#CW Wyatt

[generic-whumperz]

Wyatt (Character Sheet)

Picrew

Playlist | Masterlist | Character Info |

⚠️Proceed with caution, Wyatt is a Grade-A asshole⚠️

Here's a lengthy list of his TWs in lieu of a character overview. This is everything you need to know; when I use #cw Wyatt, it encases the following:

Murderer and mock executioner

Slaver (although, in his defense, he did not buy one, his mom willed him one)

Torturer

Rapist and sexual sadist with a blood kink (hematolagnia)

Gaslighter™️

Misogynist and egotistical predator who objectifies, demonizes, and degrades those he views as lesser (which is damn-near everyone)

Has anger issues and can’t chooses not to control his temper. Exploiter and raging narcissist (has anti-social personality tendencies + probably some other shit but I’m not a psychologist) who victimizes himself in every scenario despite him being the canonical villain in every sense of the word—he would win a gold medal in mental gymnastics.

Mentally, physically, verbally, and emotionally abusive. Bully and mean-spirited, humiliates people for fun (especially The Aid).

Drug addict and alcoholic, smokes weed (the only chill thing he does) and cigarettes, chews tobacco, consumes copious amounts of cocaine cut with meth and/or who knows what, and has picked up the habit of consuming Mystic blood (no, he's not a vampire, just a hematolagniac) to get out-of-this-world high he now can’t function without. Uppers > Downers.

Dabbles in cannibalism (a few times, but it does happen, so on the TWs it goes because wtf)

Porn addict

Gambling addict

Absent father

Mommy issues, Daddy issues, was abused and neglected as a child but never processed it healthily and sought help, so now he's just a menace to society and repeating fucked up trauma/abuse cycles (hello generational trauma). Has major beef with his older brother, Waylon, and was horrible to his younger sister, Winny, when they were kids.

Drunk driver (shouldn’t be driving because DUIs)

Owns firearms and weapons but definitely shouldn’t (although everyone does in Apocamerica)

Spoiled rich guy with a complex, doesn't accept "no" as an answer

Pretty much the worst person you'd ever have the misfortune of meeting

All-in-all: bastard-ass, creepy, intimate, sadistic Whumper

Full name: Wyatt Wilder Sullivan (Wy)

Role: main antagonist, Whumper

Date of Birth & sign: April 16, 1975 (56-57), Aries (story takes place in the year 2032)

Gender: cis-male

Sexuality: thinks of himself as just hetero, but falls under general sadism and dominance.

Height: 6'10"

Weight/body type/build: approx. 350lbs (I'm bad at guessing weight, take this with a grain of salt). Giant, solid build. Broad-shouldered, burly, and more heavy-set with a semi-prominent beer gut. In his youth was more brawny and muscular, now is a bit more flabby cause the only work out he’s doing is running to the liquor store, but still maintains a bulky physique.

Hometown: San Diego, CA

Family Members: Sullivan family tree. Has a daughter, Haylee, with ex-wife (how the fuck was this man even ever married is beyond me). Lost visitation rights to see his daughter and blames the Aid for it, but has made no effort to be a better person and reach out. Lives with The Aid in Eleanor's old house.

Left/right handed: right

Fav genre of music & anthem: classic rock, Ramblin' Gamblin' Man by Bob Seger

Occupation: trust-fund nepo baby. Used to be head of logistics security for family business. Now claims to be in finance and an investor (really sir, during the apocalypse?), and self-proclaims himself as a professional gambler and "independent media producer" (makes torture porn for fellow pervs on the internet—again, during the apocalypse no less). Barely graduated high school.

Ethnicity (+ American): Italian, French, Greek, North and West European, English

Hair color & length: ashy brown, silver-striped, cut short, combed to the right to hide his cow lick. Uses pomade. Facial hair: grown-out chevron mustache; rest of face clean shaven but gets 4 o'clock shadow soon after. Usually has stubble since he shaves about once a week. Body hair: moderately hairy with chest hair.

Hygiene: leaves much to be desired. Showers when sober enough to do so—or more so is sober enough to care that he reeks of BO, cigs, and beer, or after he's woken up in a pile of his vomit. Poor oral hygiene from chewing tobacco, drug use, smoking, and alcohol; thinks whiskey counts as mouthwash. Teeth yellowed and crooked with irritated, swollen-looking gums (from drugs and lack of daily care). He’s just a hot mess. The Aid has tried to clean this man up, but Wyatt ain’t having it.

