#based on the thickness of the pen strokes the first one must be t i n y

[canisalbus]

I drew a little machete at work and the person that covered my break put a goatee on him ??

And i drew him again, larger, at the end of the day to kill time

.

[whumping-every-day]

I'm loving Gabriel so much...might I request: Stefan and Maria celebrating his birthday? With cake and presents, and pretty decorations! Because Gabby needs all the good things and softness

You asked for this over a month ago, Anon, and I am so sorry. I was so inspired that I wrote almost 4k for it, please enjoy! Tagging the Gabriel Gang under the cut. 

Tags for this one: None! Just excessive softness!

Masterlist

-

They are hiding something from him. 

It’s not Gabriel’s job to be in the loop, of course, and he understands that Master and Mistress don’t have to tell him anything. 

But the strange thing is that they often do, and the change is unsettling. His Masters have understood, from the very beginning, that it calms Gabriel to understand what’s going on around him. They have communicated with him from early on, before he was even used to being spoken to like a person.

Then one day, the mail comes with a mysterious black box. His Mistress snatches it up with an unusual amount of enthusiasm, and she waves Gabriel away when he offers to help clean up. She tells him not to worry and kisses his cheek, and the box gets tucked under her arm. It goes upstairs with her, and Gabriel doesn’t see it again.

Days pass, and Gabriel’s suspicion grows. Gabriel is used to his betters talking like he isn’t present, or like he can’t even hear them. Sometimes it’s comforting to be ignored. But more than once over the next few weeks he goes looking for one of his masters, only to find them together, whispering hurriedly among themselves.

The second time it happens, Mistress jumps when he knocks.

They always welcome him in after, of course; Master pulls him into a little hug, and Mistress ruffles his hair and asks if he’s not part cat, since he’s so quiet. It comes with all the impossible warmth and kindness that color everything his new Masters do. But Gabriel can’t help noticing that whenever he interrupts them, they never go back to what they were saying.

More days pass, and Gabriel focuses on shutting his mind off and behaving himself. That’s all a well-trained pet should be worried about, after all. If he can just be good enough, if he can be exactly what they want him to be, then maybe, maybe –

Maybe he can convince them not to do whatever they’re planning on doing.

It’s not sound logic, but it’s all Gabriel has. The thought of the black box is like a tic, impossible to shake off.

Then, one day, Master calls Gabriel into his office. It’s a Saturday; Mistress has gone grocery shopping, and both Gabriel and his Master had woken up late.

He’s still shaking off the vestiges of sleep as he nudges the office door open.

“Ah, hey, bud.” Gabriel looks up to the source of the warm greeting, and feels his insides freeze. Master is seated at his desk, and in his hands is a manila folder. Gabriel has only ever seen that folder twice; once, when First Master had gotten rid of him, and then again, when Second Master had sold him to Stefan and Maria.

Gabriel must make some sort of sound, because Master stiffens, his brow creasing.

“Whoa, hey. It’s alright, sweet boy.” Gabriel can’t seem to tear his eyes off the folder. He’s only ever seen it when he’s being sold, and he’s terrified, suddenly, right down to his bones. He whimpers, takes a single step back, and Master puts the folder down.

“Gabriel, hey.” It’s firmer, this time, and it pulls Gabriel out of his internal spiral. “Come here, little one.” Gabriel lets out an unsteady breath and stumbles closer, drops to his knees at Master’s feet.

A large palm immediately settles in his hair, heavy and warm, and Gabriel whines and leans into it desperately.

“Easy, sweetheart, take a breath. There you go, good boy.” Gabriel feels the pinprick of tears at the praise, and he shudders and tips his face into Master’s palm. Yes, he’s being good, he’s doing his best, so there’s no need to have the folder out, no need – “I guess you know what this is, huh.” Master taps the file, and Gabriel flinches.

He nods meekly and hides his face against the man’s knee.

“Don’t worry,” Master murmurs gently. Those broad fingers are still carding through his hair, and Gabriel knows how strong they are, knows that they could easily knot and tangle and pull. But they don’t, and they never have, and Gabriel lets himself lean against Master’s knee just a little. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Master continues. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions. These papers, they’re, eh… lacking some information.”

