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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 months

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🧤 Invasive/Uncomfortable exam for Rafael

CW: BBU, medical whump, medical setting, dubcon touching (nonsexual), discussions of dubcon/noncon, BBU, pet whump

"What seems to be the nature of the problem?" The doctor isn't asking him. No one ever asks Rafael questions - he's just a pet, after all, barely human.

A human-shaped sex toy. Like a vibrator that needs to be fed three times a day. He hums, a sound like a flat vibration, and then smiles, a little dreamily, at the internal joke.

Everyone ignores him.

"Someone went rough on him last night," Boscoe says with a shrug. His master's favorite and highest-level servant, paid a small fortune to handle these sorts of things in his absence, pretending that it wasn't him who went so rough, that he isn't the reason Rafael is here right now.

Rafael slept alone in the big bed last night, once Boscoe was done with him, and he barely slept at all. The ache still throbbing and spiking through his lower half has as much to do with that as the loneliness.

The clinician looks at Boscoe with eyebrows raised above her glasses, waits a beat, and then primpts, "Any more detail than that?"

"Nope." Boscoe shrugs again, gives a half-cocked grin. "Sorry, I'm just the household manager. Mr. and Mrs. Isbell went on vacation in Europe."

They had kissed him, each of them, and then left him lying in the bed, trying not to cry. Boscoe had come in an hour later, and told him to make noise, as much as he wanted.

So he did.

He never tells his masters about Boscoe hurting him when they're gone, because only with Boscoe is Rafael ever allowed to scream.

"Fine." The doctor looks Rafael over, without distaste or judgement but with absolutely no feeling at all. It's almost nice, to have someone who doesn't need to tell him he's pretty, or that he looks like a good slut, or any of the things the people around his masters seem to believe are compliments. "All right, you, lay down on your back for me and just scoot those hips right to the edge."

"Yes, ma'am," He responds, laying back on the padded exam table easily, even allowing his back to arch with graceful, perfectly feigned thoughtless seduction as he slips his heels into the leather stirrups and moves his arms slowly over his head, shifting until his ass nearly hangs off the edge.

"Good boy," The doctor says absently. Rafael shivers a little with pleasure at the praise, keeping his eyes closed and biting down on his lower lip. It's a trained reaction, one that's thoughtless by now, but it's never really instinct.

The nurse, an older woman, doesn't even look at him as she takes her place at the end of the table. The doctor grunts as she puts on blue latex gloves and smears clear lubricant on her fingers. "Hold steady, pet. This might cause some discomfort."

Rafael wants to ask her if there is anything you can do to him that doesn't.

He keeps his mouth shut, though.

Boscoe is still watching him with his arms crossed where he stands against the wall. Rafael chances only the slightest glance, looking away when he sees Boscoe's eyes trailing over the welts left along Rafael's ribs from the night before, the bite marks so deep they've bruised in the shape of teeth on one hip.

"His owner signed off on the use of his body?" The doctor asks as she slides the first finger inside. Rafael bites his lower lip harder to keep himself quiet, because it doesn't feel uncomfortable - it stings, torn skin protesting yet another invasion.

"Yes," Boscoe lies easily. Then, to add a kernel of truth, "They often allow their friends or business partners to use him."

Not their employees, though, but that's never stopped Boscoe. And Rafael knows how to keep secrets, knows how to trade his silence in front of the masters for the ability to weep when they're gone.

One finger becomes two, then three, the pain rising, and Rafael can't hold back the softest whimper no matter how hard he tries. "Ma'am-... Ma'am, I-"

"Sssshhh," The doctor shushes him harshly, and Rafael swallows back any thin, weak protest against her touch he might have been able to manage. "I know. I can tell this is hurting you."

She doesn't stop, though. She gets a small silver tool out, rubs it over in the same lubricant, and then forces that inside, too.

When Rafael cries out, the nurse slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle him, glaring down at him at his vision blurs with tears. His chest heaves, panting with the need for this to stop, to stop hurting, just to give him a minute to prepare himself for it.

But no one listens to him.

It's not like he's a person, anyway.

#rafael is no one's saint #bbu #wru #pet whump #noncon touch #nonsexual touch #dubcon #medical whump

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mellaithwen · 6 months

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Wales rugby fans bring Marseille street to a standstill as stunning World Cup moment thrills locals (@ WalesOnline)

Image ID: video of a large crowd of Welsh rugby fans in Marseille singing the Welsh National Anthem, followed by Hymns and Arias, before the World Cup quarter final against Argentina today.

hello I’m crying :’)

#does dim eglurhad digon dda am y teimlad ma….#c’MON BECHGYN!!!!!#RWC 2023 #rugby world cup 2023 #RWC France #rugby #WRU #welsh rugby union #Cymru #Cymraeg #yma o hyd #wales #marseille #rugby world cup #WAL v ARG #if music be the food of love play on

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maracujatangerine · 1 month

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83. On the phone 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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boxboysandotherwhump · 9 months

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A wru thought:

Wru performs plastic surgery on their pets, especially the romantics.

It's partly to enhance the merchandise and partly to make it harder for the pets to recognize their old self in the mirror and to be rediscovered by their loved ones.

Wru offers the surgeries as a bonus package on top of the sweet new life they'll give you. You will be beautiful for your new owner if you want to, or not!

#whump #pet whump #box boy universe #boxboy whump #box boy whump #wru #wru world building #whump idea

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world-of-wales · 8 months

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The Prince of Wales visited Fiji's Rugby Team 'The Flying Fijians' following their match against Wales in the Rugby World Cup 2023 in Bordeaux, France || 10 SEPTEMBER 2023

#prince of wales #the prince of wales #prince william #william wales #10092023 #WalFijRWC23 #british royal family #british royals #royalty #royals #brf #royal #british royalty #royaltyedit #royalty edit #wru #my edit

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gottawhump · 11 months

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I’m thinking about how often in BBU stories the compensation is designated to family members/loved ones.

