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bloodandbandages · 1 month

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Hollow

CW: Dubcon, semi-explicit, drug use, alcohol use, Kauri’s Poor Life Choices era. @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 6: Hunger

Erase to Control masterlist

There’s a hollow feeling in the pit of Kauri’s stomach, a hunger that the pills, the candy-colored drinks, and the music pounding through his skin can’t begin to fill. He spins with abandon, letting the lights trail colors behind them as they move above his head, running his fingers over the bared spaces of skin on the arms and stomach of the taller man he’s dancing with.

He likes them taller, and with muscles that he's never had. He likes this one because he's got bottle-blond hair and blue eyes and looks too much like a man Kauri absolutely isn't thinking about. He looks so much like him that it sticks under Kauri's skin, he keeps calling the guy by the wrong name, catching himself a little too late.

He's lucky the guy's as blasted as he is, he doesn't even notice. He hasn't called Kauri anything but baby.

Jake probably wouldn't call him baby on the dance floor.

Doesn't matter.

None of it matters.

The hunger claws at him, it's a wound he can’t heal. Even as he grabs the man by sliding fingers through the belt loops of his low-slung jeans and pulls him off the dance floor towards the bathrooms, ducking into a stall with the man laughing on his heels, he still feels utterly fucking alone. They’re both high as hell, too drunk to stay upright. What happens between them is more fumbling than passionate, hands moving and teeth bumping in a kiss that doesn’t satisfy.

Because nothing does, not tonight.

He ends up bent over with his elbows on the toilet tank, his forehead resting sweaty against cool porcelain, the man’s hands on his hips and his pants down around his ankles. There’s a condom - that’s good. Kauri forgot to ask but the guy wears one anyway. He brought his own lube - green flag number two.

This guy's a solid anonymous hookup, not taking chances on disease or hurting Kauri more than he asks to be hurt. He'd probably be good to hook up with more than once... if Kauri can even remember his face, let alone his name.

He's wondering if he'll remember this guy as anything but Dollar Store Jake, in the end.

Kauri moans at all the right times on instinct alone, his training taking over even when he’s too drunk to stay up and too high to care about it. Fingers grip tight into his hair and yank his head back, forcing his back to arch. It makes a new kind of pleasure zing up his spine and the sounds he makes get louder, then - the sort of sounds the hand in his hair is trying to create, immediately provided.

He even smiles, closing his eyes.

To the guy he looks transported, like sex is taking him somewhere incredible, like he's losing himself to it.

Kauri’s good at giving them exactly what they want to see.

This guy wants it rough but fun, he wants Kauri to be into it, too. His hips slap hard but not painfully, and he’s not trying to hurt him with this fuck or even leave bruises behind. Just wants it to feel like maybe there could have been bruises, if he wasn't such a nice fucking guy.

Kauri can play the part of the perfect fuck drugged, drunk, he could fuck in his sleep by now. It drives thoughts away like nothing else, and Kauri is just a trained body responding to its cues, knowing the handlers will be watching, knowing there will be consequences if he doesn't match his owner's desires.

Kauri plays his part like he's going for the goddamn Oscar at being an anonymous body in a bar. He arches his back just right, they end up with the guy's head against Kauri's shoulder blades, groaning as he comes. The guy says thank you and Kauri bursts out laughing, because why the fuck would you thank a mindless sex toy for being there when your cock’s hard?

That’s what he’s for.

It's all he's good at.

The guy does… something… with the condom - Kauri doesn’t see what and he doesn’t care. But then he’s back, gently turning Kauri around, a hand to his face. That’s an intimacy Kauri doesn’t want, suddenly can’t stand - but he holds still, trembling, for Owen’s touch. He always holds still for Owen.

This isn’t Owen.

Not Jake, either.

Just some guy who wants to touch him, and Kauri never says no. How the fuck do you say no? The word's a foreign language to him, a tongue he isn't allowed.

The guy kisses his forehead and then sinks to his knees, humming when he finds Kauri ready for his mouth.

Kauri doesn’t want him there.

He doesn’t want him any longer, wants to shove him away and run into the night, but he just leans over, spreads his legs, closes his eyes, and gives himself over to the sensations that at least mean that for a few more minutes, he's real.

If they want you, you’re real.

His climax is mechanical, a biological response that he’s conditioned to be unable to deny any man who wants it. He has his hands in the guy’s hair, sharp and spiky with product, unlike his own soft wild curls, until Owen’s-

He comes, against his will, with Owen’s eyes in his mind. Green heavy with demands, watching him with jealousy as he's used by anyone who wants him, just like he was made to be. There's a victory in fucking everyone knowing Owen would have locked him away forever, but it's not a victory that matters.

It's hollow.

The guy gives him his number on a piece of paper and Kauri smiles and kisses him goodbye, then throws the paper into the toilet and flushing, over and over and over again, until he imagines that phone number makes it way through the pipes to the reservoir, to the ocean, as far away from him as it can get.

He thinks of some fish swallowing it up and giggles, hysterical and close to tears, while curled up on the dirty bathroom floor. Men come in, go out. Some of them look at him, swallow hard, mutter things to each other that Kauri can’t quite overhear. No one talks to him. No one looks at him.

No one else wants him.

Shit, he's fading.

He's hungry.

It’s like he’s starving for something that isn’t food or fucking and he didn’t know he could be hungry for anything else. He isn’t allowed to be hungry for anything else. He isn’t allowed to be anything but the slut you give orders to.

If he went back, would Owen let him in? Let him shower under the rainfall showerhead that steams everything up so he doesn't have to worry about accidentally looking in mirrors? Would Owen take him to the bed he knows best, hold him, and let him cry like he sometimes would when Kauri had begged to be allowed outside?

He could call Jake.

He thinks about it, fingers trembling as he holds the phone. Jake will come get him, if he calls. He always does.

But Kauri can't see him tonight.

Not like this.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and stumbles out the bathroom door, back onto the dance floor, and starts looking for another body with muscles and blond hair - blue eyes optional - to try and hide from the hunger.

If they want him, he's real.

So Kauri will make sure they all want him.

As always, any Kauri's Poor Life Choices piece can be read as a gift to resident Kauriologist @autophagay

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears@cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes@whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

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bloodandbandages · 4 months

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🔪 for Chris!