Gabriel frowns quizzically. Information? He assumes information about him, but he doesn’t know what’s written in the file.

“It’s fine if you don’t know the answers.” Master drags his fingernails gently along Gabriel’s scalp, and Gabriel lets himself be calmed by the repetitive motions. “Actually, I would be surprised if you did, but let’s just make sure, hmm?” He waits for Gabriel to give another hesitant nod before he asks, “do you know when you were born?” Gabriel just blinks for a moment, before slowly shaking his head.

“ ‘m sorry,” he whispers roughly. Master had said it was okay if Gabriel didn’t know the answers, but he still feels the shame at not being able to provide what was asked.

“Don’t be, little one,” Master says simply. “You know I want you to be honest, and you were. Good boy.” And he keeps petting Gabriel’s hair, and Gabriel swallows against a wave of something hot and tight in the back of his throat.

There’s a gap between questions, then, long enough for Gabriel’s eyelids to grow heavy, long enough for him to slump against Master’s knee. Master only guides him closer, lets Gabriel rest his head in his lap.

“Do you remember anything about where you were born? Or your parents? These papers aren’t agency-issued, so you didn’t come through official channels.”

Gabriel blinks back to proper awareness, frowning faintly as he digests the question. His parents… that must have been before First Master, he assumes. But there was nothing before First Master. Right?

… Right?

There was no time before First Master, no time before the pain and the beatings. Gabriel has always been a pet, because that’s all he’s ever been good for.

“I-” The boy’s voice cracks, and Master’s hand has gone still in his hair. Gabriel blinks, and his next inhale is audibly shaky. “I d-don’t, I don’t know,” he whispers, and it’s tremulous even to his own ears.

“That’s okay,” Master promises gently. “Stay with me, little one, don’t push yourself.” He curls one of those large, calloused hands against the back of Gabriel’s neck, heavy and weighted and safe, and it’s good.

“I can’t, I can’t remember,” Gabriel confesses quietly. It makes sense that he would have had parents at some point, but when he tries to think of them, nothing comes. And even if they had existed… they must have given him away. How else had he come to be in First Master’s possession?

“Easy, sweetheart, hey,” Master says, and Gabriel realizes that he’s trembling again. “You’re okay, precious, you’re alright.” There’s a moment of quiet on Stefan’s part, and a faint frown. “I shouldn’t have sprung this on you,” he murmurs regretfully. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Take a breath for me, there you go.”

At some point, Gabriel’s fingers have wound in the fabric of Master’s jeans; he’s clinging to the man’s ankle, and when Master opens his arms Gabriel practically falls into his lap.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he sniffles, and Master just curls an arm around him and holds tight. He’s still on his knees, but Master is holding him, and with some encouragement Gabriel slinks up more so he can hide his face against the man’s shoulder.

“There you go, bud,” Master murmurs softly as he strokes the base of Gabriel’s skull. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

Gabriel is already tired, already over-wrought from the constant nerves, but the mention of before has shaken him terribly. Master strokes his hair and rubs his neck until Gabriel is boneless against him, mostly held up by the thick arm around his waist. When he is finally guided away, gentle and careful, Master dries his tears.

“Thank you for being honest,” he murmurs, and Gabriel melts inside. Master keeps a hand cupping his jaw while he picks up his pen with the other. “It’s no problem. Just means I have to get creative.” Stefan makes a few quick additions to the papers, scratching something out and writing in a note underneath. Gabriel just waits, leaning against the man’s knee and soaking up the contact.

He doesn’t care what’s on the papers, not really, and it’s not like he can read them. But he can’t wait for them to be put away, as if their mere presence is a reminder than his owners could get rid of him at any time.

They won’t. Even if they haven’t collared him yet, even if they haven’t given him a physical sign of belonging, they promised that they wouldn’t. And Gabriel can only hope (and pray, and beg, and bargain with whatever might be listening) that they mean it.

“Now, what were you up to before I interrupted?” Gabriel perks up at the question.

“O-oh! Mistress said I could polish the banisters today.” Gabriel bites his lip, drops his eyes. It is a struggle to find tasks they will let him complete. It’s almost like they don’t want to assign him regular chores, so Gabriel treasures each one he’s given.

