bee | they/them | pet whump enjoyer | 🐝

B211 knew he could be the best Romantic in this whole damn showroom, if only he could be given a chance. He'd worked so hard at his training and conditioning, absorbing everything thrown at him, always striving to be the best in the room. He knew his quality -- he was eager to please any sort of master in any way they wished, ready and willing to become whatever they wanted him to be. Their lover, their fantasy, their toy, their shoulder to cry on. He was confident he could do it all.

And yet, here he was, left in the lurch yet another day. If things didn't look up, he'd spend another night in his cold bunk. Another night where his training headphones whispered to him about how much he craved touch and affection. Another day where he had to fight down his cravings so he didn't scare off potential owners. Another failure, another denial.

It was enough to make him want to pull his hair out, if that wouldn't absolutely ruin his appeal.

"I think I'm going to talk to your handler about another course of conditioning. I don't know how it's possible, but you've still got too much willfulness in that head of yours."

B211 scrambled down into a kneel, touching his head to the floor, as soon as he realized that the salesman was addressing him. "My sincere apologies, sir. I will endeavor to do better," he said, reciting one of his hundreds of programmed phrases.

"I can tell when a pet's more concerned with his own needs instead of the customer's," said the salesman disdainfully. "Honestly, you could probably do with another round on the Drip, wash that right out of your head. I think that's what I'm gonna recommend."

"Yes, sir," said B211, his inner elbow twinging with the feel of a phantom needle. He knew very well that he should accept whatever medication, training, or punishment he was given, as it was all to make him a better pet. But he hated the way the Drip made him feel, the way his mind was so slow and dim now, compared to --

No, that wasn't right. His mind had always been slow and dim. That's why he was well suited to being a pet. That's what they'd told him, why he'd signed up. He was slow, and dim, and unable to cope with life, unable to pretend to be a person. So he'd done the right thing and signed up. Instead of an endless cycle of pain and disappointment, he'd receive unconditional love and affection from an owner who truly wanted him. All he had to do was follow his training. Simple instructions. Practice these poses. Recite these mantras. Speak politely. Let go of your wants. Let go of your needs. Be perfect.

That was all he had to do.

He didn't actually remember signing up, of course, because the Drip had erased his memories (how many times). It was best for a pet to not remember (what didn't they want him to remember) so he could be blank and empty for his owner to fill with love (what was he before he was blank).

(was he ever loved)

He shouldn't be thinking those thoughts. That's why he wasn't getting bought. Stupid, stupid.

"Well, B211? Do you have a problem with that?" the salesman demanded, pulling him back to reality.

"No, sir."

"Oh, I think you do. I can tell you have something to say. Out with it."

It was a trap. It was always a trap. He'd fallen into it before, he thought, although his memories of those times were hazy and tinged with pain. "I think whatever you and my handler decide for me would be best, sir."

He was being hauled upwards by his shirt, the salesman glaring down at him. "That's your problem. You shouldn't think. You should just get it right."

B211's mind searched for a better answer. Slow, too slow. "I want whatever training I'm given, sir. I want to be the best possible pet for my owner. I trust in my handlers to make me the best pet I can be."

"Better," he sneered.

The ring of a bell indicated another customer had arrived, sparing B211 the salesman's wrath for now. This particular salesman always liked to take it out on the pets when they weren't selling like he thought they should be.

All he wanted was to be touched and loved. Wasn't that what he had signed up for? He couldn't remember, of course, but that's the only thing it could have been. Why didn't anyone see that? Why didn't anyone pick him?

Maybe the salesman was right. Maybe he should go back on the Drip. He was thinking too much. Of course he was right -- his handlers always knew what was best for him.

"Oh, I'm not sure a Romantic is what I'm looking for, exactly," said a voice that was so strangely familiar. "I don't need -- I mean, I don't really have those kinds of needs."

B211 strained to hear the conversation in the other room, beyond the curtain separating the Romantic showroom from the rest of the pet store. That voice. He didn't know why, but wanted to hear more of that voice.

