we-were-so-beautiful

[we-were-so-beautiful]

4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit. 

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

#timezone reblog #next day reblog

[we-were-so-beautiful]

characters with prey animal rage

#sticking this in my pocket for later

[we-were-so-beautiful]

A touch starved whumpee who’s too scared to actually hug or cuddle anyone, so Caretaker gives them a heated weighted blanket, so they can feel “touch” without being scared.

Whumpee sleeps so well it worries Caretaker because they don’t move for about 12 hours straight, and they wake up all groggy and sweaty with those lines across their cheek from the pillow case. But they wake up happy.

#PANINIED LMAO #the cute stuff continues

[we-were-so-beautiful]

Sick/over-exhausted Whumpee accidentally falling asleep on the couch and instead of getting yelled at or shaken awake like they expect, they wake up hours later to several layers of blankets. Every member of their team saw them and decided they needed one more blanket, until now, they could barely roll over.

#y'all are really going for it with the cute posts in my feed rn huh!

[we-were-so-beautiful]

characters whose philosophy is “if i cannot be wanted, i will be needed and if i cannot be needed, let me be used until there’s nothing left of me.” thank you for everyone’s attention. falls off stage and dies

#yep this is definitely a character trope and nothing else to me #why do you ask #*leaves immediately*

[we-were-so-beautiful]

Prompt #34

Whumpee has infiltrated into a military spaceship to escape from his own planet, where he was being treated like a slave. Caretaker, the commander of the aircraft, has detected the stowaway and his hiding spot through the cameras -- an abandoned maintenance chamber on the east wing.

But he doesn't report it.

Caretaker, being able to monitor every aspect in the spaceship via the control room, raises the temperature in said chamber. Whumpee can now sleep tight and warm through the travel.

#aww! #that's adorable

[we-were-so-beautiful]

4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit. 

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

#whump #pet whump #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu #box boy universe #vanessa + juniper #disaster caretaker #imperfectly consistent #tw dehumanization #tw conditioning #tw illness #tw injury #tw infection #do I like... need to tag for language? #I know using swears is pretty standard for bbu/pet whump stories #but I also use them kind of a uh. non standard amount. #I kinda feel like vanessa's house needs a tw of its own lmao #I honestly have fun making up all the increasingly ridiculous rich person shit #anyway I've got a decent bit of the next chapter written already (wrote it at some point back when I was working on 2 or 3 tbh) #and that's more or less it for stuff I have fully written out in advance #(from the main storyline at least) #but a lot of the stuff that follows that is stuff I've had in my head for ages #so hopefully it won't be too hard to write out! knock on wood #sometimes the things you think about that much come easily when you finally write them #and sometimes they're nigh on impossible bc you get obsessive with doing them justice #or at least just like. remembering all the ideas you've ever had for them when you finally sit down to write #hello it's me writing a novel in the tags again #anyway I've been falling asleep since somewhere in the middle of proofreading so I should probably wrap this up lol #if you read all this for some reason hi!

[we-were-so-beautiful]

I always figure no one on here is awake/around at the time when I usually finish writing chapters, so I just schedule them for the morning. but I actually have no idea when anyone on here is up so here's a thought: if you see this post, and you're so inclined, interact with it in some way? idk, I just think it'd be cool to know what time people are actually seeing my stuff ¯\_😅_/¯

#whump #whump blog #whump writer #pet whump #bbu #box boy universe #is that a kaomoji crime idk

[we-were-so-beautiful]

3. taxi

oh man, this one FOUGHT me y'all. so much cutting and pasting. I am not even kidding when I say that everything that happens in this chapter was supposed to be part of the last one, and I gave up and cut that one off early because I was sick of trying to finish this part. and now this is my longest chapter yet. you know, out of all three of them. at 1.3k. lol. I am not, how do you say, fast. but I was hoping I'd be able to get a chapter written over christmas, and I'm really proud of myself for finishing it!

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, cage mention, rampant classism. As always, please tell me if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter two]

“Okay I know they’re supposed to be expensive but what can you possibly be charging this much money for.”

“Adoption fees are to offset the cost of room, board and medical care while at the facility,” the employee parrots, without so much as the decency to look ashamed. 

“He does not look like he has had literally any of those things while he’s been here. Or possibly in his entire life.”

“Ma’am, if you cannot afford the adoption fee, then you cannot adopt a Pet.”

“Oh, I can afford it,” Vanessa growls, handing over a very shiny credit card before her mouth can get her in enough trouble to stop the employee from taking it. She bites her lip until she tastes copper to keep from saying, I’d just rather put it towards something that isn’t blatantly and obviously going right back into Worldwide Rehabilitative Un-fucking-limited’s pockets despite the fact that this is supposed to be a goddamn government facility.

Harm reduction, she reminds herself. Paying extortionate fees to kill shelters is still harm reduction. It’s the unsavory truth, but it doesn’t make the blood in her mouth taste any sweeter.