🔪 Awake surgery

CW: Referenced hand whump, blood, sadism, reluctant whumper, facility whump, BBU

"You have got to be joking." The doctor dried his hands off on the single-use towel he held, watching through the one-way window as the trainee inside sat, shaking his head at a nurse who was speaking to him in a low voice. He shook it less like he was saying no and more like he was simply denying that she was speaking at all. "Him again? What the fuck is Petrus doing to this kid? It's only been, what, four days since I got him out of the clinic in the first place!"

"I mean, you know what he does to him, he's one of the little sluts." The handler rolls his eyes. "Petrus fucks him stupid, not that any of them have brains to begin with. But this time 223499 dropped a glass during his Mixology class. Can't pin it this one on Petrus, it's all on 499 being a little bitch again. His Mixology instructor says he's a clumsy little shit."

"Great. Okay." Dr. Ross has a headache already. He hates this place, hates the crude, aggressive handlers and the way they talk about - and to - the trainees. He hates sewing the injured trainees up only to see them again, with new wounds needing dressed and new terror in their eyes. He hates everything about this job except the paycheck.

He can't wait to get another job and get the hell out of here.

The Facility gets to him - it works its way down under his skin, seeing the haunted, nervous way the trainees looked around all the time, trying to guess where pain would come from next. Trying to curry favor, to avoid the torture constantly forced on them anyway. He's been seeing their frightened faces and hearing them beg in his dreams far too often. "So he's here because..."

"It's a deep cut." The handler shrugs. "He needs stitches."

Dr. Ross looks back at the trainee. 223499 is holding perfectly still while the nurse turns his hand over. His palm is a mess of blood, darker than the new-penny shine of his hair. The trainee's stained fingers twitch nervously.

He's just a kid.

The same kid who'd automatically gone to his knees just a week ago, ready to do whatever he was commanded to, thoughtless obedience making the doctor's stomach turn.

He has to get out of here.

Dr. Ross swallows, feeling like there's a lump in his throat he just can't quite get rid of it. "Fine. I'll prep something to numb his hand, we'll give him a little bit of-"

"Nah." The handler shrugs, looking bored. "His primary's got a note on his file, didn't you see it? No painkillers for three weeks. Not even topical."

Dr. Ross watches 223499 flinch away from the nurse, who slaps him, making him cry out. The sound is muffled through the one-way window. As is the apology the boy provides immediately, stammering through it, only to be slapped again. This time, he doesn't cry out. He only cringes back, hunching into himself, and keeps his eyes down.

It makes Dr. Ross feel sick.

"... fine," He says, realizing the silence is drawing out too long. "I'll get him sewn up. He can go back to his room once it's done. Tell Petrus to leave him alone for one night, at least?"

The handler snorts with dry humor. "Yeah, good luck on that. But I'll tell him you said so. You want me to help you strap him down?"

Dr. Ross doesn't let himself look at the trainee again. "Yeah. Come in and strap him down while I prep."

"You got it, Doc." The handler gives him a lazy salute.

The kid doesn't fight being strapped down, but it doesn't matter. Once the work begins, the kid's back arches, he screams and thrashes wordlessly, then... even worse, he makes noises after like he's dying, low moaning sounds that seem barely human. He's shuddering, whispering apologies when all he'd done was drop a glass and try to clean it up too fast.

Dr. Ross goes home that night with the trainee's screaming in his ears. He hears the sounds the kid makes once the needle goes into his skin all weekend in his nightmares.

On Monday, he emails his resignation, effective immediately.

He's smart enough to have a one-way ticket booked for a country WRU isn't operating in before anyone reads it.

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bloodandbandages · 5 months

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This Reality

For @amonthofwhump's day 3 and day 4:

3: George Bailey “We’ve lost everything we have.” | Disowned Drowning | Comfort: Christmas Market

4: The Grinch Sedatives | Blackmail | Yandere Whumper | Comfort: Ugly Sweater Party

Follows on this piece exploring the AU of Chris never being rescued/running away and instead being abandoned years later on the street

CW: Drug use, drugged whumpee, references to noncon/dubcon scattered throughout

“Hey.”

A foot nudges against his side, but Baldur barely notices the pressure pushing into one rib. He’s drowning and it feels wonderful. The push of the pill through his veins keeps him languid and loose-limbed, lying on the ground with his eyes open, staring up into the watercolor sunset. He can feel the earth turning on its axis, spinning wildly in the empty universe. The pinks and reds in the clouds above him shift and change with the movement.

Everything was so loud today. There are people everywhere, crowding together for the Christmas parade. He’d taken his usual route around looking for someone who might give him a bed to sleep in if he handed over the body everyone used anyway, but instead of the usual handful he knew, there had been police officers watching with their handler-like eyes, groups of families fighting and laughing and shouting.

The Christmas market and parade. He’d forgotten about it.

His Sir had always given a speech at the parade, ridden in a float. Baldur had watched him on television each year, lying in silence on the floor, wondering if he missed his Sir or was glad for the time alone. Desperately grateful for any time at all where he wasn’t afraid.

But then he’d forgotten it would still happen, even after his Sir didn’t want him anymore.

Today had been terrifying. People everywhere and he’d had to push through them as he moved, the constant weight of their voices pressing his brain into a smaller and smaller space, bouncing around the inside of his skull.

He’d caught himself shifting his hands, trying to flap, had to stop himself - stillness is better than what I do - repeating his handler’s mantra for him in his mind over and over and over again. But if he couldn’t move, he couldn’t get the sounds out from under his skin. Everything had been crawling over him, laying against him, buzzing like bees in his ears and behind his teeth.

Then he’d run into Vamp, a runaway like him who works a corner at night and a convenience store counter during daylight. She’d seen the look on his face when he ducked inside to hold off the worst of the noise and told him to wait while she got something out of her purse. She’d even bought him a bottle of water to wash it down with.

About an hour after that, and in the hours since, everything has been soft around the edges, the noise bouncing off of him. There’s a wall between him and the rest of the world. He doesn’t even know when he got to the park, only that at some point he stopped standing upright and instead was like this. Nothing ached in his legs and arms any longer, his mind no longer buzzed with the weight of the noise.

It feels just like the mornings at home with Sir, or when he’d gone off to work for the day and left Baldur behind, dozing drugged in his bed waiting for him to come back.

He used to cry all the time, when Sir was gone, wishing he could think again. Palming the pills when he dared. Now he just wishes he could at least go back to the quiet room and the comfortable bed, to one man demanding access to him in exchange for his life, instead of many. But the pill helps.

A little.

