#I love gentle Whumpers who actually aren’t gentle at all

[letitbehurt]

“Answer me nicely,” Whumper orders softly, flicking open a pocket knife, “or I’ll ask a different way.”

[milk-carton-whump]

Pspspsppsp Raccoon, your tiny boy is here.

Tagging: @cowboy-anon @whumpasaurus101 @jordanstrophe @unicornscotty @sideblogformindtrash @tears-and-lilies @happy-whumper @justabitofwhump @itsleighlove @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

CW: loneliness, low self esteem, emotional whump, crying, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, tiny whumpee, big caretaker, captivity

Oliver's Company

He hoped that Oliver would come today, to visit. Each day that Darren was gone, it made the small boy that much lonelier in his empty glass bowl. The sound of a key turning the lock of the door made his head snap toward the sound. He could've sworn the sound of his heart thumping echoed around in the bowl. 

To his delight, Oliver was the one who stepped through the door, tiny fists beating on the glass in excitement from seeing his friend. Oh, but what if Oliver thought he was a pest? What if he forgot about him… what if the friendliness had been an act?

Fish was snapped from his thoughts as a familiar hand reached into the bowl from above, ready to let him climb on. The tiny boy hesitated, looking up he saw the soft auburn hair and kind smile of Oliver. He climbed onto the hand, holding onto the larger boy's thumb for safety. 

"Hello Fish. Hungry?" Oliver asked, expecting a nod from his tiny friend. 

Fish didn't respond and just hugged his thumb tighter, something was bothering the small boy. 

"Hey… what's wrong? Can I help?" 

The tiny boy hesitated before nodding, even tinier tears running down his cheeks. 

"I… do. Do you actually like me? Or… or do you j-just feel bad for me?" Fish asked, his crying was interrupted by hiccups. 

"Fish… what. What made you think I don't like you?" Oliver asked, gently rubbing his other finger across the small teary cheeks. 

"I… I'm a pest and I ask for so much and yet why don't you hate me? Darren hates me, he calls me a pest and a waste of space… i… I'm annoying and in the way, that's why I was put in the bowl." He whimpered pitifully. 

"Hey, hey… Fish. You aren't a pest or annoying or any of those things. Darren says that to be cruel… Now, was that what was bothering you?" Oliver reassured gently. 

Fish wiped his face with his oversized sleeve, only really resulting in making his cheeks red and itchy. He didn't deserve Oliver's kindness or gentle handling. The tall boy could say what he wanted, that Fish was supposed to have a better life full of love and support. All of Darren's words however made him question everything Oliver said, he couldn't distinguish who was right and who was wrong. 

For now he just nodded, hoping that would make Oliver drop the subject. 

"I'll make you your favorite and then I need to study for a test… you can help, how does that sound?" He suggested, hoping to cheer up his tiny friend. 

At the sound of Oliver offering to make him grilled cheese he nodded quickly, overly excited to have the luxurious meal. 

Not too long after, Fish's stomach was full and he had fallen asleep on Oliver's chest as he read chapters for his class. The bigger boy glanced down, watching his small friend's body rise and fall with his chest. He very carefully brushed Fish's hair from his face, wondering how in the world anyone could dislike the small boy. 

[whumpzone]

Tomas and Rowe - Part 10

thank you all for your patience. these updates will probably because fortnightly rather than weekly since im swamped with uni work now, but i still love my boys dearly and i love YOU all for reading!

Masterpost

taglist: @sola-whumping @just-another-whumper @misspelledwitch @looptheloup @briars7 @black-polarf @zipadeedooda-drabbles @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @rosesareviolentlyread @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jazz-0307 @kestrelsparverius @whumpsy-daisies @whumpersworld @memoriesneverforget @sky-or-something-idfk @ghostcomit @cupcakes-and-pain @frankieswhump @ihaventwritteninsolong @mybrokenlittletoy @kiretto-laorentze @morelikepainsley (please ask to be added or removed!

CW: pet whumpee, hospitals, dehumanisation, burning

-

It would have been a great mercy for Rowe to drift slowly awake, pulled towards lucidity by his aching legs. Instead, in an instant he was wide awake and screaming as unfamiliar hands touched and gripped and pulled. Rowe weakly pushed them away before he realised what was going on. How could I- I was trained to never resist. How can this happen? What is wrong with me?

‘’See how far non-compliance gets you,’’ came a voice. Rowe squinted against the light to see two people in elbow-length gloves, with masks and cold eyes looking back at him. One of them- the taller of the two- reached to either side of him to click open what looked like handcuffs. ‘’In. If you don’t make a fuss I won’t clip your legs. You wouldn’t want that with the state they’re in, would you?’’

