Some information I didn't include in the image (because I forgot, I'm sorry lol):
In case of extra characters, it'll add 50% of the original amount to each extra character. So if you were getting a full-body lineart only (which is$30) and wanted it to be a couple, that would be $45; for 3 people, $60, and so on...
I've been taking art classes, so I am constantly improving my skills, there might be things I don't really do now that I will be able in a couple weeks, so don't be afraid to ask
The bones of this could work in several settings, but let's say royal whump. Whumpee is either a ruler or heir. Whumper has conquered Whumpee's kingdom, and taken Whumpee captive, "marrying" Whumpee to further legitimise their conquest. Whumpee is stripped of all power and now a puppet ruler. And on top of that, Whumper sexually abuses Whumpee. Whumpee is kept in the lap of luxury, but they can't leave Whumper's palace and they're basically Whumper's sex slave.
Whumpee is initially defiant, and after a few nights, Whumper takes them to the basement/dungeon/etc to meet Whumper's other high-profile prisoner, and "see exactly how good they have it".
The other prisoner... again, could be from a lot of backgrounds, but I'm inclined towards "dissident or traitor from Whumper's own side". They were there before Gilded Cage!Whumpee. Whoever they once were, it's not immediately apparent, nor is it relevant, because no one deserves that treatment. They're slumped in a filthy cell, maybe chained up, completely unresponsive to Whumper and Gilded Cage!Whumpee's entry, and they've clearly been brutalised both physically and sexually, over and over again.
Whumper tells Gilded Cage!Whumpee that if they fail Whumper, they're going to the basement too, and it's a one-way trip. They kick Basement!Whumpee around a bit, which they still hardly react to except maybe trying to curl up, and then take Gilded Cage!Whumpee back upstairs.
Gilded Cage!Whumpee has been successfully threatened into obedience. Mostly. But... while they're not allowed out of the castle, they still mostly have run of the castle, and they start sneaking down to visit Basement!Whumpee. They're sort of allowed to - to reinforce the threat - but they're certainly not supposed to help or comfort their fellow prisoner. Of course, that's what they do. Bringing them water or food (though at first they don't touch it), talking softly to them, or sometimes talking very desperately to them, holding their hand through the bars, just... anything that might help, in hopes Basement!Whumpee will respond to them, so they can be co-conspirators in an escape attempt, or at least, so they won't be alone.
I want more chronic pain whump. Give me a cocky, independent character who suddenly can’t walk because a sudden rain storm aggravated their old leg wounds and now they have to lean on a friend to get home. Give me a usually stoic character shaking with pain during a flare up. Give me a character who’s finally healed having their first bad pain day and abruptly feeling like they’re back at square one.
Whumpee wants to be good so deeply, wants to get the pats on the head, the praise, the safety that comes with being good.
But here, they couldn’t figure out what good was.
They’d stay awake all night, cleaning in practiced silence, till the entire apartment was immaculate, but all they got was a worried look and encouragement to sleep, to “rest”.
Why? What benefit did their master get from them sleeping or resting? Sleeping was a necessary delay, they knew that well enough, but resting? They’d never had so little to do that there was time to waste resting.
Of course, it wasn’t up to them, even if they didn’t understand, it was their job to obey. So, here they were. “Resting”.
They even thought they were doing that wrong, with how master kept glancing at them out of the corner of their eyes. Sitting criss cross on the floor, perfectly still. Resting.
“Hey honey?”
(Honey must be the name master had picked for them, though it seemed like they weren’t sure if they wanted to call them Honey or Buddy, but that was okay, they figured out to respond to both.)
“Yes?”
(Master didn’t want to be called master, or sir, or anything, so it made all of their sentences sound choppy and clipped, like a mouth with a missing tooth.)
“How about you come sit over here on the couch?”
Their heart sank. They must have done something wrong if Master wanted them within arms reach. Or they were expected to mess something up, and would need to be corrected often.
