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whumpofdory · 6 months

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Second-Hand Goods #1

Masterpost

Warnings: death mentions, human trafficking, creepy whumper

Allen flipped the business card over and over in his hands. He watched his latest victim drip blood on the floor from the chair he was taped to.

“If you ever get bored of your playthings,” his mentor had said, “give this guy a call. He’ll buy them off you. They better be alive, though.”

Allen had been torturing his latest catch for a month, but he was getting tired of this one. There were only so many ways to scream, and his shrill voice was grating on his nerves. His begging was getting repetitive too.

Ordinarily he would just kill him and bury the body, but he was running out of space and disposing of evidence still made him nervous.

His catch whined behind the gag, his fingers twitching. He pulled against the duct tape, as if rubbing his wrists raw would have a different result than the last hundred times.

He sighed and stood up from his makeshift chair.

“Calm down,” he muttered. His catch flinched. He probably hadn’t realized Allen was still there.

He looked down at the card.

It was blank, except for a phone number scrawled in an elegant hand and a code word on the other side.

Allen left the warehouse and bought a burner from the nearest store in cash. He dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I uh, got this number from a friend of mine. I think I have something you might be interested in?”

The voice sighed. “Passcode?”

“Um. Kerosene?”

“Alright. Text me the address and I’ll see you there in a few hours.”

Well, that was easy.

He parked the car in his usual spot, and headed back to the warehouse. His victim was still there, of course.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got someone to take you off my hands.” The man whimpered, and Allen was pretty sure he was crying under the blindfold.

“Don’t worry,” he told him, “He wants you alive for some reason, so I doubt he’ll kill you right away.” The man began to sob, and Allen grinned.

He sat back down on his orange crate and waited for his contact to arrive.

___________________

Emmett twisted in his restraints but it was no good. The tape wasn’t going to give, and the sticky chemicals burned and stung.

Everything hurt so much. The burns had long since cooled, but they itched and tingled. His jaw ached from the knot of cloth in his mouth and the tape over his lips was infuriating. It was hard to breathe through his tears, but it seemed that was how his kidnapper wanted him.

Blood still dripped from his nose and from the slashes across his chest. No matter how much he begged and pleaded, his captor stopped on pure whims. He spent hours on the cattle prod, and Emmett was pretty sure his brain was fried by now.

“Calm down,” said a voice in his ear, and he jumped. Emmett thought he had left.

Footsteps echoed away from him, and Emmett slumped in relief. Finally, a break.

He hung his head and tried to doze. He hadn’t slept in so long, and he knew in his heart he would never see his bed again.

Rest didn’t come to him, because not long after he left, his captor had returned.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got someone to take you off my hands.”

Oh god, what did that mean?

“Don’t worry,” he went on, “He wants you alive for some reason, so I doubt he’ll kill you right away.”

Emmett couldn’t help but cry. He was so tired, part of him wanted to die just so it would be all over.

It must have been about an hour before he heard another person’s steps on the concrete.

“So how does this work?” asked his captor.

“I will inspect your product and offer a price, obviously,” said a second voice.

“And if I don’t like your offer?”

“Then I’ll go, and you’ll call again in a couple days and accept it because I’m the only one who does this sort of thing. Unless you really want to dispose of your toys yourself.” Emmett shivered.

“Alright, alright. Get it over with, then.”

Footsteps came closer to him. A finger brushed over his chest, light enough it almost tickled.

“Well?”

“Be patient,” said the stranger. He hummed in consideration. He suddenly grabbed Emmett’s chin, forcing his head up.

“Eye color?”

“Brown, but why does it matter?”

“It usually doesn’t,” said the man, tilting his head back and forth. “If the product has many small flaws, that can affect price. Eye color trends come and go, you know.”

“I don’t,” said his kidnapper. “I’m not exactly ‘plugged in’ to whatever your business is.”

The second man sighed. “If you want to get paid well, you should be.” He let his head fall.

Emmett’s heart leaped into his throat. What business?

The man tapped his temple. “Are you awake in there, my dear?” Emmett nodded.

“Excellent.” The hand ruffled his hair. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Emmett nodded, but he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. Obeying for more pain, or obeying to avoid it?

The stranger’s second hand suddenly rubbed at his crotch, and Emmett jumped. The stranger chuckled. Thank god his captor had left his jeans on.

“I’ll give you fifteen hundred.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, you did use duct tape. It leaves a residue, and it’s incredibly annoying to scrub off. I knocked off two fifty for that.”

“Ya know what? Fine. Fifteen it is.”

There was some shuffling, and then Emmett felt a firm hand on his arm.

“Don’t move, my dear. I’m going to cut you free from this wretched tape. But you’re going to be good for me, and not fight. Understand?”

Emmett nodded, because what choice did he have?

He heard a serrated knife work its way through the tape under the arms of the chair. The pressure lessened, and he flexed his fingers for the blood flow. The man, his new captor, picked up his wrist and plopped his down into his lap before working on the other one. Finally, both wrists were free, but the man wrapped rope around them instead.

Emmett sat still and let the man do what he wanted. At least the rope was soft. The stranger tugged on the knot and seemed satisfied with it.

“Good boy,” he cooed, “Let’s get that gag off of you. I bet that tape feels awful. No screaming, now.”

Emmett tilted his head up to show how cooperative he was.

I can be good, he thought. Just don’t hurt me.

The stranger ripped the tape off in one go, and the pain was practically nothing compared to everything else. The man pulled the cloth slowly out of his mouth.

“Could you hurry up?” asked his would-be-killer, “What do you even want with him, anyway?”

“You can leave if you want,” said the man, his sweet voice cold again. “I’ve already paid you. And it’s none of your business anymore.”

There was a huff, and footsteps echoed away.

“Looks like Mr. Grumpy left us alone,” said his new kidnapper, in his nicer voice. He finished working the knot of fabric out of his mouth. “I bet that feels better.” He reached to Emmett’s jaw, firmly rubbing the soreness out of his muscles.

“You’ve been good so far, so I'll use a much nicer gag for you.”

“I’ll be quiet, Sir,” gambled Emmett, voice hoarse. “Please.”

The man hummed. “So polite,” he praised, “but no. Now close your mouth.” There was a clink of metal, and a soft panel of leather was pushed to his lips. A strap split around his ear, around the back of his head, and clipped to the other side. A second strap clipped at the back of his head and came over, branching around his nose and clipped to the panel. It wasn’t terribly uncomfortable, and at least his jaw wouldn’t be forced open. But the panel was snug and secured in a way he didn’t like. He felt more like a muzzled animal than before.

“See? Much better.” He hauled Emmett to his feet, and pushed him along the floor. Soon they made it outside, and Emmett relished the feeling of sun on him. He heard a click of a remote, and the signature sound of a car trunk unlatching.