“Sign here,” the woman says, handing her credit card back along with a digital pad and stylus, and Vanessa cracks her wrist before she takes them. It’s sore and snapping like a glowstick from the mountain of paperwork she’s already been made to sign since the employee unceremoniously hauled the man on the floor behind her down from his double-high-stacked wire crate. She can’t decide whether to consider it an obscenely large amount, or an obscenely little one for all that it represents.

She can’t think about it too hard. Can’t draw too much of her own attention to the fact that she’s really doing this, or she might just run screaming back out into the grey-tinted autumn afternoon, and then where would this guy be? 

She scribbles her name on the touchpad, and just like that… it’s done.

—

“Don’t forget your leash and collar,” the employee reminds her.

“I won’t be using those,” Vanessa says, with all the imperious rich-lady self-assurance she can fake.

“You will if you don’t want to be liable for civil and/or criminal penalties up to and including the permanent forfeiture of your right to Pet ownership,” the woman drones like she’s rattling it off from a handbook, and nobody has the right to own a person but even Vanessa knows better than to argue the system with someone who literally works for it.

She grinds her teeth as she takes the lengths of bulky blue nylon from the woman. She crouches beside the man, who’s bent himself into an odd kneeling fetal position on the cold tile floor. “Sorry,” she whispers as she slides the coarse material around his throat, feeling his pulse beat harsh and rapid underneath. She hopes she’s being quiet enough that the employee won’t hear her talking to him like a person—because he is a person, goddamnit—but she knows better than to trust her own volume. Best if she can get the fuck out of here with him now, before she makes a mistake.

She really doesn’t want to lead this dude crawling down the street like an animal. Doesn’t want to imagine what people will think. But she asks him, “Can you stand?”, and he makes a sound like a choking dog, and so much for both their dignity, she fucking guesses.

“Ugh, fine, whatever, just… come on.”

—

Fuck standing, the guy can barely support himself on all fours. His joints threaten to buckle at every step as Vanessa urges him out onto the chilly sidewalk. Coat of dirt aside, he’s got nothing on him but a pair of boxers as filthy as he is and that godawful blue collar, and when his bare skin meets the frigid pavement his body clenches so hard she can practically hear his teeth slam shut.

She looks at the unwashed man before her, shivering hard enough to rattle his bones in the cold October air. Looks at her thick brown coat. Ugh, she likes this coat, the lining is stitched in in all the right places to keep the texture of the shell from making her want to climb out of her own skin and no amount of dry cleaning in the world is going to convince her to put it on again once it touches… whatever the fuck is all goddamn over this guy. She sighs and shrugs it off.

Fuck fuck fuck it’s cold. She’s shivering herself in just plain blue jeans and her second favorite Cure t-shirt. But a million “if you’re cold, they’re cold!” memes flash through her mind and she grumbles aggrievedly and drapes the wool coat over his massive, gaunt frame. This dude has like a foot on her standing, she remembers when the lapels will barely pull around his shoulders. She’s gonna have to shake Austin down for clothes.

God, it feels beyond fucked up to have a person on a leash, and it doesn’t help that the cheap blue nylon feels plasticky in her hand and she hates the texture. She can’t imagine how much worse it must feel around the throat of the shuddering man before her. She’s taking the damn thing off him as soon as she gets him home, she’ll get him a better one if Roselle can’t find her a loophole and she absolutely fucking has to, but when the fifth or sixth cab passes her by without even slowing down she starts to wonder how the hell she’s going to get him home at all.

—

“You want to go to the corner,” the employee says boredly, not so much as looking up from her newspaper when Vanessa shoulders her way back through the door.

“You what?” Vanessa echoes.

“The corner. Better if you go another block or two, even. Cabs don’t stop in front of the shelter.”

Of course they don’t, Vanessa thinks. 

She hipchecks the door back open and returns to the stupid goddamn hitching post they so conveniently provide along the front wall of the shelter, where she’s awkwardly strung up the loop of the stupid blue leash. “Hey, uh, dude? I’m gonna go up the street a bit, okay, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

He barely acknowledges that he’s heard her, curled back up under her coat in that same odd position with his forearms tucked into his chest. “...not that you would,” she adds dubiously, before power-walking away to the next block.

Vanessa hisses through her teeth in the bleak grey air and rubs at her goosebump-riddled arms, but true to the employee’s disaffected word it’s only a matter of minutes this time before a cab driver catches her wave and pulls over. “Thanks,” she says as she tumbles in. “I’m going back to the Heights. Need to pick someone up first, though. Just on the next block.”

The driver looks skeptical, but he rolls down the quiet street all the same—until he clocks the shelter just as Vanessa tells him to stop. “No. Nuh uh. No way. I don’t let Pets in my cab.”

“I’ll double your fare. Up front.”

The driver shakes his head, staring revulsed in the direction of the hitching post. “Not worth all that crud on my seats.” Oh. Great. He’s seen him.