The foot nudges him again.

“Hey, are you-... are you dead?”

Baldur manages a blink. He has to consciously tell his head to move on the stem of his neck to look to the left now and see the man leaning over him, staring down.

Vaguely familiar, with wild black curls ringing a perfectly lovely face, big warm blue eyes, dark brows a little knit together with concern. The guy who bought him breakfast a couple of weeks ago, he thinks, after they’d been the stars of the show in that house the night before. That had been fun, Baldur thinks. Maybe. Or had it not been? Skin on skin never feels good, but he’s supposed to act like it does. Sometimes he blanks out and he thinks his body has fun, then… His lips move with his thoughts, unable to separate enough not to.

The man squints. “Okay, so not dead, definitely moving and breathing, but… are you, like, OD-ing, or… what is this whole thing happening here? What am I looking at?”

“... colors,” Baldur whispers, and looks back up into the sky above him. Grass tickles the back of his neck and the palms of his hands. “Night, soon. Then we’ll see stars, stars dead… a billion years ago. Far enough… far enough away… we still see the lights. Like me. Dead but you still see me… dead, but the image… like ghosts. Like… us.”

The man’s frown deepens, but he drops into a crouch, laying a hand on Baldur’s forehead, pressing a palm to his cheeks one after the other. He closes his eyes at the touch and pushes up into it like a cat. His Sir never cared enough to check him for fevers like that. He has fuzzy memories of a woman, dark hair, smiling eyes, who would do that. Oh, sweet boy. You’re on fire, huh? The image dissolves, though, before he can hang onto it or turn the impression into a real memory. It leaves an imprint of pain behind, making him wince.

The man pulls his hand quickly away, and Baldur fights back the urge to whimper at the loss.

No one touches him anymore unless they want to fuck him about it. He’s so tired of just wanting someone to hold him and stop there.

The man sighs, shifting to sit down. “Just really fucked up, huh? I get it.” After a pause, the man lies down beside him, fingers laced together behind his head, following Baldur’s gaze to the sky. “I do that, too. What’s got you wanting to fuck off out of this reality tonight?”

Baldur doesn’t answer.

Instead, he thinks for a long, long moment of silence, and then manages, “... I forgot your name.”

“Kauri,” The man answers readily, without offense. “That’s okay. I remember you said you’re called… Baldur, right?”

“My Sir… called me that.” Baldur blinks again, his eyes shutting with a clang in his mind like garage doors before opening back up again. The thought makes him smile. “I… don’t like it much. But there… isn’t any other.”

“Oh.” Kauri thinks that over. Then asks, “What do the guys you fuck call you?”

“... baby. Sweetheart. Sexy…”

“Yeah, I guess there’s only so many nicknames in bed. Do you want to be Baldur?”

“... no.”

“Oh. Then… you can pick your own new name, if you want.”

It takes a little while for the statement to work its way in. He hears the words but they don’t really land, just sort of flit around his head for a while trying to find a place to nest. He giggles at the thought, like pretty birds with wings chirping pick your own, your own, own new name, name you.

Kauri watches him, then exhales. There’s a fond sort of smile on his face, but it isn’t the kind of smile Baldur is used to seeing, one heavy with meaning. The kind of smile that comes before a hand on his ass or moving his head down where they want it. Baldur turns his head to look back. They’re inches apart. He’s probably supposed to kiss him, now.

But the pill makes it so he remembers that he doesn’t actually want to do that. It makes him so he can just lay here, and wait to be kissed or not kissed. It’s okay. Everything is okay, like this.

“Funny to see it from the outside,” Kauri murmurs, and then moves up on his elbows. “Hey. Listen. If you could call yourself anything else - not Baldur, or your number, just like anything else that you picked and you alone… what would you choose?”

Baldur blinks again. Lets the words settle, arrange themselves into something that makes sense. Then, he closes his eyes and drifts, almost asleep instantly as soon as he shuts himself away from the vision of the sky and the way the yellow-gold fading sunlight turns the hair of the man lying next to him to some kind of glimmering brilliance. “... -ris,” He mutters, the sound coming to mind without any thought.

“What?” Kauri pokes him in the nose, making him open his eyes with another giggle to see his confusion, which only makes Baldur laugh harder. “What’d you say? Did you say Chris?”

No.

But Baldur can’t say no, can he?

No, good boys only say yes.

“Yes,” He says, and puts his hands over his mouth to try and stop his giggles from escaping. He fails, and finds himself rubbing his feet one against the other even through his shoes, rolling from side to side. He thrills at the forbidden movements, something he can only do now, when his mind isn’t in control of him any longer, when the handler’s whispered demands and punishments aren’t the loudest thing he hears.

“Oh, wow, you are gone,” Kauri says, a little enviously. “Well, damn. Man, and that was basically my plan tonight, too. That’s okay, though, nothing like playing babysitter to the world’s most beautiful park decoration for a few hours to make you appreciate sobriety, huh?”

Baldur’s laughter fades, replaced with a hazy frown. “... hours?”

“Right. Yeah. Cause the way you are right now, somebody’s going to murder you and you won’t even notice until like ten minutes after you’re dead. So I, being your self-declared fairy godmother of the evening, am going to keep an eye out and make sure this little Cinderella lives past midnight.”

Kauri pokes him in the nose again.

“Got that, Chris?��

It sounds good, actually, that name. Baldur weighs it on his tongue. He mouths it, teeth close together and then opening, tongue moving. Chris. Chris. Chris.

“Chris-... Christopher,” He sounds out, slowly, thinking of a child’s movie he barely recalls, a teddy bear. “Christopher. But Chris.”

“Right. Once you sober up, I’ll get you something to eat and then I want you to go see a friend of mine. I think you could maybe use somewhere to crash for a while, and there’s a place I go - they don’t make you do anything, there. So I go there sometimes. There’s a shower and you can eat any of their food and nobody stops you. You’ll like it. How’s that sound?”

Baldur doesn’t hear anything Kauri says. He’s too busy sounding out the name he’s chosen inside his mind. But he knows from the way Kauri’s voice lilts up at the end that he’s been asked a question. So he just says, “Okay.”

“Great. So tell me more about the stars and shine on you crazy fucked-up diamond.”

Kauri lies back beside him, the side of his arm just barely touching Baldur’s, a warm touch grounding him to the earth without climbing on top of him or shoving a hand down his pants or telling him to shove his hand down someone else’s. Baldur lets his eyes close, and breathes in the cool air.