And how sad that must be. Your loved one disappears. For a while, you don’t know what happened to them. You contact the authorities. You put out the posters. You put alerts online. Most likely every effort dead ends.

Then, one day, you get a check or a direct deposit from WRU. You finally know.

#bbu #wru #prompt?#if you want

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justplainwhump · 11 months

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Change of Hands

Thank you all for enjoying my last piece [Pet Safety]. This one is a lot slower, but for all those of you wondering about the Chewtoy's fate. Mostly for @whumppsychology who nudged me into this direction. Might a bridge, towards expanding more on their story.

[masterlist]

Adrian makes a deal.

Content/ warnings: BBU, WRU as a workplace :), BBU romantic, dubcon mentioned (offered, but not acted upon), explicit language, brief suicidal ideation (to escape), brief emeto mention.

Adrian had brought the Chewtoy to the WRU clinic in the business district downtown, hidden away in a room with restricted access; just him, Izzy and one of the nurses, who they knew wouldn't ask any questions.

They'd do their best to stabilise her, while Adrian went on working on the upper floors of the same building as he would on any other day.

He did check in on her every lunch break. The first few days, she was sleeping constantly, or barely awake, her eye glazed over, just staring into the void, sometimes whining softly. She looked small in the bed, vulnerable, in a flowered hospital gown, black plastic collar loosely around her neck. Adrian didn't say anything to her, just checked that she was there, her bandages changed, her medication taken care of.

On the fifth day, she looked at him. Even with half her gaze hidden under the eyepatch, Adrian flinched under the intensity of it. Her eye was of a light gray, like metal, maybe. Stainless steel. Indestructible. He hoped she was.

"Who are you?", she asked.

Adrian raised his eyebrows. Pets weren't supposed to ask questions, he thought. Pets were to address strangers as Sir or Madam. Pets were meant to cast down their gaze, and maybe- maybe- look up submissively through their lashes.

400168 just stared.

"I'm Adrian Delgado," he replied. "WRU pet safety inspector."

She slowly placed a hand on her collar, a soft and sensual motion. This, he recognised, standard romantic protocol. Pets weren't meant to touch their collars, though. "This isn't a shock collar," she stated plainly. "Why not?"

"Because you're here to heal."

"So that you can fuck me later?"

"I..." Adrian took in a sharp breath and shook his head. "No. No, I'm not here to fuck you. I'm here to help you."

"Help me get a better pet?" She smiled wistfully and tilted her head. "Usually that includes fucking, Adrian." The way she said his name sent a thrill down his spine. Soft, a little teasing, a little promising. She was strange, in her behaviour. Didn't mean she couldn't cause just the reactions the company wanted her to.

"No. You... you've been through a lot."

She frowned. "You don't want me, because of the scar. Like... like Jack."

Jack? He hadn't seemed like that type.

"Jack Donnell isn't your owner any longer."

She seemed to ponder on that for a moment. "Good," she said then. "I didn't like him."

"Neither did I," Adrian said.

She grinned a little at that.

"Who owns me now, then? You..." She frowned. "I remember you. You... Did you steal me?"

"I got you back for WRU. Your - Jack... He would have killed you."

"I know." She swallowed, cleared her throat, before she turned away. "I was waiting for it."

Adrian shivered. "You... you wanted to die?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "But I didn't want to live any longer." She looked back at him and he flinched under the despair in her gaze. "Please. Adrian Delgado. I... I don't want to go back."

He nodded, swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, I know. I... I'll do what I can. I'll... Let me make a call."

He all but fled the room.

"Give me a sec", Izzy said on the phone, their private lines, untraceable SIM cars. He heard her step out of a room and walk down a corridor. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, dampened in a small room. "Listen, Adrian. Something happened. I can't do that for you any longer. It's not like they're onto us, I hope, I really hope, but there... There was a change in protocol. That second signature I'd need to confirm her death... I have no influence on who gives it any longer. Can't be you any more. And I don't know who it'll be. I... I'm with you in this, I really am, this is the good fight, but there have been irregularities in my cases before and I can't... I can't help you any more. It's stealing. Stealing from the company."

Adrian cast a quick gaze back at the Chewtoy's door. This couldn't be. He'd made a promise. "She can't go back," he said into the phone. "Neither to her owner, nor to the company. She won't make it. Please, Iz."

"I can't help you, Adrian. I have to report her healthy. I..." Izzy sighed. "I know this isn't much solace but... Remember, you're not responsible for her bad decisions, right? She signed up for this."

It took a lot, to hold his breath, keep his teeth clenched, push back the 'Fuck You' that was raging in his chest. Sometimes he thought he'd have made a good Guard Dog himself. There was so much fury simmering inside him, all the time, ready to be tapped into nudged toward a target. All they'd need to do was to make him drop the facade.

He wondered if it would feel good, actually. To attack, instead of holding back.

If that was what the Guard Dogs felt, that he inspected on the daily.

He shook off the thought.

"Okay, Iz," he said instead, his words clipped short. "Yeah. See you later. Bye."

He hung up before she could say another thing.

His boss called him into her office less than an hour later.

168 had been asleep when he glanced into her room after the call with Izzy. He hadn't woken her up. He couldn't get her out without help. WRU's buildings were designed to be safe. Once in, it was all but impossible to get out. He hated himself, knowing he'd been the one to take the pet here. He'd relied on their system to work.