Rowe shook his head desperately. He could barely listen through the terrible pain, but he was programmed to understand commands, and had learned to understand threats. The tall one gave a little grunt and spread Rowe’s arms wide, locking them in place on either side of the thin mattress he was laying on. Rowe vaguely considered that Master Tomas had given him an especially nice mattress at home.

His bed at home. His room. The nice carpet soaked with his blood while he lay there, helpless, Kasia swinging the hammer down again and again, and Rowe able to feel his hatred with every impact. Master had found him, Rowe remembered. He had taken him here. Was he being put down?

He felt something trickling down his temples. Tears. When did I start crying?

He shook his head, trying to push all these questions out of his head. Pets don’t cry. I don’t cry- I shouldn’t cry. I’m just a thing that feels pain and serves. I can lie here and take this. Master left me here; this is what he wants.

‘’Right…’’ The tall one said. Rowe blinked quickly and saw her inspecting his wounds. ‘‘When did you get these?’’

‘’Th-this afternoon, I-‘’

Rowe’s voice died away when he saw the look she was giving the short doctor, who bent to grab something from the compartment strapped to the end of the bedframe.

‘’Oh dear. I don’t remember you having permission to speak. Muzzle, if you please, Dr Clerval.’’

The shorter doctor- Clerval- handed it to her and Rowe went limp reflexively. This muzzle looked sharp, and cruel, and as the taller doctor fastened it to Rowe’s face he felt it cut into the skin around his ears and the corners of his mouth. The bit was cold, keeping his tongue pinned down.  

‘’Now,’’ she said, ‘’you’re going to be a good Pet, aren’t you? We’re doing you a kindness, after all.’’

Rowe nodded, lowering his eyes. The tall doctor smiled, and Rowe saw her push some sort of sharp instrument into him, and then he started screaming.

-

The woman who had summoned Tomas introduced herself as Gwen. Her Mary Janes echoed through the corridor as they spoke.

‘’Can I see him?’’

‘’Your Pet? I’m sorry, sir, he won’t be out for a while.’’

‘’Then… what did you want me for?’’

‘’We actually had a few issues with your paperwork and just need a few signatures off you, if you don’t mind. Right in here, please.’’

They entered a warm office and Gwen gestured for Tomas to sit in a plush, deep buttoned chair.  

‘’Okay. I have here your Pet’s file, but it seems you’re not the official owner.’’

‘’Huh?’’

‘’When you received your Pet, did you sign any paperwork?’’

‘’No… I didn’t.’’

‘’Well, your P-‘’

‘’His name is Rowe. Sorry- for interrupting, but he has a name. If that’s easier.’’

Gwen gave him the gentle smile of a vet explaining to a child why their sweet pet had to be put down. ‘’Of course, Mr Grz- may I call you Tomas? Great. Currently Rowe is listed as unclaimed, under the legal ownership of a Pet rehoming organisation. Is this where you got him from?’’

‘’Yeah. I have a friend who works there.’’

‘’I see. Well your friend has forgotten to give you the appropriate paperwork. What this means is that Rowe is not officially your property yet- you can’t take people to court if they damage or steal him.’’

‘’Right. Shit. How do I get this paperwork?’’

‘’I have it here, since you need to be the legal owner to submit him for medical treatment. This will establish that you are Rowe’s acting owner, but you need to get your friend to sign too, okay?’’

Gwen handed Tomas a single sheet of paper and a pen. So simple, Tomas thought. One bit of A4 for the right to Rowe’s life.

‘’Thank you,’’ he said as he signed, printing his name below it in his delicate script. 

‘’Great,’’ beamed Gwen. ‘’And now we can discuss your payment.’’

‘’Payment? Isn’t this… isn’t this on the NHS?’’

‘’No,’’ she said patiently, ‘’just as animals aren’t covered, neither are Pets.’’

Tomas’s goodwill towards Gwen was dissipating quickly. He would pay, of course. But for Rowe- his Rowe- to be considered closer to an animal than a human made him stiffen. Gwen seemed to notice this and pressed on.

‘’Oh, but don’t worry, it’s not going to be expensive. Pet treatment is far simpler than treating a human.’’

Gwen didn’t elaborate, and Tomas didn’t enquire, if only to preserve his own sanity. The floor, he noticed, was the same shade of cream as Rowe’s room. He looked away quickly. He could still smell the blood- could still hear the way Rowe had screamed and moaned when he lifted him up. Tomas didn’t even know how conscious he had been then. Did he think Tomas was hurting him more on purpose? Would he think Tomas was angry? Probably. Tomas would have to be very, very patient when Rowe was discharged and started begging for forgiveness for wasting his Master’s time.

-

The muzzle only hurt when Rowe shifted, now. It had sunk into his flesh and stayed there, and Rowe could ignore the pain up until a movement made it flare. In a way, he was happy that he couldn’t speak- he always made things worse by speaking, and although he did his best to make Master Tomas happy, he sometimes wished he would be granted a muzzle and the safety of silence.

