Bones in the Ocean (Original fantasy writing, siren whump, captivity, magical stuff happeninâ)
Daniel Michaelsonâs Story (contains some shared content with @evermetnotforgotten) pet whump, conditioning, captivity, rescue, recovery, torture
Erase to Control (Kauri) + Misc BBU Content (contains collabs with @the-host-and-colton and more!) Conditioning, pet whump, BBU/box boy, trauma recovery
What We Canât Make Right: Jake, Chris, etc (contains references to @deluxewhumpâs Z2 writings) neurodivergent whumpee, pet whump, BBU/box boy, trauma recovery
Vampire Chris AU: vampire whumpee, drugging, drug use, pet whump, trauma recovery, blood drinking, creepy whumpers, neurodivergent whumpee
Chris Saves Himself AU: Trauma recovery, neurodivergent whumpee, drug withdrawal, imperfect caretakers
Little More Than a Chance: New Rescues. Pet whump, conditioned trauma, BBU, group whumpees, trauma recovery, torture (if link doesnât work, click here for backup)
A Little Town Called Hope and Other BBU Stories: Trauma recovery, lab whump (eventually), BBU, box boy universe, environmental whump (Alternate list here if the original does not work)
What Makes a Monster: Killan Josta (@wildfaewhumpâs universe) Dehumanization, monster whump, magical whump, fantasy setting
Signs of the Sea (mer whump, lab whump, medical whump, captivity)
The Motherfucking Gallaghers - collaborative storyline with @comfy-whumpeeâs Jax Gallagher. Intimate/creepy whumper, lady whumper, shock collars, captivity, slavery
My AO3 Account (includes fanfiction for A Darker Shade of Magic / VE Schwabâs ADSOM series, as well as Sarah J Maasâs A Court of Thorns and Roses, plus original fiction that doesnât work on Tumblr)
Like what youâve read? Please leave a tip in the tip jar to fuel my writing (and caffeine) addictions!
I have a tendency to just flat out forget to update for weeks at a time. Check the character tags attached to this post and you may find newer pieces I havenât added in to any of the masterlists just yet.
CWs: box boy universe, referenced shocks, referenced violence, institutionalized slavery, past minor whump, OCD, anxiety, kidnapping
Masterlist
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To say he was scared would be a massive understatement. The word âscaredâ was used to describe things like movies or stories or nightmares. Things that you could wake up from or turn off. You could run to you mom and have her hold you until you realized that it was all fading away and that you were in no danger and none of those things were real.
But this? This was real. He wouldnât be okay. And he was terrified out of his mind.
Every morning (evening? afternoon?) when Joshua woke up from the harsh lights blaring into his eyelids, he felt the familiar paralyzing anxiety start to drown him. That was normal, more or less. Heâd been living with a knot in his stomach and a weight on his chest for ⊠as long as he could remember. But even during his worst days where he could hardly breathe and his heart pumped so hard he thought he might die and he had to do things in fours over and over and over and over, heâd never felt as scared as he did waking up every morning in a white tile room with white lights wearing a white shirt he didnât remember changing into.
When he woke he tried to straighten his thoughts through the fog that was continuously becoming worse, but he couldnât tell if it was because thatâs just how his brain worked or if it was because of the IV he didnât remember getting stuck into him. He tried to do the exercise the school counselor taught him -- list five things he could see, four things he could hear, and so on -- but it was really freaking hard when everything was just blindingly white and cold. There was nothing he could do to push back the panic that consumed his every waking thought until he didn't have thoughts anymore and he was just a crying, hyperventilating mess on the freezing tile floor.
He only kind of remembered what happened, now. The day had started normally, with Josh waking up before the sun rose and starting his morning routine. He first went to each room in the house and checked on his family -- his mom, little sister, Kyrie, and little brother, Logan -- to make sure they were still breathing. They each had to take four breaths, in and out, before he could move on to the next one. After that he got dressed and ate breakfast before going to brush his teeth. That was when the day had started to take a turn. If Josh didnât brush his teeth for exactly two minutes then he had to do it three more times -- so then it was four -- or something awful would happen. He wasnât sure what, but he just knew it deep in his bones. And he hadnât done it right, it had been two minutes and two seconds when he looked back up at the clock he kept in the bathroom, so heâd had to do it three more times to make it four because then it would be okay. But it wasnât. Kyrie had had a nightmare and Logan was crying because Kyrie was scared and then their mother woke up and she wouldnât take her pills no matter how much Joshua begged her to, and Kyrie lost her shoes and their mom finally took the pills but she wouldnât eat something like she was supposed to and Josh just felt so overwhelmed and he just wanted a moment of peace and quiet away from his buzzing head and his tight chest and --
And, well, they were all late to school. That was why Josh was walking alone that morning after heâd dropped off his siblings at the elementary school. He was alone and so he was lost inside his head, thinking about his mom being home alone and how it kind of looked like rain later and did he lock the door behind him? Because if he didnât lock the door and someone broke in and killed his mom he was pretty sure he would die of guilt and then who would take care of Logan and Kyrie? He was so wrapped up that he didnât notice the unmarked van that had been following him until it pulled up right next to him.
