#burtlederp answers eventually

[burtlederp]

This Prompt. I like it. Another! (Please and Thank you)

I will try! Sorry it took years.😅

"Whumpee limped haltingly down the road. Their eyes were drooped, unable to raise them from the dirt path, only able to force themselves to take the next step, and the next, and the next. There had to be help somewhere down the road, eventually... Right?"

[burtlederp-incorporated]

I want you to know that you are That Friend where if you post a video with no context, I'm clicking because I know that shit will be hilarious

Legitimately this might be the highest honor I've ever received

[ashintheairlikesnow]

If you're still doing these, how about alamort from the prompt list?

alamort (adj) : half- dead of exhaustion

CW: Blood, trauma response, memory loss/traumatic memory recovery, callous talk of murder, nonsexual nudity, pet whump references, guilt, referenced stabbing

Jake Gets Fucking Stabbed: One Two Three Four Five

The water went cold a while ago, but Antoni hasn’t moved. The chill of the porcelain along his lower back soothes the itching, aching burn scars underneath, the icy blast of the shower raining down on his locks his muscles into a constant teeth-chattering shiver, but it feels good.

It feels so good

It feels like what he deserves.

“How did you fuck up this badly?” Artyom asks, snapping the words in Russian as he cleans the wounds down his little brother’s arm. Misha won’t look at him, all gangly teenage elbows and knees. “Huh? What am I supposed to tell Mama if this happens again?”

“It won’t,” Misha mumbles, sullen, looking off to the side and not anywhere near him. “I’ll figure it out. Anyway, he’s not going to tell anyone, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Doesn’t it?” Artyom reaches up, gripping Misha’s chin, leaving a smear of red blood along the line of his jaw as he forces his brother’s eyes to meet his own. “Did you wear gloves, Misha? At least did you do that?” 

Misha doesn’t answer, but Artyom knows what the lack of answer really means, and groans, letting go and sort of throwing Misha’s head to the side at the same moment with his frustration. “Misha! We talked about this!”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve done it before,” Misha says, still in that sulky mutter. “And i was by myself, you didn’t exactly help.”

“I’m not going to help you kill people!” Artyom wraps the bandages over Misha’s arm so viciously his little brother hisses at the pain. “I am no killer, Misha. And I’m not going to be one just for you.”

“Fine. We’ll see how Mama feels when I’m in prison and you have to tell her it’s because you wouldn’t help me.”

Artyom takes a breath, lets it out. Closes his eyes. There’s already a headache throbbing in his temples. “Misha... fine. Where did you leave the body?”

Maybe they can find it before the police do.

There’s red on his palms, even as the rest of his skin is clammy and pale from the water. Red on his palms and in the burns he is covered with, beginning at his wrists and covering every inch of his torso and back. Burns he earned, burns he took to make up for the crimes he was a part of.

Right?

Antoni shudders, scrubbing at the inside of his left hand, but the red gets worse, if anything. So much blood on his hands, and it won’t come off. It just stays there, a stubborn stain a decade old or more. All of the others, those were only the avalanche, but the first body is the shout that brought down the snow.

Antoni is a collection of rotted bodies and hidden bones, he is all the things he did not stop, he is all the ways he helped hide evil from the light. 

Jake’s blood had run from him first, when the shower water was still hot, when it scalded his skin until he could barely breathe for the pain. Jake’s blood had swirled pinkish in the water, gone down the drain and disappeared. Jake’s blood had been worthwhile to carry, to wear on himself. That had been saving a life, but the bloodstains left everywhere else are from lives taken.

He stares at the scar on the inside of his left wrist, where he and Chris had their barcodes removed together. It’s pale, a shimmer of skin that isn’t quite the same as the skin that surrounds it. No burns, but he is struck with a sudden urge to find Mr. Davies and ask for one. 

Mark me this way, how you marked all my other sins.

He shudders, lets out a choked-off sob that even he can barely hear over the water.

He was a pet for a reason, he was a pet because of what he’d done, but he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known what he did to deserve it. He had suspected but he hadn’t known, he hadn’t-

He knows now.

He could fall asleep here, the unlocking of a whole life inside his mind leaves him half-dead from the exhaustion and guilt, but he can’t sleep. He can’t stop. Not until the blood is gone.

It won’t come out.

“Tyoma!” Misha catches him in a hug, and the two of them laugh. “I missed you!”

“Missed you, too, Misha.” The airport is a busy hum around them, but Artyom has eyes only for his little brother, as always. ‘Mama is waiting at home. How was everyone?”

“Good!” Misha glances side to side, and then leans in to whisper against Artyom’s ear. “I did one there, in Russia, Tyoma. Just one.”

Artyom felt a bit of ice in his heart, lodged there unmelting, a pain he can’t dig out. “Misha, you promised-”

“I couldn’t help it. What are they going to do, Tyoma, track me from thousands of miles?” Misha laughs, and pulls away, and Tyoma follows him, taller and older but endlessly lost in the circle of Misha’s life, endlessly bound to the results of his choices, endlessly putting his small, once-sickly little brother first.

Family first.

Artyom spends the next few months waiting for a call that never comes.

Antoni hears voices outside the bathroom door, muffled but shouting, and he puts his hands over his ears to block them out. Maybe this is it, the end of the life he worked so hard to build, the end of the life of caring for one family because the ghosts of the other will no longer allow him to rest.

He has to turn the water off eventually.

His hand shakes almost too badly to manage it.

Even after it stops, he sits, shivering and dripping and naked in the bathtub. He can’t remember how to stand up to go get a towel. He can’t remember where the towels are. He can’t remember where he is, only the list of deaths that linger on his back, in his mind.

He tastes bitter and salt on his tongue, and starts to cry, holding himself in the tub. Every inch of his skin is burning, every round circle a brand new flame pressed there, Mr. Davies’s voice impassive and soft against his ear.

You deserve this, love.

“I kn-know,” Antoni chokes out, his voice low and broken. “I know, I know, I know...”

You deserve to suffer for what you’ve done, and everyone you ever touch will suffer, too.

Antoni thinks of Jake, bleeding out onto the kitchen floor, screaming as Antoni packed his wound, crying out for his mother.

They always cry for their mothers, while Misha-

Antoni can’t let the thought finish.

Desperate for something that will hurt him the way he deserves to be hurt, he lets Mr. Davies back into his heart, his mind, his body, and remembers his heavy hands in Antoni’s hair, the loathing in his British lilt.

You deserve this, my pretty little ashtray, this and far, far, far worse than I could ever give you.

Antoni rubs at his hands but the red stain there won’t ever come out. He sobs over the blood on his hands and whispers, to the voice in his mind, “I know.”

-

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @newandfiguringitout @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whumpiary @endless-whump

[haro-whumps]

Group Whumpees 5: Tired

CW: Referenced/Implied noncon, shitty family relationships, faint from hunger, vomiting from fear, disassociation, slavery, aftermath of abuse, multiple whumpees

Tag list: @bleeding-demon-teeth @theycomeinthrees @redwingedwhump @whimperwoods @inpainandsuffering @whole-and-apart-and-between @whump-whump-whump-it-up @whumpingupastorm @newandfiguringitout @lonesome--hunter @looptheloup @icannotweave @cowboysrappin @deluxewhump @whumping-every-day @yeet-me-out-a-window @what-a-whumpy-world @burtlederp @constellationwhump @swordkallya @finder-of-rings @fairybean101 

Masterlist

He’d taken as many painkillers as his body mass allowed (and he was not a small man) but Galo’s headache was still going strong. It had been a few days since his aunt’s death, so funeral preparations were in their final stretch, the funeral itself the next day. Which, of course, meant that anything that could go wrong, was going wrong very presently.

“I told you, dad,” Galo said, rubbing at his temple with the hand not holding his phone, “After the funeral.”

“It hardly seems fair to me that you’ve got access to all her fuckin’ money whenever you goddamn feel like it and I have to wait--”

“Twenty four hours, dad,” Galo interrupted, which he knew was a bad idea in the long run because now he’d just pissed his father off but he was done having the exact same fucking conversation over and over and o-fucking-ver again! “I love you, I’ll see you tomorrow, goodbye.”

And now he’d done it. Hanging up on his father? A bad idea.

He turned his phone off.

“If anyone wants me,” he murmured to the ceiling, “they can have me tomorrow.”

Except… no, what if the funeral home called?

...He’d give it an hour. Enough time for his dad to give up. And if the funeral home was on the list of missed calls, well, hey. They’d leave a message, and he could get back to them then. It gave him a small thrill, defying his father like this. He was very good at keeping a brave face and putting up with his dad’s shit, on the basis that it was his father, and he loved him, and he also knew his dad could make things miserable for him if he responded in kind. But it was kind of nice to be the unreasonable one, for once. 

A very soft knock on the doorframe, and Galo closed his eyes and covered them with a hand. His head hurt so bad, fuck. And Nyla didn’t knock like that, hers were always crisp and clear, which meant the person knocking was one of the other four, and Galo had gotten… more or less okay at navigating around Nyla in the last few days. The others were still pretty enigmatic.

But. He couldn’t just ignore them. He removed his hand, sat up, and saw the last person he expected.

Lilah had largely been hidden from Galo’s view. He was more or less aware that the others were keeping her away from him on purpose, so it was something of a surprise to see her seeking him out intentionally, and without anyone else along with her.

“Hey, Lilah,” Galo said, voice quiet and gentle. He offered her a tired smile. “What’s up?”

“I’ve prepared the flower arrangements for tomorrow, Master. With,” Lilah licked her lips, barely a breath’s moment, “your approval, I will bring them inside, or remake them as you see fit.”

“Already?” Galo asked, pleasantly surprised, “It’s not even noon. Thanks, Lilah, yeah, let’s take a look.” He stood and crossed to the doorway, noting how Lilah grew visibly more and more tense as he got closer. He offered his hand to her, and she knelt and kissed it swiftly. Like he’d hoped, she seemed comforted by the familiar routine, and when she stood back up and followed after him she looked a little less like a frightened statue. Galo stretched his neck from side to side, wishing he had something as simple as that that he could look towards for comfort.

God, that was pathetic. It was probably a good thing Lilah came and grabbed him; staring at some flowers and a bit of fresh air would probably liven Galo’s mood. 

Auntie Bethany’s house phone rang.