He had stopped screaming, mostly. The bit had sliced his tongue so badly he wondered if he would even be able to speak once it was taken off. As Dr Clerval and the other doctor, whose name was Easton, dug into his calves, he just moaned and spasmed involuntarily. His chest, still brightly lined with Kasia’s cuts, strained and lifted with every new jolt of pain.

The pain was awful- acute pain- different to the wide, messy whacks of the hammer. Rowe could feel every stab of the instrument, a million precise cuts, sinking into his skin and then leaving just as quickly. He hoped he wouldn’t throw up. He tried to focus on the fact that he wasn’t being put down, at least.

He had never been to hospital before. When his old master had whipped him, or poured boiling water on him, or beaten him unconscious, he had always had the night to recover and then it was back to work. If he couldn’t do that, he was given the morning off and forced to sleep outside for the next week as penance. He was always so grateful when old master allowed him that.

Anaesthetic wasn’t wasted on Pets, Rowe knew that. Master Tomas knew that too, undoubtedly. Don’t worry sir, no need to punish your Pet yourself. After all, you’ve already wasted enough time on it. We’ll make sure it suffers so it knows not to bother you again.

More stabbings in his legs. It felt like he was being stitched up. That made sense, at least. Rowe’s old master was kind, far kinder than Rowe deserved, and would always tell him why he was being hurt. He felt the same amount of comfort here. He was being hurt for a reason. Kasia’s beating had been made all the more unbearable because he hadn’t cited any insolence, any misstep. He had barely said anything at all.

On either side of him were dark green curtains, but beyond them he could hear screams, and wails. He wondered how many injured Pets were in here with him, just out of sight. He had never met another Pet before.

Another jolt of pain brought him back to the present. Dr Easton was looming over him with a- a- Rowe’s head went dizzy with fear. Dr Easton had a thick metal rod in one gloved hand, and the end was white-hot and smouldering. She held it near Rowe’s face and he pulled away as far as he could against his restraints, the whites of his eyes glinting in the sterile light. He could tell that underneath her mask was a wicked smile.

‘’We’ve got one or two pesky wounds that might get infected. But we’ll see to that. Do you know what cauterisation is?’’

Rowe nodded, and this seemed to be the right answer, because the rod was taken away from his face. Before he could relax, though, Easton pressed the burning end into Rowe’s calf.

His eyes rolled into his head as he bucked and thrashed, his screams mixed with desperate, anguished sobs. His thoughts were running wild with helpless pleas- not this not this not this, I’ll do anything to make the pain stop, please Master I’m so sorry, please I’ll do anything, just not this, not this.

It didn’t calm down when the rod lifted from his leg, after the longest few seconds of Rowe’s life. No sooner had he even registered the change was the pain was transferred to another wound, further up the same leg. He felt like a wild animal, screaming in a way he had never screamed before, guttural and horribly altered due to the muzzle. Rowe didn’t even recognise the sounds. The pain was worse, so much worse than the boiling water or the whip, he couldn’t even form coherent thoughts anymore, he couldn’t see, everything he knew in that moment was pure, awful pain.

Eventually, the cauterisation was done. Rowe felt exhausted, and more than anything, he felt scared. He missed Master Tomas so, so badly. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he dreamed of being back in Master’s living room. His legs worked, and he wasn’t damaged goods. He was pretty. He was a good Pet and Master ruffled his hair. Good boy.

Master never said that to him. He told him he was good, but no more. He had ruffled Rowe’s hair, and hugged him once when he was drunk, but he never ordered Rowe to kneel at his feet and let himself be pet. For all that he was terrified of his old master, Rowe cherished the days where he was good and allowed to lay his head on old master’s thigh and feel his rough hands card through his hair.

Rowe knew it was still early- he hadn’t been Master Tomas’s property for even a fortnight yet- but he couldn’t help wondering sometimes what he was doing wrong. He fucked up so much, but Master never got mad, and told him he was good, but never went further than that.

But right now, in the space between awake and asleep, Rowe indulged in his most gentle fantasy. He felt Master stroke his hair, a million miles away from the blood-stained mattress and his calves wrinkled with stitches like seaweed on the ocean floor.  

[whimperwoods]

Vampire Labyrinth 2

All of the work I got done today might have been life stuff instead of work stuff, but I deserve to write this anyway!

