Hello all!! Time for a proper, actual introduction (*pause for applause here*)
— My name’s Marz, he/him, adult (somehow. Still working on believing it)
— Icon by the wonderful @blood-is-compulsory
— I write whump! Some of my favorite tropes are:
Emotional manipulation
Noncon/dubcon
Pet whump
Caretaker whump
Begging
Intimate/creepy whumpers
— Hold On is my main story about a bonded pair in the BBU universe and the struggles they face together (and sometimes on their own). It deals with messy communication and how to build healthy relationships with partners and friends, all while within the confines of a system that treats them as less than human. Sunshine House is a branch-off with the caretakers from Hold On and dives into their past, and Shadow of Stars is a vampire AU of the story.
— Random facts! I have a side blog for all my anime interest (so it doesn’t clog up the main: @bsdisfreetherapy), I own a dog (who is the best love of my life and I will talk about her for hours if given the chance), and think I am hilarious
(Masterlists below the cut)
Hold On: Masterlist
Takes place in the BBU sandbox and follows Daniel and Star, a pair of bonded Romantics. Together, they think they can handle anything and anyone, but what do they do when their greatest battles are with each other? (contains NSFW)
Masterlist
Sunshine House Masterlist
Robin and Thad Castillo run a pseudo-safehouse for escaped pets. For some of them, they end up becoming permanent members of their family. Their world is turned on its head when they take in two escapees who are more than they bargained for and the fallout will impact everyone.
Masterlist
Shadow of Stars Masterlist
AU for Hold On. Star rules his kingdom with fear ever since he was forced onto the throne by a sudden death. Daniel is a Shadow and considered dangerous by everyone so he tries to hide his identity and fit in. When their two worlds collide, the power imbalance reveals itself for the first time and both of them face the consequences (contains NSFW/darker themes)
Masterlist
Hot&Dumb Masterlist
Cameron is a spoiled Romantic who loves his master wholeheartedly. He has never considered a life apart from the one forced upon him and believes his master loves and values him, despite his master’s actions being to the contrary. The Pets that want to leave are dangerous and disobedient, two things Cameron can never contemplate being. After all, he’s perfect. Why would he want to be anything else? (contains NSFW/darker themes/unhappy ending)
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some people really do need to start reminding themselves that the answer to "why didn't the character just do [something entirely different]" is often simply "because then there wouldn't be a story"
If the only thing that has kept you going was outliving Mitch McConnell, imma need yall to pick a new person to outlive and fast. Your mission is not over.
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*thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *Thinks About OCs* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS ABOUT OCS* *thinks about OCs* *thinks about OCS* *thinks about OCs* *THINKS about OCs* *thinks about OCs* *thinks ABOUT OCs* *thinks about OCs*
Just a heads up right now: on the day when Trump dies, I’m going to be extremely tasteless about it. It’s going to get ugly. You are going to see a side of me I am not proud of. I don’t want any call-outs in my inbox, I’m stating right now that lines will be crossed.
Anyways all of y’all AND the evil that literally lives inside of you are invited to the sick ass house party I’m throwing when lord dampnut kicks the bucket
I feel like all you Americans need to take a look at what happened here in the UK after Maggie Thatcher died. Because when it comes to tasteless celebrations fuelled by anger and the death of a hated political leader, we REALLY pushed the boat out. We had street parties. We had burning effigies. We pushed “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” to the top of the charts out of sheer hatred. Bone up kiddos, and I really hope you manage to do that truly American thing, of dramatically outdoing us with your celebrations.
Look, I’m gonna level with you americans for a second. When old wrinkly and orange kicks the bucket, for once in my life, possibly the only time, I’ll actually want to be able to see the fireworks from across the Atlantic. And I daresay I won’t be the only one. So listen to me and listen closely, cause I’ll only say it once: When the moldy Cheeto bites it, it’s the one and only chance you’ll likely have at being loudly, unbearably, obnoxiously American in your celebration and for once, the rest of the world won’t complain.
258 hums. Vibrations rumble deep in his chest and his throat, outweighing the vibrations in the walls from the air conditioning. Cold air brushes over his skin. Nausea twists involuntarily in his chest. The air means the door and he forces his stiff neck to raise his heavy head.