He shouldn't have. He should've just driven her to a pet lib safehouse, filed her as a runaway, trusting nobody would look for a scarred, half dead Chewtoy. But then again, they wouldn't have taken her in either. Pet lib were careful, they had to be.

No. Keeping his promise was on him, on Adrian alone. And right now, his boss was about to test him.

"Izzy from the clinic has updated me on the Romantic you've brought in. 400168. She seems to be back on her feet." Kelly waved a manila folder at him. "Why isn't she in a crate back into the arms of the company?"

Adrian fought the urge to close his eyes for a second. He had prepared for that question, at least. He managed to call up an easy smile and give a half shrug. "There've been some inconsistencies in her owner's story. I wanted to talk to her about them, before finishing the report."

"Yeah, about that." She smirked. "We're not going to do this. Jack is a good client. He pulled back that complaint he filed against you, but that's still shed some bad light on us. I've already filed the results. He passed the inspection."

"Why-"

"Because I'm your boss, Adrian. You're a good PSI, one of our best, and I highly appreciate your work. But as a WRU manager, I need to think a step further. And that is, balance the interest of clients and company." Her perfectly manicured fingers drummed on the cover of the the folder. Bright red nail polish. Kelly didn't even try not to be threatening. "That Romantic you brought in, I appreciate the notion. The concept of a Chewtoy is unacceptable. But you should've looked at her file before jumping to action. She's a mess. Runaway Romantic, refurbished, but it didn't go well. Memory problems, periods of being nonverbal, sometimes even catatonic. Seems they wiped out some of that nicely programmed conditioning, too. Company shipped her out anyway, because she was a gift, and Jack Donnell noted, quote, I don't mind a little fight, end quote." Kelly sighed as she slid the folder to him over her desk. "Most customers do mind, actually. And now, with that scar in her face, half blind? She's a liability for the company. If we're lucky, very lucky, she'll at least bring in the treatment costs the clinic charged. But that doesn't cover any of the necessary reprogramming."

Another deep sigh, this one even more dramatic than the last one. "I'll have to consider that lack of business acumen in your upcoming evaluation."

"I understand," Adrian said.

Fuck them, he thought. Fuck the company and their disregard of the least shred of humanity. Fuck the company who'd have just let that woman die, to spare them the hassle.

Still, a dangerously stupid idea started to shape in his mind. He swallowed. "Um, maybe I... Maybe I could offer a solution."

"How?"

The words were out before he could think them through. "I buy her. I've collected enough bonus over the years for a product discount, right? That should be what, 50k by now? Covers her clinic bill, doesn't it?"

"She'll still need another refurb."

"What if I take her without it?"

Kelly chuckled. "Oh Adrian, I had clearly underestimated you. You'll spend your 50k bonus on a disfigured, broken Romantic with runaway tendencies, just to protect your career opportunities?"

That was the only thing that made sense to her. Adrian felt sick to the bone as he forced himself to grin at her. "Depends. Would it work?"

Kelly pursed her lips, and he could almost see the calculations running through her head. "Hm. It would," she said finally. "And you know what, I think we could throw in some refreshers on her discipline still. No Drip, that stuff is insanely pricey. But some bedroom specifications that cater to your liking will sure be on the table."

Adrian grinned over the disgust knotting in his stomach. "Perfect. Let me take her home first, see how she behaves. And then I'll come back to that."

Kelly tilted her head, fingernails hitting into the keys. "I'll prepare the transaction. Appreciate the move, Delgado, really. Maybe you actually do have a future in this company."

"I certainly hope so." Adrian smiled, and kept the smile up until they'd shaken hands and he'd left her office, strolled down the corridor, taken a sharp right turn, locked a bathroom stall behind him.

Then he threw up.

#bbu #wru #Blanca #adrian #bbu romantic

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pigeonwhumps · 10 months

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Bug and Company masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch @whumplr-reader (and @squishablesunbeam iirc you wanted to be tagged if people used object designation? Idk if you still do but anyway)

During delivery to its owner, O69 is intercepted.

2.4k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, object whump, self-dehumanisation, locked in a box, conditioned whumpee, scared whumpee, talk of discrimination against Romantics, bad caretaker, bad safehouse (with implications that it could be even worse), implied non-con, wishing for punishment, non-verbal whumpee

O69's body thrums with anticipation as it speeds down the road in its box. It's being taken to its new owner.

This is the most important day in a pet's life.

It wonders what its new owner will be like. It has been trained extensively, and it will be good for whoever it is, but it has no idea what they're like. Short hair, long hair? Kind, cruel? Where will they keep their new toy? It has no idea.

It will find out soon enough.

The van stops suddenly and O69's thrown into the wall of its box. It's not supposed to move at all so it doesn't, not reaching out to cushion itself before its head slams into the wood. It grunts.

It's not supposed to make a noise. It hopes it gets punished.

The doors to the van are thrown open. O69 wonders if it's its turn to be delivered.

Patience, O69. Objects don't get impatient, do they?

No. No, another box is removed. It's disappointed at first but then it realises that multiple boxes are being removed, multiple pairs of feet in the van. What's going on?

Its box is lifted and set down somewhere else, urgent voices surrounding it. It doesn't know what they're saying and it doesn't need to.

Someone shouts, "Go go go!", there's lots of commotion, and then O69's careening down the road, heart in its throat. It can hear screaming.

It isn't long. It isn't long, it knows it, but feels like forever.

It's not the first to be dropped off this time, either, but it feels different when it is. More careful. Like it's breakable.

That's not true. Sex toys aren't breakable. Or if they are it doesn't matter. They can always be replaced.

It can always be replaced.

There's murmuring from outside, and then a noise, a bit like hammering but different. And then daylight. Lots of daylight. The kind it hasn't seen for as long as it can remember.