Continuation of this post. This got long and is basically all whump but I promise part 4 will have a caretaker?? Also thank you for your nice comments, people who made nice comments!! I’m super excited about it!!

tw: forced nudity, tw: noncon touch, tw: creepy whumper, tw: intimate whumper, tw: bound, tw: blood, tw: dizziness/lightheadedness, tw: claws, tw: torture (kind of? I feel like torture implies a different goal than is actually at play here but whatever. It still is, just a little off to the left. He doesn’t really want her to suffer. He just wants blood and screaming.) (No straight-up sexual content, but nameless whumper vampire continues to be a big ‘ol handsy creep.)

tag list: @waywardwhump @justwhumpitwhumpitgood @insanitywishes

*****

Lianna took half-steps backward as far as the rope would allow her, and the vampire’s lips quirked upward into a nasty grin as he continued walking steadily forward, still slow, his eyes roving one more time over her naked body and then locking onto her own until she couldn’t look away.

He closed the distance and then took another step, so close she could feel his breath on her forehead. She pulled instinctively backward, tugging at the ropes, and they stung, rubbing again at her mildly chafed wrists. She remembered not wanting her wrists to bleed in the same vague way she remembered what she’d been trying to accomplish in a dream for those first few minutes she was awake.

Her sour stomach twinged, and her head still felt clogged. She sniffled quietly and he chuckled, his voice dark and rumbling as he stepped forward again so far that their bodies pressed together, the fine cloth of his shirt surprisingly soft against her bare skin.

She pulled backward again, onto her tiptoes, her lungs gasping desperately for air, and wrenched at the ropes hard enough that they finally rubbed their way into her skin, tearing into her. After a brief flash of pain, she felt a hint of wetness there, soaking into the ropes. Blood. She was bleeding.

He raised his head and smelled the air, then reached a hand up and ran it along her arm, starting just above her armpit and dragging his grip slowly upward, over her upper arm, her elbow, her forearm. Her eyes started leaking tears again, but he ignored them, his eyes locked on her arm, and on his own hand wrapped almost completely around it.

As he reached her wrist, his grip relaxed, and he trailed just his fingers up to the edge of the rope, prodding at the binding itself. Suddenly, he grabbed her arm and pulled, hard, harder than she could have without completely hanging her weight on her bindings, and the rope dug in further. She gave a sharp, hoarse shout of surprise, and he responded only by twisting her forearm sharply, spinning her wrist inside its ropes as his other hand seized her other forearm and gave another hard tug.

She was bleeding in earnest now, a thin stream running from both wrists as the vampire pulled and twisted viciously at them. His grip was crushing and her chafed wrists stung fiercely, the rough surface layering scratch on scratch on scratch until the feeling went from uncomfortable surprise to throbbing pain. She breathed shallowly and raggedly, fear and pain and his nearness compressing her chest until her head began to feel light.

He lifted his head and sniffed deeply. “Getting ahead of me, aren’t you, pet? It’s like you know what’s coming.” His fingers ran lightly, almost tenderly up the sensitive insides of her wrists and pressed against the torn skin at the bottom of the ropes, coming away bloody. A hoarse, quiet noise groaned out from her throat, the only sound she could manage with so little air.

Then his eyes were locked back into hers. He smoothed the tears away from beneath her eyes with his thumbs and then smeared her own blood across the tops of her cheekbones instead. She flinched, squeaking in surprise, another choked noise as she struggled to breathe.

He was so close, and when their eyes met, she felt trapped, unable to look down or away. He spoke in a low growl, so quiet no one else could have heard even if they’d been there. “I already know you smell lovely, but we’ve got to make sure good old Enzo can smell you from a long way off.”

He took a half step back, but without the pressure of his body keeping her up on her toes, she found herself falling forward toward him, reclosing half the distance.

He chuckled again, making her shiver, and grabbed her by the hips. “Don’t tempt me, darling. This is a quick job.” He ran his hands up her sides, his palms pressing flat against her ribcage. “You know you’re going into the caves.” His hands found her breasts and squeezed once, then slid around to her back. He pulled her close against him and leaned down, burying his nose into the side of her neck and shoulder again. She shuddered, squeezing her eyes closed, and tried not to sob this time while he held her tightly and sniffed hard at her skin.

“You’re a quiet one,” he said, lifting his head back up. “We’ll have to fix that. He’ll need to know you’re coming.”

He stepped back again, truly back this time, two or three whole steps, and she suddenly found herself able to breathe again, her panting breaths deepening into frightened gasps that filled her whole chest but did little to stop her from feeling lightheaded.

His gaze still made her feel like her face might catch fire with embarrassment. He was studying her again, and she could feel it even with her eyes closed.

She didn’t hear him move closer, but all of a sudden, his hand was on her shoulder, and her eyes opened in surprise.

He wasn’t quite so close this time, but his eyes were locked into her own, and as soon as her eyes found his, she couldn’t close them again.

He reached up and stroked along the bottom of her jaw with his other hand. “You can scream for me, can’t you, sweetheart?”

All of a sudden, she didn’t know. Yesterday, she’d have said that she could scream. Yesterday, she’d been safe in her own little room, and screaming had been a theoretical concept at best.

