#bbu adjacent

[serene-cinders]

A Caretaker adopting a pet Whumpee from a shelter out of pity. Whumpee’s been abused. Maybe they can’t, or won’t speak, so their pain is a mystery, but it shows in their empty eyes, maimed form, scars running criss-cross all over.

Maybe Whumpee’s on the older side. Maybe they’re not conventionally attractive. They’ve been abandoned by the world, they’ve been at the shelter for years, and they’re slowly succumbing. Dying.

Caretaker never agreed with this ‘human pet’ business. They find it despicable, and wouldn’t support it. But… that wretched husk, so rigorously broken down, brings tears to their eyes. And they can’t bare the thought of somebody dying alone in this unfeeling, underfunded shit hole.

So, Caretaker makes the choice to give them the kindest few weeks of their life.

#whump #whump community #whump drabble #whump prompt #tender whump #recovery whump #kind of #fluff #angst #implied whump #no gore #I cooked this one up in 7 minutes #does it show #pet whump #past pet whump #bbu adjacent #not the biggest fan of the bbu though #bittersweet

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy didn’t even blink. 

---

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

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

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

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

Pet can be good. Pet can learn with Master. 

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right, towels. Dry him off. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

#hear no evil #whump #whumplr #whump community #pet whump #whumpee and caretaker #recovery arc #bbu adjacent #mind the cws #anyway this chapter is just slow af #if I rewrote this front scratch I'd probably take it out #next one gets more exciting I swear #...maybe #anyway thank you all so much this taglist just has me in shock #some of y'all are authors I really respect with a lot more skill than me #it's really humbling #anyway I love you all thanks so much for reading #'updates on tuesday' is a lie btw #at this point it updates whenever my life isn't in shambles #last month of grad school is rough ngl

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 27

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This one turned into one of those chapters. It sat for months, already beta-read, becoming a point of avoidance and a total bottleneck in my writing flow. It didn't feel good enough/perfect/complete in a way I couldn't put my finger on but my heart wasn't in it for a rewrite. So, finally, I need to just check this box and move on.

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language, victim self-blame, brainwashing, the usual. Raid/recapture, manhandling, beating, restraints, blood mention, implied nudity (nonexplicit). As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

He didn’t fight. 

He couldn’t. Even if his arms weren’t aching from elbow to wrist, they were lead at his sides. His fingers too were immovable under the weight of his failure. If only he could shift them, feel them, curl them into fists to hold onto the fleeting whisper of warm fingers in his but that comfort was no more deserved than it had ever been his to claim. 

The finality of it was equal parts devastation and relief. He wouldn’t get another chance, not after this, but he didn’t want any other life than what he’d had here anyway. He welcomed the end. 

They were probably no rougher than usual but rougher than he remembered—

Training is the only thing you need to remember. You were nothing before it, you are nothing without it. 

Two agents clad in black caught him under the arms, dragged him away and shoved him to his knees unceremoniously. They held him there as a third stepped up, looming above him. 

Just a few feet away another group of agents was—

He turned his eyes toward the sky without registering its shade. 

“Identify yourself.”

The numbers were on the tip of his tongue. 

142836359. 

Always spinning away in the back of his mind somewhere. 

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine. Snaking into the forefront of his dreams whenever he slept. From the very beginning, when they’d trained it into him. One hundred forty-two million, eight hundred thirty-six thousand, three hundred fifty-nine. An endless cassette ribbon unspooling, threading itself around each synapsis in his head. Repeating over and over until it was laced throughout. A third strand in every double helix. 

142836359.

“M-my…” He was suddenly reluctant to lose the single thing he’d been given, even though it had never really been his own. Thinking of defying such a direct order was a hurdle in itself but parsing the words to follow through was another thing entirely. “N-n-name…is—”

A baton cracked across the back of his head and he saw stars. The agents at his sides prevented him from following its momentum to the ground. The leader in front grabbed his chin but he barely felt their gloved fingers over the splitting pain in his head. 

“That was a direct order. You will identify yourself.”

He raised his eyes to meet their opaque sunglasses. Defiant. Defective—

Defective companions are immediately returned for evaluation and will be subjected to the most rigorous re-training applicable. 

The agent’s fist connected with his jaw. His upper molars cut into the flesh inside his cheek, blood seeping into his saliva. His skull rang and throbbed from two sides now.

“Identify yourself.”

He ground his teeth together. Brittle and raw like flint and steel, sparking fire through his veins. It felt familiar but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He raised his chin, the feeling flaring hotter. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance. 

“Little fucking shit.” 

He tried not to flinch away from the next blow but the agent to his right held out a hand before it landed. 

“It’s no use. You know how they get after something like this. We have a witness and his wrist is enough anyway. Vocal confirmation is just a formality.” 

The lead agent took off their sunglasses with a slow deliberateness, holding them out and flipping them from front to back, to inspect the lenses. Directly in his line of sight, though the agent’s eyes only scanned the glasses like there was nothing but empty air beyond them. 

Except when the agent reached out to use the fabric of his sweatshirt at his shoulder to wipe away an indiscernible smudge before finally replacing their glasses and breaking the silence. “Did you get a fucking promotion I wasn’t informed about?”

The shielding arm had long fallen. “No, sir.” 

Their weight shifted to the heels of their combat boots as they leaned into their dominance. “So I still call the shots around here?”

“Yes, sir.” Quieter than before—

Actions speak louder than words; show me how sorry you are. 

The leader let the silence stretch again. 

The other group of agents kept their voices low as they dealt with—while they worked. He tried not to look. Better to let his bitter defiance burn through any hope that they’d ever have a last moment shared between them.

“What the fuck are you morons waiting for?” The lead finally barked, making him jump and sending a spike of pain through his aching head. “Restrain him and get him out to the van.” 

“Yes, sir.” The agents at his sides chorused, sprang to action. As good as any pair of trainees. Thankfully, the leader had turned away and missed his smirk. 

They gagged him first. Four gloved hands holding his head still and prying his mouth open to shove a bit between his teeth—

Speech is a privilege and used only to further demonstrate subservience. 

The muzzle covered his whole jaw and nose with mesh that wasn’t quite fabric but wasn’t quite metal. His eyes watered as they tightened the straps over the tender spot on the back of his head, the front digging into his cheeks. Next was a thick shock collar, metal prongs hugging his windpipe and pressing into the back of his neck. More serious than what they used for training. No doubt designed to render the wearer unconscious with a single shock.

The restraints around his wrists were also more severe than anything Archer had ever used in training. Wide and tightened until his pulse beat in his hands and fingers, binding his wrists together behind his back. Similar bands went around each ankle, connected by a short chain that would have restricted his walking to a show shuffle but the agents didn’t give him the chance. They hauled him backwards off his knees and dragged him away. 

Just like that, it was all over. 

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but of course WRU wouldn’t waste resources on a single Reclamation. From the looks of it, he was the last stop. The others in the van were anchored down in two orderly rows. Eleven collars secured to the white walls, wrists to the white bench, feet to the white floor. Now an even dozen.

 Just like the facility, everything white and pristine again. All of these bodies reeking of sweat and fear and failure and worse were in need of sanitization. The first in the row wore an evening gown, mascara streaks disappearing behind their muzzle. Two were completely naked. Some were crying. Another was fighting against the restraints like they had any chance at working themselves free before they got shocked for their disobedience. Though from the looks of the angry red welts rising under the restraints, the agents were letting them carry on with their fruitless efforts. A few were limp, split lips and still-bleeding noses indicating they’d needed a little extra help into the van. 

He envied them. 

It was impossible to know what might have led the others here. They all must have known what was coming, tried to avoid it in whatever they may have been doing. Most of them would have agreed with him that death was preferable. 

A Companion across the aisle tried to meet his gaze with pleading eyes but the burn spanning from their hairline to their navel caught his attention first and he couldn’t drag his eyes away. If they were whining in pain, it was lost in the other muffled cries and sounds of struggle— 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

The clip anchoring his wrists to the bench was as thick as his fingers. There was barely enough slack in the anchor at the back of his neck for him to look down to see it fully. None of the locks were of the electronic variety that might release them to the mercy of tumbling in a tangle of immobilized bodies should the van roll. 

How many of them would have their necks broken or simply asphyxiate if there was an accident? Blunt force trauma from being so close to the walls of the van would probably do enough damage to cancel whatever re-training was waiting for them. Or at least for the others.  

Better yet, a clean decapitation. 