Josh had stepped back in fear as two men dressed in uniforms he didnât recognize got out and grabbed him, one of them putting a hand on his mouth so he couldnât cry out. Instincts he didnât know he had kicked in as he threw his arms out in an attempt to get the men off of him. He hit one of them he thought, before the other clocked him over the head and black spots burst over his vision.
Heâd woken up in the white tiled room. Heâd been there for a while now, he thought, but it was getting harder to tell. Heâd definitely missed picking up Kyrie and Logan from school and it was eating him up inside. He hoped someone had gotten them. He hoped someone had told his mother to take her pills. He hoped someone turned the downstairs light on and off four times so the house wouldnât burn down.
The door opened with a whoosh that Josh was starting to know all too well, and Handler Wiley stepped inside. Josh pushed himself further against the wall.
âGood morning, trainee,â Handler Wiley said, making his way over to Joshua.
Handler Wiley smirked as he knelt down and began to remove the IV. âFast learner.â
It didnât take being hit with a baton too many times before Josh began to figure out what they wanted of him there, before he began to obey their orders and only think please donât hit me this time.
They wanted him greet the handlers each morning. To stop crying. To follow orders. To not ask about his family, and tell them that he had to get home very soon to pick his brother and sister up from school. He learned very quickly what kept him safe and he stuck to it as much as possible, bottling all his fear and worries up inside like he was used to doing.
Handler Wiley disconnected the IV and stood up. âFollow me.â
Josh stood on trembling legs and tried to force down his growing panic. If he showed it, he would be hit. He wordlessly followed the handler from the cold white room into the cold white hallway and from there into a different room. One with another man sitting at a table, pieces of paper strewn in front of him and a camera on a tripod in the corner of the room.
âLetâs get this over with, Rhett,â the man said. âItâs too late.â
Handler Wiley rested a heavy hand on the back of Joshâs neck, directing him to sit in the chair across from the man. âDonât worry, heâs easy. Youâll be back to bed before one.â
Itâs late, Josh thought. I wonder if anyoneâs checked to see if Logan is still breathing.
Handler Wiley sat in the other chair, the one just a little too close to Joshâs, and the other man began to speak. âIâm Lewis Sims, WRU attorney. State your full name.â
Josh didnât realize until a hand smacked him on the back of the head that he was being spoken to. He hunched his shoulders, his heart somehow beating even faster. âJoshua Henry Pruitt.â
âState your age.â
Josh shot a confused look to Handler Wiley. Heâd been asked that before, by him, and when he answered he got hurt. He always got hurt. When he looked at him and said Iâm seventeen, please Iâm not old enough to be here, Iâm not, I have to go home, Iâm only seventeen -- Handler Wiley would take out that dreaded baton and turn it on so it shocked him when he was hit. Was this a game to them? Did they want to see how much they could make him squirm before they decided to hurt him for their own entertainment?
Handler Wiley leaned forward. âThe date is November 30th, if that helps.â
Joshâs eyes widened. Oh. Heâs been in that white room for over two weeks, if he remembered right. It was his birthday, and he had just turned eighteen years old. Of legal and consenting age to sign his life away forever.
âState your age,â the lawyer repeated.
Josh started at his hands on the table. He took a breath, holding it for four seconds, and then released. âIâm eighteen,â he answered quietly.
âGreat.â The lawyer slid a paper and a pen across the table. âSign here.â
Josh could only stare as he felt his chest become more and more compressed from the panic he was barely hiding away. There was no way out. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say that would get him out of being able to sign. The form said that he was consenting to giving up his freedom, that heâd chosen it himself, but it was wrong. Josh had just been walking to high school when he was blindsided and taken against his will. He hadnât chosen anything. He wanted to go home, he wanted to watch his family breathe at night and make sure they were all alive and okay and there was just no way to do that anymore or ever if he signed his entire life away. Tears filled Joshâs eyes as handler Wiley began to speak.
