hello! a new mini-series is a brewing, starting with this horrific two-parter focusing on justin and tony, whom we met here. part of the kennel universe (master list here), but set before will and tommy are kidnapped.
content warnings for: extreme dehumanization, referenced noncon, future noncon, future dubcon, forced nudity, references to human trafficking, all the gaslighting, branding, restraints, pet whump, captivity whump, filmed whump, creepy whumper, adult language
orpheus, part one
Tony has tried so hard not to think. Thinking, he knows, is no longer required of him. Not here. Probably not ever again.
He’s been sold. Fuck, the word makes his naked skin crawl. It still doesn’t make sense, no matter how long he’s been here. People are not bought and sold. Of course, Doc doesn’t call it that. Doc calls a kidnapping a “rescue;” trafficking is just “finding someone a good home.”
But when Tony lets himself think, he knows it isn’t true. He wasn’t rescued, and he doesn’t need to find a good home. He has a good home–or at least, he used to.
It hurts to think of the little yellow house he and Justin bought together. They barely got to live in it before–well, before all of this. But when Tony curls on the floor of the doghouse at night, when he closes his eyes, he can see the wallpaper they chose for the front hallway–birds of paradise on an orange field. He can see the rack of copper pots hanging over the kitchen island; they were too expensive, but Justin insisted that anyone who cooked like Tony deserved the very best.
It hurts the most when he remembers their bedroom. The overstuffed duvet, the matching bedside tables, the soft light of their twin lamps. Their bodies moving together in the dark. Safety. Comfort.
Tony has neither here. And no matter what Doc tells him about the “wonderful home” he’ll soon be packed off to, Tony knows there won’t be safety or comfort there either. He won’t have a home. There is no home without Justin. There is no Tony without Justin.
Tony knows he will disappear entirely once Doc sends him away. He’s already started to. It isn’t Tony who endures Doc’s training for the camera; it’s Fido. It’s Fido whose red collar is cinched a notch too tight. It’s Fido who sucks, who begs, who bends to be breached like a trained whore. It’s Fido who will be restrained in the waiting crate and shipped thousands of miles away.
It’s Fido who wears the still-healing brand of his new owner between his shoulder blades.
But it is Tony who feels the pain. Even if he knows better than to think, he can’t help but feel.
Tony feels the rough heel of Doc’s hand against the puckered skin of his new scar, and he groans before he can stop himself. It’s only been a few days since Doc came into the doghouse with the branding iron, and Tony’s skin still feels like it’s on fire. Tony doesn’t even know what the damn brand looks like, but he bets he could guess the shape by the pattern of the blood throbbing beneath his skin.
Doc only chuckles. “Oh, now, boy. I know it’s a little uncomfortable now, but think of what your new gift means! Someone loves you enough to claim you for his own. You’re so close to going home!”
“No!” Tony cries hoarsely, but his words dissolve into animal keening when Doc hooks his nails into the brand.
“Yes, you are,” Doc insists. His voice is still gentle, even as he digs further into Tony’s wound. “Don’t undo it by being a bad boy now.”
“Please!” Tony begs. The burning is almost as keen as when the iron first landed on his skin. Doc slaps Tony between the shoulders, and Tony’s knees come out from under him; his belly lands hard against the cold floor.
“You don’t want to ruin your gift, is that right?” Doc chides, letting his hand slip up the back of Tony’s neck and into his dark hair. He scratches idly at Tony’s scalp.
The humiliation is a brand all its own.
“You know, it’s an honor to be adopted by someone so important. You’re going to have so much fun, and I know you’re going to be so good for him. He’s tuning in all this week so that he can get excited for your arrival next weekend. Imagine someone so important giving up so much of his time for a little rescue like you. Aren’t you a special boy, Fido?”
Tony shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about what’s coming. Doc’s already showed him the crate he’ll travel in, the special hood he’ll wear to dampen his senses, the fur-lined cuffs built into the box to keep him still. He’s been promised drugs that will keep him calm for the trip. Tony doesn’t know exactly where he’s being sent, but he knows it’s far. Far from here. Far from the little yellow house.
Far from Justin.
“I want to go home,” Tony says before he can stop himself. “Please, I–”
Doc’s hand freezes in Tony’s hair. “But you are going home!”
Tony shakes his head. “No. You don’t–I–please, Doc, Please. I’ll be good. I promise. Just–”
“Don’t make the people think you’re ungrateful, Fido. Not all of my rescues get the opportunities you have.”
Tony wants to scream. Yes, he’s had so many ‘opportunities’ since he’s been here. The opportunity to be restrained and groped and filmed and drugged and starved and beaten. To be coupled like a brood mare with any one of a dozen faceless people in red collars. To know exactly how weak he is, to know for certain that it took almost no time to break him entirely.
But he doesn’t scream. Because he knows better.