More light of any sort than it's had since it was packed.

There's a face staring down at it. It tries to look appealing – it doesn't know who this is, but it thinks that regardless of that they're more likely to keep it if it's appealing.

The woman above him makes a strangled sound.

"Oh, god, you're a Romantic, aren't you? At least partly. They won't like that. Shall we get you out of there?"

And without waiting for a response that O69 isn't allowed to give, she reaches in, grabs it just below the elbows, and lifts it out.

O69 screams. Screams like its existence depends on it, like a burglar alarm, someone will come and get their property back, put it back safe, but nobody does, nobody comes.

Nobody wants it enough to come.

It's left in this woman's grip, the shocked look on her face boding nothing good, oh what if this is its owner? It didn't think so, it thought it was stolen, but maybe... maybe this is why pets don't think.

"Hey, hey, it's not as bad as all that. Let's get you sat down, then we can go over a few things." She sets it down on the carpet.

It's too soft. The lights are too much and the noise is too much and it has no idea what the expectations are and it all hurts. It wants to bury its head in its knees and jam its hands over its ears and scream until this all goes away but it can't, it's not allowed, it knows this without actually knowing, so it does the next best thing.

It tries to climb back into its box.

"Whoa, whoa, no. You don't need to go back in there, you're free."

But it's dark and familiar and safe in there and for the first time ever it ignores an order, crawling towards it, starting to climb over the lip of the box.

She wrenches it out, setting it down further away, and lifts the box. "I said, no." She's harsh this time and O69 cowers away from her tone, words like acid. "You don't need to– look, I'll be back in a minute."

And she walks out with its box. Its only safety, and she just takes it away, like it's nothing, like she doesn't care, like... like... what's O69 supposed to do now? How can it be stored, how can it be safe now? What does it mean that its storage is being taken? Retraining? Replacement? Refurbishment? It whimpers at the thought.

It needs somewhere to go. Maybe if it just stays out of the way it'll be forgotten about, allowed to stay. A dusty toy on a shelf, not played with but not thrown away, either.

It scans the room. There. A nook, tiny, in the corner, and it moves without an order, heart in its throat, desperate, crawling into it, scrunching up tight to fit. It's nearly as tight as the cage it was trained to stay still in, and it has to go really small, but that's okay. It knows how to do that. Out of sight, out of mind.

The woman comes back into the room and frowns. "Are you in here? Oh, you're... okay. Let me grab your papers and you can stay there until you're ready to come out."

She peels the plastic packet carefully off his t-shirt and moves away. It wonders how long it'll be allowed to stay here for.

Minutes, it thinks at first. Minutes which turn into hours, which eventually turn into days.

It keeps its eyes shut, body tiny, it knows how to keep still and it will. At least its training is useful for something, even here.

It isn't aware of everything, but it's aware of enough.

It hears voices, low and angry, an argument that it hopes it doesn't take the brunt of. There's worry somewhere. Someone says something frustrated that it determinedly doesn't listen to. Even though it shouldn't, it resists attempts to remove it.

Out of sight, out of mind, it's safe.

And then, a day or two (or maybe three or four) later, there's desperation and pleading. One side of a conversation, not a pleasant one, but they're not talking to it so it doesn't listen, hoping it won't be hurt for this.

It is still due a punishment though, for noises and moving and a hundred other things by now.

O69 doesn't know how long it is until there's hushed voices in the hall, and soft footsteps on the carpet. A thing that sounds like its box is brought in, set down.

"Are you sure about this Alix?" says the first voice.

"Yes," says a new voice, cutting through the air like a knife.

There's a sigh like disappointed wind, and then a set of footsteps disappears out of the door.

"Hello. I'm Alix. You must be O69, right?"

O69 looks up. The woman opposite it doesn't quite look like a knife. But then, not all knives are sharp, and not all dig in smoothly, immediately. Her voice is softer now.

Maybe she's a blunt knife, which takes a lot of force to hurt someone with. It wonders how much it would take for her to hurt it.

"Pleased to meet you. I've come to bring you somewhere safer, if you're okay with that. You can go back in your box. I know they don't like that here, but it's okay, really. If it's safer for you, that's allowed. May I call you O?" O69 doesn't know how to respond, it wasn't taught how to give an opinion. Objects don't do that. "I'm going to take that as a yes. At least one of my housemates will probably find it very uncomfortable at the least to call you 69. Pronouns. He? She? They? It?" It blinks at the last option, not deliberately choosing but just... relaxing, slightly, maybe. Hopefully not. "Okay, it/its it is. Let me bring your box closer and you can climb back in, yeah? I promise you, I have no problem with you going back in there."

Alix is true to her word, bringing its box over and then backing away. O69 unfurls itself, cramped and barely able to move from the stiffness, and crawls over to its box, climbing up and over the top. It curls up inside.

It's safe again. It's safe. It's darker and softer and safer.

"There we are. Here's a blanket in case you need one, and you can eat when we get to my house. I didn't bring any food because I didn't know if you get carsick. I'll take your lid with me, obviously, but I'm leaving it off for now, if you're okay with that. So you can see out if you like. Ready to go?"

Alix peers over the top of its box and it blinks, unsure of what's going on. All it knows is that it's being moved again and hopefully that place will be better than this one. Even though she's still not its owner, he's still not going where he should be, and what's going on?

"Great. Let's get out of here."

It's carried for a bit before the voice from days ago says hesitantly, "Alix? About this... um, thank you. I know you don't have much space."

"We have a spare room at the moment. And even if we didn't, we'd make do. Don't thank me, just... look, find someone better than Christians Against Pets to teach you this stuff, okay? You've got a good heart, good instincts. You just need to learn how to use them."