“What if I cover the seats. Newspaper.”

The driver sizes her up with a calculating gaze, one elbow propped on the back of his seat, and somewhere in the middle of wanting to punch him for looking at her she finds herself wishing for once that she’d dressed… richer. Finally, he grouses, “Triple fare. And the meter’s runnin’ while ya cover ‘em.”

“Fine,” Vanessa spits, and sprints out with the door wide open before he has time to change his mind.

She barges into the shelter one last time, hopefully the last fucking time in her life if she has any say in it. Leaning over the counter, with a grin that’s probably a little too smug for her to be proud of, she snatches the newspaper directly out of the apathetic employee’s complicit hands.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

#timezone reblog #next day reblog #experimenting with only doing one of these

[we-were-so-beautiful]

bonus: here's a picrew of juniper in chapter 3! not that those bandages have been put on yet... that'll come later *rubs my little typing hands together*

#vanessa + juniper #pet whump #rescue whump #poor thing still doesn't even have a name in canon yet #honestly get ready for a lot of 'dude' and 'guy' for the next while

[we-were-so-beautiful]

3. taxi

oh man, this one FOUGHT me y'all. so much cutting and pasting. I am not even kidding when I say that everything that happens in this chapter was supposed to be part of the last one, and I gave up and cut that one off early because I was sick of trying to finish this part. and now this is my longest chapter yet. you know, out of all three of them. at 1.3k. lol. I am not, how do you say, fast. but I was hoping I'd be able to get a chapter written over christmas, and I'm really proud of myself for finishing it!

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, cage mention, rampant classism. As always, please tell me if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter two] [chapter four]

“Okay I know they’re supposed to be expensive but what can you possibly be charging this much money for.”

“Adoption fees are to offset the cost of room, board and medical care while at the facility,” the employee parrots, without so much as the decency to look ashamed. 

“He does not look like he has had literally any of those things while he’s been here. Or possibly in his entire life.”

“Ma’am, if you cannot afford the adoption fee, then you cannot adopt a Pet.”

“Oh, I can afford it,” Vanessa growls, handing over a very shiny credit card before her mouth can get her in enough trouble to stop the employee from taking it. She bites her lip until she tastes copper to keep from saying, I’d just rather put it towards something that isn’t blatantly and obviously going right back into Worldwide Rehabilitative Un-fucking-limited’s pockets despite the fact that this is supposed to be a goddamn government facility.

Harm reduction, she reminds herself. Paying extortionate fees to kill shelters is still harm reduction. It’s the unsavory truth, but it doesn’t make the blood in her mouth taste any sweeter.

“Sign here,” the woman says, handing her credit card back along with a digital pad and stylus, and Vanessa cracks her wrist before she takes them. It’s sore and snapping like a glowstick from the mountain of paperwork she’s already been made to sign since the employee unceremoniously hauled the man on the floor behind her down from his double-high-stacked wire crate. She can’t decide whether to consider it an obscenely large amount, or an obscenely little one for all that it represents.

She can’t think about it too hard. Can’t draw too much of her own attention to the fact that she’s really doing this, or she might just run screaming back out into the grey-tinted autumn afternoon, and then where would this guy be? 

She scribbles her name on the touchpad, and just like that… it’s done.

—

“Don’t forget your leash and collar,” the employee reminds her.

“I won’t be using those,” Vanessa says, with all the imperious rich-lady self-assurance she can fake.

“You will if you don’t want to be liable for civil and/or criminal penalties up to and including the permanent forfeiture of your right to Pet ownership,” the woman drones like she’s rattling it off from a handbook, and nobody has the right to own a person but even Vanessa knows better than to argue the system with someone who literally works for it.

She grinds her teeth as she takes the lengths of bulky blue nylon from the woman. She crouches beside the man, who’s bent himself into an odd kneeling fetal position on the cold tile floor. “Sorry,” she whispers as she slides the coarse material around his throat, feeling his pulse beat harsh and rapid underneath. She hopes she’s being quiet enough that the employee won’t hear her talking to him like a person—because he is a person, goddamnit—but she knows better than to trust her own volume. Best if she can get the fuck out of here with him now, before she makes a mistake.

She really doesn’t want to lead this dude crawling down the street like an animal. Doesn’t want to imagine what people will think. But she asks him, “Can you stand?”, and he makes a sound like a choking dog, and so much for both their dignity, she fucking guesses.

“Ugh, fine, whatever, just… come on.”

—

Fuck standing, the guy can barely support himself on all fours. His joints threaten to buckle at every step as Vanessa urges him out onto the chilly sidewalk. Coat of dirt aside, he’s got nothing on him but a pair of boxers as filthy as he is and that godawful blue collar, and when his bare skin meets the frigid pavement his body clenches so hard she can practically hear his teeth slam shut.