“I should disconnect that,” he muttered, followed immediately by the thought, No, no you shouldn’t. Nyla uses the phone to do her job and you’ll need it if you ever have to contact them while you’re away. Stop whining.

Lilah was staring up at him through a loose brown wave of hair, her freckles stark and her injuries not as bad as when he’d first shown up, but still very, very obviously present. He offered her a smile, probably not as convincing as he would’ve liked, but this week had been a nightmare. He was so fucking tired and the funeral wasn’t even until tomorrow. God.

“Master,” Nyla greeted, floating into his peripheral and kneeling when she got close, delicately lifting his hand and kissing his knuckles, “A man claiming to be your father is on the line, Master.”

“Thank you Nyla,” Galo said, “That is my father, yes, and I need you to do something for me, okay? Go ahead and head back to whatever line you answered, and hang up without saying anything.”

Nyla’s surprise was the work of a microsecond, an almost imperceptible twitch to the edge of her ever-present smile. “Yes Master.”

Galo watched her slip away and then turned back to Lilah, offering another smile that was probably even less convincing. “Onward to the garden, eh?”

He kept an eye on her in his peripheral, figuring staring at her directly would freak her out. “Haven’t seen you around much” would be a quick way to get her scared and feeling like she’d done something wrong. “It’s good to see you” probably couldn’t hurt? But then, most anything could hurt, in this place.

“How’ve you been, Lilah?” he settled on eventually, nearing the door to the gardens. Nope, still a bad guess. Her eyes widened, staring vacantly ahead of her, hands fisted in the hem of her shirt. He tried giving her a moment to process his words, maybe give an answer, but he worried she wouldn’t even see the door until she walked right into it. Cautiously, he extended one arm out in front of her, and placed the other gently on her back with a concerned, “Lilah?”

She jumped and stumbled, which he was glad he’d expected. She landed on his outstretched arm, gloved fingers digging briefly into his muscles before she righted herself.

“Sorry Master,” she breathed, words hardly loud enough to hear.

“No big,” Galo assured. “Just got a little worried about you for a second there. You were about to walk into the door.”

“Sorry sir--Sorry Master.”

“You’re okay,” Galo said, carefully placing his hand on her head. Head pats worked for Nyla, once she recognized them for what they were, he could only hope they might work for Lilah too. “You’re good,” he tried, remembering that that tended to go over better. 

Lilah glanced up at him, surprised, and his smile was a little more genuine that round. He’d guessed right, it looked like. She glanced down, eyes wide and peculiarly unblinking, and murmured, “Thank you Master.”

He held the door open for her, ushering her out of the mansion, and he caught sight of the floral arrangements, all of them perched on the lip of the fountain in the center of the weird hedge crop-circle. It was a bit of a walk, but probably central to all of the flowers that Lilah would’ve been working with. And honestly? He needed a walk.

They were about halfway between the house and the exterior hedge when Lilah quietly said, “I have been grateful for the challenge and stimulation of the flower arrangements, Master. I have enjoyed serving you in this way.”

Galo glanced at her, then moved his eyes purposefully forward. “I’m glad. It can be nice to break from routine.”

“Master,” Nyla called softly, and Galo twitched, already knowing what she was about to say. He turned anyway, trying to keep his sour expression off his face. Nyla wasn’t at a point where she would understand he wasn’t upset with her. She pat down her apron when she got close enough to the two of them that she could speak without raising her voice, and curtsied. 

“Your father has called again, Master.”

Galo’s eye twitched involuntarily, and he rubbed at it, feeling the absolute last of his patience start to fray. “Figures.” When he got back in the house, he was finding one of those really oversized wine glasses and filling it to the fucking top. “Okay, here’s what to do now. Leave the phone off the hook, and ignore it. Do not hang it up, and even when it starts blaring the busy signal and fast busy signal, continue to not hang it up. Please let Evan and Greyson--and Sasha, I guess, if you feel like it’s a concern--know not to hang it up, and then go back to your day, alright?”

“Yes Master,” Nyla said, bowing shallowly and then twirling with an attractive flair of her skirts, and returning to the mansion. Galo took a deep, slow breath, covering his face with his hands, and then, for good measure, took another one. He dropped his hands and offered a terse smile to Lilah. 

“Now the flower arrangements.”

“Yes Master!” Lilah gasped, ducking her head and arms circling herself, stumbling as she first backed up, then turned and sped-walked like the world’s angriest roomba was hot on her heels.

“Shit,” Galo breathed to himself, rubbing at his face. Another mistake. He knew he had to accept that he would be making a lot of those, but it was hard to do when each mistake hurt or panicked the people in his care. His long legs caught up with her easily, and a concerned glance at her face revealed she was once again fish-eyed.

“Lilah,” he said gently, arm once again extended in front of her and his fingers lightly tapping her spine. She came to a dead halt, shoulders up to her ears, breathing shallow.

“Lilah, take a deep breath for me please. Nice and slow.”

She tried, it was obvious she was trying. Just not succeeding very well. “That’s it,” he encouraged anyways, “that’s better, keep trying for me, you’re doing great. In,” he breathed in deeply, loudly through his nose, “and out,” he let it out slowly, “Try to match me; it’s okay if it takes a few tries. In,” Lilah got closer, and Galo pressed his palm encouragingly against her back, “and out, there you go Lilah, do that three more times for me.”

She did, and it hurt, how hard this was for her, how scared of him she was. It ached that people could be so frightened by him, when he’d never wanted to hurt anybody.

“There, Lilah, atta girl,” he said, keeping his tone as gentle as he could. No matter how tired and stressed (and pissed) he was, he needed to look out for Lilah and the others, first and foremost. His own emotions could take a backburner, for a little while.

He turned his attention to the flower arrangements, removing the weight of his attention from her, and approached the closest one. “These are lovely, Lilah,” he praised. Too good for Auntie Bethany, he thought privately, slowly rounding the large fountain. “They look really professional; how long have you been doing this sort of thing?”

“I have arranged bouquets for Mistress Bethany’s decor for four years, Master.”

Four whole years, he thought, and glanced at her, keeping his nose pointed towards a gladioli. She was so… small. He was sure it didn’t help that she was curled in on herself standing up, hugging her own arms and staring into the middle distance with the occasional twitch and glance his way, before staring out into space again.

“Lilah, how old are you?” Galo asked, keeping his tone conversational. Idly, he pinched a dead leaf that had been trimmed, but fallen in between the stems, and flicked it away.

“Eighteen, Master.”

Minus four years meant she was fourteen when Auntie Bethany had bought her. That felt so, impossibly young. Logically, it made sense; that was about the age she’d gotten Greyson. Obviously, Galo didn’t remember that part of his life very well, given that he’d been preoccupied riding tricycles and singing his ABC’s, but he also couldn’t remember a point in his life when Auntie Bethany hadn’t had Greyson. God, when he was fourteen he’d been trying out for the swim team and worrying about his grade in history, and Lilah had been indoctrinated into… this.

Everything felt tired and heavy. He hid behind a flower arrangement opposite the fountain to Lilah, and tried to muster up some strength or courage or god knew what to get him through this. He was going to drink a very large glass of wine, and then take a nap. 

In an ironic twist, he felt bad for hating the fact that he had to walk on eggshells every single time he decided to do literally anything, around these five. But he did hate it. It was so hard, but he didn’t know what else to do, but how dare he feel frustrated when they were the torture victims?! It was hardly fair of him. 

He rounded back around the fountain, smile at the ready, and gave Lilah a gentle pat on the back. “Good job, Lilah, these are all perfect.” From the heel of his palm to the tip of his middle finger, his hand covered the majority of her back. She was so, so small. He started to walk past her, slow, telegraphing his movements plainly. She turned, but something must have gone wrong because when she listed to the side, she couldn’t reorient fast enough. He caught her, doll-like in his arms, but where he expected her to simply lean on him a moment to regain her footing like she had earlier, her knees buckled.

“Easy, girl,” Galo said, alarmed, kneeling down to settle her on the grass. “Easy, easy, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry Master!” she whined, covering her mouth with one hand, her other braced on the ground. She sounded like she was about to cry.

“No need,” Galo hushed, touching the back of his hand to her forehead. No fever, maybe a little cool even. “You don’t need to be sorry, Lilah, I’m just worried.” He stroked a hand gently, shallowly up and down her back (she didn’t have a ton of back to rub). “What happened there?”

“I’m--dizzy, Master.”

“Okay, do you know why you’re feeling dizzy?” 

She took another deep-ish breath, and it twinged his heart to see her trying so hard. “I’m hungry, Master,” she answered very quietly.

“Did you not eat breakfast?” Galo asked, brow furrowed. He moved his hand to touch her wrist, feeling her pulse there. A little quick.

“No, Master, I haven’t eaten anything since the last time you gave us permission--none of us have, I promise. We’ve been good, Master, please, we’ve been very good,” she pleaded, desperately looking his way once before returning her eyes to the ground.

…Fuck. Fuck. He’d had his suspicions, from their thinness, that Auntie Bethany had revoked food as a punishment, but he could never have guessed that their default was not eating until they were told to.

“Okay, thank you for answering Lilah. You did good,” he said, gears in his head turning slowly. “You’ve all been drinking water though, right?” Because if that wasn’t the case he had a brand new priority that needed to be taken care of immediately.

Lilah glanced at him in sheer terror, but he didn’t backtrack or rephrase. This question needed answered.

“Yes, Master,” she said tremulously, body tense.

“Good girl, Lilah. That’s what you were meant to do.”

She relaxed a half-step. He watched her swallow, and she nodded, just barely, as though to herself.

“You’ve all been bathing?”

“Yes Master,” she said with a shaky but improved sort of confidence.

“Good,” he praised. He knew they’d been grooming their hair--Nyla’s never looked out of place, and Sasha’s and Evan’s were neatly combed. “Was it just eating that my aunt made you wait for permission for?”

“I--” she swallowed, licked her lips, and took another deep breath, “--don’t know, Master, I think so.”

“Okay? Were there other things you couldn’t do until you got permission?”

Lilah glanced at him, panicked, and he held up a hand to halt her.

“That was too broad, let me rephrase. Are there things you need that you have to get permission for?”

“Just food, Master, and sleep, but, we go to bed when our owner does?” Lilah didn’t sound very sure of herself, scared of getting the answer wrong.