Eye color: wide-set icy blue, downturned, deep sunken eyes under protruding brow.

Skin tone: light, apricot-colored skin with warm, reddish undertones. Face usually red and puffy (substance abuse)

Facial features: wide, triangle-shaped head. Thin-lipped downturned mouth. Prominent, hawkish, and rubescent nose. Arched, bushy eyebrows. Bigger ears with droopy lobes. Broad and heavy chin, slight underbite. From age, substance abuse, and lack of skin care (+ living in a dry climate): frown lines, forehead lines, crow's feet, blush-burned and puffy cheeks from constant flushing

Mannerisms: always scowling and glaring. Sniffling and wiping nose. Clearing throat. Hocking loogies and spitting chew in an old beer can. Scrunches nose with curling upper lip. Pinches bridge of nose. Loud, overly dramatic sighing. Tsks a lot. Grinds teeth. Rubs chin with index finger, rubs forehead with back of hand. Loud, heavy steps when walking. Crosses arms. Sucks teeth. Uses height to initiate others and takes up a lot of space. Constantly smokes cigs and probably has a beer in hand. When loaded and buzzing: jittery manic energy, crazy eyes, random face twitches. Bursts of movement in sporadic jolts, such as slapping or pounding fists on a table/nearest object.

Nervous ticks: nervousness presents more as nervous anger or agitation. Throws things. Grunts. Yells. Curses. Kicks, hits, punches whatever is closest to him (or uses his human punching bag, The Aid). Long car rides with blaring music, reckless driving. Tries to self-soothe by doing lines or watching porn.

Posture: carefree but domineering. He acts like he owns the place wherever he's at.

Style: basic T-shirt, collared cotton shirt with jeans and boots, casual leather oxford shoes (Dr. Martens), plain jackets. Very basic, solid-colored clothing, no fancy patterns or fun colors. Will wear a suit on occasion, but isn’t happy about it.

Health: amazingly, he hasn't had a heart attack (yet). Has had a fair share of overdoses. How is his liver still working? He doesn't take care of himself physically or mentally and should be dead, but he has the durability of a cockroach. Please drop dead

Piercings/tattoos: none

Birthmarks/scars: refer to the scar chart below that totally isn't an autopsy template (shout out to my boy for fucking Wyatt up as much as he has, I'm proud of you bby!)

Language(s): English

Personality: domineering, addictive, disagreeable, aggressive & argumentative, selfish, short-tempered, reckless, greedy, narcissistic, possessive, cruel, dishonest, grouchy, moody, violent, vulgar, prideful, dismissive, unpredictable, cold, impulsive, over-indulgent, jealous

Vices: addicted to everything he can get his hands on. Hardcore addict, and latest fixation is Mystic Blood cut with coke. Drinks more alcohol than water. Will fight and fuck his way to get what he wants. Will thrash and destroy everything when pissed off, then makes The Aid clean it up and beat him up if he doesn't do it fast enough; likes to wind down with a foot rub and/or full body massage from The Aid (*gag*).

Voice: gravelly with a tinge of teasing sarcasm, it ranges from monotone to raucous and taut. After a night of bruising and boozing, it can sound more strained and raspy/horse. (In my head he sounds something like Thomas Church?)

Smells like: as described from this scrapped excerpt left on the cutting room floor: "On a good day, Wyatt smelt of generically fragranced clean linen laundry detergent, slightly masked by an ever-present light odor of dewy sweat, salted sunflower seeds, and worn-off Old Spice. On a bad day, he reeked of one part odious stress sweat, three parts foul breath—a coalesced stench of alcohol, cigarettes, and beef jerky."

Face claim(s): John Goodman (I'M SORRY JOHN), but specifically these pictures below. Honorary mention, Douglas M. Griffin.

Character inspiration: Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall (Outlander), Ramsey Bolton (GOT), diabolical combination of Homelander and Billy Butcher (The Boys). Biggest YIKES.

Other: irredeemable POS; please openly hate this man; he's made to be shit on. That being said, as I mentioned many times above, Wyatt struggles with substance abuse, and there are references to drug use in text. But just to be crystal clear, he is not a bad person because he uses substances, and I do not intend to vilify individuals dealing with substance abuse. His purpose aims to illustrate the destructive nature of addiction—the monster it can create—the compounding impact of unaddressed trauma, and the correlation between the two. (I come from a long line of addicts and have lost family members due to overdoses; this is how I’m dealing with it; you don’t need to like how I’m going about it, but I don’t need anyone getting on my ass about it either. I’m working through some shit. To me, Wyatt is the personification of the disease of addiction and how it will drown anyone it comes in contact with.)