His handler stands there, arms crossed. 258 swallows hard, forcing his humming to stop. For some reason it bothers the handlers. His pinkie finger is still crooked from when he learned that lesson. The fresh polish on his handler’s body armor is enough of a warning. He’s never seen the shiny plates free of scratches and blood before.
She walks over and unclips his cuffs from the wall. 258 falls forward before he can catch himself. The expected blow to his stomach still stings. He swallows back the yell he knows they hate so much and instead breathes sharply through his nose. One deep breath then another, only to have the cold air cut off by leather cupping around his chin, the edges of the muzzle digging into the soft underside of his jaw and the bottom of his nose.
Right. As if I’m going to try that again. I like my jaw intact, thank you very much.
They pass the hall to the showers. Then the hall to the cafeteria which he was just allowed to enter. Sterile white light gives way to warm yellow bulbs. 258 pauses when he realizes the tile under him is no longer white. Instead it is a soft grey.
Where are we? What is going on?
His head snaps to the side. Pain blossoms across his face. A quick glance at his handler’s face shows a glare and her finger pointed as his throat.
Oh.
He glares, but the humming stops.
Fine. I’ll play the game. As long as I’m warm, I don’t care.
His handler stops outside of a wooden door. The air is warm now, melting away the chill in his bones. When he meets her gaze, she points to his throat and shakes her head. He rolls his eyes, but obeys. This is not normal. There is something different. The polished armor, the different location, the fear he sees across his handler’s face, no matter how much she tries to hide it.
She opens the door, 258 following close behind.
The room is small, warm, with three people standing in the middle. One of them wears a black jacket, three silver letters embroidered on the chest. 258 shudders at the sight and looks away. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Next to him stands a shorter man, staring into space with a practiced neutral expression. Far too neutral to be natural. 258’s stomach churns, but marks him as not a threat.
The last person smiles when he walks in. A tall man, with swept back brown hair and deep lines across his forehead. He wears a dark red jacket and tan pants, with a watch on his wrist that reflects the warm light around the room. Everything about him screams control and the floor drops out from under 258. He drops his gaze to the ground, fighting to breathe past the muzzle.
A sharp tap on the side of his head, nail digging into his skin. 258’s head snaps up instinctively. He meets the man’s gaze again and for a moment, fear freezes him, only to melt away a second later as the man’s hands move.
Oh.
Oh.
Relief washes over him in a cool wave. The man signs in a fluid manner he hasn’t seen in so long. The handlers and other trainees don’t. His handler only knows how to tell him no and stop. It’s been too long and he blinks hard against a sudden burning in his eyes. It takes a moment for him to catch on to the conversation, but once he does, the relief turns once again to fear.
“Yes, he is exactly what I’m looking for. Online it says that he has been trained in protection, what exactly does that entail?”
258’s gaze darts around the room, looking for who would answer. His handler starts to speak and he stares hard at her lips, trying to glean whatever information he can from it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement. The shorter man signs as well, facing the man who asked, his gaze no longer distant but focused.
Interpreter.
Pain lances through his skull and down his spine after the thought. 258 subtle shakes his head, trying to clear away the sensation of ice picks digging into his skull.
“Tell him that 258 has been trained in several different martial arts, including elements from Krav maga and lethwei. He is also familiar with disarming opponents wielding the most common guns and other weapons. However, his most prominent skill is his eyesight and peripheral vision. 258 has 20/20 vision and is able to spot targets and danger before the other trainees.”
“Please, talk directly to me. I can assure you that” —258 frowns, not recognizing the name— “is far from important.”
“Oh, of course, my apologies. Um, yes, that has been 258’s training. If you access your customer account online, you will see all his training listed, along with additional courses he has taken. It will also be included in the information packet as well.”
258 shudders. It would be nice if the air was a little cooler, just to distract him from the panic knotting tightly in his chest. Another deep breath, feeling the way his lungs expand. He swallows back the urge to hum.
“Thank you.” The man turns to him, smile warm, but eyes as cold as the room he spent each horrid night in. 258 shrinks back, stopping when his handler grabs his arm, nails digging into his skin. “He appears to be quite docile. Why is he muzzled?”
258 swallows back the urge to bare his teeth. If he had the chance, and his handler wasn’t standing directly beside him, he would snap at the air. Nothing dangerous, no actual violence, just enough to show he’s a threat. All his skills listed for him to be reduced to nothing more than the leather and metal biting into his skin.
