), Whumpee wishing gruesome death upon Whumper (but like, good for him, Whumper deserves it), aftermath of starvation and prolonged isolation, undressing and inspecting wounds, prescription drug dependency (Whumpee), depressing self reflections, literal Caretaker turned Whumpee, asshole/bully/sadistic/taunting/creepy/intimate/alcoholic/mentally and physically abusive Whumper (Wyatt Sullivan is his own TW, he’s literally the worst), long-term captivity, slavefic/ institutionalized slavery AU, within the post-apocalyptic(ish) setting AU—mentions of: ongoing war & mass death, evacuations, terrorism and treason, cannibalism, infectious diseases (specifically cannibals with infectious diseases), war factions, extremist Regime, forced labor camps, food scarcity, class division, looting, and hostile takeovers

*We are starting strong with insults here, if this is a sensitive topic or squick for you, you’ll have a horrible time & this ain’t for you dawg, respectfully.

You’ve been adequately warned, proceed with caution :)

Word count: 5,669

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Hey you, yeah YOU!

If you’re still here after that novel of CWs, hi hello :) Holy shit this chapter took on a mind of its own and is a little all over the place! Besides the lengthy list of warnings, there’s also some more world building in here—like a lot more. You probably didn’t have questions, but don’t worry, I gave you the answers you didn’t know you needed anyway! I hope it fits and makes sense, idk what I’m doing, I think my brain is actively rotting out of my skull at this point. If you like insane bullshit, this is for you, and if you don’t, sorry buddy! I'm still sitting on a fatass chapter that comes after this one, but I need to give myself a break after this steamy mess right here. Expect the usual processing time of a month and a half.

Xoxo, Gen

Fuck ass. Shithead. Cock warmer—of all the overused insults his Master chucked at him, The Aid kept a particular fondness for pampered pet.

An offense it was intended to be, yes, but instead of bitter resentment, the gibe strangely restored a sense of lost dignity and sounded comparatively childish against the others. Although, truth be told, most of the snarky nicknames fell flat and lost their zest at this point, and he would’ve appreciated some effort from Sullivan to come up with more creative insults to hurl at him.

His Master made a special sport of provoking him; ergo, he figured the man would at least flaunt some star players now and again.

Nothing got older quicker than a joke worn thin.

But wait, what did the brute call him earlier—lopsie lip? He usually threw up his mental defenses and rolled his eyes when someone made cheap one-liners about his mouth (what could be said that he hadn’t heard a hundred times over?) Still, somehow, Wyatt Sullivan had a real knack for mocking his appearances (his height was another frequently abused topic) and a crafty way of singling out his assumed insecurity. The mockeries weren’t knee-slappers by any stretch of the imagination and came across as equally lame and insensitive Boomer jokes; even so, he’d gladly take these low-hanging digs with open arms over the other vile, squirm-worthy remarks Sullivan berated him with any day—or worse.

Better a poor shit taking the brunt of crude taunts than a poor shit taking the brunt of a boot to the ribs.

Pampered pet—it’s fitting, goes well with his staple stand-in name, Mutt, and even has a certain ring to it, and certainly nicer than cum bucket —yuck (he hated that one).

Pampered was right; he couldn’t stand being dirty and unkempt; indeed, his Madame never condoned sloppy looks and anything less than perfect. She’d be rolling in her grave right now if she saw the sunken state of affairs and how piss poor of a job her son was doing as appointed keeper of her precious house boy.

But oh, how far the mighty have fallen.

Long were the days of his dedication to hours a week of meticulous primping and preening and how he missed those sacred moments.

Since he awoke above ground, he didn’t have the energy or sheer willpower to accomplish anything more than a couple of weak passes with a toothbrush and a few splashes of lukewarm water on his face and called it a day. But now—poor hygiene be damned—a garden of Earthly man-made delights beckoned him.

He studied his previously revoked collection of personal care products next to the first aid caddy on the bathroom counter before him. Here sat everything his Master denied him for months; he bereaved their absences like a lost loved one—no, scratch that, he never missed a person more than a good hand cream and microdermabrasion exfoliant.

In another life, he was always a star patient when it came to oral hygiene—he sported the Colgate smile—so being deprived of his one true love, his toothbrush, during his solitary confinement was arguably worse than having to shit in a litter box next to his bed.

He didn’t know what disturbed him more, the fact that he looked like a freshly dead Jack Skellington or that he now had plaque buildup, a few missing teeth (curtsey of Sullivan’s fists), and probably a couple of cavities.

A new toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, and floss picks were no dentist or oral surgeon, but they were a good start toward redemption.

This is as good as he’d get; best make do with what he got and ignore the rest. Maybe he can’t fill a cavity but can scrub off filth. He commonly recited, ‘It’s better to focus on easily fixable things. There’s an irreplaceable level of satisfaction in having attainable goals.’

He scanned the other objects in front of him, taking special note of the lip scrub and lip balm he hoped would mend his cracked and chapped lips, the tub of extra-extra hydrating hyaluronic acid body lotion tasked with soothing his bone-dry, itchy skin, comb and tweezers to tame invasive hairs, cotton swabs to clean out all the gunk in his ears (he was sure he had more than enough ear wax to fill a tea light candle); blemish control face wash, acne cream, toner, and light-weight moisturizer to get his breakout under control; and nail clippers and file to declaw himself.

He glanced at his fingers and toes.

They weren’t as bad as expected—well, despite his calluses, hang nails, and overgrown cuticles that is. At least he didn't have Althetes' foot or start sprouting weird basement mold between the toes.

Sweet Christ Almighty, the filthy and ungodly things he’d do for a good mani-pedi and facial right now.

If Sullivan weren’t such a fucking sadist with a raging hard-on for making him bleed and scream, he’d consider proposing an exchange of sex acts for a full-package spa day. The sex—he told himself—he could grit his teeth through and forcibly tolerate with minimal tears; it was the rest that canceled out any ounce of enjoyment or relaxation he’d potentially get.

No facial was that good.

His former (glorious) self was never a nail-biter or finger-picker, but his time in isolation lent a hand towards picking up some bad habits to occupy his mind in hopes of preventing him from going mad with boredom (spoiler: it didn’t work).

He picked and picked, and sometimes even nibbled, around his hang nails until he drew blood. He didn’t delight in chewing bits of dead skin peeled off in strings around his fingers, but the motion of eating something—even if deduced to bits of himself—helped drown out the hunger pains and sounds of his empty belly gurgling. He secretly wished Sullivan would catch him in the act of self-cannibalizing himself, realize just how far pushed to insanity he was, and take enough pity on him to release him of his sentence.

It was all nothing more than a stupid fool’s hope; the evil sonovabitch never even felt a glint of remorse.

His eyes scanned the razor and shaving cream, almost suspicious of their presence. Shaving himself was daunting and ostensibly impossible with one shaky hand.

But hey, at least Wyatt trusted with a sharp object; this was a step up.

How long had it been since he properly cleaned himself up and given himself a good shave? Months?

The razor looked new. Sullivan must have given him a fresh one. And if his Master went through the backbreaking effort of changing a razor head, that meant he wanted—no, was practically ordering—him to revive what parts he could that resembled his ci-devant good looks…good looks—was he ever even good looking before all this? He couldn’t tell; he was horrible with those types of things. He knew he wasn’t ugly but also wasn’t a looker, probably landed smack-dab in the middle. Perhaps his attraction level wasn’t for him to decide. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or some shit. Or was that just some junk passed around by those unfortunate souls not blessed with Holly Wood looks?

But now he knew he looked like hell, and the amount of work he needed to do on himself was overwhelming.

It was too much.

How well he’d be able to groom himself with one hand would no doubt leave much to be desired and undoubtedly felt like a set-up for sure failure, but the thought of Sullivan having to pick up where he left off and lather him up in lotion and clip his toenails made his blood run cold and more nervous than a puffer fish in a room full of balloons.

He couldn’t let those big, rough, creepy-ass hands that caused nothing but pain touch him any more than they already had. It felt like he and Sullivan would be breaking an unspoken rule if they made any skin-to-skin contact outside of anything besides the ogre inflicting harm on him. His Master’s hands were torture devices of their own; feeling them on him in any other capacity felt wrong, like a breach of contract.

As much as he refused to believe it, he knew deep down he was touch-starved, and part of him was screaming for any ounce of physical affection. He already leaned a little too far into Dr. Paul’s touch and was damn near smitten from the warm spark of soothing comfort that came from a gentle cup of his cheek; if he did the same with Sullivan, he’d never forgive himself, and his Master definitely wouldn’t let it happen without comment.

He already heard him now—“Yeah, ya like that, don’t ya, boy? Look at ya melting into me like the little needy slut ya are. I got somethin’ else real special for ya that’ll get ya howlin’ an’ really tickle up ya’r insides.”

Even an innocent touch would lead to something more; of course, it would; this was Wyatt fucking Sullivan he was thinking about.

He shivered.

Suddenly, he was all too aware of his very full bladder.

He sighed, then hobbled over to the toilet.

These days he had to piss sitting down; circumstance didn’t grant much flexibility there. The stand-up method was unsuitable for those with one functioning leg and one usable arm; if he dared test his limits, it would likely result in him missing the bowl entirely or ungracefully falling over midstream. He told himself that he didn’t mind popping a squat; it erased the worry of not shaking his pee-pole enough and leaking drops on the rim, or worse—in his underwear. (‘Pay no mind to the very real fear of your peen accidentally sliding against the cold inside of the toilet bowl; no, we don’t have room for such worries.’) Wringing his dick out like a washcloth was far more undignifying than just shoving it between his legs and taking his time anyway—that’s what he told himself, what he made himself believe.

But he deserved that, didn’t he—small comforting lies in whatever form he found them?

Thankfully, the post-catheter sting Dr. Paul warned him of went away after the first day, but his urine persisted in being a dark brownish orange (‘light umber, I think that’s called’) that reeked a pungent odor, evoking him to scrunch his nose in sour disgust every time. He drank more than enough liquids now, so it couldn’t be from dehydration—could it? That left him to conclude it must be yet another unpleasant side-effect from his cocktail of pharmaceuticals.

Pharmaceuticals—thank the marvels of modern science for those. However, what he really craved was a fat joint of Blueberry Kush.

How long ago did he pop that palmful of pills? He contemplated with a sense of impatience, ‘couldn’t be more than 30 minutes ago…’

The Klonopin typically took about an hour and a half to two to kick in. And once it did, he was down for the count, blissfully obliterated until evening, when he would pop an Ambien to sail him through the night.

Rinse and repeat day after day, after day until—well, he didn’t know yet.

And he preferred to remain deliriously unaware.

It was better this way.

Hell, it was the only thing that made his life at all bearable—to be drugged out of his mind, not to be awake, not to think, not to feel his body, to play dead until one fateful day, his Master would finally strike a killing blow.

The matter of if Sullivan could wasn’t in question—they both knew the older man could kill him as effortlessly as a house fly stuck buzzing against a windowsill—it was more of a matter of when.

The Aid tried to carry out the deed of snuffing himself out a few times—okay, more than a few times. He lost count of his botched suicide attempts, but that’s all they were, half-assed “attempts”—a courteous word his actions didn’t quite live up to. What he carried out fell more in line with ideation.

In the basement torture den, he’d wrap the chain around his neck with minimal pressure, just enough to feel a light constriction—nothing more, nothing less—and let the fantasy of floating away into nihility mollify him as he mewled and cried himself to sleep like a squalling infant. Sullivan caught him in this self-soothing ritualistic act once before and had the audacity to act scandalized by what he witnessed as if he didn’t knowingly single-handedly push The Aid to the brink of suicide. After the initial surprise of what he walked in on wore off, Sullivan proceeded to laugh at the miserable little thing at his feet and hurl some colorful beratement at him (finally a personalized insult with a bit more spice, although the timing couldn’t be worse) as the boy bawled his eyes out and crumpled into a shaky ball.

The Aid received an extra beating for his lack of self-respect and composure; Sullivan took offense to The Aid’s actions and informed him that he wasn’t allowed to off himself.

After his Master scolded him, he made him swear he wouldn’t “pull any more weakling shit ever again” and ordered him to abstain from any method of self-harm—Wyatt liked being the only one permitted to hurt him.

The ogre’s cruelties were boundless, but at least the monster finally pitied him enough to find it in his cold, dead heart to allow him the privilege of washing himself up and gave him a change of clothes and a hot meal afterward—sometimes being a mess and pushed to your edge bought rewards.

After all was said and done, he was restrained, his limbs tied to the four corners of the blood-stained mattress so he couldn’t move—for a week—until Sullivan deemed him no longer a threat to himself (the irony of it all did not escape him).

That was the last time he meddled with ending it all. He couldn’t do it, not really—not entirely, no matter how much he wished he could. The only thing that scared him more than Wyatt Sullivan was the great unknown of the other side and being devoured by eternal darkness.

A healthy fear of death was the only thing keeping him alive at this point.

*****

He absently gazed out the window, taking in his perfect view from the side of the house that butted against rolling tan desert foothills.

They were the last house down a long winding street lined with multi-million dollar estate homes, each with a moneyshot view overlooking the Palm Springs valley. He knew better than to indulge in the crackpot fantasy of climbing over that brick retaining wall separating him and the rest of the world to scamper his way through the open desert that went on and on for miles.

He already tried that once.

He didn’t get far—‘Stupid stunt to pull when you have trackers embedded in your neck and spinal column.’

But what was out there?

His mind went wild.

Were there clans of Renegados, the lost people, those who didn’t belong to either cause or fell under contested jurisdictions, hiding deep in the rocky valleys or camping in the Little San Bernardino Mountains? There couldn’t be much of a food source besides snakes and scorpions with the occasional desert hare—not to mention the scarcity of a water source. He surmised Renegados were unlikely in this geography, but what about gangs of marauders? No, that was equally unlikely, as scavenger types preferred abandoned dense urban areas or heavily traveled routes, and they wouldn’t pay much mind to small desert towns or off-grid compounds. There wasn’t much left to plunder in visible sight, especially after the first couple of waves of looting from the mass exodus of some odd four million Los Angelenos alone fleeing the initial outbreaks.