"There are a lot of unfortunate misconceptions about Romantics, and I'd say that the primary one is that they're only for sex," said the salesman. "That's absolutely not the case -- maybe ten years ago, but modern Romantics are so much more. They actually have much of the same programming as our platonic Companions, and even some Domestic capabilities. They're the perfect choice for a busy man who wants a little love in his life."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to take a look at them…"

The customer pushed aside the curtain leading to the Romantic showroom, and B211's heart stopped.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark skin and darker curls, and large, sparkling eyes that he could get lost in. He was handsome, very much so, but that wasn't what caused B211's breath to catch in his throat -- he saw many handsome customers. No, there was something about this one that ran deeper than his looks. B211 was seized with an inexplicable, undeniable desire -- this man absolutely had to buy him. This man should be his owner.

(But pets weren't supposed to have desires.)

The customer was staring at B211, too, but not in the way he would prefer. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that one," said the salesman. "He's a bit more high maintenance than our other Romantics, and you're looking for a pet that's very independent, right? I'm sure a lawyer doesn't have that much time to spend entertaining a pet, which is why I'm going to recommend this model…"

The customer, the lawyer, let himself be pulled away from B211's case, and B211 was filled with bubbling rage towards the salesman. Something flashed in his mind, a memory, perhaps, of fighting, of kicking and screaming, of having to be held down by four people as the IV was inserted into his arm --

No, that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. He couldn't hate the salesman, or the handlers, who only wanted the best for him. If the lawyer wasn't a good fit…

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Why was this so important? He'd been passed up by so many people, what was one more to him?

B211 couldn't help but watch the lawyer out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he seemed bored with the other models the salesman was showing him. Distracted. He glanced back at B211, who quickly lowered his eyes to the floor.

"I think I have just the right fit for you!" said a bubbly saleswoman, emerging from the front of the store. She was leading along a man in a slouchy t-shirt and jeans, who was looking around the Romantics showroom in awe, as though he'd never seen so many pets. The saleswoman stopped in front of B211's case. "He's a refurb, so he's available at a discount! He's very affectionate and quite intelligent for a pet."

"Well, he's not bad looking," said this new customer. "Pet, introduce yourself."

B211 snapped to practiced attention. "Hello, sir, my designation is B211, and I'm a Romantic designation with additional Companion training. I enjoy cooking, old movies, and cuddling, and I'm always open to new adventures!"

"Hmm, I'm not sure. He's not really my type. I was hoping for something a little more… demure, do you have anything like that?"

"Certainly, sir, right this way!"

Normally, B211 would be devastated at losing another prospective buyer, but this time, all he could think about was the lawyer. The lawyer who was currently standing in front of the showroom's most expensive pet, being given the hard sell.

"…and he can do anything you want, sir. He'll be there for you when you need companionship, and quiet and out of the way when you need space. He's fully automated and intelligent enough to serve as a personal assistant or run a household. And when it comes to his Romantic skillset… he's very easy to please, and very eager and capable of pleasing others. If this pet is within your budget, I think he'd be the best suited to your needs, sir."

His needs. What were the lawyer's needs? Pets didn't have needs, couldn't have needs. B211 knew he could do whatever that so-called premium model could. But the lawyer probably had more than enough money to go premium, and why would he buy a discounted refurb when he could buy a brand-new luxury model?

"He does seem like an ideal fit…" said the lawyer.

"Would you like to spend a little time with him? I'm sure once you do, you won't be leaving this showroom alone."

"Well… maybe… but I'm still interested in that one. The one I saw when I first came in."

And the lawyer looked straight at B211.

It was impossible, wasn't it? Why would he be interested in B211 when a premium model was an option? Did he actually recognize B211's value? Was that why he'd been so drawn to this man as an owner?

The lawyer walked his way. B211 tried his hardest to read the expression on his face -- an essential skill for Romantics, to be able to read their master's smallest emotions -- but came up short. He couldn't tell what this man was thinking at all.

But his eyes looked kind. And B211 felt…

It was a feeling he couldn't place. It wasn't happy, or aroused, or quiet, or agreeable. B211 suspected it was one of those feelings he wasn't supposed to be having, one that the Drip was supposed to wash out of him.

"Are you sure, sir?" said the salesman, trailing after him. "This one is a refurb, you know. That's why he's on a discount."

"A refurb? Do you know why he was returned?" The lawyer's eyes never left B211.