The man slowly pushed him forward, and his knees hit the bumper of a car.

“Watch your head,” he said, guiding him to crawl into the trunk.

At least he’s nice about it, he thought.

The trunk slammed closed, and the engine started.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

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whumpofdory · 6 months

Text

Second-Hand Goods #1

Masterpost

Warnings: death mentions, human trafficking

Allen flipped the business card over and over in his hands. He watched his latest victim drip blood on the floor from the chair he was taped to.

“If you ever get bored of your playthings,” his mentor had said, “give this guy a call. He’ll buy them off you. They better be alive, though.”

Ordinarily he would just kill him and bury the body, but he was running out of space and disposing of evidence still made him nervous.

His catch whined behind the gag, his fingers twitching. He pulled against the duct tape, as if rubbing his wrists raw would have a different result than the last hundred times.

He sighed and stood up from his makeshift chair.

“Calm down,” he muttered. His catch flinched. He probably hadn’t realized Allen was still there.

He looked down at the card.

It was blank, except for a phone number scrawled in an elegant hand and a code word on the other side.

Allen left the warehouse and bought a burner from the nearest store in cash. He dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I uh, got this number from a friend of mine. I think I have something you might be interested in?”

The voice sighed. “Passcode?”

“Um. Kerosene?”

“Alright. Text me the address and I’ll see you there in a few hours.”

Well, that was easy.

He parked the car in his usual spot, and headed back to the warehouse. His victim was still there, of course.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got someone to take you off my hands.” The man whimpered, and Allen was pretty sure he was crying under the blindfold.

“Don’t worry,” he told him, “He wants you alive for some reason, so I doubt he’ll kill you right away.” The man began to sob, and Allen grinned.

He sat back down on his orange crate and waited for his contact to arrive.

___________________

Emmett twisted in his restraints but it was no good. The tape wasn’t going to give, and the sticky chemicals burned and stung.

“Calm down,” said a voice in his ear, and he jumped. Emmett thought he had left.

Footsteps echoed away from him, and Emmett slumped in relief. Finally, a break.

He hung his head and tried to doze. He hadn’t slept in so long, and he knew in his heart he would never see his bed again.

Rest didn’t come to him, because not long after he left, his captor had returned.

“Today’s your lucky day,” he said. “I’ve got someone to take you off my hands.”

Oh god, what did that mean?

“Don’t worry,” he went on, “He wants you alive for some reason, so I doubt he’ll kill you right away.”

Emmett couldn’t help but cry. He was so tired, part of him wanted to die just so it would be all over.

It must have been about an hour before he heard another person’s steps on the concrete.

“So how does this work?” asked his captor.

“I will inspect your product and offer a price, obviously,” said a second voice.

“And if I don’t like your offer?”

“Alright, alright. Get it over with, then.”

Footsteps came closer to him. A finger brushed over his chest, light enough it almost tickled.

“Well?”

“Be patient,” said the stranger. He hummed in consideration. He suddenly grabbed Emmett’s chin, forcing his head up.

“Eye color?”

“Brown, but why does it matter?”

“It usually doesn’t,” said the man, tilting his head back and forth. “If the product has many small flaws, that can affect price. Eye color trends come and go, you know.��

“I don’t,” said his kidnapper. “I’m not exactly ‘plugged in’ to whatever your business is.”

The second man sighed. “If you want to get paid well, you should be.” He let his head fall.

Emmett’s heart leaped into his throat. What business?

The man tapped his temple. “Are you awake in there, my dear?” Emmett nodded.

“Excellent.” The hand ruffled his hair. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Emmett nodded, but he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. Obeying for more pain, or obeying to avoid it?

The stranger’s second hand suddenly rubbed at his crotch, and Emmett jumped. The stranger chuckled. Thank god his captor had left his jeans on.

“I’ll give you fifteen hundred.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, you did use duct tape. It leaves a residue, and it’s incredibly annoying to scrub off. I knocked off two fifty for that.”

“Ya know what? Fine. Fifteen it is.”

There was some shuffling, and then Emmett felt a firm hand on his arm.

“Don’t move, my dear. I’m going to cut you free from this wretched tape. But you’re going to be good for me, and not fight. Understand?”

Emmett nodded, because what choice did he have?

Emmett sat still and let the man do what he wanted. At least the rope was soft. The stranger tugged on the knot and seemed satisfied with it.

“Good boy,” he cooed, “Let’s get that gag off of you. I bet that tape feels awful. No screaming, now.”

Emmett tilted his head up to show how cooperative he was.

I can be good, he thought. Just don’t hurt me.

The stranger ripped the tape off in one go, and the pain was practically nothing compared to everything else. The man pulled the cloth slowly out of his mouth.

“Could you hurry up?” asked his would-be-killer, “What do you even want with him, anyway?”

“You can leave if you want,” said the man, his sweet voice cold again. “I’ve already paid you. And it’s none of your business anymore.”

There was a huff, and footsteps echoed away.

“You’ve been good so far, so I'll use a much nicer gag for you.”

“I’ll be quiet, Sir,” gambled Emmett, voice hoarse. “Please.”

The man slowly pushed him forward, and his knees hit the bumper of a car.

“Watch your head,” he said, guiding him to crawl into the trunk.

At least he’s nice about it, he thought.

The trunk slammed closed, and the engine started.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

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whumpofdory · 8 months

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What it looks like: I’ve abandoned my fic

What’s actually happening: It consumes my thoughts every single day. The urge to write gets stronger but my putty brain just. won’t. let. it. happen.

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whumpofdory · 9 months

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can you do something about how the hero gets kidnapped and they ask the villain to let them go but the villain makes them beg for it?

"Let me go!"

"Do you ever go fishing?" the villain asked.

"I - what?" The question threw the hero off enough for the snarl to die on their lips.

"Do you ever go fishing?"

"No."

"People don't normally fish, the villain swaggered a step closer, smiling," just to toss the fish back. That sort of defeats the purpose of capturing the fish in the first place."

"I'm not a fish."

The villain's smile grew. "No." They sounded amused. "You're not. But the point stands, doesn't it? Why should I let you go after all the effort, patience and skill it to catch you?"

The hero swallowed. Their mind reeled. "Because-" They floundered.

"Hm?"

The hero glared at the villain again. "Because keeping a person is a lot more hard work."

"So I should just kill you?"

"No!" The hero's stomach lurched. "No - I didn't mean - "

The villain laughed. They reached out a hand, trailing their finger up along the soft curve of the hero's belly, over their chest. "Gut you. Salt you. Serve you on a platter to someone willing to pay?"

"No."

The villain nudged the hero's chin, playfully. "Go on."

"Because-" Well, when they'd demanded that the villain let them go, it had been more defiance and the hope of intimidation, than any expectation that the villain would do it. "You'll regret if you don't let me go."

