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honeycollectswhump · 1 year

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Whumper's title

[masterlist]

It was the end of a lazy evening. Caretaker stretched as the credits of the last movie rolled. Whumpee was draped across her lap and had apparently fallen asleep somewhere during the movie. She wasn’t sure if he even witnessed the climax. Even asleep Whumpee had a soft smile on his lips; he seemed truly at peace.

It hadn’t always been like that.

A year ago, serenity like this would have been unthinkable. Maybe he would have crawled into her lap if she ordered him to, but he wouldn’t have allowed himself to relax. He wouldn’t have been able to.

A year ago, he still called himself Pet or Mutt. He would beg for punishment, beg to be allowed necessities like sleep or food. But never for mercy because he’d thought he didn’t deserve it.

A year ago, Whumpee didn’t even remember they lived together for years prior.

But he did now, and that was all that mattered. God, how she had missed him and the time they spent together. Caretaker wanted to savor it all, savor every little moment she could spend with him.

With a smile playing on her lips, she brushed a stray piece of hair from his scarred face. She didn’t want to wake Whumpee up but she would have to. No matter how much she wanted it, they couldn’t spend the night like this. In the morning, his already aching back would trouble him even more. He was frankly too big for her couch, his feet already dangling over the side. With one hand she was playing with his soft curls, scratching the nape of his neck, and trying to grab the remote with the other – without success.

It had to be done. Caretaker softly whispered his name, tracing his jawline in an attempt to wake him up. He wouldn't budge.

“Whumpee”, the name came out as a soft chuckle. “Whumpee, you need to wake up.”

Again, nothing.

This time she held him by his shoulders and started shaking him gently. Two bleary brown eyes stared up at her, blinking a couple of times. A sleepy groan escaped his lips as he struggled to sit upright. Somehow Caretaker doubted that Whumpee was truly awake.

She stood up and held her hand out to him. “Let’s get you to bed, big guy.”

Loosely, he took her hands and let himself be pulled up, almost immediately resting his head on top of hers.

“Yes, Master”, he breathed into her hair.

Caretaker could feel her blood running cold. She froze, waiting for any indication of what happened, any sign that Whumpee wasn’t feeling well.

But he didn’t. He didn’t tense up or start shaking. He didn’t fall on his knees or stare at her in adoration and obedience or wait for her order. In fact, he didn’t seem to even realize what he’d said. Instead, he just nuzzled further into her locks, almost falling asleep on his feet.

Slowly, she took a step backward, his hands still in hers, waiting to see if he’d follow. Whumpee shuffled along, although at a snail’s pace. Caretaker didn’t know whether to bring up what had happened but one look in his half-lidded eyes told her that any attempt at communication would just pass by him. Chances were he wouldn’t even remember how he got to bed in the morning.

She took him upstairs where –at the sight of his own bed– he staggered forward and flopped down on his messy sheets. Caretaker followed him inside to tuck him in. While she was securing the blanket under his shoulders, Whumpee loosely grabbed one of her hands in his much bigger one and pressed it to his cheek.

“G’night…”, he murmured into her hand.

She couldn’t understand what he said after that and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

This is very much inspired by this post by @whumpadventureprompts (i couldn't find how you want to be tagged when people use your prompts so i hope this is alright)

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pigeonwhumps · 26 days

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Battle

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Angstpril: alt prompt 1: troubled mind

Inspired by these two prompts by @hurtmyfavsthanks and an anon ask she received. I saw the more recent one and just wrote this straight up within a couple of hours, unable to resist it.

CWs: living weapon, outcast whumpee, magical whumpee, low self-esteem, betrayal kinda, mentions of battle and casualties, mentioned past discrimination

Whumpee doesn't remember much of the battle.

It went by in a haze. They remember red, people falling, screams, unsure which side they were on. They remember the glee, the euphoria, of using their magic. The high of it all.

Now they're starting to come down from that high, and they can see the fear in people's eyes. The injuries, the casualties. Vaguely, they wonder who caused them. Was it them again?

Hands cup their face, gentle, calloused. The only ones that will ever touch them anymore.

Caretaker's.

"Hey. Look at me, now. Not the camp. Me." Whumpee looks up hesitantly, into their loving, warm eyes. One day they'll change. One day... one day they'll harden. Fear, hatred. From all the people they've hurt, on all sides. One day it'll be too much. They're afraid of the day they'll see that, of what will happen then.

But it hasn't happened yet.

Caretaker wipes their cheek softly. "It's okay. Come on, rest. Lay your head down. You're done for today. Close your eyes and rest."

Whumpee crawls into Caretaker's lap. They vaguely register being carried, head being lifted until it meets Caretaker's neck. Whumpee nuzzles into it.

"Shh. You did so well. You're doing so well, Whumpee. I'm proud of you."

Whumpee doesn't want to be. They want to grow flowers. But this is what their magic likes, this is what their king likes, this is what makes Caretaker say those words of praise in just that voice, so they can't stop.

(They ignore the small voice in their head that says that they have no idea what Caretaker's reaction to flowers would be. This is exhilarating, even if they feel an ever-growing bubble of shame at the endless, ruthless violence.)

Caretaker runs a hand through their hair, combing out the knots from the day's work, using a little water to clean the worst of the blood. Whumpee has been through this so many times that they know what to expect without even a glance. He won't hurt them with those eyes. They know his expression, his feelings, and they curl their arms and legs closer around him.

He's so warm.

"S'okay buddy. I'm here."

"Hmm."

Whumpee closes their eyes. It's so... so... they don't think they can sleep yet but they find themself drifting on the exhaustion the magical high always brings.

The next morning is... the next morning. As it always is with a new squad, it is very different to the first one.

And as it always is, Whumpee feels a sharp stab of hurt.

The soldiers know who they are, what they are. Have done since the very beginning .They've worked with Whumpee on the preparations, the journey here, for weeks. They know them. Sat around the campfire, shared meals, joked and talked and laughed. They'd been wished good luck yesterday morning, hair ruffled, smiles and reassurances in abundance. Soldier had even fixed their horse's saddle after the straps started to break. Now...

Now, they won't come within arms length of them. Soldier ladles out breakfast to the rest, leaving an empty bowl several feet from Whumpee, not looking them in the eye as he leaves them to fetch their own. He flinches along with several others as they approach the campfire, more whose hands jerk towards their swords. As if they're going to attack. As if they're so out of control that they'd attack their own side on purpose.

They reluctantly let go of Caretaker's hand so he can fetch their breakfast and the healing potion alone. At least he looks them in the eye. At least he sits with them, and talks, and touches them. Helps convince them to take the potion, even though it's bitter and rancid and no-one will improve it for the likes of them, and they won't need it once the adrenaline and euphoria of tomorrow's battle kicks in.