Carefully, they stood, and sat on the couch, trying to figure out what it was that they’d done wrong. Were they slouching? They sat extra straight, just in case. Had they been making a face? They made sure their expression was exact, placid and pleasant. What else could it be?
“You can slouch you know, it’s just us here.” Their tone was light, almost playful, but he knew better. He’d learned already, he knew how to win this game. He looked towards them, carefully avoiding eye contact, then looked forward again. Acknowledge, but don’t lapse. It was a test, to see if he’d break the rules without being told to. It had caught him thousands of times before, but not anymore.
But when Master only sighed slightly, it didn’t feel like he’d won.
Did they want him to mess up? Were they looking for a reason to punish him? They truly didn’t need a reason, surely, but…
It was good, right, that they would only punish him if he did wrong, even if they wanted to otherwise? But then, how long before they grew frustrated, and the impending punishment would be so much worse.
All of those thoughts happened in seconds, and boiled down to a single question. Should he slouch?
On one hand, he should, it would give them what they wanted and it would be better than waiting for a worse fate down the road. On the other hand,,, Even the idea of being hit or scolded made his chest tighten up painfully.
Selfishly, he stayed still, heart beating in his throat.
He wanted to be good so bad, he hadn’t figured anyone out yet here and it was going on two weeks. And they seemed so much nicer than the others, he hadn’t be punished even the few times he’d slipped, why now?
“Honey…” their voice was so soft, and so was the gentle hand on his shoulder, but he flinched anyway, “you really can relax, it’s okay.”
His mouth was so dry he almost changed his mind, but he figured one way or another, he’d have to do this eventually.
“Do I have permission?”
At least if he got hit for asking, it would give them what they wanted. He braced for the worst but all that came was-
“Huh?”
“Do I have permission to relax?”
“Of course? Yes, yes, you have permission to relax, please do.” There was something in their voice, almost like relief, but he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that exactly, and that certainly made no sense anyway.
I like the idea of a shock collar being like training wheels for a whumpee.
It’s a big deal when whumper can finally switch it out for a silken new one or even a sturdy leather one.
Imagine the reveal of a whumpee’s new collar. The praise they’d receive from the other whumpers at a fancy event—for being such a good boy. Perhaps it makes their skin crawl. Or maybe it makes them proud.
Imagine whumpers at the party seeing a pet with an ugly shock collar still locked around their neck and judging instantly. They know it’s been bad. Maybe the pet had messed up that week. Maybe it’d been a bit too clumsy or a bit too stupid. Maybe disobeyed orders, or god forbid tried to escape. Rumors spread quickly amongst a half-drunk, gossiping crowd.
Whumper blames whumpee, of course, saying it’s all their fault. How bad they are for forcing whumper’s hand, for making them lock that ugly thing back around their pet’s throat. How useless and worthless they are, that they have to embarrass whumper like this.
But they will wear their shame. And they will bear the painful consequences of that tempting little remote in whumper’s pocket. All. Night. Long.
“Whumpee who comes back dangerous” “Whumpee who comes back broken” Whumpee who comes back unchanged.
Despite all the torture, isolation and trauma they experienced, Whumpee comes out the other side as though not a day has passed. Physically, they are not unaffected, but they grin and crack jokes like it is barely an inconvenience.
Attempts to figure out how they actually feel are brushed off. “I’m fine,” they say. “Tis nothing but a scratch,” they joke. “Come on, let’s not dwell on the past,” they demand.
Everyone else is disturbed by this. Eventually, some relax, thinking it really might be okay. Others are more sceptical. What kind of person just brushes this off? Is whumpee just pretending? Is whumpee even in control of their own actions? Is the trauma lurking? Can whumpee even currently be trusted to make decisions on their own wellbeing?
It isn't until much later, after a lot of worrying and sleepless nights, that Caretaker learns why Whumpee doesn't seem any different.
They had been through this before.
After all the horror of the livestreamed torture, the ransom videos, the taunts that Whumper had sent, the months that Whumpee had been gone, Caretaker couldn't stop worrying. So they went digging.