"Will I?"

"I'm more trouble than I'm worth. I'll make you pay for it."

"So." The villain leaned in, closing their fingers gently around the hero's throat. "I should just kill you? Before you get the chance."

The hero closed their eyes briefly. They shook their head. If they'd had their powers, maybe the panic wouldn't have snatched in their throat quite so viciously, but...but the villain's set up didn't allow for powers. The hero was helpless. Well and truly on the hook, so to speak.

"Why did you take me?" the hero managed, a rasp.

"Now that's a better question."

"Are you going to answer it?"

"Are you going to give me what I want?"

"Depends on what you want. I guess if I say no, you'll say, 'should I just kill you?'"

"It's certainly always a question worth asking, isn't it?"

"No," the hero snapped. "It isn't. It should never be!"

The villain laughed again, soft. They squeezed the hero's throat, just once, before letting their hand fall. They stepped back.

"I suppose I want you to know that this is my city." The laughter vanished as if it had ever been there. There was no trace of the smile. No humour or kindness in the villain's eyes. "I want you to know that you're safe only because I allow it. I want you to know that I can take you any time I like, do anything I like to you, and there is absolutely nothing that that you can do about it."

The hero stared. Horror coiled, nested, inside them and made a home.

The villain tilted their head. "Do you suppose that message is sinking in? Or do I need to up the stakes in this practical demonstration?"

The hero opened their mouth, closed it, opened it again. They clenched their jaw.

"Judging by the lack of witty, foolish bravado," the villain murmured, "I think it's starting to. Good."

"So you're...this is a warning. You're going to let me go?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Your question?"

The villain's smile returned, slow and mocking. "Fish, little hero."

Why should I let you go?

The hero swallowed again, but there was still a thick lump of ever-growing fear in their throat. "Killing me would be a lot more effort. Messy."

The villain flicked their eyes down to the drain at the hero's feet, raising a brow.

"Because-" The hero tried, desperately, to think. They couldn't think of a single reason why the villain might leave them alive, actually. Not if they weren't a creature that believed in basic things like second chances and people's right not to be murdered and hurt. "I won't be any bother. To you." The shame of it burned. Scorched them. The words were barely a whisper.

"You've been a bit of a bother though, haven't you?" The villain's voice was almost kind. Like they were talking to a small child.

The hero's stomach lurched again.

"I'm...I'm sorry?"

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Convince me."

"Convince you?"

A moment of silence passed between them, before the villain laughed again. They stepped forward once more, and the hero tensed. The villain patted them on their cheek, before seizing a savage fistful of their hair, tugging. "Panic makes you dumb, huh, babe?"

"I've never - I'm not -" The hero wasn't actually trying to irritate the villain further.

The villain sighed, catching the look on their face. Their grip gentled again, stroking the hero's hair back from their clammy forehead.

"Beg."

"O-oh." Beneath the shame, there was a worse relief. The reassurance of clear objectives. "Please," they said. "Please let me go."

"Is that really the best you can do?"

"...I've never begged before. What more do you want? I can't get on my knees, I'm tied up."

The villain snorted, clearly clocking that it was, actually, a genuine question by then. "Don't worry, you'll learn. I can teach you before you go. I'm nice like that."

The hero's eyes widened, because while they'd never begged before, they could still recognise a threat when they heard one. Mostly. "No - that's not - please don't. I'll beg better. I'll be - be good. No bother. I'm sure you're very busy. You have much better things to be doing. Please."

"Mm." The villain considered them. "A small improvement. I still think you can do better though, can't you?"

They let the hero go nearly three hours later.

The hero couldn't say the word please anymore after that.

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whumpofdory · 10 months

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Reblog if

It’s 104% okay to come to your DM and just say, “Hi, can we be friends?” And then start asking you random questions.

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whumpofdory · 10 months

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Hello i'm a normal person here's some stuff i drew to illustrate different traits different "person getting controlled" tropes can have

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whumpofdory · 11 months

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Kane & Jim AU: Human Bellamy

Kane & Jim AUs masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker, rescue, recovery, begging, starvation, starvation-induced weight loss

you guys can blame @anomalys-taxonomy for this one as they gave me this idea which then instantly rooted itself into my brain.

this is an AU where Kane took a human Bellamy instead of taking Jim (who is a vampire in this AU and helped Bellamy escape but otherwise isn't that important here). Bellamy is a very cooperative whumpee, unlike the defiant Jim, and made efforts to "get on Kane's good side". as such, Kane was a much less severe whumper in this AU, not hurting Bellamy outside of bites. they had a much lighter / less-whumpy dynamic than Kane & Jim do in canon, due to Bellamy's general diplomatic nature and Kane's incredible weakness to shallow flattery.

Kane looked up through teary eyes after the hunter left. There he was, Bellamy.

He used to be embarrassed of how much he missed the human after he ran away, but not anymore. All his pride had been washed away, and he just couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed anymore. All he could feel was a deep despair that Bellamy would be the one hurting him now. He never should have gotten so attached.

He could still see the bite-marks etched into Bellamy's neck, a reminder of all the pain he'd caused.

Bellamy cupped his face, and Kane squeezed his eyes shut with a whimper, expecting pain that didn't come.

"Oh, dear," Bellamy breathed. His hand was gentle, stroking along Kane's cheek, and Kane couldn't help but lean into the first kind touch he'd felt in years.

Bellamy's soft fingers hooked around the muzzle. "Let's get this off you then, shall we? I don't believe you require all this fuss, do you, Mr. de Sang?"

It was odd to hear a human use such a formal title for him after all this time. He shook his head in confirmation. No, I'll be good.

Bellamy lifted the muzzle off his face, wincing at the sight of burnt skin. His voice lost that calm, measured tone he nearly always had, pitching up a bit in barely-contained distress. "Oh my."

Kane wasted no time. He knelt, pressing his forehead to the ground. "I'm s-so sorry, Bellamy, sir," he sobbed, overwhelmed with fear of the unknown. "I'm sorry, p-please have mercy, I'm so sorry, please-"

"Shush. That's enough."

Kane snapped his mouth shut immediately at the proclamation, tears running into the ground. Bellamy didn't even want to hear his apologies.

Bellamy crouched and reached a hand toward Kane's chin, then seemed to think better of it and rested it on his back instead. "There will be time enough for that later, when you're not so out of sorts. Could you look up at me, dear?"

He'd never called Kane dear before. Back then, Bellamy had always called him either Mr. de Sang or my good sir, in what almost seemed a jovial mockery of the title Kane required of him, but too good-natured and generally respectful for Kane to really take as an insult.

Kane looked up, as ordered. "Y-yes, sir."