“Well done, Lilah, good girl. Okay, you’ve all done very well for me, and you all definitely deserve to eat. Let’s go get some food in you.”

Lilah perked up, staring up at Galo as he stood with surprised sort of delight. He held out a hand for her and she kissed it, which, well, honestly he should’ve been expecting. “Grab on, I’ll help you stand,” Galo redirected, and she placed her (tiny, so fucking tiny god) hand in his own. She was a little like Nyla, where she barely put any of her weight into that touch, but at least he could feel something there, unlike Nyla.

“Alright, quickest route to the kitchen would be… through the garage?” Galo mused aloud, “Or, well, the shed-garage-hybrid-thing?” Honestly why did Auntie Bethany even have two garages? Only one actually attached to the driveway, the other hosted the mower-tractor thing that Galo should probably learn the official name of and all the gardening supplies, but still. Half of the car garage could be used to store landscaping stuff! No one needed that many actual cars; the size of it was, like everything else here, absurd.

“Yes, Master.” Both of them were attached to the mansion, too, the rear one near the kitchen. Convenient, like fucking everything around here, huh? He held the wooden door open for her, ushering her in first, and rubbed at his undercut tiredly. 

She stumbled again, her hand shooting out to catch herself on the wall, and in doing so she smacked the handle of a rake. Galo shot his arm out, intending to catch the thing before it smacked into her, and the metal teeth caught him on the forearm.

“Shit!” he swore, tossing the rake to the floor and gripping his arm near the elbow. He examined the wound--shallow, but it stung like a bitch--before turning eyes on Lilah, who was, predictably, petrified. She’d been on the brink of panic all day, and Galo became instantly aware that this would send her into an attack. He wasn’t--it was all moving so fast he couldn’t--she looked so scared and--

“Lilah, go stick an ice cube in your mouth,” he ordered, loud and mercifully firm. It was a trick he’d read online somewhere, and he could only hope it worked.

Fortunately, step one of the ice cube trick: disorientation, seemed to do its job.

“I--Master?” she squeaked.

“Lilah, go stick an ice cube in your mouth,” he repeated, ideally with the same tone and inflection as the first time. “If it melts before I get there, do a second one. Go.”

She went. Step two of the trick: movement, fed into a person’s fight or flight response, allowing their monkey hindbrain to feel like they were running away from the threat. Galo imagined that actually being away from him--the “threat” of the situation--would help calm her down, too.

Steps three and four: tactile stimulation to ground the person in reality, and a forced kickstart to the salivary glands that took bodily attention away from fight or flight, would happen, ideally, while he was rubbing hydrogen peroxide on this and sticking some bandaids on top. She would be scared, no doubt about that, but hopefully, hopefully, a panic attack had been circumvented. It also bought him some time to think, which he needed.

He cleaned up his arm--ouch, it stung--and grabbed his box of protein energy bars. There were only six to a box, and he’d already had at least one, so he was relieved to see he still had five left. These would do until lunch time.

He went to the kitchen, where he found Lilah bent over the sink--should he… have instructed her to swallow the melted water? He kinda hadn’t thought he would need to, but that probably didn’t matter at this point--and Sasha with her hands on Lilah’s shoulders, bent over her in concern. Sasha released her and backed away when she saw Galo enter, eyes wide and afraid, and Galo extended his hand to her, high up near her face. Sasha had a tendency of going directly to her knees whenever he was in the same room as her, which wasn’t very sanitary or necessary or anything he was particularly fond of her doing, so his way around it was to give her his hand to kiss, but high enough up she had to stay standing to do it. Nyla and Greyson would sometimes move his hands in order to kiss them, but Sasha never did.

“Hey Sasha, here, eat this,” he said, handing her a power bar, and he set the box with the remaining four on the counter. He leaned his hip against the lip of the sink and placed his palm on Lilah’s back, making her squeak.

“You’re alright, Lilah. I know it was an accident.” 

“I’m sorry Master,” she hiccupped, crying, and the ice cube fell out on the last syllable.

“I know, I know, it’s okay,” Galo assured, rubbing a hand over her back and bracing her by the shoulder. “It’s okay, Lilah. You’re sorry, it was an accident, it’s okay.” She was trembling so hard, fuck. “Take it easy, Lilah, deep breaths for me, okay?” And she tried. God, she tried so hard, he could tell, and he stayed next to her, rubbing her back until she seemed more or less able to walk without collapsing from fear or her own sobs.

“Here, Lilah,” he said, handing her a power bar. “Eat this and go lie down until lunch, okay? You are officially taking the rest of the day off, no work until tomorrow for you.”

“Master?” she squeaked. 

“That’s an order, Lilah,” he said as gently as he could. She took the bar in trembling fingers and left the kitchen in a rush, and Galo rubbed at his undercut, trying not to sigh. Ugh, he really needed a hair trim.

“Sasha,” he said, tone even and light, and she still flinched, the empty wrapper of her energy bar crinkling in her anxious fist. “When you get started on lunch, make enough for six, yeah?”

She nodded, looking surprised but briefly pleased, and he surveyed the kitchen. Everywhere were trees and stacks and platters of foodstuffs, probably waaay more than the funeral would actually need, but eh. Whatever. He could afford to be a little wasteful.

“Sasha,” he said, approaching her, and her wide blue eyes stared up at him in terror. “I’m giving you a new set of responsibilities, okay? From now on, you need to make three meals a day for everyone, every day. You’re in charge of making sure everyone eats. Unless I revoke food privileges,” which he never would, but Sasha likely wouldn’t believe that, “you’re in charge of everyone having at least three meals. If someone’s hungry between meals, it’s your job to feed them then, too. Alright?”

Sasha nodded, and Galo let out a tiny sigh of relief. Good, it stuck, she didn’t look confused and wasn’t searching his face like she might tell where the catch was. Framing it as one of her responsibilities had worked. “I’ll let Nyla know about the change, too.”

He stopped her before she could drop to her knees by holding his hand out to her a second time, and she kissed it again.

“Good girl,” he praised, settling his left hand on her right shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. It was the spot that she was most receptive to, he was pretty sure. She didn’t like her left shoulder touched, and anywhere on the face or head was a definite no-go, but she would occasionally lean into the touch if it was on her right shoulder. “I know I can count on you.”

Fear was replaced by a starry eyed awe, and no small amount of surprise. He gave her shoulder another squeeze, and left the kitchen.

Aw fuck, someone still had to bring the floral arrangements inside to protect them from weather damage. He snagged a bottle of wine while he was halfway through the door, pulled out the stopper, and drank straight from the bottle. His nap would have to wait.

--

Lilah staggered into the kitchen, door banging against the wall and making Sasha jump.

“Sorry,” Lilah whispered, unable to see very well. She landed somewhere on the lip of counter between the sink and the fridge, fingers digging into the marbe hard enough she had to have reopened a scab. She could see the red. She couldn’t feel it.

“Lilah?” Sasha asked, sounding horrified, and Lilah could relate. Her fingers struggled to grip the freezer door handle, and it was even harder to fight past the suction and pry the thing open.

“Lilah h-honey what’s wr-wrong?” Sasha asked urgently, quietly.

I have to put ice in my mouth and I hurt Master Galo warred for dominance, each equally important. One was the order she had to follow. The other was the explanation for whatever was about to happen to her, so Sasha wouldn’t be confused when Lilah was punished on the kitchen tile.

“Ice,” Lilah gasped, crying already. It was worse, when she started crying before the punishment began. If she could hold it in until the first or second swing (she never made it further than that) then sometimes Mistress could be convinced that she was being sufficiently punished, and the pain was the only cause. But crying beforehand was a punishable offense. And Lilah already deserved to be punished so badly.

“I need to put ice in my mouth,” Lilah choked out, “I have to leave it there until it melts, and i-if it melts before Master arrives I have to do a second one.”

Sasha handed her an ice wedge and Lilah put it in her mouth, the sharp cold making her hiccup. It--disoriented her, stung, almost, distracted her from her fear for a moment. She didn’t understand what the point of this was--maybe Master Galo had a sensitive mouth, and the ice would become rapidly intolerable for him? Mistress had always come down hard on their knees, especially when her own were flaring up. 

If Master Galo planned on hitting her like Mistress had--

Lilah rushed to the sink, managing to make the couple steps before she vomited. Water and bile came up, plus the ice, and she sobbed once, daringly loud for someone already in trouble. She extended her hand, she needed to--

“No, L-Lilah, no, j-just get a n-new one,” Sasha interrupted, moving Lilah’s hand away from the ice in the sink and turning the hot water on. “You b-barely st-started that one,” then, quieter, “h-he won’t kn-know.”

Lilah put the new ice wedge in her mouth and watched the hot water melt the ice in the sink, rinsing away the bile as well. Sasha kept an arm around Lilah’s back, hand trembling on her shoulder, and turned the water off the moment the melted ice was small enough to fit down the drain. Sasha’s other hand came to Lilah’s other shoulder, and Lilah keened softly. She tongued the ice into her cheek and said, miserably, “I hurt Master.” Lilah choked on a sob. “I hurt him.”

“Oh, Lilah…” Sasha gasped, and Lilah didn’t need to look to know she was near-tears herself. Lilah wished she could stop crying. She wished she could go Quiet, but that probably wouldn’t happen until at least partway through the beating. 

Of the two kitchen doors, it was the closer one that Master came in through, and it took every ounce of willpower Lilah had to not throw up again. Sasha’s presence left her, and while it stripped her of the physical comfort her being there gave Lilah, it gave a different comfort that Sasha had gotten out of the way in time.

Except Master Galo was talking to her first, apparently, and Lilah’s ears were ringing high and whining. She caught the tail end, though, and it was a great relief against the wall of her sheer terror to know that at least, her fuckup hadn’t taken food from the rest of the group. Master was letting Sasha eat. It was just Lilah that would stay hungry.

When she felt his hand on her back, she nearly screamed, barely able to choke it back. He was talking to her, but some words were missing.

She apologized. She tried to obey. She tried to understand what kind of mindgame it was, that he was still comforting her, and not hurting her, but it was hard just to think, right then, much less puzzle out where the trap was going to spring from. 

Then he told her to eat, and rest, and not to work, and she didn’t understand!

But an order was an order, so she ran from the kitchen, stumbled her way to their bedroom and collapsed on the floor, door ajar and bed nearby but unable to make it there. The pain in her shoulder from where she’d fallen… it wasn’t good, but it helped ground her. It made sense, when she was so scared and confused like this. She sobbed into her gloves, curled up in around herself, power bar crunching in her hand beneath its wrapper. 