A distorted, muffled sound, distinguishable from all the crying, silenced the rest of the van. It took another beat of listening to the hysterical tail end of it, the inhale past saliva collecting at the corners of a bit before it bubbled out again to realize it was laughter. And another beat to realize he was its source.

All the eyes that were open and could manage the angle, turned to watch. Any distraction was welcome when you were facing hell. Had any of the others been in his cohort?  Had he surpassed them in training? 

Look at him now, Archer’s ace in the hole—

That really set him off. 

But he wound up choking on all of the extra spit and spent the next minute thinking he really was going to die in the back of this van just asphyxiating on his own spit before he finally managed to drag in a thin breath amidst all of his coughing. 

The van was still completely silent once he’d recovered his breath. Some gazes had slid away quietly. Others remained, still happy to watch him unravel. 

His cheeks burned under his muzzle but a part of him was sure that none of them could hold a candle to what had led him here. 

Some of them might have simply been displeasing. Appearances could only be changed so much. Their simple minds so very, very far from telepathic. 

Even after the full-refund window, WRU was happy to offer trade-in credit for an exchange. If that wasn’t possible, they would graciously take care of retiring unwanted Companions. It didn’t make any difference if a Companion was bought, leased, or only rented. The Handlers made sure it was always, always, in the back of their minds that no placement was certain—

The only certainty is that you are property now.

The rest would go back to being numbers on the training roster. 

He would be on a different list. 

They were removed from the van for Decontamination one by—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine

— each brought to their own white-tiled room. Wrists hooked above his head, holding him in place over the drain. He wasn’t sure if these were still agents or Handlers now. A different department of Handlers, maybe. They wore white rubber suits like he could be radioactive or carrying a plague, their eyes hidden behind the mirrored glass window of the suit masks. 

The relief of having the muzzle and bit removed distracted him from noticing they were cutting away his clothes. Too late he realized that with them went the last scent of what semblance of a home he’d had, of—

He didn’t have time to swallow the lump in his throat before the spray hit him. Cold and sharp like the water wanted to worm its way under his skin. There wasn’t any slack to get away from it. No way to cross his legs or twist without his shoulders and arms protesting. 

Your only power is submission, your only choice is acceptance.

He yelped when they sprayed it into his ear, gritting his teeth through the other. They pried his mouth open to rinse out his mouth until he was choking. When he was finally released, his spit was pink. 

Next was a powder, antiseptic smell sharp and familiar in his nose, making his stomach turn, misted all over his shivering body—

Your body is an object for service, your mind is a vessel for obedience. 

They scrubbed it in with brushes until the lather was turning pink too. When they brought back the water it was so hot he screamed. And kept screaming as it scalded him like the soap was turning to acid and boiling through his skin. He ran out of air before they were done, gasping in lungfuls of it, the collar tighter and tighter around his neck. His pulse fast against it, beat, beat, beating—  

Beatings break old habits, the collar corrects new—

One-four-two-eight-three-six-three-five-nine.

He was still catching his breath when they held open his jaw to let the water burn through his mouth, his throat, his lungs. 

Black spots dotted his vision. Sunlight through leaves, lying on a blanket under a tree. Right beside her. Mira. It hurt. 

His chest ached, his heart burned. He vomited up all of the water and some blood. The room spun. He sobbed.

The water was off now. 

He was saying it out loud, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his voice echoing, the only sound in the room. 

He was alone.

Previous—Masterlist—Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @lavbug

#bbu #bbu adjacent #bbu whump #box boy whump #box boy rescue #institutionalized slavery tw #pet whump #whump #wru #whumpblr #whump writing #recapture #restraints tw

[only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are]

Swipe Right Masterlist

Set in the BBU, Swipe Right tells the story of Charlie, a young man who is scouted out via a dating app to be an acceptable candidate for a pet (also known as box boy).

Part 1

Part 2

Taglist: @deerheaded44 @sparrowsage

#bbu adjacent #bbu whump #bbu drip #noncon drugging #whump fics #whump community #medical whump #swipe right series

[sideblogformindtrash]

Orfeu and Haru Ver. II.

Cw: Mentioned noncon (not too explicit this time); Mentioned starvation/food insecurity; pet whump; dehumanization; humiliation;

The pet wakes up in that man’s arms. Orfeu, if he recalled.

He has his hands resting over the pet’s hips, hands that look like they belong to a monster, ink black until almost the elbows, nails thick and curled like that of a beast. Pet still surprised those claws got inside him and somehow hurt less than Master’s soft fingers.

Turning to the side he sees Farlan’s up and getting dressed to go to his college lectures. He figures the guest is the only reason why he wasn’t kicked from the bed today as soon as Master woke up. He tries to get up by himself rather than wait for the man to wake and push him down…

“Stay”

He freezes staring dumbly at his Master. He rolls his eyes, his patience always too short for the pet. 

“Stay. You’re allowed. At least while he’s cuddling you”

He lets the air escape his lungs, sinking back into the sheets and quite relieved. Still, he remains weary as he watches Master moving around the room, combing his hair and putting it on a ponytail, dressing up in his tailored suit and applying so much cologne the Pet has to bury his face on the pillows to hold back the sneezes.

Master always smells so good. His favorite cologne has tops of lemon and jasmine and a soft wooden background. It denounces his arrival before the master enters a room, and lingers after he leaves. It has also impregnated the sheets, the pillows and even the pet itself, sticking on his skin and leaving a trace where he was held. 

After he’s done playing or hurting him, Master takes him to the bathroom and places him on a tub which he lets fill with mercifully warm water. He washes his back with milky soap and his hair with strawberry shampoo. Sometimes, he baths by himself too, making extra sure he’s clean and groomed to his Master’s liking. 

Still, the Master's smell is stronger.

It stays, no matter how much he scrubs his skin.

Which is why he’s oddly glad about how much the guest just… stinks. 

He stinks of sour cigarette smoke, candle wax and forest mold, sweat and booze and sex and asphalt. He stinks and for once, it overpowers Master’s lemony scent. 

Once Master finally leaves, he sinks his head on the man’s chest and inhales, trying to pick apart all that makes his smell, nuzzling a little so his stubble beard scratches the pet's face. 

Unfortunately that wakes him up, and they lock eyes, pearly blue in toxic green ones. He feels himself grow cold, afraid he’ll be hurt for waking him, but the man simply smiles, a row of creep teeth. He thought those were fascinating, but wondered how much it hurt to make them look like this. 

“Good morning” he says, and Pet cringes at his breath. And Orfeu notices “Oh, guess I need to brush my teeth. And a shower-”

Two mistakes. It’s barely eight in the morning, and he’s made two mistakes with Master’s new guest. He’s shaking…

“I-I- nhh s-s-sorry, pet… dirty, pet is, is, not-”

“Shhh” he picks up one of Pet’s white locks, playing with it between his distorted fingers “Not a big deal. I have an idea. Why don’t you go get us some breakfast, while I wash, hm?”

He nods, nearly jumping out the bed. 

He doesn’t bother getting dressed. He knows it bothers some of the workers of the mansion but… it’s nothing that they haven’t seen before. And he’s been through… so much worse, he hardly feels humiliated by the nakedness anymore. 

“Good morn- Oh fuck. Please wear clothes” Ms. Lenora complains, as the pet runs into the kitchen. 

He blushes a little and waves at the housekeeper apologetically, one of the few employees that work at the house. It’s a small task force and there’s always a lot of work to be done. The Pet has to help sometimes, and while most of them are either bothered or even hostile towards the pet, she doesn’t seem to mind.

“It 's alright. Go see if you can find something in the laundry room, I’ll prepare your food” She says, just smiling at him.

"G-guest" Speaking is getting harder and harder these days.

"Guest?” She frowns. Farlan must have forgotten to warn her, but she knows Pet wouldn't lie about "Fm. Guess you’ll need something better than oatmeal then. Now, please, get dressed-"

He nods, going past the kitchen and into the laundry room. People there glare, disgusted by his presence, his nakedness, the violence marked on his body. He quickly snatches a shirt from the clean pile. It’s Master’s, but he won’t mind. 

He smiles when he gets back into the kitchen, seeing Lenora preparing a tray with avocado toast and eggs, cuts of meat and picked fruits. He hesitates for a second, then approaches to help her, which earns him a soft pat on the head.

“Good boy”

Something deep inside him says he should feel humiliated by this sort of affection. But it’s all that exists in his world, and oh, he’d take humiliating affection over pain any day. 

Finally he carries the tray back upstairs, hoping this man Orfeu allows him to eat. He’s not good at starving. Farlan is not the most merciful of Master’s, but he’s generous about food, only denying it when it annoys him enough for a hard punishment.