What they found wasn't pretty.
They stared down at the photos in front of them. Photos of a much younger Whumpee, fresh from... well. They couldn't think of a better word than hell.
This was buried deep in Whumpee's file. It was far beyond what Caretaker had clearance to access. They should never have seen this, and now they had? They had to find a way to look Whumpee in the face like nothing had changed.
The first image reminds me of @peachy-panic Jamie, and the second makes me think of Kauri by @ashintheairlikesnow but the whole thing just screams box boy to me!!!
God, these are gorgeous! I love lab/medical whump!
Every time I lose a whump mutual to suicide a piece of me dies with them I think. Maybe we only really talked in tags and a handful of dms but Troy was one of my first mutuals. One of the first people to ever ask to be in my writing tag list when I made this blog over 3 years ago. I will always think of them, for years to come. I know this because I still think of Moya and cry over them, I sob whenever I see the art they made of one of my posts.
Losing a whumpblr mutual is not like losing a stranger. It’s like losing a mirror. We have a kinship of shared suffering here. It’s knowing that we have found our way here because of our pain. Because writing torture is the only language that makes sense after so much suffering when life gave us no other way to express and wrestle with or justify the deep ache after all the fucking trauma that has been my life, your life too probably, but ill at least speak for myself.
I found my kin on whumpblr. I found the first people to ever truly understand me on this corner of the internet. The few people im closest to on here are also kind of the only thing keeping me here right now. Like we’re not supposed to talk about it because it makes other people sad but I fantasize of suicide every single day. Silently cry daily at my desk at work about how much I just wish I didn’t have to be anymore. And I won’t lie there’s a desperate part of me that wonders if I’d be better off too if I followed the mutuals who are gone now. This is not me fishing for compliments or affirmations. It’s just a very sad reality so many in the whump community deal with, and thats like, why we ended up here in the first place. Because we are in fucking pain.
I can’t help but see a certain inevitability to it. Like, if they reached their limit, if they couldn’t keep going, if this was their end, how am I meant for anything different? Im no better, im no stronger, im just like them. Hurt as fuck and just rotting in it. I know thats not logical, and thats not the right lesson to get out of this. But I feel it anyway.
But I know it’s about being here for each other. I hope the rest of us can grip each other tightly right now. Even if only through screens. We need to stay for each other, to hold up the mirror. To remind each other we have kin. We are not alone in the ways we think and the ways we are suffering. Even if the only ones who understand you are so far away they may as well be on other planets. If I hadn’t found this community I don’t know where I’d be. This community is biding me time. Thank you, whump community. For being the reason I haven’t left.
And to those mutuals I have lost, I will never forget you. I will always love you, your creative soul and your beautiful mind. May you be celebrated always for the bright spirit you are.
For those of you still here, if you’re reading this, let’s stay together? Yeah?
Starting to write whump and joining the whump community played a significant part in my own breaking out of 12 years of chronic suicidal ideation. I know what it's like to think it can never possibly get better, but it can. If anyone ever needs someone to talk to about suicidal ideation without judgment, my DMs are always open.
Fucking hell, this kind of thing always hits me hard. Just here to say to anyone—if you need someone to talk or vent to, my DMs are always open, and you’re not going to bother me by reaching out. You’re not alone.
I did not know Troy, don't think I even followed him, but shit... That hurts.
To know we have lost another one, wondering how many others might have left us through suicide, and maybe how many still might?
I haven't been the same since last time, I haven't been around like I used to since last time... I am so sorry I didn't know you, Troy. I am so, so sorry for what you are going through, Troy's friends.
Y'know, I think one of the things that people get wrong with conditioned whumpees is their rules. Specifically, when a whumpee was in long term captivity/training and they later get released or escape.
Most people write them as latching onto a caretaker or new whumper, and begging for new rules so they know they're doing something right. A new set of laws to live by, a new framework to behave to.
And that's... not really how conditioning works.
Conditioning means automatic reactions. Your body doing something that was trained into you without consulting your brain first.