“I’m grateful,” Tony forces himself to say. “I-I–” he swallows around the lump in his throat, “I just don’t want to leave you.”
He pitches his eyes to the floor, but it doesn’t matter: Doc knows he’s lying. The man bursts into laughter.
“Oh, my sweet little pup. What a performance!”
“I’m not–”
Doc’s hand presses against the brand, and Tony is silenced by the searing pain.
“I know you have mixed feelings about leaving, and I know it isn’t because of me.”
Tony stares up at Doc through the blur of his tears. The pain in his back is white hot; the knot in his chest is worse. He never mentions Justin to Doc. He learned early on that there was no point; Doc won’t give him any answers. But now that he’s being sent away–
“The little mutt will be just fine without you,” Doc says. “You haven’t seen him in months anyway, have you? You should be used to it by now.”
But Tony will never be used to it. They didn’t get enough time. They’d only been married for a week when Doc found them. When Doc took Tony’s wedding ring, it hadn’t even had the chance to wear a groove in his skin. It was like he’d never worn a ring at all.
“Please.” Tony shifts his weight back onto his stomach. He lays his arms prostrate on the floor. “I have to see him.”
Doc shakes his head. “I don’t know, boy. Don’t you think it will be harder? He isn’t coming home with you. He might be jealous. I don’t want you to feel badly about your good luck–and I don’t want it to be more difficult for him. I haven’t found a place for him. Not yet.”
Tony closes his eyes. He hopes Doc never finds a place for Justin, that there’s still a chance that Justin will make it back to the little yellow house, even if it’s without him.
“I want to–to-to say goodbye. Even if it’s hard.”
He doesn’t say that he wants to say goodbye because he’s almost certain it will be the last time he sees his husband. At the very least, it will probably be the last time Justin sees him alive. Tony is under no illusion that he will escape the situation waiting for him overseas. He knows he will be used until he is a dry husk, and then he will be crumpled up and thrown away. He can only hope that someday, Justin might have closure. That Justin will sit at the kitchen island with another man who will make him enchiladas and kiss that spot on the back of his neck and banish the nightmares that will surely haunt Justin for the rest of his life.
Tony doesn’t have a choice. His nightmare is going to swallow him whole. But with the time he has left–he needs Justin to know that it will be alright, even if Tony won’t be there to see him through.
Doc chuckles softly and tucks his fingers under Tony’s chin, forcing Tony to meet his eye. “You are an affectionate little thing, aren’t you?”
“Please. Before–” Tony chokes on the lump on his throat, but he holds Doc’s gaze, “--before I go home.”
Doc’s eyebrows raise. His mouth curves into a grotesque smile. “Well, look who’s decided to be a good boy.”
“I won’t fight,” Tony whispers. “I promise.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
As though to prove it, he manages not to flinch when Doc shifts his grip and presses into the soft meat of his cheeks. Doc dips his thumb into Tony’s mouth and presses his tongue flat. Tony stays still. He wants Doc to believe him. It’s the only way that he will get to Justin.
Doc sighs, slipping the calloused pad of his thumb back and forth over Tony’s tongue. “You understand that you’ll have to follow my rules? That you have to be obedient if you expect a treat?”
Tony does his best to nod, even as Doc’s touch teases the opening of his throat.
“And you’ll be a good boy on your trip home?”
Another half nod. Doc pulls his thumb backward, but he keeps Tony’s tongue pinned down.
“Then I’ll let you see him,” Doc says thoughtfully. “But you won’t say goodbye.”
Tony’s brow wrinkles, and Doc laughs.
“You won’t say anything, actually. You won’t speak at all.”
Tony’s mouth twitches in an attempt to protest, and Doc seizes his tongue and yanks. The thin skin that connects his tongue to the base of his mouth flares with pain. Tony whines involuntarily, but Doc doesn’t let go.
“He doesn’t know what it is you’ve been up to all this time. He doesn’t know that you’re being adopted. I didn’t think it was good for him to know, since the two of you were never going to find a home together. Makes it easier to wean him, doesn’t it?”
Tony squeezes his eyes shut again. He and Justin found a home together. They just never expected it to be ripped away from them like this.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy,” Doc snaps.
Tony complies. What else can he do? He promised he wouldn’t fight, didn’t he?
“You’re not going to make any of this worse by spilling the beans. You may agree to stop fighting, but if he finds out you’re headed home, he won’t. He’s already a naughty little thing, and I don’t particularly want to deal with any more guff from him.”
For the sparest of seconds, Tony’s heart soars. Justin hasn’t given up. He’s still fighting. He can make it. He will.
But Doc’s voice brings him back to earth.
“See, he isn’t as valuable to me as you are, Fido. It’s going to be hard to find him a place. And I can’t have you making it any harder than it needs to be. I’ve got limited resources, you know? So, here’s the deal: I’ll let you see him if you promise not to say a word.”