The kindness is only for now. It will change, sooner or later.

Nobody helps the pair of them take down their tent, or pack their saddlebags, and the Sergeant looks about to stop Whumpee from replacing the emergency set of daggers they carry in their boots at all times. A gift from Caretaker.

It's like they have the plague. Or the Devil's Touch, as their old villagers used to say.

They're pretty much alone in the clearing now, the rest of the squad staying as far away as they can without letting Whumpee out of their sight. Just in case they explode or something.

Without a word, Whumpee settles down on the ground beside the smoldering fire, Caretaker sitting on the log behind them. It's a sharply cold morning, dew dampening their breeches, but their leather armour keeps them surprisingly warm.

Caretaker braids their hair quickly and simply, just enough to keep it out of their face. Battlefields aren't the place for complicated hairstyles. Which is a shame, because Caretaker takes pride in that skill, and Whumpee delights in being allowed to display the results.

Whumpee dries their face with the cloth Caretaker hands them wordlessly. They need to get it together. It's not like it's the end of the world or anything. They try to summon the ease by which they sometimes prepare, the eagerness instead of dread that comes with a lot of battles.

It doesn't come. Today is a day for dread, then, and there's nothing they can do about it but pray for a miracle. And a break in the hatred and fear, the violence with which everyone rejects them.

They can't help thinking, though, that the amount of damage they've done, it's no wonder people want them locked away. They are a weapon, after all.

Yes. Definitely one of the bad days.

Caretaker's their handler. They try not to think about it but it's true. He's the only one who might see it, might offer them a brief reprieve. So they summon up all their courage.

"Please..."

Caretaker finishes the braid and kisses their temple. "I'm so sorry, Whumpee. I really am. But you need to do this. We need to do this. The kingdom needs you."

Whumpee nods. They don't blame Caretaker, not really. They need to win this war. And Whumpee needs to use their magic.

But gods do they wish they could stop.

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jakkon-and-rose-topic · 8 days

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MASTER POST - Chronological Order :]

Here's my new master post!

My main blog is @the-ellia-west

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Characters

Jakkon (Jak, Horns) - A Male Satyr and certified Whumpee who's been through hell and back and isn't done suffering. Very much an Alcoholic. 31 in human years.

Rosenia (Rose, Petals) - A Female Rose-themed Fae and Jak's sister-in-law. She's tired and stressed, but she loves Jak a lot as a brother and will do anything to help him even though he doesn’t want her to. 29 in Human years.

Eveny (Evie, Ev) - A Female Lilac-themed Fae Who was 2 years younger than Rose. She was very adorable and sweet, Married to Jak before she died at about 26 in human years.

Rune (Runie) - Eveny and Jak's son. He was about 3 or 4 in human years when he died and was a very sweet, innocent little baby.

Phennim (Finn) - A Male Harpy who was Jak's former best friend before the fire that killed Eveny, where Finn Saved Jak and Jak doesn't want anything to do with him anymore. Nemesis/Rival relationship.

Morena - An elven witch who is kind and formal to everyone, trying to help wherever she can with her magic and potions. She has a mutual respect with Jak, and a major crush on Finn.

Silas - A Sentient Statue with Major Daddy (Patron God) issues who just wants everyone to know they are loved.

Wildrun (Wild, Wil) - A Phantom/Mist Noble's son, who really dislikes his adoptive abusive family and HATES Jak's guts. He just wants to have fun and be free.

Pherun - Baby (Satyr who looks Like Jak's son)

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PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS

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Scenes (More to be added) - They hop all around the timeline

Love - Jak and Eveny Just after their Wedding

Grief - Jak after Eveny's death

Gone - Jak and Rose at Eveny's Funeral

Forget - Jak's intro to Alchoholism After TRAUMA

Empty - Is Life worth living anymore?

History - This one takes place on a mundane evening before the inciting incident

Arena - Jak and Rose's intro from someone else's POV

Dogs - A scene I need to edit, which shows Jak's terror of Dogs

Rivalry - Jak and Wild's Rivalry

Swimming - Jak and Silas bond over their mutual inability to swim

Defense - Jak kills a guy

Gift - Rose & Jak Wholesome Moment

Eynalis - The party

Letting go - Jak Tells Rose To forget him

Argument - Tension

Withdrawals - *Jazz hands* The Poll winner, here, ya sick degenerates.

(Other Stuff)

A Memory

What Used to Be

Rune's Fate

Eveny's Fate

Jak's Fate (?)

Fae and Nonhuman Details

How everybody met

Jak's Psychology #1

Jak's Psychology #2

Jak being a Dick Compilation

Incredibly Accurate Picrew of the main 2

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Go follow @corinneglass @i-hate-happy-endings @fantasy-things-and-such @cybercelestian @pastellbg @nkikio @darkandstormydolls @aalinaaaaaa @thelazywitchphotographer

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wattzgoingdark · 1 year

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Sick Whumpee who’s throat is so rough that Caretaker has to beg them not to speak. Whumpee hoarsely asks Caretaker for a glass of water, and the coughing fit lasts so long that Caretaker can get up and bring them the water all while Whumpee is still coughing.

When Whumpee goes to the bathroom, Caretaker finds tissues covered in phlegm and blood hidden under Whumpee’s pillow. They clean them out.

Whumpee gets back, and notices the tissues they were hiding are gone. Something unspoken seems to hang in the air between them and Caretaker.

#whumblr #whumpblr #whump community #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump scenario #whump tropes #whump #sick whumpee #whumpee and caretaker #whump inspiration

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pleasantly-painful-fiction · 2 months

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I'm Glad You Can Read

“You can read? Didn’t think hybrids were educated… uh” Kazunai, Ren’s Master, rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, master’s don’t usually teach em to read and stuff. I heard it was…”

Ren shrank into his seat, making himself as small as possible, no longer listening. Master is right, of course. No one wants a smart hybrid pet. He should have been more careful. He shouldn’t have let Master know he could read. How can he possibly convince Master he’s good now?

Ren glances at the window. The snow is falling heavily. If he gets thrown outside tonight, he’ll probably freeze to death. He read about someone freezing to death once. It didn’t seem like a good way to die. He should get on the floor and beg Master for mercy. He should try and sway Master into believing his abilities can be useful. He should apologize until his voice is hoarse and offer to burn his eyes. No, he should just remove them right now. He should prove he’ll never betray Master by reading again. He should do a lot of things. He would do a lot of things, except he can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t do anything!

Suddenly, a hand grabs his chin. He flinches, but doesn’t resist as the hand raises his head.

“Ren…?” Kazunai watches him closely. “Ren, do you hear me?”