There is no decision making. There is no choice. The trigger hits, and you are immediately performing the correct action regardless of anything else.
You're told to kneel? Your knees have already hit the ground. You're supposed to be standing in one part of the house when a certain noise is made? You've launched into movement before you even realize what you heard.
These rules are woven into the fabric of your body. And they are insurmountable. The conditioning overrides emotion, internal conflict, hesitation, beliefs, wants... everything.
Your whumpee may very well hate what is being done to them, and after the moment has passed they're cursing themself and their whumper. They're still a person on the inside. And that person is still very much alive. Most of the time, they will have some level of awareness that what's being done to them is wrong. They'll be angry. They'll be hurt. And they will hate that there is nothing they can do about it.
But the next time that trigger occurs, the response still hits them exactly the same.
So now take your whumpee out of that situation. They ran away, were rescued, were sold. They got out. Now they're with new people, a new caretaker, a new whumper. Or they're on their own and trying to make their own way in the world.
But those conditioned responses are still there.
There's no turning them off. You don't just replace them with new rules. They are in your every fibre. They have been built into the very framework of who you are.
The next time someone says the word "kneel", your knees are on the ground again. No matter where you are, or who you're with. The response happens before you can stop it. If they don't know why, everyone looks at you like you're insane. You're starting to wonder if you are.
Deconditioning is an agonizing process that takes more effort than I can even begin to describe to someone who's never experienced it.
Every time they hit that trigger, that response will still be there. Over, and over, and over, and over.
Breaking those rules down takes YEARS. And it is a constant effort that the whumpee has to choose to undergo every single time. Progress is measured milimeter by milimeter. You're told to kneel, and you kneel. You're told to kneel, and your mind catches up with the fact that you already did it— but a little sooner than it did before. Then a split second sooner. Then as you're doing it. Then you feel the impulse just before your knees hit the ground. Then you have a split-second of resistance before you go down. On and on and on and on, inching toward progress despite the fact that you're fighting with all your might. To make it worse, progress is anything but linear.
You don't just start obeying new rules. You don't latch on to your caretaker's new way of doing things and drop everything that you were conditioned to do before. These rules don't just get replaced.
Conditioning is not a belief system. It's a flinch response. Programmed deeper than the instincts you were born with.
You can be ordered not to obey the old command, and moments later when the trigger comes, you will anyway. Because in conditioning, the action comes before the choice.
These rules, these laws of your existence, come above everything else. And if your new whumper wants to replace them, they are going to have to beat the new rules into you so often and so severely that the pain becomes stronger than the old conditioning. At which point, the newly desired response will very, very slowly start to take over.
You're not swapping out new rules. You're layering new, worse conditioning on top of the old. And your brain will spend time stuck in that split-second between both responses before one finally grows stronger than the other. And even then, the change will not happen quickly.
That is what your conditioned whumpee is up against. That is what makes it such a horrible—HORRIBLE— and powerful tool.
"I'm comi--I said I'm COMING!" *Crying, as whumpee is painfully manhandled anyway*
"Get on your knees." Whumper orders. "Fuck you," whumpee growls as they thump to the floor.
"Honestly I would've been gentler, but you had to resist," whumper shrugs. "I did everything you told me to!" Whumpee shouts. "Yeah, but I don't like your attitude."
"I'll do anything you want, please just stop!" Whumpee begs. Whumper pretends to consider it for a moment. "But... I want you to take another punishment. Can you do that for me?"
"Bastard, you can't control me!" "I can't? Then... why are you naked? Did you do that because you wanted to?" Whumper laughs at whumpee's flustered face. "Because that would be almost better."
Whumpee cursing at whumper every time they shove them around, but not fighting back
"it's like you want me to do this to you, isn't it?" Whumper eggs them on. "I didn't ask for this, you motherfucker!" "Then why are you still provoking me?"
"don't give me that look." Whumper points at whumpee's glaring face. Whumpee hisses a breath in. "Do you want me to fucking smile?"