A glance out the corner of his eyes shows his handler’s answer flying off the hands of the interpreter.
It would be nice if he moved.
No! Stupid, stupid, stupid, you don’t have wants. You do what you’re told. That’s it. Just what you’re told.
The conversation seems to be winding down. 258 drops his gaze to the ground, the collar and muzzle weighing on his strained neck. If his handler wasn’t there, he would have rolled his shoulders and try to work out the knots in his back. Instead, he keeps every muscle locked, his spine perfectly straight, his breathing slow and even.
Despite everything, a bubble of hope wells in his chest.
Not only would he be fulfilling his role as he was made to, but also in a language he could communicate in. No longer would there be beatings from the handlers for not understanding their commands, or the flashing lights kept on at all hours till his head threatens to split from the pain.
258 will have a job. He will have an owner. He will have a home.
A tap on his shoulder.
258’s head snaps up.
His handler and the man shake hands. 258 catches the word “paperwork” before slipping his gaze away from the conversation.
The interpreter glances once at him, then quickly looks away.
The man turns to him. “I will see you later.”
258 dips his head in acknowledgeable.
As his handler leads him back to his cell, he takes solace in the fact that soon, this will not longer be his home.
Newly disabled Whumpee applying for benefits after the whump. Having to fill in questionnaires about everything Whumper took from them: their mobility, their independence, their safety. It's all in black and white in so much detail, and now someone in an office is going to read through it and decide if they've lost enough to be worthy of any help.
whumper assaulting whumpee in whumpee's own bed and now they can't sleep there any more
whumpee has been coming over to caretaker's place night after night, lately. most every night, in fact, for the last couple of weeks. they don't mind at all. this is typical for them - it's why they have each other's keys in the first place. some nights whumpee sleeps curled up on their couch, some nights they sleep beside caretaker in their bed. this is something that they've done before too, frequently, but not like this. not every night, and not with the other strange things that come along with it.
nightmares. shaking. flinching. the way they never seem to turn the lights on in the bathroom. the way they're never going home at night.
one night, whumpee had started out on the couch, woken up in a panic, and come in to lay down with caretaker in their bedroom. caretaker is looking at them through the dark, rubbing their thumb gently back and forth on whumpee's blanket-covered shoulder. worry sits, thick and heavy, in their throat.
"i can't talk about it," whumpee whispers, finally. they're trembling faintly, laying close enough that caretaker can feel it. "i just- i can't. i'm sorry. i-"
"you don't have to," caretaker tells them, keeping their voice quiet and gentle. whumpee leans closer, their forehead pressing into caretaker's chest. they exhale in a slow, shaky breath, so relieved that caretaker can feel their body lose its rigid tension. "i don't- i'm worried. i'm really worried, i won't lie and say i'm not, i know something's going on. but you don't have to say anything. not until you're ready."
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Stand-alone backstory. For wij day6, and for @highwaywhump , a little something from Pet Safety, some weeks before Adrian saves Blanca. Fair warning, Blanca doesn't have any agency in this.
Pet Safety Masterlist
Content/warnings: Blood (obviously), sadistic whumper, manipulation, implied drugging, living weapon whumpee (whumper), conditioned whumpees, gendered violence towards a woman, dehumanisation, humiliation, highly implied NONCON (m/f), forced to participate, forced to hurt, bbu setting, Jack Donnell's perverted (noncon) understanding of roleplaying. Hurt, no comfort. Dead dove. This is dark.
"What a freaking bloodbath."
With the heavy weight of two of his comrades kneeling on his back and limbs, Mac can't see the men speaking.
But he can see the blood. It's everywhere. It's on his hands, his arms, mixed with sweat, drying into a sticky film, coating his body hair and making it stick up. It's pooled on the patio tiles under him, in his clothes, soaking through the layers of his gear. It's in his face, a thrilling, nauseating taste on his teeth and lips. It's in his eyelashes, forming little dark lumps in front of his eyes that tint the world even redder.
When he blinks the lumps away, fights back the dizzyness of a knee pressing down on the side his neck, Mac can focus on the shape of the pathetic man whose blood it is that he's bathed in. Two paramedics are kneeling beside him.
He's not dead. He's not maimed. Mac bares his bloody teeth, flashes his enhanced canines at him. He would've done it. He'd have torn the man apart. Every fibre in his being had screamed for it. But there's rules that run even deeper than his hatred. That such a call is only for his owner to make.