While the drugs exacerbate his behavior, it's important to note that he was already struggling with personal issues and has fully embraced his negative traits, and is incredibly self-destructive. Wyatt is a complex character, albeit a deeply flawed one who consistently makes poor choices and is a massive piece of shit. But deep down, he’s a sad, unfulfilled man who got the shit end of the stick and is the byproduct of bad parenting and abuse himself. He is not for the faint of heart; I think his character inspos say all you need to know about the kind of person he is. But still, fuck him.

Cursed mood board

Honorary tag request: @whumped-by-glitter

[maddpool]

🚬‎️‍🔥

[six-demon-bag]

NIGHT SWIM (2024) dir. Bryce McGuire

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[mysharona1987]

When I heard Chris and Wyatt from Charmed were meant to have a spin off, but Supernatural was already doing the “brothers fight demons weekly” so CW passed:

The charmed finale basically says Chris and Wyatt were doing their own tv show anyway.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League – Bath

Masterlist

Late-19th century, indentured servitude, past-noncon implied, power imbalance, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper dynamics. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

August presses himself into the corner. 

As far as he can get from the old copper soaking tub Midge filled with hot water, pitcher by pitcher, from the proper one down the hall. Wyatt knew this would be an ordeal and wanted to save August and the rest of the house from it transpiring in the shared washroom. 

He already took off his jacket and waistcoat to work at his desk earlier. His sleeves rolled up and held in place by the stays so they wouldn’t get marked by ink. But he finished all the books an hour ago. 

Time to get this over with. 

August shakes his head as soon as Wyatt meets his eyes. 

“It’s all right.” He keeps his distance, pushes the chair a little closer to his desk. Straightens the papers hanging over the edge before looking back at August. “It’s just a bath.” 

The younger boy trembles. “P-please, sir—” He’s trying not to cry, swiping at his cheeks with the too-long sleeves of his borrowed shirt, pushing out his chin determinedly. “I’ll wash with the basin and cloth. Please—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Wyatt says, taking a small step to the side. Even though it puts him no closer to August, the boy cringes at the movement. “The doctor said a proper bath. We’ve already delayed two more days.” 

August eyes the tub over Wyatt’s shoulder. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Please, sir. I can’t…” 

“What would you have me do?” He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve already—oh, August. August, lad.” 

He cries in earnest now, hiccuping quiet sobs, and gives up wiping the tears away, arms wrapped around his middle instead. Holding himself as though he might fall to pieces. “I-I-I-can’t, I can’t, s-s-sir. I’m sorry—”

Wyatt tries to move closer and August yelps, sticking both hands out, palms forward in defense. With nowhere to go since he’s cornered himself, his sobs only grow more ragged. 

He’s no good at calming himself, not when Wyatt’s standing right there and could do it for him. He got by on his own many, many times but it’s different now he’s tasted the very warmth and comfort he spent all that time wanting, craving, needing. 

“August—” 

“Nnnonono—” Wyatt can’t get near him and he’s swiftly becoming hysterical, hands still outstretched, sobs racking through him so he shakes on the spot. His eyes are glued to the tub, barely even seeing Wyatt except as an extension of the threat. 

Wyatt steps aside to sit on the foot of his bed and the crying falters. In truth, he’s closer to August now, just an arm’s reach away, but the footboard between them like an iron fence is enough to lessen the threat. 

“C’mere. Come sit with me.” He holds out his hand and waits, doesn’t need to push. Bullying will only make August more desperate and wild. Patience finds the path of least resistance. He’s done it enough times, earned the trust of all the others, one by one, inch by inch.  

It takes another moment and then August’s cool fingers grasp his. He lets himself be reeled in to stand in front of Wyatt. His face is all ruddy, cheeks wet enough that Wyatt can’t catch sight of the new tears once they fall from his lower lashes. 

“All’s right, lad. All will be right,” Wyatt pulls him into his lap, settling the waif of a boy on one thigh. He couldn’t—nor would he ever—do this with any of the others but this one seems to find himself the exception in a steadily rising number of situations. 

August is shaking, eyes unfocused like he has nothing to see now that he can’t watch the tub. He gasps and hiccups, trying to stop himself crying. 