Muttered curses every time whumper touches them
Giving the answers whumper wants to hear--in a dejected monotone.
"are you going to be good?" "Yes." "Do you want a treat?" "...yes..." "But you were bad, so you don't deserve a treat do you?" *Soft sigh* "no..." "What do bad pets get?" Whumpee shudders. "Answer the question, whumpee. What do bad pets get."
Can do this with living weapon whump too. "Let's try this again, weapon." "Yes sir." "What did you do?" "I let them live--I-I created a liability! ...sir." "And what happens when you turn on your owners?"
"Sir, can I --" "No." Whumpee grinding their teeth and keeping their face turned away to hide their bitter anger. "Yes sir."
[guys I have been gone for a while bc of bad life events but I'm coming back soon]
CW: Cameron has just turned 19 in this. abuse, very incestuous overtones, controlling whumper, intimate whumper, bruises, bruise touching, noncon kiss (back of neck), dunking underwater, standing dishwater (this is a new cw)
_
Ethan approached Cameron in the kitchen, where he was dutifully finishing up their dishes for them. He took a fistfull of ashy brown hair, shoving Cameron suddenly and forcefully down so he flung his hands out to keep his head from going into the dirty water. He gripped the edge of the sink with whitening knuckles, keeping his face out of the water by six inches. Ethan slotted one leg between Cam’s from behind to better control him.
“What’re you doing?” Cameron hissed. His agitation possessed a note of panic.
“Nothing, Cammy. Just seeing how cleaning my house is going for you.” He pushed Cam an inch closer to the sink full of water. He braced himself, using all his strength to keep himself as upright as he could against his half brother’s heavier, more muscled body. Despite Cameron’s height and lanky sort of strength, Ethan had a clear advantage. This was nothing but a crude display of it, and they both knew it.
“Ethan,” Cam said seriously, as if this might just be rough play. “Let me up, man.”
Ethan pushed him closer still, so his forehead broke the surface tension and he whimpered, straining to stay above it.
“Why should I?”
“Because— I did what you asked. And I’m… you’re my brother.”
Ethan hummed in barely restrained glee, leaning close to the back of Cam’s neck. “You may have just carved out a new soft spot in me. But don’t brothers do this sort of stuff?”
With his mouth open to answer, Ethan dunked him under, submerging his face in water that was equal parts soap suds and slimy food debris. Cam struggled violently, but he was pinned underneath Ethan’s unbudging weight. After many long seconds, he let him up.
All pretense of horseplay was gone, now. Cameron coughed wetly and gasped for air. He spat into the water in abject disgust. “Let go!”
“Ask me nicely.”
“Get the fuck OFF of me!” He sent a sharp elbow backwards into Ethan’s chest.
Ethan’s exhale of surprise trailed into a laugh. “That’s not nice.”
“Ethan…”
“Nicely, Cameron,” he said, and dunked him quickly in and out of the water again.
Cameron sputtered and spat, blinking soap from his eyes. “Stop,” he begged, more like a sob than his earlier demands. “Just please stop, Ethan. Let me up.”
“Warmer.”
“Please,” he repeated, water dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose. He sounded wrecked. “I get it. You’re stronger than me. You don’t fucking like me. I give up. Please, get off of me.”
“That’ll work,” Ethan said, leaning over and kissing the back of Cameron's neck. He cringed in Ethan’s grip and sobbed between grit teeth.
Ethan let him go.
“Look at you,” he said, watching Cameron in the reflection of the kitchen window. “Soaking wet. Let’s get you into some dry clothes. C’mon, you can borrow something of mine.”
Cameron didn’t move. Hands still on the edge of the sink, he stared straight ahead at Ethan’s reflection in the window, still breathing hard from the struggle.
Ethan tilted his head. “I was just fucking with you. I have to make sure you’re not a pussy.”
Cam turned to look at him over his shoulder.
“And you’re clearly not,” Ethan continued. “Come on. I have a shirt for you.”