She looks at the unwashed man before her, shivering hard enough to rattle his bones in the cold October air. Looks at her thick brown coat. Ugh, she likes this coat, the lining is stitched in in all the right places to keep the texture of the shell from making her want to climb out of her own skin and no amount of dry cleaning in the world is going to convince her to put it on again once it touches… whatever the fuck is all goddamn over this guy. She sighs and shrugs it off.

Fuck fuck fuck it’s cold. She’s shivering herself in just plain blue jeans and her second favorite Cure t-shirt. But a million “if you’re cold, they’re cold!” memes flash through her mind and she grumbles aggrievedly and drapes the wool coat over his massive, gaunt frame. This dude has like a foot on her standing, she remembers when the lapels will barely pull around his shoulders. She’s gonna have to shake Austin down for clothes.

God, it feels beyond fucked up to have a person on a leash, and it doesn’t help that the cheap blue nylon feels plasticky in her hand and she hates the texture. She can’t imagine how much worse it must feel around the throat of the shuddering man before her. She’s taking the damn thing off him as soon as she gets him home, she’ll get him a better one if Roselle can’t find her a loophole and she absolutely fucking has to, but when the fifth or sixth cab passes her by without even slowing down she starts to wonder how the hell she’s going to get him home at all.

—

“You want to go to the corner,” the employee says boredly, not so much as looking up from her newspaper when Vanessa shoulders her way back through the door.

“You what?” Vanessa echoes.

“The corner. Better if you go another block or two, even. Cabs don’t stop in front of the shelter.”

Of course they don’t, Vanessa thinks. 

She hipchecks the door back open and returns to the stupid goddamn hitching post they so conveniently provide along the front wall of the shelter, where she’s awkwardly strung up the loop of the stupid blue leash. “Hey, uh, dude? I’m gonna go up the street a bit, okay, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

He barely acknowledges that he’s heard her, curled back up under her coat in that same odd position with his forearms tucked into his chest. “...not that you would,” she adds dubiously, before power-walking away to the next block.

Vanessa hisses through her teeth in the bleak grey air and rubs at her goosebump-riddled arms, but true to the employee’s disaffected word it’s only a matter of minutes this time before a cab driver catches her wave and pulls over. “Thanks,” she says as she tumbles in. “I’m going back to the Heights. Need to pick someone up first, though. Just on the next block.”

The driver looks skeptical, but he rolls down the quiet street all the same—until he clocks the shelter just as Vanessa tells him to stop. “No. Nuh uh. No way. I don’t let Pets in my cab.”

“I’ll double your fare. Up front.”

The driver shakes his head, staring revulsed in the direction of the hitching post. “Not worth all that crud on my seats.” Oh. Great. He’s seen him.

“What if I cover the seats. Newspaper.”

The driver sizes her up with a calculating gaze, one elbow propped on the back of his seat, and somewhere in the middle of wanting to punch him for looking at her she finds herself wishing for once that she’d dressed… richer. Finally, he grouses, “Triple fare. And the meter’s runnin’ while ya cover ‘em.”

“Fine,” Vanessa spits, and sprints out with the door wide open before he has time to change his mind.

She barges into the shelter one last time, hopefully the last fucking time in her life if she has any say in it. Leaning over the counter, with a grin that’s probably a little too smug for her to be proud of, she snatches the newspaper directly out of the apathetic employee’s complicit hands.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

#whump #pet whump #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu #box boy universe #vanessa + juniper #disaster caretaker #imperfectly consistent #tw dehumanization #tw classism #I feel like I'm writing more plot than whump here #like I could be leaning way more into descriptions of what dude's experiencing but I'm just trying to get through all these fucking scenes #the not leaning into whump part is unsurprising but the concerning bit is that I can't actually write plot. at all #so if that's what's supposed to be holding this together then well. uh. #we'll see how that goes I guess lol #oh I almost forgot! #points to whoever catches my wru mention #it's probably not subtle lmao #I just wanted to do something a lil different #ps idk what the fuck happened to my section dividers #but tumblr seems to have retconned it into my previous chapters as well #so it's probably not something I can fix lmao #btw if it wasn't obvious. I've never been to nyc in my life and I have no idea how anything works including taxis #just pretend they invented box boys instead of ride shares I fucking guess #@ my ass writing a novel in the tags instead of writing. you know. #the actual novel

[we-were-so-beautiful]

so I named my characters based on things that were rattling around my subconscious at the time and at some point I realized that nessa and roselle were both named after dogs but juniper is, ironically, named after a human

#whump writing #pet whump #vanessa + juniper

[we-were-so-beautiful]

Linden & Colton - 17

(masterpost)

been a while hasn't it? thanks for the patience everyone! i hope this lives up to expectation!

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, conditioned whumpee, whumpee begging for punishment, panic attacks, vomiting from fear, mentions of dissociation

-

Col. Colton. Col. Cawl. Coal. He ran the name through his head until it lost all meaning or comprehension. He thought, not for the first time, about how Master never called him anything else.