"Ah, his original owner simply found a new relationship, and was displeased with the amount of attention this Romantic required. He's been wiped of those memories, and we've done our best to train out his unfortunate need for attention, of course, but he'd be a risk compared to our premium models, which can all be customized just for you for only a small additional fee…"

The lawyer wasn't paying attention to the salesman at all as he continued his pitch. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

And B211 finally placed what that strange feeling was. Safe. The lawyer made him feel safe. It wasn't something he had felt in training. It was something much older, something he shouldn't remember.

"I want to buy this one," said the lawyer abruptly, cutting off the salesman's patter.

The salesman couldn't hide his shock. "Are you sure, sir? There's no rush. We'd be happy to put a model on hold for you for a small deposit if you'd like more time to make up your mind."

"I've made up my mind. I want this one." The uncertainty on his face from a moment ago was gone, his voice firm. Firm enough that B211 dared to hope.

"If you're certain, then… I'll draw up the paperwork. But keep in mind that we don't accept returns on refurbished pets."

"I won't be returning him."

And the lawyer smiled at B211, actually smiled.

And someone had finally seen him. Someone wanted him. Someone was going to love him.

All he had to do was not screw it the fuck up.

He would have liked to spend more time looking out the window, but he had been instructed to sit properly, which meant straightening his spine and looking directly ahead. KV1946 tried not to feel nervous and instead focused on remembering his training. There would be cleaning to do, household management, serving at meals... he could do those things. He had been trained. Perhaps he would be able to please his Master.

It was slightly more than an hour before KV1946 saw a large house come into view. It was situated in the middle of extensive, beautifully manicured grounds and the car pulled up in a circular drive out front. KV1946 sat very still until the WRU employee who was driving ordered him to get out and stood to greet her client.

Someone had opened the door and his Master was coming down the wide front steps, smiling broadly. He was in middle age, dressed in a fine suit and adjusting his cuffs in a way that suggested he didn't need to adjust them but wanted the WRU lady to know he was the kind of man who wore cufflinks on a Tuesday morning.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, spreading his hands wide as if showing the WRU lady that the grounds were hers to enjoy, for the minutes she would be present on them. "Is this my young man, then?" He strode over to KV1946 and peered closely at him with a smile that was as much a show as the cufflinks.

KV1946 stood quietly, as he had been trained, with his hands clasped loosely in front of him; his new Master circled him very slowly, examining the merchandise.

"I'm told you did very well in your training," he said. "I was pleased to hear it. We hold very high standards, here." He looked KV1946 in the eye in a way that seemed to require a response. KV1946 lowered his eyes deferentially and said quietly, "Yes, Master."

The man gave a delighted little laugh. "Very good! Very good, indeed." Then he ignored KV1946 to speak briefly to the WRU employee and hand her an envelope with a discreet but substantial tip.

When KV1946's Master had finished speaking, even though the WRU lady was still right there, standing outside her car, he turned away from her and shifted his attention to the Pet as thoroughly as if she had never existed.

"Come inside," he ordered his newest purchase. "I will show you the house and acquaint you with your tasks. Referring to you by serial number is vulgar; you will be called Francis." And off he swept with KV1946- now Francis- following as quickly as he could.

The next hour was a whirlwind tour of the home and, to an extent, the grounds. Francis' responsibilities lay entirely inside, but Master wanted him to know where things were around the property, in case of some need. Francis hoped desperately that he could remember all of it and when he was told to go begin fixing lunch, was relieved to find that he knew the way to the kitchen.

Lunch was served without any particular difficulty and then Francis cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled. Afterwards, he retrieved Master's laundry and spent some time treating stains and loading the washing machine. After that, there was dusting in the office.

All the while, Master sat on the porch in the sunshine with a long-stemmed glass in hand. When he saw Francis, he looked very satisfied and said, "I don't know why I didn't get one of you a long time ago."

The satisfaction made Francis' heart leap. Master's happiness was his own sense of security and he found that he desperately wanted to hear another approving word. He would be perfect for Master. Master would like him and keep him and he would never be sent back to the WRU, like bad Pets were. Even the thought made Francis shiver. He had seen, at least enough to have an idea, what happened to Pets who were sent back.

Late that evening, Francis began to feel overwhelmed. It was hard to remember the long list of chores and the order in which they were to be completed. He wracked his brain, ignoring a slight headache, to remember whether he was to do the ironing before setting out Master's clothes for the following day, or after.