âIf you sign, youâll get more sleep and food,â Handler Wiley said. âWeâll be able to start real training then. Youâll get rewarded for good behavior, and at the end of it youâll have a shiny new family to go home to. Doesnât that sound nice?â
âI have a family,â Josh said quietly. âI -- I already have a family and I have to go home to them, I have to take care of them --â
The baton swung down and Josh flinched as it smacked against the table. âYou do what I tell you to!â
The room fell silent for a moment, the only sound that of Joshâs hitching breaths he tried to catch around the tears falling. Everything was so jumbled up and confusing and he knew he was going to forget how to breathe entirely soon, once the pressure on his chest became too much. He hoped he didnât pass out.
âListen, trainee. If you sign we can take away that burden of a family you think you have. We can take away whateverâs wrong with your head, too. Wouldnât that be nice? To just be a mindless pet and get rewarded for it? Things will be so much easier for you once you sign.â Handler Wiley picked up the pen and held it up to Josh. âSo sign.â
Josh stared at the pen. He didnât want to sign, he didnât want to be there, he wanted to just go home and get rid of the awful worse-than-normal worry that plagued his every thought and he just wanted to sleep and eat and obey and get all of this over with because then it didnât hurt as bad and he just couldn't think straight anymore because of the anxiety and the drugs and everything just hurt and he was so so scared he didnât know what to do.
His eyes dropped to the baton resting on the table. He didnât have a choice did he? If he didnât sign then they would only keep him and torture him until he eventually gave up. Maybe theyâd kill him. There was no way he could help his family if they killed him âŠ
âIf I signâŠâ he started slowly, all too aware of his current position, âcan⊠can my family get some of the money?â
âWhat?â the lawyer asked.
Josh didnât look at him, his eyes still trained on the baton. âI heard that some families get money⊠can mine?â He glanced up at Handler Wileyâs face. âPlease? So they ⊠so they at least have something?â
âYeah,â he said, smiling. âSure thing.â
âRhett, this contract d--â
Handler Wiley held up a hand. âSo youâll sign then? If I promise that?â He held the pen back out.
Josh tried not to think as he took it in his hand. There was no way he was getting out of there, so he might as well give his mom and siblings something that could help.
Joshua Henry Pruitt the line read, right next to the numbers 847481.
âLetâs go, â481,â Handler Wiley said, pulling Josh up. âNow we can really begin.â
As Josh followed followed him out of the room and into the bright white hallway once again, he thought of what heâd just done and all his terror and worry fell away.
I have a question! I have a question! đ„șđđ
Would you ever be open to write a "hunting" piece from Mishas perspective? It would be very interesting to see/know/read what is going on inside his head. The itch and never ending desire to hurt/kill and satisfaction that comes but eventually never stays for too long. Would he let you inside his head for such a piece?
CW: Killer POV, serial killer, some brief references to eye and tooth whump daydreams, murder, some seriously unhealthy family dynamics, jesus
It's not that he means to... not exactly.
It's not his fault.
It's only that, after a while, his schoolday distraction becomes scribbled doodles of terrified faces, circles with big circle eyes and mouths and red blood in gashes over their foreheads, their faces, drooling from the black hole of a mouth. Sometimes other people see him drawing and laugh, or look uneasy, or stop looking at him at all. He doesn't try to think about it, he really doesn't. It's just... a few months go by, and then, hunched in his seat ignoring the math teacher who ignores him in return, he starts thinking about the bones under everyone's skin.
He chews on the ends of pens until they're pockmarked from his teeth and the ink threatens to spill all over the desk... and he can see all their skulls, collarbones, ribcages splayed open like his mother's thick arms welcoming him home from summer vacation with family near Moscow.
He thinks about arms.
Alicia Wyatt, in the front row to the left by the window - she'd have delicate tissue linking thin, graceful humerus to radius and ulna. She'd shed skin like a snake if he slipped the knife between the layers just right. But her parents are overprotective... they'd see she didn't come home on time right away.
No good. Couldn't be her.
Ben Pillman, in homeroom? His parents don't give a fuck about him. He's got the best voice in chorus, and a pretty smile and perfect teeth. He'd scream louder than anyone else. He's got nice hair, too. Scalp him and see how good looking they think he is, then. The girl Misha asked to Homecoming last year said she wasn't going to go, and then she went anyway with Ben Pillman, who told Misha later in the bathroom that he had no idea she'd been asked by anyone else, and that he was sorry that she'd lied to Misha. He'd given Misha a hug, and told him that he didn't really like April anyway.
No, can't do it to him. He's been nice, when he didn't have to be. He waves at Misha in the hallway sometimes, even now, a year later. He still waves, says hello.
Misha remembers to say hi back most of the time.