With his old owner, Pet was his name, but he would often be called bitch, mutt, toy, all kinds of things on top of it. Here he was only Col. To his slow animal brain, that seemed like a good sign. It seemed like a real name.

His burnt hand was almost fully healed, and he did his best not to scratch at it. Master had ordered him not to. But sometimes he would look out the window for a few seconds, and when he looked back down his fingernails were digging into the skin.

He was upstairs, it was late morning, and he was trying to make himself look useful by folding towels. Master had left the pile of them on the landing, like an invitation. Pet was sat with his bony legs half-crossed as he worked. It wasn’t kneeling, so Master wouldn’t mind, right? With his old owner, he wouldn’t have even taken the risk, but here he felt… he felt safer.

He heard Master approaching far before he saw his head appear over the stairs. His house was wooden and old, and sounds echoed easily. “Hey, Col.”

Pet made brief eye contact, which he’d figured out wasn’t a punishable offence here, and then got on with his work. He didn’t want to look like he’d been slacking. He almost considered smiling, but it didn’t feel right.

“Looks like you’re doing a really good job here. Your hands are getting so steady, well done. I’ll take the pile and put them away.”

Pet nodded and stood, handing the stack of mostly grey and white towels over. Careful not to touch Master accidentally.

“Thanks. I’ll come get the rest later, yeah?” Master gifted him one of his soft smiles, taking slow steps backwards down the stairs as he spoke. Pet’s eyes followed his movements, when they saw the tuft of fur, hidden behind the final step, at the bottom of the stairs. Jaffa blended in too well. Master hadn’t seen her, and if he kept on then his foot was going to land right on her.

Pet only had a second. He didn’t decide. His body decided for him. Jaffa was too old and too beloved.

“Master!” he croaked, and instantly his stomach fell out of him.

Nothing could have stopped his owner in his tracks quite as effectively. Jaffa got up, stretched, and ambled away. Quite unaware of the way her two housemates had both frozen in shock.

Master reacted first, barely whispering while Pet stood, agape, staring down at him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god you can speak.”

Pet took several shaking steps backwards, his mouth opening and nothing coming out, not even whimpers, he couldn’t breathe, he-

He felt the door to the bathroom behind him and turned, fumbling with the handle as quickly as he could, the feeling of Master stalking closer making his knees fail. He pushed the door open and nearly fell through it, just making it to the toilet before he vomited. He couldn’t make a mess.

He’d be punished here, he knew the kind of rages that speaking out of turn brought on. Master wouldn’t bother dragging him somewhere else. But this rule had been beaten into him so severely, so frequently, he didn’t know if Master would punish him. Would he instead just be thrown out? Oh and he had made it so far, he thought he could do it, and there was no way to explain why he’d just spoken without permission through his heaves and retches.

Heavy tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping off his top lip. His body was limp with fear; without the toilet bowl to cling to he would’ve collapsed entirely. Perhaps that was what he should be doing. He should be kissing Master’s feet and grovelling. He tried to pull his head away to see where Master was, but he couldn’t.

He brought up several rounds of bile, waiting for the sensation of a hand, or a weapon, on his skin, but it didn’t come. Perhaps Master didn’t want a vomiting slave making a mess during his punishment; perhaps he was extending his infinite mercy just a little more until Pet finished.

He choked on a sob when he felt his stomach heave and nothing more came up. It was time, then. He had no more excuses.

. . .

Linden watched, aghast, as Col backed away while swiftly turning white. He thought he’d seen terror on the boy’s face before, but it was nothing compared to the sick horror as the reality of what he’d just done dawned on him. Col fled into the bathroom, and Linden couldn’t tell if he was escaping Linden or just trying not to vomit on the floor. Probably a mix of both.

He let him go- Colton needed time, even though Linden wanted to hug him and smile and hear more, more, more of his voice.

It all suddenly made sense. Col was so upset about speaking because he thought he wasn’t meant to. Wasn’t given permission. Linden felt like an awful fool.

He turned to set the towels down. That was something he could waste time on while Col audibly vomited and cried above him. He saw Jaffa and bent to rub her head. She purred.

After five or ten minutes, things had quietened down. Col had finished being sick, by the sound of it. Now, all Linden could hear were uneven breaths and gulps, while the boy sobbed. It was loud, open-mouth sobbing, the kind you would only hear from someone fully broken. Who was too far gone, too traumatised and scared to worry about keeping quiet anymore.

. . .

Pet heard the stairs creaking under Master’s feet, and savoured the last few seconds he had before the pain started. He took in the cool, smooth porcelain, the tiled floor, the fractured sunlight coming through the frosted glass. He reminded himself that he wanted the pain, pain meant correction, and that meant he wouldn’t be thrown back onto the streets.

Still, it took all of his energy not to wail when Master darkened the door into the bathroom. Pet turned his head away and whimpered into his shoulder. He wanted to apologise. The urge had never left him, even though the order not to speak was vastly overpowering. But he couldn’t apologise, he wouldn’t dare. It would only make everything worse.