Bellamy gave him a smile that Kane might describe as soft if it were not so obviously forced. "I will indeed grant you mercy. I am not the violent sort, and you are in such poor shape that I could not fathom anything else. You may relax."

He couldn't possibly relax. Kane remained tense, wondering what exactly Bellamy meant by mercy. "Thank you, sir," he whispered.

"You're very welcome. Come now, then." Bellamy stood, motioning for him to do the same.

Kane followed suit and followed Bellamy to his car. It looked luxurious, even more so than his own car. Humans did rely on them to get around, after all. He fretted about dirtying the seat as Bellamy ushered him into the passenger's side, but Bellamy didn't seem to mind, strapping him in with some sort of fabric restraint. His confusion only grew when Bellamy strapped himself in with the same restraint.

"This is a seatbelt," Bellamy explained, noticing his confusion. "Simply an invention designed to protect the fragile human body. You may undo yours, if you like."

Protect. Why would Bellamy want to protect him?

"I'll keep it on," Kane decided. "Thank you, sir."

Bellamy hummed at that, starting to drive. "I think I'll refer to you as Kane from now on. We're on a first-name basis by now, are we not?"

"Yes, sir." No one had called him by name in years. It made him feel warm, like he was almost a person again.

"You may call me Bellamy, if you wish. Though I don't mind if you continue with the 'sir' business."

"Yes, sir." Safer to stick with the more respectful title.

"I suppose you wouldn't be the most talkative tonight. Why don't I put this on for us?" Bellamy turned on the car radio, which immediately started blasting catchy pop music. Kane perked up at that- he hadn't listened to music in so long. His excitement only grew further when Bellamy switched the station and soft classical music began playing instead.

"Thank you," Kane said emphatically, starting to tear up again.

It was a long drive home, and Bellamy was about one millimeter away from losing his absolute marbles.

He hadn't been sure what to expect when he went to visit his former captor, but it certainly wasn't this. He certainly hadn't expected to be taking Kane home. There would be no catching up through cell bars now that his freedom could no longer be stolen away. Kane was not merely a prisoner. Bellamy didn't want to know all of what had happened to him: he wasn't sure his heart could take it.

Of course, Kane had been horrible to him. He'd stolen two years of his life away, bitten him nightly, and was terribly rude nearly the entire time, especially in the beginning. But this? This was too far, by miles and miles. Honestly, with how sensitive Kane's ego was, there mere act of being bested by humans would have already wounded him enough to teach him a lesson. This was monstrous. He couldn't even bring himself to feel intimidated by the vampire, especially after ten years and ample therapy.

He was good at keeping calm under pressure. He could handle a vampire so weak he could barely stand.

Bellamy parked- too much driving for his taste, tonight- and went around to get Kane out of the car. Still looking up at him with those big, desperate eyes, like he was ready to burst into another fit of pleading for mercy. He looked so utterly weak and terrified, it was a wonder anyone could think to hurt him.

"Alright, then. Inside we go." Bellamy took the executive decision of scooping Kane into his arms, given the man looked like a light breeze could knock him over. He weighed so little that if he were human, he would surely be dead.

Kane rested in his arms without protest. "Yes, sir."

Bellamy had a feeling he wouldn't stop hearing that phrase anytime soon.

"What'cha got there, Mr. Verta?" Hayward asked as he approached, eyebrow raised.

Kane tensed in his arms, bright-red eyes focused squarely on the hunting gear on Hayward's belt. "Sir?" he squeaked, voice full of new terror.

"Oh, this is Kane de Sang!" Bellamy introduced. "Kane, this is Hayward. He stands guard at night just to make sure I stay safe." Hiring a retired hunter to this position was still one of the best ideas Bellamy's ever had, in his own opinion. His presence has helped dramatically with his anxieties.

The situation seemed to be taking the opposite effect on Kane, who began to pull in short, panicked breaths, clinging to Bellamy's shirt.

Hayward also seemed to not be a fan of the situation. "You sure this is a good idea? You need help?"

"Please," Kane whimpered, starting to cry again. "I'll be good, p-please, please no more, I promise I can be good."

"No more," Bellamy agreed, holding the trembling vampire close. "Thank you for the concern, darling, but I believe if my guest spends much more time in the presence of vampire hunters, he'll perish from fright alone. He's been through an awful lot, you see."

Hayward nodded skeptically. "Uh-huh. And what's the plan here?"

"I am winging it," Bellamy announced with a wink.

Hayward sighed. "I'll be here if you need me. Be safe."

"Oh, the safest," Bellamy assured. "Worry not, worry not. That goes for you too, you know," he added, looking down at Kane. "Hayward is here to ensure my protection. So long as you do not intend to attack me or whisk me away, you needn't be afraid, and it's quite obvious you intend neither."

Kane nodded frantically. "I don't, I would never, sir."

"Of course you wouldn't. Well, let's be off, then." Bellamy mouthed a thank you to Hayward before carrying Kane into the house, setting him down on the nice, soft couch. Kane seemed to melt into it, some of his tension disappearing. Bellamy wasn't sure whether it was due to being out of the hunter's presence, or the couch itself.

"I'm sorry if I dirty your furniture," Kane said sheepishly.

"Oh, pish posh. Don't worry about that of all things." Bellamy could see that Kane was in obvious need of a bath, but there were other things that must be prioritized. He'd been thinking about it the whole drive home, and determined he was ready. Hayward was outside if things went south, though he was reasonably sure he could handle things himself, what with Kane's current state. "You look positively famished. Would you like a drink, for old times' sake?"

That certainly got Kane's mind off the fact that a hunter was stationed outside. He'd been expecting Bellamy to take revenge on him for what he'd done, but instead, he'd offered blood. Blood. Kane hadn't fed in so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like to not be hungry.

"You would let me feed?" he asked, eyes practically sparkling with hope.

"What else am I meant to do? Force you to starve? Invite you to feast on fruits and veggies as I do?" Bellamy shook his head at the ludicrous idea.

"Thank you, sir!" Kane exclaimed, suddenly overwhelmed with joy. When it did eventually come time for Bellamy's revenge, he would be okay with anything if he could have blood after the hurting. "Thank you so much, I can't believe this is really happening!"

Bellamy sat down next to him. "It is indeed. Though, I must be clear, this will not be a permanent arrangement. I shall not serve as a source of blood for any large portion of my life," he said firmly, suddenly serious. "Do you understand?"

Kane wanted to ask so many questions. How long would he be allowed food? What happens after? Would he be forced to wither in starvation again, or would Bellamy find another human to provide blood for him?

But he was too afraid to question the generosity that is any blood at all. "Yes, sir. I understand."

Bellamy smiled, his brief seriousness gone. "Wonderful." He rolled up his sleeve, extending his arm. "The neck is a bit cliché, don't you think?"

"I can bite?" Kane asked with bated breath.