Before she could answer, his claws dug into her shoulder and raked downward, carving through her flesh in one long, cruel swipe that left five bleeding scratches from shoulder to her hip.

To her own horror, she didn’t scream. She gasped in shock, her lungs trying desperately to fill, with a sick, ragged groaning noise inward.

He rubbed his bloody claws sideways across her face, leaving lines of blood behind. “I don’t think he heard that.”

His claws sliced into her again, starting between her collarbones and dragging downward, pressing forward to keep cutting as she instinctively tried to back away and scoring her open from chest to navel, these cuts slightly deeper than the last.

She tried to scream, but her throat was tight and her breath was still ragged and useless. The noises she choked out were low and strangled, louder this time, but turning into haggard retching in her throat instead of shooting upward into a scream.

He clicked his tongue at her, but his face didn’t look displeased.

“Please,” she panted, “Please, I can’t.”

He held his bloody hand up, away from her, the palm out as if to placate her, and his cruel smile widened. “Oh, I think you can. Give it another try for me, won’t you?”

She could feel a scream there. It was there, somewhere in her throat, but every time she drew breath to let it out, her throat closed up around it again, and the only thing she could manage was another mangled noise before her dry, desperate panic made her gag again, retching and then choking, only the ropes around her wrists keeping her upright as she coughed so hard she almost fell over.

Her head was still light, and her eyes teared up again as she looked, desperately, into his eyes and hoped he knew she was trying. She was trying.

The vampire stepped forward, and she flinched away, but he just clicked his tongue again and ordered her to calm down. He helped her straighten up, his hands gentle on her shoulder, and when he told her to breathe, his voice momentarily lost its menace. She found herself sobbing, relieved and confused and terrified, and too much of all of it. She was bleeding. She was bleeding.

He smoothed the tears away again, and then ran his hand gently through her hair, shushing her. “Come on now. Crying’s no good. Come on.”

She gasped, fighting through the tears until she could stop them, and then her breathing evened out for the first time since the last of her dress had fallen away from her.

“There,” he said, rubbing a hand gently across her unwounded shoulder, “There, see. Let’s try again.”

This time, the claws were a surprise again, shredding through her skin from shoulder to hip, but again, in spite of how hard she’d just tried, she found herself shouting instead of screaming, the loudest sound yet, but low-pitched and hoarse and nothing like the carrying scream she knew he wanted.

He clicked his tongue again, disapprovingly, and her head swam. Her whole face felt full of tears and snot, throbbing in time with the 15 long scratches bleeding down her front. She cried, dully and inattentively, and made herself keep breathing.

He started walking slowly around her, prowling in a wide circle.

She didn’t hear it when he abandoned the circle. She didn’t know he’d stopped and come closer until all ten of his claws dug hard into the top of her back, his full weight behind them, carving deeply into her flesh and dragging slowly downward, making her feel every inch on his way down her back.

This time, she screamed.

[rough-and-whump]

RWT: Caretaker Archetypes

A follow-up on my last RWT on the Whump Triangle and Whumper Archetypes.

Our wonderful caretakers; masters of gentle hugs, brushing the hair out of feverish faces, sympathy grimaces, blanket location and laying, and, of course, the best possible at headpats.

But even though caretaking is generally a gentle practice, there’s all sorts of variants on caretakers that bring new variety to the post-whump experience.

Caretaker Our base caretaker - who comes in as many variations and flavours as our whumpers and then some. Caretakers, well, care for the whumpees around them. They might pretend not to, or mask it under other emotions, but deep down they worry for their team. Some caretakers want to protect their team from harm, others specialize in taking care of them after the harm; some are good at physical caretaking, others better at emotional or mental caretaking. Bottom line, though, caretakers care.

Overprotective!Caretaker Maybe they’re the oldest on the team, or the biggest, or they’re the “team mom” type. An overprotective!caretaker can be an inadvertent whumper sometimes – or at least an annoyance. They get flustered or angry or actually impose limits on their whumpees and try to protect them from themselves.

Sometimes, the overzealous nature of these caretakers pushes their whumpees to take unnecessary risk – and now we have a guilty caretaker (yes, that’ll be an archetype).

Reluctant!Caretaker I have several characters who fit this bill (Sarge and Rookie in relation to The Scorpion mostly). Often filled by a whumpee stepping into caretaker shoes, these caretakers don’t wanna help their whumpees. Not really. But they’re obligated to.

Maybe the whumper has some information about another captive teammate, or the whumper’s the only one with knowledge of an antidote for the poison circulating in the city, or the caretaker’s job is the keep the whumper alive (a la Dr. Fainleaf saving an enemy agent for later interrogation, or Sarge having to keep The Scorpion alive because police).

Maybe they don’t treat the person they’re caretaking too softly or carefully. Maybe they dig their fingers in a bit too hard or turn a tourniquet too much. This is also a great fit for a tsundere kind of a character.