Ren lowers his gaze. Shit. Now he’s made it worse. He’s smart AND he didn’t apologize AND he didn’t listen. Well, might as well just jump off the roof. It would beat freezing to death, which is definitely what he’ll be doing tonight if he doesn’t greet the reaper on his own terms before that. Maybe if he disobeys more, Master will just beat him to death right here. But then… Master would have to clean up the floor. Master wouldn’t like that. He should die in a way that won’t inconvenience Master. Hybrids should never inconvenience their masters.

“REN!”

The shout startles Ren out of his thoughts. He tumbles backwards into the wall and lowers his head in shame.

“I’m sorry, Ren. I wasn’t trying to - you spaced out there.”

Ren shakes his head. Master shouldn’t be apologizing. Master’s dumb hybrid should be apologizing. “I…” the rest of the words die in his throat. His throat is doing that bad thing again where it won’t make the sounds. He touches his throat, hoping Master understands.

“It’s fine. You don’t gotta apologize for that. Somethin’s going on in that big brain of yours I probably wouldn’t get. Just listen instead.”

He nods.

Big brain. His stomach turns. If he was human, that’d be a compliment. If he was human, it would be okay for him to be smart.

“I’m glad you can read, Ren. I was gonna try ta teach you myself to be honest. Didn’t really know how, though, so this is better.”

Wait. Did he hear that right? Master was going to teach him? So… he’s not mad?

“You’re not in trouble, so stop bowing your head. Chin up.”

Ren hesitates. Kazunai scowls, though he stuffs his hands into his pockets - his way of telling Ren he won’t hit him.

“You oughta know by now I ain’t like those bastards. Getting mad at a hybrid for using its brain is just fu-” Kazunai sighs. “It’s messed up.”

He reaches out and waits for Ren to give the okay, then scratches behind Ren’s ear. He smiles softly. “You can go work on the puzzle and calm down some, ‘kay? I’ll make dinner.”

#pet whump #hybrid whump #whump scenario #whump writing #kazunai and ren #whump #whumpee #whumpee and caretaker #cat hybrid

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whump-allthe-way · 8 months

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“i think what whumpee means is-“

“stop.”

“whumpee-“

“no. i can speak for myself, caretaker. i said what i said;” their gaze never shifts from whumper’s, cold and empty. “fuck off, you worthless bastard.”

#whump blog #whump community #whumpblr #whump #implied whumper #kidnapped whumpee #whump prompt #whump scenario #whump tropes #whump writing #whumpee #whumpee and caretaker #caretaker #whump dialogue #writing prompt #whump scenes #kidnap whump

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hufflepuffwritingstuff2 · 9 months

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Request if thats ok? (Medical whump/ caretaker and whumpee) :

Whumpee is waking up out of anesthesia or chemical restraint and is delirious and emotional. Loving caretaker/doctor is there to shush there cries and calm them down.

Hi Anon! That’s perfectly ok! Thanks for requesting this, here you go!

Whumpee stirred on something soft. They could just make out the sound of steady beeping; they forced their heavy eyes to open. At first, the world was completely blurry. When it cleared up, Whumpee’s glassy eyes went wide. Fluorescent lights shone down on them, accompanied by a stark white ceiling. Where were they!? Whumpee wracked their brain for an answer, trying desperately to remember something. Their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Whumpee quickly turned their head to see Caretaker in the doorway, dressed in a white lab coat and holding a clipboard.

“Whumpee, you’re awake.”

Caretaker sounded mildly surprised. What was Caretaker doing here? Shouldn’t they be at work at the hospital right now? Why were they here? What was going on? And for the love of all things good, where were they!?

“W-where-?” Whumpee tried.

“Shhh.”

Caretaker quickly crossed the room and sat down at Whumpee’s bedside. They took their hand and rubbed soothing circles into it.

“You’re in the hospital,” Caretaker explained.

Whumpee tried and failed to sit up.

“W-why…mm.”

Why couldn’t they talk!? Tears sprung into Whumpee’s eyes. They just wanted to know what was going on!

“Don’t try to speak yet,” Caretaker said softly, “you’re just coming out of heavy sedation. My colleagues and I had to operate on you. You were panicking, which was understandable of course, but you were aggravating your injuries. The only thing we could do to calm you down was knock you out.”

Whumpee sniffled, the tears coming down fast now. They wanted to ask Caretaker so many questions, but they could barely make a sound.

“Whumpee, shh, it’s okay,” Caretaker soothed, “it’ll wear off soon, I promise. Please don’t try to talk.”

Whumpee stared at Caretaker pleadingly.

“I’ve taken the rest of the day off,” Caretaker said, “I’m gonna stay right here, okay? Would it help if I told you why you’re here?”

Whumpee nodded weakly, sniffling again. Caretaker reached over and wiped their tears for them.

“So… you’re in the hospital because you were hit by a car,” Caretaker explained, “shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay! You’re gonna make a full recovery. Someone called 911 as soon as it happened, we got you here and the operation went just fine. You have some broken ribs and some bleeding, but it’s nothing you won’t heal from, and I’ll be with you through the whole process.”

Whumpee squeezed Caretaker’s hand as hard as they could manage, which wasn’t very hard at all, but it got the point across. Caretaker smiled and squeezed it back gently. It would be a while before Whumpee woke up properly, but Caretaker was there for them the whole time, ready to explain everything again if need be.

ko-fi

tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm

#whump #as requested #medical whump #med whump #doctor caretaker #whumpee and caretaker #hospitalization #forced sedation #sedation #drugging #writeblr #creative writing #writing #snippet #hospital whump #whumpee x caretaker #whumpblr #whump community

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squishablesunbeam · 11 months

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Consequence of Action Pt.2

Continuation of the first piece from Collins' perspective. It's a mellow reprieve before the next chapter... which will be a rough one so heads up!

TW: Aftermath of noncon, mentions of noncon, captive whumpee, caged whumpee, mentions of war

Prev - Next

Collins took his glasses off and set them down quietly, rubbing his eyes until the world blurred around him. He looked over at the bed and sighed wearily, idly grinding his teeth.

He'd felt Quinn's eyes on him for a lot longer than he himself would have lasted being as exhausted as he was. Eventually though, his breathing became less painfully rapid and had leveled out to a somewhat normal rhythm.

He was asleep.

Mercifully.

Collins pressed a hand against his own chest, frowning at the ache that had settled in ever since he'd said yes to the Captain's offer.

He didn't want anything to do with this mess.

The mutiny was foolish. Well-intentioned, sure, but foolish nonetheless. Collins held no delusions about the nature of the man that led this crew. The Captain was cruel and cunning. He was a man that won wars and the old generals loved him for it. But they hadn't been at war for many years now and that only made men like the Captain even more unpredictable.

Rumor has it, the Captain was given a ship after being quietly asked to leave the service for reasons he could only imagine. He had served with many of the crew already on board when he was looking for a new captain, so he'd signed up without much thought. He swore his loyalty to his captain and the crew and felt like he had a home again. Most of those good people were dead now.

