#oh jameson – @just-horrible-things on Tumblr

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, referenced torture, referenced death/murder, sadistic whumper, internal dehumanization

For @whumptober 2022, day six: Screams from across the hall

Jameson’s masterlist

It doesn’t matter.

The pet in the cage curls himself up as tightly as he can, ignoring the throbbing ache in his knees and thighs, pretending he isn’t covered in welts, some of which are deep enough to bleed.

He keeps the thought on a constant loop in his mind, trying to shout it, silently, until it drowns everything else out.

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter-

The scream cuts through his thoughts, tearful begging, and he shakes his head violently, forcing it back out.

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter…

Doesn’t-

Doesn’t matter-

With the muzzle on, he can’t open his mouth enough to speak. He can’t do anything except grind his teeth together until his jaw aches, hands pressed over his ears, forcing them flat against the thin skin of his head, the straps of the muzzle rubbing everything red and raw.

The sounds are muffled, but he can still hear them. The power drill is the worst - that high pitched whrrrrrrrrrr digs an icepick into his mind, making it harder for him to drown out the screaming with his thoughts.

And this one is a screamer.

He has to tell himself again and again that there isn’t anything worth feeling bad over, she’s going to die and better for her if it happens sooner and not later. Regret won’t save her. He’s locked in a cage counting bottles of Jameson as they’re emptied and lined up along a mantle piece. He can’t help her.

He can’t save her.

It doesn’t matter.

The pet keeps his eyes shut tight to pretend this isn’t happening, because it isn’t happening to him, and caring about the ones that are brought here to die will wear him down to nothing too fast.

But if he could just not have to fucking listen, that would be great.

Her screams raise to a higher pitch, cracking through all his defenses, and the pet screams in tandem with her. His throat is raw and hoarse and his voice cracks, disappears and reappears, as he throws his head back and kicks his legs out against the door of the cage, rattling the bars and the lock that keeps him trapped, screaming until even what small hints of volume are less fade to crackling and then to nothing at all.

Just air, escaping his body even though he can’t.

The sound of the power drill stops.

Fuck.

After a second, the screaming from behind the basement door turns to wracking sobs. The pet lets his hands slowly lower from his ears. Is he done? Will it stop for a while? Maybe he’ll just… fuck her, and then he won’t want the pet, he can only take one, he isn’t-

He isn’t Nanda, who could go all night-

The pet forces away the memory of the man he loved as best he can. Memories only make it harder to survive. He swallows against the tight leather of his collar, straining to listen, jaw working against the construction that digs in along the underside of his jaw.

It doesn’t matter that Nanda is dead, because the pet isn’t.

It doesn’t matter.

“Fucking asshole slut,” He hears, alongside the muffled thumping steps of Robert coming back up the stairs. His tongue sours with the taste of his voice. “Someone could hear that and call the cops on me, stupid brainless slut…”

The pet’s upper lip curls back from his teeth in a snarl, hidden behind the dark leather of the muzzle. His heart, though, starts to race.

Robert heard him.

Shit.

He’ll be the next one screaming.

Not that he really can anymore.

He shouldn’t have felt sorry for her. He shouldn’t have cared. He should have pretended he wasn’t listening.

He should have understood that he’s on his own. She won’t care as much about him. If their places were switched, she’d have stayed quiet.

She’d have understood that it doesn’t matter who dies, as long as the pet doesn’t.

For whumptober taglist: @whumpworld

#others' writing #oh jameson #poor poor jameson #helpless to help #power drill fucking hell #gghhhh