Reluctantly, Cameron followed him into his dark bedroom. Ethan motioned for him to strip, and Cam pulled his wet shirt gingerly over his head. Ethan approached with a dry one in hand, but stopped when he noticed the dark and angry bruising that still bloomed over his ribs from the beating he’d taken back home. He reached out to brush his fingers over the purples and yellows. Cam stiffened.
“That hurt?” Ethan asked, his voice edging towards tenderness. Cam looked at him guardedly, his body language closed and hostile. Ethan touched two fingers to the bluish center of the bruise. Cameron closed his eyes.
“Yeah, it does,” Ethan murmured, but continued to touch. He applied light pressure and watched Cameron’s breath catch.
“I don’t mean to take it out on you,” he said gently, walking two fingers over the dark contours of the bruise so Cameron inhaled sharply. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Our father did. But that’s got nothing to do with us. Not anymore.”
“I thought I was fucked up,” Cam said, his eyes still closed, brows knit in a soft expression of pain. “But there’s something really wrong with you.”
“How fucked up are you?” Ethan asked, massaging two fingers in the center of Cam’s wounded ribs in the way he might touch a girl.
Cameron took hold of his wrist and pushed it away. “Not that fucked up,” he said, and snatched the dry shirt from Ethan’s other hand.
Ethan smiled to himself as Cam retreated to the shower.
Omg, this is incredible! I kept thinking of bobbing for apples the whole time, and Zee panicking, and Cam being an absolute asshole, and OH MY GOD! I love these little stories of him with his brothers, so much about him makes sense! Ugh!!!!!
would you ever write early zee looking through the garbage to find something to eat in one of the frat boys’ rooms? and then alex, dom or cam seeing it?
Trashcan
Yes! Have some early frathouse boxboy era (how I see it now, anyway)
CW: controlling Cam, imposed hunger and its symptoms, eating out of the trash, spitting out food, face slap, blood, noncon weed use mention, generally abusive language and behavior, mild sexual tension, hurt no comfort, technically bbu
-
It wasn’t the hunger pangs that finally made Zee dig through the trash can. It was the headache. It was always preceded by a feeling of slight dizziness, a light sharpness that was almost euphoric. But then the sharpness turned to nausea, and that led to a headache that made him want to crawl into a hole.
He just needed some food. The last time he’d eaten was Saturday morning, when he’d pilfered a stale breakfast sandwich and a bottled orange juice from the leftovers of a catered event. He’d been starving then, too. It was now Sunday night.
He’d been holding out for Alex Clair to show up, but he was missing in action this weekend. Dominic Carter was away at home— he knew for sure because he’d found him and said goodbye to him on Friday before he left.
He hated the way he watched for either of them, but everyone else would either check with Cameron before giving him anything, or rat him out for even asking. He hated that if he saw Alex or Dom he’d try to catch their eye, or slip away from Cameron’s sphere of immediate influence long enough to communicate his need to them like a neglected dog following someone around who once fed them a treat.
But there was just no food lying around for him to grab. The fridge was full of condiments and soy sauce packets. He’d sucked one the other day for the sodium. The counters were cluttered with takeout bags and fast food styrofoam cups, but sadly free of snacks he could grab a handful of without any being missed.
There had been pizza delivered earlier. Something of a Sunday night movie night tradition among a group of the brothers, it smelled greasy and hot and heavenly.
Cameron hadn’t offered him even a bite from his lowered hand, like he occasionally did. The hunger-punishment was not for anything he’d done. It was a general reminder of Cam’s control over him, and that he found him lacking in some way. Disappointing. Zee still hadn’t quite figured out how, but he felt it like an extra lock on the collar around his neck.
He slipped off to the kitchen when Cameron wasn’t paying attention, aware of the doorway behind him as he lifted the corner of a pizza box on the counter. It was empty. Just grease marks and crumbs. He pressed his forefinger onto a crumb licked it off. He considered drinking one of the garlic butter dipping sauces they’d left unopened, knocking it back like a shot, but worried it would just make his nausea worse. And Cam would probably smell the garlic on him like a bloodhound.