Tony nods again, even as his tears finally break free. He doesn’t want Justin to see him bitted or muzzled. He wants to kiss his husband, to tell him that he loves him one last time. He wants to say goodbye. But if this is all Tony’s got, he will take it. He’s learned to take what he can get.
Doc finally lets Tony’s tongue go, wiping his thumb on Tony’s cheek. “But it’s a little performance test for you, boy. I’m not going to make this easy for you. I want you to show me that you mean what you say.”
“I–” Tony rasps. He pushes himself up on his hands and clears his throat. “I don’t understand.”
“You are not leaving the doghouse until it’s time to pack you up. That means I’ll be bringing the mutt to see you. And I expect you to do what you’ve been trained to do.”
Tony’s gut freezes. His eyes drift up to the camera closest to them.
He can’t. He wants Justin more than anything, but he can’t subject Justin to this. Not when he won’t even be able to explain. There will be too many things he can’t explain. The cameras. The brand on his back. How sorry he is. And how much he loves Justin.
It’s too much to ask.
“But–”
“I will bring him here, and you will show him what you’ve learned. If you want to see him before you go home, those are the expectations. Take it or leave it.”
“He doesn’t know–” Tony tries, but Doc’s palm comes down hard between his shoulder blades.
“And he won’t know.” Doc leans close, pressing harder against Tony’s ruined skin. “If you say a word, I’ll kill him.”
“No!” Tony cries. Justin has to get out. He cannot die here.
“I told you, he isn’t that valuable to me. The only reason I haven’t put him down yet is because my Annie’s taken a bit of a shine to him. She’s never had a pet of her own, and I like to see her happy.”
Tony feels bile rising in his throat. Justin is no one’s pet. Maybe that’s all that Tony will ever be now, maybe that’s a foregone conclusion, but he has to believe that Justin still has a chance.
“You can’t–”
“I won’t, so long as you show us all what a good boy you are. I’m not even going to muzzle you; you’ll get a chance to really show off your training. I’m sure your new owner will be watching, and you’ll want to make sure he’ll be excited to see you.”
Tony collapses over his knees. He’s going to be sick. He can’t do this. He can’t make Justin do this. He doesn’t know what Doc’s done with Justin, but Tony knows he isn’t a red collar. Tony would know if he were. Tony’s body knows every red collar, even the ones he hasn’t seen; he’s tasted them and felt them move inside. None of them were Justin. Tony would never mistake Justin’s touch.
He can’t make Justin a part of this–but he knows that he has to. Doc has him trapped, sure as if he were already packed in the crate. He should never have tried to bargain. He doesn’t have the head for it anymore. After all, he isn’t meant to think.
“You can’t go back on it now, boy,” Doc murmurs. His hand slips below the brand, scratching a gentle line up and down the knots of Tony’s spine. “And you get to say goodbye. Just like you wanted. Only not in so many words.”
Tony doesn’t move. He falls into the gentle touch, just the way he’s been trained, and he stays still. There’s nothing he can do anyway. He knows if he fights now, Justin is as good as dead.
“It’s romantic, in a way,” Doc says wistfully. Tony can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you know the story of Orpheus, Fido? My Annie has a big book of Greek myths that I used to read to her before bed, and that one was always her favorite. Made her cry, but I think she liked the tragedy of it all.”
Tony knows the story, but he can’t remember. Not right now. The only thing he can recall is Justin’s face. He shouldn’t have asked to see him. He should have let himself be packed away and lived with the memories they’ve already made. He curls in on himself. Doc keeps stroking his back.
“Orpheus had a chance to rescue his love from the underworld. All he had to do was to lead her out without turning around to look at her. He just had to trust that she was there, and they’d both be free. But he turned around just as they were crossing the threshold, and she was pulled back into the underworld forever. Because of his weakness.” Doc leans close to Tony’s ear. “This is your Orpheus moment, boy. Don’t be weak.”
Tony can’t stand it. “You’re not giving me the chance to save him from anything,” he says, his voice toneless and hollow.
Doc’s fingers crook against Tony’s cheek. “No, because I’ve already rescued you both.”
Tony should laugh, but he only squeezes his eyes shut again. He’s dreamed about rescue, but he knows now that it will never come. Not for him. There is no escaping the snare he’s just set for himself.
“But,” Doc says thoughtfully, “I am giving you the chance to protect him.”
“From you.”
Doc’s hand withdraws. “From himself. He’s got to learn, and you’re going to teach him. You’re going to show him what a good boy looks like.”
Tony looks up at Doc, the older man’s image distorted by the pane of his tears. “Why do you hate us so much?”
“Oh, Fido. I don’t hate you. I could never hate any of my rescues. You’re all such vulnerable creatures. But just like you’re going to protect your mutt, I have to protect you. I know it’s hard, giving up what you thought your life would be. But I saved you from something so much worse.”