“A lot of the stars… are already dead. But, but we… still see them. Because the light, um, of dead… of the dead stars… still travels so, so far… and it takes so long… we see them shining… and, and they’re already gone…”

“Hm. I take it back. Talk to me about something less depressing than that.”

Baldur has to think for a long time to find something that fits. Then he offers, “I met… a man over by the red diner… who carves little horses out of wood. He told me that he used to… work with wild mustangs, horses, a long… long time ago…”

“Perfect.” Kauri’s smile is brilliant, and Baldur is caught by the sight of it, staring for a long time in silence with wide eyes at the way it shines. Those blue eyes catch his, their heads turned towards each other. “Well? Keep talking.”

Baldur swallows, and then slowly nods, and tries to think of all the funny people he’s met since his Sir decided he needed replaced. He stammers, sometimes, but Kauri doesn’t seem to notice or maybe just doesn’t care.

He doesn’t hear the handler’s voice in his head, either.

Not while Kauri is looking at him. For the first time since his Sir shoved him out of the car and drove away, he feels like someone cares.

#HELP I LOVE THIS SO MUCH #please continue ash <3 #i need to know everything about this version of chris

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bloodandbandages · 5 months

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I know you have little time on your hands for writing atm but I might just sneak in here anyways to give input. Who knows maybe you have time some day :D

I remember you posting about this Au where Chris won‘t get saved and Branch throws him on the street when he‘s "too old" and Chris encounters Kauri and he brings him to Jake and it‘s much harder to recover from there on.

Can‘t stop thinking about it it made me so sad!

Maybe you can write a piece about them meeting this way sometime when you feel like it 👉👈🥺

CW: Aftermath of spice, some dubcon implications, brief internalized ableism, drug use

Kauri wakes in a pile of bodies, briefly content simply knowing that if anything is the opposite of being alone, it's this. He still aches in all the right places from last night, and stretches his arms above his head, arching his back. His eyes are closed.

Someone next to him mumbles and rolls over, rolls away. Mourning the loss of even one point of contact, Kauri sighs and sits up. His head hurts, but that's normal on a Sunday morning, especially when his Saturday nights had been so fun. Sober now, he knows it's time to dress and disappear into the daylight, off to find the next drink, the next pill, whatever will soothe the way even now, he feels hollow.

He makes it to the door before he realizes he isn't the only person awake this early.

A flash of blue is slipping out ahead of him, hunched over in clothes too big for his frame. The man's profile is oddly delicate, strikingly beautiful.

Kauri had a hazy knowledge of someone with blue hair the night before, his back against someone's shoulder, another man between his legs. Or had it been the other way around, had he been between some man's legs...? It's hard to remember details. Kauri had been between two men himself, never the same two men twice.

Man, last night was fun.

Still, yeah, he remembers the hair. And a vague recollection of a sweet smile and soft pleading. The way his hips had rolled riding someone, hands splayed out on a sweat-soaked chest, biting his lower lip with his eyes closed. Making noise like it was forced out of him, but it'd been... yeah.

It'd been a performance.

Kauri had figured he was probably a hooker called in for the fun, but... now he wonders.

Hookers don't stay overnight.

"Hey," He calls out, and hurries to catch him. "Hey, wait up." He grabs the man by his arm. "Wait-"

The man goes still. He's short, skinny, swimming in these clothes. His hair's dirty and dull with copper roots showing through. But he turns to look back, and his irises - at least what Kauri can see of them around the dilated pupils - are the brightest green that Kauri has ever seen.

He's also clearly still high. Or maybe high again.

He has pale freckles in a scatter across his cheeks and his nose. Kauri wonders if you could play connect-the-dots with them, make something, maybe just a constellation.

"... what?" The word leaves the man slowly, like he has to consciously think about it first. "They... they said I could... have more before I left. I... didn't steal." He hesitates. "Did I?"

There's a scar over one cheek, somebody cut him with a knife. Not too bad - just for show. Just to make the scar.

Kauri swallows, and puts on his brightest, friendliest smile. "No, no, you didn't. And even if you did, I wouldn't say anything to anybody. But, just. I didn't get to say much to you last night. We were busy, right?" He winks.

"No." The man's gaze never meets Kauri's own - it dances, shifts from looking past his left shoulder to somewhere over his head, down to the right. Eye contact comes in brief flickers, as if he can barely stand it. He smiles, but it isn't real. It's false and faint. "Busy... last night. Having fun."

"Yeah, uh, it was a good time."

The man hesitates. Then he turns away again, pulling himself free of Kauri's grip, rubbing at the place where Kauri's hand had been nervously. "Good," He murmurs, as if reminding himself. "A good time. I had... a good time. I w, wanted-... I wanted... this. Always..." He trails off.

Then he starts walking, as if he's forgotten Kauri was even there.

"Want this," He's muttering. He sways from side to side as he walks, then stops, then starts again. His hands rub constantly, compelled, against the seams of his jacket.

Kauri's intuition prickles like a physical touch to the back of his neck, the weight of a shock collar, and he moves fast to catch up. "Hey, uh, are you-... um... let me buy you some breakfast, yeah? I got, like, forty bucks to my name. That'll get us some food. You look like you could stand to eat more."

The man pauses, briefly, looking over in Kauri's general direction. His hands bury themselves into his pockets and he hunches himself so much he seems inches shorter than he really is. "... okay. You, um. Want, want-..." He winces. "Wait. Silence is better than stammering, silence is better than stammering," He whispers, a recitation, and Kauri swallows as his spine chills from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back, all at once.

He's heard that chant before.

"... you're one of us," Kauri says, and it isn't a question. As soon as the other man tenses, he has his wrist up, looking side to side to make sure they're alone before he snaps open the leather bracelet and shows his barcode.

The man goes very still. Green eyes wander over the sight, and then he pulls his sleeve up to show his own. "WRU, Facility 001, Romantic 223499."

It's irresistible. Kauri hears another pet give theirs, he has to give his, too. He can all but feel his handler breathing down his neck waiting for it. "Right. Facility 001, Romantic 645898. But, uh. I'm Kauri." He tries for his bright smile again, but the other man doesn't return it. "What's your name? What do people call you?"

The man swallows. Then, he offers quietly, "My Sir... called me Baldur."

#HOLY FUCK ASH #MORE we need more please

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bloodandbandages · 5 months

Text

Breakfast, Part 2

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for me to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

“It is your part to kill me, mine to die without flinching.”