It disturbed him deeply that he must have been considered to be a true follower of the Captain instead of one that stood slightly apart. He'd often wondered what it was about him, why Murphy and the others didn't come to him before they pulled the trigger on this foolishness.

He would have helped.

Well, he would have at least told him that his plan wouldn't succeed. Collins was loyal to a fault. He knew that. Still, this was- he wasn't like that. He took no pleasure in this.

Just the thought alone turned his stomach, seeing Quinn today, like he was...

He huffed out a frustrated breath and stood, pacing in the small space.

He remembered Quinn, from before. The few occasions he'd had to speak with the communications officer were swift and practical. He remembered the man being intelligent and quick to think on his feet. He knew his job and the jobs of his superiors, tailoring his tasks in such a way that made their work easier, more efficient. He was an asset to the crew, until he became a threat.

Collins stopped pacing, looking down at the curled up form beneath the blanket, only a tuft of brown hair peeking out from underneath.

He clenched his hands into fists thinking about what he would see if he pulled that blanket back, the many bruises and abrasions that littered the man's body. He couldn't unsee them. The shape of large hands on his hips and arms, of fingers around his neck, deep abrasions on his wrists and ankles from however the others choose to restrain him while they took their own pleasure. He'd heard the stories.

He couldn't stop this. It wasn't his place.

Collins turned away from him, dragging his fingers up into his hair.

Quinn made his choice. He knew the risks. The consequences.

Well, maybe not this. He probably thought he would be sent out the airlock with the rest of them. This fate was- excessive, to say the least. The Captain had already taken this beyond anything anyone would call justice, and he wasn't done yet, not even close.

He'll break him. The Captain will break Quinn into pliant little pieces. He'll use him until there was nothing left for him to be entertained by. And only then, will Quinn find any peace.

He turned back to the bed, chewing absently on his lip.

Peace.

He could do that. He couldn't save Quinn, but he could give him some measure of peace at least. A warm bed, like tonight. A proper meal and a shower when he could. Clean clothes even.

He turned to root through his small closet. Nothing would fit him, not even close. Quinn was already on the slight side before weeks of meager meals, all lean muscle and just a hint of softness to his middle.

Collins shook his head hard, shaking the thoughts out of his mind.

He refused to allow himself to think of Quinn that way, not anymore. Not now.

He'll admit to seeing him in the workout room a time or two. He was often on the treadmill when Collins arrived and was still running without losing a single step by the time Collins finished his routine. He remembers watching him from the corner of his eye sometimes, with those small earbuds nestled in his ears, listening to music and occasionally mouthing the words. He seemed to genuinely love to run.

That tiny spark flickered in his chest for a quick moment as he looked over at Quinn before he very intentionally smothered it out until it was nothing but dying embers.

His heart broke for what this man had been reduced to.

A slave. Nothing but a toy to be played with and stuffed back into a cage.

Collins drew in a deep breath and pulled out a pair of sweatpants with a draw string. Maybe these would work?

He gently laid them at the foot of the bed, along with a too large t-shirt.

He groaned as he moved to sit on the floor, leaning his back against the bed. He was exhausted after his 12 hours shift, and then all this, but he didn't want Quinn to wake up in the night to find a strange man sleeping in the bed next to him. Collins knew he'd had much worse over the many weeks he'd been held captive by his fellow crew members.

Still.

He didn't want to frighten him.

He leaned his head back against the mattress and closed his eyes, resolving to help Quinn where he was able. It was the very least he could do.

–

He woke with a start, his head coming up off the mattress far too fast and his vision struggled to keep up with the abrupt change. Collins blinked a few times, remembering why he was still propped against the mattress, sitting on the floor.

He glanced up to the bed.

Still there. Obviously.

It looked as if Quinn hadn't moved an inch in the few hours they must have slept.

Still. Something had woken him.

Collins stifled a groan as his knees popped, standing up stiffly.

He stood quietly over the curled up form on the bed, watching Quinn's breathing carefully. In and out. Slow and steady.

His eyebrows drew down, a frown creasing his face.

Collins leaned forward and gently pulled the blanket down, revealing a flash of two wide open eyes before Quinn dropped his gaze. His breathing starting to speed up exponentially now that he knew Collins knew he was awake.

“Morning.”

Collins let the blanket drop back to where it was, covering all of Quinn's face again. He'd allow the man to choose whether or not he wanted to be awake yet.

He went about brewing some coffee on the small counter by the sink, pulling down two mugs. He paused, his hands hovering over the mugs. Sugar? He took his coffee black but maybe Quinn liked sugar in his, or cream.

He didn't have cream.

He turned back to the bed. Three fingers had pulled the blanket down just enough to reveal two tired brown eyes, watching him silently.

“You're fine,” Collins grunted out. Damn it. He tried to soften his tone.

“What I mean to say is there's no rush. My shift isn't for another hour. Um,” why did he feel like he was trying to speak around rocks, “Do you take cream? In your coffee I mean?”

He watched two eyebrows found each other in between his eyes before smoothing out again.

Collins pointed to the clothes on the foot of the bed.

“Feel free to put those on and, yeah, I'll be right back.”

Collins rushed out of the room and closed the door, huffing out a long breath before heading to the mess hall.

–

10 minutes later and Collins had frozen with his fist paused an inch from the door. The door to his own quarters. Should he knock?

He made a sound deep in his throat that sounded like a growl. This was ridiculous.

He knocked lightly but didn't wait for an answer, opening the door and coming inside, his eyes immediately falling on Quinn.

Quinn was sitting back against the headboards with his knees up and his arms curled tight around himself. He was practically swimming the too big clothing but he looked more like himself at least. With the exception of the collar sitting at the base of his throat.

Collins lifted the tray he had in his hands.

“Eat whatever you like,” he placed the tray on the bed within reach and pointed to the coffee maker that was sputtering away, “Cream or sugar in your coffee?”

Quinn blinked silently but then nodded once.

Collins turned to get the coffee and smiled, making a mental note to keep cream in the small refrigerator under the counter, his shoulders starting to relax.

He sat at the table, Quinn still perched on the bed, and watched him take small, careful bites out of a bagel. He had to bury a smile every time Quinn took a sip of coffee, his eyes fluttering closed at the taste.

They sat in somewhat companionable silence. Collins honestly didn't know what to say and Quinn hadn't breathed a word.

He actually startled when suddenly, “Thank you,” Quinn breathed out on a whisper between bites.

Collins tilted his head down in a brief nod, “You're welcome, Quinn.”

Quinn's eyes flicked up sharply, meeting his own, before dropping back down again.