It’s bullshit, but Tony is sure that Doc believes it. The man abducts innocent people and strips away their humanity like bits of old wallpaper, but he believes that he’s serving the greater good. Tony only wishes he could believe too. It would make all of this so much easier if he could believe that this torture was saving him from something worse.
But he knows better. He knows that someone else would have driven by the service station eventually; he knows that if they had been smarter, if they hadn’t gotten in Doc’s truck, they would be at home in the yellow house right now. They wouldn’t have died. Someone would have come. Doc didn’t save them from anything. Doc stole them.
“It’s hard for you and the mutt, I know. But I can’t always place everyone together, so the separation was necessary. So you could get used to the idea. But I’m not a monster, Fido. And so I’m going to give you this chance to ease your parting. But if I let you off your leash, I know you’d run amok. And that’s not modeling good behavior, is it? So, there are rules. It’s as simple as that.”
“You’re insane,” Tony says. “You said you’d kill him–”
Doc swats at Tony’s nose. “Bad dog. That’s enough. The mutt won’t be put down if you do as you’re told. But if you don’t, it’s no skin off my nose. This isn’t a charity, even if it is a rescue operation. Cost-benefit analysis. You’ve earned your keep these last few months; the mutt is a drain on our resources. But this little guest spot might just be his meal ticket until I figure out what to do with him.”
Tony opens his mouth, to protest or beg, he isn’t sure which, but Doc’s hand stops his voice.
“I’ve heard enough out of you. I think your new rules apply starting now. You make a peep, I won’t even go to the trouble of bringing him in. No bark. Do you understand?”
Tony’s chest heaves with a silent sob, but he nods. He knows Doc is as good as his word.
“Hup hup,” Doc commands, and Tony pushes himself onto all fours, even as his limbs tremble beneath him. Doc pulls a leash from his belt loop and clips it to the ring on Tony’s collar. “Fido, place.”
Tony’s cheeks color with shame, but he crawls to the center of the glass box, his leash dragging behind. He knows that this is the spot with the most advantageous camera angles, that he’s expected to hit his mark so that his viewing audience gets exactly what they are paying for.
“Sit.”
Tony complies and lets his bare ass fall back over his heels. He sets his hands flat on the floor in front of him. Doc crouches down and tethers his leash to the anchor in the floor.
“Stay.”
As if there were any other option.
Doc rises and goes to the locked door. He looks back over his shoulder. “You remember your rule, Fido. I’ll be right back with the mutt.”
Leader's only response was to tighten his jaw muscles further.
"I won't ask again."
Leader's gaze shifted from the teammate kneeling opposite him to the gun levelled at his head. He stared at the barrel for several seconds before complying, though not without glaring up at Whumper.
Appearing menacing as Whumper slid the gun into his mouth was a lost effort, but there was no chance in hell he was giving Whumper the satisfaction of his full submission. But there was no disillusion of who held the power here.
"I'll make this simple." Gravel crunched under Whumper's boot as he stepped behind Leader, shifting his attention to the other captive.
"Tell me where the base is...or I blow his brains out."
Leader forced his face to stay neutral, not wanting Youngest to see him crumble. Nonetheless, he failed to suppress a shudder, his breath hitching as the cold metal bit into his skin, scraping against the roof of his mouth.
"Please don't...don't make me choose," Youngest pleaded, a tear glinting in their eyes as the gun cocked with a distinctive click.
Wanting to reassure Youngest it was okay, Leader gave as much of a nod as he could manage, already knowing what decision they'd have to make.
I wrote this an posted a preview of it to the Adult Whump Server and @demondamage wanted to make art for it. I was so excited that I said I would wait to post this story to tumblr until they were done with the art. Well, they're done and it's BEAUTIFUL!!!!! (Art will be linked in the reblog.). I can't stress enough how stupidly talented Az is. I hope you enjoy this little ficlet and Az's AMZING art work to go along with it. I am in awe.
Warnings: alluded to human trafficking, whipping, restraints, a horse bit as a gag, electric shocks via a stun gun, whipping
It was easy wrestling the boy, well, young man really, into the restraints. Drugs do that. He was chained now, spread eagle between two upright posts sunk into the concrete. They wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard the boy in the t-shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots fought against them.
“I wouldn’t struggle if I were you,” the burly man with a thick southern drawl said as he approached his prey.
“Go fuck yourself. Let me out of these fucking chains and I’ll show you a thing or two.”
The older man sighed and set his knife down. He couldn’t do what he needed to do if the stupid boy kept moving like that.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
And with that he shoved the little stun gun into the boy’s back and delivered three brutally powerful shocks in quick succession.
One would have done the trick. The other two were just for fun. The boy’s entire body tensed and arched. He stopped breathing while the electricity rippled through him. He slumped in his chains and was still. The gruff country man picked up his knife and opened up the back of the boy’s shirt and started his work.