The only people batshit crazy enough to tough it out in such a ragged landscape and unforgiving climate were bands of rebel freedom fighters, the Frondeurs, who opposed what was left of the U.S. Government and fought the rivaling extremist Regime which now controlled nearly half of the 50 states, all the meanwhile also culling the growing numbers of afflicted. It would either be the Frondeurs themselves or hordes of aforementioned afflicted—ravenous cannibals, anthrophages*, devouring their way through the rural areas in search of larger populations to gorge on. “People-eater Pox,” or PEP, was the name quickly given to the incurable disease because “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion” was too clinical and hard to pronounce.

Of course, edge lord teens, horror fanatics, and the everyday 4chan user clung to the pipe dream of a zombie invasion, but these fuckers were far from dead, which somehow made it all that much worse. Sure, they looked dead, but that’s where the physical similarities started and ended.

The afflicted broke out in rotten-smelling, oozing open sore rashes that turned into hardened tree bark-like patches, their skin dulled to a cadaverous blue-gray while the whites of their eyes turned red, and many lost their hair. The cherry on top was their maddening appetite for human flesh and heightened sense of smell and hearing. They were fast, hard to kill, and more animal than human—so he heard.

The Aid never saw an afflicted, not in real life, and he hoped he never would. If you saw one up close, you were two steps closer to being eaten alive or, worse—turning into one of them.

Or maybe instead of bands of rebel forces or diseased cannibals hiding in the desert, there were platoons of those rumored so-called “Envoys” deployed by the Regime—the Republic of Arcadia—to hunt down runaways, defectors, and Frondeurs since they needed every last body they could get. Envoys—he didn’t even know if they were real; he’d never seen one of those either. They were about as real as Santa Claus to him, but luckily, these didn’t look like something out of a Rob Zombie movie and want to eat his face off.

Would Envoys even be out this far west?

Not likely, not unless they now joined the hordes of afflicted. The Republic of Arcadia wouldn’t—couldn’t—needlessly sacrifice any Envoys coming this deep into U.S. territory, not after 11 years in a now stalemated war, not unless they were planning a final invasion.

If that were the case, they were fucked.

If the Envoys were close, that likely indicated the remainder of the U.S. was losing even more territory. Or maybe the government agreed to give up a parcel of idyllic Southern California and a couple of Pacific coast port cities in exchange for a plot of fertile land, unsoiled crop seeds, and healthy bodies to work the fields in a pedantic trade agreement. Lord knows there wasn’t much opportunity for farmland out here in the desert, and good, fertile land these days was worth more than gold, especially after the blights wiped out most of the agriculture industry, which subsequently led to PEP. He didn’t know much about the state of things anymore, and he knew fuck all when it came to the intricacies of a diseased-ravaged and war-torn world hanging on by an unraveling thread. The tidings of war constantly changed, and how anyone could keep up with the insanity of it all was beyond him.

Were they still safe here?

If they had to relocate, what would his Master do with him?

What if they ran out of food?

Would Wyatt eat him if it came down to it?

There was no way he’d let that happen (as if he had a say or any control if it came down to it); not like there was much left of him to eat. You’d get better “meat” off a wild prickly pear cactus than his bony ass. Cannibalism wasn’t just for the afflicted anymore; it wasn’t as uncommon as it used to be. Hard times called for drastic measures in certain parts of the world; not everyone still had access to unsullied food.

But a Sullivan couldn’t stoop so low, not even the worst one out of the bunch, not when the Sullivans were one of the only families left who still owned healthy livestock farms on the West Coast and supplied most of the edible meat and quickly rose to prominence and fortune because of it. Still, being left with the tender mercies of Wyatt didn’t feel promising in any capacity.

He knew he was “lucky” to be owned by the Sullivans and he should be thankful to live in a pocket of the country that remained relatively untouched from the chaos, that he was tucked away from the “real harm” and lived amongst members of high society who remained undeterred by the current state of things. He was a victim of conformity, forcibly resigned to a life he couldn’t get free from. Yet it became increasingly difficult to pretend life was a-okay when the reality of everything sunk in. Eleanor Sullivan was dead. He had five wonderful years with her, but now he suffered under the brutal hand of Wyatt. His life would have been much different if he wasn’t born with abilities. Rather than blossoming into the resident house pet and making his debut by playing mind games with the family matriarch, he’d likely be a plebeian surviving off rations and forced to work in labor camps in a resource sector. He didn’t know which life was worse—people’s minds weren’t made to deal with problems and what-if scenarios this large.

All he could do was accept it and keep trudging along.

This was the world he lived in now—a fucked up, disease-ridden world with only one-third of the population left. A world with a falling, corrupt government that re-institutionalized slavery in an attempt to fill in the labor gaps and keep the corporate overlords happy while the afflicted, marauders, Renegados, Frondeurs, and Envoys wreaked havoc below.

Despite it all and how real and terrible it was, he could only bring himself to worry about the immediate danger in front of him—Wyatt Sullivan.

Out of all his imagined scenarios of who or what was lurking deep in the desert, he hoped Envoys were staking out in these hills and eagerly waiting for the green light to launch an attack. He hoped they would rain down hell and raze this fucking house—tanks, missiles, gunfire and all. He hoped the afflicted would hear the emergency evacuation sirens go off, and every goddamn one of them in a 20+ mile radius would come running like someone rang the dinner bell. He hoped he got to witness them taking one look at Wyatt Sullivan, see the towering beast of a man he was, and look at him like an all-you-can-eat buffet and devour every last bloody fucking inch of him.

Escape.

He could do it then.

For real this time.

That would be the perfect chance to do it, during an emergency evacuation, get lost in the frenzy of it all as his devil incarnate Master got ripped to shreds by anthrophages—

He was getting ahead of himself.

A pipe dream, that’s all it was—a sicko fantasy of diseased cannibals and those terrorist-soldier Envoys and escaping Wyatt Sullivan once and for all. Who knew if he would even be able to ride the tide of freedom instead of being pulled under and drowned by it?

He didn’t finish his breakfast; he blamed the runaway people-eating scenarios on that.

He blinked a few times to shake himself out of his trance, then turned his attention back to himself.

*****

He cautiously unwrapped his shoulder and inspected the stab wound for the first time—appropriately disposing of the soiled bandages in a waste bin, of course (he wasn’t a slob-kabob).

The wound looked better than he expected, not that he doubted Dr. Paul’s work; it’d just been so long since he saw a non-infected wound and received proper medical care.

Five stitches held his skin together. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the skin fusing with a nice crusty scab filled between the gaps of flesh. To his surprise, the swelling mostly subsided and was hardly more than a bump.

He continued undressing his wounds, inspecting each one, surprised by the level of visible healing each time—he usually healed slowly and lacked the gift of quick recovery. Even his splinted wrist with screws tacking the bones together looked better than he imagined it would. The stitch line was smaller than expected, hardly longer than the one on his shoulder.

His eyes blurred over the revealed three-inch scar on his palm and the back of his right hand as he let his gaze maunder to the shower across from him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at this old scar. Unlike the other marks, the memory of this one haunted him with agonizing detail. He went to great lengths to conceal this one, mostly from himself, typically covering it up with a strip of old ace bandage to seal away the constant remainder of Wyatt Sullivan’s unending barbarity.

It was a strange and horrible memory, one he constantly pushed back into a lockbox buried deep in the recesses of his mind, a memory that came in heightened, broken fragments like cutout frames of sun burnt film. It didn't feel real; it seemed like a planted evocation from someone else, more similar to a blurb he would see in a premonition than an echo of his past. Instead of his mind, his body predominantly cataloged this event and all similar events thereafter; he disassociated through most of them in an act of atavistic self-preservation.

Most of his life became staticky blurs alongside indistinct garbles and muddied out-of-body experiences since.

*****

It was the first time.

The monster was hopped up on grade-A Bolivian coke cut with street crystal, riding extraordinarily high, and very drunk, on a weekend bender.

After chasing him around the property with a knife and gun in hand for what felt like hours, the monster cornered him in the home office located in the back of the house.

With that knife, the monster stabbed his hand into the wooden desk, pinning him bent over.

He scremed, hot tears flowed from his eyes, the pain shot through him like a lighting bolt.

The pain stunned him, he stood watching, unable to process what the monster did.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him.

Blood, so much of it.

It spurted out in matching pulses to his quickening heartbeat, the red liquid pooled on the desk and painted his arm in crimson.

The monster grabbed at his waist.

He yelled, thrashed, and fought with everything he had, buying as much time as possible and refusing the inevitable, but he didn’t have much steam after hours of running from and fighting off the lumbering beast.

The monster took his other hand and wrenched it behind his back so he couldn't move.

It felt like the monster was seconds away from snapping his arm. He shrieked.

The monster’s fingers hooked around his waistband and pulled down. Still, he fought—he threatened, he begged, he screamed—he screamed so fucking loud.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him.

The monster groped his bare ass, pinned his legs open, spread him apart, and forced something inside him.

He couldn't see, but by the feel, he knew it must be one of the monster’s fingers.

It didn’t hurt, but it felt wrong, out of place, intrusive.

He screamed more and pleaded for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster spoke, but he couldn’t hear the words.

The monster wasn't stopping.

The monster added another finger and wriggled it around, stretching him out.

He wailed and told the beast he’d do anything to make it stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He pounded his head on the desk; that hurt, too, but he didn’t care.

He wanted it to stop; it had to stop.

He couldn’t take it.

He’d never done this before.

He never wanted to do this, not with the monster, not with anyone.

He kept headbutting the table until his vision was covered in red like his hand.

The monster grabbed his hair and pulled his head up, yelling more words he couldn’t hear.

The monster’s fingers crammed deeper inside him, his body froze.

He begged with everything he had for the beast to stop.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

Everything got fuzzy.

His mind went blank.

Something else was pushing inside him now.

Something bigger.

This wasn’t the monster’s fingers.

He wanted to scream, but his body seized, and he held his breath.

This time, it hurt; this time, it hurt really bad, more than any other kind of hurt he ever felt before.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

His mind went blank again.

He came back around.

The monster violently pushed into him, slamming his hips into the corner of the desk.

The monster sunk deep into him, deeper than he thought any monster part could possibly go.

He made noises he had never heard himself make before, noises he didn't recognize as his own.

The squealing and yawping coming from him sounded like a faraway dying animal.

He thought he knew what this was, but at the same time, he didn’t.

He couldn’t accept it.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

The monster moved around inside him, still pushing into him, still hurting him.

He weakly squirmed, still trying to plead with the monster.

The monster pushed down on his back to hold him still and plowed into him, making gross monster noises.

He knew what this was called.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen to him.

No, not him.

It couldn't be. But it was.

The beast liked hurting him, and the beast was good at it.

He screamed and cried, begging so loud his vocal cords gave out until his voice pruned to a dusty croak.

No. No. No. This wasn't supposed to happen to him.

Why was this happening to him?

What did he do to deserve this?

He breathed so fast, but it wasn't enough; he couldn't get enough air.

He thought he was dying.

Everything went dark.

He didn’t exist anymore, and the monster was gone.

But he came back.

He still felt the splitting intrusion inside him—the monster still jackhammering away without the faintest concern for the internal damage dealt.

He felt his insides ripping, it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was on fire.

He tried to scream, but his throat stung. So he wailed out broken sobs even though that still hurt, too.

The monster laughed, then spoke more words he couldn’t hear, and he knew it was good that he couldn’t make them out. He wasn’t a monster, so he didn’t speak monster. That made sense.

He wept.

The monster stuck something in his mouth. An object. The gun.

No. Please not him. Not him. Not him.

The beast spoke more monster words and sounded mad and happy at the same time. He couldn’t feel the monster's feelings because he turned off his monster-reading senses.

Why was the monster doing this to him?

He drooled around the gun and tried to bite down on it to quiet his screams, but it hurt his teeth.

He was terrified.

All he could hear was his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He felt sick.

He thought he was going to die.

He felt wetness.

He realized he pissed himself.

The monster didn't notice.

The air smelt like a gross gas station bathroom mixed with copper.

He felt more wetness, a different wetness spilling from where the monster was.

Blood and monster cum leaked out of him.

He felt the mix of wetness slicking between his thighs and drip down his legs, only stopping when his socks soaked up all the fluids. After some unknown amount of time, it settled in his shoes. It felt like he had stepped in a puddle, a smelly, rotten puddle.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

He felt nauseous and dizzy.

The monster grunted and huffed on top of him; he could smell the alcohol, the beer, and chewing tobacco on the monster’s breath.

He smelt his blood and some other gut-churning smell he assumed was sweaty, unprepared, raw sex.

He hated sex. He never wanted to do it. But the monster didn't care what he wanted.

He cried until his eyes swelled, and he couldn’t see anymore.

His whole body ached.

He was tired, so tired. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted this to be nothing but a bad dream.

This couldn’t be happening, no, not to him. Not to him. Not to him.

But it did happen. It happened. To him.

*****

He surmised whatever deal Sullivan made with the Doctor’s experimental drugs was paying off, at least for now.

As relieved as he was with the healing of his noticeable injuries, his main concern sided with the non-visible wounds, what lay beneath his skin—the injuries Sullivan deliberately exploited because he knew better than to dig his trigger-happy fingers into freshly fused flesh and meat and consequently be stuck with the Doctor’s wrathful hospital bill.

His sprained ankle and cracked rib still pulsed with a dull ache.

He hoped by the next check-up, whatever damage his Master dealt would remit, and the memory of this incident would evanesce like the rest of his forgotten scars.

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Footnotes:

*Anthrophage: a person with PEP (People-eater Pox), medical diagnosis “idiopathic anthropophagite contagion.” This is just a fancy name for a diseased cannibal who has PEP that exists within this AU. Anthrophage is not a “real word,” but it’s a play off of the word—anthropophagite.

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears

If ya wanna be added to or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me :)

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kim-poce · 2 years

Text

My New Wip

Masterlist

CW: pet whump, deaf whumpee, caretaker new master, reformed criminal caretaker, institutionalized slavery.

=-=

People were talking, or at least it thought so, it never can be sure, after all, it was trying to be good! It was looking down as it should, seeing the pet-blood-stained cement floor inside that dark shelter, it had no way to pay attention to the people's conversation even if it tried.

Still, it knew someone was walking it, it could feel their steps on the ground, it tensed; foolish. It had to be good, it had to be good and still it tense for just that? How can it serve people if it can’t be around them? It really isn't fit to serve anymore, maybe it never was.