Suddenly he remembered a film he’d once seen his old owner watching, on one of the few nights he’d been upstairs. He’d seen a man restrained in a familiar way, held before a crowd, and the man was shouting. Making it worse? How can it be any worse?

His owner had been laughing, but Pet had looked away, frightened.

Master was stood over him, now, taller than he had ever been in his life, bigger and stronger and more of a threat than ever. Pet obeyed his instincts and bowed his head to the floor. All his crying had blocked his nose up, and he sniffled.

Master crouched, speaking slowly. “There, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Pet flinched at his voice, pressing his face further into the floor, wishing he could be smaller. “I’m not angry, hey, I’m not angry.”

What was Master talking about? Why was he playing games? Pet was too stupid for games. He barely even registered the words through his foggy, panic-stricken head. They gave him a headache.

Pet felt a hand run down his back and jerked, fully jerked away in surprise. It was gentle, but he could feel the threat underneath it. I own all of this. All this skin, all this flesh. I’m going to grind it up good after what you’ve done.

In the present, Master retracted his hand, and even through the sickening fear he missed its warmth. A thin line of drool dripped past Pet’s lip, down his chin, and he raised a trembling hand to wipe it. He flicked his eyes up to Master, wanting to at least see where the blows would land before they did.

Every breath was audible as he cried. Every shaking intake of air. Pet wished he could shut up. It was practically directing Master to cut his airways off. Press those warm hands against his throat and squeeze.

. . .

Linden had no idea where to even start. Col looked trapped between the urge to run and the urge to bow down and take whatever came next. His body was tensed, a runner before the starting gun, but he was hunched against the floor in utter submission. He knew, from the far-away look in Col’s eyes, that his words were going straight over his head right now. And who could blame him, really.

. . .

“Speaking is okay, here,” Master said. The words were simple, easy for an animal to digest. “I allow speaking. I thought your vocal cords were damaged. That’s why I never made it clear. It was… a mistake, on my part. And I’m sorry, Col. You’ve always been- no, just- you can speak from now on. Okay? Nod if you understand.”

Pet nodded. He just wanted to do as he was told. Nothing made sense, but he had understood the words.

“Count to ten with me. Out loud, if you want, but you don’t have to. I just need to know you’re paying attention. One… two…”

He continued, slowly, and Pet tried to get his courage up. Master had ordered him to speak. If he didn’t, Pet would get in trouble. But he just couldn’t. It was too scary.

“…ten. That’s okay. You’re okay. Deep breaths for me, come on, there you go.”

Pet copied Master’s long breaths until he realised he wasn’t crying anymore.

“Why don’t you sit up. Copy me.”

Pet obeyed. His whole body hurt with how stressed he was. His mind was a painful fog. So he just did as he was told- pushed himself up with shaking hands, mirroring Master’s pose, sitting like a human on the floor.

Master slowly reached up, and Pet flinched, but all he did was flush away the vomit. Pet looked at the floor. He felt exhausted and ashamed and far too tense.

“It’s probably best if I give you some space, now. I just wanted to tell you as soon as I could that you’re not in trouble. In fact, how about a reward? Or maybe that’s just weird.”

He trailed off in thought. Pet just watched him warily through his eyelashes.

“Do you want to say something?” Master goaded and Pet shook his head viciously, his eyes widening. No he did not. He didn’t have wants and he wouldn’t speak.

“You’re allowed,” Master said with all the softness in the world. It was unnerving.

“Please punish me.”

There. He did it. Are you happy now? Is that what you wanted? Just please please please please punish me now, please Master please please please.

But he kept all those thoughts to himself. He would beg if Master ordered him to, not before. Master’s face became a blank wall.

“No.”

“Please!” Pet cried, thrusting his chest forward with the emotion of it. His voice was sandpaper, just barely scraping its way out of his throat.

“No, I won’t. I never- I never actually said you couldn’t speak. You haven’t broken a rule.”

“Please, please Master I knew not to speak, I know better than to speak. I shouldn’t ever have spoken out of turn and I, I, I need punishment.” Pet pushed his knees under him and knelt, pressing his head just inches from Master’s feet. “Please teach your slave a lesson h-he won’t forget.”

He faltered slightly on the he, wondering too late if he was an it in Master’s eyes.

Master was silent for a few seconds, leaving Pet to wonder if he’d done a good job. When he finally risked a glance up he saw a darkness in Master’s eyes that made him whimper in fear.

“Don’t- call yourself that.”

“S-Slave?” Master nodded stiffly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Master, I-I’m a Pet, an animal, uh-“

“Okay, okay, that’s fine for now.”

“Sorry, s-sorry.”

The last of Pet’s energy bled out of him in the apology.

“You’re okay, Col. Why don’t you get some rest? I won’t come in your room, you won’t have to worry about me.”