The young man didn’t even raise his head again until his shirt was gone, in ribbons on the floor.
“I told you not to struggle. Consider this your first lesson. Disobedience here will get you nothing but pain. Understood?”
“Go to hell”
The man smirked. “I plan too. But not yet.”
The older man knelt down behind the boy and lifted his leg, pulling his cowboy boots off his feet. The boy kicked at him, but the leather straps around his ankles kept him from actually hitting his target.
“That’s one…” the man said calmly. The boy tried it again when the man removed the other shoe. “That’s two… Keep it up and you will regret it.”
“Fuck off!”
“That’s enough of your lip as well.”
The young man watched his abductor walk from him to the wall in front of him. The southern man took down from a peg something that he mistook for horse tack at first glance. It was, but it wasn’t.
“Open up or I’ll open your mouth for you, boy.”
The boy’s face screwed up in disgust as he looked at the clearly used horsebit that was still covered in dried saliva and bits of hay and grass. “You’re not putting that in my fucking mouth!”
“Suit yourself.” The older man walked around behind him where he could no longer see him. Spread eagle as he was, he couldn’t twist enough to see behind him.
The young man’s back arched as he got another jolt of electricity from the stun gun against the small of his back. Again, three successive shocks left him weak and limp in the shackles that held him, mouth gaping open to suck in enough air to combat his not being able to breath while being shocked.
He let out a half hearted cry of protest as the filthy bit was forced between his teeth. The metal bit pinched his tongue and he gagged at the taste filling his mouth. Drool immediately began to make its way down his chin to his bare chest.
The older man took a few minutes to make sure the harness straps fit snugly on his captive’s head and he wouldn’t be able to push the bit from his mouth.
“There. That’s much better.” He came back around to the boy’s front and pulled a dirty red bandana from his pocket. He wiped at the drool on the boy’s chin.
“You’ll look real nice like this for your picture.”
The young man’s eyebrows knit together as the southern man pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the gagged and restrained bare chested captive.
The man tucked his phone away and picked up the boy’s boots. The captive watched, still gagging as he turned a different direction and walked to a side wall. The boy’s eyes grew big as saucers. The wall was covered in shoes that were nailed or screwed to the wall in pairs. There had to be over a hundred of them.
The man picked up a drill and screwed it through the tops of the pair of boots, pinning them to the wall with the others.
Where the fuck did he get all those shoes? Who did they belong to? Where were their owners now…”
The older man returned to his victim, disappearing behind him again. He ran his hand along the boy’s shoulder and down his back. He could feel his captive trying to calm his breathing through his gag reflex. Good. This next part might help with that.
“I told you you already had two strikes. Time for you to understand what that means. If I were you, I’d try not to bite down on that gag. The metal bit might break your teeth… and that would be a real shame.”
What the fuck was he talking about? Why would he ever bite down on the nasty gag?
The southern man uncoiled his bull whip and let it fly across the boy’s back.
“Disrespect will get you the same reward as disobedience. I really hope you’re a faster learner than this. If not, you’re in fer a world of hurt. It’ll be your choice of course.”
He let the whip fly again, setting an X across the boy’s back.
This is an exchange event so there will be a blanket trigger warning for all entries, so read at your own risk! Potential trigger warnings may include nsfw themes as well as gore and possible squicks.
KASSSSS!!!! ❤️❤️❤️ HAPPY NOT CHRISTMAS, LOVELYl!
You're such a legend and you should know that I was so so happy when I saw I was assigned to you, legit squealed 😭❤️😌 amazing taste in tropes btw - OM NOM NOM 🍽️
I apologise so so much for the delay! my laptop decided to do the die on me and I've been stealing other people's laptops to write where I can! ❤️
I hope you like 🥺 I tried to hit your tropes, and I hope it's okay 😖 I made a new whumpee for it! Nehehe - more pain for more pretty men!
Lots of love, your secret Santa!
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It was a regular Friday night for Otis, and thank fuck it was. The weekend was starting to feel like it would never arrive and the past hellish week had definitely aged him ten years. Wisps of grey hairs sneak through his dark brown curls, frown lines and wrinkles starting to creep in. The joys of stress, right?
He lay curled up in bed, eyes fluttering shut and breaths drifting softly in and out of his lips. A half-finished glass of red-wine sat on the nightstand, next to a well-worn copy of 1984, his go-to staple book when he was so run off his feet with work that he hadn’t had a chance to snag a new romance novel from his favourite used bookstore a few blocks down from his house. Everything was silent. The only glow was the flickering street lamp across the street, seeping through the slits in the curtains.
Otis drifted away with the high of the alcohol, giggling and hiccuping softly to himself as he did so. His shoulders loosened with every soft chuckle, melting into his mattress as the warmth of the blankets envelop him. The soft breaths soon morph to gentle snores and in minutes, the lull of sleep pulls him under.