She sobbed for an indeterminate amount of time, and was surprised when strong arms lifted her up. But she’d recognize that scent anywhere, even if she couldn’t see straight right then.

“Evan!” she sobbed, clinging to him, and she felt more than heard him shush her, his breath warm on her ear and the side of her face. 

“Easy munchkin,” Evan said, setting her down on the edge of the bed and prying off her work boots, then picking her back up and settling himself up against the headboard, Lilah in his lap. “Easy baby girl, where’s it hurt?”

“Nowhere!” she wailed, fisting a hand in her hair. “He, he didn’t punish me at all,” she hiccupped, and Evan made an angry little “tch” noise. 

“What the fuck is that bastard’s game?!” he asked quietly, mouth muffled in her hair, and his arms wrapped around her so tight and safe, nosing against the top of her head, and she wiped at her eyes.

“Sh-shouldn’t call him a bastard, Ev,” Lilah reminded, her crying finally winding down.

“Yeah, well, he should act like a normal person,” Evan grumbled, gently tugging off her glove, and then prying her fingers out of the energy bar in her other hand, one arm around her at all times. “C’mon, lil lady, he ordered us to eat.”

“I shouldn’t be,” Lilah grumbled miserably as Evan tugged off her other glove, then shoved his (undamaged) power bar into her hands. “If anything made sense anymore, I wouldn’t be.”

“Yeah, well, the dude’s confusing as all hell and the rules are different now. At least he’s done fuckin’ starving us.” Evan ripped open his own (Lilah’s) power bar and picked up one of the chunks, tossing it into his mouth. “For now.”

“I think… he just wanted to prove he could?” Lilah said hesitantly, nibbling on hers so she wouldn’t vomit again. “He asked a lot of strange questions, when I was showing him the flower arrangements.”

“All his questions are strange.”

“Stranger than usual,” Lilah insisted, and Evan pressed a kiss to the top of her hair.

“I believe you, baby girl.”

“Thanks, baby boy.”

“Hey,” he said, giving a lock of her hair a playful tug, “Who are you calling baby? I’m an adult man, thank you very much.”

“And I’m an adult woman, your point?”

Because, technically, Lilah hadn’t been lying to Master Galo in the garden. She was eighteen--probably. Somewhere around there, at the very least. She didn’t know when her birthday was exactly, and she never had any reason to know what day or month it was, but she knew she had been born sometime in this season. So. Eighteen, plus or minus maybe a month or two.

“Noooo, you’re like, ten.”

“Jackass,” she said quietly, knowing fully well that she was saying a forbidden word.

“Baby girl. Baby.”

“Dickhead,” she said with a small, wet giggle.

“Itty bitty little munchkin.”

“Bastard man.”

“Precious baby angel.” She swatted his hand when he tried to pinch her cheek. “Sweet little cherub.”

“Asshole.”

“No no no, wait, I’ve got it,” Evan said with a snap of his fingers, and Lilah tilted her head, curious, no longer crying at all. “You’re my sweet precious darling little--”

She squealed when he jerked in and blew a raspberry on her neck, barely keeping her voice down, collapsing into giggles when he let up. 

“Terrible stinky man!” she said, grinning wide and shoving his face away from her with one hand, trying to wriggle out of his arms, which were very strong and holding her in place. “Awful little dirt gremlin! Nasty boy!”

He let her go, suddenly, and she landed on the bed with a quiet “oof!” He laughed at her, and tilted his head back to down the crushed up bits of his power bar, and she took a decisive bite out of hers, glaring at him. He smiled “innocently” at her and her glare narrowed, taking another bite.

“What’s up, lil lady? You look upset there.”

It might have soured the mood--her face was tearstained and ruddy, she knew--but it was Evan, so it didn’t.

“Yeah, I just have a no-brains for a best friend,” she retorted, finishing off her power bar and chucking the wrapper at him. 

“Hey, stupid and beautiful are a pair of traits that are in high demand when they’re together.”

“I’ll give you that,” Lilah said, crawling back up to the headboard and flopping her head down into his lap. “I guess you’re pretty enough to give a free pass. This time.”

“I’m honored,” Evan said sarcastically, finishing off the crumbs in his wrapper and letting it drop onto her face. She blew at it.

Evan was, about half the time, Lilah’s first and so-far-only real crush. The other half the time, he was her dumb big brother who stuck things in his nostrils to make her laugh. He was her favorite person ever, not that she’d tell the others that (although, they probably knew), and she could count on him to look out for her and cheer her up.

He placed his large, warm palm on her back and stroked it gently, easy on the bruises that were still there, on the scabs and cuts and scars. She sighed contentedly and sank into his warmth, into the comfort his presence always, always provided.

“I’m supposed to rest until lunch,” she told him quietly, soothed by the familiar hand on her back, “And then I’m supposed to stay here for the rest of the day.”

“Doing what?” Evan asked, sounding uncomfortable, almost-angry like he was ready to be mad, but not sure what to be mad at yet.

“Dunno,” she said, shifting a little so she wasn’t lying on the shoulder she’d fallen onto quite as directly. “He said I’m not allowed to do any work for the rest of the day.”

Evan swallowed hard.

“He asked me how old I was, earlier, before I messed up.”

“That bastard,” Evan breathed. “After Nyla went to him, and he told her he’s not gonna fuck us, now he’s gonna--!”

“I’ll be fine, Ev,” Lilah cut him off, not wanting to rile him up. An angry Evan was a stupid-as-all-shit Evan. “You and Grey always made it out the other end. I’ll be okay.” Even if the thought was terrifying. Even if putting those particular pieces together made her want to go glass eyed and Quiet. 

Evan lifted her and hugged her fiercely, and she hugged back, wrung out and exhausted, now that all her adrenaline was spent. She wished she had the ability to not-exist. Even just for a little while.

“Um, y-you two,” Sasha said, nudging the door open with her hip. Two plates were on the tray she carried, and both of them frowned in confusion.

“Sasha?”

“I’m, uh, in ch-charge of making sure e-everyone e-eats, now. M-Master changed the r-rules.”

Lilah took a plate Sasha extended to her, and so did Evan, both of them baffled. “W-we have t-to eat three t-times a day, n-now. Minimum. He said--said it was my job. A-and to feed you, if yo-you’re hungry between m-meals, too.”

Evan snarled, but it melted away into gloomy simmering pretty quick. “Guess that’s one way to see how quickly we can dance to his tune. Starve us for days then turn the rules on their heads.”

“M-maybe he’s, being nice?” Sasha suggested, sounding almost hopeful, and Evan leveled her with a flat look. Lilah subtly punched him in the thigh.

“Who knows. You go eat too, Sasha,” Lilah said, and Evan sighed when the door clicked closed.

“Can’t figure that bastard out,” he muttered, digging into the food.

When he left, he took Lilah’s plate with him, and she was left alone in the family bed, tired but unable to fall asleep in the middle of the day. So her mind went mercifully, wonderfully Quiet.

Next

[sofspook]

good morning!

|| Masterlist ||

i want to kill tumblr. i literally had this queued for 8 this morning, and it didn’t post. then I tried to post it manually and it deleted all the text inside. and now I have to go back and make edits. at least I back up my stories partially. hhhhhhhhh.

anyway. finally some background! this takes place directly after One Thing. have some fluff and a liiiiiiillll bit of sad.. !!

CWs: blanket warning for boxboy universe/pet whump setting, implied past childhood physical, mental, and sexual abuse, implied past withholding of food, and food in general

The next morning's stiff coldness was met with a strong, sweet smell of Swedish pancakes from the kitchen and a quiet sizzling of batter in a skillet. And Keith was no professional cook, by all means, but he did have that one recipe down thanks to his father all those years ago and, he figured, maybe he'd fix up something a little nicer than the usual eggs and toast to brighten the kid's first morning here.

Perks of having sold a successful company happened to include money, sure, but mostly the freedom and flexibility in schedule to take out a few years of working, in Keith's case, which meant he didn't worry about calls about credit or hiring and firing as he chopped strawberries. It meant that now, he could focus on helping people, and filling his hours with rescuing and rehoming boxboys. And making Swedish pancakes.

By the time he poured the last of the batter and finished up the plates with fruit and powdered sugar, it was nearly two in the afternoon. That was something he'd learned to plan for, though, and done on purpose, after having enough exhausted rescues cycle through the place, so when the new boxboy stepped carefully into the kitchen with his hands tucked up in his sleeves and pulled up to his chest, breakfast was still warm.

Keith smiled. "Good morning!"

He remained in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, hesitant. Even with that bit of distance, Keith could see the fear in his eyes. The tightness in his shoulders. Lowered head, slouching to appear smaller. It wasn’t unfamiliar, and it wasn’t something Keith couldn’t help with a little bit of care.

“Come on in,” he said, nodding to the kitchen island. “I’ve got breakfast for us.”

The boy’s steps were silent, soft new socks on tile. His hands were drowned in the navy hoodie given to him the night before and so was the rest of him, all skin and bones covered in thick clothing that shouldn’t be too big for someone his age. At Keith’s gesture and with a little pause, he finally reached for a stool, and took a seat.

There were several plates set out. One had chopped strawberries, another had bananas, another with blueberries, and on another plate there were minced mangoes. There sat a jar of peanut butter and a jar of Nutella and two big things of whipped cream and some Ghirardelli chocolate sauce and even more miscellaneous toppings strewn about the countertop. Plenty of choices. Couldn’t go wrong.

Keith flipped a Swedish pancake onto the empty plate in front of the boy, and he flinched.

“Ever had these before?” he asked, and he was glad that the answer is a small shake of the head. Breakfast wouldn’t be accompanied by a flashback, then. “Well, the best part about these, is all the toppings.” He dished some onto his own plate pointedly. “See, you just- put whatever you want on top, and roll it up- like this. Like a... burrito.”

The boy watched with fierce, nervous focus. And then, he looked up, with a gaze that said What if I get it wrong? What if I don’t choose the right answer?

“There aren’t any wrong choices,” he assured. “Have whatever you’d like.”

And eventually, after a period of rushed thought, the boy did reach for a few plates, put some odd combinations together like mango and peanut butter, and rolled it up exactly the way he’d been shown. And then he stopped, pushed the plate towards Keith, and looked at him expectantly.