He put his bare foot on the pedal of the trash can. The pedal, and the entire can, needed a wipe down. He should do that before someone yelled at him. The lid lifted to reveal nearly an entire piece of pepperoni and mushroom on the top of the pile.
It had one bite taken out of it, as if to tease him. Who took one bite just to throw the rest away? Just leave it in the box. But his mouth watered. His stomach felt like it was clawing up out of his throat. The slice was only touching cardboard, and a fairly unsoiled paper towel. It wasn’t even that gross. Not really. Just on principle. And he was so, so hungry. With a cursory glance at the doorway, he picked it out gingerly.
Saliva filled his mouth. He took as big a bite as he could. He closed his eyes and thanked whoever took a single bite and threw the rest out like an asshole. He would have liked to savor it, to break it into small pieces and chew slowly, but at any moment he might be missed from the living room. He hurried to tear through it and swallow. The greasy carbohydrates hit him like nectar, and he could swear his dizziness abated by the time he was ready for a second bite. He could easily finish it in three.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Z2.”
He froze. He didn’t dare chew. He knew the voice before he turned his head, of course. Somehow, by an asinine turn of events, he was legally and contractually bound to the every whim of not some old money aristocrat or unctuous politician like he’d imagined, but of an absolutely average nobody. A boy his own age— younger actually, who just happened to be the biggest cunt on the eastern seaboard. But not just him. It was a group project, but Cameron Byrne selflessly took on the lion’s share of the responsibility.
“You can’t just starve me forever,” he said with stolen pizza in his cheeks.
Cam came closer, looking from Zee to the open trash can. “Why not?”
“It should go to a vote.”
“A vote.”
“Yeah. I’m not just yours.”
Cameron grabbed the back of his hair in a tight fist and pushed him so his head was over the can. “Spit that out,” he said quietly. “Do not swallow it.”
He obeyed. It was weird to spit out half chewed pizza while someone watched. Someone with a fistful of his hair. Like that old movie trope of chewing gum being confiscated by spitting it out into someone’s open palm. He mourned the loss of calories, but his pounding heart reminded him he might have bigger problems very soon.
“Throw away what’s in your hand.”
He did. He noticed the arrival of two other guys on his peripheral. They paused in the doorway at the scene, but then continued to the fridge for drinks. They were all used to strange rituals of hierarchy and control surrounding the boxie by now.
“What’d he do?” asked Sean. His eyes seemed to gleam as he cracked open a Dr Pepper, which for reasons unknown to Zee was the frat’s drink of choice, a running joke among the brothers which had origins in some obscure past event he wasn’t privy to.
“Eating out of our trash,” Cameron answered, his hazel-green eyes never leaving Zee’s. “Like an animal.”
Cam oscillated between cold, aloof cruelty and cruelty with a scathing personal touch. The indifferent kind was usually worse, though the up close and personal kind carried its own sort of dread. He could satisfy Cam in that latter mood, at least. Rarely could he be appeased in the former. Zee searched his proxy master’s eyes for which kind he was up against tonight.
“Pretty gross, dude,” said Sean.
“Yeah, rush week’s over,” Michael added eagerly, pleased to have cracked a joke. “Eating garbage for fun’s a bad look, boxboy.”
“The rules are real simple,” Cam said to him with the tone of a disappointed teacher. “If you want something, you just have to ask my permission to have it.”
Zee stayed perfectly still, trying to keep all expression from his face. All three of the brothers waited for a reaction. The overhead light was harsh, making the kitchen feel something like an interrogation room. In its white glare he could see sneaker scuffs on the linoleum and smudges of food debris on the fridge and stove.
The trash can he’d just eaten from smelled distinctly like garbage all of a sudden, and the crust he’d thrown back on top combined with the cheese and pepperoni taste in his mouth made his stomach turn.