All Mac is left to do is growl, a low rumble from deep inside his chest. Even separated by the entire width of the pool, the injured man flinches.
The paramedics flinch, too. They are working with nervous, hasty hands, gloves covered in blood, obviously sweating. Not because of the heat.
Because of Glen, carefully towering over the scene, making sure their patient won't leave.
That call, too, is for Mac's owner to make.
Finally, the whirring of helicopter blades swallows the echo of the man's labored breathing.
Before
Mac knows he's not supposed to take breaks his training regimen, he's meant to focus on his fitness and on getting ever stronger. But he's won his last training fight with ultimate ease, his comrades look up to Mac's impressive physique, and Jack actually does allow his Fighters some narrow lenience, when they perform well and aren't currently on protection duty.
Mac has been undefeated for weeks. And he's not on duty.
So he allows himself to step back from the weight bench and glance out of the window facing the deck around Jack's huge pool.
The auburn-haired Romantic is laying on a sunbed there, the pet that has been called Blanca once, but is Bacardi now. The pet who was kind to him once, and fears him now.
Refurb. She's done something bad, and now she's forgotten who she was and has been made good again.
Mac has seen her naked body before, and he's seen the new scars it features now. He knows what the refurb training entailed. Good, to Jack's taste, means scared.
And she is. Even though she doesn't act the part now, even though she buries all of it under a brave, sweet face. She plays the role Mac heard Jack order her in the morning, for one of his sickening games of play pretend. She's supposed to be a rich socialite, lounging by the pool, a little drunk and a little bored, so that Jack can watch her on his security camera feed and 'built up the tension' until he comes home.
Jack likes his scenes to start out domestic. They never stay that way.
But it will be a while before Jack comes home, and even though it fills Mac's heart with aberrant feelings that make him want to claw at his own skin, he stays at the window. Blanca - that's what he still calls her, that's who he met before - pretends to read a fashion magazine, carefully considering each page, even though everyone knows Romantics can't make sense of letters. She's wearing sunglasses, a big hat, pearls around her neck and a pristine white sundress. Jack chooses the dresses himself, as carefully as he picks the outfits for his Guards. The Guards' gear is meant to be both visually impressive and functional. The Romantic's dresses are meant to tear easily at the right places.
Mac clenches his teeth and because he knows she can't do it herself, he'll just do it for her - he daydreams that, right now, without Jack, without anyone there, she can be at peace.
That's when he notices the man.
Now
Jack embarks from the helicopter, striding towards the scene with large steps and a bellowing laugh. "Oh, Maccy-Mac, big boy, what have you *done*?"
Before as much as looking at the injured man, he bows down to Mac, slowly runs a finger across Mac's blood stained lip, down the titanium canine. Light red blood coats his fingertips, sparkling like rubies.
"That thing is a monster," the bloody mess of a man croaks, his words punctured by pained groans. It's a wonder he's still strong enough to speak. "It's not contained. I'll report you. That. I'll have it killed."
"No, Marty." Cowboy heels slowly click on the tiles, when Mac's owner gets up and strolls over to the stretcher. He's leaving bloody footprints in his wake. "You will not. I could get your ass for trespassing, you know that."
Before
Mac has seen the man before. He's a neighbour, an acquaintance of Jack. Marty. Tall, handsome, otherwise unassuming. Weak. Not a threat.
The fact that he's here, that far into Jack's grounds, means he's been vetted and checked. Probably here to borrow the big lawn mower. Glen is on perimeter duty; and even though they're all meant to act the same, they all know that Glen is the most thorough of them all.
Still. There's someone wrong. About the way the man pauses on his way to the shed. About the way he looks at Blanca.
Mac's lips pull back on instinct, teeth bared. He scans the area around the pool. None of his comrades are there. Nobody is on alert.
Well. One is. He can see Blanca's shoulders tense. Her fingers curl up in the magazine. She barely keeps up the appearance.
To any predator, Blanca is designed to look like prey.
Mac is a predator.
And it seems that the neighbor is as well. He kicks aside a pebble as he stalks towards Blanca.
Inside, Mac carefully picks one of the dumbbells.
The neighbor sits down on the sunbed next to Blanca. He says something that Mac can't hear. It doesn't matter. He knows what's coming, frame for frame.