Pet- Col, because that was what he was, wasn’t he? Master had made that abundantly clear by now. He might as well test out the name while he was hollow and wrung out. It was something to grasp, something to bring him back to earth, before he drifted off. Col nodded and let himself be helped to his feet by Master, who still never hit him, or kicked him, or let him fall back down. He must be planning something again, Col dimly realised, but he was beyond worrying. He had broken the most important rule of all, and somehow nothing had happened, and he still felt as if he’d taken thirty lashes. Master creaked open the bedroom door and let his pet stumble inside.

Master shut the door with a mumbled goodnight, and Col was alone, on his two feet, words bubbling to the surface of his mouth.

-

first half of the taglist!

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captainseconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonward @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere @itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @zipadeedooda-drabbles @penny-for-your-whump @briars7 @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread

@vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate

#it's been a year since I discovered col and linden and the weird little world of pet whump #(pretty easy anniversary to remember lol) #so here's the moment from their story that sticks with me the most #the way col describes jaffa in his thought process #it just... gets me #other people's whump writing

[we-were-so-beautiful]

Anyway my favourite caretaker type is someone who the whumpee trusts completely but is a little afraid of. They're a Powerhouse in some capacity - maybe they're just a giant and physically intimidating, maybe they're grumpy towards everyone but Whumpee, maybe just have some kind of forceful personality that's channeled into fierce care for the whumpee - whatever it is, they can't help being a little scared of them and yet also in awe of them. I just love this image of someone being so protective but in a bit of a scary way.

[we-were-so-beautiful]

the problem with writing vanessa is that sometimes I accidentally write her as entirely too, how do you say, having her shit together

#whump writing

[we-were-so-beautiful]

Psssssst @haro-whumps I made a thing for you :D <3

The pretty boy trying to be all cool and broody.

(also it was super fun to play around with the effect layers in paint tool sai for his clothes :D)

#I know I'm like 3 years late to this party but I love him SO MUCH #I love this whole storyline I wish I'd been around when it was active

[we-were-so-beautiful]

Old Friends (Oneshot)

My Writing Masterpost

Warnings: briefly implied non-con, off-screen torture

Ugh. What happened? The team… the warehouse… the explosion…

Oh god, the explosion!

Hero bolted upright, his head throbbing. He groaned, screwing his eyes shut. He fumbled for his lamp. But there was no lamp.

He opened his eyes.

He wasn’t in his bedroom at home base.

He was in a dim cell.

Hero was in a dim cell, stripped of all his equipment and chained to a stone wall. In Supervillain’s base.

Fuck.

Steps echoed down the hall. 

But instead of Supervillain, a small-framed man limped down the hall with a tray. He looked… vaguely familiar. Or maybe it was a concussion talking.

The man turned to unlock his cell. It was a hand scan opener, which was interesting. Very classy.

He definitely had a concussion. 

The man had dark eyebags and even darker hair. He looked like shit, a bruise on his face and his eyes dull. They were purple, so he must be Powered. Still, somewhat familiar.

“Hey,” said Hero, as the man sat down the tray, “Do I know you?”

The man shrugged. He shook two pills from a bottle, and offered them to Hero.

He eyed them. “What are they?” 

“Painkillers,” he said, voice hoarse. “Master wants you to take them.”

“Master? You mean Supervillain.”

“Mhm.” He jostled the painkillers in his palm. What the hell? Supervillain was involved, he didn’t have a choice.

He took the pills, and the man handed him a bottle of water. Thank god.

“Are you two enjoying your reunion?” Hero jumped at the voice. He looked up, and Supervillain was just inside the cell, smirking that horrible grin at them.

The man stood up with the tray, eyes downcast. He moved to stand next to Supervillain, who placed a hand on the back of his neck.

“Reunion?”

“Aw, you don’t remember? Little Laith? Of course, he’s just my dog now. Speak, pup.”

“Woof,” said the man, staring at the floor.

What? 

Laith was a snarky, arrogant thief, Hero’s first Powered arrest a decade ago. He could literally disappear into shadows, and occasionally teleport through them. What did Supervillain do to make him so… lifeless?

“I- I thought he was in prison.”

“Anything’s possible when you grease a few palms, sweetheart.” Laith flinched.

“You two have fun.” Supervillain pushed off the wall, waving them off. Hero watched him go.

“Laith?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Oh.”

“If- If I knew you’d end up here- I wouldn’t have arrested you.”

“It’s okay.” Laith turned and left, sealing the door behind him.

___________________

“My team will come for me,” he panted. His entire body was an open wound, pain searing into his nerves.

“No they won’t, sweetheart.”

“Of course they will, there’s a tracker in my equipment, genius,” he spat.

Supervillain laughed. “You mean the one I had my pup plant on the body in your place? You’re dead, my dear, and all those gadgets are in my hands to study.”

“What- that’s not-” his head spun. Supervillain lit up a cigarette, as if he was enjoying a smoke after getting laid instead of after a torture session.

“Including your comlink. Congratulations on helping me take down your team, Hero. I’m sure you’ll see them soon. You’ll be cell neighbors! How fun.”