“Did she? Ah, well.” Master ruffles Gabriel’s hair one last time before his hand falls away. “You should be off, then.”  Gabriel nods obediently, and he immediately misses the warmth as he peels himself away from Master’s legs.

“Yes Master.” His joints creak faintly as he gets to his feet, and Gabriel carefully hides the wince. He’s sore a lot, he finds; something about spending a very long time locked in a basement.

“Remember not to push yourself.” Master is watching him like he knows, somehow, and Gabriel gulps and scurries for the door.

“Yes Master,” he murmurs again, and he hovers against the door frame, unsure if the man has more to say. But Master only watches for another moment, before giving a quiet sigh and waving him away.

Gabriel ducks out of the room feeling uneasy, but not bad. He closes the door as quietly as he can, and then quickly goes back in search of the correct cleaning supplies.

He doesn’t see the manila folder again, and Master doesn’t ask any more strange questions.

-

It’s almost a week later when everything finally clicks.

They’ve sent him upstairs to his room, and Gabriel would be convinced that he was in trouble, except that they’ve both sworn he isn’t. They just needed to do something in the living room, they said, and that he shouldn’t worry.

Gabriel is worried anyway, even though he’s trying not to be.

He straightens the blanket on the bed, making sure all of the edges are perfectly aligned, and that there are no creases or wrinkles. His Masters have been impossibly generous, giving him a bed to sleep on, and Gabriel isn’t about to take it for granted. The rest of the little room is already spotless; Gabriel cleans the window and dresser every day, and vacuums whenever he can get away with it.

It’s calming, making sure that everything is perfect, but in the end there’s not much to do.

“Gabe? You can come down now, sweety.” Mistress’s voice is airy and light, not even a hint of irritation, but Gabriel’s heart still kicks into overdrive.

He remembers what surprises had looked like, back with First and Second Master.

He pads down the carpeted staircase, and it muffles his steps so that his approach is nearly inaudible. There’s music playing faintly, and Gabriel bites his lip as he creeps around the corner and pokes his head into the kitchen.

“M-Mistress?”

“In here!” It comes from the living room, and Gabriel’s heart is in his throat as he follows.

He’s not sure what he’ll find when he steps inside, but it’s not what he’d expected.

His owners are both sitting on the couch; there are three colorfully wrapped boxes at their feet. There are colorful streamers draped from the ceiling, and they’ve wound a few strands of tea-lights around the end table and up over the couch. The main lights are off, and there is something sweet in the air.

“Surprise,” Mistress says with a smile, and Master chuckles softly at Gabriel’s baffled expression.

“Come join us, bud,” he says, and Gabriel quickly scampers over and melts into his spot on the floor. It’s immediately comforting, and the tension eases out of him as Mistress’s fingers settle in his hair.

“This is probably new to you, huh,” she says, and Gabriel nods wordlessly. She shifts so that Gabriel is kneeling between them, and he leans back against Master’s legs shamelessly.

“This is for you,” Mistress says simply, and Gabriel blinks up at her in bewilderment.

“We kept it simple,” Master adds. “We know that this is a lot, and we didn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s nothing too crazy.”

With the way Gabriel’s expression is clouded, it’s very much like he’s asking without words if maybe they are crazy.

Mistress giggles just a little, and she cups Gabriel’s cheeks and kisses his forehead.

“We wanted to celebrate you,” she says easily. “Because we love you, and you’re special.”

We love you, and you’re special. Gabriel has heard the words before, but they still make him impossibly shy. His cheeks go pink with it, and he tries to duck his head and hide, only to be stopped by Mistress’s hand on his cheek. Instead he whines softly, because it’s so much – it’s too much, he can’t handle it.

“No hiding this time, bud,” Master says, and his eyes are fond.

“Most people celebrate on the day they were born,” Mistress says. “But since we don’t know when you were born, we picked today. Unless you find a day later on that you like better.”

Gabriel looks around for a moment, at the twinkling faerie lights, and the colorfully wrapped presents, and the streamers, and something hot rises behind his eyes.