Bellamy reclined back on the couch, arm still extended. "You may."

Kane wasted no time. He was being given permission. He bit into Bellamy's forearm- slowly, gently, trying to cause the least pain possible.

It was like a rich, flavorful explosion in his mouth. He had never tasted anything so wonderful, so delicious. All other thoughts slipped from his mind, replaced only with the desperate need to get as much blood in him as possible, as fast as possible.

He was distantly aware that Bellamy was saying something to him, but he was too entranced to process it. He needed blood. There was nothing more important than getting blood, it was the only thing in the world that mattered-

Bellamy tugged firmly at his hair, though slowly enough to avoid a sharp yank. He pulled Kane out of his arm, blood gushing out after.

His voice wavered a bit as he spoke, a hint of anxiety breaking through. "I've asked you to stop."

A wave of horror crashed over Kane as he snapped back to reality, realizing what he'd just done.

"I'm sorry!" he yelped, terror seizing his heart. "I'm so s-sorry, sir, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! I don't know what came over me, I was just so hungry I didn't realize what I was doing!"

It was a horrible excuse. Kane was the monster the hunters always said he was, trying to drain his old victim even after Bellamy was kind enough to feed him. He wept brokenly, knowing that it would be the last time. He'd be lucky if his only punishment was getting food taken away forever. He'd easily earned being put in the sun, or even being sent right back to his cell. No more comfortable couches, being gently held, listening to the radio. His reprieve over in a matter of hours.

He couldn't stop crying, mourning the soft life he'd never get to earn. "I'm sorry," he whimpered. "Please, mercy, please, I can be better! I-"

"Kane," Bellamy interrupted softly. "I am not going to penalize you for drifting off a bit. It's clear that you are trying your very best." He extended his bleeding arm. "If you wouldn't mind, dear?"

"Oh!" Kane swiped his tongue over the wound, stopping the bleeding and licking up the excess blood as the relief settled in. "S-sorry. Thank you, sir, thank you so much for your kindness."

"Yes, I do believe you're in need of a little kindness after your ordeal," Bellamy said. "Now, why don't we get you cleaned up and into some proper clothing?" He smiled. "I will admit, I've always wanted to dress you up. You always wore such plain things back in the day."

Clothes. Bellamy was going to allow him clothes, like a reward even after he'd earned a punishment.

Kane nodded, finally letting himself give in to the hope that maybe things could be okay. "I would like that very much."

kane and bellamy do end up developing feelings for each other and getting together romantically as their relationship progresses, despite their troubled past. all of bellamy's friends share the sentiment of "bellamy, you are well-known for your bad taste in men, but this is a little far even for you." bellamy tells them it's just like beauty and the beast! :) to which they respond "no."

taglist in reblog!

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whumpofdory · 11 months

Text

Consequence of Action

For you Anon!! I don't know if this is what you had in mind but this is what came out so I hope you enjoy! Please heed the warnings! Technically this is supposed to have a sci-fi feel with the ship in space with a crew, but I admit, I kept getting a pirate ship vibe the entire time lol I make no apologies, it is what it is!

I also gave them all names to keep the characters straight in my head. I hope that doesn't throw anyone.

TW: EXPLICIT noncon (seriously from the very first sentence so turn away now if that's not your cup of tea!), captive whumpee, multiple whumpers (only one shown), reference to muzzles, humiliation, conditioning, reference to past flogging, mutiny, mentions of minor character deaths

Quinn clenched his jaw shut tight, hissing out another forced breath from between his teeth as the captain thrust deeper inside him; his large, rough hands grabbing at his sweat slicked hips and shifting him for a better angle.

He let himself be moved, pried open and torn apart, only unhinging his jaw and forcing his mouth to go slack when the captain's fingers dragged across his lips, seeking entrance, filling him completely.

Fighting only made it worse. He used to fight, back in the beginning, just after the mutiny was quelled and the wrong man was executed for trying to stop the cruel reign of the man now forcing Quinn's legs to open even wider.

He'd seemingly backed the wrong horse.

No.

He didn't.

It was the right thing to do.

Quinn was the communication's officer, a nobody really, but with all sorts of knowledge about the technological systems necessary to stage a mutiny and over-through the captain. Murphy had come to him with a plan and he had volunteered his services immediately. He'd helped get Murphy the information and access he needed, everything he had asked for.

In the end, it wasn't nearly enough. The captain, and his shockingly loyal crew, routed out every single one of the mutineers before executing Murphy without ceremony. They put everyone else on their knees in the airlock and simply opened the doors, letting them die in the cold nothingness of space. Mutiny adverted.

He didn't know why they chose to keep him alive.

Quinn grunted as a hand wrapped around the back of his neck, pushing his face deep into the mattress, the sound of flesh slapping hard against flesh echoing through the captain's chambers.

He knew why.

It hurt. It never stopped hurting. The captain had declared that the entirety of the rebellion rested squarely on Quinn's shoulders, that nothing would have been possible if it wasn't for him. He declared that Quinn was to be thoroughly punished, made into a slave- of sorts. They put a collar on him and everything. He spent most of his days locked in a small cage, not even big enough to stretch out his legs, and at night, he belonged to the crew.

Quinn missed his cage. He missed the hard edges of the grated floor that cut into his limbs as he tried to sleep. Anything was better than this, a soft pillow stuffed under his hips and the smooth fabric balled up in his sweaty fists. The grate was better. The bars and heavy locks that gave Quinn some false sense of safety were better. Anything was better than this.

The captain's toes dragged down Quinn's calves, his feet hooking around his ankles and spreading his legs apart further. His hips protested, aching and pulsing up his back at the strain, already so used to being curled up for hours at a time, only to be forced open beyond their means.

Quinn's hot breath huffed against the mattress. The captain was close. He swore he'd never voluntarily participate in his own rape, but he was so tired. He just wanted tonight to be over. He could speed this up if he wanted to. Maybe, just maybe, the captain only had one round in him tonight and Quinn could actually get some rest.

He took the risk, tilting his hips up just right and clenching his ass, pulsing.

“Oh god!”

The captain rocketed forward, picking up a frantic pace. It was what Quinn wanted, right? Get this over and done with.

A hand covered the side of his face, a finger hooking into the side of his mouth, as the captain plunged forward. He wanted to bite down, sever the finger down to the bone, but again, he'd learned his lesson. After a week spent in a crude muzzle that pinned his jaw shut tight, he never bit again.

He felt saliva pool in his mouth and drooling out onto the mattress, staining the silks along with his sweat and his blood.

“Fuck, yes, oh god!”

Short thrusts signaled the end, hot cum filling his ass and the captain's weigh coming to rest over Quinn's sweaty back.

He couldn't stop the shutter that wracked through his body at the feel of the captain's tongue trailing over his ear and down his neck, nausea twisting in his gut. How was that worse? Worse that all of this?