He guessed incorrectly and Master, now dressed in a smoking jacket, entered his room and frowned. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded of Francis, who froze and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Master?"

"No, no 'Master'. You were to lay out a suit and then begin the ironing. I want to have my room all to myself, not spend my evening waiting on your pleasure to have clean clothes." He shook his head. "This is not what I was led to expect when I purchased you."

"This Pet is very sorry, Master." Francis hung his head. He could hear the rough, nervous edge in his voice.

"Finish the ironing and then go to the basement," Master said in a very firm tone.

Francis' hands were shaking as he finished the last few items and although he wasn't sure what would happen in the basement, he did know that he wasn't looking forward to finding out.

When he got there, Master was already standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed, with a small switch in his hand. There was a chair in the center of the room, away from the walls and the bit of bedding Francis was allowed- or would have been allowed, he thought. He would have to see if Master took it away for his infraction.

"I am going to be lenient on you, because it's your first day here," Master explained. "Sit in that chair and hold up one foot."

For a moment, Francis was mystified, and then he realized what Master planned to do. He sat and gripped the sides of the chair so that Master wouldn't see his hands trembling. Master took Francis' heel in one hand and raised the small whip, bringing it down on the sole of Francis' right foot with surprising force.

Francis let out a soft cry and then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Master looked at him with something like disgust.

"What are you crying for already?" he asked. "It can't possibly hurt that badly. You were made for this, after all." He didn't seem to want a reply, which was as well. Francis kept his hand over his mouth as the whip connected again with the sole of his foot.

On the third blow, Master let out a small cry of his own and jumped back suddenly, letting Francis' foot fall to the floor.

"I've cut myself," Master exclaimed. He was holding up his left hand, which was bleeding from a single laceration across the backs of his fingers. Master made a noise of frustration and pain and then said through gritted teeth, "Wait here, I don't want you making a mess."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic box, which he thrust towards Francis. "It's a first aid kit. Bandage my hand for me."

The absurdity of the situation never occurred to Francis; he simply opened the kit, found an individually wrapped wipe to clean the wound and then the gauze and medical tape. While he dabbed away the blood, Master hissed and swore under his breath and when Francis had taped on the bandage, he shook his hand as if it smarted.

Francis almost dared to hope he would give up on the rest of the punishment, but there was no such luck. "Hold your foot out," Master said. Francis did so, holding his leg up with both hands under his knee. Using only one hand, Master continued the flogging, ignoring the drops of blood that fell to the floor. Francis pressed his lips tightly together to prevent another upsetting display of emotion that would only make this worse and waited for it to be over. When he thought he might not be able to stand any more, Master finally straightened up and nodded once.

"Clean that up," he said, gesturing to the blood spatters on the floor. "And I expect you on duty as I told you in the morning." Then he stalked up the stairs, taking the whip with him.

In the basement, Francis sat in the chair and tried to collect himself. His breath coming in shuddering sighs but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought to stay quiet and controlled. When he rose to clean the floor, he walked gingerly on the outside of his foot. His vision closed to a pinprick of light as he worked, shutting him off from the pain, pushing it away so that it felt almost like another entity. But when he finally lowered himself carefully to his cot, the agony washed up over Francis and he hugged his knee to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning, Francis was woken early by the pain. He was still clutching his knee and his foot still stung so badly that he was almost afraid to look at it. When he worked up the courage, the news was not good. The foot and ankle were badly swollen and the sole of his foot was covered in dried blood.

When he dressed, slowly and painfully, Francis found that his sock fit, though tightly, but he couldn't get his shoe on over it. He pulled at the shoe, tugging at the tongue and trying to force the heel, until he was crying again and was about to risk being late for his duties. At last, Francis gave up and ascended the stairs, fully dressed except for his wounded foot in its soft, white sock.

Master wasn't downstairs yet and Francis began the first chores of the day, limping badly as he made the rounds of the house to water the plants and then headed back to the kitchen to begin breakfast. He cooked eggs, toast and sausage and fried some tomatoes and arranged it all on a large plate. He brewed coffee and set a place at the dining room table with understated-but-elegant china and a crystal glass for orange juice. He placed a newspaper above Master's place and kept the food warm until Master seated himself at the table and rang for it.