But sometimes he’s left under the care of Master’s father, Gerard, the lord of the house, who is very prone to making him starve. ‘A petite little songbird’, the man says, feeding him nothing but what he can lick off of his fingers.

He remembers them fighting the first time his Master traveled and left the pet under Gerard’s care. After a week, when he came back, the pet went to welcome him and ended up passing out from starvation. 

“Oh, that’s fancy” Orfeu says, coming out of the bathroom and throwing himself on the bed, a towel wrapped around his hair. 

“Come on-” he taps the bed by his side, coaching the pet to sit by his side. He does it hesitantly. Master Farlan would be angry if they dropped food on the sheets… but he’d be even angrier if the pet denied a guest's request, so he obeys.

…He immediately notices the smell. He must’ve stolen the cologne because he smells exactly like Farlan now. He swallows, wondering why this makes him feel grief. 

“Did you make the food?” 

“H-h-helped” the pet mumbles, a bit thrown aback by how casually he talks. He must be used to pets. Maybe even have some of his own.

“Own, it's very good”

The pet just nods, hands crossed politely over his lap, trying not to stare at the food.

"You aren't much of a talker, are you?"

He flinches hard. It used to be so easy.

"I-I can, ifsir wamt. Msorry Sorry" he whispers, feeling the words roll and mix, his tongue too heavy to properly form them.  Why speak, if no one wants to hear? "Hard. Msorry"

"It's alright, love" 

He realizes the pet staring and chooses to be merciful, cutting a piece of toast and taking the piece to his lips. He parts them obediently and chews the food slowly, enjoying the taste. It also makes for a good excuse to stay quite.

“You don't have to. I'd like you to, if you can. But I don't mind if you don't want to"

It sounds like a mockery, if not for his genuine expression. 

Pets don't have wants, or so they say. Of course it's a lie. The pet wants a lot of things. It's just that a pet's wants are meaningless. 

He just obediently opens his mouth again, letting the man place a piece of fruit inside. So it seems that just like Gerard, this man likes to hand feed pets, enjoying the utter submission of the act. He does his best not to resent that, at least he's being generous with the portions, letting him chew a cut of strawberry. 

"He said you don't have a name…" the pet struggles not to flinch with the way Orfeu toys with the knife.

Thankfully, he simply cuts a piece of the meat for himself. 

"I kinda wanna give you one"

…Pet stares. This screams of a trap. He recalls him telling that to the master last night, and Farlan being very clear that the pet does not deserve one.

"Sir'angry" he replies, the best he can, in between the little bits of food he's being fed. 

"Farlan? Nah, I'll handle him" Orfeu promises, seeming all too confident. Well, it's true the Master seems to forgive a little more disrespect from him than from most others… but this is a big thing. 

"It's unfair to not be named. I'll think of something. You can help too" he offers. 

The pet shakes his head shyly. It's not for him to decide. But… he kinda hopes this strange man can indeed get him named. He'd like to be someone. 

tag: @whump-blog

#whump #whump writing #pet whump #bbu adjacent #haru is bae #whorfeu #orfeu and haru II

[whumpcereal]

Joe giving Jack a bath, and Jack thinks Joe is going to hurt/violate him (early rescue).

content warnings for: bbu/bbu-adjacent content (including the actual unboxing), creepy/intimate whumper, vague references to past noncon and trauma, dubcon nudity, conditioned whumpee, brief emeto mention

Jack sits in the tub, his knees drawn up to his chest. He doesn’t like this bathroom. The lights are too bright, and it’s too small. From his place in the bath, Jack can see veins of yellow-orange cigarette residue poking through the cheap paint on the walls. The tub is shoved in the rear of the little room, bordered by a shower curtain that Jack doesn’t recognize. The toilet and vanity are crammed in practically on top of one another; there’s barely enough space on the floor in front of them for the pilly bathroom rug. 

It shouldn’t feel claustrophobic–Jack’s spent enough time in the leather sack to know it–but it does. 

This isn’t home. He’s supposed to be home. But maybe Joe wants to keep him separate. Maybe they aren’t going to live together anymore. He’ll keep Jack locked up here, so that he can use him whenever he wants. Until Jack’s proven himself. That’s why Joe brought him here. 

No. Joe didn’t bring him here. Jack was sent. Shipped, like they promised he would be. That’s why he’s in the bath. 

He hadn’t meant to make a mess. But he didn’t know how long he’d been in the box. It was too hot, and he’d been so dizzy. He didn’t mean to do it. 

That’s probably why Joe’s face looked the way it had when he pried off the box’s wooden lid. He thought Joe would be happy to see him, that Joe would be proud to see how good Jack learned to be–but he wasn’t. Joe hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t said anything. He’d just frozen, his face twisted into an expression that Jack didn’t know how to read. 

That’s when Jack realized he was covered in his own sick. 

“I’m s-sorry,” he’d said immediately. And then he remembered. “I’m sorry, sir.” His voice had sounded funny and far away, like he was hearing it from the next room. 

He had the distant feeling that he should have felt something, like he should have been excited to see Joe after the months apart. But he didn’t feel it. He was too disoriented. Too frightened. 

He didn’t think Joe felt it either. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joe had murmured. He’d barely even looked at Jack. “Jackie–oh, Jackie, no–” 

Joe broke to his knees then, and Jack knew: he’d fucked up. He hadn’t worked hard enough. He hadn’t done enough to change. 

It was all for nothing. 

Jack is nothing.

Joe took Jack out of the box and carried him straight to the bathroom. Joe left, but Jack waits in the tub because Joe told him to stay there, and Jack will do whatever Joe says. He has to. Maybe it won’t make things right, but it can’t make anything worse. He can show Joe what a good boy he is now.

The water plops into the bathtub, splashing as it collects on itself. It’s warm, and the feeling isn’t unpleasant. Ivan only ever hosed him down in the shower stall, and he never cared much if Jack was comfortable or all that clean.  It was more about what he could reach when Jack was tethered to the shower floor. What he could do. What he always did. What Jack was meant for. Is meant for. 

Joe must want that too. He does. Jack knows it. Ivan told him so. 

Jack hears something crash in a room he can’t identify, and Joe curses. Jack uncoils and lets his hands drop into the shallow water. He hitches his thumbs into his soggy boxer-briefs. They’re heavy with water when he pushes them away, a black wad in the corner of the dingy tub. Jack is heavy too. But still, he presses onto his hands and knees. Position ten. That’s Ivan’s favorite. 

Maybe Joe will like it too. He’s never had Jack this way before. 

Beneath the water, Jack’s wrists are shrunken and white without their leather cuffs. His joints tremble and his ears are warm, but he knows what he’s supposed to do. The skin on his fingers and toes starts to prune, and the water keeps pouring from the tap. 

Joe rounds the corner, and Jack closes his eyes. He can do this. He’s been selfish long enough. Joe deserves to have what he wants, and Jack can give it to him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby–Jack. Jackie. I’ve got–” There’s a soft thump as something hits the floor. “What–what are you doing?” 

It’s a direct question. Jack can answer. But he doesn’t. The tub’s non-slip bottom bites into his knees. He’s shaking. He can’t look. He can’t. 

He thought he could do this. He wanted to be good for Joe. 

He isn’t good. He is only afraid. 

But he doesn’t show it. He stays still, and he waits. 

Joe must turn off the water, because Jack doesn’t hear it anymore. 

“Jackie–” 

The name lances through Jack’s heart. Joe says it like he loves him. Soft and sure. But Jack knows better now. He’s done nothing to earn it. If he wants Joe to love him, he has to be good. Sweet. He has to show Joe what he’s learned.

This is a test, and Jack won’t fail. Not again. 

But he does. He fails. Joe touches him, his hand light on the small of Jack’s naked back, and Jack flinches. The hand retreats like it’s been burned. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t–you–”  Joe makes a noise like he’s choking. Jack’s eyelids squeeze. “Please. Please, would you–Jackie, I–” 

Jack wants to curl into a ball, but he can’t. The water. Joe. He can’t. 

Joe’s voice drops, “Oh, God, please. Help me. Please help me.” 

Jack doesn’t look, but he hears Joe’s breath, ragged and wet.

“Jack. I’m going to touch you. Okay?” 

Jack doesn’t answer. He is a good boy. A statue. If Joe wants to touch him, he can. He will. And Jack will not stop him. 

It’s silly for Joe to pretend, to talk to Jack like he did before. Jack knows better now, and he wishes he did not. If he keeps his eyes closed, maybe he can pretend too. He can pretend it’s like it was. That they’re like they were. 