— Epictetus, from Discourses (Translated by Robert Dobbin)

Contents: captivity, conditioned whumpee, Breakfast, past drugging, past offscreen deaths of children, fear of noncon

The dining room was so quiet, Morja could hear everyone breathing. His hands shook in fists in his lap, and he stared at his plate, heaped high with scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. He had only taken a few scraps from the kitchen before Gray had gently removed the plate from his hands and piled more food on. His face burned with shame at the prospect of eating so much food, and while seated at the table, surrounded by the people he knew to be traitors to his anóteros.

Gray sat at the head of the table, on one side of Morja. Vera sat on his other side. Isaac Moore and Gavin Stormbeck sat at the opposite end of the table, but Morja made no mistake; he knew that Vera Novak was as deadly a fighter as Isaac, and he also knew she was armed. Not with a gun, but with a knife, slipped into the sleeve of her shirt. He’d seen it while she took a scoop of eggs in the kitchen. He didn’t know the meaning of Gray letting him out of his room, but he understood the meaning of Vera sitting next to him: make one wrong move, step out of line, and his life would be forfeit.

In some small, strange way, it was comforting. It was the life he knew.

His muscles were so tightly wound that he flinched when Gray raised their hand. “Dig in, everyone, while it’s still hot,” they said brightly. Morja flushed with shame at the flinch and couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting to Gavin Stormbeck at the end of the table. The Stormbeck heir looked away from him with an unreadable expression. Morja swallowed hard and began to eat.

The food couldn’t be drugged or poisoned this time. He had seen the family take from the same dishes he had. His hand trembled only minutely as he took up his fork and scooped up a small bite of eggs. It was just as delicious as every other morning.

They’ve been preparing the same food for me as they’ve been eating. The same quality.

The thought made Morja dizzy.

“Good?” came a soft voice Morja didn’t recognize.

His head snapped up and he met the gaze of Sam Vasterling. They were seated across from him, curls wild about their head, eyes soft and dark with… something Morja didn’t recognize. It was something like worry, he thought. What struck him was how very young they looked. Younger than they looked in all the surveillance photos he had pored over in their dossier.

A traitor, still, he thought, forced himself to think. They’ve committed crimes that make them as dangerous to the North as any of the others. And some day, they may pay the price. I may be the one to make them pay the price.

I’ve been the one to put a child down before, and Sam Vasterling is no child.

His throat was so tight he could not even swallow. The food was trapped in his throat. He shivered, tried again, forced the eggs down.

“Y-yes,” he croaked. “Thank you.”

A thin smile passed over Sam’s face, and that smile was still warmer than any expression Morja had ever seen south of this house. “I did the eggs today,” Sam said. “So I was hoping you’d like them better. I add more cheese.”

A thin finger of fear traced the back of Morja’s neck. Was this just a game, too? A hint? Was the food drugged? He was exhausted, so, so tired of trying to think his way through these puzzles. He let his eyes fall shut as the bone-deep weariness rose up to crush him. He wished, in that moment, to be told of his infraction and what his punishment would be. Then, at least, he would know, and the punishment would have an end.

He forced his eyes back open. He didn’t know what else to do but nod and bow his head. Obediently, he took another bite of food, bacon this time.

As if they could read his mind, Gray cleared their throat and said, “None of us have any plans or intention to harm you, Morja.”

This time, Morja swallowed carefully. A weight tugged at his lungs, crushing them, until his head was spinning. All he could do was nod again.

“Thank you, Gray,” he whispered, through a throat far too tight to speak. At the end of the table, Gavin Stormbeck drew in a deep breath. Morja’s stomach turned, but he took another bite.

“What I do have plans for today,” Gray said–

–Morja’s stomach heaved, and he nearly brought up the breakfast he had eaten so far–

–“is to finish repairs on that back corner of the barn.”

Morja shivered, and his stomach unclenched. Sweat prickled under his shirt.

Isaac nodded tightly. “I can help,” he said, his eyes on his plate.

Vera huffed. “Guess that means I’m on Uriah duty.” She shrugged and arranged some slices of bacon atop a piece of toast.

Morja’s brow furrowed as he looked from Vera to Gray. It made sense for this family’s anóteros to demand a constant guard… but Isaac Moore seemed to be the one fulfilling that task today, not Vera.

Sam cleared their throat, and Morja was startled to discover that they were looking at him as they did. “Not… she means Gavin Uriah.”

Morja blinked, not understanding. Does Gray have a son?

“Me,” Gavin Stormbeck said dully from the end of the table. “She means me.”

Morja’s eyes widened as he glanced at Gavin Stormbeck, then back at his plate. Isaac’s words and rage from the night Morja was captured clicked inside Morja.

“No, Gavin Stormbeck, pl–”

“Don’t call him that.”

Morja’s throat tightened, and he swallowed again. He didn’t have to understand it. He didn’t have to understand how these people thought. His anóteros had told him their way of thinking was sick, twisted, broken.

And yet–

Gray cleared their throat, and Morja flinched. Blood rushed to his face at the shame of it, at the humiliation of such a sound causing such a movement in a body built to be a weapon. He held perfectly still and waited. Waited.

“That sounds fine, Vera,” was all Gray Uriah said.

For a long time, the table was silent, with the only sounds being the clinking of forks against plates. Morja took a bite of his breakfast - his hot and delicious breakfast - and another, and another, until his plate was empty. Slowly, the others at the table began to talk of things he didn’t understand, people he didn’t know, events he had never heard of. There was a lull in the conversation, and he opened his mouth.

“E-excuse me,” he croaked, and everyone fell silent. His hands shook, and he placed them flat on the table.

“Yes, Morja?” Gray said gently, and he could feel their soft gaze on his face.

Morja’s throat worked even as terror shuddered through him. Still, he forced himself to speak. “What is it that… you might want as repayment? For the privilege? Of…” He bowed his head, wishing that he could drop to his knees beside Gray. But Gray had said they didn’t like it when he did that, and he was terrified if he moved, Vera would leap forward with her knife. “In what way can I… repay…?”

He had to be polite. Even in this den of vipers, he had to be polite. Even once they began to hurt him, he knew he had to be polite. He could not be ungrateful for what he had been given so far.

Even if they wanted to repay him by bending him over this table and–

“Well, we usually share the task of doing dishes,” Gray said. Morja was startled to realize he had not breathed since he asked his question, and he slowly drew in a breath. “If you like, you can help us with the dishes.”

