For the sentence starter game “I don’t want to take it off,” for Jameson ¿por favor?
CW: Recovering whumpee, collars, traumatized whumpee, referenced pet whump
"I don't want to take it off and you can't fucking make me." He narrows his eyes at the man, standing at the bottom of whitewashed stairs that lead up to a small covered front porch, and beyond that into a ramshackle big house with a slightly overgrown lawn.
His eyes shift as there's a twitch in the curtains on the second floor, catching a hint of reddish hair, a flash of gray eyes, then gone.
The big man who runs the place only nods, and the pet feels his lips threaten to pull back from his teeth. He has a backpack over his shoulder, from the group that brought him here. Fucking care package, deodorant and toothbrush and shit. Like it's that easy. Like he can just be better.
"That's fine," The big man says, and the pet swallows at the sound of his voice, tasting water, cold and crisp, snowmelt in spring. "It's common. We'll work on the-"
"We won't work on shit," The pet snaps, and shifts onto his heel. The group asshole who drove him here snorts, like holding back a laugh.
"Good luck, Jake," The group asshole says, already getting back in his car. His voice is like licking bark. The pet likes the big guy's voice better. "You might need it."
The pet's jaw sets.
Anger got him this far.
Jake sighs and waves, then turns back to him. The pet's shoulders hunch as he realizes how utterly alone he is, here. With only the collar buckled tight around his neck for safety.
"You can wear it as long as you need to," Jake says, gently. He holds out his right hand. "I'm Jakob Stanton, and this is my house."
The pet doesn't shake his hand.
But he allows himself to be led inside.