The captain hummed, happily sated, “You liked that, didn't you boy?”

Boy. Quinn was a grown man and the captain held no illusions about that. Still, he called him nothing but boy, even before the mutiny.

The finger dipped deeper into Quinn's mouth until he gagged at the intrusion.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” the captain rolled his hips, still firmly seated deep in Quinn's ass, “Do that again.”

Quinn tried to breath around the additional finger the captain pressed into his mouth, swallowing around them before his throat took over and his entire body seized with a spasming cough.

The captain moaned as he bit down on Quinn's shoulder, pulling his fingers out of his mouth and wiping them down his arm, “Might have to play with that little reaction next round.”

Fuck.

A knock at the door startled him slightly, his body flinching once more.

The captain laughed and groaned as he slipped out of him, finally, blood and cum slicking between his thighs. Quinn couldn't stop the whimper at the feeling of being so suddenly and completely empty.

“You stay just like that. Don't move an inch,” The captain slapped his ass and climbed off the mattress, “Come in!”

He heard the door whoosh open and the gruff voice of the security officer, Collins.

“You're needed on deck, Captain,” he stated plainly and with no apology for interrupting.

A flush prickled over Quinn's body. He often wondered when he'd stop being embarrassed by being seen like this, fucked out and spread open. It wasn't like this was new. The captain made sure that he was thoroughly used, every single night. If not by himself, than by another member of the crew. He had been passed around to every single man willing but most nights were spent right here, pressed up against this very mattress.

He laid perfectly still, waiting for instruction, hoping he would be put back in his cage and allowed to sleep, at least until the captain was finished with whatever he was being called on for.

The captain came to stand in his eyeline, still naked and palming himself, staring down at Quinn. Quinn's eyes remained firmly on the pattern of the blanket beneath him.

“Fine,” the captain finally said, grunting his disappointment, “You're done with your shift right, Collins? You want to take the traitor for the night?”

Quinn's heart quickened in his chest and he swallowed hard. Please say no. Please say no.

“Or I could give him to Hawkins, he always gives him a good time,” the captain laughed, slapping him on the ass again, hard enough to leave a mark, “Doesn't he, boy?”

Quinn flinched with the slap, his breath coming in short, quick bursts. He couldn't go with Hawkins. Not again. The last time Hawkins took him for the night, he was bent over his desk, his ass flogged and then fucked. He couldn't walk properly for days. The captain often complained about the scars that were left behind.

Still, could Collins be worse?

He realized he was starting to panic, his body breaking through his tenuous control and trying to shake itself apart. He tried to clamp down on his fear but he was losing control of his his own body, his legs involuntarily trying to close, to shield him from whatever horrors were sure to come next.

The captain had pulled on his pants by now and knelt one knee on the mattress, pinning Quinn's foot in place. He reached over and dragged his other leg back to where it was. Quinn's head felt thick, his vision started to blacken as he felt the captain's hand slip up his inner thigh.

“I'll take him.”

The hand stopped and the pressure on his foot was removed as the captain stood abruptly.

“Ahhh! Good choice, Collins!” The sound of the man's back being joyfully slapped echoed through Quinn's ears, “You use him properly tonight. The boy still needs to learn his lesson.”

He heard a grunt of affirmation and the captain was gone.

Quinn shrunk into the mattress when Collins stepped forward, hooking his finger through the collar around his neck.

“Up. Can you walk?”

Quinn let himself be pulled up, a firm hand grabbing him around the arm as he stumbled next to the larger man. He didn't have any clothes with him. He never did, not anymore.

Collins set a brisk pace as they headed into the hall, the sound of whoops and hollers of the men they passed bouncing around in Quinn's head. They've all had their turn.

Quinn stumbled as they came to a stop before the door to Collins' quarters, the momentum throwing him off balance. The hand on his arm steadied him as the door slid open and they headed inside. Quinn expected to be tossed onto the bed, or the floor and started angling his body in that direction before being shifted the other way.

“Kneel, if you're going to fall over.”

Quinn wasn't sure if he was going to fall over or not but he knelt either way. It seemed easier to just take it as an order.

He finally looked up at the sound of water running forcefully in the small shower. He watched somewhat passively as Collins held his hand under the water, testing the temperature. Maybe he wanted Quinn to suck him off in the shower? He could do that. And the warm water would feel like heaven after weeks of nothing but a freezing cold hose turned on him in his cage every few days.

He watched Collins, and waited.

“In.”

Quinn hesitated, listing slightly to the side. God he was exhausted. He could do this though. This would be better than going back to the captain, or Hawkins.

He pushed himself forward and heard a grunt from Collins as he opted to just crawl into the shower on his hands and knees, tucking himself into the corner and given Collins plenty of room to join him.

The contrast of the cold tiles and the almost too hot water coursing over half his body threatened to consume his mind entirely. He was right. It was heaven. He tilted his head while he waited, letting the water slick over his hair and down his neck.

A bar of soap was suddenly dropped onto his lap, tumbling to the floor of the stall.

Quinn risked looking up through his wet lashes at the man who essentially owned him for the night.

“Wash up. And use the soap. I wont have you smelling like shit if you're going to be in my bed tonight.”

At that, Quinn flinched as the door to the shower was slammed shut, he was alone. He blinked in confusion.

He wasn't expecting to be offered an actual shower but he wasn't going to waste it. Quinn didn't want to risk standing up with the way his body kept randomly shuttering and shivering despite the heat of the water. He made as quick of work as possible soaping up his body, his hair, hissing as he washed between his legs, not knowing how much time he had before Collins came for him.

The bed. So it wasn't going to be a simple blow job.

Quinn tired to push all the horrible possibilities out of his mind as he let the soap slip from his fingers and tilted his face into the stream. He sighed, rolling his neck and letting the water pound down onto his aching shoulders. Quinn was pretty sure nothing had ever felt so good in his entire life. He rested his cheek against the cool tiles and waited.

Eventually, the door opened and Quinn was startled upright.

He looked up at Collins' handsome face. At least, Quinn used to think he was handsome, even with that scar that cut through his eyebrow and over his nose. A warrior in another life perhaps. He wouldn't be handsome to Quinn anymore, not after tonight, he was sure.

Quinn leaned away from Collins arm as he reached in and turned off the now lukewarm water.

Collins looked hesitant, like he didn't know what to do with the grown man kneeling in his shower stall. Quinn felt the irrational urge to help him out, tell him that now was when the fucking started, but he bit his tongue, and waited.

Collins took a deep breath and reached into the stall with both hands, grabbing Quinn up by both arms and helping him off the slick tiles. He then grabbed a towel and dried him off, briskly rubbing the soft cotton through his hair until it was as dry as it was going to get for now.