The people —the woman in charge in the shelter, the guy that feeds it and the big stranger wearing black tennis and jeans— must have finished their talk, because the woman and the stranger walked away in direction to the person who had just arrived and the guy who feeds it crouched down in front of it.

He waved his hand, an order for it to look at his face. ‘Be good,’ he mouthed, he didn’t seem angry —he rarely was—, so it knew what he was talking about, it had a new owner, didn't it? Its fear had become real and it was being taken away to a new house.

It knew it was being ungrateful, it knew, but it had been in so many homes, it had so many owners and it was just… tired, scared, it didn’t want to learn new rules anymore. The other pets like it when they leave the clamped shelter, no more long boring days inside a cage too small to sit straight, no more tasteless food in small amounts in order to feed everyone. But it rathers to live like this, life isn’t comfortable anyway, so why try to change it?

‘Do you understand?’ the guy who fed it mouthed, he was worried, he was so much kinder than it deserved, if it was allowed wants, it would want to be his instead of the big stanger’s.

It nodded weakly, this man was kind, kind enough to worry about a mere pet, so it was better to part ways acting as if everything will be okay, acting as if this is for the better. They both know this is a lie, no one wanting a good pet would come to that shelter, no pet there will ever be happy. Still, it forced a smile, careful not to show its lack of two front teeth and nodded again.

It looked around, to see if there were other people there, there weren’t. It knew that what it was about to do was risky, but it had to.

“Thank you,” it said out loud, it didn’t know if its voice was barely audible or if it was way too loud. But it must be okay, the guy who fed it smiled, caressing its matted hair before, he mouthed a ‘you are welcome’, it was almost sure, it isn’t good at reading lips, it only knows well the trained orders, the rest is always a guess.

The guy clicked a leash to its worn out collar and led it outside where the stranger —owner— was, it wasn’t allowed to look up but it knew they were huge and strong, this would be bad, this would be so bad. It tried to think of something else, it had to think of something else, like how to please this person.

The stranger —owner— crouched down in front of it, they mounted a lot of things way too fast for it to pick up, they had a slightly tanned skin, slightly wavy long hair, it was dyed purple or blue at some point but now it was an old uneven green, they had thick eyebrow and a face that seemed always angry.

‘Do you understand?’ they mouthed, it could read this part.

It nodded, lying, the stranger nodded too before getting up and slowly led it to the backseat of the car, as they clicked the seat belt it thought that this was truly happening again. it would be taken to the stranger’s house, to a strange new life and new rules and new punishments and a brand new hell, until its owner got tired of it and sent it back to the dark familiar cells in the shelter.

It was risk, but it made a decision right then; if it would be sent back anyway it was better to make it fast, it would be a useless pet, so useless that no beating fix it, enough for this stranger get rid of it as soon as it could, if it got lucky —it was never lucky— it would be sent back to the guy who feeds it.

=-=

@cupcakes-and-pain @sideblogformindtrash

#whump #pet whump #caretaker new master #caretaker new whumper #whump fic #deaf whumpee #institutionalized slavery #institutionalized slavery tw #criminal caretaker #my writing #please help me name everything in here #A Brand New Life

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cupcakes-and-pain · 2 years

Text

Presents

Woohoo double update! Don’t get used to it tho lol sorry

Masterlist

CW: vampire caretaker, multiple whumpees, institutionalized slavery, caretaker new master, selective mutism, fear of punishment, panic attack, Roy being big of heart but dumb of ass,

———

The ride back was unsettling, but at least Master allowed them to sit in the seats. It was senseless kindness, one that they will have to repay, but at least it was comfortable. Dew hated punishment, but at least she could curl up on a cushy seat in a beautiful car beforehand.

The first thing Dew noticed when they arrived was that Master’s house was tiny for a vampire. She originally was astonished that he had such a huge building all to himself until he mentioned a landlady. Drop elbowed her in the ribs, wanting to ask a question. She tried to subtly shake her head “no” but he just. Would not listen. Typical.

“So, master, you have a landlady? What is that?”

“Oh! Yeah, you’ve probably only ever lived in mansions. Well, my place might be a little bit of a downgrade, but it’s still pretty big. It’s the penthouse suite and the biggest space of this entire apartment complex. It takes up most of the top floor.”

Master showed them around, but Dew started to worry. It didn’t even take up the last floor completely. Master would be able to hear them constantly and know what they messed and or spoke out of turn. They were totally exposed.

A quick glance at Drop told her that he knew it too. This house was much smaller than any other vampire, but perhaps Master knew that. He realized that his super hearing had limits and chose a house according. So sneaky. So cruel. Dew’s breathing began to pick up again, but she forced herself to stay calm. She couldn’t start freaking out, not right now! Not with so much at stake.

“So this is the kitchen, but it’s hardly been used. Oh, um, can you guys make food for yourselves?”

Dew nodded, and he moved on.

“Here’s your room. I hope only one bed is alright. Your bathroom is just down the hall. Any questions?”

“Yes Master. Firstly, may we enter the library? Also, where would you like to be fed? I noticed there is no dining room.”

“You can go pretty much anywhere in here. I’m not too big on rules. The only place that’s restricted is my room, I guess. And there was a dining room. It is what is now my library that I showed you. Heh, um, yeah.” Master seemed agitated. Plus, he had dodged her second question. Dew shuffled her feet nervously.

“I don’t know how to tell you, but I’m not hungry right now. Really, I’m not! There was a lot of, uh, stuff at the party. So you can just, like, chill I guess. Hang out. I’m going to be in my room. Call me if you need me.”

And then he was gone, briskly walking away. Just like that. Like he hadn’t left to terrified blood bags in his wake.

Dew took a deep breath, keeping the constant fear away, and lead Drop to the library. She had seen lose paper and pens in there.

They sat on the plush carpet. Drop looked around, but Dew was focused on writing down a note. She’d been caught with a note only once before, but vampires often underestimated how quickly a human could chew and swallow something. They’d be safe to communicate like this.

She handed Drop the note and he read,

This house is small, so he’ll hear us talking. You already know that though. If he comes to check what we’re writing, I’ll eat the paper. Nod to show you read it.

He nodded and she wrote on the back.

We present ourselves first thing tomorrow morning. Be sweet looking. Don’t grimace or snarl. Don’t go into any room other than ours, the bathroom, and the library but only when I tell you.

Drop rolled his eyes and did an eating motion.

We don’t know if we can go in the kitchen.

Drop glared at her. She glared right back. They had known each other long enough, it felt like an entire conversation was going on through their angry looks.

Drop: how are we supposed to eat, then?

Dew: how should I know? Just don’t go there until we’re sure.

Drop: why show us a kitchen if we can’t use it!

Dew: shut up!

Drop: you shut up!

Dew: fine.

Drop: fine.

Dew huffed and started to stand. Drop swatted at her legs playfully and she returned it by hitting his leg with her shoe. They couldn’t be mad at each other for long and both humans started to giggle.

*Creak*

They whipped around. Master had left his room and was coming there way. Dew ate the paper so fast that she honestly surprised herself.

“Hey, sorry, but I just remembered a few things. Sorry to interrupt.”

They almost forgot to bow when he came in. Dew felt the constant terror clawing at her throat, threatening to make her sob.

“You did not interrupt. We are yours, we are here to serve. It is our fault for being distracted. Punish us as you see fit.”

Again, Master seemed tense one moment and fine the next. Dew’s metaphorically knuckles were white with how desperately and tightly she held to her calm exterior, which threatened to slip right out of her grasp.

“It’s really alright. I don’t- you aren’t getting punished. I just wanted to clarify a few things.”

There was a pause, and Dew hesitantly nodded, not knowing what else to do.

“Um, can he talk?” Master asked, gesturing to Drop. “Like, physically talk.”

And just like that, everything came crashing down, including her knees as she fell into a mix of a bow and the fetal position.

“Please, d-don’t punish him! Don’t! He’s done- done nothing wrong. H-he’s good. He d-doesn’t, um, doesn’t talk. H-he could, but please don’t- don’t make him! He’ll be good! We’ll be good. L-let me me t-t-talk f-for him…” She tired to continue, but her sobs got in the way. Instead, she focused on catching her breath and not flinging herself over Drop to shield him.

Even though she couldn’t see him from her curled up position, she heard Drop holding back tears, dry sobs escaping every now and then. She looked up at her owner, the cruel man who may have purposefully owned a small house to keep slaves constantly feeling scared. She expected more of his signature, creative evilness and cunning. She expected hate and anger.

But instead, his eyes shone with tears, like a triplet to their twin despair. A thick strand of purple hair had fallen in Master’s face and he didn’t bother to push it away. He was uncomfortable and tense, just like she had thought she’d seen before. He looked about half as utterly miserable as Dew felt.

“Hey, i-it’s alright. It’s okay. You’re alright. You’re safe. No one is in trouble.” He gave her a moment to collect herself and wipe her tears before crouching down to their level while maintaining a fair distance between them.

“No one is going to be hurt or punished. Neither of you, I swear. I just was wondering if there was an injury that I should know about. But it’s okay if he can’t or won’t talk, even if he could physically. I don’t mind. I swear. You’re good.” And then Master turned to Drop and slowly reached out a hand. The latter flinched away, but Master rested his palm gently on his slave’s knee.

“And you’re okay, Drop. If you ever want to talk again, that’s fine. I don’t mind either way. If you never talk, it’s all good. I swear. You are both good.”

And he stood, took a deep breath, and left. It was always the same. As Dew helped her friend up and they scurried away, she mulled this over. Perhaps their master enjoyed causing panic and confusion and then leaving. It was strange how completely upset he looked, but maybe it was an act. That’d be okay. They had dealt with worse in and outside of the farm. If this Master enjoyed playing with his food, that was fine. At least they had each other.

Drop hopped into bed and held his arms open. It wasn’t every day that they slept cuddled up and consoling each other all night long. But if they ever needed comfort, it was on the first day of a new, strange master. As Dew curled up in Drop’s arms, she thought about everything. They could face this new Master and any other. As long as they had each other, they would be okay in the end.

———

Tag list: @kim-poce @badluck990 @whumpy-writings @imagination1reality0 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @wolfeyedwitch @thecyrulik @nicolepascaline @whumpsday @whumpcreations

#whump #vampire caretaker #multiple whumpees #institutionalized slavery #tw institutionalized slavery #caretaker new whumper #caretaker new master #selective mutism #fear of punishment #tw fear of punishment #panic attack #tw panic attack #dew the human #drop the human #Roy the vampire

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whumplr-reader · 11 months

Text

WRU Press Release (March 23, 2020)

{Day 10: In-BBU-media} Create a piece of media that could exist within the BBU - everything from twitter post to newspaper feature to ad transcript to WRU press release! Pet lib call for action to desperate owner self help reddit thread. Go wild!

I know WRU is usually set in the near-future, but I got to wondering how they would have handled the early pandemic. This isn't a well written press release (thanks mysterious illness[s] that have been killing my life the past few weeks), but I'm going to blame the employees in-universe who were overwhelmed by everything and just rushing to get it out the door...

WRU Announces New Pickup Acquisitions with Fast Payment; Online Ordering and Support Remain Open; Confirms Employee Compensation Continues

March 23, 2020 — Arlington, VA — WRU Inc, the nation's leading Pet and Service Companion company, announced today that its temporary pause on retail acquisitions due to the COVID-19 pandemic will not stop it from allowing new applicants to sign up. WRU now offers same-day pickups and Same Day Rewards™ across North America, giving even those without transportation a new path forward in life.

Same Day Rewards™ is a new initiative that delivers full payment to an applicant's designated recipient within twenty-four hours of acceptance. Applicants may also choose to have part of their remuneration paid in groceries and other necessities delivered straight to their loved ones' homes.

"We know times are tough, and we want all members of the WRU family to feel taken care of," said Jennifer Wakelyn, CEO of WRU Inc. "Whether that's assisting the families of our newest associates or providing in-home childcare to our retail operatives who are now working remotely, WRU is committed to our people, as we've shown by consistently being scored as one of the best employers in America." (Fortune 2019 and Business Week 2019 surveys, among others).

"Part of taking care of our people is safety, and that is absolutely our top priority. To ensure the safety of our employees and our customers, we have worked with doctors and epidemiologists to design a quarantine system that minimizes risk to all," Wakelyn continued. "Although we have had to close our retail locations, we want to reassure everyone that they can still rely on WRU, on our support, and on our products."

The newly designed quarantine procedures include a minimum of three days isolation followed by testing for all outgoing orders and in-coming acquisitions. Customers can request further measures, which will be added free for Caregivers and Service Pets or for a small surcharge on all other designations.

As noted in Friday's press release, all online shopping options remain open, and dedicated support team members have moved to a "work-from-home" environment that will assist them in providing industry-leading assistance to all customers and applicants. Employees at the company's thousands of retail locations across the country are being fully compensated while their workplaces are shut down.

You may also be interested in...

WRU Announces Pause in On-Site Retail Operations; Online Ordering and Support Remain Open; All Employee Compensation Continues March 20, 2020 — Arlington, VA — WRU Inc will temporarily close all retail locations in response to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. Read more…

@bbu-on-the-side

#a Seera original #my writing #bbucommunity #bbu community #bbu community event 2023 #day10 #bbu meta #box boy multiverse #whump event #bbu worldbuilding #WRU - a corporation #box boy universe #intradiegetic document #tw institutionalized slavery

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greenwhump · 2 years

Text

Hidden right under your Feet

Okay, so this story kinda came out of nowhere. But it is inspired by This post by @painsandconfusion

Cw: Vampire Whumpee, Recovery Whump, Captivity, Institutionalized Slavery, Muzzle,

WordCount: 4342

Caretaker: He/his, Black hair

Rescuer: He/they, Brown hair

Whumpee: He/They Blond hair, Green eyes

As Caretaker stares at their new house he can't help but feel so proud.

It's an old rustic home, a treasure from another era. It had already been mostly caught up to date. It cost them a pretty penny but they both thought it was worth it. They still had some work they needed to do on the inside. But it was their home.

Rescuer finally got out of the car, stretching his arms over his head before looking fondly at Caretaker. "You're gonna have all the time to look at the house. Now please go unlock the door so we can start please."

Oh right. They were moving stuff today, their truck was overflowing with boxes and they still had more boxes at home.