"They didn't want to help O69 at all," she sniffles.

"Yeah. They do that with Romantics. WRU allows them to exist as a rehabilitation group, think about why they'd choose them, specifically, as cover. What WRU can do, knowing where they are, where they can find a supply of unwanted and probably undefended Romantics. Find somewhere else to train, and I hope I see you again soon."

"You too. O69? I'm sorry."

O69 doesn't know what to say to that, even if it could speak.

Alix lifts its box higher in her arms and carries it outside.

"I'm going to set you down in the car now. Passenger seat. The roof's down, hopefully you can feel a breeze in there."

Alix sets it down and starts up the engine. It can see white fluffy clouds and blue skies above, the tops of green and brown trees flitting past. A flock of gangly birds honk as they pass overhead.

"Canada geese," she explains. Then she sighs, and says, "There's one of my housemates. We'll pick them up, you can meet them." Then she raises her voice and, in a knife-edge tone that makes O flinch despite itself, yells, "Bug!"

There's a moment of silence, before an indignant, "You nearly made me drop the shopping!"

"Come on, get in. Come and meet your newest housemate."

Someone flops into the back seat. "Gonna be a bit cold with the top down, isn't it?"

"You picked the car," Alix says long-sufferingly.

"I was trying to see if you'd actually buy it."

There's a pause, then Alix says quietly, "I'll always take your advice, Bug. You know that."

There's the sound of someone clearing their throat. The new voice is rougher now, like grating sand. "Who am I meeting then? Why are they in a box still?" asks Bug warily, tightly. Like a coiled-up spring.

"Bug, this is O, it/its. O, Adalia, they/them, sometimes known as Bug. Mostly by me. And O's in the box because it wants to stay there."

"Oh. Okay. Hi O. Romantic?"

O feels like it can hear Alix grimace. "Not just Romantic. Here." Papers are tossed and flicked through.

"Fuck," says Adalia. "Those monsters. I'm glad we have you now, O. You'll be safe with us. I'll make sure of it."

The way Adalia says it makes O seem certain they will. But it doesn't know what their version of safety is.

"O, when it comes to your box, you'll need to leave it fairly soon to have a wash, and so we can cover any possibly-unsafe parts of the inside. You can keep it in sight at all times though, and that's the only time I'll ask it of you. You won't have to leave it again, not until you want to, and I mean you, not me. I won't remove it from your sight, and I won't pull you from it, not even to wash."

"You'll start to smell if you don't wash though."

Alix sighs. "Bug."

No. No. She promised.

"You okay in there, O?" asks Adalia. O doesn't respond. It can't. "O, breathe. I bet you're struggling with that. It's okay. I used to be a pet, don't know if you can tell. Alix is good at this. She keeps her word. And if she doesn't, I'll punch her."

O takes a deep, slow breath. It thought it could hear something in their voice.

"Eat this."

A hand reaches in, not Alix's, this one is brown, and gives O an... an apple? O gets an apple? They bite down on it, closing their eyes blissfully (oh it's so sweet, and juicy, it's so good), almost missing the grinning face above.

"Hi. I'm Adalia. Or Bug. I'm not picky. It's nice to meet you. I'd like to be your friend."

And O thinks, so long as it can stay safe in here for as long as it likes, that it would like to be their friend too.

It doesn't know what a friend is, not exactly. But the word feels warm, and it would like that warmth.

"I have a present for you. Here."

They place something soft gently into its other hand. It looks at it closely. It's a small toy bear, looking resplendent in a tiny rainbow sweater.

It's lovely. O's eyes water. Must be the weather. Though it doesn't know why that would be, or why it would think the weather could affect it like that.

O squeezes the teddy and lets go, squeezes and lets go, squeezes and lets go. Again and again and again, over and over it does so, thinking and thinking about the warmth that being Adalia's friend might bring.

#bug and company #o69 oc #alix oc #bug oc #whumpee and caretaker #whumpee turned caretaker #bad caretaker #conditioned whumpee #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #boxie #wru #pet whump #object whump #non verbal whumpee

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distinctlywhumpthing · 8 months

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Unintentional 27

Previous—Masterlist—Next

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.

Previous—Masterlist—Next

@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 #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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sl0wdiver · 3 months

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Not that any of you are rugby mutuals but when I say the comeback that Wales have just put on is better cocaine

#COME ON CYMRU #wru #six nations #wales

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ashintheairlikesnow · 11 months

Text

Ghost Story

Jameson's masterlist (scroll down)

CW: Traumatized whumpee/PTSD, references to past murder and torture, some dehumanization references, chronic pain, grief, a wee teensy bit of choking at the end

He fell asleep on the couch with a movie playing, Vincent Shield and Nat settled into armchairs on either side. Shield holds his water bottles like they'll vanish if his knuckles aren't white from the effort, and Jameson had watched him off and on, catching the way one hand shakes a little, the bouncing of his knee. The nearly visible craving for a drink that he tries to drown in juice and water and coffee.

They were there, when the movie started. When he wakes, they're both gone and there's a heavy blanket laid over him. That'd be Nat, always taking a second to do a good thing when she could just ignore it and no one would mind. His crutches are still leaning against the wall, waiting for when he gets up.

He can, vaguely, hear Trash Cat trying to break into a the cabinet in the pantry where her food is kept. The sound of her little paw trying to force it open despite the baby-proofing cabinet lock Nat bought is a constant soft thunk. thunk. thunk. thunk.

"Fuckin' quit it," He groans. The thunking sound briefly pauses.

Rrrrrow? Her little chirp is barely audible, curious and surprised. She must've forgotten he was down here. He hears her tap-tap-tap her way into the doorway, look at him, and then tap-tap-tap her way back to the pantry again.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

His eyes barely blink, working hard to squint and see the time on the clock.