Francis brought out the plate and went back for a mug of coffee and then for the orange juice, ready in a clear carafe to be poured fresh for Master. It was on the third trip that Master, nearing the end of the page he was reading, caught sight of Francis out of the corner of his eye and looked up in displeasure.

"What is that?" He asked, gesturing dismissively at Francis' feet.

"This Pet was unable to get his shoe on," Francis said in a very small voice. He found that his mouth had gone dry and it was hard to speak.

"This Pet has orders not to appear above stairs in less than immaculate condition," Master corrected him coldly. "I took care that you would be fit to serve. Go below stairs at once and fix the issue. Do not appear above stairs under-dressed again. My guests will be here for a morning garden party in one hour. I expect the porch swept and mimosas staged on the table. There will be finger sandwiches for lunch and you will stay outside to serve." He turned back to his newspaper, which meant that Francis was dismissed.

Shaking in the aftermath of his fear, Francis limped back down the stairs and almost fell onto his pallet, where the odd shoe sat. He eyed it with distaste for a moment, but there was no time to waste. It was going to be a busy morning and he would need to use all of the time to prepare. Francis tried again to put the shoe on, but still without success.

He took a moment for a deep breath and a sigh and then began to unlace the shoe completely. With the laces off, he was able to place his foot inside it and lace the shoe up, after a fashion. His foot was already beginning to throb and when he stood, it took all his training to keep him on his feet and headed up the stairs.

Francis was driven nearly to distraction by the pain, but he was somehow still upright and had even managed to put out a clean, white tablecloth and a vase of flowers to display the mimosas before Master's guests arrived. As ordered, Francis stationed himself next to the table with a tray to collect empty glasses and to keep the table supplied with drinks and light canapes.

Master greeted the guests and showed them to the back porch, handing each a drink as they passed through the door to mill about on the flagstones of the porch. The hand he had injured while punishing Francis remained bandaged and Master had placed it in a narrow black sling to go with his morning coat.

"You poor thing!" one of his guests cooed. "Whatever have you done to your hand?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Master said, clearly pleased at the attention. "Just a little cut, the doctor says everything ought to be fine before many weeks have passed." He waved the other hand languidly, dismissing the opinions of doctors who, he implied, fussed too much.

"You bear it very bravely, I'm sure," the woman assured him, patting his shoulder sympathetically. She finished her drink and held it out, secure in the knowledge that the help would be by to collect it immediately.

Francis moved away from the safety of the table to take the glass. He tried not to shuffle, which would probably make Master angry, but his foot was throbbing so badly that he could hardly think of anything else. He hoped he could go back and stand behind the table, in the shade, and put all his weight on his left foot for just a few minutes.

"Doesn't your pet mind just standing there like that?" another woman asked his Master. "Won't he get bored?" Master looked over as if he had only just noticed Francis standing there, as if he was so used to Francis that he was no more noticeable than the trees.

"I can't imagine so," Master said in a musing voice. "After all, isn't that what they're made for?"

The party lasted for a few hours and by the time he brought out the finger sandwiches, Francis was shaking and sick with pain. At each step, he wondered whether his leg would give way and drop him- and, more importantly, the sandwiches- to the ground, right there in front of all of Master's guests.

Somehow, he got through the rest of the morning and then the afternoon as well; luckily, Master seemed to be tired out by the effort of hosting and went to take a nap. Francis could limp as much as he needed and stand on his left foot only while he cooked and cleaned. The day went by very slowly, but in a strange haze. The foot went numb after several hours and Francis was a little relieved, although the numbness made it hard to balance when he walked.

At last, Master turned in for the night and Francis went back to the basement. He sat down on the top step and eased himself down with his right foot held in the air. At the bottom, he very carefully untied and unlaced the shoe and drew it off, his heart pounding uncomfortably as feeling came back into the swollen flesh. With feeling came terrible pain and Francis could feel the small supper he had been allowed turn over in his stomach. He hopped desperately to the toilet in the corner of the room, but nothing came up and after a few long moments, he finally collapsed onto his cot.

Later, Francis barely remembered that day. It was not so different from many of the ones that came after it and working while he was in pain became the most ordinary thing in the world for him. But it was one late night, in a different house entirely, that Master's words came back to him.