So he went and unlocked the door, sighing at all the overgrown weeds that were already creeping onto their pathway.

Inside was, a little less, beautiful than the outside. They had already moved their big furniture into the house and they worked nicely with the warm tones of the house. But most of the walls still had some old rusting wallpaper that was starting to peel.

But their lease was almost up so they needed to move in now. So even if they wanted to get that done, it was gonna have to wait.

After propping the door open he started helping Rescuer unload boxes. Groaning at the blistering heat that was beating down on them.

"Here I was thinking we didn't own a lot." He grimaced and pulled down another box. He thinks it might be Rescuer's weighted blanket but he wasn't completely sure.

"You said that when we were packing, start saying something original."

"I will when you get your ass out of my face." Rescuer was standing in the bed of the trunk slightly bent over as he picked up a box. While Caretaker was standing on the ground just behind him.

Rescuer smirked over his shoulder. "You love my ass.

Caretaker mumbled something under his breath as he started carrying his box inside. Setting it in their bedroom.

Back and forth they went, dragging boxes indoors as the sun rose in the sky.

Most of the boxes were in the living room, piled high against the far wall. The wallpaper behind the huge pile was currently gray, with dark green patterned over it. Caretaker thought it might have looked cool, even beautiful when it was put into place. But right now it looked like it was rotting off the walls.

"Please tell me I can tear down these walls first."

Rescuer looked up from where he was pulling mugs out of a box. "Oh god please yes, can you do the one in the bathroom next please?"

The bathroom wallpaper was a simple pattern, only it was dark blue and not green. Caretaker thought it looked kinda cool but Rescuer hated it. So by the will of his partner, he was gonna get rid of it.

"As long as I can put the TV on this wall." He pointed to said wall.

Rescuer didn't even look up, "As long as you get rid of the wallpaper I don't care where you put the Tv.

It took nearly a month before he finally got the chance to take down the wallpaper. Who knew it would take so long to just move houses. Plus he had been taking on more work at his job so they would hopefully approve his work from home request.

But finally, after a month without his precious Tv, without his football games, he was ready. He had a putty scraper in one hand and a water solution in his other hand.

Rescuer sat behind him on their couch, scrolling through some sort of social media as Caretaker suffered.

He started by spraying only a small portion of the wall, and when it had fully sunken in he started scraping off the wallpaper. It came off in wet long sticky strips. Sticking to the wall before falling into the bag he had placed under him.

"Rescuereeee, sweetie."

Rescuer looked up from his phone, only to be met with his partner giving him the largest puppy dog eyes. "Yes?"

"You should come and help me, this is hard."

He snorted, "No,"

"Why not?" He whined as he started spraying again.

"You're already halfway done, plus it's fun to watch you suffer."

After, way too long in his opinion, he had finished most of the wall, with only about a fourth left in the far corner. For almost the whole time they had been living here this corner was covered up, a pile of boxes placed in front of it.

But because he was finally working on this they now sat in the middle of the room, placed next to Rescuer as he smirked at him.

So when he finally sprayed down the corner he watched as one long small divot dug into the wall. He leaned forward, peeling away the wallpaper. It ran all the way down to the floor, starting a little above his waist. It turned when it reached his waist, turning and running all the way towards the wall.

"Rescuer, come here."

Rescuer grumbled but stood, walking over to look at the wall. "What? Oh, don't tell me there's a hole in this wall."

"No, I don't think it's a hole, just give me a second." He placed his tools down and carefully lowered himself, placing his shoulder against the door before he pressed his weight against it.

The wall gave a low groan, shifting. He placed a little more weight.

"What are you doing? If that's a hole your just gonna-"

Rescuer cut himself off when the wall gave a sudden skreak and moved. It was only an inch but they could both see what it was.

"There is a door in my wall." Rescuer blinked down at Caretaker who was bouncing on his knees.

"No no, not a regular door. A secret door!"

"Okay, why is there a secret door in my wall?"

Caretakers face turned from excitement to wonder.

"It's a vampire door, we have a vampire door in our house!" Caretaker finally stood, pulling his phone out of his pocket and a second later he showed his phone to Rescuer.

On his phone were photos of dusty old buildings, all of them with doors that look just like there's. There was even one that was clearly a set in a museum. Showing how the door would be used.

"Yeah, but there's no way this house is that old, vampire slavery has been outlawed for nearly what, 200 years?

"207, but there are still reports of vampires being used as slaves. It's totally possible that this is an authentic vampire door.

Rescuer just shook his head as Caretaker corrected him. They had both been interested in vampires when they were younger, though Caretaker was much more into them than Rescuer was.

For most of human history, vampires had lived alongside them, not as equals. As slaves. Not always as work slaves though, yes well-fed vampires were used to work the field, but they were used more like livestock.

Because of their diet, vampires' blood and spit had special effects. Their blood could be used to heal just about any wound. From internal bleeding to a broken bone. Their saliva was chock full of a strong sedative, and people would fight to get their hands on them.

Rescuer remembered walking through historical museums, with what looked like medical torches devices lining the walls. Vampires would be harvested for everything they had while serving the very families who were torturing them.

Caretaker carefully placed himself back against the wall, "Come on you have to help me open this,"

"What!" Rescuer shrieked, "No way am I going down there. What if there's a vampire?"

He scoffed, "Rescuer, you already said that it's been way too long for a vampire to be down here. Come on, I just wanna look." He gave another shove and the door opened another inch. "Just come on, I want to see if anything cool down there."

After some arguing, they finally got the door open. Caretaker fished out his phone, turning on the flashlight.

He was met with steep downward stairs. Dust and cobwebs lined every surface. Mouse and rat droppings lined the thin steps.

He took a deep breath, stilling the shaking in his limbs. He had to turn sideways to walk downwards, his shoes too big to fit on the steps. But slowly he had his way downward, Rescuer hesitating at the doorway before crouching and following.

It was barely ten steps before they reached the bottom, a similarly small door stood in front of them. It was wooden but with the help of his light, he could see shiny metal weaved through the door.

"It's a silver enforced door, Rescuer do you know what this means?"

"Please don't open it, please please pretty please." Rescuer pressed himself against Caretakers back.

Without responding Caretaker pressed his hand to the door, shoving his weight against it when it didn't open.

Just like the door upstairs it creaked and groaned, rotten wood welding it to the floor. But with enough weight, the door was finally pushed open.

A sudden hiss erupted in front of them, reverting up the stairs. They both flinched back in fright as their flashlights finally lit up the room.

In front of them was a tiny room, barely the size of their king size bed. There were no dust or spiders in here, the floor oddly clean and pristine as they looked inside.

Another hiss echoed through the room and this time they could see its source. Along the far wall was a person huddled against the corner and face curled away from him. Long hair greeted him, falling past their shoulders and into the floor but dirtied by blood and grime Caretaker couldn't tell what color it was.

"Hello?" The figure slumped further in on themselves. A low growl echoed through the room.

Caretaker took a step forward into the room before Rescuer caught his shoulder, pulling him back. "Caretaker, that could be a vampire, who knows how long they have been down here." He whispered in his ear.

"Exactly, he would need to help them," He went to wrench his shoulder free but another growl stopped them in their tracks.

The figure started twisting in their corner before it bashed its head against the wall, hair flying as they moved.

"Hey hey hey, calm down." Rescuer finally recalled his grip and Caretaker slowly stalked forward. "Hey it's okay, it's okay."

He was able to cross the room in only a few steps and he was standing over the figure. They were now growling nonstop, thrashing and forcing themself farther into the corner.

Before he could try and reach out to touch the form they lunged and Caretaker finally saw what they were looking at. Red eyes glowed at him, wide and wild as they trashed towards him. A muzzle was strapped on their face, leaving only their eyes exposed as chains rattled.

He fell back, hitting his head on the wall behind him as fear ran through him a bolt of lighting. Rescuer rushed forward, dragging him out of the room and slamming the door shut.

Caretaker heaved out as Rescuer stared down at him. "There is a vampire in our basement Caretaker. A vampire! What were you thinking you could have gotten hurt," Rescuer fell to his knees and started looking him over, "Oh my god, are you hurt, did they get you?"

He just shook his head as the last of his fear drained out of him, it was instantly replaced by wonder. "There's a vampire in our basement."

Rescuer held his flashlight so it was shining in his eyes, "Yeah there's a vampire, now can we please call someone! Some who know how to deal with this."

"Yeah, yeah that would be a good idea." They carefully walked back up the stairs, Rescuer depositing Caretaker on the couch before he called a vampire hotline.

Over the last two centuries that vampires have been free, they have made a name for themselves in society. Caretaker could name the first vampire leader, as well as every single one who had served in power.

Nowadays there was even a vampire hotline anyone would call if they spotted a wild or rabid vampire, or needed advice about vampires.

They even had a blood substitute. It was a mix of coconut milk and stuffed full of every vitamin a vampire could need. So there was no need for a vampire to even feed off a person anymore. Do some vampires, yes. But not most.

When he was younger he would spend hours researching vampires. Their history, their freedom, and rebellion. Everything. But now, when he was faced with a real vampire. He had no ideas.

Finally, Rescuer got off the phone, his mouth turned down in a frown and his hands were shaking. "They said that they won't be able to have anyone out here for a few days, but they promised no more than a week. They told me we need to feed him and not let him outside."

"So, we have to care for a vampire."

Rescuer didn't even try to respond, only grabbing his wallet and keys. "Come on, let's go get some substitute."

The visit to the store was short. They ran inside, Rescuer to grab the substitute and Caretaker grabbed some meat.

On the drive over Caretaker spent the whole ride looking up how to help a wild vampire.

A wild vampire is a vampire who hasn't eaten in a long enough time that they have reverted into a 'wild' state. Completely overwhelmed by their instincts.

Though wild vampires were rarely seen anymore. Most were smart enough to know when they needed to feed and would keep some substitute on them at all times. And it took a long time for a vampire to get to that point.

But what he found advised him to feed them meat, not blood, after they have some substitute. As well as to keep them warm as they came back to themselves. A wild vampire's body temperature falls horribly when they're not in control.

Rescuer just rolled his eyes when he dumped a huge pile of meat and a blanket into their cart. There were countless red bottles littering the bottom of the cart.

"Do we need anything else?"

Caretaker pulled back up his phone, scrolling through all the websites he had opened. "No I don't think so, I just kinda feel bad we left them."

Rescuer started walking towards the check lanes and Caretaker scrambled to follow. "Yeah but think about it this way, we would just be torturing them cause they can smell us but they cant feed. So now we can actually help them."

"Yeah I guess you're right," He mumbled.

Finally, they got through the check lanes with one a few weird looks from the cashier before they were back on their way home.

When they finally arrived back home Caretaker was slightly shaking. He wasn't sure if it was from excitement or fear. He could easily remember the red eyes that stared into his soul, freezing him in place and making his mind blank.

But then he would think about the shivering form in the corner, hair reaching down to the floor, and mangled clothing that clung to her form.

"How are we gonna get the muzzle off?"

Rescuer turned from where he was ordering everything on the counter. "They have a muzzle on?"

"Yeah, it's covering nearly their whole face, we need to get it off if we want them to feed."

Rescuer turned around and pulled a pair of scissors out of their counter. "Well it seemed like they were chained down, maybe we can try and get behind them and cut them off. Even though there wild they're gonna be weak, they clearly haven't eaten in a while."

He grabbed the scissors out of his hands, we just need to make sure we move after we take it off. We don't want them to bite us."

Together they finished getting ready, both armed with a pair of scissors and a heavy-duty flashlight to light up the room.

At last, they were ready and started making their way down the stairs, Caretaker in the front with the flashlight aimed towards the ceiling. It caused the light to spread out evenly and let them more clearly see the staircase.

They pushed open the door, both prepared for more low growls to greet them, but neither understood what they were met with when the flashlight illuminated the room.

The room was still just as small, though now Caretaker could see the blood that splattered on the far side, surrounding a crouched figure.

The vampire was crouched over the blood of dark dried blood. Head lowered to the floor with their hair spreading out around them. The light made it worse for wear, mangles knotting nearly every inch of hair. Their hands were slightly raised above their head, long deep lines encrusting their wrists.

With the better light, they could clearly make out the short chain that ran from the ceiling to the back of their neck, the shorter chain connecting their hands together.

"What the hell?" Caretaker stepped into the room, placing the flashlight on the floor.

The vampire gave a high broken weeping sound. Cheat heaving as they tried to raise their hands higher, only to be stopped by the chain.

He stepped closer, eyeing Rescuer as he made his way to the other side of the vampire. "Do you see his wrists?"

"Yeah," They had been cut deeply, flesh pulling apart with how they strained. But no blood flowed from the wounds, only small dark flakes of dust clung to the skin.

Caretaker stood closer to the vampire, carefully pressing his hand to their head. He cringed at the feeling of their hair, the way it was gross and almost stuck to his skin.

The vampire whimpered when he made connected, the shaking in their arms spreading downward.

Caretaker could see the muzzle on the back of their head, tangled around the long mess of hair. They were clipped together in a way a modern dog muzzle would. Long strips of leather overlapping and pressed deeply into the skull.

Rescuer finally arrived at the other side of the vampire, hands nearly shaking as bad as there's when he finally leveled the sizzors with the muzzle. He gave the scissors a quick snip, just making sure they were working before he started.

But the vampire gave a fearful shout, head banging onto the floor before they stilled. Caretaker looked up at Rescuer, carefully replacing his hand on their head and clearing away hair for Rescuer.

It was slow going when Rescuer finally started cutting at the muzzle. They did try and open it, but the metal was rusted together and to the leather, locking it in place. So he had to start hacking away around the clip.

The leather was thick and strong, even after who knows how long it was still durable. It took Rescuer nearly ten minutes before the first strap fell apart. They were disappointed to see more under it, just as rusted as the top.

The vampire continued to whine as they went on, though they didn't move again. Only seemed to slump into the floor when the second strap fell.

Eventually, Rescuer cut through the last strap, slowly pulling the straps out of the hair.

When the last one was free they both stepped back, crowding in front of the door.

The vampire didn't move, but he did stop whining as though he was just realizing that he was making sounds. His wrists were still above his head but now a small dark drop of blood was forming on the edge of one of the wounds. It didn't drip downward, slowing drying where it sat.