But they aren’t. Because of Jack. If he’d only been better–

Joe sighs. “Just–would you please let me know that you hear me, baby?” 

Jack nods. 

“Okay. Okay. I’m gonna–I’m just going to–” Joe’s hands slip around Jack’s ribs and guide him back onto his heels in the water. There is a softness in the gesture that brings tears to Jack’s eyes. Maybe, just maybe–

But Jack is exposed now, and Joe hisses, pulling away.

Jack understands. He’s covered in his own filth. He isn’t what he ought to be. But still. Ivan told him what was expected of him. He’s doing that, isn’t he? Why doesn’t Joe seem even a little bit pleased? 

“I’m not–I’m not going to–I just want to help clean you up. That’s all.”

But after, Jack thinks. What about after? Joe will take him then, won’t he? He’ll show Jack that this was all worth it? 

Jack can’t sort out whether he wants it or not. Not that he’s allowed to want. He thinks he missed Joe. He can’t be angry at Joe for expecting more from him. And he wants to prove himself. He does. 

But he’s still so afraid. 

“Jackie, please,” Joe says. “I won’t–I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?” 

“Yes, sir,” Jack whispers. It’s the only answer he can give. It doesn’t matter if Joe hurts him. Jack will take what he’s given and be grateful. That’s what good boys do. 

He doesn’t open his eyes, so he can’t see the way Joe’s body crumples against the lip of the tub. He doesn’t know that Joe’s heart is crying out for his or that none of this is what Joe wants. 

Joe’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, and this time, Jack does not flinch. “You don’t have to–I mean, I’m not–just–baby, it’s me. It’s Joe?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He feels Joe wince against him. “No, Jackie. Just Joe.” 

Jack doesn’t understand. “Sir?” 

This time he looks: Joe’s face is pinched beneath red cheeks. 

“Don’t–” Joe suddenly stops himself. “Would you–would you mind just calling me Joe? No ‘sir?’” 

“Yes, sir,” Jack answers automatically. 

“Jackie–”

“Yes. Joe.” 

Joe half-nods. His eyes land on his own hand, still perched on Jack’s shoulder, and they widen, like he’s caught himself doing something he shouldn’t. He pulls away again.

“You’re home, baby. You’re safe. I won’t–I won’t touch you unless you want me to. I only want to help you right now.” 

It’s a trick. Another test. Ivan warned him about this, that Joe would try to challenge Jack’s training to see if he’d really learned what he was supposed to. Jack doesn’t want anything. He knows that. And Joe didn’t ask a question, and so Jack cannot answer. Instead, he lets his chin fall to his chest, and he crosses his bare wrists behind his back. Position twelve. 

He is Joe’s for the taking.

“Jackie,” Joe asks, his voice small, “don’t you believe me?” 

No, Jack doesn’t believe him. He cannot fail the test. But for just a moment, he wishes he could believe, that the lies he’d told himself every night were true. 

Then, he remembers his place. He keeps his eyes on the shallow water and answers the way he should. 

“Yes, Joe.” 

NOTE: This is pretty developed, so I'm going to tag the whole crew.

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @reflected-pain, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keep-beach-city-werid, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @shimae-writes-whump, @whumpyblogthing

#behavior modification #jack kenyon oc #joe prescott oc #bbu adjacent #conditioned whumpee #rescue arc #if that's what you want to call this #this made me sad #so let it make you sad too

[whump-in-the-closet]

idk what this is. no i’m not gonna try to explain it i’m sorry it just happened

cw: bbu-adjacent (i stole the white room and contract and erased memories from the bbu, otherwise it’s nothing alike), implied murder, weird weird pov, implied torture, also i say boy in the beginning but he’s 18-19, dehumanization

The boy wanted soup.

They gave him a knife.

It was a deal, they said. Training and expertise and money. Everything he wanted. Never have to go back on the streets again.

He signed the contract.

A deal.

In the white room, he tried to think of soup.

They didn’t like that. They sprayed him with a hose, water set on jet. Powerwashing every unwanted thought away.

—Tomato soup on the stove. The smell of grilled cheese, burning in the old blue kitchen—

One by one, the memories slipped through the drain in the white room. They spun and spun until they swirled away entirely.

He clung to the scraps of memories he had left…like the one where he thought he could smell cilantro.

—The flash, flash, flash of a knife in a worn hand, chopping the greens—

They took that too. They took it all and left his mind squeaky clean and empty.

Now he had his own flashing knife. It went in and out of throats, as he had been trained. He went skulking and crawling, like he’d been trained.

He imagined if you put a marble in his head, he’d be able to hear it rattling. Around and around and around.

Mind-empty, ready to do whatever he was told.

But that didn’t stop him looking for soup where he wasn’t supposed to.

Funny, where he found it. It was under the corpse’s skin— tomato soup, scarlet and golden with olive oil— spilling out of the corpse’s slit throat.

Couldn’t eat for a long time after that.

—Stop thinking stop thinking—

It was splashed on the walls. Mushroom soup, grey and creamy. A handprint smeared here and there, left behind on the concrete.

And that brought static. They didn’t like it when he thought about his life Before. Stop thinking stop thinking stop thinking—

The numbers on his wrist were his life now. No soup, just blood and screaming and static.

***

They called him, affectionately, T15.

“Twist.” said one of Them. “I’m going to call him Twist. Because of how he used to talk about soup in the beginning.”

“Shut up,” said another.

“You know, like Oliver Twist.”

The buzz of electricity. Snap. Static in his head. “Don’t look at us like that.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s T15. Not Twist. Stop trying to humanize him.”

Twist, said a voice beneath the static.

#idk if i should tag this as #crack whump #because i was trying to make the tone serious and whatever #but it just comes across as funny and unhinged #oh well #bbu adjacent #whump writing #whump #whumpblr #whump community #cw dehumanization #cw implied murder

[whumpofdory]

More Than You Bargained For

CW: institutionalised slavery, bbu and all that, major character with a tic disorder

“Are… are you sure? I have to take both?” Caretaker looked down at the two pets kneeling in his driveway.

“Sir, the two for one sale is not optional. However, there is nothing preventing you from selling one of them as second hand after the 30-day reserve period. Thank you for you patronage.” The delivery driver walked back to his truck and slowly backed down the driveway.

The pets looked at one another briefly. Which one of them wasn’t wanted? Which would be allowed to stay? Looking back to their master, they each formed the most cute, alluring face they were able to muster with the fear of being sold so close at hand.

They both resolved to be the best pet they could be. Every pet knew second-hands were worthless, and treated accordingly. The only masters who ever bought second-hand were pet fighting rings or those with more destructive tastes. To be sold like that was more than a death sentence, and although they each wanted to protect other pets, neither was willing to jump into the line of fire to save the other.

“Come on guys, let’s go inside.” Caretaker said gently. He didn’t want to spook them any more than he already might. He was worried for the same reason he’d bought pets: he had tics. Severe ones too, ones that made it hard to function. He used mobility aids most of the time, but it was still hard to do a lot of things without one issue or another.

The three were able to walk in the house before he had an outburst. He was afraid he would say something to frighten them. “Fuck off.” He was able to grit his teeth to quiet it, but not completely. Both pets dropped back a few paces.

What had they already done to upset their master? Perhaps they had walked too close, seemed too much his equal? They knew their place. They made their way to the living room, where Master sat down on the couch. They both noticed that his neck kept moving in an odd way. It looked painful. Both pets kneeled in front of him.

“So, I guess I should make you two aware of a few things.” His neck twitched again, and his fist flew up and slammed into his chest. He saw both of them jump. “These are just tics, no reason to be worried.” Both people before him looked confused. “Do either of you know what those are?”

They both shook their heads and he sighed. The amount of times he’s had to explain this was exhausting; you’d think if you put it ok the form the facility would prepare them for it in some way, at least tell them… “Tics are things I can’t control. Which means I say and do things I don’t want to do. Eventually you’ll learn how to tell when something I do or say is a tic and when it’s not. This is important: neither of you ever have to do something a tic says. Got it?”

They both vigorously nodded their heads. They were unsure though. A master who said things he didn’t mean? They were trained to always obey, and Master was telling them to only obey sometimes. How would they know? What if they never learned? They’d heard the force with which he was able to hit his chest. How much more force could he hit them with? To make them learn, if they couldn’t otherwise?