They walked back to below deck together, down the dark hall and through the heavy door. The room was dark save for the low blue light that ran along the floor of every wall on the ship. Collins hadn't been down here since the mutiny. He didn't know what to expect.

Quinn walked straight to the small cage, bolted to the floor in the center of the room. He never looked up or tried to shy away as he removed the shirt, and then the pants to Collins' surprise. He folded them neatly and turned towards Collins who had frozen in place.

“They wont let me keep these,” he said, placing the clothes in his hands, his eyes boldly meeting Collins' now, as if there was a measure of confidence necessary to strip naked in front of a man who, not 8 hours ago, saw him spread wide for all to see, “I don't know why you... just, thank you.”

With that, he turned and crawled gingerly into the cage. Collins clenched his jaw shut tight as he watched Quinn maneuver his body very carefully. He realized that the floor to the cage was made out of the grates they lay over the ramps in the winter. The ones with the teeth that grip the bottoms of your boots to keep you from slipping.

This was a torture in its own right; and explained the marks dug into his hips and shoulders that never seemed to quite fade.

He watched Quinn thread his fingers through the bars and close the door himself.

“You'll have to lock it.”

“Right,” Collins shook himself and knelt down, swallowing back the revulsion that was twisting up his throat as he secured the lock in place.

He stood and turned, walking out the door and immediately regretted not saying more. Not doing more.

He was a coward.

Taglist: @peachy-panic, @ladygwennn

#a little exposition from Collins side of things #whump #captive whump #captivity #reference to noncon #aftermath of noncon #caged whumpee #caged #torture #whumpee and caretaker #mentions of war

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shywhumpauthor · 10 months

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Gowns and Green Jello

Y’all I wrote this in maybe ten minutes right after I woke up. The words wrote themselves. Was just gonna be a dialogue prompt.

Cw: recovery, hospital, bad caretaker, emotional trauma from both sides, past torture, descriptions of scars/permanent injuries/healed gore, infection

“Dunno why they call this a gown,” Whumpee grumbled, their frail hand raising to tug at their other sleeve, fixing the thin fabric from where it had begun to fall off their shoulder again. “I don’t feel fuckin’ fancy.”

“Whumpee,” Caretaker chided, giving them a moment to fumble on their own before reaching over and fixing the small tie on the back of Whumpee’s hospital gown that they wouldn’t have been able to reach on their own.

Whumpee huffed, swatting Caretaker’s hand away when they didn’t immediately pull back after retying the strings.

Caretaker looked back at their friend—their best friend. The one they had promised to themself that they would protect. A promise they’d now broken for the second time. The first when they’d let Whumper take them, a crime stained across Caretaker’s sleepless nights and Whumpee’s broken body. You shouldn’t blame yourself, Caretaker’s therapist advised them every time they brought the topic up. You couldn’t have known. You weren’t home.

Whumpee was right, though, the gown certainly was not the most flattering thing in the fashion industry. As thin as paper, made of white fabric with some awful blue and green polka dot and stripe pattern, caretaker doubted it would look good on anyone. Certainly not… not on Whumpee. Not with their too-thin body or their twisted limbs, evidence of broken bones never properly healed laying just below the skin. Their scarred, burned, flayed skin which was now the evidence of caretaker’s second failure, the ugly, red infection creeping out from a wound on Whumpee’s thigh, now concealed by bandages and the hospital’s sheets. Their hair, cut shorter than Caretaker’s ever seen it, falling awkwardly and unevenly as if it had been cut with kitchen scissors—which Caretaker wouldn’t doubt.

Their face was worst of all. Whumper seemed to have targeted every ounce of brutality there, and the rest of their body was just in the danger zone of the attacks. Sometimes, Caretaker couldn’t bare to look. Their throat would close up and the guilt would swell to impossible amounts, and Caretaker would have to quickly excuse themself from Whumpee’s presence. They were sure their friend has seen it. That their forlorn, self-conscious expression was undoubtedly of Caretaker’s doing. They tried to make up for it in any and every way they possibly could.

“You look just as beautiful as ever,” Caretaker took Whumpee’s hand, the one that had just smacked them, using that as a bit of leverage so Caretaker could lean forwards out of the plasticky armchair to press a kiss to Whumpee’s temple. Something in their chest twisted as Whumpee complained and pushed them back, but they couldn’t conceal the flicker of emotion behind Whumpee’s gaze, the weight to their movements. God, how long has it been since they’d kissed Whumpee? Affection was a thing Caretaker used to dish out by the dozen, and they still did. Just… not to Whumpee. Not like they used to. Caretaker tried but, honestly, it felt weird. Wrong. And they hated themself for feeling that way, they tried to make up for it, but half the time their so called casual displays of admirable would come out feeling strained and forced, which they knew Whumpee could feel.

They could see the tug in Whumpee’s expression before they turned away, the heartbrokenness just swimming behind their remaining eye. The atmosphere in the small hospital room faded into something heavy, and Caretaker was tempted to reach for Whumpee’s hand again, but the way they were angled now limited Caretaker’s access from their right hand, their good hand.

Their left rested inches away, just over the bed rail. Mangled fingers and flesh that barely resembled a hand resting on top of the pillow propped in Whumpee’s lap. Two and a half fingers remaining, scarred flesh raised like veins. The back of their palm layered with so much they couldn’t tell on mark from the next, burns from stabs from breaks.

Caretaker let their own hands fall back to their sides. Both Whumpee and then knew just was a lie rested between them.

“I’ll go see if the nurse can sneak us some jello,” Caretaker said after a moment of tension, slapping their palms against their knees with a newfound purpose as they stood up. “I saw someone with a green cup earlier, I know it’s your favorite. Be right back,” they promised, quickly moving towards and out the door.

“Bye,” Whumpee mumbled, looking over their shoulder as Caretaker practically ran out of the room. Only once they were alone, Whumpee raised a palm to their eyes, scrubbing away the tears before they could fall.

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writereleaserepeat · 1 year

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Hear No Evil - Chapter 5

Previous // Next

CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, blood mention, scar mention, non-sexual nudity

It felt wrong to touch the boy’s face. It felt wrong to touch a person who had been endlessly abused into mindless submission, someone who had been trained through pain and suffering that they had to exist at the will and command of another. It felt wrong that the boy was still sitting naked, all but skin and bones, entirely unmoving on Rowan’s floor.

What other choice did Rowan have? Was there another way to communicate with this boy, one that wasn’t as direct as physical contact? Necessity, Rowan reminded himself as the boy’s face turned upward in his palm. I’m doing this out of necessity.

Even as he gently guided the boy’s face to look upwards, he refused to meet Rowan’s eyes, his gaze directed towards the floor. That was alright. It was going to have to be alright for a while, Rowan suspected.

After a moment he let his fingers fall away from the boy’s chin. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was relieved when his new houseguest held the position rather than dropping back to the ground.