Blanca replies, inching back from the stranger. His arm shoots forward, grabs her, wrestles her down. He swings a leg over her.
Teeth bared, Mac is over him, before Blanca even begins to scream.
It's the neighbor, who screams instead.
Now
Marty's voice falters. His face has turned an unnatural white. "No, Jack, you... you said I could-"
"Shhh," says Jack. "200k should cover for your trouble." Is not a suggestion. Whatever Jack says is either an order, or a threat.
The young man shivers, silent. Stays silent, when Jack's fingers roam his neck. Lets out a garbled scream, when they prod at the deep gash torn into his shoulder. Then again nothing. He's fainted from blood loss.
"Sir," one of the paramedics urges.
"Yeah. That's a good boy." Jack ignores her. He is talking to the unconscious man, tracing the dressing of another wound. "Beautiful."
With a contented smile, he nods at the paramedic and gives two quick raps on the side of the stretcher.
Glen folds his hands and steps back.
Everyone seems to hold their breath, as the paramedics hurry off.
"Now," says Jack and jovially claps his hands. "Get off of Mac, guys. And where's the seductive little thing that's incined this spectacle?"
The weight on Mac's back shifts, air streaming back into his lungs, as his comrades retreat. Instinctively he pushes himself into respect position. His forehead presses into slick wetness.
"Sir." It's Jim Beam's voice, and next to it Mac can hear Blanca's shivering gasp, her feet scurrying on the floor. "She's here."
"Good. Sit up, Mac. Look at her. Look at the perfect little thing you've clawed from the hands of that intruder."
He does, automatically stretching his neck muscles as he sits on his heels.
Blanca's usually light grey eyes are almost black, pupils blown with panic. Her hair is messy. There's a bruise on her arm, where Mac has pulled her away from the man. She's horrified.
She's just how Jack wants her.
"Sir," she whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"
Settling himself on a sunchair, Jack leans back, one hand already fiddling with the buckle of his belt. Blanca follows, falls to her knees in front of him, desperately, silently begging for him to not follow through with whatever he's planning.
Jack clicks his tongue. "Of course you wanted to, manipulative little whore. I watched the feed. You got these horny guys to fight over you. And I guess we all know, who won." The wide grin on his face is sickening. Mac wants his owner to be pleased. He also wants him to be gone.
"Ah. Not now, pet." Jack lazily kicks out at Blanca, before he reaches into his pants and starts stroking himself. "I think, this once, I'll enjoy to just watch." He snaps the fingers of his free hand. "Mac."
"Sir," replies Mac, and the word is supposed to mean so much - a refusal, a plea, a demand, a cry of despair - but everyone else hears it for what it truly is.
Acknowledgement.
It tastes like blood.
Between the two men, Blanca scrambles backwards.
Nobody bothers. She won't get far. All of them know.
"Go on with the scene, Mac." Jack's white teeth shine bright in the sunlight. "Take her right there. Right where you defeated your opponent." He points at the scarlet puddle. "You look stunning, covered in blood. She will, too."
Mac steps forward to reach out for Blanca's arm and drag her up. His hand leaves bloody marks on her skin.
"Please," Blanca whispers tonelessly.
He avoids her gaze.
Jack wants her to fight. Not for show. For fear of her life.
Mac knows she will.
And they all know her resistance won't matter at all.
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actually called “serial comma” but now known as oxford comma since Oxford University Press famously uses it
used before conjunctions (and, or, nor, …) in a list
separates the final two items in a list and clarifies meaning: “He reads romance, historical fiction and nonfiction.” ← does he read all three genres separately or does he read romance + both historical fiction and historical nonfiction? → “He reads romance, historical fiction, and nonfiction.”
clears up ambiguity: “We invited the neighbors, Agatha and Christie.” vs. “We invited the neighbors, Agatha, and Christie.”
can also create ambiguity: “She talked with John, his dad, and Mary.” ← is John someone's dad or did she talk with John's dad?
(In both cases, ambiguity could also be avoided by changing the sentence structure: “We invited Agatha, Christie and the neighbors.” & “She talked with John, Mary, and his dad.”)
Should you use the Oxford Comma? There is no correct choice. Even though some have extremely strong opinions on the oxford comma, neither is typically seen as incorrect or correct. Whatever you choose to do, just do it consistently, meaning use it in every list or in no list to avoid accidentally creating new ambiguity.