#drabble #whump drabble #whump #pet whump #pet whump Drabble #lmk if I should continue this #bbu adjacent #bbu #bbu oc #bbu whump

[runeswitchau]

Personal Addisons are Addisons who belong to a single person or company seperate from Addison Corps themselves, and either advertise for the company they're owned by or don't advertise at all.

Their status is given away by the color of their pants. While normal Addisons have the bright green of Addison Corps, Personal Addisons wear whatever color scheme applies to the business or person they are owned by.

Personalizing an Addison involves taking a normal Addison and recoding them to be docile and touchstarved, usually used as a punishment for anyone trying to stand up against the system.

Any Addison can be personalized, and it's used as a threat.

There are three types of personal Addisons: Rebranded, Obligers, and Recreational.

Rebranded Addisons are owned by businesses, they simply advertise for that business and wear the business's colors.

Obligers are like servants.

And Recreationals are like pets (think BBU).

#bbu adjacent #deltarune #deltarune au #deltarune chapter 2 #addisons #addison lore #headcanon

[keeper-of-all-the-random-things]

Interview

Day 5 for @promptsforyourwhumpfic Two Weeks of Whump (necktie)

CW: BBU adjacent (not explicitly mentioned, but warnings applicable), strangling ... not really sure how else to tag this ... mostly creepy vibes. Please let me know if I missed anything.

Paul owned one necktie.  It was scratchy blue wool that he inherited from his grandfather, and he didn’t worry about it matching his clothes because he only had one suit.

He fidgeted with his tie now as he waited for his interview.  The advert made the job sound very blue-collar, but the towering chrome building instantly made Paul self-conscious.

He signed in at the front desk then fidgeted some more in the metal waiting room chairs.

After a few minutes, he was greeted by a young man, perhaps a few years older than Paul. 

“Paul Montgomery?  Hi, I’m Matthew.  Good to meet you.”

They shook hands, and Paul was surprised to find Matthew’s palm as clammy as his own.

Matthew led them to a sparsely furnished office.  They sat on opposite sides of a metal desk that looked like it was plucked out of a middle school classroom.

“We’re getting new furniture,” Matthew laughed.  “We had problems with the old stuff.”

Paul nodded, though he was confused why they didn’t just use a different room.

“Anyways,” Matthew clapped once to start business, “our interview process is pretty informal.  We want to see how you interact with people you might work with.  For example, me.”  He chuckled.  “Don’t be nervous,” he said, sounding a bit nervous himself.  “We have several positions open, so you’re likely to be offered a job, even if it’s not the one you applied for.”

Paul nodded again, at a loss for words.  He’d never been to an interview so … vague.  He adjusted his tie hoping his grandfather might somehow bestow luck through the fabric.

“Here, let me help you.”  Matthew pushed the desk away and brought his chair forward so he was touching knees with Paul.  He took his time retying the knot, fingers lingering at Paul’s neck.

Paul felt his face flush.  “What are you doing?”

Matthew smiled and pulled away.  He left the desk off to the side.  “All part of the process, Paul.  Where’d you get your tie?”

“My grandfather.  What is ‘the process’?”

“The interview process.”  Matthew’s smile didn’t make his eyes.  “You’ll get a full rundown if you take the job.”

Paul’s brow furrowed.  He wasn’t entirely sure what the job even was anymore.

There was a knock, and two people joined the interview.

“That’s Bernard Thompson,” Matthew said, gesturing to a thin, muscled man who had the air of someone who always knew more than anyone else.  “He’s in charge of training.”

Of course he is.  Paul gave a little wave, which Bernard ignored.

Matthew pointed to the other newcomer.  “That’s Val Ayotte.  She coordinates specifics between the company and the clients.  She’ll check in every now and then, but you won’t see her as often as Bernard.”

Matthew was frowning by the end of his introductions.  He maneuvered himself close to Paul again, with Val and Bernard hovering by the door behind Paul.

“What do you think?” he asked.  He closed in and fiddled with Paul’s tie.

Paul hesitated, thrown off by the other man’s proximity.  “I … there’s not much to go on.”

Matthew smiled, even more wan than last time.  “It’s the nature of the company, I’m afraid.  Like I said, you’ll get a full rundown when you’re hired.”

At some hidden cue, Matthew pushed back and accepted a sheaf of papers from Val.  He stared intently at Paul.  “Do you want the job?”

Paul thought of his single suit and tie and the family he didn’t have to make time for and figured there were no good reasons not to accept.  “I want the job.”

Matthew nodded solemnly and indicated where Paul should sign.  Paul sifted through the pages on his lap.  When he finished, Matthew handed the stack back to Val, looking almost regretful.  He stood to leave.

Before Paul could join him, his tie was pulled tight against his throat from behind.  He scratched at its woven fabric and the hands holding it, but he couldn’t fight Bernard’s grip.

He saw Matthew frowning deeply off to the side.  “Congratulations, Paul.  You’re hired.”

Matthew left, and Paul blacked out.

#TwoWeeksOfWhump #TWOW #BBU adjacent #strangling #creepy vibes

[peachy-panic]

what does BBU mean?

Hey! BBU started out as Box Boy Universe, though much like the content under its umbrella, people have altered that wording to fit their own stories. (Substitute “Boy” with “Babe,” “Boxie,” etc).

It’s a fictional/science-fictional universe created by some people in the whump writing community a while back. Since then, it’s become a sort of public domain for people to set their stories in and make their own.

Essentially it revolves around fucked up class divides and legalized slavery. Everybody’s take on it is a little different, but that is, for the most part, at the center of it.

#bbu #bbu adjacent #I feel like I don’t have authority to explain this #feel free to chime in with your thoughts lol #slavery tw

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 25

Previous—Masterlist— Next

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Past surgical/medical whump alluded to, hospital setting. As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump &lt;3

Found. 

Found. 

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with ‘found’. 

It wasn’t good or bad or safe or pain or any of the others that WRU had made so bright and shiny and accessible they were practically glued to his hands. Even when he went deeper, spiraling down into the shadowy, muddled places he cared not to linger in, there was no space for it anywhere. 

Found.

It didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was what it meant to Leo. 

And he had absolutely no fucking clue. 

“Aiden, I found you,” Leo repeated, like he was able to see exactly how long it was taking Aiden to glean any meaning from the phrase.

His head was hurting, even with all the drugs he’d agreed to. That had to be a bad sign, a sign that they’d lied and the drugs were doing something else since they certainly weren’t eradicating all of his pain. He made sure his grip hadn’t changed around Leo’s hands. Leo’s hands holding his. Like maybe they were all that was holding him together. 

Leo was almost smiling, his eyes still full of emotion. A few tears had fallen just moments ago before he’d made an apology exactly like the one Aiden should have made and couldn’t make. Leo’s eyebrows were still raised because he was expecting this to mean something but Aiden wasn’t clever enough to figure it out. More tests that Harrison designed him to fail. 

He nodded once, holding his breath, hoping to hell that Leo would give him some indication that it was the correct response or at least one that would earn him more explanation. 

Leo tilted his head a fraction of a centimeter to the left and took a breath but the exhale was shorter than the inhale, more audible. 

Fuck. 

Aiden flinched when Leo reached for his shoulder. “M’sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re good.” Leo rubbed his thumb in circles over the starchy fabric of the hospital gown. 

He wanted to cry. He wasn’t good. None of this could be leading anywhere good.

Leo leaned forward, for some reason undeterred from driving at this point. “Aiden, the day we met. When you woke up in the back of my van, remember?”

Yes, he remembered. A promising first impression.

“That morning, I stopped to get coffee on my way to work and I found you—”

Found whatever lies Harrison had written, raising his hopes so they’d have even further to fall.

“I found you, unconscious in a snowbank off the parking lot—”

No…

“I-I thought you were homeless. I was going to give you my coffee but when I saw you—” Leo reached for his cheek and this time Aiden was too stunned to flinch. “—I just, I didn’t think twice, I wanted to help you, to keep you safe.”

None of this made any sense. Why would he make something like this up? What was the point? 

Leo let out a breath, like a sigh. Was he relieved? 

He was looking at Aiden expectantly again and Aiden wanted to scream. 

Why couldn’t Leo just give him the answer?

“I didn’t even realize that you were a—” Aiden was left to hang in the full shame of what he was, what he had been reduced to. “—Companion. I just wanted to help. I’m sorry I fucked it up, not seeing what was right in front of me, not helping you as well as I could have.” 

There really wasn’t any point in trying to understand the purpose of this fresh test. 

Christ, it was convoluted and he was way too damaged to ever hope to follow. 

His throat ached from holding back sobs.