“Go ahead and get comfortable,” Collins gestured towards the bed not three feet away in the small quarters.

Get comfortable? Quinn frowned, looking at the bed. He finally stepped forward and laid down, figuring Collins would want him on his stomach. He pushed the pillow out of the way, and rested his face against the mattress for the second time tonight. He swallowed thickly before he spread open his legs, as wide as he was able.

He waited, his hands balled into fists, flinching slightly when a thick blanket came to rest over him, pulled right up over his shoulders. His breath quickened as he looked over to Collins.

The man was settling down at his desk, pulling on a pair of reading glasses and ignoring Quinn entirely. Quinn tried to wait. He watched as Collins flipped through page after page of reports, his eyelids growing heavy. Quinn slowly relaxed his hands and dragged his legs closed, eyes never leaving Collins face. The man didn't seem to notice, or care. He turned onto this side, just a little, and curled his legs up, tucking his face under the warm blanket. Quinn could swear that he saw the corner of Collins' mouth quirk up in a small smile before he drifted off to sleep.

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whumpofdory · 11 months

Text

"What's wrong?

You think people shouldn't be treated like this?

Well, I have to agree. People shouldn't be treated like this.

But you aren't a person, are you?"

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whumpofdory · 1 year

Text

Be Careful What You Wish For - Chapter 2

TW: pet whump, demon whumper, human whumpee, living ashtray, burning with fire, dehumanization, college whump, mind-hearing, slapping, creepy whumper, humiliation.

“Strip.” The order is quick and to the point and, making Cris blush and tremble, swallowing as he looks up at his Owner. “H-Here?” His question is quickly answered with a firm slap, making him yelp and whine softly. He gently touches his cheek and realizes his mistake. How dare he question Him? He knew better. He then nods, “Y-Yes...Yes, S-Sir...” stammering as he removes his hoodie, letting it drop to the ground around him. Daelan reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and retrieves a gold-plated cigarette case and matching lighter, pulling a cigarette from the case and lighting it as he watches his human strip. Cris then removes his shirt, the cold night air biting at his bare flesh, making him shiver as he drops his shirt on his hoodie, hoping to keep it off of the sand.

He removes his shoes, kicking them off behind him and reaching back to remove his socks, stuffing them into his shoes. Then he stands, undoing his pants to remove them but quickly freezes when he looks up to see Daelan glaring back at him, making him shiver more. His gaze was seemingly colder than the air around the boy, feeling it pierce his soul and making him kneel back down. Daelan let out a discontented sigh through his nose, exhaling smoke as he did, obviously displeased by his pet's behavior. Fearing further upsetting him, Cris remains kneeling while removing his pants and boxers at the same time and shuts his eyes tight in embarrassment. “Please...don't let anyone see me like this...” he thinks to himself, making his Master chuckle as he takes pleasure in the pitiful sight before him, drinking in his pet's displeasure.

“If anyone does, I might let even them take pictures of you like this.” He says before taking a drag from his cigarette. Cris looks up at him and whimpers, blushing bright red. His shivers worsen in fear and from the cold...mostly from the cold, he could see their breath yet his Master was making him strip...in public, no less. He folds his arms in front of his chest and places his hands on his upper arms, trying to stay warm. Daelan starts circling his prey just as a predator would in the wild, looking over his trembling form, admiring the lack of scars on his skin and planning all the ways he can mark it as his. A thought crossed his cruel mind. “Cold?” He asks Cris, who quickly nods, remaining silent to avoid stuttering. Daelan grins before taking another drag from his cigarette, making it glow bright and illuminating his face for a moment before he leans forward. “Then this should warm you up.” He says before pressing the tip of the cigarette into Cris's shoulder, making him wince hard and shut his mouth tight to avoid crying out in pain, desperate to not wake anyone up.

His breath becomes shallow and fast as the cigarette burn into his soft skin, trying his best to keep from screaming. He did good, all things considered. He didn't pull away or lash out like he would have with anybody else, but this man isn't anybody else and he knows better. When Daelan pulls back, he tosses the cigarette butt at Cris, making him flinch. “Better?” His voice full of sarcastic concern. His pet nods hesitantly as he gets his breathing back under control, still freezing but he really didn't want to feel that again. Daelan's expression turns dour as he furrows his brows. “Don't you dare lie to me, mutt.” He says as he swiftly grabs Cris by the throat, squeezing just enough to keep him in place. The boy's eyes widen as he looks up at his Master, knowing his shivering had betrayed him. “I'm...I'm s-sorry...Sir...I-I'm sorry...I'm f-freezing...” He manages to speak through his Owner's grip and whines in terror as he watches him pull his lighter back out, igniting it. “We can't have you freezing now can we?”

Cris's eyes lock onto the flame, shaking his head as much as he can in Daelan's grip and watching it get closer and closer to his skin until he feels it start to burn his chest. He then shuts his eyes and mouth tight only allowing a muffled scream to escape his throat as he feels it move across his skin, swearing he can hear the crackling of it cooking. “Oh? You think this is bad, pet?” The Demon Lord says with another chuckle, extinguishing his lighter and putting it away. “Then I think you'll love what's waiting for you at home.” His pet quivers on his knees, wondering what he just got himself intoand feels a gloved hand on his head. He looks up at Daelan, the pet's eyes pleading for mercy, finding none. His Master looks back down at him with a devilish smirk as he grips the pitiful human's hair firmly in his fist, making him whine again. The sound of misery, music to his ears while he opens a portal behind him. “Let's go home, shall we?” He asks, feigning the idea of choice. Cris see's the portal and his heart beats loudly in his ears, so much so, he almost didn't hear Daelan speak.

“You have one of two options...and this very well may be your last decision you ever make in this realm...you way crawl willingly through beside me, or I can drag you in behind me against your will.” Neither option was good, but the poor human felt that crawling would be favorable over being dragged. “C-Crawl...Sir...” His reply making Daelan smile as he released his pet's hair, seemingly fond that he chose obedience over resistance. “Good pet. Come along now.” He says as he turns around to face the portal, waiting for Cris to crawl to his side like a kicked dog. He then steps through, his new pet following close to him.

Taglist: @whumpshaped, @whumper-soot, @zillastar13, @dragonfireridge

Wanna get added to the taglist? Let me know ^^.

#please add me to the tag list #LOVE THIS #pet whump #demon whumper #human whumpee #dehumanisation

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whumpofdory · 1 year

Text

Thinking about Colt and Christopher. Colt as the rough individual with a different lover every week, and Christopher as the well put together and soft spoken man who seems so oblivious.

People see them and think Christopher is being taken advantage of. Christopher goes to book clubs and evening church services and is an active member of the community. Colt goes goes to bars and drag clubs and screws around with prostitutes.