"What are we meant to do now? They don't seem wild right now." Rescuer voiced what they were saying, a frown on his face.

"I don't know, they're not even fighting. It makes me wonder how long they have been down here."

Rescuer nodded, grabbing a subscribe bottle from the floor. "Hey, vampire?"

They flinched violently, another sob tearing through their throught. Their hands curled into fists though it was slow and painful looking.

"Can you please look at me?"

They took a shuddering breath, a small spark hissing through the room before the vampire moved. It was slower than earlier, and Caretaker finally got a look at the vampire.

Their skin was stretched tight over his face, cheeks hollow, and eyes set deep into their head. The shadows under their eyes were not helping.

The muzzle fell away from his face as he sat up and he scrambled to pull it back into their face. But the chain on his wrist was connected to a dark brown collar around his neck, keeping him from fully extending his arms.

But he still tried to press the muzzle back on, hands weak and uncoordinated until the muzzle fell to the floor.

He let out a loud panicked thrill, eyes wide and if he could cry Caretaker was sure he would, staring at the muzzle. He lunged forward towards it, but let out a choked sound when he ran out of chain. His head snapped backward before they stopped.

"Hey..." Caretaker didn't try to get any closer, though now he could see the still deep red eyes that flashed up at them. Fear didn't run through him this time, only a deep sense of sympathy.

He silently lowered himself to the floor, rolling one of the substitutes towards the vampire. It rolled forward and knocked against there knees before stopping.

The vampire looked up at them with wide eyes, mouth open and Caretaker could see four large fangs. They were much longer than they were meant to be, definitely filling their whole mouth.

They didn't reach for the bottle, but they did pull their hands up and under their chin, clasping them together. They started longingly at the bottle but didn't make a move towards it.

"Please drink it,"

They dove for the bottle. Even when their neck was stopped short they still scrambled to grab it. They twisted their legs around, pulling it closer with their legs before finally grabbing it. They sank their fangs into the bottle, their eyes flashed in the dark before they closed. Their whole face relaxed, head dropping as they drank.

Rescuer and Caretaker watched in fascination, the vampire didn't change physically. But they did seem to grow stronger in another sense. Their skin was now starting to flush with a light red tint. They let out a happy trill, voice growing stronger as they drank.

They continued to voice their happiness, thrills, and shrips reaching past their drinking.

When the bottle was empty they simply held it in their hands. Holding it close to their chest and making real eye contact with both of them.

Deep green eyes meet their own, they flashed between the two of them. Back and forth and back and forth before they stopped. Immediately the vampire fell to the floor, wrists back out in front of them and head to the floor. The bottle spilled onto the floor and started rolling away slowly.

"Thank you, Thank you, sirs. I have been awaiting your return, I have leaned my lesion Im sorry, thank you. I didn't deserve to feed, thank you. Thank you."

Caretaker stood in shook, mouth open and agape as the vampire spoke. His voice was deep and broken, barley above a whisper but so pleading. He turned to look at Rescuer, who had the same look on his face.

"What the hell, did he just call us sir?" Rescuer whispered out of the side of his mouth, the scissors still clutched in his hands.

"I don't think we are equipped to handle this."

"You couldn't have thought that earlier?!?"

"No never," He leaned down and grabbed another bottle. "Should we give them another bottle? One bottle isn't gonna be enough to feed them."

"Why don't you ask them, he's gonna know better us." Rescuer crossed his arms but still kept his eyes on the vampire.

"Do you want another substitute?" The vampire didn't respond, only stayed crouched in their position. "Hey, do you want another?" Still, the vampire didn't answer.

Caretaker shrugged helplessly. Rescuer only opened his phone.

"Hey vampire, do you want another?"

This got his attention, though he didn't move. "I have already eaten more than my fill, thank you."

Caretaker looked helplessly back at Rescuer who was now scrolling through his phone desperately. "Okay, okay. Vampire, what is your name?" Caretaker wasn't a fan of having to call them a vampire. It felt too, degrading.

"My name is Whumpee, I am yours to use." Whumpee still didn't move, though shaking had started again in his hands. Knocking them up and down against the floor.

"Whumpee, will you attack us if we take off your chains?" They hadn't really thought about the chains, but he was sure he had a saw somewhere in his toolset.

"No, never. I will never attack my masters."

Before Caretaker could voice his shock Rescuer finally spoke. Stepping in front of Caretaker. "Whumpee, what year is it?"

Whumpee visibly flinched, shaking spreading back down through his body. His chains started rattling loudly. "Umm, its. .."

Whumpees voice was low and quiet, this time he was speaking into the floor. But Caretaker heard it clear as day. Fear and surprise sourced through his body, running right into his heart. He turned to look at Rescuer who was typing into a calculator.

Rescuer's frown deepened, mouth nearly a straight line as he turned the phone so Caretaker could see.

156 stood proudly on his screen.

156 years.

#vampire whumpee #vampire whump #whump #whump community #whump writing #caretaker #rescuer #recovery whump #dehumanisation tw #Institutionalized Slavery #collar #muzzle

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andromeda-whump · 1 year

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So me and a friend are thinking up BBU stuff and we thought up an idea of “BBU but the boxies are animal hybrids” because it was kind of immersion-breaking to realize that technically afaik there isn’t anything truly separating box boys from other people who aren’t box boys other than supposed “volunteering” to become a boxie

So do with that what you will :)

#box boy universe #box boy multiverse #box boy whump #whump #whump writing #pet whump #tw institutionalized slavery #tw slavery

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bastard-illusionist · 2 years

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6▪Sugarplum is a bad pet▪

▪1▪ ▪5▪ ▪Masterlist▪

CW: Institutionalized slavery, anxiety, blood sucking.

《¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤》

Sugarplum diligently mopped the floor, glancing at its master who sat on the couch. Its master didn’t even spare a glance at it back. Melchior had spent the last few days like that, being cold and avoidant with it. Its heart ached, and it gripped the mop tight. Master is mad at me for being so sensitive… It remembered the crying fit it had just the other day, and the “silent treatment” it gave its master. It didn’t do it on purpose, of course, but no matter its intentions, no matter if it wasn’t intentional, it was very rude of it. Such a bad pet. It felt its chest closing up, its eyes watering. It should be sent back to the Facility. It shook at the thought. Something had to be done, or else… Master would get rid of it.

Sugarplum stopped mopping the floor and approached Melchior with a shy and fearful attitude.

“Master…?”

“Y-Yeah?” Melchior looked up from his phone but still didn’t look at Sugarplum.

“Do you want my blood, Master? It-It has been a while since you fed of me.” It looked down, fidgeting.

“Oh, yeah. It has been a while, hasn’t it?” He laughed awkwardly.

Sugarplum’s heart ached more. Master is uncomfortable with me...

“Come here, then.”

Sugarplum got closer to Melchior, still keeping his gaze low. Melchior gently took Sugarplum’s arm and bit into his wrist, getting a whimper out of it. He sucked its blood, looking content. He pulled away with a dazed look in his eyes, finally looking at Sugarplum.

“So sweet…” He whispered.

Sugarplum’s worries eased just a bit. At least Master liked its blood; at least it served as a blood bag. Master had a reason to keep it around. Melchior let go of it, clearing his throat. He chewed on his nails, looking away from Sugarplum. Master is nervous… I make Master uncomfortable… Sugarplum bit its lip, so it wouldn’t cry and bother its master even more.

“Well!” Melchior said suddenly, standing up. “I have to go somewhere now, Sugarplum. Take care of the house, alright? I won’t take long.”

Sugarplum nodded, his eyes glued to the floor. Melchior went to his room, and soon after he came out of it and left the house. Tears fell from Sugarplum’s eyes as it went back to its chores. After mopping the floor, it went to Melchior’s room and began to clean up the mess. As it cleaned Melchior’s computer desk, it noticed a notification popping up on the computer.

“Sugarplum’s anniversary,” it read. Sugarplum tilted its head. Could it be…? It had been with Melchior for a year by now. It didn’t remember the exact date - why would it? - but it knew a year had passed since Ma’am had gifted it to Melchior. The memories of that day began to play in its mind…

…

The pet curled up anxiously in the box, waiting for it to be opened. After Ma’am bought it, she taught it what its task was. To take care of her son. It was a gift for him. Please, it begged, please like me… It heard some voices outside the box: Ma’am’s voice, and another masculine voice, presumably of her son.

“Come on, dear~,” she said in a sing-song voice, “open your gift.”

The man tsked, and the box opened. The pet sat up, rubbing its eyes, and looked up at him. The man raised an eyebrow, with a displeased face.

“What’s this, mom?”

“Your gift, baby.” She smiled, patting her son’s head, who pulled away from her touch. “Isn’t it just so adorable? You know, drinking fresh blood once in a while is good for you. Besides, I figured you needed a pet to keep you company.”

“I don’t need it. Send this thing back to where you bought it.” He glared at the pet, his tone sharp and cold.

The pet shook, frowning with fear and sadness.

“But dear, look at how cute it is. Look at how sad it is that you rejected it. You can’t be that heartless, baby.”

“Well, I am.” He looked at his mom. “I don’t want this thing in my house. Send it back.”

Ma’am’s warm and gentle gaze turned cold in the blink of an eye. She grabbed him by the back of his neck, and the pet could see his authoritative attitude disappearing completely.

“I’m not negotiating with you, Melchior.” Her voice transpired with authority. “It’s yours now. You will take care of it, and it will watch over you so you stop being so irresponsible. Do you think I haven’t noticed you skipping classes and doing nothing but gaming all day? I haven’t stopped watching over you just because you live on your own now, and you have shown me you still behave like a child. So this will be your responsibility from now on, and if I see you failed to look over it, or if it reports to me you’re still failing to take care of yourself or your future, I’m taking this house back - that I paid for with my money, you case you have forgotten - and you’re going to live with me again until you become a real adult. Understood?”

“Y-Yes, Mom.” Melchior swallowed, not daring to pull away from her grip,

Her expression faded into a smile, and she stopped gripping him, brushing some locks of hair out of his face.

“I’m doing this for your own good, baby. Don’t you love to brag about how you’re a Gwalchmai? About how proud you are to belong to my lineage? So become worthy of it.” She smiled, cupping his cheek.

“Alright, mom…” Melchior didn’t pull away, looking down.

“Good.” She pulled away. “Well, you know your mother is a very busy woman, so I will have to go now. I will come later to check on you both.”

The woman smiled at the pet and petted it; the pet leaned into her hand in response.

“Take good care of him, alright?”

The pet nodded, smiling at her. But its smile faded as she left and it saw the piercing glare of its new master.

…

“Sugarplum, I’m home! Come here!”

Sugarplum’s wandering mind was interrupted by its master’s arrival. It trotted downstairs, going to its master. Sugarplum tilted its head when it saw the shopping bags in Melchior’s hands.

“So, I don’t know if you remember, but today completes one year you’ve been gifted to me.” Melchior had an awkward attitude. “So, here. It's yours.”

Melchior shoved the bags to Sugarplum. It opened them, pulling a box out. It was a box full of chocolates. It grinned, its heart warming up with joy - it loved chocolates so much. It opened the other bag, and saw some clothes, along with hair accessories. All were white with bows. It looked back at its master, almost jumping with joy.

“Thank you so much, master! Thank you!”

Melchior smiled softly, petting its head. Sugarplum hugged the shopping bags, euphoric. Its master was such a good master.

He's good, but he's getting tired of you. He's only doing this because you were acting that way. To try and fix you. The intrusive thoughts crept into its head, swallowing its joy bit by bit. When he sees how defective you are, that you can't be fixed, you're going to the Facility for good.

It felt its chest being pierced, its heart aching. Its eyes filled with tears at the thought as it hugged the bags tighter.

"Sugarplum…?"

"I-I- Master, I-" It tried to talk, but something clogged its throat.

Master is so kind, I don't want to get sent back, it doesn't want to get sent back, I can't get sent back, it doesn't want to lose master, I don't, it can't, its thoughts spiraled as it dropped to its knees, dropping the bags and breaking down into ugly cries. Doing exactly what would make it get sent away.

"Sugarplum, hey, hey…"

Melchior knelt in front of it, and it tried to wipe its tears desperately and stop crying, to no avail. Melchior pulled it into a tight hug - not knowing what else to do - and shushed it. It gripped its master tight, crying into his chest.

"I'm- sorry, sorry, so- rry," it mumbled between cries, "don't send it away, please, please, please, I will be good, I will be good, I-"

Melchior patted its back, holding it tight.

"I won't send you away, Sugarplum," Melchior whispered. "You keep me company, and you're such a good boy… I want you. I want to keep you."

It sounded like a lie. Of course, it knew it had to always believe its master, but it still sounded too good to be true. Nevertheless, it cried out in its master's arms, letting itself be comforted by him. His arms were a safe haven to Sugarplum; Melchior didn't let go of it, mumbling sweet nothings to comfort it, until it finally stopped crying. Sugarplum pulled away, smiling softly at its master, who had a worried look on his face.

"I'm fine, now," it lied. "Thank you for being so patient."

“Are you sure?”

Sugarplum nodded, taking the bags from the floor.

“Thank you so much for the gifts, master.”

Melchior petted it, and caressed its face. Sugarplum leaned into his touch, smiling.

"You don't need to do your chores today."

"But, Master, I-"

"Don't argue, Sugarplum. Rest and keep me company."

Sugarplum swallowed, hugging the bags again.

"Yes, Master..."

Melchior smiled at it.

"Don't be sad. I'm not mad at you."

It still didn't quite believe it. But, nonetheless, it let itself be comforted by Melchior. It's not its place to judge whether Melchior was telling the truth or not. It should just serve its master. Until the eventual end.

《¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤》

Taglist: @batfacedliar-yetagain @incoherent-introspection @onlybadendings @endlesscyclezz @neverthelass @whatwasmyprevioususername @annablogsposts

¤ I'm open to suggestions for scenarios for these two.

¤ Please reblog if you liked it.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #vampire caretaker #Sugarplum #Melchior #master caretaker #institutionalized slavery tw #bbu #box boy #box boy universe

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gottawhump · 2 years

Text

Numb

Treasure/Kiri

CWTW: collars, institutionalized slavery, post-escape… coping? For @whumpmasinjuly Day 15: Numb.

She feels nothing.

When the adrenaline and the fear finally wear off, there’s nothing. Relief flickers when the collar is finally removed, but the emotion doesn’t catch and hold.