It had been a long day; Francis was still expending more energy than he knew in trying to understand his new home. Sir and Ma'am were kind, but could be confusing sometimes. Francis was always waiting for them to change, to become angry, to begin ordering him about. He did not expect to live without fear, but the relentless struggle to make sense of his new life was taking its toll.

That night, Sir carried Francis up to bed while Mikey and Nathan stayed downstairs with Ma'am. It was not so late, really, and the sun had only just dipped below the horizon, but Francis had been running hot all day and the pain in his feet was making him restless.

"I'm so sorry you aren't feeling better yet," Sir said, sounding like he meant it.

"Francis will be in working order soon," Francis replied. He hoped it was true.

"Don't worry about working," Sir said, for some reason, but it was in a cheerful tone that might almost have been a joke and Francis was more confused than frightened by the words. He wasn't sure how to respond, and so he didn't. Instead, he lay still and watched Sir bustle about.

Sir straightened his blankets so they laid across his shins, not over his bandaged feet where they would feel heavy and hurt Francis. Then Sir put a thermometer in his mouth and waited patiently for the result. After three minutes, he removed it, peered at it, and shook his head.

"It's about what I expected," he said and then placed a cool water bottle on Francis' head. It was soothing to his hot skin and racing mind and almost made Francis feel like he might be able to fall asleep.

Maybe it was the high fever that made him so bold, but Francis looked up at Sir, sitting there quietly, watching him with such worry on his face and he dared to ask a question.

"Sir- if Francis might be permitted- er- why are you and Ma'am doing all of this?"

"What, taking care of you guys?" Francis nodded and worried that maybe he shouldn't have spoken, in case Sir thought he was ungrateful.

Instead, Sir smiled and shrugged a little. "Humans take care of each other- it's just what we do. I guess we were made for it."

Master List

Notes: Some backstory for Francis!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump,

Sawdust was curled up in Ma’am’s room, pretending to be asleep in his dog bed while he thought of his plan. He could sneak out of the front door, maybe, but he could remember Ma’am needing a key to unlock it from the inside. She must be really protective of her house if she needs the door to lock from the inside and the outside! He would need to get that key if he wanted to leave that way. He had no clue where the key was. 

Maybe he could try the windows? He waited until he heard Ma’am snoring softly before he crept out of the room. He made it to the kitchen and looked around for windows, but his attention was caught by a sound. It sounded like a cough coming from Master Adrien’s room. Sawdust couldn’t ignore his curiosity, he crept over to the door and kneeled on his knees and paws, looking through the keyhole.

Sawdust… didn’t understand what he was looking at.

Master Adrien was laying down on a bed of some kind. It was hardly a bed, more like a table, and it looked like he might be strapped down to it, but Sawdust couldn’t tell. His head extended off the top edge of the table, with the rest of his body on the table. On a stool under Master Adrien’s head was a wide bucket. It sat with its top rim not even an inch away from the tip of Master Adrien’s nose.

Sawdust sat there just long enough to see Master Adrien nod off, falling asleep just for a moment and letting his neck relax just for his face to fall into the bucket. Sawdust heard a splash, then Master Adrien pulled his face out and sputtered, his hair and face dripping. Whatever was happening there made Sawdust even more resolute in his actions, he had to prove to Ma’am and Master Adrien so that the tensions in the house could ease.

Sawdust checked every window in the kitchen and living room until he found one that was unlocked. He pushed it open, then climbed through and closed the window once again.

The outside air was chilly, but not biting. It didn’t sting his skin or his eyes. He tried his best to stay on his two paws, rather than four. It would be quicker to move on two paws, and he did not want to hurt his front paws on the long, rough, gravel road that led to and from Ma’am’s home. 

He wobbled as he walked towards the sparse woods that laid down the road a bit. If he could go there, maybe get some kind of proof or item to bring back with him, spend the night, and then get back to his owner, maybe that would be enough to convince them that he could take care of himself. Then maybe Ma’am would focus more on making Master Adrien happy. He deserved it far more than Sawdust did, after all.

The night was far from silent. Owls hooted, small creatures rummaged through the grass and bushes, and yet Sawdust was so far from the rest of town that he could not hear any cars. The same could be said for Master Adrien’s house and the woods that surrounded it. That was not the case for his old master’s home, however.