“I-” his voice breaks, and his throat closes, and suddenly Gabriel can’t speak. Instead he sniffs, wet and pathetic.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mistress says softly, and she scoots to the side on the couch, so there is a Gabriel-sized gap between her and her brother. She pats the empty spot and holds out an arm, and wordlessly Gabriel slinks up into the couch and folds into her arms. It had been a struggle, at first, to get Gabriel up onto the furniture. He’s still a thousand times more comfortable on the floor, where he knows he’s not doing anything wrong… but it’s getting easier.

A larger pair of arms envelope them both a moment later, and then it’s the three of them, warm and loving and safe and held, with Gabriel wrapped in the middle. He sniffles against Mistress’s shoulder, and Master rubs one of those big hands up and down his back.

It’s several minutes until Gabriel regains his composure, and even then his eyes are still red, still wide with awe and wonder and that constant hint of nerves, as if all of it might still be a dream.

“This is… this is f-for me…?” It’s small, and timid, but Mistress nods and smiles down at him, and Master gives him the gentlest little squeeze, presses a kiss to the side of his hair.

“For you,” Master murmurs.

They hold him for a little while after that; Mistress plays with his hair, lets him curl up into her front, and Master rubs his back and lets Gabriel cling to his hand.

“Would you like to open your presents?”

“Mmm…” Gabriel is content where he is, and he would happily accept just the grace of their warmth, if that was all they wanted to offer. But Master is gesturing to the boxes, and it clicks, very belatedly, that they’re gifts. They’re for him.

It’s a lot. His hands shake as Gabriel accepts the first present, and his Masters are patient with him when he slowly unpeels the red paper. He glances back to them every few seconds, as if waiting for one of them to yell gotcha. But they don’t, and then the box comes open properly, and he stares down at the little set of brushes and paints inside. Gabriel had liked the crayons when Mistress had brought some home, but he hadn’t thought that they’d noticed.

“Th-these – these are real paints,” he says.

“Yeah, bud. We thought maybe we could put some tarp down in the downstairs study, make it into an art room.” An art room? Gabriel must have too much shock and bewilderment in his expression, because Mistress shakes her head and smiles faintly.

“Or maybe we’ll wait on that. But those are for you, and you can use them however you like. There are some canvases and brushes in the bottom.”

There are indeed canvases in the bottom; they are small, about a foot in diameter, but Gabriel handles each one like it’s made of glass.

“I – I d-don’t-” Words fail him, and Gabriel is left stammering on a thank-you that would never feel like enough anyway.

“Shh, it’s alright, little one,” Master says gently. “You’ve got two more left.”

Two more – that’s two more than Gabriel ever expected. The whole scenario is bizarre. Nothing will ever truly be his, of course - everything in this house is the Master’s property, including him. So these things that they are giving him are also theirs. Just for him to use, maybe.

The second box isn’t a box, but a soft lump wrapped in the same red paper. Gabriel tears this one open with only a little encouragement, and he can’t help but gasp as his fingers meet fabric. It’s the softest thing Gabriel’s ever touched. It’s fuzzy and silky, and when Gabriel curls his fingers into it, the fabric almost slips from his fingers. It’s like holding onto a cloud, and it’s a dark blue, like the night sky.

“It’s, it’s so soft,” he says in awe. Even the blankets on Master and Mistress’s beds aren’t this soft. Gabriel lifts the fabric up, only for it to fold out and tumble down his lap.

“It’s a blanket,” Master explains. He helps shake it out and then tucks it around Gabriel’s shoulder, and it feels like being hugged by a cloud. It’s warm, too, practically decadent, and Gabriel buries his hands in it and sinks deeper into the couch.

“Now, you know you’re allowed to use any of the blankets in the house,” Mistress murmurs. “And the ones in your bedroom are already yours. But we thought it might help if you had one that was just for you.” She smiles and reaches out to squeeze his hand, and the lingering shock keeps Gabriel silent as he accepts the last package.

This one is smaller, around the size the paints had been. His fingers are unsteady as he slips one under the edge, rips carefully at the paper. It still feels utterly surreal, and every second is spent waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s a smaller box inside, and Gabriel’s eyes widen in recognition. This the box that had come in the mail, over a week ago now. Gabriel turns it over, then shoots a nervous, questioning look to his owners. It’s about the same size as the cavasses, but heavier.