She knows the taste of fear, and she doesn’t feel it when she refuses to stay in the great country estate, choosing the walls of the palace apartment instead. She doesn’t feel anything, when she sends away the collared slaves assigned to her.

She warmed herself with hatred for so long. But that’s gone now. She is only cold, and numb.

She doesn’t feel anything at all when she signs the declaration of war.

#whumpmasinjuly #day 15 #numb #institutionalized slavery tw #collar #lady whump #poor coping mechanism

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distinctlywhumpthing · 9 months

Text

Unintentional 27

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This one turned into one of those chapters. It sat for months, already beta-read, becoming a point of avoidance and a total bottleneck in my writing flow. It didn't feel good enough/perfect/complete in a way I couldn't put my finger on but my heart wasn't in it for a rewrite. So, finally, I need to just check this box and move on.

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language, victim self-blame, brainwashing, the usual. Raid/recapture, manhandling, beating, restraints, blood mention, implied nudity (nonexplicit). As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

He didn’t fight.

He couldn’t. Even if his arms weren’t aching from elbow to wrist, they were lead at his sides. His fingers too were immovable under the weight of his failure. If only he could shift them, feel them, curl them into fists to hold onto the fleeting whisper of warm fingers in his but that comfort was no more deserved than it had ever been his to claim.

The finality of it was equal parts devastation and relief. He wouldn’t get another chance, not after this, but he didn’t want any other life than what he’d had here anyway. He welcomed the end.

They were probably no rougher than usual but rougher than he remembered—

Training is the only thing you need to remember. You were nothing before it, you are nothing without it.

Two agents clad in black caught him under the arms, dragged him away and shoved him to his knees unceremoniously. They held him there as a third stepped up, looming above him.

Just a few feet away another group of agents was—

He turned his eyes toward the sky without registering its shade.

“Identify yourself.”

The numbers were on the tip of his tongue.

142836359.

Always spinning away in the back of his mind somewhere.

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine. Snaking into the forefront of his dreams whenever he slept. From the very beginning, when they’d trained it into him. One hundred forty-two million, eight hundred thirty-six thousand, three hundred fifty-nine. An endless cassette ribbon unspooling, threading itself around each synapsis in his head. Repeating over and over until it was laced throughout. A third strand in every double helix.

142836359.

“M-my…” He was suddenly reluctant to lose the single thing he’d been given, even though it had never really been his own. Thinking of defying such a direct order was a hurdle in itself but parsing the words to follow through was another thing entirely. “N-n-name…is—”

A baton cracked across the back of his head and he saw stars. The agents at his sides prevented him from following its momentum to the ground. The leader in front grabbed his chin but he barely felt their gloved fingers over the splitting pain in his head.

“That was a direct order. You will identify yourself.”

He raised his eyes to meet their opaque sunglasses. Defiant. Defective—

Defective companions are immediately returned for evaluation and will be subjected to the most rigorous re-training applicable.

The agent’s fist connected with his jaw. His upper molars cut into the flesh inside his cheek, blood seeping into his saliva. His skull rang and throbbed from two sides now.

“Identify yourself.”

He ground his teeth together. Brittle and raw like flint and steel, sparking fire through his veins. It felt familiar but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He raised his chin, the feeling flaring hotter.

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

“Little fucking shit.”

He tried not to flinch away from the next blow but the agent to his right held out a hand before it landed.

“It’s no use. You know how they get after something like this. We have a witness and his wrist is enough anyway. Vocal confirmation is just a formality.”

The lead agent took off their sunglasses with a slow deliberateness, holding them out and flipping them from front to back, to inspect the lenses. Directly in his line of sight, though the agent’s eyes only scanned the glasses like there was nothing but empty air beyond them.

Except when the agent reached out to use the fabric of his sweatshirt at his shoulder to wipe away an indiscernible smudge before finally replacing their glasses and breaking the silence. “Did you get a fucking promotion I wasn’t informed about?”

The shielding arm had long fallen. “No, sir.”

Their weight shifted to the heels of their combat boots as they leaned into their dominance. “So I still call the shots around here?”

“Yes, sir.” Quieter than before—

Actions speak louder than words; show me how sorry you are.

The leader let the silence stretch again.

The other group of agents kept their voices low as they dealt with—while they worked. He tried not to look. Better to let his bitter defiance burn through any hope that they’d ever have a last moment shared between them.

“What the fuck are you morons waiting for?” The lead finally barked, making him jump and sending a spike of pain through his aching head. “Restrain him and get him out to the van.”

“Yes, sir.” The agents at his sides chorused, sprang to action. As good as any pair of trainees. Thankfully, the leader had turned away and missed his smirk.

They gagged him first. Four gloved hands holding his head still and prying his mouth open to shove a bit between his teeth—

Speech is a privilege and used only to further demonstrate subservience.

The muzzle covered his whole jaw and nose with mesh that wasn’t quite fabric but wasn’t quite metal. His eyes watered as they tightened the straps over the tender spot on the back of his head, the front digging into his cheeks. Next was a thick shock collar, metal prongs hugging his windpipe and pressing into the back of his neck. More serious than what they used for training. No doubt designed to render the wearer unconscious with a single shock.

The restraints around his wrists were also more severe than anything Archer had ever used in training. Wide and tightened until his pulse beat in his hands and fingers, binding his wrists together behind his back. Similar bands went around each ankle, connected by a short chain that would have restricted his walking to a show shuffle but the agents didn’t give him the chance. They hauled him backwards off his knees and dragged him away.

Just like that, it was all over.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but of course WRU wouldn’t waste resources on a single Reclamation. From the looks of it, he was the last stop. The others in the van were anchored down in two orderly rows. Eleven collars secured to the white walls, wrists to the white bench, feet to the white floor. Now an even dozen.

Just like the facility, everything white and pristine again. All of these bodies reeking of sweat and fear and failure and worse were in need of sanitization. The first in the row wore an evening gown, mascara streaks disappearing behind their muzzle. Two were completely naked. Some were crying. Another was fighting against the restraints like they had any chance at working themselves free before they got shocked for their disobedience. Though from the looks of the angry red welts rising under the restraints, the agents were letting them carry on with their fruitless efforts. A few were limp, split lips and still-bleeding noses indicating they’d needed a little extra help into the van.

He envied them.

It was impossible to know what might have led the others here. They all must have known what was coming, tried to avoid it in whatever they may have been doing. Most of them would have agreed with him that death was preferable.

A Companion across the aisle tried to meet his gaze with pleading eyes but the burn spanning from their hairline to their navel caught his attention first and he couldn’t drag his eyes away. If they were whining in pain, it was lost in the other muffled cries and sounds of struggle—

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

The clip anchoring his wrists to the bench was as thick as his fingers. There was barely enough slack in the anchor at the back of his neck for him to look down to see it fully. None of the locks were of the electronic variety that might release them to the mercy of tumbling in a tangle of immobilized bodies should the van roll.

How many of them would have their necks broken or simply asphyxiate if there was an accident? Blunt force trauma from being so close to the walls of the van would probably do enough damage to cancel whatever re-training was waiting for them. Or at least for the others.

Better yet, a clean decapitation.

A distorted, muffled sound, distinguishable from all the crying, silenced the rest of the van. It took another beat of listening to the hysterical tail end of it, the inhale past saliva collecting at the corners of a bit before it bubbled out again to realize it was laughter. And another beat to realize he was its source.

All the eyes that were open and could manage the angle, turned to watch. Any distraction was welcome when you were facing hell. Had any of the others been in his cohort? Had he surpassed them in training?

Look at him now, Archer’s ace in the hole—

That really set him off.

But he wound up choking on all of the extra spit and spent the next minute thinking he really was going to die in the back of this van just asphyxiating on his own spit before he finally managed to drag in a thin breath amidst all of his coughing.

The van was still completely silent once he’d recovered his breath. Some gazes had slid away quietly. Others remained, still happy to watch him unravel.

His cheeks burned under his muzzle but a part of him was sure that none of them could hold a candle to what had led him here.

Some of them might have simply been displeasing. Appearances could only be changed so much. Their simple minds so very, very far from telepathic.

Even after the full-refund window, WRU was happy to offer trade-in credit for an exchange. If that wasn’t possible, they would graciously take care of retiring unwanted Companions. It didn’t make any difference if a Companion was bought, leased, or only rented. The Handlers made sure it was always, always, in the back of their minds that no placement was certain—

The only certainty is that you are property now.

The rest would go back to being numbers on the training roster.

He would be on a different list.

They were removed from the van for Decontamination one by—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine

— each brought to their own white-tiled room. Wrists hooked above his head, holding him in place over the drain. He wasn’t sure if these were still agents or Handlers now. A different department of Handlers, maybe. They wore white rubber suits like he could be radioactive or carrying a plague, their eyes hidden behind the mirrored glass window of the suit masks.

The relief of having the muzzle and bit removed distracted him from noticing they were cutting away his clothes. Too late he realized that with them went the last scent of what semblance of a home he’d had, of—

He didn’t have time to swallow the lump in his throat before the spray hit him. Cold and sharp like the water wanted to worm its way under his skin. There wasn’t any slack to get away from it. No way to cross his legs or twist without his shoulders and arms protesting.

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

He yelped when they sprayed it into his ear, gritting his teeth through the other. They pried his mouth open to rinse out his mouth until he was choking. When he was finally released, his spit was pink.

Next was a powder, antiseptic smell sharp and familiar in his nose, making his stomach turn, misted all over his shivering body—

Your body is an object for service, your mind is a vessel for obedience.

They scrubbed it in with brushes until the lather was turning pink too. When they brought back the water it was so hot he screamed. And kept screaming as it scalded him like the soap was turning to acid and boiling through his skin. He ran out of air before they were done, gasping in lungfuls of it, the collar tighter and tighter around his neck. His pulse fast against it, beat, beat, beating—

Beatings break old habits, the collar corrects new—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine.

He was still catching his breath when they held open his jaw to let the water burn through his mouth, his throat, his lungs.

Black spots dotted his vision. Sunlight through leaves, lying on a blanket under a tree. Right beside her. Mira. It hurt.

His chest ached, his heart burned. He vomited up all of the water and some blood. The room spun. He sobbed.

The water was off now.

He was saying it out loud, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice echoing, the only sound in the room.

He was alone.

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#bbu #bbu adjacent #bbu whump #box boy whump #box boy rescue #institutionalized slavery tw #pet whump #whump #wru #whumpblr #whump writing #recapture #restraints tw

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hold-him-down · 9 months

Text

Occam’s Razor

TW: medical torture, med whump, needles, drugs, noncon drugging, restraining, clinical setting, bone whump, spine whump, institutionalized slavery, whumper pov somewhere in there, etc.

Notes: it’s the future if you have questions you’re welcome to ask but I might not have answers (but I probably do for most of them?). This is 2 months into contract, sandwiched between this and this. It has no business being over 3k words but it is and I’m not one to argue with my word count so you get ‘em all. This has been in the works since the very beginning as a little med whump piece, and now ya have it.

✥ ✥ ✥

If Luke’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel is any indication, the calm exterior is not entirely indicative of his headspace. Leo regards him, only slightly comforted by the fact that, for the first time in so many years, someone will be waiting for him on the other side.

On the other side of what, it’s unclear. The director of one of the sites called Luke earlier in the week and said he needed to bring Leo in.

Luke pressed for information, and only after his lawyer got involved were they given any details. Something about his bone marrow being a likely match to a finance mogul’s teenage son, and they were invoking line seventy-six in the contract. No permanent harm would come to Leo, and the contract could be extended to the extent of his recovery time.

He was in the room when Luke found out. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he froze, watching Luke’s face go from red with anger to ghost white, and then Luke excused himself to his office, and Leo forced himself to take a bite of his dinner.

His hands shook, but that wasn’t new to him.

Luke did what he does best, which was make every threat he could, shout about some outdated laws that didn’t apply to workers, call in another high profile attorney to read through the contract, lose sleep, and eventually, have a serious conversation with him about the absence of any legal legs to stand on.

That day had been the first time Leo had seen Luke cry. Leo didn’t cry, though. He nodded, he said it was okay, and, in a particularly courageous moment, he asked if Luke thought it would hurt. Stupid question, and he knew that the moment the words hit his tongue. Of course it would hurt.

Luke promised then that he’d make sure it didn’t. And Leo smiled, nodded, and changed the subject. Because, at least he suspected, that Luke really didn’t know. But maybe, he convinced himself, maybe Luke could work a miracle.

✥ ✥ ✥

They let Luke come back with him, after a lengthy discussion that consisted mostly of thinly veiled threats. Leo keeps his eyes on the floor. He doesn’t think he’s had this specific procedure done before, but he knows it can’t be worse than some of the other things that have been done to him in the name of making wealthy men’s lives easier.

He made a mistake last night, though, and looked up the procedure on his phone. While he wasn’t certain exactly what he was looking for, he stumbled across more than a few resources for workers’ rights regarding medical ‘donation’, and a range of possibilities for what those procedures looked like.

None of them looked good.

He carried his phone into the living room and showed Luke; another mistake. Luke, solemnly, read it over.

“It won’t be like that,” Luke said, but his expression was tight.

“Are you sure?” Leo asked then, his third mistake.

Luke’s eyes rose from the phone to meet his. “I swear to you, Leo. I will do everything in my power to make sure you’re taken care of.”

And then, just as Leo was about to go back to bed, to try to get at least a few hours of sleep, he turned back. “Do you think–” he started, swallowing, his eyes digging into an invisible spot on the floor. He had learned, over the course of the last several years, that he was entitled to no support, no resources, no favors. But, if the last eight weeks had taught him anything, it was that Luke was, at least on some level, willing to help him. He took a breath. It was despiration that made him ask the question: “Do you think they’d let another doctor do the procedure? Maybe your brother, or you–”

Luke took a sharp breath and shook his head and Leo’s shoulders dropped, his arms wrapping around his belly, dread winding itself deeply inside of him. “I tried,” Luke said, and Leo nodded.

“Leo, you have to know I tried. They wouldn’t budge.” Luke stood, crossing the room, and Leo nodded again.

“It’s okay,” Leo said. It was a silly thing to request, and it didn’t matter if Luke tried or not. He had survived worse, and he would survive this.

He didn’t sleep, though.