“You must breathe, lamb. Evenly, in and out.” Wyatt places a hand on the center of his chest. “Come now or you’ll faint,” he chides. 

He manages a shaky exhale.

“That’s it.” Wyatt pushes some of the matted waves off his forehead. How might he react to the suggestion of a haircut to keep the hair from falling into his eyes so much? He tucks another tangled lock behind August’s ear and leaves his hand there, thumb stroking his temple. “There you go, in and out.” 

As soon as he recovers his breath, he starts apologising, gripping Wyatt’s forearm with both hands. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Hush. Hush, now.” He pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket. “Dry your tears. All’s right.”

August obeys, sniffling. His hands fall to his lap, twisting the square of fabric around one fingertip, avoiding Wyatt’s gaze. Uncertain what to do with himself when he isn’t permitted to grovel. 

Wyatt lifts his chin with a crooked finger and thumb. “The most favourable course is if you go willingly. For both our sakes.” 

He only blinks at him with those wide, shining eyes. All the fight gone.

“I’d much rather be proud of you than have to force you.” August bites his lip, like he’s thinking it over but Wyatt knows he found an in. The boy is as hungry for praise as he is for a gentle touch. “I believe you can manage it.” 

August flushes, even more swayed by the slightest confidence in his capabilities. “Yes, sir.” 

His next task will be coaxing August to drop the loathsome honorifics. 

“Come on. There’s a good lad.” He keeps an arm around August to lead him to the tub, which he hopes is holding its heat beside the fire. 

August goes rigid as soon as Wyatt steps forward, digging in his heels until his stocking feet slide on the hardwood. But he doesn’t twist away. He lets himself be pulled, trembling but with his mouth set in a determined line. At the edge of the carpet, he trips into Wyatt and stays there, pressing against his side, as he finally looks into the water. It’s milky white from the soap, little bubbles resting among the foam on the surface. 

Wyatt takes one of his hands and, with a gentle tug, lowers their entwined fingers to the water. August gasps and Wyatt lets him pull both of their hands away. “Sir, it’s warm.” 

“So it is.” 

“But…” He looks back and forth to the tub, brow furrowed.

“Certainly you’ve had a hot bath before.”

He shakes his head. 

“I would have thought a house like Elmwood had all the latest fittings even in the servant’s washroom.” 

“Of course, sir.” He drops his eyes, gaze circling the oval edge of the tub. His grip on Wyatt’s hand tightens subtly before relaxing again.“But I didn’t wish to take it from anyone else or be greedy.”

He can picture young August never asking for a second helping, taking cold baths. Quietly and diligently going about his work, constantly in fear of losing his place. Only to wind up with Keats. He had a reputation for being ruthless. How that might devolve when he had absolute power over someone, Wyatt didn’t like to imagine. August already demonstrated enough of its consequences to paint an abhorrent picture. 

Wyatt wishes to tell him he’s finally found a place he doesn’t have to earn, where he’ll be safe. Where he can stay as long as he chooses. Same as all the others, each needing it desperately in one way or another. He’d never be able to hear it now. 

He squeezes the younger boy’s shoulder. “You’re too good for your own good, lad.” August’s still too fixated on the looming task to give Wyatt more than an obedient hum of agreement. They had better get on before he abandons his stoic determination. 

August seems to lose himself as he undresses, movements slowing the further he gets. Wyatt assures him he can leave on his drawers but he only nods numbly, crossing his shaking arms over his bare torso. 

“Look at me.” He ducks his head to catch August’s eyes. “I’ll not hurt you, I mean to keep that promise.”

“I—” He bites his lip and nods.

“All right?” 

The boy dips his head again.  

“Shall I help you?” 

He nods, though Wyatt wonders how much of that is just a reflex. He lifts him under the arms gently to lower him—

August cries out before he even touches water, twisting and flailing until his hands and feet find purchase. Wyatt bears the assault, afraid of causing injury if he simply drops him like a stone, until August eventually manages to wrap himself around him. 

It takes a moment to find his voice. “Are you quite finished?” 

They must look a sight. August clings to him so tightly, he doesn't need to be held, leaving Wyatt’s arms free to hold away from his sides if only to reduce their contact by some modicum. After all the prior upsets, he doesn’t give a damn about having Wyatt between his legs at this moment. 

August buries his face in Wyatt’s neck. “I’m s-sorry—I don’t—I’m sorry,” he whispers breathlessly. Wyatt feels his tears beginning to dampen the points of contact between their skin. 