…
The piercing sound of shattering glass snaps Otis wide awake. He springs upright in bed, his heart pounds at his ribcage, racing a mile a minute. He sits as still as a statue for a moment, frozen solid in fear, cold sweat drenching through to the bedsheets. His eyes dart around, frantically searching the darkness. And then he hears it again. Another crash. Louder this time. The alcohol seems to dissolve in his bloodstream, the adrenaline sobers him in the blink of an eye.
Someone’s breaking in.
Gruff, mumbling voices whisper downstairs, then comes the creaks of the floorboards beneath cautious, tiptoed footsteps. Otis can feel his stomach twist and turn, pinching into a knot as bile rises to his throat. From head to toe, his body trembles so much he’s vibrating.
There’s nothing worth stealing. Nothing. No rolls of money stashed anywhere and even the damn TV is ancient technology. He can’t hope and pray that they’ll take something shiny that catches their eye and let it out the back door. They’re going to search. Turn the house upside down, scour from top to bottom. And they will find him. Sooner or later.
Otis’ ears prick at the groan of the stairs, the same step halfway up that always creaks when he usually stumbles down half-awake for midnight snacks. His body jumps into action before his mind can comprehend that he’s even moving. Otis races towards his wardrobe and throws himself to the floor, ducking his head underneath the dangling clothes on hangers. He swiftly drags the doors shut as quickly and quietly as he can possibly manage - submerging himself in pitch-black darkness. Otis folds to his knees and peeks through the slats of the wardrobe doors.
The doorknob to the bedroom rattles and twists, and then it swings open. Two tall, muscular men, dressed in all black come storming through. Searching the room, ripping off the covers from the bed and rummaging through all of Otis’ belongings. They sift through his drawers, pulling photo frames off the wall and smashing them on the ground.
A choked sob tries to claw its way through Otis’ throat. He slams his clammy palm over his quivering lips to trap his own cries. Squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a tear from underneath. Snot trickles down from his nose, his chest heaving.
He’s panicking, he knows. Freaking the fuck out. How the hell are you supposed to stay calm in these situations?! Help is out of the question. His phone is still charging on the bed stand, he didn’t think of swiping it when he dove into the wardrobe. He didn’t think! He just did! He should have leapt out the window and crawled his way to safety, broken bones and all. Now he’ll be on the front page of the newspaper.... ‘Male found dead in burglary gone wrong’.
“Don’t be shy, little buddy. Come out and play!” One of the intruders calls out with a dark chuckle, suddenly squatting to check underneath the bed like he was so certain Otis would be huddled underneath there. Otis’ eyes blow wide, shuffling further back into the wardrobe. The dark figures circle his bedroom, and one of them heads straight towards him. Striding towards Otis’ hiding spot.
A dizziness spins in his head and the stuffy air around him feels suddenly suffocating. Otis traps his breath in his lungs.
He’s going to die- oh god help him, they’re going to find him-
Otis screams his lungs out as the wardrobe doors swing open with a bang against the wall, a beam of light from a torch blinds his tear-filled eyes. The intruder smiles down at him, a terrifying look of amusement sparks in his eyes as he stares down at Otis cowering on the floor.
"Boo! Comfy, little one?" the intruder asks, his voice dripping with sickly-sweet sarcasm.
Otis doesn't say a thing. He can't. He's paralyzed with fear. His mouth blubbers open like a fish out of water. He just gawks up at the intruder, his eyes wide and bloodshot with terror.
The intruder laughs, a cruel, mocking sound. "Don't worry your pretty little head," he says. "We’re not going to hurt you. Not yet, anyway. Why rush the fun? We’ll have all the time in the world."
He reaches down and snatches Otis by the arm, hauling him to his feet. Otis cries out in pain as the intruder's grip digs deep, bruising into his flesh. He kicks and flails with every ounce of energy he’s got. They overpower him easily, without so much as busting a sweat. Every hit and swipe must feel like a tickle of a feather to the burly man. They throw Otis carelessly onto the bed, shoving him down onto the mattress and snatching his flailing arms to pin his wrists above his head. The man’s entire weight crushes Otis as he climbs on top.
“NO- FUCK- LEMME GO!” Otis roars, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeal, and squirming underneath the intruder’s hold. Hot tears spill down his cheeks. “PLEASE! TAKE WHAT YOU WANT AND GO-”
The intruder shoves his hand over Otis’ mouth to muffle his cries, “Shut him up-” he growls the order to his accomplice. The other intruder quickly fishes around in his duffle bag until he holds up a leather muzzle, dangling it from his hands. Otis lets out a blood curdling shriek beneath the man’s sweaty palm, bucking his hips on the bed and writhing desperately. He clamps his jaw shut, grinding his teeth and shaking his head from side to side - refusing to let them strap that vile thing in his mouth. Fingers pinch his nostrils shut, another hand pries and rips at his jaw to pull his mouth open.