Exhausted!Caretaker Oh my, we’re getting into the whumpee-caretaker crossover territory.

Exhausted!caretakers are just trying their best. They may have drastically varying personalities – Dr. Fainleaf vs Ver, even – but they have one constant: they’re fucking dead-ass tired. Maybe their movements are sluggish, or they’re shaking because they’ve had too much coffee, or they have a headache but they push through. Whatever happens, these caretakers push their own pain aside to caretake for their whumpees.

I find this isn’t as much a full-on archetype as it is a sort of transitory state. Most caretakers will run into a time when they’re exhausted. That said, I think some caretakers are more apt to fall into this state more frequently. (Lookin’ at you, Dr. Fainleaf.)

Angry!Caretaker Aka the “I’m done with your shit, stop taking bullets, you dingus” caretaker.

The Angry!Caretaker has reached the end of their rope. Or maybe they never had rope to begin with, and that pisses them the fuck off. They’re less apt to be sweet and more apt to give heck. Like the exhausted!caretaker archetype, these caretakers often aren’t always angry (except Ver and Major – they’re always angry), but they just reach the end of their rope.

Maybe they yell at the whumpee for being foolish or risk happy. Maybe they yell at the team leader for constantly putting everyone in danger. Maybe they’re an overprotective!caretaker who met their limit. Maybe they’re an exhausted!caretaker who is finally snapping. There’s a lot of reasons why this might happen.

Angry!Caretakers can cross the line into Whumper territory easily.

Awkward!Caretaker The awkward!caretaker isn’t quite like the reluctant!caretaker. They’re not reluctant to help their team, they’re just moreso not used to it and they fumble a lot. Maybe they’re used to being some sort of front-liner – a battlefield whirlwind, not a soft-and-gentle type. Though they mean well, they might end up damaging their whumpee more – and they pair most adorably with a calm or reassuring whumpee who tells them to take a breath and reassures them that they’re doing fine.

A variation of this is the clumsy!caretaker, who is competent and intelligent, but not the most physically gifted.

Tactical!Caretaker I wasn’t sure what to call this. This is mostly the type of caretaker Dr. Kieran Fainleaf is – invested in her role as a caretaker, but aware that it exists in a larger context. This kind of caretaker has been around the block and then some. Highly intelligent, competent beyond belief, they’re the “lead from behind” type. A tactical!caretaker is typically nihilistic and clings to realism, but knows how to present a smiling and hopeful face. They are not above lying to their whumpees to get them to feel more comfortable or safe – even if they’re not at all comfortable or safe.

Tactical!caretakers know they will need to make tough calls. They know they can’t save everyone, and they’ve lost more than they care to count (but they do, oh, they do). They also know they can’t allow themselves to get too attached, too emotional, or too down – they need to manage themselves in order to be the best caretaker they can be. Much of what they do as a caretaker is a performance – their skills are undeniable, but they know they can’t be truly attached for the sake of the team.

Tactical!caretakers often play an advisor-type role to their Team Leaders (if they’re not the Leader themselves), and are surprisingly perceptive and dark. They’ll often be (rarely – they know what bars to avoid to avoid breaking their image) found nursing a hard-to-drink beverage in a dark corner with a far-off look on their faces. It’s easy to whump them and I love them for it.

Hardened!Caretaker Sort of a final-form of the angry!caretaker and a less positive/strategic version of the tactical!caretaker. Take a caretaker; roll them in regret, lost whumpees, and an overwhelming sense of futility; sprinkle on some alcoholism or substance abuse; and liberally dust with a jaded mindset. These caretakers struggle to maintain objectivity and neutrality – let alone positivity or hope – in their duties.

They’re burnt out, on the verge of falling out of the caretaker category, and in desperate need of caretaking themselves.  

Helicopter!Caretaker Often a young or inexperienced caretaker, the helicopter!caretaker (aka “help-icopter?”) is overeager, excited, caring, and emotional. They rush to help, often forgetting steps or accidentally hurting someone, and are quick to feel guilty or useless. That said, they have great potential and are usually a social glue for the team in some way.

Helicopter!caretakers can go a few different ways, depending on their personalities and team: they can be guided into being a highly skilled and kind cartaker, or they could end up becoming frustrated or feeling worthless and falling straight into being a whumpee.

Stoic!Caretaker Related to the Tactical!Caretaker, but perhaps lacking the strategic vision those ones have, the stoic!caretaker is a person who doesn’t show much emotion when they’re caretaking.

Mostly, stoic!caretakers don’t want their emotions to affect their whumpees - adding panic or worry to a dicey scenario won’t help anything. But there’s also a part of them that’s deeply uncomfortable with displaying emotion. Maybe they’re not used to it, or they’ve been trained out of emotion in certain scenarios. Maybe they don’t get how to be vulnerable. Maybe they think it’s weakness to admit that they’re worried.