“Yes, please,” Morja said, bowing his head even deeper. “I would like to do that… please.” Especially if it spared him from paying them back in… other ways.

He wanted to be useful.

“Well, then,” Gray said as they carefully got up. “Vera, you and Morja and I could go to the kitchen?”

“Sure thing,” Vera said, in a tone that sounded almost flippant. She grabbed her plate and sauntered into the kitchen.

“Morja, if you’ll take your plate and come with me?” Gray said as they followed her in.

Morja obeyed, making his movements as slow and careful as possible without seeming like he was dawdling. He cut a wide berth around the table, keeping his gaze down and away from Isaac Moore. Still, he could feel the other diathésimos’s eyes burning into him, and he knew without having to look that Isaac Moore’s hand was on his weapon.

Once in the kitchen, Gray smiled as they took Morja’s plate. A chill clutched Morja’s chest.

“I’ll wash your plate,” Gray said. “And you can wash Vera’s. And Vera will wash mine.”

Morja nodded and did what he was told. Orders. Orders were good. He took the plate Vera handed him and turned to the sink to wash it. The water was warm, then hot - he wondered if he would ever be given a cold shower here, like with his anóteros. For now, he had just been bathing with the wet rag he had been given each day.

When Vera’s plate was clean, Gray washed Morja’s plate. Morja’s stomach twisted with the wrongness, but… it had been an order. Then Vera washed Gray’s plate. The whole time, her body was turned towards Morja. He knew exactly why, and he understood.

When those dishes were drying in the rack, Gray gave him a smile. “Back to your room, then?” they said. Morja swallowed hard and nodded.

Then he was led back to his room, and the door was locked again. His belly was full. His bruises were healing.

@womping-grounds , @free-2bmee , @quirkykayleetam , @walkingchemicalfire , @inpainandsuffering , @redwingedwhump , @burtlederp , @castielamigos-whump-side-blog , @whatwhumpcomments , @whumpywhumper , @stxck-fxck , @whumps-the-word , @justplainwhump , @finder-of-rings , @inky-whump , @thatsthewhump , @orchidscript , @this-mightaswell-happen , @newandfiguringitout , @whumpkitty , @pretty-face-breaker , @cinnamonflavoredhugs , @pebbledriscoll , @im-just-here-for-the-whump , @endless-whump , @grizzlie70 , @oops-its-whump , @kixngiggles, @1phoenixfeather , @butwhatifyouwrite , @carnagecardinal , @annablogsposts , @suspicious-whumping-egg

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bloodandbandages · 6 months

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If you are unable to afford donating, this link allows you to click a button every 24 hours in order help donate to Palestine.

American mutuals, I seriously urge you to tell Congress and Biden to stand with Palestine, and do not stop sending this message. You can also donate here.

This is not a war; what Israel is doing to Palestine is genocide. Do not sit idly by and do not stay quiet. Now more than ever is the most important time to not look away.

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bloodandbandages · 8 months

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Oskar😍😍😍

I love him too!

Just to let you know!

CW: BBU pet whump, Oskar is very naive in this, referenced past noncon and talk about sex, some fuzzy boundaries in that Oskar doesn't really have any, caretaker whumper

Next to Arvid, there's rustling. The sheets pull a little as Oskar shifts and moves. Arvid can guess by the sounds what he's doing - stomach, side, back. Hold pillow. Let go of pillow. Roll back to his stomach again.

Finally, Arvid groans and rolls onto his side to face the pet beside him. "What the fuck is your problem tonight, Oskar? It's almost two in the morning and you're keeping me up."

Oskar stills. "... sorry, Arvid. I didn't know you were awake."

"Hard not to be when you haven't stopped this shit long enough for me to fall asleep in the first place. What is it? Huh? You have been weird as hell all night, ever since my last appointment left."

Oskar is silent for a long time. Then he pushes himself up to sitting, back to the headboard. Arvid can just barely see him in the dark. "... can I ask you something?"

"Mmmn. Shoot." When the silence draws out again, Arvid groans and sits up as well, blankets falling away. He has on a loose T-shirt and boxers to bed like usual - Oskar just wears sweatpants, he overheatz sometimes under Arvid's heavy blankets.

Used to cold, he said at one point. Because of the training facility being kept chilly enough to make them desperate to get warm.

"Either ask or don't," Arvid snaps, tipping his own head back. "I'm fucking exhausted. I don't want to be here til dawn waiting for you to finish your dramatic pauses."

"Sorry." Oskar sounsds sincerely apologetic, at least. "I just don't know how exactly to ask."

"Well. Ask however is simplest."

"Okay."

Arvid glances over when no question is forthcoming to see Oskar fiddling his fingers together, worrying them at each other, looking down. "... Oskar, for the love of fuck-"

"Are you going to want to have sex with me?" Oskar asks the words in a rush. As if he has to say them all in one exhale or he'll lose his nerve.

Arvid blinks. "Am I going to what?"

"Going to. You know. Want to... to havesexwithme."

The words get small, barely audible. Oskar hunches his shoulders, looking away, before he puts his hands over his face entirely.

That. That is not what Arvid expected the question to be. His mouth opens and closes like a fish on land, and he feels about as suffocated by the air around him as a fish, too. "I... Jesus Christ, no, that's disgusting."

He pauses. Swallows. Rakes a hand back through his hair and catches on a tangle, yanking roughly until his fingers are freed again. Some strands of pale white hair come out still wrapped around them.

"Oh." Oskar's voice is small. "Okay. Just. Earlier, your, um. Your appointment..."

"Sarathiel. Now he's a piece of work. What's he got to do with it?"

"When you weren't in the room, he told me... he told me to... go down on him." Oskar sounds miserable, lips barely forming the words. Arvid feels a burst of possessive rage - if that motherfucker made his pet give blowjobs without even talking to him about it, or actually even made him at all considering Oskar isn't for that...

"And?" Arvid hisses more than speaks.

Oskar flinches away from him, his hands moving to his neck to press over his collar, pushing it harder until his own skin. "... I said you didn't tell me to... do that stuff. And he asked if you, uh, have sex with me and I said you don't and he said well that's a waste and that you probably would eventually. He kept trying to make me but I, uh, I said you wouldn't like it because I was yours-"

"Damn straight you are."