“Hey there,” Rowan greeted. He did his best to smile. “I don’t know if you remember, but my name’s Rowan. I know this is new for you, but it’s new for me too. It’s new for both of us. I’m sure you’re probably scared, but we’re going to get through this. We’re going to have to learn together, alright?”

The boy didn’t even blink.

---

Master didn’t seem upset that Pet was holding still and looking up at him. By the hint of a smile on Master’s lips, it seemed that he was pleased by the unusual posture.

It didn’t dare meet Master’s eyes, of course, but now it could try and read his lips. Even if it couldn’t decipher the words that Master was speaking, it had already come to enjoy the soft murmur of Master’s speech. The kindness and warmth was enough for it to relax.

New… new… new for both of us… learn together…

Pet knew that it could do that. Pet was happy to learn new things for its Master, and it was going to try its very best to do them well. Failure meant punishment, but even worse, failure meant disappointing Master. Disappointing its old Master is what got Pet into this mess to begin with. It could handle any amount of pain, however Master chose to train it, but disappointment always burned the deepest.

Pet can be good. Pet can learn with Master.

---

It struck Rowan that now only was the boy still naked, but the stench of waste and sweat clung to his body. The putrid odor of the liquidation event had begun to seep into the room at no fault of the boy’s own.

Of course - Rowan privately scolded himself for forgetting. The facility never gave its victims the luxury of proper hygiene, and this one had been stuck at the liquidation event for days, before eventually being stuffed in a box. There was no wonder that the boy’s curls were slicked down with grease and dirt.

Rowan attempted a smile. He knew it didn’t reach his eyes, but how could it, when he knew how much pain this person had been through?

“How does a bath sound, yeah? Can we do that?” Rowan offered this enthusiastically. Rowan also knew that his bathroom was a bit of a disaster, scattered with half-empty shampoo bottles and skin care products he hadn’t used in weeks. He tried to soothe himself by rationalizing that the boy wouldn’t particularly care about the room’s cleanliness.

There was no reaction to Rowan’s offer, not a nod, not so much as a twitch. It was all he could do not to sigh, worried that any sighs would be interpreted as misplaced frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was set the boy on edge.

He remembered what worked earlier, the very gestures that had lured the boy to his bedroom in his first place. After giving himself a determined nod, Rowan took a few steps backwards, and gestured with a low hand to invite the victim to follow along.

Much to Rowan’s relief, the boy understood. He scampered forward on his hands and knees, eyes glued back to the ground, every bone on his gaunt frame showing. As much as Rowan would have preferred him to walk on two feet, this was going to have to do for the moment. Just enough to get him cleaned and settled in, nothing more. Then they would begin work on rehabilitation.

As soon as Rowan opened the door to the bathroom, the boy bolted forward and into the tub in a tangle of limbs and apparent enthusiasm. Rowan hadn’t spoken a single word or made a gesture. He smiled in spite of himself, and cocked his head to the side.

“Alright, I guess baths are okay? That’ll make this easier.” Rowan thought about the many victims that had been tormented by water, scalded or frozen at inhumane temperatures, or held beneath the surface until they drew mouthfuls into their lungs. To have a victim who was at least amiable to the cleaning process would relieve the burden on them both.

The boy had resumed the typical kneeling position in the tub, seemingly unbothered by the hard porcelain. Rowan figured it was best not to try and correct that for the time being. One step at a time. Be encouraging.

Rowan leaned over to the spigot and slowly turned it on, carefully easing the handle towards “H,” and diligently checked the temperature as water began to flow. Once it was comfortably warm he plugged the drain and watched as the clear liquid began to pool around the boy’s legs. Rowan almost swore he heard a contented sigh as the boy’s eyes slipped closed.

For the first time in more than a day, Rowan felt himself smile, a genuine smile. And for the first time, he felt that maybe he was cut out for this.

---

Pet was grateful for the washing before it even began. Its old Master was so particular in keeping Pet clean, and would have his servants scrub Pet down every day beneath a stream of hot water. Sometimes the soap was floral, other times it was citrus, but it always left Pet smelling wonderful. Handler never gave it such luxuries when it was sent back to the training facilities.

The water rose ever higher, first over its thighs, then over the pale skin of its stomach, until the water finally came to a stop right above its navel. It could have groaned with how pleasant the warm water felt on its aching legs and bruised knees. For a moment it nearly dared to speak, express its gratitude for the kindness, but knew better than to open its mouth without being told.

Still, it was a treat to have Master wash it rather than a servant.

Master gently cupped warm water over its head, and Pet closed its eyes tight to keep the water out. With each new splash of water Master continued to talk away, his voice nearly as warm as the water, wrapping around Pet’s shoulders along with the suds. Of course, the words were still indistinct, and Pet listened in case there was a command it could discern, but it was already starting to think that maybe Master just liked to talk. Pet wouldn’t mind that at all.

---

“I’ve never really had anything to name before,” Rowan mused aloud as he worked his fingers through the boy’s curls. The texture was so much deeper than his own, the ringlets rich with weight. He made a quick mental note that the dollar-store shampoo he used for his own pin-straight hair would most certainly not do in the future.

“You see, I had to name a goldfish when I was a kid,” Rowan continued as he began to rinse the shampoo out. “I had to name it, and I stalled for weeks. My parents kept asking me, and my sister kept bugging me about it, but I just didn’t have anything. My mom eventually suggested ‘Goldy,’ and I just went with it. But if you can’t tell me what you want to be called, at least not yet, you deserve a name. A proper one, something with a bit of dignity.”

He wondered if there were websites to help with such a thing. namesforyourbrainwashedhumanslave.com? It wouldn’t surprise him.

“You’re going to have to learn to wash yourself in the future.” Rowan gently wrung some of the water from the boy’s thick head of hair and hoped he wasn’t pulling on the roots. “It’s okay if that doesn’t happen right away. I’m more than happy to help, but I want you to feel comfortable doing things on your own, without having to ask me. You can come in here and have a bath whenever you want. The apartment incorporates the cost of utilities into the monthly rent already, which means we can use as much as we want at no extra cost. It’s nice to have almost unlimited heat in the winters, especially this far north.”

As he began to carefully wipe away the grime on the boy’s face with a warm cloth, Rowan nearly startled when the boy leaned into the touch. He hadn’t expected to feel pressure returned against his hand. After pausing long enough to pull himself out of the shock, Rowan pressed on and began to scrub at the dried blood on the side of the victim’s face. Flakes of muddy brown and deep crimson scabs covered the deep gouges that ran from his temples, down his ears and jawline, almost down to his neck. Given the extent of the damage, it was a wonder there was any skin left.