His old master’s home wasn’t in a busy city, but it was at the end of a dirt driveway just off of a big road with lots of loud cars. Sometimes the other dogs would get upset by the cars, or riled up by the sirens of emergency vehicles. Sometimes Sawdust would peek towards the road just to see another animal, some kind of not-dog, bloated and left on the road. Compared to the loud sounds of the road near his old master’s house, Sawdust far preferred the woods.

The dog stood at the edge of the forest, right where the gravel changes to dirt and sand. Pine needles lay scattered at his paws. The start of the forest was not dense, yet it was still imposingly dark. Sawdust trembled just a bit as he took his first step into it. He tried to breathe, to imagine that this was outside of Master Adrien’s home, that the warm yellow light of the windows was just behind him, waiting.

Sawdust hoped that this forest was truly as empty as he thought. He prayed that there would be nobody else here, that he could find somewhere dry to curl up and take a little nap. It was late, and he was tired.

Each step felt heavy. The tiredness coupled with the fear made it difficult for Sawdust to continue moving, no matter how much he envisioned the space as being familiar. He tried to focus on putting one paw in front of the other, and keeping his eyes peeled as best he could in the darkness. 

He walked a little further before he found a spot that looked suitable. A little hollow space, an area that was cleared between and under some bushes. It was just big enough for him to curl up in, and it was dry and the bushes could keep him relatively warm until morning. 

Sawdust adjusted his headband and his tail, curling his gangly limbs to the best of his ability so he could fit. He laid his head on top of his arms and closed his eyes. 

He drifted in and out of sleep for a while, he couldn’t tell how long. The sounds of the wildlife around him started to lull him to sleep. The trees rustled with the wind, small animals crept to their homes to sleep, and Sawdust was prepared to spend the night outside.

But something was strange. He moved in his sleep, skin crawling. He heard something. Footsteps?

Sawdust opened his eyes and squinted into the darkness, trying to discern what was in front of him. It wasn’t human footsteps, Sawdust counted four. It sounded big. He sat up and propped himself up on his paws, still trying to see.

It was only when the moonlight passed through the trees just perfectly was he alerted to what was truly in front of him. Sawdust shot up out of the bushes, standing up just outside of them as he stared down the creature that woke him up. A mountain lion crept closer to him, its ears pinned back as it let out a rumbling sound from its chest.

Sawdust turned and ran. He had to, he couldn’t fight that thing, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough to outrun it. He whimpered, hearing it thunder after him. It wouldn’t be long before he was caught, but he didn’t stop running. Sawdust could not stop running if he ever wanted to see Master Adrien again. Trees flew past him, his paws slipping on the leaves that covered the forest floor. 

His clumsy paws fell out from under him and he tumbled forwards, slamming down into the ground, at the mercy of the animal.

It jumped at him, thick claws digging and dragging down his lower leg. Sawdust screamed, trying to move back away from it. He could never escape it. He was a stupid dog, and he was even more stupid for ever thinking that he could rely on himself. And now he was going to die.

The animal did not waste time staring him down, it did not loom over him. It pulled back, got its massive paws underneath it, and leapt forward. Sawdust squeezed his eyes shut, body tense, only to be met with a loud bang ripping through the forest.

The animal dropped, heavy on Sawdust’s body. He began to cry.

His own blood flowed out freely, soaking his sweatpants and then pooling on the ground. The creature… Sawdust couldn’t bare to look at it. In the brief glance he had seen, there was a small red hole, just above its right brow, and a splattered red mess in the left-back of its head. Sawdust sobbed, he didn’t want to cover his face for fear of smearing blood all over himself. He moved out from underneath the dead animal, only to be greeted with more footsteps. Not animal ones, but those of a human. A man’s voice spoke up.“Now, I expect a you’re welcome, but let’s get you back to my camp.”

--

The strange man reeked of alcohol. "I'm trying to get to town…" Silas quietly replies, his voice high in pitch from fear.

"Heh…" The drunk man picks Silas up, "I coul' take ye' home, girl… show ye' a good time…?"

Silas hardly heard what the man said, his fangs itching for some blood. Any blood to fill his starving body. He couldn't handle alcohol like this, but what choice did he have? "Uhh… why don't we sit on that log over there? Surely that could be fun…" Silas lifts his voice higher, more feminine.