Nothing he could do would make anything better. 

Worse might be possible, but at this point, did it really even matter? 

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t—Aiden, are you with me, sweetheart?” 

His gaze had shifted off Leo’s face to stare, unfocused, at the light of the MRI machine coming through the window. 

Leo searched each of his eyes, one and then the other, to make sure he was paying attention now. 

He burned under the valuation. 

“Aiden, I didn’t buy you, I—”

“Stop.” He stood, the chair rolling away behind him. 

Did he just say that out loud? 

He staggered back, away from Leo and in search of his balance. 

It was all too much, all of this was too much.

“Aiden?” Leo rose to follow him slowly, hands at his sides. Always so careful and calculating. 

“Nnn—please,” he sobbed. 

“Easy, it’s okay—” 

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his temples.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Leo said quickly. He reached his hand out. “I didn’t mean—I only wanted—”

“Don’t!” Louder than he’d intended, clearer than he thought he was capable of. “Nnn…please,” he added too late. Leo’s face had already fallen, just for a moment before he’d returned to looking concerned.

“Don’t…come near you?” 

Nothing could have been worse. Aiden let himself crumple to the ground, arms coming up around his head as he tried to fold away. To sink into the grave he’d dug for himself hand over fist.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Aiden shook his head, sobbing. Everything ached. “Nnn—please…nnno…don’t…nnn…lie—” 

After a while, he wondered if maybe he hadn’t said it out loud. Or Leo hadn’t heard his whisper. Or was pretending he hadn’t heard. He tried to quiet his crying to hear. Maybe Leo had left and now, finally—

“I’m going to come sit by you, okay?”

He didn’t move or object so Leo crossed the room and sat beside him. Aiden peeked out to see him dragging a hand over his face, elbows on his knees. 

“There’s probably a dozen better ways I could’ve explained that. Delia told me to wait, she was probably right—she’s always right. I’m sorry.” He sighed, glancing over and caught Aiden watching him. He smiled that half-smile, the one that made a few lines appear by his eyes, the one that looked so kind. “Hi, hon.”

He flushed, despite himself, despite everything, and was so glad his face was covered. Leo’s smile faded and in another well-trained reaction Aiden feared he was disappointed. He almost reached for one of the practiced responses, out of habit, to try to salvage the exchange. 

“I’d never lie to you, Aiden. I know there’s nothing to make you believe that’s not just another lie but I have no reason to lie to you, sweetheart.” 

Aiden couldn’t see the reason either. Unless it were just for sport, which would mean Leo was exactly like Harrison, and Aiden couldn’t face that at all. 

He lifted his head, resting his chin on his knees. His arms were starting to throb from holding his legs up to his chest.

Leo smiled again, same smile as always. 

Same as the time he’d torn open a bag of mini marshmallows in the parking lot, sending them skittering all over the slush, trying to bribe Aiden out from under his van. Same as when he saw Aiden waiting for him downstairs every morning. Same as when he came home every day. 

His heart hammered in his chest. It didn’t seem possible that he could be interpreting all of this right. That any of this was right for him. There was one way to tell. He was pretty sure he’d said it before, correctly, even though he hadn’t really meant to. He’d always been too afraid to practice. The name had never felt like it belonged to him to say. 

The sounds were all there, like they wanted to be spoken. He took a breath—

“Leo?” 

Aiden jumped and Leo put a hand on his back. “It’s just Delia.” 

“Hey, checking in. We can head back now.” 

They each took a side and lifted helped Aiden to his feet. Delia’s name tag clicked against her stethoscope as she leaned down to help Leo. He couldn’t read her name, of course, but there she was in the photo, a wry smile on her lips. He wondered if she had been instructed to look serious but couldn’t keep a straight face or if the security guard in charge of pictures had a sense of humor. 

This was definitely not a place for people like him.

This was a real hospital. 

Delia was a real doctor.

If Leo didn’t have any papers or a contract for him, they really weren’t anywhere remotely related to WRU.

All of that sneaking around had been real. 

What exactly were Leo and Delia risking by bringing him here?

“Sweetheart?” Leo’s hand on his cheek made him gasp. 

He looked between their faces. Apparently, they’d meant for him to be paying attention.

Leo caught onto his panic. “Hey, it’s okay.” He moved his hand down to rest on Aiden’s shoulder. “We’ll head back now. You don’t need to do the scan, okay? It wasn’t fair of me to expect that of you. You can rest a bit more until it’s okay for us to go home. Sound good?”

His head nodded automatically. Leo kept one arm around him as they turned toward the door. 

He planted his feet. 

Leo stopped guiding him. “Aiden?”

He just wanted—he couldn’t— He flapped a hand. What the fuck was that going to convey? He used it to cover his face instead, shaking his head. “Mmm’sorry…m’sorry…” 

“It’s okay, take your time. We still have time,” Delia said. 

The silence swelled as they waited for him, waited on him.

Leo and Delia exchanged a glance that made him want to evaporate. They were confused and he couldn’t fucking articulate a single goddamn thought in his head. This was not going to work or end well. He couldn’t do this. 

He kneaded his brow, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Does it hurt, hon?” Leo rubbed his shoulder. 

Aiden shook his head and tried to swallow the knot of frustration building in his throat. “Mmm…I…I…”

Leo considered him patiently, with that concerned crease appearing right between his brows. 

Aiden couldn’t decide if it made him want to fall into his arms or at his feet. 

He should just be cooperative and go back. 

But maybe it wasn’t only selfish. Leo deserved to know. Even if he was pretending it didn’t matter how damaged Aiden was. Not to mention whatever that meant if Leo hadn’t even wanted a companion in the first place.

Now, he’d done it. Tears started running down his cheeks. He swiped at them with the back of his unbandaged hand but they kept coming. He groaned and it just sounded like a sob. 

“Aiden, honey. Whatever it is, it’s okay.” 

He wondered erratically if he might actually respond better to having it beat out of him. If all of this kindness and patience and consideration was what made him flounder. How could Leo still be so patient with him after the tantrum he’d thrown earlier?

“I…mmm…mmm…” Forget about want, need, have to. It was like Harrison had reached in and removed specific words from his head. Which was exactly the reason why this was so important. He pointed at the black monitors lined up under the window, cringing at how debasing the monkey-gesturing was. “…please?”

“You—you want to do the scan?” 

Something released inside of him, letting free a sob too. He nodded, wiping his face again. 

Leo’s brow furrowed even more. “I’m sorry, I should have asked. I didn’t think—”

He shook his head quickly, now crying in earnest. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have done or said anything to make Leo—

“Alright, okay. Hey, Aiden, hey.” Leo moved closer, squeezing both his shoulders. “It’s okay. If this is what you want, we’ll make it happen.” 

He sniffled and nodded. He wanted to sink into the floor for making so much trouble. For the way it was making him feel to have Leo gently thumbing the tears off his face and acting like everything really was going to be okay.

Previous—Masterlist— Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclara @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

#bbu #bbu whump #box boy whump #box boy rescue #dubious caretaker #clueless caretaker #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu adjacent #hospital whump #clinical whump #captivity whump #medical whump #whumpee thinks caretaker is new master #whump #institutionalized slavery #dehumanization tw #internalized ableism tw #well this is the one kids #time to push them off this damn cliff already #😈 #pet whump #pet whumpee

[littlefaefeather]

My friend and I are writing this RP where my character (whumpee) is infiltrating a pet-training corporation wearing a wire to see if he can get them to confess to bad and illegal tactics- specifically taking non-consenting people off the street, and killing pets if they don’t turn out ‘right’. He thinks he has a strong will, and also thinks it’ll be an easy in and out since he’s clever and a fast-talker.

However we’ve decided whumper, the corporation’s main trainer and owner of it, will break whumpee and nearly kill him, and the guy listening at the other end of the wire (caretaker) will send in the team and they find whumpee and rescue him and the whole case gets blown wide open.

And it got leaked. All of whumpee’s breaking, his training, all of his fears and quiet moments, and everyone knows about it, and he’s famous now, in the worst way possible, while caretaker tries to help whumpee recover and get back to who he used to be.

I’m very excited haha

#speaking #whump #not sure what else to tag #is it #bbu #or #bbu adjacent #maybe?

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, part twelve

<previous, masterlist here

content warnings for: referenced past-CSA & past noncon (NOT graphic), adult language, creepy/intimate whumper, forced nudity, muzzles, restraints, stress positions, shock collars, dehumanization, humiliation, emotional manipulation, noncon kissing, implied future noncon, bbu elements

part twelve: ivan's apology

Darling Jack is passed out cold when Ivan returns to the basement. It’s sweet, really, how helpless he is this way. 