“It’s a tablet,” Mistress says, which does not help with Gabriel’s confusion. He shoots a sidelong glance at Master, then back to the box, wondering if he can get away with pretending to understand.

There’s a quiet, rumbling chuckle, and Master shakes his head. “It’s alright, little one. We already programmed it for you.”

“Yeah, we figured it could be confusing at first. It’s very simple… here.” Mistress holds out a hand for the box, and Gabriel hands it over wordlessly. He has seen phones before, of course – and by the image on the box, he suspects that a tablet is something similar. But he cannot fathom why his owners would give him one.

“Now, it’s not connected to the internet or anything,” Mistress says as she presses the button. “But it’s special for another reason.” The device boots up, and Mistress swipes the little arrow, which leads to a blank screen. “I’ll show you how it works.”

Gabriel leans forward curiously, and takes the tablet when Mistress hands it to him.

“Tap the green icon,” she says. Gabriel obeys, and he almost jumps when the screen responds. “Good. See this list here? There’s two numbers there, tap the first one.” He obeys again, and the screen goes black, except for one red icon on the bottom.

There’s silence for a split second, and Gabriel looks up in alarm, afraid that he’s somehow broken it.

Then Master’s cell phone rings, and Mistress’s face splits in a smile. There’s something almost smug about it as Master reaches into his pocket and swipes the screen.

In his hands, the tablet flares to life with color, and Gabriel almost drops it in surprise. “Oh-”

His Master smiles at him through the screen, and waves up at his phone from where he’s sitting. Gabriel sees it happen twice, once out of the corner of his eye and once on the tablet’s surface.

“Hey, buddy,” Master says with a grin, and even through the screen his smile makes Gabriel feel fluttery inside.

“We know you don’t like to be alone,” Mistress says. “But with me going back to school, and working, and your Master travelling – we wanted to give you a way to call us. Just in case there’s a time when neither of us are home.”  

The image on the tablet is impossibly clear, until suddenly it blurs, and Gabriel realizes his eyes have misted over. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead he sniffs, and nods his head, clutches at the tablet.

“Tha-a-ank you,” he manages after a moment, and it’s wet, unsteady. “Th-this is, this is so much, I don’t – I can’t, can’t pay you back for this-” He can’t pay them back for any of it. And how much had a brand-new tablet even cost? Something in his stomach goes cold at the thought, but his owners are already shaking their heads, and Mistress winds an arm around his middle and squeezes.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, and kisses the top of his head. “These are for you. We love you, sweetheart. Besides, we promised to take care of you.” She smiles a tad sheepishly and lifts a hand to play with one of his curls. “Let us spoil you a little.”

It takes him a moment, but Gabriel sniffs again, takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he breathes, one last time. This way he can contact them, even when they aren’t here - he thinks of how empty the house seems when they’re gone, and the dark shadows in his room, and he bites his lip. The tablet is still live in his hands, and it shows a close-up of Master’s shirt now that the man has put his phone in his lap.

“The second number is mine,” Mistress adds. “I know we’re still working on your letters, but once you get a bit quicker, you’ll be able to text, too.” 

He doesn’t deserve any of it. Gabriel knows that, deep in his bones. The attention, the kindness, the safe place to sleep – it’s all more than he’d ever thought he would get, and he doesn’t know how he can possibly express his gratitude enough.

But he nods tearfully, and leans into Master’s hand at the small of his back, and knows that he’ll spend the rest of his time with them trying.

–

@robinshouseofwhump @pepperonyscience @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump  @what-huh-imconfused @vickytokio @captivity-whump @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @adventuresofacreesty  @kyra-plays @cagefreebirds @whumpywhumper @blue-flare10 @whumptywhumpdump   @whumpywhumper @maybeawhumpblog  @fallingstormphoenix  @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @infreidel @shadowicepuma @justanothermaltesegirl @whump-in-the-night @theawesomeawkward @promptnations @whumpity–whump–whump  @maraudersmarvelwhump @haro-whumps @whumposaurus @deluxewhump  @nervous-writer @doublebubblebitchqueen @mortifiedwhump @whump-tr0pes @comfortforthepain @kungpao-giffy @whumps-the-word @burtlederp

[dothwrites]

thanksgiving soft boys (part 1)

dean likes thanksgiving. cas does not. 