Artyom is always saying that he should be nicer to people, if they're nice to him. Tyoma, quiet and feline and dark, has girls who watch him everywhere he goes - and one of Misha's friends, John B., watches him, too. He probably comes over just to stare at Artyom when he goes through the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of his shirt riding up when he yawns and stretches his arms overhead.
Misha doesn't mind. John B. isn't really his friend, anyway. Just someone easier to keep around than the others. John likes to watch him play video games, and he never asks to have a turn himself. Misha can forget he's even there until dinner time, and then his mother tells him it's so nice to see he has friends, asks John B. to stay which he always does.
Tyoma knows that he doesn't care about John B., but he never says anything. He doesn't mind either, isn't bothered by John B. having a crush on him. No, Tyoma just watches Misha, dark eyes locked on him, waiting.
Waiting to see it build in him until he might explode, there's so much pressure beneath the surface of his skin.
But no. Can't be Ben Pillman, or John B., or Alicia Wyatt.
Not anyone at school, not even Yolanda Martin, who eats fruit loops for breakfast, crunching handfuls straight out of a ziploc bag in the cafeteria during the free time between arriving and everyone heading for their first class of the day. She chews with her mouth open. It's disgusting and Misha thinks sometimes about popping out all her teeth one by one by one by one.
She would fight and curse and spit, she wouldn't scream at all. And her blood would be thick, sludge from lack of hydration. She only drinks Mountain Dew, even early, before homeroom.
Artyom won't let him think too long about anyone he actually knows. He'll elbow Misha if he's looking too long at Yolanda while she eats, whisper Khvatit pyalit'sya, choknutaya - quit staring, stalker. People he knows are too suspicious, there are too many connections between them for some asshole police officer to play with, turn into a case.
The thing is, it doesn't matter if he wants to or not, it... it builds.
He tells his brother the feeling is like having an itch entirely inside his brain. It begins as a heavy, weighted boredom, and unsettled certainty that nothing important will ever happen again. Video games stop being fun to play. His music even means nothing to him, is just noise. He taps his pencil in class until his teachers snap at him to stop, he pays no attention. The words shift and move when he tries to read, they reform into nothing.
Misha saw a movie once, a horror movie, in theaters. In it the killer heard a voice telling him what to do. Misha never hears a voice, or sees hallucinations. He just gets... bored.
And the boredom grows, day by day, until he can't stand it any longer. He starts to see the veins in his father's heart bursting with fear as his younger son strangles him, his mother's tears if he aimed a gun. It starts to weigh heavier and heavier within his mind, the cycling thoughts that can't be shaken.
The cashier at the coffee shop? He sees her head rolling away from her body. The clerk at the gas station who laughs at Tyoma's terrible jokes? He could chop the guy's hands off one by one. It gets worse and worse, and there's only one way to cure the itch.
He sneaks out a lot, after dark - taking Tyoma with him usually, the two of them clutching bottles of cheap vodka an older guy buys them from a corner store for five bucks over the purchase price, heading out into the woods on quiet feet.
"Don't do it," Tyoma will whisper, sometimes in English, sometimes not. Misha ignores him.
Misha always ignores him.
Tyoma comes along with him anyway.
"Misha, please don't-"
"We're just drinking, Tyoma, relax." But they both know there's more to it than that, that they are buying time. That Tyoma is buying him some time. Tyoma never argues, though. He just nods - he knows it's his job to take care of Misha, who is smaller and used to be sickly and everyone's sort of never noticed that he really isn't sickly anymore.
He's always taken care of Misha, he's always been there to help him with everything he needs. Family comes first, always, and they are each other's family more than anyone else is. Tyoma is his brother, his alone, and he never denies Misha anything in the end.
Sometimes, Tyoma asks him to stay in the woods, in their secret place. They store the bottles of vodka in a cooler they keep in a hole they dug in the ground under a bush, sit on a mattress they know other people use for grosser reasons, pull the bottles out to take swigs that burn down their throat and giggle and talk about girls and movies and whatever else.
It helps... for a while.
A month, maybe.
Two months... three.
Then it doesn't.
Then, even sitting with Tyoma, Misha will grow silent and sullen and stare off into the darkness of the night around him, listening to the scratching and rustling of the underbrush and the wind through the woods.
The only time he is afraid of himself is when he starts dreaming about Tyoma, too.
With the inside of his head a heavy place, he feels chilled when he starts to think about how his older brother would look with his face cut down from those sharp-edged cheekbones, hands around his neck. He thinks about pushing Tyoma into a fire, how it would feel to have a body thrash wildly against his in a desperate effort to stay alive. He dreams about wiping him clean of fingerprints, of proof, about lying to his mother and his father, burying him in their secret place in the woods and coming to drink with his corpse.