Jack’s wrists and ankles are red where his wriggling started to rub his skin raw, and he’s still arched over the seat of the chair, though his naked ass sits lower now that he’s unconscious. His chest and belly shine pearly white under the basement lights–dry now, but still sticky to the touch. His dark head lolls between his shoulders, baring his throat–so pretty and white beneath his collar– and Ivan can’t help himself; he kneels next to the boy’s contorted body and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sorry about before, sweet boy,” Ivan murmurs into Jack’s ear. 

He is, too. Not that his Jack wasn’t beautiful; not that he didn’t do well.  It’s only that Ivan forgot himself for a moment. 

It was a miscalculation.

Ivan knows the principles of operant conditioning. Antecedent, behavior, consequence. A subject must have something to prime or motivate the targeted behavior, and then the behavior should be encouraged or discouraged accordingly. Punishment discourages behavior. Ivan knows this. 

But punishment must be administered carefully. It’s one thing to shock his sweet little Jack for minor infractions; pain is an appropriate consequence in the moment, and so far, Jack’s responded so well. Ivan’s already a little bit in love with Jack’s fear. 

But Ivan is meant to be training Jack to be a good little toy. Toys like to be touched. It’s what they live for. Ivan is supposed to teach Jack to beg.  Turning pleasure into punishment, like Ivan did during the police sergeant’s phone call, will muddy the waters. Punishment into pleasure, on the other hand–

Jack is meant to want it, and Ivan will make sure that he does.

-/-/-

Jack is slow to wake. 

He knows he isn’t bent over the seat of the chair anymore; his head is resting against something hard, and the screaming pain is gone from his shoulders. But he still can’t move. A few experimental twitches make it clear that his wrists and ankles are secured to something else now, but at least his arms are at his side; at least he’s flat on his back, and not bent over backward. 

Something wet and rough slides across his chest. It’s cold, and he whines a little.

“Shhh, Jackie.” 

And for a moment, Jack’s heart soars. Joe. And then, he feels the wet circle his nipple, and he remembers. It’s like waking up in the straitjacket all over again. 

“I’m just cleaning you up,” Ivan coos. 

Jack keeps his eyes shut, but he feels the heat creep into his cheeks. He suddenly remembers what Ivan needs to clean up, the terrible mess he made of himself when–

He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t help it. 

The rag or the sponge or whatever it is Ivan’s washing him with scratches over Jack’s belly. Ivan sighs.

“I suppose I haven’t been fair to you, sweet boy.” 

Jack’s eyes snap open. What the fuck?

The drop tiles of the ceiling hang overhead. He’s on the table, laid out like the man in Operation. He pictures Ivan plucking a plastic heart from his chest with rinky-dink tweezers. It would almost be a mercy. 

But Ivan just smiles down at him, gently dabbing at Jack’s bare skin with the sponge; Jack’s muscles tense and wince away wherever it lands. 

“I want to apologize for what happened earlier,” Ivan says. “I went too far.” 

Jack doesn’t answer. He can’t, of course. The muzzle’s padlock digs into the back of his head. 

“You know how behavior modification works as well as I do, I know. Operant conditioning is all about encouraging the subject to choose advantageous behavior, isn’t it?” 

It is–Jack knows it–but he certainly doesn’t see himself choosing the kind of behavior Ivan Peters would consider advantageous. 

Ivan drops the sponge in a basin at his feet and runs his fingers over Jack’s damp body. Jack’s breath hitches, and his skin is a carpet of gooseflesh. 

“And I haven’t given you the right kind of choices so far.” Ivan’s hand moves up Jack’s chest. “I haven’t given you clear expectations. I haven’t explained the parameters–the rules that are going to dictate your new life. I just threw you into the deep end and started–well, plugging along.” 

His fingers stop on Jack’s collar. Jack can’t quite stifle the whine that vibrates under Ivan’s touch.

Ivan chuckles. “Bad pun, I know. I’m not known for my humor.” 

No shit, Jack thinks. But he’s trembling now. 

“If I’m going to ask you to choose,” Ivan is saying,  “to want what I give you, I need to be frank with you, don’t I?” 

Jack will never want anything Ivan has to offer, but he isn’t so stupid that he thinks it matters. He’s chained to a fucking table in the man’s basement: if he has any choices, they’re not exactly apparent to him right now. 

“Look at me, Jackie.” Ivan tips Jack’s face toward him. “Let’s start over. With the basics. I want you to nod if you understand, alright?” 

Jack doesn’t want to think about the things he understands just now. But when Ivan pulls the collar’s remote from his pocket and sets it on the table, Jack forces himself to nod. 

“You belong to WRU.” 

Jack’s nostrils flare in a desperate attempt to breathe. 

Ivan’s hand strokes his hair. “I know, sweet boy. I know. It’s hard, but I need to be sure you understand.” 

Jack’s nod is shallow. 

“And pursuant to the contract you signed, you are designated Romantic.” 

Jack nods again, but he doesn’t look at Ivan. He stares at the ceiling. 

“Our training here is meant to help you acclimate to the expectations that will define your life with the person who is lucky enough to own you. You understand that you agreed to all designated training protocols when you signed your contract?”  

I didn’t agree, Jack thinks. But it doesn’t matter. He signed the papers. He is bound to the contract. There is no way out. Another weak nod. 

“Good, Jackie.” Ivan brushes Jack’s hair away from his forehead. The touch is gentle, but Jack flinches anyway. “To train you, I will have to touch you.” 

Ivan runs careful fingers over Jack’s muzzle, and then the fingers ghost over Jack’s throat, past his collarbones, down his chest, over his belly, and then between his legs. He doesn’t wrap his hand around Jack. Not like before. Instead, the pad of his finger whispers over Jack’s length,  from root to tip. Like a breath. Or a memory. 

Jack shivers.

“I’ll have to stimulate you,” Ivan continues, and then he does wrap his hand around Jack. Jack’s body goes rigid, but Ivan only gives him a gentle squeeze and then lets him go. “And yes, punish you when you step out of line. That’s what the collar is for, and you have to admit, it’s accomplished its purpose.”

It has. Jack swallows, and he feels the press of the collar against his Adam’s apple. 

Ivan grips the edge of the table with both hands, so hard that his arms are stiff up to his shoulders. He sighs. 

“But it was wrong of me to punish you the way that I did during that phone call. I was angry, and I should not have acted at that moment.”

He fondles Jack’s cheek, just above the leather, and the expression on his face is stupidly tender. Like he cares what Jack might feel. Like he’s actually sorry for what he did. His thumb keeps moving over the stitched leather, his skin tickling against Jack’s. 

“Feeling good isn’t meant to be frightening, sweet boy.” 

Jack wants to close his eyes, to escape Ivan’s cloying parody of love, but he can’t. Sweet boy. If he closes his eyes, the fingers on his skin won’t be Ivan’s anymore. 

“I want you to feel good,” Ivan says throatily.

Jack doesn’t want to feel good. Jack doesn’t want to feel anything. But Ivan’s thumb keeps moving; Jack wonders if it will wear a groove in his cheek.

 “So,” Ivan goes on, “I promise I will never use your pleasure to punish you again.” 

And then he leans down and presses his lips to Jack’s forehead. Like it seals some kind of deal. 

This time, Jack does close his eyes. His forehead wrinkles beneath Ivan’s lips. What the fuck is this? How can what happened before and whatever this is exist in the same fucking universe? It doesn’t make any sense. 

Ivan taps him on the cheek, and Jack’s eyes open again. Ivan’s face is close to his, his ice blue eyes hard. 

“But you know that what you did was wrong, don’t you? Lashing out physically against your handler is absolutely forbidden. And if you do it again, I will have to punish you in a way that is far less pleasant for you. Do you understand?” 

Jack doesn’t want to imagine anything worse than what he’s already been through. But he can’t agree not to fight. He can’t. 

But he does. His head bobs in another shallow nod. 

“That’s good!” Ivan sounds like he’s praising a toddler for peeing on the fucking potty. “You’re so smart, sweet boy. I know you can learn.” 

But Jack knows that sweet boys aren’t smart. Bill told him so, all those years ago. And Bill must have been right. For all Jack’s brains, he ended up exactly where Bill said he would. 

Sweet boys make pretty toys. And you’re my very favorite toy, sweet boy. A living doll. 

Sweet boys don’t have smart mouths. You know what your mouth is for, don’t you?