To an outside observer it all seems so wrong. Colt should be in jail for a hundred obvious yet unprovable crimes. Christopher should marry a kind man, someone who will help him make dinner and tend a garden.

No one but Christopher's siblings can see what's going on below the service, and they hate Colt all the more for it. Family comes first, even if good, decent, brotherly Christopher is doing unspeakable things.

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whumpofdory · 1 year

Text

“Tilt that light up– yep, there we go. Alright, look alive sweetheart, it’s time to shine. Look at me… no, open your mouth just a bit. There.”

The pet drops their eyes, watching the flash of the photographer’s camera from under a half-lidded gaze. The studio is bright and loud and full of people, unlike the majority of their training so far. It sent a shiver of electric awareness down their skin when they first entered, and the chill hasn’t gone away, though part of it is the vast swaths of bare skin exposed to the air conditioning’s relentless breeze.

“Now look to your right–” the photographer’s voice tunes them back in. “No, your other right. Thank you. I forget you’re all as air-headed as a bag of chips. Tilt your chin up– yep, don’t move.”

The camera flashes again, a staccato of white on white on white. The pet keeps their eyes open, their half-smile fixed, their body still. This is important. They’re getting their picture taken for potential owners. If they look good enough, beautiful, desirable, fuckable, someone will fall in love with them and take them out of this place.

"Can we get a makeup touchup? Darken that lip a little."

Someone approaches, and the pet allows their chin to be taken in one finger and thumb as their lips are carefully painted with another layer of color. They press their lips together and part them again with a slight pop, offering a small smile to the makeup technician. The man is already looking away, though, and they drop the expression.

"Good." The photographer again. "Now tuck your arm in and crook your left– that leg, crook it up– yep. Good. Look at me like you're going to make me come over there and fuck you on the strength of your eyes alone."

Flashes chitter light and mechanical clicks over their skin. Lightning, they think, in the carefully distant place reserved for the shadows of someone who didn't want to exist any more. The pet tilts their chin up slightly, holding the camera's gaze. Someone will see them through its lens. Someone will see them and burn to give them a name.

The photographer lowers her camera. The pet blinks past after-images burned across the world, and by the time their vision clears she's closer, crouching in front of them with dissatisfaction twisting her features. The pet's breath catches. If it's not beautiful, if it's not perfect, they won't be chosen, they won't get out–

"Here," the photographer is saying. There's a small plastic lozenge in her palm. "You're almost there. We just need to push you over that last edge and you'll be there." Her hand rests on the pet's thigh, one thumb sliding back and forth in a soothing motion. The pet fights the urge to lean forward and kiss the wrinkle between her eyebrows away.

"What do I need to do?"

"You need to come alive. You need to be so vibrant that everyone who looks at you has to have you." The photographer adjusts the pet's leg, parting their thighs. She slips her fingers under the edge of the small triangle of black lace strung between the crisscrossing straps that adorn their waist, hips, and thighs, nestling the little vibrator up between their lips where it will remain hidden and in place. The pet remains very still as her fingers explore them, following their cleft upwards until a spark of pleasure makes them inhale sharply, then retreating with a little smirk to nudge the vibrator upwards. She withdraws, wiping her fingers discreetly in the crease of the pet's thigh. As she stands, she taps at her phone, and the vibrator hums silently to life.

"Alright," she announces to the room at large, "let's see if we can get a few more shots."

The camera begins its staccato assault on their eyes once more. The pet fights to keep their breathing even, feeling a flush start to paint heat across their face and chest. The photographer circles them, occasionally directing an assistant to reposition the pet's limbs – they are no longer trusted to follow directions, it seems – to drape them across the chaise in different arrangements. On their back, arched up to tip their head back and let their arms fall over the chaise's scrolling headrest; sitting up, one leg crossed demurely over the other as if they aren't wearing an assemblage of straps and little else– and oh, how the position brings out the flush in them; on their side, one arm pillowing their head, as if discarded in freshly-fucked sleep. And all the while, the little toy hums against them, shifting with their movements, urging them to roll their hips or drop a hand to finish the promise it leaves unfulfilled, but they are good. They give their heat-soaked gaze to the camera, offer trembling breaths and the flutter of their chest to its lightning, sacrifice their body on the wanting altar of hope in their future owner. Someone will see them like this. Someone will see them desperate, gorgeous, needy, wanting only for an owner's touch to come undone, and someone will fall in love. Someone will buy them, take them home – a home, they'll have a home – and give them everything they were made to need.

The camera's flashes cease. The pet pulls themself out of the daydream with a little difficulty, fighting off a wave of pleasure low in their core. The photographer's staff are all but gone, packing up equipment efficiently and heading out. The photographer herself lingers, thumbing through shots on her camera.

"You handler's due to pick you up soon," she comments. The door to the studio closes behind her last assistant, and she sets the camera down. Her phone comes out as she paces towards them, and then the vibrator cuts off suddenly. The pet can't help whimpering at the loss.

"Need a little help with that?" the photographer smirks. She straddles the pet, pushing their lingerie aside to reach in and pluck the vibrator loose. "You're dripping all over my prop," she chides.

"I'm sorry–"

"Shh. You can make it up to me." She cups them with one hand and leans forward to tug on the ring dangling from their collar until they're sitting up, air mingling with her own low breaths.

"Kiss me," she whispers.

As they do, her finger slips inside of them. The pet moans in relief. She takes their bottom lip between her teeth, biting gently as a second finger joins the first. The pet twines their arms around her, pressing their body closer. They were made for this. They imagine their future owner and roll their hips. Someone will love the way they move. Someone will ache for the taste of their kiss. Someone will– ah– circle her thumb just like this, drink the moan off their tongue, tug at their collar as her fingers crook–

Her hand leaves their collar and tugs their hair, tilting their body back away from the photographer as their core clenches and spasms. Light flashes over their skin. The pet blinks, startled, and squirms away from the photographer. She pulls out of them with a low laugh, pocketing her phone.

"Just a little bonus for me," she says reassuringly.

They should feel calmed, but suddenly they don't. They attempt to tug the too-scant lingerie back in place, watching with a shamed flush as she licks her fingers clean.

"You'll get snapped up in no time with that last set of pictures," she says as she stands and heads for the door. "I'd buy you myself if I could afford you." She winks at them as she picks up her camera. "I'll settle for pictures, and the memory of you clenching on my fingers. God, you were perfect."

The studio door closes behind her with a cold click, and the pet is alone. They pull their feet up onto the chaise and circle their arms around their legs, shivering as the heat of their orgasm fades.

It was good. They were good. They got beautiful pictures for their future owner, and they were good for the photographer just like their handler told them to be. Everyone will be happy with them.

They scrub a palm across their cheeks, dashing aside the leaking tears. It was good. They wanted this. It felt good, and they were good, and it was good.

So why can't they stop crying?

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