"I like the way ye' think…" the drunk drops Silas on the log, and then climbs on top of him.

Silas' bloodlust finally catches up to him and he rolls over, pinning the man to the ground with his good arm and sitting on his chest. Lifting the man's bony wrist to his mouth.

The man goes to make another gross comment when Silas rips away the skin on his wrist, wrapping his lips around the wound and swallowing deeply as more and more blood rushed into his mouth.

The scream of the man was loud, but it didn't last long. With the man's dying breath, he said, "Ye'r a bi'ch…" though no one heard him. Or they mustn't have cared if they did.

Silas continued drinking until he couldn't get any more out of the arm. He licked up every drop that had oozed down his clothes and to the blood-soaked dirt. He almost shoved the soil in his mouth when he remembered he just had to change the human's elevation. Blood is affected by gravity after all.

Silas' head buzzed strangely and he tried to hoist the corpse, but he ended up stumbling to the ground again, just this time with a dead man on his shoulders. Silas rolled to the side and the body fell back to the ground and with a small smile on his face he spoke, "Oops… how did I forget…? Men often don't have long hair… and I'm so skinny… well, thanks for the meal, creep…" He admires his wrist, no longer damaged and crooked. He runs his hands over his feminine curves, laughing to himself and wondering if he could lure more icky men to their deaths.

Silas wipes his face and looks down at his clothes. Good thing it's dark. Those blood stains would scare anyone off. Ugh, he hasn't felt this warm in a long time. It would be nice if he was in more than a tattered shirt and shorts.

Silas continued stumbling towards town, no longer starved and weak, instead buzzing from that idiot's blood. Silas never drank alcohol back when he was human, so the new feeling was off-putting. The world seemed to sway in a wind that wasn't really there.

Silas blinked a few times and saw the town. And a man was looking at him. This man looked nice, and he smelt sober, thank fuck.

"Uh, are you okay there? Gotta little something on your…" the handsome man pointed to Silas' shirt.

"Ahh… just-! Ugh…" Silas stumbles and leans against a tree. "I'm- wow, you're pretty…" Silas' eyes droop slightly, "Hey… wanna go for a walk with me?" Silas stumbled forward.

The man chuckles. "Are you drunk, doll? Do you need some help?" He walked over to Silas and hooked an arm around him. "Come on, tell me where you gotta go."

"Uhh…" Silas points to the woods. "Somewh- somewhere that way…"

The man starts helping Silas back into the woods.

"Gosh, you smell like blood and alcohol, are you a killer?" the stranger jokes after a few minutes.

Silas tears up and slumps to the ground, "I- I didn't mean ta' kill 'im…"

"Wait, what?"

"I was so hungry… 'n'… he-!" Silas reached loudly, "He didn' feel it-! I promise…"

Silas' body heaved and shook as the blood in his stomach spilled over the soil.

The small laugh came from the man, "Oh, I had a feeling you were a vampire…" The sound of metal reaches Silas' ears. "First time hunting?" he asked, hooking the knife to Silas' neck.

"Mmhm…" Silas leans back against the stranger. "I'm so hungry… I…" sobs echoed through the trees. "K-kill me if you gotta… I understand…"

The hunter let him go. Silas crawled towards a tree then stopped, facing the hunter and kneeling. "I was so hungry… sir, please… I- I won't kill you! I mean, you could just kill me first if I got close to it…"

"How long have you been turned?"

"Huh? Uh…" Silas blinked, tears hit the ground, "I… 2 years I think? My sire didn't tell me much on how much time passed…"

"And your sire… did they starve you?" the hunter nudged Silas' ribs.

"Mmhm… he-… he said I was prettier like this…" Silas' wobbled slightly, landing sideways in the dirt and trying to keep his eyes open.

"How about this… I feed you a little blood." Silas looked up at him instantly, "If… you beg."

"I can beg. I know how to beg… uh, do you want me crying? I can be pathetic! Or… or more desperate? Anything, just please… please I'll do an'thing for some blood, sir…" the words stumbled out of Silas' mouth, a few blending together.

The hunter smirks at him. And so the game begins.

Taglist; @whumpsoda @softvampirewhump