And Keith, who sat beside him at the kitchen island with a mouthful of strawberry-chocolate-pancake, realized he didn’t understand that no, I didn’t mean make me one, I meant make you one. “No, no. This is for you. We’re sharing this food, bud. I made plenty for both of us.” An afterthought, minding the way the kid tensed at doing something wrong as he perceived it, Keith added, “Thank you, though. That was kind.”

So finally, tentatively, with his frantic deer eyes darting over to check his expression every millisecond, he ate, and even gave in when Keith insisted he take at least another two and eat until he’s no longer hungry. Which, in any safehouse’s book, is a success. 

There was... one thing, though. The kid kept one hand under the opposite thigh the whole time they sat at the table. Keith probably wouldn’t have noticed, except he kept switching his arm, and at first he couldn’t figure out why he did that, thought maybe it was some sort of nervous tick or something, until he caught the pattern. Every time Keith moved to another side of him, right or left-- whether it be to get up and feed the cat or grab the plate of mangoes without reaching over him-- he’d switch arms. Why, though, he didn’t know. And probably, he thought, he didn’t need to. None of his business. 

But still. It was... odd.

---

\ @looptheloup​ \  @deluxewhump​ \  @burtlederp​ \  @lave-e​ \ @whatwhumpcomments​ \  @whumptywhumpdump​ \

[overobsessivewhumper]

Mutt’s new Master

This one’s a bit messy and not that whumpy. But there is more suffering coming, do not worry. I might write out a bit of Caleb’s time with Mr. Hughes if anyone’s got any interest in that (I’m gonna write it anyway, just won’t post it all to soon if no one’s interested)

Previous Next

Content warning: Reference to past abuse, idolisation of abuser

Tag list: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @burtlederp @im-not-rare-im-rarr @comfortforthepain @18-toe-beans @haro-whumps @deluxewhump @kungpao-giffy

Caleb wakes up to his own screaming an flailing, and eventually a sharp pain when he hits his head on the coffee table. Then he is his hit by the pain of all his other injuries flaring up in protest as he hits the floor. It also hits him that this isn’t his Masters house. This isn’t where he’s supposed to be! Tears well up in his eyes as he tries to figure out where he could be and where his Master could have went. That’s when someone came running down the stairs, wielding a vase in one hand, and looking rather distraught. But the thing was, Caleb knew that someone. His new Master, Gavin.

Oh yeah. That’s right. His old Master sold… no. Gave him away. He had been bad one too many times. His Master was forced to give him away. Caleb wanted to cry even more now.

His current Master was looking around frantically, still wielding the vase.

“You’re the only one here, right?” Caleb answers his Master with a nod. Gavin sighs, looks at the vase, then puts it down on the table that Caleb hit his head on. “For a moment I thought someone broke in or something…” He sits on the couch, and looks at Caleb. “Nightmare, huh?”

Caleb shakes his head. He still remembered his dream vividly. It was about his old Master. It was impossible for a Pet to have a nightmare about his Master, especially if that Master was as ridiculously lenient, good-hearted and kind as his old Master.

“N… Not… Not a nightmare. Jus… just a… a dream.”

“Oh… Okay.” He silently studies Caleb for a moment. Caleb looks down at his hands. “Would… you like me to help you back up onto the couch?” Caleb looked up at him. He knew that Gavin apparently allows him onto furniture, but it feels so wrong to him.

“If… if it’s all the sa… same to y… you Master, I… I’d rather stay on the flo… floor…” Caleb hopes his Master doesn’t see this as defiance.

“Oh… I… okay then. Want to talk about it?”

Still looking at his new Master, Caleb shifted, clenching his teeth to prevent any noise from escaping his lips. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not really. He’d dreamt about things in the past. How he’d been bad, and had to be corrected. He didn’t want to tell his new Master about how horribly bad he had been in the past. He’d find out himself soon enough. So he shook his head.

“Oh… Well… I can understand that.”

Picking at one of the bandages that covered his knee, Caleb thought. He knew it was bad to think too much, but he couldn’t help it, especially with all the things that had happened in such a short time. He’d been bad enough for Master to give him away! He couldn’t just not think about it. But he couldn’t change it, and instead was grateful for how kind his Master had been to him in their time together, and how much better he’d made him and how Master had given him to a new Master, instead of having him put down.

Carefully, trying not to seem nosy, Caleb looked up at his new Master out of the corner of his eye. His Master just sat there, staring out into the distance.

Caleb thought his new Master was… well… Odd. Not in a judging way! Imagine the disrespect! A Pet judging his Master! No. More in the sense of that Caleb didn’t understand him yet and it was all just so… Confusing!

First off obviously was that he wanted to be called Gavin. Caleb couldn’t understand why. And secondly, where were the rules?! It scared Caleb, not knowing whether he was doing something his Master permitted, or not! It scared him that his Master told him nothing about how to behave and how he can be better for him. For a moment, Caleb wishes he’d be back with his old Master. There he knew how to make Master happy, how he could be a good Pet for him and how he’d be punished if he was bad. But here, he knew nothing. Not even what kind of punishments Master would deal out. He doesn’t even have his collar or muzzle anymore.

But he quickly pushed that taught away. He should be grateful that he had a Master at all. Being a Pet in a privilege, and striving to become good for a Master is a gift. So that’s what he does. He gets onto his knees, biting his lip to keep in the scream that threatens to leave his mouth, and looks up at Gavin.

“Thank y… you for letting me… me rest Mast… Master. Wh… What can I do to… to repay y… you?” He focuses his eyes on his Master , giving him his undivided attention. Caleb’s old Master taught him that Pet’s biggest focus must always be their Master, and Caleb lived by that. His old Master was a very wise man.

“Ex… Excuse me, what?” Gavin’s eyes widen, and his eyebrows are scrunched together. Caleb has no idea what this is supposed to mean, so he just answers his Masters question.

“It… It is a Pet’s gre… greatest privilege to ser… serve their Master. Pl… pl… please let me serve y… you Master! I ca… can be very useful! Please let me… me be useful…” Caleb doesn’t look away form Gavin, not even for a moment. Gavin looks back at him, also not looking away.

“Could… could you excuse me for a moment?” Caleb’s Master gets up, and almost bolts away into the kitchen. Caleb hopes he hasn’t been bad again, but suppresses the tears that build up in his eyes. He knows that if he’s been bad, Master will correct him, and he will learn to be better. Maybe even good.

 In the kitchen, Gavin lets himself slide to the floor against the closed door. What on earth was he going to do?!  His boss had fucked Caleb up, and fucked him up bad. Gavin wasn’t good at things like this. Gavin wasn’t a doctor, nor was he a psychologist. Resting his face in his hands, he tried not to freak out. If he didn’t play along, Caleb would most likely freak out, thinking he’d been bad, but Gavin couldn’t just make the injured man… do work for him! He had to do something…

Caleb obviously wasn’t just going to… change his views of himself. Beating himself up about it hard, Gavin decided to find something for Caleb to do. Something easy, with no walking about involved. Cleaning was way off the agenda, and so was cooking. There wasn’t much to do…

But then Gavin had an idea. He got up, rushed past Caleb, adding a hasty “I’ll be back in a moment!” whilst going past. He went upstairs to his bedroom and started pulling his neatly folded clothes out of the cupboard and drawers, undoing his own handy work in favour of giving Caleb something to do which let him sit down whilst doing it. Looking at the mess he’d made with his cloths, he decided that this would do, and went to get Caleb.

The whole time Caleb went up the stairs (He refused to take any help and promised he could do it by himself) Gavin stayed closely behind the shaky, limping man, ready to catch him if ever he’d fall. He did the same whilst Caleb walked down the hall to the room Gavin had pointed him to.

“Can you fold clothes?” Caleb nodded, not looking back at him. Gavin kept his mouth shut for the last few meters to his room.

Once in the room, Gavin pointed to the bed.

“Those are… my cloths. They need to be… uh… folded. Take your time so that they are… folded… um… nicely.” Caleb nodded and moved to kneel down next to the bed. “Oh and I want you sitting on the bed.” Caleb gives him a slightly confused look, but sits on the bed anyway. “I’ll be… in my office. That’s the next room to the right from here. Just ask if you don’t understand something.” When Caleb nods and begins folding clothes, Gavin goes to his office room.

There he sits down at the desk and lays his head on the surface of the table. Gavin can’t believe he’s the owner of a Pet, and is actually making the poor man do house chores for him! Feeling like a massive asshole, Gavin opens his laptop and searches the internet for anything useful concerning trauma. Gavin just hopes he did the right thing by making Caleb do work already now.

[burtlederp]

Shelley, Salinger, and Wilde????

Thanks so much for the ask!!

Mary Shelley: Were you a goth, prep, nerd, or jock in school? I don't actually know what a 'prep' is? Is it one of the cool kids? 'Cause I definitely wasn't one of those. I think the closest category I fit into was 'nerd,' even though I was planning on going into art school at the time. I definitely wasn't goth, and I absolutely was not a jock, so, yeah, I guess a nerd.

J.D. Salinger: What was the last movie you watched? Hmm, last movie I watched all the way through... I think it was actually the Chip N' Dale: Rescue Rangers (2022)? It was fun. I may technically be a 90's kid, but I was late, so it's definitely a movie that's more fun for actual 90's kids. I wouldn't say it was a good movie, though lol

Oscar Wilde: What book have you read more than once? I have, very literally, lost count of how many times I've read The Book of Mormon. Over ten times, at least, I can tell you that, but I don't suppose I really count that? Alternatively, the first other book that comes to mind is Operation Redwood by S. Terrell French. Really fun book, really fun characters and story. Worth a read!

Thanks again for the asks, sorry it took me over a year to get to them!

Here's the ask game text.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

would love to see the first time chris and kauri are introduced and how they become closer!!

CW: Vague references to past dubcon/noncon, vague references to conditioning

This is enough Kauri that I’m tagging both boys’ lists all at once:  @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers, @moose-teeth, @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl, @spiffythespook, @slaintetowhump,  @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout

“He’s back,” Jake says, staring through the window towards the backyard. Chris sits up a little, frowning, looking from Nat, who gives a world-weary smile and tucks a bit of brown hair back behind her ear, to Jake, who gives an even world-wearier sigh and lets the curtain drop.