He lies a hand on August’s bare back, rubbing circles once the boy stops holding his breath like he’s expecting a blow. “Need I remind you how capable you are of facing this?” He can feel August’s heart hammering against his chest so he keeps his voice low. “I’ve witnessed you staring down a whole room, with your hands tied no less.” He holds August under one thigh and reaches behind his back to uncross the opposite foot. “I was impressed by the fight in you, the fire in your eyes.” 

August lets him straighten the leg and ease it into the water. He tightens his arms around Wyatt’s neck and stops breathing but doesn't struggle. Wyatt follows suit with the next so August is more or less standing in the tub. 

“I know you to be brave...” 

August yelps when his wounded hip meets the water, panting against Wyatt’s neck, arms still like iron to keep himself there. Wyatt doesn’t stop until he’s up to his chest in the water, following to kneel beside him on the canvas sheet Midge laid to protect the carpet. 

“As brave as any of those wolves downstairs. Maybe you’re not a lamb after all…” August huffs against his neck and Wyatt smiles. He dips a cloth into the soapy water and runs it across August’s back, eliciting a shiver.

Wyatt washes most of what he can reach with the younger boy still clinging to him before August lifts his head. He straightens slowly, as though a sudden movement might change everything. His face is flushed and his hands shake fiercely when he releases them from behind Wyatt’s neck. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with them, fears touching the very water he sits in.

“All right. All’s right.” Wyatt cups the side of his face as his breath starts to quicken. “Just look at me, August. There you go, that’s it.” He presses the cloth into one of August’s hands, closing his fingers around it for him. “Come now, you’ve done this before.” 

He bites his lips together as he submerges his hand while the other still hovers, trembling above the water. Wyatt catches his fingers and brings them to rest on the edge of the tub. August grips it immediately, knuckles turning white.

“You already smell like a rose,” Wyatt tells him, wiping a smudge off the side of his neck. 

August huffs again, flushing even redder than he already is in the warm bath. He doubles down on biting his lip in a way that makes Wyatt wonder if it might be to hide a smile. A prize for another time.   

“All that’s left is your hair.”  

His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows. 

“You can hold onto me and lean your head back.” When August only blinks at him, he adds, “unless you want to go under.”

He shakes his head, expression crumpling at the mere mention. “Please—”

“You’re all right.” Wyatt steels himself and takes both of his hands, bringing them back to his shoulders. “Just hold onto me.” As expected, August does so in a way that would make it nearly impossible for Wyatt not to submerge himself as well as August if that was what he intended. They’re nose to nose, again in contest with the intimacy August fears above all else. Excepting a bath, Wyatt is learning. 

He has to bend over the tub to manage the angle. August hangs on his neck, alternately searching his eyes as though he might see the threat before it happens, and avoiding them completely like he doesn’t want to. 

August gasps when the back of his head meets the water. 

“It’s all right, you’re doing well.”

His eyelids flutter as Wyatt rubs at his scalp under the water. When Wyatt lifts him out and adds more soap, working it into a silky lather, August lets his eyes fall shut completely. As Wyatt's fingers card slowly but surely through the tangles, the knot of the boy’s arms around his neck loosens as well. By the time Wyatt tips him back to rinse the suds, it seems some of his unease has washed away too.

Next...

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

@writereleaserepeat

[mxmoth]

BO DALLAS on WWE RAW | 6-24-24

[heavensleast]

Bo and Henry share a tune. BEASTBORN breaks onto the scene...

[basofy]

recent things i didnt post im embarrassed..

[tuttle-did-it]

Rewatching Pitfall (1948) (starring Dick Powell, Lizabeth Scott, Raymond Burr and Jane Wyatt). Found this delightful IMDb entry.

Well played, sir.

[imjustavenuxwithaboomerang]

idk if it's just because i'm a raging bisexual but i actually didn't mind cecile and mark's (once he learned to SHUT UP) additions to the flash

i actually adore cecile. was she kinda op??? yeah...but i honestly didn't care. and mark was definitely annoying at first but once he stopped, i liked him just fine. now this might be because i haven't read the comics (and don't plan on it so shush) i don't know, but from a cw-only perspective, i liked them as characters and what they brought to it, but then again maybe i'm just blinded by how pretty they are

[rttnpnkpmpkn]

It’s not really necessary for #genderswap since the Y/N’s represented the “Gender Choice” game mechanic, but here are the Alt. versions!