The accomplice swarms in to wrap his hands around Otis’ throat, squeezing until he rasps and wheezes on stolen air, the pinky-hue of colour fades from his face until his skin turns porcelain white. A metal bit forces its way through his parted lips and presses down on his tongue, the leather muzzle swallows the lower half of his face. Any desperate sound he tries to make gets lost in the abyss - he can only huff furiously through his nose.
“You’re exhilarating when you cry, aren’t ya, lil buddy?” the intruder marvels, he wipes at the wet droplets collecting on Otis’ eye bags and licks the salty tears from his finger. “Would you look at those puppy dog eyes?”
This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. Panic fogs Otis’ spinning mind and clouds every rational thought. It’s - It’s a nightmare, it has to be!… the wine must have dragged him into a heavy, disturbed slumber. Or the stress! Maybe it’s taking more of a toll on him than he thought.
“Nah-ah. Focus on me, sweetheart,” The intruder croons, his fingertip dabs at the tears slipping down Otis’ puffy, rosy cheeks. Otis’s eyes stay glued shut, squeezed tight until his bloodshot eyeballs feel like they might pop out of his sockets and burst. Muggy breath wafts hot against the leather muzzle, welded to his face with sweat. Thick trickles of drool slip from his quivering lips, his teeth scraping on the bit.
He pants and heaves for air beneath the muzzle. The heat is unbearable, and the sweat drips down his face, stinging his eyes. Blood rushes to his head and his heart pounds in his chest.
Otis’ eyes shoot open. But he wishes he stayed hidden behind the safety of darkness behind his eyelids, where he doesn’t have to face reality. Where he can’t see the stranger pinning him down with a wolfish grin.
“Good boy,” the intruder praises, cool as ice, stroking his hand through Otis’ sweat drenched hair, “I knew you’d be an angel for us. Picked a good-un, didn’t I?”
It’s sickening. Every touch revolts and terrifies Otis’, making his stomach do somersaults. A petrified whimper makes it through the gag, and he winces. He’s never heard a person whimper before…never heard himself whimper before. The sound is so foreign to him, so out of place, that it took him a moment to realise it was actually coming from him. He was whimpering like a child, like a wounded animal.Like a dog. He can't stop it. The pain is too much, the fear too overwhelming.
The intruder climbs off Otis’ body, and forcefully rolls him over and face down, shoving him onto his belly. His wrists are seized in an iron grip, and wrangled from stretched high above his head to criss-crossed over the small of his back. Otis sobs into the bedding his face is shoved into. The stranger splays his warm hand between Otis’ shoulder blades, and slides painfully slow down his spine. Every nerve-ending lights up, his skin crawls and twitches.
“You’re going to do nicely. Sweet little thing like you. You’re going to be the perfect pet,” the stranger purrs.
Pet.
Otis’ vision dips to black. He just felt his soul leave his body. He felt himself floating upwards, and out, away from his body. He looked down and saw himself lying pinned on the bed, lifeless. Hopeless.
A leather cuff slips over each wrist, strapped tight before being linked together with a chain in between. Otis tugs at the restraints with all the strength he can muster, his muscles bulge and his veins pop as he strains against them. Sweat beads on his forehead and his breath comes in ragged gasps.
The accomplice jingles something beside the bed to grab Otis’ attention. Otis’ twists his head, writhing on the bed to look…and then a guttural scream rockets up his throat, shaking his head so violently that his sight mists.
A collar. With a silver, engraved dog tag dangling from it.
“If you’ll do the honours…” the intruder nods to his accomplice, giving him the greenlight. He swiftly fastens the dog collar around Otis’ throat, buckling the band until Otis chokes and cries out behind the bit, before he finally loosens it, allowing him to suck in air again. His cheeks burn cherry red beneath the muzzle with shame. His humanity stripped away from him with only a few instruments, he’s entirely at these bastards mercy.
“Guess what your dog tag says, boy! Go on!”
Otis lets out a pitiful whine, shaking his head trying to free himself of the muzzle. His hair flops around like a dog drying their fur.
“Oh right. I forgot. Guess I’ll have to tell you!” The intruder elates, grabbing Otis by the collar and spinning it around his neck to grab hold of the tag.
“Pup. If found, return to Master Becker.”
They must be able to clock the look of pure terror on Otis’ face, his eyes streaming with tears, nostrils flaring.
“Oh, that’s me, by the way. I’m your new owner, little one.”
This is insane. No-one can own him. He is his own person, with thoughts and feelings and dreams. They have no right to take that away from him. To beat him down to nothing more than a tamed, defenceless animal.