“I hope one day you can tell me how these got here,” Rowan murmured as he got a good look at the wounds for the first time. Blood flaked away and fell in hues of brown into the water, mixed with fresh red from the most recent and still-weeping wounds.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered before he could stop himself, because he knew he had to be hurting the boy, no matter how gently he tried to proceed. The wounds were deep, and Rowan wondered if they needed stitches. How was he supposed to tell? Maybe they were too wide for stitches, maybe the scar tissue was already too well-formed.

They were different than the scars that Rowan had seen on other victims before, and he had seen the aftermath of many instruments of torture in his time. These scars were jagged, and they were as wide as three fingers across, as though they had been continually torn open. It was the first time Rowan saw them this close up, and he noted that the cartilage of the ears was warped and knobbed. Again, something like he had never seen before.

The water had turned a translucent copper color, and Rowan tried not to be sick as he reached in to drain the bathtub. A quick hand gesture and the boy got out of the tub and knelt back down on the bath mat.

Right, towels. Dry him off.

“Let’s get you dry, huh?” Rowan spoke. Maybe it would help ease whatever tensions were running through the boy’s mind if Rowan kept narrating what he was doing. He imagined it would be beneficial to take away some of the nerve-wracking suspense, and instead replace it with vocalized certainty.

Forcing a smile on his lips, Rowan grabbed the freshly-laundered towel he had set aside, and held it out in the boy’s line of sight.

“I’ve got a clean towel here. If you want to do it yourself, just grab the towel, and I’ll stop. Otherwise, here we go.”

As soon as the terry cloth made contact with the boy’s shoulders, he leaned into the touch, his upper body shifting a few centimeters closer to Rowan’s own. Again. This time, Rowan didn’t startle quite so easily. In fact, he was surprised at himself, and the happiness that blossomed in his stomach.

He knew he couldn’t take happiness in this forever. There was no joy to be taken in a human being that acted on inhumane training, a human who sought other human contact because they were told to, not because they wanted it. But if the boy wasn’t afraid of him and his touch, that was one small victory. Rowan had a feeling he was going to have to take the little victories for what they were.

“You’re doing great,” he said, not for the first time that hour. But this time, Rowan knew he might have been talking to himself as well.

---

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader @dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast @whumpzone

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blackrosesandwhump · 4 months

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Whump Prompt 125

Write something inspired by this scene:

Monster whumpee transforms back into his human form and regains control of his mind, only to find the bloodied body of caretaker lying at his feet.

Overcome by horror and grief, whumpee falls to his knees.

"You see what you are, whumpee?" comes whumper's voice from behind him. "You're a monster. And the only safe place for you is with me."

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honeycollectswhump · 1 month

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Whump Prompt

Caretaker is obsessive about a recovering Whumpee, to the point that it makes them physically uncomfortable and seize up whenever Whumpee gets close with other people. But Caretaker really cares about Whumpee so they try their hardest to not let this actually influence Whumpee’s recovery and connections.

Do they succeed? Does Whumpee ever notice Caretaker’s inner struggle? Does it create a rift in their friendship, making Caretaker distance themselves from the unknowing Whumpee, before they hurt them?

Does Caretaker snap and become a restricting Whumper to their friend?

#yes this is about my disorders #but i’m being so brave about it #i don’t want to impact my friends ever but god sometimes it makes me want to cry #and there’s nothing i can do about it because anything else would be Extremely Toxic #i guess i’m heading towards a low again and that’s not even something meds can fully prevent #obsessive caretaker #caretaker turned whumper #recovering whumpee #mental illness whump #whump prompt #whumpee and caretaker #honey's writing

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pigeonwhumps · 9 days

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Rules

Pets of the Silver Screen masterlist

Taglist: @maracujatangerine @clairelsonao3 @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @bbu-on-the-side

Multiple times over the years, Agatha learns the rules.

2.1k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, kidnapping, collar, beating, stress positions, dehumanisation, non-con nudity (non sexual)

Agatha juts her chin out, poise perfect despite the tip-toe position she's been forced into.

"My name is Miss Agatha Stanbury, daughter of Lord Kenneth Stanbury. Let me go and you may get out of this alive."

Foster Montgomery smirks, pressing his knife into her neck, blood beading along its edge.

"I think I'd rather keep you. Nobody's going to find you, certainly not after I'm finished with you." He drags his knife down her front, slitting her clothes. They mostly stay on, but it must be a very sharp knife to manage that. "Take them off."

"No."

He holds up the knife, reminding her. "What did you say?"

Agatha swallows but keeps her poise. She's going to be an actress, she can pretend she has nothing to fear.

"I said no. You have given me nothing to wear afterwards and I will not follow your disgusting commands."

"I have more suitable clothing for you later, if you earn it. But if you won't obey willingly I'll have to do it for you."

Agatha's barely had a chance to process the statement when she's slammed to the ground. All her bones are jarred and her nose explodes with agony. A boot seems to grind her into the floor as Montgomery removes her clothing piece by piece.

She hates herself for thinking it, but at least he lets her keep her knickers.

He grunts in satisfaction, and hauls her to her knees. She shoves his hands away and stands, but is back on her knees in less than a second.

"Stay." He reaches behind him and picks up a leather collar complete with tag.

Agatha doesn't move when he reaches out and buckles the suffocating leather around her throat, but not out of obedience. She just doesn't think she can.

She reaches up to touch it, but Montgomery smacks away her hand before she can.

"Don't even think about it. I'll only ever remove it if you need a punishment that might interfere with the collar somehow, so if you do so yourself I'll assume that's what you're after. But you do still deserve a punishment. Bend over."

Agatha swallows hard, the soft leather and cold metal buckle pressing against her throat. She doesn't move. She only came down for the season, she's not going to obey a kidnapper who's apparently obsessed with turning her into a pet.

He couldn't find a volunteer? There's enough of them.

She pitches forward onto her hands and knees as he pushes her over, pulling her knickers down.

"Bare flesh is best for this. Pets obey. They don't say no. They don't talk back. You need to learn this."

Agatha has never had such a thrashing in her life as she receives then. No-one's ever drawn blood before. She's not passed out enough by the end to receive a reprieve though – he orders her to clean the house, and woe betide her if he finds a speck of dust or blood.

She experiences it all as if from miles away. As if from the gathering she's supposed to be at right now, with entirely different rules. She's not in her body, most of the time, and that's probably for the best.

That day and the next, she learns the rules of being Foster Montgomery's captive.

1) Don't say no.

2) Only speak when spoken to.

3) Don't talk back.

4) Address other people as sir or ma'am.

5) Always obey immediately.

6) Don't remove your collar.

7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.

She adds an extra one from herself, too, which she knows is true. Montgomery giving her a collar is not just him being a sick bastard, it's theatre, another part of the pretense. Because even if he were to parade her in front of those she loves, everyone knows that only pets wear collars.

8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.