“it’s based on a false narrative that covers up colonialism and genocide and that continues to ignore the very real problems plaguing native communities today,” he told dean the first time that the topic came up. he thought for a moment, lips closing delicately around the cap of his pen. “and turkey tastes like napkins.” 

and in the subsequent years, cas’ viewpoint hasn’t changed. and cas is smart, like probably one of the smartest people dean knows, apart from sam, but in his view on holidays, he’s so damn stupid. thanksgiving is family and pie and food and pie and football and crappy christmas specials and pie. like three different types of pie. it’s one of the few times of the year that it’s socially acceptable for dean to have an entire plate of pie and not hear the gentle remonstrations of dean you’re going to upset your stomach. fuck off, it’s thanksgiving and he’ll eat all the pie he wants. 

cas, being a philistine as well as a lost misguided soul who believes that fresh fruit can double as a dessert, doesn’t see eye to eye with him. no one’s perfect. 

but cas does the thanksgiving thing. he helps dean make deviled eggs and makes room in the refrigerator for the turkey and he carries the crockpot into his parents’ house the day of. he peels potatoes and helps dean assemble pies and he shares family-appropriate stories about weird people that he’s met in the course of his job. he helps mom with dishes and makes awkward small talk with dean’s dad and sneaks out with jess to indulge in hits of a hastily assembled joint. he comes back, nose pink from the cold and smelling strongly of something thick and earthy as well as some sickly vanilla spray that jess must have doused him in. dean buries his nose in cas’ hair and inhales, hiding his grin as cas pushes his face into dean’s chest like an overgrown, stubbly cat. 

and later, because neither of them wants to drive the twenty minutes back to their house, they crawl upstairs into the guest bedroom where the comforter smells a little musty and the mattress is a little stiff, and the pillows are a little too soft, but dean’s still pie-drunk and cas’ extra curricular activities are starting to catch up with him, so the minor discomforts don’t matter. they strip down to t-shirts and boxers before folding underneath the covers. dean scoots forward until his knees are knocking against cas’, until his nose brushes against cas’, until he can smell the faint remnants of pumpkin pie mingling with toothpaste carried on cas’ breath. 

“hey thanks,” dean mutters, already a quarter of the way asleep. cas mumbles something that sounds like the words for what slurred into a single noise. “for doing the whole thanksgiving thing. i know it’s not your favorite. but it means a lot.” 

cas cracks open one eye, still bleary and bloodshot from the pot. jesus, dean loves him so much. 

“it’s nice,” cas murmurs, more than halfway asleep if the thickness of his voice is anything to judge by. the eye closes. it looks like cas is willing to end the conversation there, but dean wants more. he pokes cas between the ribs until the eye opens again. “your family,” cas continues, a definite grumpy edge to his voice (cas very much does not appreciate being kept from sleep). “their gatherings, the way that they...it’s just nice.” 

and then dean remembers that most of cas’ family dinners were catered affairs that required formalwear, and that cas’ parents aren’t actual people so much as they are realistic robots intent on marketing their children and, when their children don’t adhere to their notions of what is right, chopping off any bits that don’t agree with their vision. he remembers that cas never got family dinners that ended in laughter and movies, that cas’ childhood was filled with family dinners that resembled executions in terms of mirth and obligation. 

“ah jesus,” dean breathes, because he remembers too how fragile cas seemed when he first met him, all big eyes and messy hair and the vocabulary of a crossword puzzle creator. he remembers how long it took cas to finally relax and how, when mom hugged him for the first time, how cas’ eyes had reflected sheer terror before he relaxed into the embrace. “come here you grumpy bastard.” 

and cas grumbles and groans and tells dean that he’s an asshole, but he lets dean mold their bodies until dean’s lying on his back with cas’ head on his chest. this way he can hold cas, stroke along his back and feel cas’ breaths deepening into the regular rhythm of sleep. it doesn’t take long and dean is already falling asleep, in a bed that is a little too small for two six foot men, but it’s fine because it’s cas that he’s falling asleep next to. 

dean’s last thought before he falls asleep is thank you. thank you.