2:45 am.

"Jesus fuck." His voice is a mumble, heavy with his exhaustion, as he rubs a hand over his face. There's stubble around the spaces where scars stay smooth and hairless, the cockeyed lift of one side of his mouth pulled always where a knife had been dragged like cutting cold butter.

Even goddamn better: his legs won't unbend. They stay curled, bent at the knees, throbbing agony down to his toes and up into his hips when he tries to straighten them. He can damn near feel the buckles from the braces he hasn't worn since he stabbed Brute to death. He can damn near hear Robert's echoing, rasping laughter.

He can't walk. He could hardly crawl.

He doesn't want to crawl around like a fucking dog anymore.

Maybe he'll just stay here til dawn. Why the fuck not?

The house is silent around him, with that particular empty weight of a home waiting for its people to bring it back to life come morning. A place between something and nothing, and Jameson isn't enough on his own to fill it.

He's barely a drop in the bucket of what you need to feel alive, at a time like this. Absolutely alone in the darkness, staring up at an old popcorn-style ceiling where a fan spins lazily, barely moving air.

Hey.

His head whips to the side at the voice, wide-eyed, pushing himself up on his elbows, heart pounding. There's someone in the doorway between the entryway and the living room, where Trash Cat had been before, watching him in shadow.

You passed out on the couch again. Gonna go to bed any time soon, or am I going to have to tiptoe around your dumb ass in the morning?

His head hurts. Maybe from having woken up from dreaming at the wrong time, it pulses pain with the same rhythm as his heartbeat, at the throb in his knees. They pull up even tighter, and he has to bite back a whimper he absolutely will not let out.

"... who the fuck-"

Call Mom, by the way. You haven't called her in like a week. She says you have 48 hours or she's calling the cops.

He collapses back against the arm of the couch, breathing slowly. His headache is taking over, wiping everything away but itself. Jameson closes his eyes.

Is he still goddamn asleep?

He counts to ten, breathing more slowly and evenly with each number. Then, on the final, torturously slow exhale, he cracks his eyes open again.

The shadow is still there. It hasn't turned into a person, only sort of smudged outline of one. There's a hint of blue jean seams down the legs, the suggestion of hair very much like his own. Even the glimmer of dim moonlight and streetlight from outside against a pair of hazel eyes.

Not that he can see what color they are from here.

He just... knows.

Just like he knows the taste of that voice, even though he can't remember having ever heard it in his life. It's a taste he's known his entire life.

Did you hear me, dumbass? I said call Mom.

"... who the fuck are you?"

Hey, so, while you're here. It's like he didn't say anything, or like the shadow is acting out the words of a script, not actually present or hearing anything he says. It moves, and Jameson flinches violently backwards only to see a beam of moonlight pass right through it as it goes past him, to the window. One grayish-nothing arm lifts, like peering through the blinds. I wanted to say... fuck. I guess just... sorry. About the other night.

"Wh-what-"

It was stupid. I knew you liked her and I still asked her out. That was really shit of me to do, Johnny, I'm sorry about that. You're just way better than me at getting girls to, like, see you...

"I d-don't know what the fuck you're talking-... who's-"

His head.

The pain is like a flash of lightning, bright white and chilled ice behind his eyes. He can't hold this sound back and whines like a goddamn animal as he curls up, hands up over his head, pressing his palms against his eyelids like somehow he can force the pain out of him if he only tries hard enough. The flashes keep sparking, again and again.

"Oh, God-... oh fuck, jesus-"

I broke up with her anyway. So, like. Sorry. Again. Can we not fight about shit like girls, anyway? I hate it. Who am I supposed to talk to if I can't talk to my brother, you know?

Tears run hot like tracks of sun-soaked water through desert down his cheeks. He's sure they'll leave rising blisters in their wake, as he chokes back one sob, and then another. His heart is twisted up in his throat and his legs are bent and useless, his hands hurt where his fingers are twisted into his hair, yanking at it ineffectually, unconsciously. "Please, it h-hurts, fucking stop-"

It's not your fault, Johnny. I was the idiot, you know? We had a fight, fights happen. I didn't have to leave it like that. I shouldn't have left it like that. Still. You didn't have to leave it like that, either. Takes two to fix a fight, right? You could have apologized, too.

There's a long beat of silence.

His headache starts, finally, to slide somewhere further back in his mind. It's still there, still a throbbing immovable force, but he can just barely manage to open his eyes.

The shadow is an inch away, staring at him.

Why didn't you apologize first?

He flinches backwards again, and the sharp spike feels like ice picks right through his eyes as his back arches, a tense bow of pain everywhere. An electric shock, discipline for the wrong thoughts, false memories clawing their way to the surface.

He hasn't worn a shock collar since training, but his body knows what happens when he remembers the life he left behind.

It punishes him anyway.

Why did you let me walk off by myself in the dark, Johnny?

"No-... no-... I s-signed up, I don't want you, I didn't want you anymore, it was t-too much, fuck, fuck off, fuck you, I didn't want to hurt anymore they promised I wouldn't miss you anymore, go away go away go away they took you out of my fucking head go the fuck away this hurts-"

Everything would be okay if you had stopped me. But you just let me walk away, like an asshole.

The shadow of his dead brother watches him with unsettlingly calm eyes, the thatch of his dark hair, the glint of teeth straightened by years of braces.

You let me walk away angry at you. You let me walk right up to him, didn't you? You never even tried to stop me from leaving. Who would I be if you hadn't let me die?

"Please... please, Hank-"

I was still alive when he threw me in that ditch near the woods, remember? Do you think I was awake? For that last hour or so? Do you think I was conscious? Do you think I was thinking about you?