I love stoic!caretakers paired with emotive whumpees. But I also love stoic!caretakers with likewise stoic!whumpees. How do you get two people who repress everything to be vulnerable with each other?

I think Tactical!Caretakers are my favourite. What are some other archetypes of caretakers that you’ve seen? What’s your favourite? What kind of caretaker is your favourite character?

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Found

CW: Creepy whumper, noncon touch (nonsexual), ableist language, some violence at the end

TIMELINE: The summer before Chris begins attending college, shortly before Oliver Branch goes to trial for essentially accepting bribes for a Senate seat.

Tagging Chris’s crew:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions

“You look familiar.”

The voice hasn’t changed at all in the past few years, maybe just gone a little deeper. The soft, slight southern drawl is still there, genteel rounded consonants, drawn out vowels. 

He still dreams about that voice. It still sends shivers down his spine, not all of them from fear.

“Is that who I think that is?”

Chris feels his heart start to pound under the fabric of his t-shirt, and he dips his head low, as though he hasn't heard, as though he won't be seen. 

It's been four years of therapy and building himself a whole new identity and learning to be a person again since the night he was rescued, but even still some traitorous impulse deep inside of Chris thrills at the sound of his Sir. 

He’d been scrolling through his phone, waiting for Jake to finish up inside the store. He’s just been out here reading about campus life, researching dorm room checklists, taking a deep breaths as they took step after step after step towards Chris being an independent adult and not a dependent rescue. 

He’d come out to soak up a little bit of the warm sunlight, feeling its heat soaking into his hair - strawberry blond at the roots, faded blue around the crown of his head, long enough to graze his shoulders with the deepest ocean teal only at the ends. He has it pulled back, caught just at the nape of his neck with a little clip to keep it out of his eyes.

He wishes, as he listens to the familiar sound of the same fine leather shoes stepping crisply along the pavement, that he’d left his hair loose so he could hide behind it now.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look up. Don’t don’t don’t don’t-

“Look at me, darlin’.”

Chris’s chin raises, his head turns. He’s not sure who makes the choice to do that - it doesn’t feel like he’s the one who controlled the movement. 

“There you are.” Sir’s face is just the same, he doesn’t even seem to have gained a new wrinkle, although four years and his slowly imploded political career might have put a bit more gray in the sandy hair. “It is you, isn’t it?” 

Chris texts something - he doesn’t even know what, he doesn’t dare look, only glances down long enough to make sure he’s sending his text to the right person before he slides the phone into his pocket. One hand moves to a bracelet he is always wearing on the other wrist, the cool metal hex nuts braided into thick black nylon, spinning them with his fingers in a nervous motion. 

He’s just fidgeting. It’s just fidgeting. Normal people fidget when they’re nervous, normal people do this, it’s normal to be nervous-

Nothing that happened to you is normal.

“Ah,” Sir says, in his thick oily voice, and reaches up to graze the backs of his knuckles down Chris’s cheek. Chris only stares at him, wide-eyed, feeling impossibly, horribly small. “Where is that voice I loved so much, darlin’? Did you finally learn how to keep your mouth shut?”

Chris jerks back and away from the touch, eyes narrowing. He wants to bite back, to say something, anything, in a strong voice but the words are stuck in his throat, his defiance is locked away.

It must be visible in his eyes, still, because something in Sir’s expression goes cold and his hand slides around to the back of Chris’s neck, a heavy warmth that presses there, like every time he’s ever used that same grip in the same place to push Chris down to his knees. “Careful,” Sir says, in a voice that exudes gentleness. “Careful what you think, beautiful boy.”

Chris’s stomach twists, lurches, flips with disgust. “Don’t-... don’t, don’t don’t-don’t call me that,” He says, and his voice is smaller than he wants it to be, as weak as he is and not as strong as he wants to be. 

“They haven’t fixed you at all,” Sir says, tsking, clicking tongue against the backs of his perfect white teeth. His thumb is rubbing up just where Chris’s hairline starts just behind his ear and he can’t stop shivering, can’t stop shaking at how awful it feels and how good. 

“I, I-I didn’t need… need fixed,” Chris manages, airy and trembling under Sir’s touch. His phone vibrates in his back pocket, but he doesn’t dare pick it up to check.

I’m going back I’m going back he’s going to take me back he’s going to take me way I’ll never see Jake again I’ll never see anyone ever again-

Chris’s eyes fill with tears and he has to sniff them back, only to hear Sir’s low, deep chuckle. He’s too close, he’s way too close, and Chris cringes back against the brick wall, letting Sir move into his space and Chris can’t remember any longer how to get him out of it.