[railheist]

@inheirit asked: is that a gun in your pocket? because that’s not really safe, you should get a holster.

"I've got a holster." She pats the one on her belt. "But this is a specialized pocket, see? So that way, I can just —"

She draws her BB gun from a canvas-lined coat pocket.

"— do this."

Then she puts it back, plain and simple. She doesn't want to act threatening, she just wants to show off.

[thlayli-ra]

Drawing Scenes from my Fanfictions, from Break These Chains

'Knight had always assumed that you had to be asleep in order to have nightmares. However, as he slowly started to come to, he found to his dread, that he'd been very, very wrong!'

[nigmamale]

Wyatt Earp x Doc Holliday (Tombstone) Stimboard

...with horses, whiskey, and the old west.

x x x / x x / x x x

requested by a friend

[distinctlywhumpthing]

"Copy of Black Card"

-🕯

From this ask game.

You can have the whole thing. I wrote this in November 2022 and it's been gathering dust since because I have Conflicted Writer Feelings™️ about where the entire Together plot and characters stand after writing Apart. This piece is ambiguous enough that it could fit into either, set after this which is canon for both.

CW: Captivity whump, ptsd, whumper turned minutely sympathetic whumper/whumper done whumping vibes.

I don’t know Emma’s favorite color. 

I don’t know what her favorite color is and I gave up a shot at freedom to stay with her. He made good on his promise but she was in my arms and she was so hurt and I couldn’t imagine walking away. I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone. 

I don’t even know the first fucking thing about her and it’s been days and she hasn’t woken up yet. What if—

The colorful, polished gemstones in the hospital gift shop blur in front of me. 

I blink until my vision clears. 

I used to buy these all the time as a kid. On every class trip to a museum or zoo with the spending money my driver had been instructed to give me. I’d carry them home in their little velvet drawstring bag like precious treasure. My collection lined the chair rail molding along a whole wall of my bedroom. Rose quartz, coppery tiger eye, dark garnet, teal amazonite, inky hematite. 

I guess it’s all gone now. 

I like it in the gift shop. For one thing, it doesn’t smell like a hospital. Artificial vanilla and cinnamon waft through the air from some wall plug-in. Soft acoustic covers play out of speakers mounted in all four corners, just under the security cameras. The covers kind of suck but anything is better than the blaring PA on all the patient floors. Everything in here is pretty and overpriced and well-wishing. People stand up straighter, put up those socialized walls like this is any other store not even related to the hosptial. In the waiting rooms, it’s no holds barred, all bets are off vulnerability and rawness. That would be inappropriate here. Nobody cries in the gift shop.

A rose quartz sits in the section of the white howlite. My fingers twitch in my pockets but I don’t touch anything. Maybe someone else picked it out especially and put it aside. Maybe it’s someone else’s job to rehome the scattered stones at the end of the day. 

If I one of each, brought them to her room and lined them up on the edge of the bed, could she tell me which one is right? Which is her favorite color? It felt like things were different, those last few days or weeks but then…

“Do you need help?” 

My heart rockets to my throat and I spin, raising my arms defensively, hips hitting the shelf. The stones rattle and I swerve away, trying to skirt around the gift shop attendant who has positioned themselves Way Too Close. I trip over my own fucking feet and fall into a tower of stuffed animals, taking it down with me. It hits a shelf of cards and travel board games on its way like we’re a fucking chain of dominos. Everything on the entire wall of shelving falls in a horrible avalanche. Boxes wrapped in shrink plastic, pieces rattling loose inside, slap onto the floor. Somewhere in the cacophony, glass shatters among the rest of the noise. Finally, the clang of the metal tower landing beside me.

I peek out of one eye.

The shop attendant crosses their arms as I scramble to my knees. 

“I am so sorry.” I start plucking random boxes and items out of the mess, trying to stack them into some semblance of order. It goes about as well as anything does these days. After my shaking knocks over another stack, she holds up a hand. 

“It’s fine. Just—” She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Are you going to buy something?” 

“I—uh—yeah,” I mumble. She looks unconvinced and unimpressed so I add, “Yes, ma’am.” 

Other people are watching, probably have been the whole time. 

My cheeks burn. 

Even worse, I’m dressed in hospital-branded merch from this very gift shop. I managed a handful of semi-successful trips here without disaster but that was a different attendant. Weekday shift? Weekend shift? I don’t know what day it is. 