The shadow of his brother might be smiling.

Do you think that I was still angry when he slit my throat?

Jameson pulls the blanket over his head. He can't think of anything else to do but hide.

The shadow can't find him here. The reality of everything he did, everything that's his fault, can't follow him this far into the warm darkness. The murder he could have stopped by being a better brother just one night out of a thousand belongs to the cold and the light.

It can't find him here.

It's ridiculous and childish and yet the voice goes silent, then, and his tongue goes numb. Seconds tick by, tracked by a clock Nat has on the wall. The quiet is heavy and Jameson fills it with every single thing WRU ever taught him.

His lips move mindlessly. He's never forgotten a single sentence. Every chant, every mantra, every constant repetition of his own lost humanity pushes the reality of what led him to it further and further away.

He keeps his eyes closed tightly, shivers in the chill of a cold white room entirely in his own mind, and whispers I signed up for it for a reason, I signed up for this, I was a slut with no future, I didn't want to be a person anymore, I ruined lives, it's all my fault, I'm better off this way, I don't have to hurt anymore, no one else will die because of me, I was made for this I was made for this I was made for this again and again.

The sense of the shadow watching him doesn't fully fade until he closes his own hands around his throat and tightens just enough to feel like a collar, just enough that he has to fight a little for air.

How long he stays like that, he doesn't know.

But eventually he realizes he can hear Trash Cat again, still trying inexorably to find a way into the cabinet where her food has been maliciously kept away from her need to constantly eat at all hours of the day.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rrrrrow? Rrrrow. Thunk. Thunk.

He had a nightmare, he thinks.

Thunk.

Some kind of weird-ass dream. Something that tasted like a voice, frightening enough to have his heart beating and his body feeling wrung out and aching, like he was throwing punches in his sleep. Fighting something. Or fleeing from something.

What did he dream about?

There was a shadow, and hazel eyes, and a voice...

Thunk. Thunk.

Trash Cat apparently gives up. He hears her little paws tap-tapping along the floor as she tries her luck at shredding the toilet paper in the bathroom.

The nightmare's gone. He can't remember what was bothering him any longer. Still, his heart races and fear is a cold stone in his stomach. Fear and the sense that he has done something terrible. Something he can never make up for or take back.

He doesn't go back to sleep.

He waits, watching the ceiling fan spin, for the safety of dawn.

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mellaithwen · 8 months

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How’s the Rugby World Cup going, you ask? Well I’ve just built an ikea cabinet to calm down 😅

Less than 10mins to go and the score’s 32-14 to Wales (against Fiji) 🥰

#holy fuck hoLY FUCK #I could have been there but we’re not gonna focus on that cause my soul will cry (but I’m sure my dad and sister are enjoying 🥺😅)#RWC2023 #wales #Cymru #RWC 2023 #WAL V FIJI #welsh rugby #rugby World Cup #France 2023 #WRU

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the-scrapegoat · 1 year

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Was chatting with @whumpshaped the other night and had a series of thoughts that led to this:

I was thinking of a sweeter(?) Situation in a WRU/BBU setting where a caretaker takes on a rescue pet whumpee, maybe ex guard dog? Or just recognized legally to have had an abusive owner previously, he's gotta wear a muzzle and a labeled nervous vest in public for safety reasons, but he's a sweetheart.

I don't usually get into wru or pet whump stuff on my blog but this has been living in my brain and giving me so much dopamine <3

#bbu #wru #whump #pet whump

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boxboysandotherwhump · 1 year

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Sam on the drip. (Sam signs pt. 2)

Taglist: @vickytokio @ashintheairlikesnow @thefancydoughnut @malcolmisthebrightestboy @redwingedwhump @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @finder-of-rings @orchidscript @hackles-up @generoushelpingofwhump @sad-boys-anonymous @whump-it @whumpsday

CW: weird wru fuckery, creepy handlers, nudity

Mister Wilson enters the tiny back office Sam finishes the paperwork in, a plate of pretzel rolls in one hand and a can of coke in the other.

“Here, eat up little one.”

Sam stops writing. The pen bleeds a tiny spot of blue ink into the cheap printer paper, right in the middle of a half finished word.

Designation preference: Plat Romant-

There is a spot of ink next to the brown flaky blood stain from early tonight. “I’m not hungry.”

Mister Wilson puts the plate down in front of him, right atop the questionnaire. “Trust me, little one. You’ll want to have something in your stomach when we start the drip. A wipe is no walk in the park.”

“I thought- I-” Sam swallows, his throat suddenly sandpaper dry. “Will it, uhm, will it, like- hurt?”

With a scrape of table legs over the linoleum floor, Wilson sits down, eyebrows raised in a comical customer service smile. “All the products wru uses in training are tried, tested and one hundred percent cruelty free. Is what I’m supposed to tell you, but to be honest kid- I have no bloody idea. The only thing I do know is that your body will fight it. No matter how bad you wanna get rid of your past, turns out the subconscious is a little bitch latching onto existence, no matter what.”

“Hey there, little one, don’t cry. Tell you what, no matter how rough it gets, once you wake up you won’t remember a thing of it. We will have a great time training together and then it goes straight to your new life. Destination happiness with no pit stops, alright?”

Sam rubs at his eyes furiously enough an eyelash comes loose and sticks to his thumb.

“I’m not crying.” he sniffs and adds, hesitating, “Do you promise? That it’ll be alright, after.”

He feels stupid, like when he was small and stuck in summer camp, too afraid to join the night hike so a counselor had to comfort him, holding his hand during the entire hike.

“Pinky promise.” Mister Wilson beams and taps the pretzel roll plate. “But now, eat up.”