He dreams about carrying Tyoma inside of him, being the last one to see him alive.
That's when he knows he can't wait any longer.
That's when he walks the side of the road with his thumb out and his duffel bag on one shoulder, or stalks bars at closing time, or just walks through the parking lot of an apartment complex seeing who will open a door if he knocks, who is out alone in the dark.
Tyoma, always, follows. His shadow, off to the side, keeping himself invisible until it's time to clean up the mess. Sitting silent in the backseat of the car that picks them up, as they ride for a while. Standing silent as Misha kills the driver in a ditch, watching, waiting for his part in things to begin.
The actual act isn't really fun anymore - they all die the same. They fight and scream or cry and give up but they die. They just... die. And then he has to cut them up, into trash bags he and Tyoma spread around dumpsters outside of fast food places until it's done, wash their faces in public bathrooms and then take quick showers once they get home in the middle of the night, grimy and with a layer of what they've done thicker than oil.
But he can't stop, even though it isn't fun like it was when he started. Now he has to do it just to keep the boredom from driving him out of his mind, making him turn on his family, and family matters more than his own mind. His family keeps him together, he needs them for a place to live and someone to hear his thoughts, someone other than himself. Now he has to do it just to keep in check the worst thoughts that linger on how his older brother would look pale and with eyes wide with horror forever, his final expression one of betrayal, dirt dumped onto his face until it disappears.
He and Tyoma clean themselves up, after, and Misha sleeps for the first time in days, and when he wakes up the itch is gone. He smiles at breakfast and laughs at Tyoma's jokes. He feels fine.
For... a while, anyway.
A few months, maybe more, maybe less.
Sometimes Tyoma begs him to tell someone that he cannot seem to stop, but he only smiles, and gives his brother a hug, and whispers, Tvoya sem'ya prevyshe vsego, Tyoma.
Family first.
He's never sure how to tell Tyoma what he knows to be true, deep within himself. They are the only two people on Earth who matter, who are really real, just he and his brother. And if he can't stop the itch and he kills Tyoma, then he'll be all alone.
Hi Ash, I hope you're having a great day and that August treats you well! I've also been thinking about Danny and Nate lately, so I have a question if you feel up to answering it! Sorry if it's been asked before, feel free to ignore if it has.
If you were to publish Danny and Nate's story, are there any points you think you would change for that version? (Not that I think anything needs changing, just curious about your thoughts and process as an author!)
Anon! Hopefully you are still here, sorry I am just seeing this ask today.
I actually do think I would change a few things, mostly for formatting the plot to fit within a novel format. First things, I would structure it with the court scene still being our opening introduction, with the past being filled in as a kind of memory. You see that Danny and Nate made it out. I would actually OPEN a novel format with the scene where Danny goes to the sentencing and says goodbye to Bram, and then from there start with the abduction. You would see in more or large chronological order from there how Danny and Nate both had complicated feelings about Bram - and each other. Watch Nate build up the courage, and finally the desperation, to commit his final act of rebellion and escape with Danny.
I would probably let Bram stay dead, for the record. A second story like the Bad Arc would just be Ashley looking for vengeance, and would be about her playing cat and mouse with Ryan, punishing Danny by taking his brother from him the way Danny and Nate took her brother from her.
Ora would still be more or less press ganged into being an accomplice.
So yeah. The first story would change in formatting ways, but the Bad Arc I would change the plot itself in some big ways.
I've been thinking about Nate and Danny these days!! đ Theirs was one of the first whump stories I've ever read on here, or maybe even *the* first. I was obsessed, and just randomly remembered them! I think I'm due for a re-read! â„ïž
I'd love to hear anything at all you have to say about Nate. A fun fact, a small character trait, thoughts about his character development, literally whatever you feel like, I just miss that man đâ„ïžâ„ïž
Nate and Danny are both such nervous parents when Mina starts dating in her teens. Both of them have been subjected to the impossible obsession of a man who claimed to care - in Nate's case, claimed to love him.
Most of Mina's boyfriends think Nate is the scary one. And he probably seems that way, sure, since his voice was always deeper, and he tends to be silent and always watching.
But that really just means they are underestimating Danny.
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Amina persuades Dax to have a shower, and Dax has emotions over it.
1.3k
CWs: pet whump, BBU, grief, caretaker new whumper, minor injuries, recovery whump, institutional whump, minor whumpee (17)
They take the food thatâs put in front of them. They bow their thanks. They eat it, slow, methodical bites. They drink the water.
Occasionally, in the middle of the night, when the house is dark and still, they get up and look out of the window.