Sweet boys aren’t meant for thinking. You’ll only make it worse for yourself. 

Jack feels the tears start to needle the back of his eyes, and he blinks, fast. But Ivan isn’t watching him now. He paces the floor next to the table, counting his words on his fingers. 

“All of the things we’ve practiced so far–obedience, gratitude, feeding, your positions–must become second nature to you. And they will. Because you’re going to make good choices, aren’t you?” 

Jack will make good choices. Because he’s a sweet boy. He won’t think. Bill was right; it only makes things worse. He nods again, but Ivan is still talking. 

“And your pleasure–and offering pleasure to others–will become second nature as well. I know you’ve had practice. We’re just going to unlock your potential. Together.” 

Practice. Is that what it had been? 

You’ve got potential, sweet boy. You did so well. So good. Let’s try it again, huh? 

And again. And again. And again. It never stopped. It won’t stop. Not ever. 

Jack’s breath catches, and his chest feels like it’s going to explode. If Ivan notices, he doesn’t care.  

“And I promise,” Ivan says. “I won’t hurt you unless I have to. And you control whether I have to. Remember, you choose. Your behavior is in your control, not mine. I’m only here to help encourage you to make the right choices.” 

You made me do it, didn’t you, sweet boy? Walking around here looking like that? You wanted this. I’m only giving you what you want. 

There are no right choices. 

Ivan stops pacing, and he moves so that he can card his fingers through Jack’s hair. 

“You’re lucky, Jackie. You know what WRU usually does to ensure the quality of their product, don’t you? They wipe them. They put them on a drip, and they create a new person altogether. Their personalities, their memories–all gone. That isn’t going to happen to you.” 

But all of a sudden, Jack wishes it was. He wants to be a sweet boy. Brainless. Voiceless. 

He doesn’t want to be himself, not like this. 

Ivan leans down and kisses his cheek. “You’re not going to disappear. You’re just going to change. Like a caterpillar into a butterfly.  It’s going to be beautiful to watch; I know it.” 

His eyes brim over, and Ivan’s lips move over their salt tracks. 

“Don’t cry, sweet boy. There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is what you were meant for. Bill Chester knew it, didn’t he? And the others. And you know it deep down, too.” 

Jack’s chest cracks open with a sob, and he feels himself nodding, for real this time. Because Ivan is right: deep down, Jack’s always known this is how it would end. 

“Oh, baby. Jackie, darling.” Ivan slips his ass onto the table and lifts Jack’s head into his lap. “I know it will take time for you to accept it, but I’ll help you, won’t I?” And his voice is like Bill’s: calm and sure. “You can trust me. I’ll take much better care of you from now on.” 

I’m only taking care of you, sweet boy. Doesn’t it feel good? Don’t you want more? 

“We’ll start fresh tomorrow,” Ivan says. “I think I’ve come up with a plan that will help facilitate a hard reboot for us both.” 

Jack is crying so hard that he barely hears. Ivan’s voice is Bill’s voice, and Ivan’s hands are Bill’s hands, and Jack is so dirty. So tired. So scared. 

“Don’t worry, sweet boy,” Ivan purrs. “I’ve got it all under control.” 

next >

note: We'll catch up with Joe soon...

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @reflected-pain, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @the-non-binary-cowboy, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply , @darlingwhump, @soopytime, @sparrowsage (let me know if you'd like to be added, and please let me know if I've missed you!)

#behavior modification #jack kenyon oc #ivan peters oc #tw noncon mention #tw csa mention #bbu adjacent #heed other content warnings #ivan peters has a soul #it's just a crappy one

[cassicuterat]

a little piece of a character ive been thinking abt ! i meant to use this for angstpril but completely forgot to write anything for the whole month

--

It's quiet. He sits on the windowsill, hugging his knees and watching a pigeon try to pull a suet ball out of the birdfeeder in the garden. It's a futile effort; it crumbles against the grate of the feeder, scattering suet and seeds all over the grass.

In a few minutes, Lulu will notice and shoo the bird away, then pick up the pieces and put them in the small bowl by the birdbath, leaving them there for a bluetit to have when the larger birds take over the feeder.

He doesn't know what the pigeon sounds like, though. He knows that its call is loud and almost vulgarly unfamiliar, especially when compared to the silent stillness of Sir's house, but he doesn't remember exactly what it sounds like. This house is strange, filled with mismatched cushions and doors that don't quite fit into the frames, filled with noise.

Filled with noise, but quiet now.

The sun is creeping over the horizon, and the garden is filled with a pinkish light that burnishes the grass and dyes the white of the windowsill a faint peach. If he were to touch the window, he would find it damp with condensation, cool to the touch from the frigid night. He doesn't, though, and instead watches his breath turn the glass cloudy, obscuring the pigeon from his view.

It disappears, and for a moment, Auden is entirely alone.

He wonders if, even for a second, he could abandon the identity crafted for him. For a moment, he could relinquish being the person that Luca and Lulu believe him to be, could return to being Aurel in the hopes that he could return to Sir's house, where the noise is measured and predictable, and where he knows everything he needs to know about the world around him. His world has imploded now, bursting into a supernova of people and places and sound. Sound unmeasured, uncontrolled, unpredictable.

Markus says that he just needs to give it time, that he'll understand the ways of the outside world after a while. Markus doesn't seem phased by the awful newness of everything, greeted Luca and Lulu with a smile when he turned up at the door and introduced them as Markus and Auden.

Markus doesn't understand the way this outside world makes him ache.

The silence of the dawn starts to quell the way his chest burns, and his heart seems to creep back into his chest from his stomach as the stillness settles, and he watches the pigeon come back into view as the cloud of breath disappears from the window. For just a moment, it seems that he and the pigeon are the only two beings in the world, and just for that infinitesimal moment, Auden feels less alone.

When it's quiet, he's almost able to pretend that he's back with Sir, that he can relinquish the identity created for him in favour of returning to the person he once was - the person he still believes himself to be. He knows that Auden is not him; a similar name, one he chose purely because if he ignored just enough of what people were saying, he could pretend that nothing ever changed.

Markus's name didn't change; he altered the spelling, but Auden would have never written it anyway. He was the one who pulled Auden from the comfort and stillness and quiet of Sir's house, who decided that everything would change, who wanted everything to change; and yet he is still Marcus, only different in the few times Luca's written their names down to keep track of dates and people. Markus was the one who wanted change, but Auden's is the life that has been turned upside down and inside out.

Auden is now surrounded by people, but has never felt more alone.

He doesn't understand how all of these people have been able to turn away from the people that chose them, that fed them, clothed them, even loved them. He feels traitorous to be living amongst them, knowing that they all hate or fear their previous owners, and still, Auden is filled with nothing but a hollow longing for the past.

He doesn't understand why they all stand at arm's length from him, why Markus won't stay near to him. His skin burns with yearning, but hugging his arms around his knees and pressing them as tightly to his chest as possible does little to quell it. Nonetheless, he pulls his arms around himself and watches the pigeon as it pulls chunks out of the suet ball.

As he thought, Lulu comes through the sliding doors and waves a hand at it. She's gentle, though, and he can make out a small smile on her face as she watches it fly into one of the trees, scooping the chunks from the grass into the palm of her hand.

She looks up though, and immediately the illusion is broken. She smiles at him, and he suddenly feels a poisonous disdain for his ability to be regarded and pulls himself from the windowsill.

#whump #pet whump #recovery whump #bbu #bbu adjacent #auden is so lonely i love him #i could talk about him for hours no lie

[paintingaportraitofpain]

Sing for me Picrews

Martin:

Martin is stubborn, angry, and will do almost anything to get his way- except think through his plans. He got trapped before his brother, fighting constantly. He refuses to let anyone use his voice for propaganda, least of all Victoria. He’s better at instruments and dancing than Ulysses. Once he’s exhausted from screaming and yelling, he’ll usually make a kicked-puppy face, and if that doesn’t work, he’s out of options.

Ulysses:

Ulysses calculates more than his brother, and is the singer of the two, though Martin could certainly compete. His cool demeanor and charisma could easily deceive anyone, and he plans on lying his way out of the facility he’s trapped in.

Caroline:

Caroline doesn’t do most of the whumping herself, but leaves it up to a parasite that infested her body. The parasite takes on her form and innovates in a way Caroline can’t, and it goes by Victoria. Victoria’s ultimate goal is to take the twin’s voices and turn them into living breathing Vocaloids, extinguishing all rebellion by making sure their true voices can never be heard.

Picrew

#whump writing #whump #bbu adjacent #whump character #picrew