"-but he kept saying somebody should and you need to... fuck me or let someone else do it. He left all pissed off about it, but... and... if you-... if you want to, why... haven't you? Is something wrong with me? Are you going to get a new one that you, that isn't... disgusting? Like a Romantic, or... someone prettier?"

Arvid finds himself once again caught wildly off guard by the direction the conversation is taking. "... what the utter fucking bullshit nonsense is... okay. Wait. Back up. It's not disgusting because of you, Oskar. You're probably deeply hot to the right people. I'm not saying you're gross. I'm saying sex is gross. All the noise and... damp parts and... having to put something in somebody? No thanks. I have scalpels in people all the time, that is way more than enough penetration for my taste."

"So it's not... me?"

"Nope. You do everything I want you to, and make me go outside, too, which sucks but I forgive you. I don't need or want blowjobs. From anyone. Ever. Especially not from someone who I got to hang with me and do video games and just... have somebody around. If I wanted a fuck buddy I would have gotten one of those."

"Okay. Okay, good. Just..." Oskar exhales through his nose and leans sideways, until he touches Arvid's shoulder. That's when Arvid realizes Oskar is shaking, his whole body trembling with some kind of bone deep terror, and he slides his arms around his pet and pulls him close, right up against him. Oskar's head tucks into the crook of his neck. There's a feeling Arvid thinks is probably tears.

"It's okay," Arvid murmurs, speaking more softly. "That really scared you, didn't it."

Oskar swallows, his voice a little thick. His arms go around Arvid's waist and hold tight. "Yeah. In training, it... happens. A lot. I hated it and I was scared that you... because I really like you, Arvid, you're the best owner, you buy me plants... but if... if Samethiel-"

"Sarathiel-"

"If he was right, then you... you're just a handler, or just like them, doing good stuff just because we'll do anything for it, and if that's all I get why even leave the Facility at all?"

"Mmmn. Well. For starters, fuck you for thinking I'm that kind of guy. Secondly, I just wanted somebody around so I have someone to talk to. I don't fuck people and I'm not changing that rule. You're here..."

He trails off, then sighs and tightens his arms around Oskar, tipping his head to rest his cheek against the pet's hair.

"You're here because I was lonely, dumbass. And now I'm not. Simple as that."

"Yeah?" Oskar mumbles against his neck.

Arvid exhales, and shifts so he can pet his fingers through Oskar's hair, feeling him relax into the gentle affection. "Yeah. Next time one of my coworkers is a dick to you, tell me first, okay? Don't sit around and dwell. It's irritating.'

"Okay."

They sit in silence for a while. Arvid drifts, dozing lightly sitting up in the bed. Then Oskar whispers, "Arvid?"

"Mmmmf. What."

"Thanks. For not wanting to. That helps."

Arvid huffs a silent laugh. "Yeah, well. My mom would disagree that it helps anything, especially giving her grandkids. Not that I give a fuck, or that you and I could do anything but make... gross messes together. But sure. You're not here to be... whatever he thinks. You're here to be my friend. Now go to sleep before I smother you with a pillow, dumbass."

Oskar slides down Arvid's body, head briefly in his lap before he rolls onto his back, lying in the bed. When Arvid lays back down, Oskar snuggles right up, like a puppy. You can just about hear his tail wag.

The whole pet thing is the creepiest shit on earth, if you let yourself think about it.

So Arvid doesn't.

He just settles Oskar in against his shoulder and finds himself sliding back into sleep, warm, comfortable, and most importantly - not alone.

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bloodandbandages · 9 months

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I am..fascinated by Connor. He has a cat. He can connect with incredibly traumatized people. Mooseteeth mentioned he took care of a baby raccoon and that doesn't seem ooc. But he's also...a rapist who can spout the most vile, victim blaming sentiments. What's his story?

Life story?

Born to a wealthy landowner who styled himself a farmer in Montana, he was raised with strict rules, "discipline", and loneliness the basic foundation of his life. Connor is bi and was discovered fooling around with a male friend of his. His father had him forcibly sent - ie, abducted after being woken from sleep by total strangers - to a 'conversion camp' several states away.

Young!Connor spent multiple weeks there. He came home before he finished the program, after his rib was broken by two counselors who beat him after he complained about their attempts to harass him. His father signed a legal agreement promising not to take legal action or speak of the incident if the owners of the camp paid Connor's medical bills.

He came home sullen, disconnected, and having decided turning pain on others was the best way to ensure he never felt it himself.

At eighteen, Connor signed up with WRU, who recruited him, saw potential, and paid him an employment bonus to help him afford the move to California. He never spoke to his father again.

Connor was a rising star at WRU - he was able to have fun with his horrifying job, didn't really seem to care about the pain his trainees dealt with. This went on for more than a decade.

What made him decide to be - not a good man - but a bad man trying to be a better one?

When B shows back up damaged beyond repair, Connor immediately offers to buy him and get him off WRU's hands.

He ends up blackmailed into an unwilling sexual relationship with a sadist (*cough Ferrick cough*) and for the first time he is on the other side of what he's been doing to people.

Connor is not redeemed. He is not a good person. He will tell you that himself.

He's a shitty person who can be good - at least good enough - for these two rescued recovering damaged men he loves.

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bloodandbandages · 9 months

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hii i was reading the Connor Manning tag (cause i love your writing) and read that he once sort of kidnapped himself a boyfriend and i-???????? when how what did i miss

Oh, that was part of an RP with @orchidscript way back in the day and, uh, it actually doesn't make any more sense if I type it out...

#oh my god i kinda remember this??#i wish we got that story one day

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bloodandbandages · 9 months

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Is Connor scared of Scott?

Consciously? No, he's harmless and sweet and soft to B, which Connor understands they adore each other. Subconsciously... he makes Connor a little nervous.

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bloodandbandages · 9 months

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Hello I know this is a collaborative effort so please tag them but GOD I love the Montana arc so much. I love the recovery vibes and the tension and the moments of sweetness they find with one another

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

@hackles-up, we are getting some love

Honestly it is one of the weirdest dynamics between Scott and Connor and B and I love it so much

#still thinking about this #i love when they fight #and i love the moments of genuine connection they achieve too #ESPECIALLY between scott and connor

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bloodandbandages · 9 months

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Okay than I request post nightmare cuddles for Scott/connor/B please!!