Now, he pulls off his clothes and is changed into a hospital gown. Luke is outside of the room talking with the doctor. They are in a medical wing of one of the private sites, and Leo does all the things he’s supposed to do. He stands on the scale, he answers the questions, he submits to whatever they want him to submit to.

By the time Luke returns, with a woman in her forties with kind eyes that almost– almost– convince him he can get through this, Leo has an IV in his arm, a pillow to his chest, and a warm kind of zinging running through him. It feels weird, and he doesn’t like it, but if it helps him get through the next couple hours, he can accept it.

“How are you feeling?” the woman, who’s name tag reads Dr. Jennifer Benson, M.D., but who Leo will not address by name unless he’s told to, asks. She is flanked by two handlers, and Luke, looking pale but offering the warmest smile he can. Leo tries to approximate one in return, but knows it doesn’t land.

“I’m okay,” Leo says.

Distantly, he hears Luke talking to one of the handlers and he smiles. He knows he’s at least a little bit loopy, so he’s definitely been given something that will do something, and he hopes it’s good. He feels less anxious, at least.

“Edison Black assured me I could stay for the procedure,” Luke says, all official. He sounds like the Luke on the news, in a suit, yelling about rights and freedoms and America. He squints and scans the room slowly to find his Luke, in his sweater and jeans and yelling about local anesthetics. Leo’s finding it difficult to split his focus on the words they’re saying, on the feeling of the handler moving next to him, on the ringing in his ears.

Sometimes, if he asks, they let him close his eyes until the worst is over. If they allow Luke to stay, he won’t ask. And he won’t cry out when it hurts. And tomorrow can be a normal day.

Through the buzzing in his ears he hears the doctor, full of sympathy that he knows will dissolve once Luke leaves, saying, “Unfortunately, that isn’t possible. We will keep him safe. It’s a simple procedure, very low risk, he’ll be done within an hour.”

None of these words comfort him, but he finds Luke’s eyes across the room and tries to smile again. It’s going to be fine. He’s been through worse, and he’ll go through this, and then it’ll be over and he will go back to Luke’s house and sleep.

Luke makes his way over to him and kneels down, and Leo works to maintain focus. “They won’t let me stay,” he whispers. Leo nods.

“It’s okay,” he says. His eyes hold Luke’s, his expression conveying something that he thinks is reasonably close to I’ll be alright. He must have missed the mark, though, because Luke stands abruptly, and starts fighting with them again.

Leo wants to tell him to stop, that it’s pointless, that it’s futile, that it’s a waste of his effort and that he will, one way or another, make it out okay.

He opens his mouth to say it but the security guard comes in, and they shuffle Luke toward the door.

“I’ll be right in the waiting room,” Luke calls to him.

He swallows back the anxiety, and he tries to say, “It’s okay,” again, but nothing comes out.

“They said they’ll give you an anesthetic, Leo. It won’t hurt, okay?” Luke breaks past the guard and pushes toward him. As the handlers approach him, Luke snaps, “Just give me a second,” his tone sharp. At some signal that Leo can’t see, they back off.

“I’ll be in the waiting room, okay?” His eyes shut as Luke grips into the back of his neck, the pressure a familiar presence that does, if nothing else, offer some semblance of comfort.

“I promise, I will be right outside, and they’ve assured me they’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” A half-hearted smile.

“It won’t hurt.” A nod.

Leo isn’t sure if Luke believes his own words, but as the guard ushers him toward the door, the look that Luke casts on the room, on the doctor, and finally, on Leo, makes him think maybe he doesn’t.

And then he’s gone, and almost immediately, Leo feels his hands start to shake.

✥ ✥ ✥ [here’s the cut scene from what would land right here]

He is on his side, his body curled around a pillow, when the first of the needles goes into his spine. He flinches, but stills under the glare of the handlers. They watch him with a familiar hunger, not for pleasure, but for violence. Tears sting at his eyes, but the thoughts of disappointing them, of what they might do if they think he’s unlearned all the years of training, keep them from falling. Instead, he digs his fingers into the pillow while they take what they want from him. He isn’t even sure what it was.

He’s not naive enough to believe that’s it; they’d have let Luke stay for that. He knows without a doubt that it would be in vain, but still, he itches to ask them what’s going to happen next, if just so he can mentally prepare himself.

He doesn’t, though. He’s given a paper cup of water and his shaking hands give him away, but no one pays attention to that.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, from somewhere behind him. Suddenly, her hand is on his shoulder, the handler takes the cup and the pillow, and a chill runs through Leo’s body. She guides him onto his stomach and he complies, the loss of the pillow in his grip an immediate empty presence that makes the room even colder.

“Easy,” the doctor says, and he mutters an apology and adjusts his body to the closest thing to comfort he can find.

She gives him a quick run-down of what’s going to happen. It’ll hurt, she tells him, but it’s very important that he stays very still. If he tries to get up, if he tries to fight, the pain will be significantly worse. This needle is quite a bit bigger than the last, and if nothing else, he needs to hold still. A hospital stay is the last thing he wants, she tells him, and if he needed any convincing, that would have done it.

“You’ve been given muscle relaxers and a mild sedative to help take the edge off the pain,” she says, gloved hands manipulating him to adjust his positioning. He does.

She waits for his response, and he isn’t sure what’s expected of him, so he says softly, “Thank you.”

He hears her intake of breath and feels the cool air hit his skin as the blanket is removed. He grips the sides of the table as they get him ready for what he knows now, without a question, is going to be bad. One of the handlers pats the top of his hand and he peeks up at them. They nod, a kind of I’m-right-here-if-this-goes-bad gesture that is too vague for Leo to know if it’s meant to be comforting or threatening.

It turns out he doesn’t need to decide, because a moment later, he feels the familiar sting of a needle and gasps, and almost instantly, he realizes that it’s going to be so much worse–

The needle cuts into his bone and he howls on instinct, his fingers clutching almost painfully into metal, but he doesn’t feel that. He doesn’t feel anything beyond the needle making its way slowly into his bone. He only knows he’s screaming because of the rawness of his throat, from the vague ‘shhing’ coming from somewhere beyond his reach. He wails, grasping harder still onto the sides of the table, pressing his face into the pillow, muffling the sounds as much as he can. Luke can’t hear this, he thinks distantly, he can’t know, and so he tries–

His body jerks, and he tries to still himself but he’s on fire, an unbearable kind of pain that he can’t count through and he can’t think through. From next to him, one of the handlers pries his fingers off of the table, and the feeling of unyielding metal is replaced by warm skin and he knows someone is petting his hair and someone is holding his hand and maybe, somewhere lower, someone is holding him still against the table, but he can’t process anything beyond the pain.

✥ ✥ ✥

For a split second, they make eye contact. Handler Michael Lowell instantly realizes that he might not have the stomach for this job anymore; the boy has him in a bone-crushing death-grip, and all he can do is stare at him as the doctor pushes the needle the rest of the way in, and the screaming chokes off. Leo muffles his own cries against the thin pillow beneath his head. Beads of sweat drip down his neck, skin patched in red, veins and muscles straining against the intensity of his suffering.

“I know,” the doctor says, drawing the plunger up. It’s a slow process, and Michael isn’t positive if they’re intentionally torturing this kid or if it’s incidental. Sixteen years on the job and he’s seen a lot of shit, but as the doctor says, “Almost done,” he struggles to parse out what’s what.

Leo convulses on the table. Guttural sounds claw their way out from somewhere deep inside of him and honestly, you’d think they were fucking killing him, and it was entirely possible that they were.

“I know,” the doctor coos almost; it doesn’t help. His grip doesn’t let up, his shaking doesn’t let up, and his body’s taking on a kind of clammy-cold situation that doesn’t seem like it’s a good sign. Michael assumes the doc is aware of all three of these things, but none of them seem to be alarming to her.

It’s only a matter of minutes, but it feels like fucking hours. His free hand is on Leo’s neck, half-restraining, half-comforting. He’s gone soft in his age.

He can feel Leo trying to lift himself up, trying to pull his arm back to get it under him, but he keeps him pinned, and tells him, more gently than he’s used to, “Uh-uh. Hold still.”

If he were at one of the training sites, they’d just knock him out. He isn’t sure why they didn’t, but it probably has something to do with something. He’s not asking and no one’s telling him.

“Almost there,” the doctor says again, and then, without fucking fanfare, she pulls the needle out, and she’s pressing a bandage into the spot where the needle was, which immediately turns red. Michael looks away.

Almost instantly, though, Leo starts gagging, and this time, Michael lets him pull his hand free. He wedges it under him, leveraging his head and chest off the table. Leo retches in between cries, but with the worst over, his body’s losing steam. His breaths are ragged, the tension in his muscles begins to let up and Michael wonders if he’ll pass out. He hopes he does, and then berates himself for going soft again.

That’s when the shaking starts. Michael takes a washcloth, wiping first his face, then his neck and the parts of his chest that are visible, the spots of the table he has access to. The doc puts something into the IV, all the while Leo trying to catch his breath, tremors rolling through every inch of him. His weight has dropped back to the table, and he presses his forehead into his arm. His sobs are lighter now, his breaths deeper, but still patchy as hell.

“All done,” the doc says, like it was easy peasy. Michael’s certain Leo doesn’t hear her. And then, to Michael, she says, “Make sure he’s cleaned up and completely calm before you let Mr. Bennett see him. Try to get him to drink something when he’s ready.” Michael is pretty fucking sure being a nurse isn’t in his actual job description, and he doesn’t know exactly how to get Leo calm and clean in the next seven fucking minutes before his shift ends, but that’s someone else’s problem. He’s been traumatized enough for one day.

The doc bandages Leo’s back, then pulls off her gloves, giving Leo’s shoulder a squeeze as she leaves. It’s condescending as hell, but he thinks maybe Leo’s on someone’s bad side to begin with, because he’s no doctor, but that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Michael makes eye contact with the other handler, who’s been equally silent up until now, and gets to work.

✥ ✥ ✥

Luke is ushered back into the exam room two hours after he left. The handler walks him as far as the door, tells him to take his time, and to let them know if anything is needed. He shakes his head and bee-lines to Leo’s bedside.

Leo is curled up under a thin blanket; his skin’s pale, but he looks alright. The IV has been removed, there’s a cup of water on the tray table beside him.

“Hey, buddy,” Luke says, by way of greeting. Slowly, Leo’s eyes open to meet his, and he smiles, the sad tell-tale smile that exudes exhaustion and sadness and anxiety. He looks him over; nothing overtly ringing any alarm bells, but he doesn’t trust these people.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Luke whispers. Leo’s eyes are red but focused, and he moves to sit up as soon as Luke says the words. “Keep resting for a minute,” Luke says, but Leo pushes up anyway. “I need to go talk to the doctor, and then we’ll be out, okay?”

He waits for Leo to respond, searching his eyes for signs of clarity or understanding or acknowledgement. Just when he thinks he won’t get anything, that maybe the drugs haven’t worn off completely, Leo whispers, “Please don’t l-leave me.” And then, a moment later, he adds, “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

Luke swallows painfully and kneels next to him.

“No one’s going to touch you, buddy,” he whispers. “I need to get the discharge papers signed, and then we can go, okay?”

“Can I come with you?” Leo says then, looking up at him. Luke’s breath catches. Leo’s voice is hoarse, and as he sits, he winces. Luke looks around the exam room, empty now except for the two of them, cleared of all evidence of what happened. He feels rage bubbling up inside him, but he tries to talk himself down. They need to get out of here.

“Can you walk?” Luke asks, and Leo nods. He stands, slowly, and they make their way to the reception desk, where Leo finds a chair by the door.

Luke is ushered into a small room off to the side and Leo, once again alone, pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them. He buries his face between his knees. Luke will be back for him. Luke will be quick. Luke knows he’s upset, and won’t make this long.

After a few minutes, Leo hears shouting, his eyes snapping up to the door that Luke disappeared behind. The receptionist exchanges a look with him and smiles, shaking her head. Leo’s gaze once more shifts to the window. He can see Luke’s car, and he wishes Luke trusted him enough to leave him the keys so he could wait outside. He feels the receptionist staring at him, and he turns away. Luke will be done soon, and he can go back to his bedroom and his books and his lion and he can crawl under the blankets and sleep, and when he wakes up, he will feel better.

He daydreams about it while he waits, and eventually, the door opens, and a stony-faced Luke emerges quickly.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready?” Luke asks, injecting the most casual-calm into his voice that he possibly can. Behind him, he hears the doctor close the door. In the window, he can see her reflection, arms crossed over her chest, leaning casually against the reception desk.

As they make their way to the door, in an act designed purely to spite him, the doctor calls to Leo, “Be good, Leo,” and Luke freezes, itching for violence but ever aware of at what cost that would come. Instead, he turns to her. He commits her face, her name, her voice, to his memory, so he can fuck up her life later.

He doesn’t know how he’ll do it, but when it comes time to try the guilty for crimes against humanity, her name will be among the top on his list.

FIGHTER TAG LIST: @whump-cravings, @afabulousmrtake, @crystalquartzwhump, @maracujatangerine, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @distinctlywhumpthing, @thecyrulik, @highwaywhump, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @finder-of-rings, @dont-touch-my-soup, @skyhawkwolf, @suspicious-whumping-egg, @also-finder-of-rings, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @prodigal-zoe, @peachy-panic, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @urban-dark, @nicolepascaline, @quietly-by-myself, @pigeonwhumps, @whump-blog, @seasaltandcopper, @angstyaches, @i-msonotcreative, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @anonintrovert, @whump-world, @squishablesunbeam, @considerablecolors, @whumpcereal, @whumperfully, @pirefyrelight, @whumpsday @whumplr-reader

#little light med whump to end your work week #med whump #spinal tap #forced bodily fluid donation #sure #that's a tag now #bone marrow stuff #needles #medical setting #questionably accurate med whump #noncon drugging #bodily restrained #institutionalized slavery #tada

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kim-poce · 2 years

Note

How about a flashback for Pink? I don’t have a specific time in mind, so you can do whatever

Full House 33 - Crossed the Line

Someone has a secret...

This is sooo old that I even feel bad for answering, sorry.

Previous | Next

Masterlist

CW: pet whump, drugs, implied death, fear of death, referring to death as 'putting down', caretaker new master, multiple whumpees.