Over the next few months, the rules don't change. The chores are hard, and the punishments harsh, and a lot more of her is scarred now. Very little of what Montgomery does has any logic to it.

But she still can't find an escape. She fears she's sinking into it.

When she's hired by Hayes Fletcher, more rules are added to the list.

9) Don't talk to the other pet.

10) If you disobey, it won't just be you who's punished.

Eloise won't receive whippings, of course, and no canings during the shoot, but she can be put in stress positions, or starved, or have a bucket of water dumped over her head before being left in the unheated studio overnight. And Agatha has absolutely no desire to subject her to anything other than a good hot meal and somewhere better to sleep.

Rule 7 is underlined dramatically by the inspector's visit. In the aftermath, Agatha's arm and back throbbing, blood pooling on the frozen stone floor that her toes are just able to touch, Eloise whimpering from her own position, Agatha makes sure to add another two rules to herself (though the second is altered after Eloise's angry objections).

11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.

12) Don't break the rules. Even Only if Eloise agrees to do so.

Agatha could possibly escape during the transatlantic crossing. She thinks about it. Even jumping overboard might be better. But she needs to see Eloise again. Be sure that she's alive and physically unhurt (from the sinking at least, Agatha has no doubt she'll have been hurt since). Tell her that she's brave, and a hero, because if it had been anyone but fellow pets she'd saved, if she was anyone but a pet herself, her actions would've been lauded, but instead it's Hayes Fletcher who's being praised for having such a good pet. Which isn't right, it isn't fair, and Agatha can't leave Eloise on her own.

That's when Agatha solidifies the last rule for herself, that's been brewing since she first met Eloise but she's never stopped to think about it before.

13) Her and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.

Then the Great War comes.

Foster Montgomery signs up to fight. He leaves Agatha in Hayes Fletcher's care, who lends her to the munitions factory, for good publicity and probably money (money for Fletcher? Money for Montgomery? She doesn't know. But neither man is big into philanthropy). Eloise isn't there. Agatha follows the rules Montgomery has already given her, hating the fact that they keep her alive.

Another few rules are added.

14) Don't become emotional.

15) Never make a sound.

16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.

That last is... profoundly obvious, at times. When the rest of the workers get to go home at the end of their shifts and she is kept working, or if there's no-one else at all, locked in the breakroom until morning. When she's fed less than the others, or when she's beaten, or–

It's so obvious, even more so than when she was hired by Hayes Fletcher. She hates it. And she's so alone here.

The war will be over by Christmas, right?

1915. Foster Montgomery is dead, and Agatha desperately wishes she could thank his killer, if anybody even knows. She gets a new tattoo, signifying her ownership by Hayes Fletcher (luckily, she knows his rules, there's no new ones to learn there). The Munitions Act comes into force, and the regular bombing raids start.

Monkey's paw. She's not alone anymore, but it means that Eloise, and several other pets, have joined her in the munitions factory.

She teaches Eloise what she's learned about staying out of trouble where possible. They have a dedicated bunkroom now, pets crammed in on old bedding on the floors of the worst-maintained rooms. They learn that only a few owners have paid for their pets to be taken to air raid shelters.

Hayes Fletcher hasn't.

Night after night they spend, trying to stay calm as bombs rain down around them. Occasionally they're still chained or tied up at night, for punishments, and when that happens Agatha worries the most.

She learns one more rule.

17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.

The war ends. By a miracle, her and Eloise are both still alive. Hayes Fletcher goes back to producing films, albeit with less success. Agatha watches as pet liberation campaigns grow, and the next decade approaches with force. The world seems a little more hopeful, things seem to be changing.

Except for her and Eloise. Stuck with the horrible, spiteful little man, punishments getting worse as he gets more frustrated and blames them for it (or maybe he simply has nowhere else to put his anger). The world's moving on, votes for women are coming, and she can't help but think of what her life might be like if she hadn't been kidnapped all those years ago.

She remembers rule 7. And the last time was dreadful, and another attempt could get them both killed, but she mentions her rule to Eloise one night and Eloise agrees. They have to try, don't they? Sometimes, it's the only thing you can do.

A week later, the film studio burns down in the middle of the night. Arson, probably. By the time the fire brigade arrive to the burnt out husk Agatha and Eloise are already sneaking onto a train to London.

"If the both of you want rules, I can give you some," says Ira, clearly reluctant, "as long as we can go through the ones you already have first. Is that all right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ira nods. "Why don't you write me a list then? We can go through them while Eloise is busy."

Agatha takes the paper and pen she offers, wincing as she sits down, heart skipping a beat. She's still not used to it.

At the end of the session, her list reads:

1) Don't say no.

2) Only speak when spoken to.

3) Don't talk back.

4) Address people as sir or ma'am.

5) Always obey immediately.

6) Don't remove your collar.

7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.

8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.

9) Don't talk to the other pets.

10) If you disobey, it won't be just you who's punished.

11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.

12) Don't break the rules. Only if Eloise agrees to do so.

13) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other. (Ira says she can get rid of this one partially too, but she's not so sure. Not yet)

14) Don't become emotional.

15) Never make a sound.

16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.

17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.

The new rules are easy, and straightforward, and Agatha doesn't entirely trust them. The list now reads:

1) You belong to yourself.

2) You will never be punished, no matter what you do.

3) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.

4) Sometimes all you can do is pray.

Agatha kneels on the floorboards, trembling. It's her turn today, Ira asked her to clean and she said yes, she's not sure why except she's so used to not being allowed to say no.

She hopes she's done well. She hopes she's done well. She hopes she won't be punished.

Ira doesn't do punishments. But all the same, she hopes she won't be punished.

There's footsteps, then they stop.

"Agatha?"

"I've finished cleaning, ma'am."

A hand on her shoulder. "Agatha, please look at me. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Come on, look up."

Agatha obeys hesitantly. And gasps. Ira's eyes are dark and warm and how could Agatha ever have thought otherwise? Ira gets down to her level as Agatha grasps her hands tightly, pulling her into a rare hug.

"Rules one and two, Agatha."

"I belong to myself," whispers Agatha, still clutching Ira tightly, "and I will not be punished."

Ira's two rules. The only two she'll ever make.

1) I belong to myself.

2) I will never be punished, no matter what I do.

And there's a third, that Agatha has added herself, that she thinks she probably can after so long. Rule number 5, now Ira has been proven correct and number 3 has been partially removed (Agatha does not only have Eloise now).

5) Ira keeps her promises.

#whump #whump writing #bbu community #bbu #box boy universe #box babe #multiple whumpees #pet whump #kidnapping #lady whump #whumpee and whumper #whumpee and caretaker #pets of the silver screen #agatha stanbury #foster montgomery #ira waterhouse #not happy with the list formatting but nvm #historical whump

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