(B belongs to @what-a-whump)

"Sir-... sir-"

Connor groans as B nudges at his shoulder, swimming up out of sleep with difficulty. The low sound of Socks purring somewhere nearby filters in, and then the way moonlight shines in through the window in the old farmhouse, chill winter air stealing through the glass even though he'd replaced the ancient panes with new ones that promised to minimize heat loss. "Baby, we've talked 'bout this, it's Connor, you can just say Connor... waddaya need, sweetness?"

B pauses, briefly, and then says, urgently, "Um, C-Connor, I think Scott is having a nightmare, what-... what do I do?"

As always, Connor's first response is a flush of jealousy. B adores the little Romantic they'd saved, the black-haired delicate thing that had been his bonded so briefly, then torn away from him, and now back to bonded again.

He should love me the most.

Connor forces down the ugly twist of thought and rolls onto his side, to find B, as always, in the center of the bed, with Scott on one side and Connor on the other. His hand presses to B's face, the big man turning to kiss his palm, instinctively affectionate.

"Wake 'im up," Connor murmurs, voice still blurred with sleep. "He jus' needs to wake up, and hold him a bit."

B nods, eyes earnest and worried in the dark, reflecting hints of moonlight.

Fuck, he's handsome.

Connor pushes himself up onto his elbows to watch as B shifts, turning to look at Scott, shaking him the way he'd shaken Connor. The little Romantic is whimpering in his sleep, fingers and arms twitching, and Connor sighs as he watches the young man's big eyes flicker open, how he instantly throws his arms around B, who holds him in turn.

"They-... they took you away," Scott whispers, burying his head in the crook of B's neck. "They took you away from me again."

"Never again, lad," B rumbles, and Connor rubs at his back, feeling over scars and smooth unmarked skin in turn. His.

They're both his, really.

"Connor would never make us be apart again," B says, soft and gentle and certain, as he and Scott hold each other. "He promised. He promised we would never be apart."

Connor swallows, a stab of guilt inside him.

Here he sits being jealous, when both of them have only him to trust, and he made B a promise to be a better man. To try, anyway.

Not that B would know the difference-

Connor flops onto his back, disrupting Socks, who chirps in irritation and flicks her tail.

Being a better man is a lot harder than he'd thought it would be.

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bloodandbandages · 9 months

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The proud beast brought to heel

[A little B Facility piece that's been sitting in my note app for a while - Connor Manning and Karen Renford are @ashintheairlikesnow's OCs. Sorry I've lost my tag list]

CW: BBU, pet whump, dehumanisation, referenced torture, noncon touch, Karen Renford, whumper perspective

John Ferrick always strives for perfection in his work.

The product of months of training, paperwork and bruises stands in front of him, freshly washed and muzzled before the Director.

“I see you took our conversation about results seriously, Handler.”

“Yes, ma’am. All to your specifications, has hit target weight, condition maintained on his current diet.”

The trainee stood in a rigid Position 1, deep green eyes looking forward, refusing to let the terror show.

“All Romantic specifications too.” Manning pipes up next to him. Ferrick suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

Connor was trying to get back in the Director’s good books but did he have to be so teacher’s pet about it?

The Director levels an even gaze at the other handler.

“Indeed. Consider yourself lucky the product wasn’t too damaged by your little… experiments. And that the prospective had a specificity in mind for this one.”

That makes Manning shrink a bit. Good, maybe the little shit will start humbling himself and stop with the swagger.

The Director steps a measured circle around the trainee. Ferrick notes the barely concealed flinch as her heels clicked on the concrete.

A Pavlovian response from her session with him. The handlers all heard the screams.

The trainee swallows and keeps his eyes fixed to a point on the wall. He knows what the punishment is for failing this inspection.

To think the trainee had been laying into bodies with his bare fists just this morning, teeth bared like a feral animal.

Now he was docile. A proud beast brought to a stiff heel.

The Director didn’t say anything, observing the trainee with an experienced eye. There was a very good reason she had been promoted to her position.

She’d seen thousands of pets churned out for prospectives, had conducted thousands of inspections.

With gloved hands, she methodically tugs off the muzzle and appraises the product. Grips the trainee’s chin and turns him this way and that.

Without hesitation, pulls back his lip to inspect his teeth. A flash of a smirk just briefly passes her lips as she pushes her finger in his mouth and holds it there.

She locks eyes with the trainee and his gaze skitters, panicked, to the side.

As if she's daring him to bite down.

Manning shuffles next to Ferrick, as if wanting to say something. Does the smart thing and keeps his dumbass mouth shut.

The trainee’s eyes are shining with tears, pulling air in through his nose as he tries to keep his mouth open. A muscle in his jaw twitches from the strain.

“Gag reflex?” Comes a sharp inquiry from the Director.

“Gone.” Manning says, quickly. “Takes cock like a champ.”

“Good.”

She withdraws her slick fingers, withdrawing briefly to pull off the saliva soaked gloves and pull on a fresh pair.

The trainee eyes her warily, another barely concealed swallow for air as he keeps his spine desperately rigid.

"Respect."

The trainee's knees buckle, hitting the floor with a resounding thunk; spine curving and head tucked to his chest.

"Quicker than last time." The Director observes.

Ferrick feels a smirk twitch at his lips, preening.

He'd worked the dog hard on speed. The Director loved that little party trick.

The trainee has his forehead pressed to the cool floor, as if he's praying for salvation. But the Director pressed the sole of her Louboutins to his head, a huntress with a fresh kill.

"I expect you've worked on duration as well as speed."

"Of course, ma'am. He's on 5 hours now."

The Director keeps her eyes on the trainee, unblinking. Any flaw in his training would be immediately picked up.

"Number 048921. What are you?"

"A dog." Came the strained and muffled response against the ground.

"Yes. What is your purpose?"

"To fulfill... the needs and desires of my owner without question. To... uhm... protect my owner from threats with lethal force if necessary.

Ferrick felt his jaw clench at the slight hesitation. They'd practised this so many times. Stupid fucking dog.

"Again."

She makes a point of leaning her weight into her shoe, pressing the trainee into the concrete. A small whimper escapes him

"To fulfill the needs and desires of my owner without question!" 921 yelps.

"To protect my owner from threats with lethal force! If necessary!"

The Director turns to Ferrick, removing her shoe from the trainee's head.

"There's only a week left until he goes to that clown of a man, Handler. I will not be made to look a fool."

And with that she turns on her heel and walks out, the door slamming shut behind her.

Ferrick lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding.

"Fuck. She's not messing around with this one." Manning muttered.

"Prospective must have really pissed her off."

"Probably."

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