“Don’t sigh like that in front of him, you’ll scare him off,” Nat says, with a hint of affection in her voice. “You know how he is.”

“Does he know how he is?” Jake asks, and Chris wants to ask, who? But he’s not brave enough yet. All he does is curl up tighter on the couch, swathed in Jake’s big sweatshirt, swaying gently side to side, just feeling the soft fleece lining warm against his skin from the inside out. The slight brush of fabric over his bare skin feels good, gentle and soothing, so he keeps swaying, and no one tells him to stop.

He’s been waiting for them to tell him to stop for days, but each new thing - he tapped on the table, he let himself rock a little bit one morning - they don’t say stop at all. They just ask if he is okay, or needs anything, sometimes, and if he says no they act like he’s not doing it or maybe like doing it isn’t something he has to be afraid of anymore.

So today, he’s trying swaying. 

No one stops that, either.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Jake says, giving Nat a raised eyebrow. He’s got his hands in his back pockets now, where Chris would like his hands to be sometimes, but they had a talk about that and he doesn’t have to - isn’t supposed to - be good here, not like that. 

“I’m not,” Nat answers, giving Jake an impish little smile, showing a crooked tooth on one side, just slightly off compared to the others. “I got a call about three hours ago.”

From who? Chris doesn’t ask, but he wonders.

Jake huffs half-silent laughter, shaking his head. “D’you ever wonder why he keeps going back-”

“I know why.” Nat’s voice is quiet, but there’s a warning there, and Jake seems to understand what Chris doesn’t, because he nods, just slightly.

“How long ‘til he stops?”

“Hopefully he doesn’t,” Nat says, brusque now, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel as she steps out of Chris’s sight, heading for the back door. “If he stops going to him, he’ll stop coming here, too.”

“How d’you know that?” Jake asks, leaning around the corner himself. 

Chris wants to beg someone to tell him who they are talking about already, but it’s not his place. He’s only been here a little while. All he does is close his eyes and focus on the shift of the fleece over his elbow as he moves his arm, back and forth, back and forth. 

“Because if he stops coming somewhere he feels safe...” Nat says softly, almost too softly for Chris to hear. He can’t see her face and her emotions are held too deeply under her skin for the voice to mean much to him. “If he does that, Jake... that means he’s done.”

“With what?”

“Trying.”

The backdoor smacks open a second later, and Chris flinches at the sudden burst of noise, pulling his arms inside Jake’s big sweatshirt and hunching his shoulders, looking worriedly towards the kitchen, where the sound came from. 

“Kauri, it’s good to see you,” Nat says warmly, and there’s a pause. Chris closes his eyes, they are probably hugging. He has to be careful when he hugs because he doesn’t know how to not do other things, too. 

“Just here for a night or two,” A voice he doesn’t know yet says brightly. There’s a thump, and then the sound of a zipper. Chris listens with rapt attention as an odd clicking noise starts up, and then the new voice whispers something.

Footsteps. Another pause.

“Stay longer,” Jake says, softly.

“Can’t,” The new person replies, a little muffled. They’re definitely hugging. Something twists inside Chris’s chest, a hint of discomfort he doesn’t have a name for. Why are they hugging? “You know me. I’m hopeless.”

“Kauri-”

“I’m kidding, Jake. I can’t because, believe it or not, I have something to do in two days.”

“What is something, exactly?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The man’s voice slips into effortless flirtation, and Chris feels his teeth set together a little harder than they need to. He can do that voice too, just like that. Tilt his head and look up just a little from under his eyelashes, he’s so good at that, but Jake doesn’t want that from him.

“Gonna guess that means you don’t have anything and you’re just avoiding him, huh?” Jake’s own reply is flat, and Chris fights back the urge to give a little smile, because if the man was flirting with him, it didn’t work at all.

“Okay, fine, you got me. I’m avoiding a fight.”

“One you already had, or one you’re about to have?”

“Um, kind of both.”

“Kauri, for fuck’s sake-”

“Jake. The fight was my fault, I said I was sorry, I left. Let it go. It’s fine.”

“If it was fine, you wouldn’t have left. I just want-”

“I know. And thanks. But I’m fine. When am I not fine?” 

“Kauri, when the fuck are you fine?”

The Kauri-voice laughs instead of answering, and then he comes around the corner and the first thing Chris thinks is that his voice is surprisingly deep for the skinny, shortish man who is suddenly in his view, pretty with wide blue eyes and a mess of black curls that seem to defy gravity, wearing an unzipped hoodie over a t-shirt and jeans, looking every inch like the kind of person Chris wishes so badly he could be.

Kauri sees him on the couch and stops, blinking at him. “You got a new one of us?” He asks, surprise obvious in every line of his face, his posture. 

Chris pulls himself himself a little more, lets his hair fall in front of his eyes, blurred copper to cut the new person apart into an eye, the curve of a jaw, the faded image printed on the t-shirt that looks as old as he is. 

“A new... oh, yeah.” Jake moves around behind him, comically tall compared to Kauri, and gives Chris a warm smile. “Chris, this is Kauri. He kind of comes and goes, but I promise he’s not a total ass. Kauri, this is Chris, he just got here.”

Kauri watches him with unease, and Chris stares back with real nervousness. There’s a beat of silence, and then Kauri asks, voice pitched low, “Is... is he-”

“Yeah,” Jake says, softly. “He is. We don’t know by how much.”

Kauri’s face twists, in an expression that mars the pretty face with disgust. “But-”

“I know. But here he is.”

Kauri swallows - Chris can see his Adam’s apple shift, watches him cross his arms in front of himself uncomfortably. “Looking at him... was he... he was a-”

“Yes.” Jake’s voice darkens slightly. “He was. We’re not sure for how long, or for who.” Chris wants to sink into the couch cushion at the darkness in that voice, the barely-concealed anger lacing the tone, until the floor opens up and swallows him and he sinks into the earth. 

Kauri nods, pauses, and then nods again, like he’s convincing himself of something, before he takes one step forwards and then another. “That’s kind of funny,” He says, with the tone of someone who knows what he’s about to say isn’t funny at all. “I never met another one while I was-... when I was, before. I, I mean, I met another pet... but not... never mind. Now I meet you, huh?” 

Chris leans slowly back against the couch cushions as Kauri gets closer, watching him with green eyes that follow every movement, in perfect stillness and silence. 

Except for one hand he’s pulled all the way inside his sleep, tapping with relentless speed against his own stomach, hidden from them all. Each tap against his own skin is a gentle soothe, a rush of reassurance, a reminder that he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.

“Kauri’s safe, Chris, I promise,” Jake says, moving over to sit next to Chris on the couch, putting a hand against his back. The warm weight makes Chris feel better, cared for. Cared about. He raises his eyes to look back at Kauri as the other boy stops in front of him and then drops down into a crouch, so Chris has to look down now. “He used to be a Romantic, too.”

Chris’s lips part, slightly, and he takes in the way that Kauri moves in a whole new light, the casual grace, the way his head tilts slightly to the side as he looks at Chris, and Chris unconsciously mirrors the motion.

“I was,” Kauri says, gently. Like Chris is an animal who might spook or run if he speaks any louder than that. 

He’s not entirely wrong. Chris wants to bolt, but instead he presses himself into Jake’s side, and feels a thrill when the older man just slips an arm around him and holds on instead of pushing him away. 

“What... what, what are you, you you-you now?” Chris asks, barely breathing. 

Even living here with the other ones, it never occurred to him to think about there being an after. This new person, this Kauri, is living an after.

Kauri and Jake meet eyes, for just a second. Jake shakes his head, imperceptibly, then Kauri’s blue eyes are back on Chris’s green.

Kauri gives him a sweet, slightly one-sided smile. “Whatever the fuck I want to be,” He answers, in a low voice. “Eventually. I’m getting there. It’s taking me a while, but Nat’s patient and Jake has to do whatever she says-”

“Hey now,” Jake says in warning, humor in his tone, and the two of them share a smile, and the smile makes Chris’s chest all twisted up and strange again. He doesn’t want them to smile that way at each other. He doesn’t like it.

“Do... do you, you live here?” Chris asks, softly. 

“Nat wishes I did,” Kauri answers, then shakes his head, and Chris watches the wild curls shift and move as well, a little shaggy and overgrown. It’s the kind of hair you want to bury your hands in, Chris thinks with a strange detachment, a train that runs its own track entirely separate from the others. A darker track. A track that leads down into the everything he was ever trained to do. “But no. I don’t live anywhere.”

“Why... why not?”

Kauri blinks, as if he’s never thought of that question before. Then he just shoots Chris the same sunny smile he was giving Jake before, pops back up to his feet, and Chris feels like the moment where they saw each other is gone, and he badly wants it back. Somehow his question was the wrong one. 

“Because a place to live is just a place they don’t let you leave,” Kauri says, without looking at him, staring out the window at the sidewalk

“Kauri.” Nat, standing in the doorway, crosses her arms just under her chest and leans against the doorframe. “That’s not how it works and you know it.”

“Do I?” Kauri tries the dizzying smile on her but she doesn’t fall for it, either, only giving him the faintest little quirk of her lips. 

“Yes, Kauri. You do.”

“Hey, don’t gang up on me, now,” Kauri says, but Chris feels a sudden tension in the room, a nervousness that comes off of Kauri in waves. “I’m just meeting someone new, give me a break.” He turns back to Chris and gives him a smile, like they’re in on this together. “Right? We should talk and get to know each other.”

Nat and Jake meet eyes - why does everyone have conversations without their mouths? It’s driving Chris crazy trying to understand the things they don’t say when it’s hard enough for him to understand the things they do. He frowns, swaying a little with Jake’s arm around him, licking at his bottom lip where there’s a little chapped spot that’s been bugging him all day.

I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

“We’re still going to talk about this more later,” Nat says firmly.

“Absolutely,” Kauri replies, but when Nat sighs and walks away, back upstairs, he turns back to Chris and mouths, no we’re not. Then he winks.

Chris has to hide a little grin, ducking against Jake’s side with his chin lowered, turning his head to nuzzle into Jake’s neck. Jake gently pushes him back without a single suggestion of being upset at the touch, and instead gives Kauri a hard stare. “I saw that, you know.”

“You just like my face so much, you can’t stop looking,” Kauri teases, flirty, but now Chris can hear the training in it, the way he was taught to speak, just like that. Calm the problem, soothe the tension, use your voice and your eyes and your body to keep the worst ways to hurt at bay.