They donât sleep. Why would they sleep? They donât need to, and itâs not safe to do so.
The other rescues seem... If not always happy, then healthy, at least. People always seem too awkward to talk when theyâre around, though, so they canât get a good sense of it.
Ms Alix says theyâre safe. That doesnât mean anything. She could be lying.
The rescue who found them says theyâre probably safe. That means more.
This rescue offers them first aid every morning. They donât take it. Theyâre bruised and cut, but they removed the glass from their feet and they know what bad damage feels like. Theyâll be fine.
She offers them a shower. They donât take that either. Thatâll wash away all they have left of their friends, and who are they without them?
They use the toilet. Thatâs the only time they leave the kitchen. Anywhere else is too far from the escape routes.
They know they smell. They know theyâre dirty. They know Ms Alix is itching to order them to wash. That she will, soon, and having to be ordered to do that means theyâll be punished and everything will be ten times worse. Theyâre not sure they care anymore.
The rescue who found them, the only one whoâll talk to them, begs them one morning. She canât clean the floor like this, and Ms Alix says she doesnât have to but she does, and now the brightly coloured tiles are going too brown.
So Dax goes.
It feels like a betrayal of the first place they ever called home. But if the other rescue is upset then they have to.
They can't let her beg for them, to them, like they're an owner.
Sheâs the only person they care about anymore. They shouldnât care. Thatâs a weakness, another crack, something that will break them entirely if anything happens to her. But theyâre not sure this feeling is something they can choose.
The bathroom isnât white. They donât think anywhere in this house is, and they appreciate that. The tiles are mostly terracotta, with two rows above the sink of all different colours and styles and designs.
They wonder what thatâs about.
Ms Alix gave them a plastic box of toiletries thatâs all theirs, and they crack it open. Select soap, flannel, shampoo, conditioner. She had them choose clothes to change into, but they havenât yet, and they hang the baggy t-shirt, shorts, underpants and hoodie over the rail.
Itâs for towels, but things donât have to be used for their intended purpose. After all, they werenât always.
They werenât supposed to hurt so much if they were good.
They have a towel of their own too. So thatâs nice.
They strip down, setting everything off to one side. Now that theyâre here, itâs past time to wash their hair. It must be. How long have they been sitting uselessly in the corner of the kitchen?
They do have some things left from before the raid, apparently. They have a bonnet and a nightgown and shorts and underpants, all torn and dirty and covered in their friendsâ blood.
They hope they donât have to throw it away.
They wonât throw it away.
They turn the shower on as cold as they can and step inside. They donât know if theyâre allowed hot water yet. They need to be as quick as possible in case something happens.
They don't want to be hurt again, and they will be if someone catches them naked. But they'll be in so much trouble if they lock the door.
They don't think O will come in. It hardly leaves its room, and it speaks even less than her (in fact, they're not sure it can). Sarita won't, she said as much, and nor will the other rescue. But Ms Alix and Mx Oscar⊠they both promised them safety, but they know better than to believe an ownerâs word. Miss Penelope proved herself. They haven't.
The shower is refreshing, but as the water softens the blood, sending it trickling down their side to pool and swirl, they feel like they're losing a fundamental part of themself. They don't particularly want to scrub themself, rid themself of the rest of it, but there's no point in not, now, when the water will slowly but surely wash it all away until they're clean and empty. So they pick up their sponge.
They scrub. And scrub and scrub and scrub. Once they start it's hard to stop and they clean every nook, every crevice, every piece of themself, over and over and over again. Salty tears mingle with red and brown water, and they watch it swirl down the drain, trying not to think about who's being washed away with it.
Pets aren't supposed to think anyway. But they've never been able to help it.
They step out of the shower and dry themself off, rubbing their braids with a t-shirt but mostly letting them dry on their own. The clothes are soft and comfortable, in a worn-in way.
They bundle their old clothes in their arms. They're going to have to store them in their bedroom. That's the only place, it's where they're least likely to have them taken and thrown away and they can't be thrown away. They'll go there quickly and then back to the kitchen.
It's their bedroom, apparently. They're allowed.
Heart pounding, they exit the bathroom.
Ms Alix catches up to them near the stairs, and they startle at her approach. She ignores it, smiling.
âHey Dax. You look better. I was going to ask about cleaning yourself, but I'm glad I don't need to. Do you feel better now?â They nod. They're glad as well. âGood. Good.â She pauses. âI should've asked you earlier. I'm sorry. A lot has happened since you came, and I didn't want to order you. But that's not an excuse, so I'm sorry.â
âIt's okay, maâam,â they whisper. It's not hard to imagine what's been on her mind, and they're not important, certainly not compared to that. She wonders if Esha and Graham and Mercy would be surprised to realise they were so important. Probably.