Luckily, there’s still something for me to pull myself up with. I stand awkwardly in the middle of the mess looking for the path of least resistance, lest I repeat this fucking catastrophe. 

“Here—” The woman is holding her hand out to me. I stare at it long enough that she clicks her tongue. “Take it so you don’t fall again. Come on.” 

There’s not much I can do about my trembling as I reach out, slamming shut every door that flies open in my mind with errant thoughts about the contact. 

She hauls me to some clear floor, catching me under the arm when I inevitably trip and muttering something like ‘for the love of Christ’ under her breath. “You gonna make it to the register?” 

I would prefer to sink into the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

She releases me and I try not to do any more damage. I keep my head down and beeline to the other corner of the store, grabbing random things off shelves. My skin crawls the whole time but when I finally get the guts to turn around, there’s no one else in the shop. The attendant even has her back to me as she starts on the mess. I resist the urge to fold to the floor right now and curl up in a ball. I have to salvage some part of this to ever show my face here again. 

I need the gift shop. 

I doubt I’ll be able to face this place tomorrow but maybe the next day. 

Mercifully, Wyatt’s black card fixes everything. 

“I don’t want to see her blood anymore,” he said, holding it out to me. I flinched back but he didn’t react in the slightest, waiting for me to take it. “Eat, too. Bring me a black coffee when you’re done.”

I started with the bare minimum. A new t-shirt and scrub pants. A sandwich from the cafeteria. I kept the receipts, even the one for his coffee. Held them out to him with trembling hands, along with the card, trying not to shrink back. He plucked the cup of coffee out of my deathgrip, ignoring the rest. 

It took me five full minutes to work up the courage to address him. “S-sir? Your card?”

“What?” He turned around, blinking at me like he’d forgotten I was there. Emma was still with the doctors, and he paced the whole time she was gone. “Keep it, use it for whatever you want.”

“I—I—”

He stepped close enough that I did cower (even though I’m pretty sure I am taller than him). “This is simple: You will eat daily. You will bring me coffee when I ask. Keep. The. Card.” Impatience made his tone sharp like a slap.

And here we are, thirty-seven coffees and an amount of days later. 

Three peas in a fucked up pod. 

Wyatt subsisting on caffeine alone, Emma still unconscious, and me shaking enough for all three. 

Obviously, I don’t even dream about trying anything. 

I just charge all kinds of useless shit on Wyatt’s card. Two pairs of sweatpants to wear over the scrub pants, a fleece jacket under a giant hoodie, as if the layers could ever be any kind of armor. What a fucking joke. Flowers, balloons, a Rubik’s cube, logic puzzles I can’t even begin to solve. More than I could eat in snacks and candy. All piling up on the spare bed that neither Wyatt nor I have ever slept in and not a damn word from him about any of it. 

I hug the walls on my way back from the gift shop but somehow still manage to be in someone’s way. I panic in the face of their urgency and wind up nearly tripping someone else as I move to the side. In my hurry to skitter away from the not-so-subtly muttered, “dumbass” and “watch where you’re going, asshole”, I take a wrong turn. 

I walk the whole circumference of the wing, too afraid that if I turn back, I’ll run into them again. 

Eight miles later, I’m finally at Emma’s room. I drop all the bags on the bed and fall into the chair on my side of the bed. We’re playing a game where there’s an invisible line drawn down from the center Emma’s bed. Except it’s just me afraid of crossing to his side and he doesn’t have to play by any rules. 

I crack open a Dr Pepper and start flipping through some bullshit travel magazine. My focus is a hot mess but anything to pass the time or—

Wyatt looks up. He hasn’t acknowledged me in days aside from, “Get coffee”, and then not a single word while he accepts the cup when I hold it out over the invisible line and try to remember how to breathe so close to him. 

I freeze with a mouthful of soda, carbonation making my eyes water and sinuses burn as I hold it on my tongue because I can’t seem to swallow under his gaze.

“Good you chose to stay.” He nods at my provisions for passing another sleepless night. “Better than being a patsy for your fugitive family. You wouldn’t do well in prison, August.”

I stare at him blankly. My brain is way too slow to process what he’s telling me. Fugitive family?  

The corner of his lip twitches. “Although, you have surprised me in the past. That’s why you’re still here.” He turns his attention back to Emma.

The soda is flat by the time I swallow it.

Tagging some of the OG taglist people:

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@susiequaz12 @subject-v @wormwriting @whumpinthepot @gearbee