“Whatever.” Jake rolls his eyes. “Come on, come talk to Chris. He could probably use someone who knows what it’s like. We’re... trying, but you know the others are all Domestics, and-”

“Are they mean to him?” Kauri’s head jerks up, a sudden hard glint in eyes that have been soft this whole time. He stares at Jake, speaking evenly, strongly. “If they’re being mean to him the way the other houses are mean to me-”

“They’re not,” Jake says, putting up a hand in surrender. “I promise. We just don’t really know what it’s like. You do.”

“Yeah.” Kauri gives a laugh, but this time it’s bitter, and Chris leans slowly forward, watching his face. 

Soft and smooth, pretty and smiling - and angry, roiling underneath all the softness.

“Yeah, I guess I do.” Kauri rubs the back of his neck with one hand, taking in a deep breath, and then he looks directly at Chris again. “I’ll start over. My name’s Kauri. I lived with-... with someone for a while.” He grips onto the sleeve of his hoodie and pulls it back, showing Chris the barcode and numbers tattooed on the inside of his left wrist. 645898.

Chris glances sidelong at Jake, nervously, and at his nod, Chris holds his own arm out and rolls back the oversized sleeve of Jake’s sweatshirt to show his own, slightly darker tattooed barcode. Fresher, newer. 223499.

“Can I, I ask you something, Kauri?” Chris asks, and his voice is small.

Kauri hesitates, then nods, slowly, licking his lips and giving a soft smile. “Yeah. Ask me whatever.”

“... are you, you happier?”

“What?”

“Happier than, um... than, than than you were before?”

Kauri’s eyes fill with tears.

Chris’s heart drops somewhere near his knees. “I’m, I’m, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-sorry-sorry I didn’t, I didn’t think, shouldn’t have, have have have-”

“No, you’re okay, you’re fine!” Kauri holds his hands out, both of them. “I’m sorry. I just came from kind of an intense... he asked me the same thing, and I just-... he asked it differently and it wasn’t... I’m sorry. Let me tell you something, Chris.” Kauri moves back to him, back into his crouch, and takes Chris’s hand in both of his. He looks up at him, and Chris looks back.

A mirror of himself, only entirely different. A Romantic who isn’t a Romantic anymore, with no locked doors, who goes where he wants to go. Chris wants that so badly he can barely breathe, but he’s too terrified of the idea to ever do it. 

Kauri seems, in that moment, impossibly brave.

“What I need to tell you... the other night,” Kauri says, not quite whispering, “I got caught out in the rain. It rained and rained and rained. Soaked through all my clothes and my jeans chafed my legs and it was fucking awful-”

“You could’ve come here,” Jake says, frowning, worried-angry, which is Chris’s favorite of the ways that Jake gets angry. 

“Not the point, and I... I couldn’t be inside. It was, um,  bad night.” Kauri gives a shrug, tossing his hair, the same sunny smile. “I can’t be inside on bad nights or I can, um, feel him, it’s just-... that’s not my point. Anyway, I ended up sleeping in a bathroom, so it smelled like disinfectant and gross, at the tail-end of a park I’d never been to before, so I didn’t know anybody and I’d had a shit panhandling day, so no dinner. I was hungry and cold and wet and had no blankets or anything, and you know what?”

“What?” Chris’s voice is a whisper.

“If you showed me sleeping hungry, soaked, in a stinking bathroom while laying my head on my backpack... and then you showed me sleeping dry and full in Mr. Owen’s bed with clean sheets and warm blankets... Chris... I would choose the bathroom in the park.” Kauri’s lips tremble, like he’s trying not to cry. “Over and over and over again, I would choose that bathroom, choose sleeping wet, choose being all by myself all night over a single night more with him. I don’t know... I don’t know about happier. But he can’t-” Kauri’s voice catches, and Jake jerks a little, as though he wants to hold them both at once, but Kauri leans away from even the hint of an offered touch, letting go of Chris’s hand when he does.

Chris’s fingers feel cold, when Kauri isn’t holding the any longer. 

“He can’t make me hurt anyone I care about anymore,” Kauri says, almost firmly. “And that’s worth every single bad thing out here. And now yours can’t hurt you, either.”

“... who, who, who did you care about?” Chris asks, but Kauri’s already back up and walking away, back into the kitchen, and he never answers the question.

Jake watches him go, and his arm tightens around Chris. “Don’t ask,” He murmurs, softly. “Kauri wasn’t rescued. He ran away.”

Chris takes in a breath, and watches the wild black curls disappear around the corner. “Wow,” he whispers. “He, he, he, he must be very, very brave.”

Jake snorts. “Maybe if you tell him, he’ll believe it.”

Chris leans into his side, closing his eyes, pulling his hands back inside the sleeves, letting fingertips trail over the fleece. Cabinets open in the kitchen, the sound of water pouring into a glass. “Maybe, maybe I will.”

“Besides,” Jake says finally, after another long pause. “You’re all brave as hell, no matter how you get here. It’s brave to start over, you know that, right? No matter how you start, it’s brave to do it at all.”

Chris isn’t sure he believes that. But he smiles, anyway, just to hear the words.

I’m brave, for trying.

[overobsessivewhumper]

Naming Mutt

Previous Next

Trigger warnings: reference to past abuse

Tag list: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @burtlederp @im-not-rare-im-rarr @comfortforthepain @18-toe-beans @haro-whumps

Groaning, Gavin lifted his head from the table. Rubbing his hand across his face, he groans again, trying to remember why he fell asleep at the dining table. Gavin knows there was something he wasn’t supposed to forget, but he didn’t feel like getting up just yet. Eventually he gets up to find something to take for his growing headache. 

And promptly almost stumbles over a man. A man that’s kneeling on the floor, a few feet away from him, and is watching him. Gavin almost jumps out of his skin, stumbling back into the table. Then the memory of last night hits him, and hits him hard. Then the fact that the injured man had probably been kneeling for the duration of his nap.

He rushes to his side, getting him off his knees as fast and as painless as he can. His legs give out under him when Gavin tries to put him on them, so Gavin scoops him up in his arms.

“What are you doing? Why are you kneeling? Are you trying to hurt yourself?!” Gavin knew letting his fear and worry to slip into anger was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help it. He got confirmation for this when Mutt starts to tremble in his arms, tears welling in his eyes.

“Sor… Sorry. S… S… Sorry Mas… Master! I… I thought… I… I… Should kne… kneel… to… to show that… that I’m gr… gra… grateful.” His words come fast and messily, coming close to sounding like sobs. Guilt hits Gavin like an ice cold dagger to the gut.

“Oh God… Shit… I’m so sorry. I’m not angry at you. I’m so sorry.” He cradles Mutt to his chest. “Shh… You did nothing wrong. It’s okay. Shh… I’m… I’m not angry at you… It’s my fault, not yours.” Not knowing what to do, Gavin takes the shaking man to the living-room and sets him down on the couch. He looks up at Gavin, still tearing up and quivering. Gavin sighs, wishing he’d know how to make the man feel safe and comfortable. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get you up the stairs without falling down it…” He pauses to study Mutt for a moment. “Are you cold?”

A small, shaky nod answers him.

“Wait here and rest. I’ll get you a blanket.” Gavin turns to leave, but hesitates. He turns back to Mutt- “And don’t hesitate to fall asleep if you feel like it… I won’t get angry and I will definitively not hurt you if you do.” With that, he leaves to find a blanket.

He gets the duvet he has in the cupboard on the guest room, and pulls a new cover on it. Whilst doing this, he glances at the clock hanging in the hall just out the door of the guestroom. 9:52. How long had the poor guy been kneeling there? A few hours at least! Guilt hits Gavin again.

When he has the duvet done, he carries it downstairs, trying to not to trip over it. Before laying it on Mutt, he takes a moment to look at him. He’s halfway curled up on his side, eyes half lidded and unfocussed. Carefully, he drapes it over him, making sure he’s fully covered. The man seems to melt under the soft duvet, snuggling into it.

Looking up at Gavin with big eyes, he says weakly, but full of gratitude; “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Gavin smiles sadly. “I’m sorry I scared you when I got… a little loud before.”

Gavin gets his laptop and sits into one of the armchairs. He begins checking his e-mails, whilst he continues to ignore the dull ache of his headache. The only e-mail is from his boss. Preparing himself for something that will make him want to strangle the man, he opens it.

Hey Gavin!

How you getting along with the Pet?

It’s really useful, right? Trust me, your life’s going to be so much better.

By the way, its number code is 43002612. I forgot to tell you yesterday.

Have fun with your new pet, and hope you had a good start to the new year!

Gavin knew he had to answer. And he knew he had to answer sounding grateful and enthusiastic. So he opened a draft e-mail.

Not five minutes into the writing of the reply, Gavin stops, resting his face in his hands, groaning. It disgusts him. It disgusts him that he has to pretend to be this person he isn’t. It disgusts him that he has to pretend to be someone that enjoys abusing others and owning slaves so that he doesn’t risk losing his job. And it disgusts him that his boss sees him as the kind of guy who’d enjoy these kind of things. To who else does he seem like a privileged, abusive asshole? He groans again, louder.

Rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, he looks around to see Mutt looking at him from where he was laying.

“Can’t sleep?” Mutt nods. Gavin puts aside the laptop, closing it, and moves to sit on the floor next to the couch. “Maybe… we could think about what you could be called together?” Mutt nods.

Gavin starts to list any name he can think of that doesn’t already belong to one of his colleagues or family members, but Mutt doesn’t seem to take a particular liking to any of them. Gavin just continues, until;

“I… I like tha… that one.” Gavin stops.

“Which one?”

“C… Caleb. I… I like it… I think…” He looks at Gavin cautiously, as if to see if it was the right choice or not.

“Caleb, huh? I think that suits you.” Caleb smiles a little bit. Gavin smiles back. Not feeling like having to write that horrible e-mail about abusing the now newly named Caleb right now, he decided to push that to later. “You know what? I’m going to make some tea! Would you like a tea Caleb?”

“I… Don’t th… think I’ve had t… tea before…”

“I’ll just make you a cup of chamomile tea, is that okay?” Caleb nods, smiling a little bit.