âNo it's not. But thank you.â
Itâs not⊠itâs not okay? What she did? Huh.
Maybe⊠maybe Ms Alix and Miss Penelope are more alike than they thought.
Or maybe not.
Run, pet. Thatâs an order.
That was just to make them leave, right? She doesnât really still think of them as a pet, right? She said she didnât but she could've lied, Dax is just a stupid Romantic, they wouldnât know.
Maybe Ms Alix will one day exploit their emotions like that, too.
They sniff, but donât move their hand to wipe it away. They canât.
Ms Alix doesn't look, giving them their privacy, they think. Or maybe just disgusted. Dax wouldn't blame them.
They reach the doorway to Daxâs bedroom and Ms Alix stops. Dax pauses, looking back at her in disbelief. She really isn't going to come in? She really⊠she doesn't want to tie them to the bed and have sex with them, to teach them a lesson about thinking they could walk around unattended, that this could ever be their space? She doesn't have a mask? In the absence of that, she won't punish them by wrapping duct tape around their face until all that's left are two holes under her nostril so that she won't die quite yet? She really won't?
Why?
Alixâs smile turns sad and just a little bitter.
âYou're safe here, you know. I hope that one day, youâll feel that.â
Jake, Kauri, and Antoni are their own happily ever after.
Jake still has nerve damage in his left arm and will never recover full use of it. He has adapted really well, of course, but he still is a little uneasy around Jameson, even though Jameson has medicated and hasn't had any hallucination episodes in a long time. Jake drives Kauri to therapy sometimes. When he'll go.
They still have a room for Chris. Jake and Chris play video games together and have movie nights. Every once in a while, Jake realizes Chris is having a bad day when he steals Jake's hoodie again. Well, one of them. Kauri and Antoni tend to steal the others.
He is planning to wind down his attempt at a safehouse for a while. He wants to have some quiet, some peace. Kauri has a silent personal bet on whether or not THAT little plan lasts.
Penelope finds out what happened to Graham and Mercy in the raid.
1.4k
CWs: pet whump, BBU, dehumanisation, treated as property, non-con (with a sex toy), restraints, gagged, nudity, kidnapped, recapture, murder, aftermath of murder, whipping, branding, sadistic whumper, grief, caged, barbed wire, forced to watch, broken bones, conditioned whumpee, scold's bridle, starvation, collar, institutional whump
Penelope's not sure how long she's been strapped to this chair, collared and naked, before the door opens and a handler â her assigned handler, perhaps, he's a regular â steps inside, wheeling a TV along with him.
âSo, how's my least favourite pet lib bitch doing today?â
âAll the better for not seeing you,â she spits. The handler clicks his tongue.
âThat's not very polite, now, is it? Fortunately for you, I'm not here to beat you up today.â
âWhat are you here for then?â
He smirks.
âWell, see, I was wondering what we could do. I didn't want to leave you in that chair forever, do you have any idea what that does to sale value? And then I thought, why not show you the fates of your stolen property?â
âPeople, not property. I hope they escaped you for good.â
âI mean. In a way.â He moves her roughly from the chair to the floor, still trussed up and tied down, then tosses a photo down in front of her. âGo on. Take a good long look.â
She stares uncomprehendingly at the photo for a few minutes. It's too much for her to take in, too much for her to understand, and she just can't.
After far too long, she realises what she's looking at and her heart shatters.
The eyes are blank and staring, long blond hair matted with blood, but she recognises him. He couldn't be anyone else.
No. No, Graham. Oh, god no.
âWhy?â
Her voice is croaky, catching, but try as she might she can't make it do anything else.
âHe was a pain in all of our asses. He had to go, and it really didn't matter how.â
âNo. No.â She looks up at the handler, eyes blazing, anger or sorrow she isn't sure which. âYou asshole! You didn't need to do that!â
He puts up his hands. âWasn't me. But I won't be shedding a tear over the disposal of a broken product.â
âHe's a person! Heâ heâ why? Why? He was no threat to you, he was just a person trying to live, whyâ whyââ
She's sobbing too hard to speak now and she doesn't care who sees. No, no, he was doing so well, he was so excited about going out and now he can't go out ever again, he'll never have the chance, he was reclaiming his life step by painful step, determined to make something of himself despite what he'd been through, he'd had his barcode removed and his scars were fading and he was becoming so much more confident, his personality starting to shine through, and now that's all cut short, stopped, the bright spark that was Graham fallen, gone, because some assholes decided he was property and broken property needs to be destroyed just to cover their tracks.