He won’t give up easily. He will not back down, and he will never surrender, no matter what the odds. He will fight back at every twist and turn, until the very end.
“Let’s wrap it up here. Grab the legs. I’ll take his arms,” Becker barks. Otis is lifted into the air, the accomplice grabbing his kicking feet and Becker hooking his arms under Otis' armpits.
Otis struggles and flails, but he was no match for the two men. They carry him effortlessly, as if he were a small child. Otis's head lolls back, and he closes his eyes, feeling helpless and defeated. He knows that there is nothing he could do to stop them. They are going to take him away, and there is nothing he could do about it. They carry him out the room, making their way downstairs and back down that creaking step.
It might be the last time he’ll ever hear it. He already misses it-
They drop Otis’ to his feet when they reach the final step, but he crashes to the floor in a sobbing heap. Every muscle gives out on him, he slumps like dead weight. Becker wrenches his fist in Otis’ hair and drags him back up and standing, and forces him to stumble towards the door.
When the door opens, there’s a black van parked outside. Right under the streetlamp. It’s running, its engine’s quiet hums cut through the silence of the night like a knife. Otis’ breath sprints away from him, he screams again, his legs go to give out - but Becker catches him in his arms.
He massages Otis’ Adam's apple, bobbing beneath the collar, with his calloused palm, “Breathe, boy. Do as you're told.”
Otis quickly shakes his head 'no'. Not that he won't, but he can't. Every breath is ten times harder than the last, his chest heaves and his lungs burn. Spots dance in his vision.
Becker pulls a strip of cloth from his pocket, and ties it over Otis’ swollen and tear-filled eyes, blindfolding him, “Calm down. You needn’t ever worry about anything else. Just listen to my voice, heed my word as gospel. Only me. Only my voice. And nothing else ever again. Until that ticker in your chest rusts and stalls to its final seconds.”
Otis keens, shredding his throat with his garbled cry. He collapses into Becker's arms once more, as he rubs meant-to-be soothing circles and pats Otis' back. Shushing him as he wails.
“Hush, little puppy. Stop your whining. Let’s get you to your new home,” Becker coos, tugging at Otis’ collar.
Whumpee who traded physical safety for mental safety.
Because at home they were screamed at and ashamed of and hated, even if they had food and were never physically hurt.
Because now, even as Whumper slices patterns into their skin, and withholds food, and beats them bloody, Whumper tells them how beautiful they are. Whumper tells them how much they are loved. How stunning they look, with their ribs showing and all their scars. How proud they are of them, with how they don’t scream and cry like they used to.
Because no one would believe Whumpee when Whumpee talked about their old home, and how much they were hurting. But Whumpee knows, with all certainty, that what they were going through with Whumper is real. And Whumpee will always take that certainty over anything else.
CW: unedited and written in 20 mins 😱, self harm, burning, description of burn, conditioned whumpee sorta/I think, makeshift gag, (lmk if I missed something)
Click.
Whumpee turned the stove on.
Click, click, click.
Whumpee turned it up many more settings, heat radiating from the glass surface. They needed this. They needed this more than anything, and if Caretaker wasn’t going to do it for them, they’d have to do it themself.
They grabbed the burnt kitchen rag hung from the oven handle, setting it to the side as they waited for the temperature to rise. Every so often, they glanced behind them to see if caretaker had crept up on them, but they were relieved to find the kitchen still empty.
They’d been bad. This was the right thing to do, right? Caretaker would probably be so proud- maybe that’s what they had been waiting for the whole time! Maybe Caretaker would finally treat them how Whumpee deserved. Hopefully.
The heat was strong now. They could feel it despite being at least a few inches away, hand hovering over it. It was now or never.
Whumpee picked up the cloth and stuffed it between their teeth. It tasted of burnt toast and bacon, but that didn’t matter. They sucked in a deep breath through their nose, terrified, yet also excited. As their soft skin pressed down on the burning glass, their makeshift gag served them well. They screamed muffled sounds, but the pain was very much clear. It shot through their bones like a bullet, never ceasing. Even as they brought their hand away from the stovetop, it continued.
The only thing worse was what they saw. A mutilated mess of a hand. Red blisters already forming, and was that… was that bone? Their shrieks only escalated until they were a mess of tears and sweat. They spit out the cloth and screamed, “CARETAKER! HELP!” They didn’t know why.
Why would they instinctively scream for them? Maybe it was a sudden move of desperation, but Whumpee couldn’t help but believe it was something else. A feeling locked deep inside of them. Trust.
Mmm when rescuers come and think that Caretaker has hurt Whumpee, so they separate them. Maybe they even punish Caretaker.
But Caretaker keeps fighting to get back to Whumpee (they need me); and Whumpee keeps screaming for Caretaker (please bring them back to me— I swear I’ll do anything you want just—)
gummygunk
romaincrisis
ellievsbear
gamechangershow