=-=

Pink is a coward at the best, he always hides and even allows Purple to take punishments for him. Bad pet, but more importantly, bad friend.

He always prefers to please his way out of the worst outcome, he has no fight in him like Night has, he doesn't have so much self-control as Purple and much less so much courage as Beige.

He also doesn’t like breaking the rules, it’s dangerous and painful to disobey, he doesn’t want to be bad, he truly doesn't, but there are some things that cross the line, he isn’t so bad of a friend to the point of allowing some things, he can’t allow death.

It’s for this reason that once again he leaned outside of the bedroom's door to hear Master talking, he knows this is bad, but this is about Beige, so he forced himself to be silent and listened.

“He’ll be fine, but he should work a lot less than he does now,” Beckett said. Pink wished he hadn’t said so, a domestic pet like Beige has to work all the time, he is useless if he needs rest, what if Master also wants to put him down?

“I… try to give him less chores, I’ll do the best I can to make him rest. He just… gets anxious if he isn’t working,” Master said. Pink was surprised to notice that his tone was sincere—although probably just his tone—, at least he didn’t sound like he would get rid of Beige.

–––

“Beige is getting more and more useless,” Mistress complained, sitting on the couch in the next room, Pink made sure to be silent, he should be in his cage not wandering around.

“Then beat some sense into him, it’s not that hard,” Master said as if it was obvious.

“It isn’t working anymore! We should just get another one, maybe a pair this time,” Mistress said, thinking. “We should’ve done it long ago, it’s past the time to put that thing down.”

“Want me to put him down for you, dear?” Master asked, his voice showed how much he liked the idea.

Pink was still silent, he couldn’t make a sound even if he tried, he could only listen as Master listed tools he wanted to try for some time now.

“I was going to use them with that toy, but he would die too fast, so I was holding on waiting for the day I decided to get rid of that ugly thing, but getting rid of the annoying Beige would be great too.”

“I’m glad you are excited, give me a couple days to order a brand new pair of domestics, when they arrive you can do whatever you want with the old thing.”

–––

Pink’s hands shivered at the memory, cold sweat started covering his skin, he should’ve left this memory alone, he should’ve pretended it never happened, but it was harder and harder not to think about it, principally ever since Pink found out Master Eri is Former Master and Mistress’s son.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t move.

–––

He couldn’t move at all.

Mistress and Master were getting ready to leave, Beige —not knowing about the talk— prepared breakfast and got out of sight as always. Pink watched, but he couldn’t move.

Until… he could, he could move, he got up and walked to the bathroom, he grabbed the box where he knew Mistress’ sleeping pills were, he almost swallowed them, he needed to calm down, but he noticed that he wasn’t even shaking anymore as if he body wasn’t his own.

And soon he was in the kitchen, already mixing the little things on the orange juice, he left and hide as he is used to do, he only started shaking again when Master and Mistress went there, he didn’t see them but he could hear them cursing at the odd taste in the juice, saying that if they weren’t late already they would punish ‘that useless thing’ right then.

Just like this Master and Mistress left, and a few days later their son was the one who came back.

=-=

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @octopus-reactivated, @sufferfictionalcharacters, @rat-father, @badluck990, @onlybadendings, @inpainandsuffering, @mazeish, @neuro-whump, @freefallingup13, @sideblogformindtrash, @extemporary-username, @jadeocean46910, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @neverthelass, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpfessional, @sinning-shipping-trash, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @scp-1296, @dont-touch-my-soup, @damienxozmoze, @nicolepascaline, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @dyingisbadforyourhealth, @theadorelocksly, @aswallowimprisoned, @bluewhumpcrew, @fuzzybucketz

#whump #pet whump #drugs #implied death #fear of death #caretaker new master #caretaker new whumper #multiple whumpees #drugs tw #institutionalized slavery tw #institutionalized slavery #whump fic #Full House #Beige #Eri #Pink #Pink did a thing

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cupcakes-and-pain · 2 years

Text

Presents

Okay, this was originally one chapter but it got long so I’m going to spilt it up. Enjoy the double update

Masterlist

CW: vampire caretaker, multiple whumpees, institutionalized slavery (kinda), caretaker new master, referenced conditioning, swearing, mini panic attack

———

After the party died to down, Roy started dreading the trip upstairs to fetch Mike’s “gifts.” Finally, the last person left and his moms began to hunt in a less than subtle way that he should leave. Collecting all of his courage and pushing down his revulsion for living blood bags, he made his way up.

He knocked, because it felt right, although it was weird to announce his presence for his childhood bedroom.

Upon entrance, everything was exactly how he left it. His embroidered curtains which he insisted on being custom made and costed far too much still covered the fake windows. On top of his dresser was the miniature bleeding heart sculpture he got from a hippie in the late 70s. His band posters, which ranged from Leonard Bernstein to very early Panic! At the Disco, still hung over his bed.

“Master, we are here to serve you.”

Roy looked regretfully to the corner where the two slaves were kneeling. They were the only part of his room that was different. It was the girl who spoke. He put them there because the party was still going on at the time, but now that it was over, he needed to get them to his house.

“Mmhm, I know, hon. Come here you two, it’s nearly time to leave. But first, I want to see you better.”

The two almost crawled over, crawled, it was still so unnerving to him. Yeah, they were humans, and historically humans have been beneath vampires and served them. But it’s the modern era! This shouldn’t still be going on. Vampires could do better than this, they knew better now. But, alas, one thing at a time. The two humans did remember that he wanted them to walk and so they did, but the fact that they almost crawled on instinct and conditioning really bothered him. Once they were near, they kneeled once more in front of him. He really tried to contain his disgust, but it wasn’t working if the fear on their faces was anything to go off of.

“Master, where do you want to drink from? We’ll give it all freely.”

He really had to get them to stop calling him Master, but that would require facing the fact that he owned them aloud. No fucking thank you.

“I don’t want a drink right now. I just haven’t gotten a good look at you yet. Do you have names?”

“Yes, Master. We are named Dew and Drop, if it pleases you sir.”

“Dew and Drop? Like a dew drop? That’s kind of… cute, all things considered. Do you like those names or would you prefer something else?”

Drop looked neutral but Dew seemed to panic and sputtered, “I- we l-like whatever you like, Master. We don’t have opinions, really, I promise we don’t.” Her breathing was quickly getting out of control.

Roy was expecting that she would insist that they couldn’t have likes or something, but he hadn’t anticipated such a strong reaction. Without thinking, he put his hand on her shoulder to try and anchor her from her fright. But, to no one’s surprise, the sudden touch of a predator only caused her to sink further into her terror.

Drop started to reach out for his friend but then stopped and looked at Roy, very unsure. Roy nodded at him and Drop held Dew gently, patting her hair and calming her a bit.

Owning humans might be harder than Roy thought, and he was already expecting the worse.

“Let’s just go.”

———

Tag list: @kim-poce @badluck990 @whumpy-writings @imagination1reality0 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @wolfeyedwitch @thecyrulik @nicolepascaline @whumpsday @whumpcreations

#whump #vampire caretaker #multiple whumpees #institutionalized slavery #tw institutionalized slavery #conditioning #tw conditioning #panic attack #tw panic attack #caretaker new whumper #caretaker new master #dew the human #drop the human #Roy the vampire

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3-2-whump · 2 months

Text

Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

next>

Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

#whump writing #oc intro #viridian oc #whumpee #pet whumpee #tw minor whump #tw slight gore #tw noncon nudity #tw noncon bodymod #slavery tw #slavery whump

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generic-whumperz · 2 months

Text

The Aid: Chapter 6- Stranger To Myself

CWS & TWS: partial nudity, aftermath of prolonged starvation & torture, long-term captivity, slavefic/institutionalized slavery AU, implied past non-con, self-mockery with some undertones of body dysmorphia

Word Count: 1,258

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Stripped to nothing but his underwear, The Aid stared unblinkingly into the bathroom sink mirror.

How long had it been since he last gazed upon his bare body with unblurred vision?

A warm, too-cheery morning glow filtered in and lit the whole room from the rectangular window running the span of the right wall, shedding an unwelcoming bright light on a distorted creature wearing his skin.

Could his body really have changed this much?

He stared into the bathroom mirror, but an unrecognizable stranger stared back.

Those weren’t his eyes, his cheeks, his nose.

That couldn’t be his bandage-wrapped torso and splinted wrist.

That protruding clavicle, those scrawny arms—those belonged to someone else.

No. This couldn’t be what he looked like.

Even his glasses were wrong.

These weren’t his long-lost staple Prada Heritage frames gifted to him by his beloved late Madame resting on his face, but instead, some cheap, too-big, tortoiseshell browline glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. At least the prescription was right, or at least the most up-to-date, despite being over a year past due for an eye exam.

Before Dr. Paul regifted him the miracle of sight, he let his vision blur over the parts of himself he didn’t care to see, but now they all screamed at him in unison like an off-tune choir screeching from the depths of hell.

The chorus chanted, It happened; it all really happened.

Every slice, stab, cut, burn mark, and bullet wound alike—they were all real. Yet his mind refused to believe the hard evidence screaming at him as if denial would improve his circumstances.

It happened; it all really happened.

He cut.

He fucked.

He took you for all you were worth.

It happened; it all really happened.

And you deserved it all.

His pale skin was littered with markings—dark and faint, big and small, shallow and deep, most of which he forgot the origins of. Every mark on his used-to-be flawless skin served as constant reminders of his previous year and a half in hell, a year of continuous merciless torture by the hand of his deceased Madame’s sadistic son. A year promised to be even worse than the last, quoted from the bastard devil-man himself.

Staying true to form as the resident sad sack, The Aid found himself further dissed by his inability to reach out and touch the stranger to confirm his physicality—he supported himself on one good leg, leaned on a crutch held up by one good hand, and just like that he was out of operable limbs.

All he could do was stare. And even that was strenuous on his bloodshot, petechial eyes.

The only thing he recognized from who he was before was the two thin, elongated c-shaped scars running between his Cupid’s bow and his nostrils; the right side of his lip tugged slightly up and sat higher than the left. These scars he knew, these scars he bore since infancy from a bilateral cleft lip reconstructive surgery. It was barely noticeable; most people couldn’t see it—but he could, and it was the only thing tethering him to the reality his mind desperately tried denying.

The months of starvation ate away at his face, devoured his already slim figure, and left nothing behind but the gaunt outline of who he used to be. His already squared jaw became even sharper, especially juxtaposed with his strong chin, sunken, colorless cheeks, and thin neck. His pallid face sapped any semblance of life. Dark circles drooped under his heavy eyelids; not even a glint of hope dared to glisten in his round, hazel brown eyes.

Still, he stared.

Stared at what was supposed to pass as a piece of expensive jewelry but was little more than a livestock ear tag—a 10mm 24k gold plated orbital cuff pierced through his left ear with a stamped cursive “M” to let his designation as a celebrated ability-wielder known to all.

He stared at the identification number tattoo in industrial typewriter font inscribed on his upper outer left arm—070210 reflected backward in the mirror.

He stared at the shiny strips of newly scarred-over skin—a long, u-shaped cut spanning under the hollowed flesh of his right cheek, a vertical nic on the tip of his chin, and a long faint slice across his left temple, and the jagged bend on the bridge of his nose courtesy of a poorly healed break.

That was just his face; that was just what scarred over. He knew there used to be more, but they faded into oblivion with the passage of time, and he couldn’t help but envy their departure from existence.

His absent gaze drifted slightly south, still staring at the body of a stranger.

Staring at the tiny red specks dotting around his listless eyes that marched in inexorable strides down to similar, but larger, blotches splattering his neck from burst blood vessels elicited from his Master’s wrath.

Staring at the already visible swollen horizontal marks and circles wrapped around his neck from Wyatt Sullivan’s thick fingers choking him out with a furious death grip—it would be no time before the puffy red shapes evolved into dark, blue-purple bruises.

Staring at the rat nest sitting atop his head…at least he still had his hair—every out-of-place and too-long strand of hair that looked as foreign as the rest of him. His eyebrows were unplucked, scraggly, and ungroomed, looking almost as bad as his patchy, overgrown stubble and shaggy, oily hair that hung over his forehead and past his ears. Whoever this stranger in the mirror reflected looked more like a man than he ever allowed himself to resemble.

Was he outgrowing his coveted boyish looks? Or was his youthful glory hiding beneath the detested overgrown shrubbery?

The assault on his once pageant-worthy looks didn’t stop there. The unwanted scruff and strands of greasy hair brought amped-up oil production along with it. His clogged pores screamed to be exfoliated and buffed free of the pus-and-grime-filled white-peaked bumps sprouting on his cheeks and forehead like newly formed mountain ranges. He appeared stuck in a late-bloomers limbo, looking somewhere between the 24-year-old man he actually was and a pizza-faced teenager who acted allergic to caring about appearances and feared face wash.

His dead-eyed gaze meandered down to his gauze-wrapped chest and bandaged right shoulder; visible rib bones peaked between slits of bandages. Faded yellowish-green splotches colored his scarred, concave abdomen. The elastic band of his boxers around his waist hugged his protruding hip bones, barely held up by the too-loose fabric slightly stretched around his rear.

He always resided on the smaller side, both in height and mass, but this went far beyond his typically lean self, past skinny, and now approached the realm of deathly skeletal.

The Aid tilted his head slightly, giving his the stranger’s reflection a last once-over, contemplating what he looked like…it was on the tip of his tongue—

‘An extra from Corpse Bride! Someone call Tim Burton and tell him there’s a new pasty white guy to model a lanky claymation figure after! Meet your latest and greatest awkward yet endearing main character with a heart of gold and a moral lesson to teach the kiddos on the silver screen!’

Wyatt Sullivan took everything from him. Destroyed him. Reduced him to a jump-scare animatronic from a pop-up Halloween store.

But his humor and knack for a self-deprecating joke?

Now that was forever his and couldn’t be beaten, cut, or fucked out of him.

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Chap title inspiration & vibes: The Stranger by Billy Joel

Taglist: @sacredwrath @potterhead5ever @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears

If ya wanna be added or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me! :)

#The Aid #Generic Writez #whump story #oc whump #oc story #whump fic #whumpblr #whump writing #whump blog #slavefic #tw implied abuse #tw implied torture #tw implied noncon #mentions of sa #tw sa #tw sa mention #tw sa implied

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