âHe'd still be alive if you hadn't stolen him.â
âYou assholes! He was just trying to live, he was no threat to you, why?â
He shrugs. âWhat a client pays for, the client gets. We were after you and 21059 really, eliminating 68923 was just a bonus. And speaking of 21059, why don't we see how she's getting on?â
No. No, Mercy, please no, not another death, not another loss, and she was doing so well as well, she just chose her name and her confidence has been growing, ever so slowly but Penelope's convinced she'll be ready to have her barcode removed soon. And now this.
Please, no. Graham is bad enough, no-one else.
She doesn't want to see. She will never want to see. But she was the one who couldn't protect her charges, no matter her promises, and they should have someone who cares to bear witness.
The handler smiles and turns on the TV.
She's looking at a room. White tiled on all sides, one of WRUâs. Mercy is in the centre, dressed in the old ratty t-shirt and shorts she wears to bed along with a thick leather collar, one shoulder torn, branded with initials, tears streaking through the grime on her face.
âRespect.â
Mercy drops to her knees, trembling. A man steps into view, low, measured steps, letting out a pleased hum as he walks behind her, raising her chin with a steel-capped boot to examine her face more closely. He doesn't seem as pleased with that.
âThey showed me a photo of you pretending to be a person, you know. You look so much better bleeding and branded. Mine, down to your core.â His tone is sickly sweet, his words anything but. âI still have that barbed wire. You remember it, Iâm sure. And you'll remember just how much I own you once we're done. I've upgraded the dog house since you left. I think you'll like it, pet. Or, well. You'll thank me for it anyway.â
Mercy looks away, trembling in a way that stops when he puts his hand on her shoulder, pressing in and rubbing the brand. It's new, red, even if Penelope didn't see it done. She bows her head and the man smiles, making quick work of fixing a scoldâs bridle around her head.
âFor your temerity. Get into your cage. You've gotten fat, but I'm sure you'll still fit.â
She obeys, crawling inside, squished up tight, head bowed. Her legs are bound to the bottom with barbed wire, her wrists contorted to reach the top. Everything bleeds and her shoulders shake with the strain and suppressed tears.
Her shirt is torn and bloody at the back and Penelope knows those signs. She's missed a whipping.
âThat's enough of that, I think you've gotten an idea of the trouble you've landed her in.â
The screen goes black.
The handler drops a photo on the floor. Penelope doesn't really notice. It's not important right now.
âShe's not fat, she barely eats,â she whispers without thinking. They had so much trouble getting her to eat even a spoonful of porridge or cereal without explicit permission, and this is why. The handler shrugs smugly.
âPets are supposed to be skinny. I mean, you've covered her collarbones. You know what the latest fashions are, I'm sure you keep up to date just so you can subvert them.â
âShe's her own person, you asshole, her life is up to her.â
âOh it really isn't. But don't worry, she won't forget you. Her owner believes it's more painful that way. Although soon that won't matter to you. You'll forget everyone you've ever loved and be grateful for it.â
âIt matters to her, so it matters to me,â Penelope hisses. âAnd I am proud of her. I'm proud of them both, of everyone I have ever helped. You can remove my memories, break every bone in my body, turn me into a good little pet, but I will remain proud of them until the day I die.â
âOh, don't tempt me, you little bitch.â
She smirks. He smacks his baton down hard on her hand, making her cry out as the bones crunch beneath it. But she won't break that easily and she looks steadily into his smug expression, eyes gleeful, relishing in her pain. She grits her teeth and glares.
âYour prospective wants you as a professional slut. Shall we start? I think you know the process. But pet lib bitches like you get a little something extra. As a punishment for stealing our property.â
He wrenches her mouth open and forces a ring gag inside. Then something attaches to that that she can't see, but she can feel it vibrating and she knows what it is, wants to gag. Heh. Gagging at a gag. She stifles the urge to giggle.
She's going mad.
âWe're starting your training early. I'll leave these with you as you think on the consequences of your actions. Close your eyes and you'll wish you were never born.â
He ties her collar down, forcing her to face the photos of Graham, of Mercy. She can't move her head to look away.
Then he leaves, locking the door behind him.
She closes her eyes, tears tickling her cheeks. She won't have her memories of Mercy and Graham replaced by blood and fear and blank, staring eyes. And she won't follow orders. That's the first thing to go, the ânoâ, the trigger for an avalanche. And she will not go. She will not forget the people who have been so brave, and so [good], and work so hard with everything they have to reclaim their lives.
Even through the tidal wave of grief and pain she recognises something though.