___________________

There was a commotion down the hall. Hero peered out past the bars. There was a yelp and a firm voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. Eventually the figures came into view.

Supervillain was dragging Laith by the hair, his heeled boots stomping across the stone floor. Hero shrank away from the sight.

Supervillain tossed Laith into the cell across from him, which had to be on purpose. But he didn’t stop there, pulling out a remote and a cattle prod. Supervillain pressed a button, and the hallway and cells lit up with floodlights.

Drowning out any possible shadows Laith could disappear into. Hero had used the same technique to catch Laith all those years ago. 

He pocketed the remote, and the cattle prod sparked.

Oh god.

“My dear pup,” sighed Supervillain, “you were doing so well.”

“Please, Master,” begged Laith, “I’m sorry!” 

It was the most energetic he had heard Laith in the week he spent in this hell hole. And it was spent begging Supervillain for mercy.

Hero screwed his eyes shut and covered his ears. It didn’t help cover up the screaming.

___________________

Laith brought him lunch, after. Just like usual. As if nothing had happened. Laith trembled, the cup of water rattling on the tray.

“Remember when you disappeared just to have a laugh when I chased you? You’d make some comment about how I was an idiot or looked like crap?”

Laith sat the tray down in front of him.

“I remember.”

“What did he do to you? You used to be stealing diamonds and Rembrandts and now you're helping that monster.”

Laith glanced behind him. He sat down next to Hero. He tapped at the black choker around his neck, but on inspection it wasn’t a choker at all.

It was a slim metal power-dampener, a model he’d never seen before. A red light blinked at him. The only bulky part was a small box on the side, and Hero knew what it was on sight. A shock component.

“You can’t leave, can you?” Laith shook his head. 

“He hasn’t let me teleport for so long… I don’t know if I can anymore.” Laith was thin and ragged, bruised and burned up and down his face and arms. He shouldn’t be doing anything, much less using his abilities.

Hero didn’t have powers, he relied on his tech. Tech that Supervillain now had. He examined the collar. The lock was obviously in the shock component, and was a clear design flaw.

“I could get it off,” he said, “I’m sure of it. A few minutes with a piece of wire, and we could get out of here.”

Laith jerked away from him.

“It shocked me when I tired,” he said, despair in his voice. “I can’t take it off.”

“No I- we- could do it. C’mon Laith. You never hurt anyone back then, even when you could. Even when it was easier than not. Don’t let Supervillain use you to murder innocent people.”

“I can't.”

“Please Laith,” be begged. “People are going to die.”

“He’ll kill me if I fail. Or worse.”

“How much worse can it get?”

___________________

Laith came to him a few days later, outside of the normal meal and medicine time.

He opened his palm to reveal a paperclip.

“We don’t have much time,” he said, tilting his neck. “He’ll know I opened your door, and he’ll know once it’s off.” Hero set to work.

“What made you change your mind?”

“I- he- he made me have sex with him again.”

“What?” Hero paused.

“Just work!” he snapped.

“What about my com?”

“What about it?” hissed Laith.

“Supervillain can’t have it.”

“It’s in the office, but-” the collar sparked, and he gasped in pain.

“Sorry!”

“-I don’t know if I have two in me,” finished Laith.

“Okay, fine, we’ll just tell the team when we get back.”

“What- ‘we’?!”

The collar popped off, but they didn’t have time to celebrate before the hall lit up in floodlights.

Shit.

“Uh oh,” came a voice over the loudspeakers, “did my little doggy forget his collar?”

Laith whimpered.

“Laith! Focus!” said Hero, grabbing his arm.

“There’s- there’s nowhere to go! I can’t-” Laith gasped for air, hyperventilating.

Hero searched around. Surely there was something the floodlights couldn’t reach. But the whole place must have been designed around it, because- 

The collar lay on the floor, casting a small shadow.

“Laith, look!” His face lit up, as if he was seeing water in the desert. Laith grabbed Hero’s hand and reached into the sliver of shade.

A coldness overcame them both, and Hero immediately felt nauseous. Ugh.

They landed in an office, clearly Supervillain’s. Laith snatched something small and white off the desk, and they were off again.

They wound up in the middle of an empty lot.

“I thought,” panted Hero, doubling over. “You didn’t have two.” he joked.

But Laith didn’t laugh.

Hero glanced over. Laith lay face down on the dry grass.

“Oh my god!” Hero turned him over, and checked his pulse. He was alive, barely, and still clutching the com.

Hero pulled Laith towards him, cradling him close. He put the com back in his ear. Thank god for secondary trackers.

“I need medical!” he shouted into the com.

“Hero?! You’re alive? Wha-” God, he’d never been so happy to hear that voice.

“Just get here, fast!”

Laith whimpered in his lap.

“It’s gonna be okay, buddy. It’s gonna be okay.”

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

Bonus: Laith, because I can't stop thinking about him

#oh no I love them