So Gavin makes tea. And it turns out Caleb really likes the chamomile tea he gets. He drinks it rather fast, and thanks Gavin more then once. Gavin is mostly silent. He doesn’t want to end up saying something to make Caleb feel stressed or uneasy. He picks up a newspaper from the coffee-table, and flips through it, not really registering anything he’s reading and occasionally taking a sip of his own tea. Eventually he gives up reading anything, and leans back in the armchair, closing his eyes for a little while. Trying to motivate himself to write the e-mail takes quite some time, and when he does, he still doesn’t feel like doing it.

But Gavin knows he has to. So he gets up and reaches for his laptop. But he spots Caleb whilst doing that. He’s asleep now. Gavin stops to watch his face for any sign of discomfort, but doesn’t find any. Carefully, he readjusts the duvet to cover him properly.

“Sleep well, Caleb.” As quiet as he can, he grabs his laptop and leaves to write the e-mail in another room.

[burtlederp]

Planty asks, pick your five favorite plants from the list based on their icons and then answer the questions for yourself and Elias.

I think I actually managed to find the original ask game for this one, believe it or not! If I did not, then sorry lol

🌺 What is your oc’s formal wear like? For me, my formal wear is basically a throw-on dress. I don't know enough about fashion to know what they're called, but they tend to be longish and soft and easy to put on and easy to wear. For Elias, if he ever needed to be dressed formal, he'd scramble for the cleanest button-up he owns (or buy the cheapest one at Wal-Mart) and maybe, if he has them and they are clean or relatively hole-free, slacks. But likely he'll just wash his jeans for once and wear those.

🌻 What little things make your oc happy? Would they admit that they make them happy? Plants! Happy little plants in unexpected places delight me, and I'll never hesitate to say so. Elias: Probably children? He'd say he's abjectly terrified of kids, but younger ones, if you stick him in a room with them, he may or may not be in heaven. You'd likely come back to him with clips in his hair and painted fingernails, and then be in a good mood for a time.

🌾 What is your oc’s favourite food? I know I ought not to generalize all of Asia, but yeah for the most part, all Asian food makes me happy if you offer it. Dumplings, pad thai, sushi, takoyaki, and more, all of it gets me salivating and my tummy rumbling. Elias' favorite food... He'd probably say pizza. 😛

🌿 Which oc can handle the most spice? Which prefers the blandest foods? I can't say I'm suuuper tolerant of spice, I'm really not, but the right kind of spice... yes please. I'll eat spicy crab on my sushi or have the spicy mayo or whatnot, but whenever I'm getting comfort ramen, I go with NO spice lol. I think Anton would be the one who likes his food bland, technically, since he does favor straight, raw meat over anything else. As for spice, well, hmm... Honestly? Probably Elias. He's had a sucky life, but even despite that, Courtney and others have taken him to fancy and less fancy places of varying quality and culture, and this is the same kid who ate a sock off the highway for a pack of cigs, so yeah, I'd reckon it's Elias.

🌹 How is your oc with flirting? Either receiving or the source? Okay, I... I think I'm pretty shit. I'm 23, and I've never had my first kiss yet. I could probably count on one hand the number of dates I've been on in my life. As for receiving? I think my face will discover a new shade of red. Elias is probably comparatively shit, but not for lack of trying. I think he's just bad at it. He's probably a little better at taking it, but depending on who it is, he might actually get scared off (you can thank Courtney for that).

Thanks Red for the ask!!! Sorry it took literally.... over a year or two to answer...😅

[comfy-whumpee]

Lavender

This is fresh and the structure isn’t anything, but it’s our beloved @crash-bump-bring-the-whump‘s birthday and I will always write Jim content for him. Other tag team: @lonesome--hunter, @iaminamoodymoodtoday, @wildfaewhump, @ishouldblogmore, @lektricwhump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @burtlederp.

The bedroom had barely changed, Ty thought, in the time he'd been away. The cluttered desk, which Ty had once used for his doctorate studies, still stood under the window with its row of little herb pots. The spare chair was piled with clean clothes waiting to be put away. On the dresser was a variety of dusty hair products that Ty no longer had the locks to utilise, and a variety of other miscellanea from their morning routines. The wardrobe took up most of one wall, separated cleanly into the halves for Ty and Jim. The bed was the centrepiece, cleanly made every morning in a way they'd never used to do.

 Nothing significant had changed. It was as if, while Ty had been gone, Jim had been gone too.

 "You changed," he said, when Jim asked what was wrong one evening.

 "I did?"

 Jim was sitting on the sofa, up against the corner. Just out of arm's reach were the shelves of cookery books and magazines he stored, mixed in with other reference stuff from Ty's old courses and general accumulations from life. On the closest edge of shelf was a cork coaster, upon which rested his glass of water. It was an arrangement Ty had seen countless times.

 "Yeah. You're different. Since...while I was gone. It's not," he added, seeing Jim frown, "it's not a n-negative thing. It kinda just, mm, makes me sad."

 The admission drew full attention and sympathy from Jim instantly. "What made you sad?"

 Ty sighed silently. He was sitting on the armchair, legs up to his chest, blanket around his shoulders. The armchair always used to be his usual spot, but now it was his, unchanged and untouched. No cross-contamination between himself and others, whichever one his trauma thought was worse that day.

 "Do you still make stuff?" he asked, after a moment.

 "Stuff?"

 "Yeah. Did you finish learning to knit? Or the, the resin thing?"

 "Oh, that. No, I never really went back to that."

 "Why not?"

 Jim leaned back, gaze moving to the ceiling. "I dunno. Too busy. Too expensive."

 They had plenty of materials. Jim must have been saving them for when they could be replaced. When Ty had returned barely able to hold a conversation, let alone return to work... That time hadn't come.

 "Could you do something now?" he suggested.

It wasn't like Jim was doing anything fulfilling. He was reading a magazine he had definitely read before. But he looked down at it, then over at the box of craft materials, and pulled a face. "I'm kinda tired. Don't worry though, I'm fine. I don't mind."

 That was the other thing that had changed, or worse, reverted. Months of gentle conversation and help had eased Jim's instinct to deflect attention. Ty had been so insistent on giving him that attention, vividly and enthusiastically and in many different ways, that he'd given up and accepted it. Now...the walls were back up. He didn't answer with his feelings.

 He'd lived alone here for nearly two years. No husband, few local friends. Bibi had visited him sometimes, she said, and his parents... But there wasn't really anyone else. Instead, Ty had left his husband a kitchen assistant and come back to a sous chef. Jim had poured everything into his job rather than spend time in his empty flat.

 A year and nine months of waiting would have changed anyone. Ty wished he could take Jim back to how he was before.

 The feeling was probably mutual.

 It didn't have to be that way. Jim wasn't exactly new to having trouble relaxing; it had been a feature of their relationship since day one, where he picked up an extra shift at work on the day Ty had asked him on a date. They laughed about that now, but it was a marker that formed part of a pattern that had persisted until...

 Until Ty was taken. Now, it was back.

 "If it's okay," Ty said, after the silence that gave Jim a breather from the emotional weight, "could we do something like that? Something with our hands?"

 Jim raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Yeah, of course. Use any of the stuff you want."

 He shied away from attention without even realising. Ty smiled carefully. "It's not so much the...doing things, as it is doing them with, with you."

 "...Oh." Jim blinked at his lap for a moment, and then looked up. "You sure?"

 "Mhmm."

 "Okay, uh, what do you want to do?"

 Ty widened his eyes, just slightly doe-like. "Can you pick?"

 "I guess I can, yeah, but tell me if you don't want to do it. Alright?"

 Apparently satisfied that he was taking care of Ty, and not the other way around, Jim got up and went to look through the cupboards. Ty watched him consider and reject modelling clay, knitting and, after a hesitation, their old faithful painting. Instead he picked out a kit from his mum. Soap making.

He smiled self-consciously. "Chemistry and crafting together, right?" Jim said, as he placed the tray on the windowsill for extra help solidifying. "I asked her never to get me candles again, so she got this. I think she got tired of getting them back for her birthday."

 He turned shyly with the kit in his hand. "Is this okay?"

 Ty smiled. "Of course. Let's make one each." He patted the sofa cushion beside him, and Jim sat down at a safe distance and began unpacking the box.

 They looked through the materials together, compared the essential oils, and on a whim, Jim hopped up for some dried lavender from the kitchen. Gently, they melted the base, stirred in the ingredients. Ty kept a distance from Jim at all times, but he was cheerful about it, teasing Jim about considering herbs to use and threatening to add lime to the lavender...and then laughing when Jim called his bluff and declared it an acceptable combination.

 Eventually, the mixture was poured it into the muffin baking tray to dry. Ty sat down at the table, a little winded from twenty minutes on his feet, ribs protesting.

 Jim leaned against the counter, and smiled shyly at him. "Thank you," he said quietly, once the tray was on the windowsill. "I know you did this for me."

 Ty smiled back. “You figured it out.”

“Mm. You were trying so hard to get me to relax... I’m so grateful for you, Ty.”

Ty bit his lip, smiling more widely. Then he cocked his head to the side. “And now will you tell me why you stopped? For real?”

Jim inhaled. The air was lavender and laundry powder. Home. His home, their home. Together.

“Okay.”

[burtlederp]

⌘ (sick whump) for caleb blease ily

I'm so sorry anon, i can't find the original ask game ;_; please feel free to send in another ask or prompt tho!!! I should hopefully be able to answer it sooner than a year from now lol

[burtlederp]

℧ for the sickfic prompts!

I'm sorry, but I can't find the ask game ;_; Please send in another ask if you wish, and include the prompt if it's from an ask game! Thank you!!!

[burtlederp]

14, 18, 27

Sorry, but I have no idea what ask game this could be from anymore XP Please send in another ask if you want! Thanks!

[burtlederp]

#48, for any OC you want. I am curious

Alas, if only I hadn't waited literally over a year to answer this. XP Sorry red! Please feel free to send in another ask like this if you want!

[burtlederp]

You know I’m in LOVE with Marcelo, but what originally drew me to your writing was your post-war drabbles. You got the exhaustion, the survivors guilt, the focus on practicality (because what else can you do?) so beautifully right! I see that exhaustion permeates so many of your characters. They’re beaten down, but still determined and fighting. I love that reality along with that fighting spirit. It’s beautiful to read.

I've had this sitting in my inbox for years now, because it's just so lovely to read. :3 Thank you so much!!!