When Sam reaches for the plate he notices the eyelash. Face growing hot with embarrassment he closes his eyes, purses his lips and makes a wish.

Please let me be happy.

When his eyes flutter open, Mister Wilson's face is so close to Sam’s, his breath tickles the tip of Sam’s nose.

“Good, you’re adorable.”

Flushing a deeper shade of red, Sam grabs a pretzel roll and stuffs it into his mouth, choking on the too large bite.

“M not.”

Tossing his head back, Mister Wilson erupts in warm rich laughter that does nothing to help calm Sam’s nerves. “Let me decide what you are.”

Guess, that's the idea here. Sam stuffs his face with another pretzel roll, flushing his meal down with the coke. After the last crumb is dutifully eaten, Mister Wilson puts the contract down in front of him.

“Sign here and we can get going.”

Barely looking Sam scrawls his signature onto the dotted line and gets up. A shaky inhale. “Kay. Let's do this.”

They have to switch elevators twice until they finally reach the ground level, where the training rooms are. The hallways are a winding maze of white walls and cold air. Every step they take echoes, Sam’s sneakers a soft pat next to the harsh click of Mister Wilson's boots.

More clicking comes from behind a corner. Another handler emerges, grinning at the sight of Sam.

“Wilson. You got another trainee?”

“Sure do.”

Halting in front of them, the handler smiles down at Sam: “Number and designation?”

“Uhm.” Sam falters and sees the smile slip from the handler's face.

“He doesn’t have a number yet.” Wilson interjects. “We’re just on our way to the wipe.”

“Oh, well that explains the clothes.” The handler yawns. “My bad, shorty. Guess my brain’s still half asleep. Have fun.”

“Ah, uhm, thank you?”

Chuckling, Wilson tells Sam not to mind his colleague while they make their way down the hall. When they enter the room where Sam will be erased for good, his heart beats so fast he fears to pass out.

It’s oddly warm in the near empty room. The entire thing is tiled in white ceramic, glittering under the fluorescent lights. There are some cabinets on one wall, and a small freezer. In its center stands a padded stretcher, restraints dangling from it to fix someone's feet and hands in place. Next to it, the drip. Mister Wilsons hits the power button on it and gestures to a bench near the entrance.

“Strip and put your clothes there. I’ll give you a uniform in a sec.”

Sam does as he’s told, hands shaking as they pull his cat shirt up over his head. The kitty's face in its center is weirdly deformed, staring up at him one eyed from where he tossed it on the bench. Everything had happened so fast after that fight, Sam had really run to WRU still wearing his pajama shirt. Headless, panicked. He hadn’t thought this through at all.

Behind him, Wilson pulled a bag from a freezer, hooked it up to the Iv-machine.

Sam really just signed his life away in a frumpy, fucking cat pajama. A hysterical laugh bubbles up his throat but all that comes out is a sob.

Tears roll down his eyes as he yanks down his shorts and tosses them on the bench.

Mister Wilson looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you want a sedative to take the edge off?”

Fists shaking at his sides, Sam nods, earning a humoring smile from Mister Wilson. It doesn’t escape Sam how Wilsons eyes linger on his crotch.

“What?”Sam hisses, shame and rage and panic chasing each other in circles inside his head until the room spins around him. He flops down on the bench, knees pressed together to hide from Wilsons curious eyes.

“I’m only surprised you have a dick and a-”

“I’m inter.” Sam snaps, curling up on the bench, protecting his naked body from Mister Wilson's eyes. Boots click click click over the tile floor and a warm hand finds its way into Sam’s hair, down behind his ear, where it starts to gently rub over soft skin.

Sam blinks up, new tears falling.

“Hey now. It’s a really great surprise, if that's any relief.”

A watery laugh escapes Sam upon the absurdity of it all.

“I’ve never trained an inter pet, but I’m looking forward to it. What makes you tick,” his hand brushes over Sam’s cheek nearly touching his lips, wanders further up, gently tugging a curl behind his ear. “What makes you feel good.”

Breath catches in Sam’s throat.

Smiling, Wilson hands Sam a pair of black shorts. They are soft under Sam’s fingertips as he slips into them hastily. He eats a tiny white pill from Wilsons fingertips and the harsh white world of WRU’s training facility grows fuzzy around the edges. His thoughts slow down, flashes of fear and anger getting lost in the fog.

A warm rough hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him forward. Climbing onto the stretcher is difficult with his limbs hanging by his sides like heavy noodles but with Mister Wilson's help, he manages.

When Wilson grabs one of the Mitts with a rattle of chains, Sam whimpers and pulls his hands under his chin.

Wilson smiles. “These are only to protect you from hurting yourself when the drug hits.”

Another whimper. Wilson grabs one of Sam’s hands, gentle but steady and forces them into the Mitt.

“Don’t forget little one, you signed up for this.”

Head lulling Sam mumbles: “Though’ forgettin’ s the point of t’is.”

Grabbing Sam’s other hand, Wilson grins. “I can’t wait to start our training.”

With his feet buckled in tightly and his arm cleaned, the preparations are done. The needle glints in Wilsons now gloved hands. Sam turns his head, eyes shutting so tight stars dance behind them.

His arm is grabbed, hands squeezing in gentle affection. “Ready?”

A shaky nod. A quiet whimper.

Steel breaks his skin, the needle slides home.

A heartbeat, freezing liquid floods his veins. Another, his brain melts into weeping white.

No past.

No future.

No dreams.

No self.

White noise.

#whump writing #whump #pet whump #facility whump #box boy whump #box boys #drugs #drugged whumpee #boxboy universe #box boy universe #sam the medic #pet whumpee #medical whump #wru #bbu #Mister Wilson

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