He’d just wanted something to eat. He was so tired. If he were alone, he’d probably cry. He swallowed hard against the feeling of it in his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, flicking his eyes briefly to Cameron’s and then dropping them again deferentially.
“I know.” Cameron eased his fist out of his hair and smoothed it back down so gently that it sent an odd thrill down the nape of his neck, and a spark of something between his legs. He shut his eyes against the touch.
“Try asking permission, though.”
“I will.”
“I mean right now. Give it a try.”
Sean and Michael grinned hyena grins. Cam’s eyes were dark and serious.
He licked his dry lips. He didn’t want the pizza anymore. It had become repulsive to him. But telling Cam he didn’t want it was not the right move. This was not a hill he was willing to die on.
“Since you’re done with it, may I have the pizza in the trash?” he asked.
He and Cam both noticed as Sean took out his phone and held it low, at an unmistakably straight angle. Recording him.
“Magic word?” Cam prompted, probably just for the sake of Sean getting it on video.
It was a small consolation that the video would likely only ever be circulated among the brothers, if at all. They had the sense not to broadcast the endless hazing and abuse of a boxie around campus.
“May I have the pizza that’s in the trash, please?”
Cam gave him a little smile. Zee noticed the dimple it gave him, the freckles on the bridge of his nose. He was attractive in an offbeat, intense sort of way. Or would be, if he wasn’t such a dick.
“No.”
Michael snorted. Zee hung his head an inch in a nod of acceptance, like a private being chastised by a drill sergeant. He willed this little exchange to be over. He’d go to bed with hunger gnawing at his ribs and be glad for it.
“Don’t be gross. You can take the trash out and clean this place up, though.”
It was framed like a gentle suggestion of penance for the bite he’d taken without permission. But it was the dripping condescension that made him want to headbutt Cameron in the nose. The strength of the urge surprised him. But this was Cameron being playful. Cameron being vindictive was something he had learned he should actually fear. He would not headbutt him over being condescended to.
He tamped down the sudden surge of hate into something befitting the situation. “Of course, your highness,” he deadpanned, hoping Cameron felt at least a twinge of embarrassment at the tight, sadistic control he imposed.
He must have, because he slapped Zee in the face so hard it knocked his head to the side. He stumbled backward in surprise. The trashcan was in his way as he tried to catch himself. He fell gracelessly to the floor, clutching his cheek. It was bleeding on the inside where it had knocked against his teeth. He sucked on the wound. Perversely, the taste of blood it made his stomach growl.
Cameron squatted down beside him and took his chin in his hand, wrenching his stinging face up to meet his. If he thought his head hurt before, it was nothing compared to now.
“Learn to shut the fuck up, Zee, and I’ll let you have something to eat tomorrow.”
Cameron pushed back to his feet. Sean and Michael followed him out. Michael, who still had shoes on, gave Zee a vicious little kick to the shin as he passed that earned him a yelp.
Zee stayed on the floor for some time, his slapped cheek pressed to cool tile.
The only reason I am not SCREAMING is because I'm at work!!!!!
Oh, early Zee, you really Went Through It ™️, didn't you? Early Cam was such a jerk, I remember hating him so much, and now, even reading this kind of situation, I can't quite summon the feeling... It's funny how things change.
Same Nightfall anon here: I think there's another neck bite piece out there, the one where they explicitly say it's Carlo's first one with max, I think Max is comforting him saying something like "it's gonna be no different than the wrist" but then the text acknowledges that they both know it's not true. It's not on the masterlist I think, otherwise I would probably have found it by now. Though the more I look for it and cannot find it, the more I start to doubt myself. Maybe I dreamt it? Carlo wasn't drugged in that one, and he was quite wary, but I think he did want Max to go for the throat. (I really wonder if the piece exists at all rn, it's possible that I just came up with it myself in my head as your guys live in my head as well)
You can convince me I wrote almost anything you just have to be confident and I’ll spend 40 minutes looking for it
I absolutely remember what anon is talking about. Tho, there's always a chance it could've been a response to an ask, rather than a full drable... That happened to me a lot