“Of course you had to be fixed. Look at you, you’re an awful mess without me. Who let you get your ears pierced? Your new keeper?" Sir's touch moves to his earlobe, rubbing at the sensitive skin and the small black stud there with the rough pad of his thumb, and Chris knows he could - should - run, or fight, but all he can do is go still and stare straight ahead, sunlight glinting off the cars in the parking lot.

It’s a gorgeous day, and a terrible one.

Everything is wrong.

Two teenage girls shriek laughter as one chases the other towards a small brightly-colored green car. They have long legs, tanned skin and short denim shorts, tank tops that cling to narrow waists.

They’re beautiful and probably don’t know they’re beautiful. They’re living easy lives they don’t know are easy. They’ve probably never had to hide underneath someone’s desk listening to other people live lives they never get to touch, they haven’t had to be so silent and so still, perfect carved statue people.

What they want is not irrelevant.

What they want matters.

He wants to be running with them, wants to collapse into the seat of a car giggling and easy, wants to go back to feeling the sun warm his hair but instead - in this moment - all he feels is frozen.

"I did," Chris whispers, jealous of those girls and all the life they get to live that isn't silent, frozen fear of Sir. "I, I, I don't have a, a keeper now-"

"That's such an awful lie, darlin'." Sir steps closer. “You know how I feel about you lyin’ to me.” Chris wants to vomit all over his shoes, right here right now. The smell of Sir’s cologne is so thick it gets stuck in Chris's throat and steals his air.

Jake’s cologne is light and soft and barely-there, something he only smells when he’s up close or holding one of his shirts. Sir’s wafts through the air around him, steals it, poisons it. 

"It isn't." His lips barely move. “It… isn’t a lie… Sir.”

The words drip from his mouth. He thinks of a documentary he watched with Jake that talked about acid rain. Imagines the words that come slow and steady from his mouth wearing bark off of trees, leaving only the pale flesh like human skin underneath.

He imagines himself as a white birch tree, with Sir slowly stripping him bare, discarding the parts of himself he has built with sun and air and Jake and time. 

His bracelet isn’t helping. His fingers are frozen touching the metal bits, not spinning them, just stuck. His necklace, the lightweight silicone feather that he uses so often when he is happy, lays heavy and hateful somewhere near his sternum. He can’t think - every track is stalling, the trains have all derailed, the thoughts inside are lost in the fog and the debris. He can’t step away. There’s nowhere to run to.

He can’t move his hands. He can’t move his hands. He can’t move his hands. 

He can’t move.

Not until the game is over.

Not until he loses again.

"Oh, it is. We both know it’s a lie, darlin’. You’re simply too old to be of much use to me, now, but...” Sir breathes out through his nose and Chris flinches as the grip on his earlobe suddenly tightens and Sir pulls, like he’ll tear the stud out entirely, and Chris whines low in his throat at the flash, the spike of pain.

Sir stops immediately, but his oil-slick smile finds its way back to his face. 

A child is pushed out of the store behind them sitting in a shopping cart, crying, the little boy’s mother shushing him and telling him they’ll get chicken nuggets on the way home and Chris wonders if the shadowy half-formed mom who lives in his most painfully closed-off memories ever offered to get him a Happy Meal-

“-what you're made for. The question I'm asking is who are you made for now?"

“No one,” Chris whispers, lips barely moving. “I’m… not made… for anyone anymore.”

He hates having to speak like this again. He hates it. They tell him his words aren’t bad, at home, that’s fine to be who he is, to speak how he speaks, they tell him he’s fine and it’s okay, and he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine.

“Mmmn, not true.” Sir reaches up, undoes the clip at the nape of Chris’s neck, his hair falling free in a shining, soft curtain that can’t hide him, not here, not now. “Look at how long your hair is. How awful.”

Chris closes his eyes as Sir’s fingers graze his cheekbone, tuck a bit of the blue behind his ear, trail the shell of his ear and back down the side of his neck. Every touch is a lit match against his skin, every second burns inside and out.

“I like it like this,” Chris says, fucking pathetic attempt at defiance, at standing up for himself, but it’s all he can manage. 

“Oh, beautiful boy,” Sir says, affection thick and condescending clogging Chris’s ears and his thoughts, oil that buries him and burns in his lungs. “Who has ever cared one whit what you like?”

“I do,” Jake says from behind Sir, his voice strong and loud and everything Chris’s voice can’t be in the moment. Chris watches Sir’s eyes widen in surprise and feels his own heart leap. “I care a lot, actually, and you’re going to need to step the fuck away from him before I show you exactly how much I care.”

Sir’s hand drops, and Chris takes in a deep breath, gulps in air as quickly as he can, falling back against the store’s exterior behind him with one hand reaching up to grab onto the feather pendant, rubbing quickly at the ridges carved into the deep blue plastic, while his other hand reaches back to feel the rough texture of the brick wall, rubbing the pads of his fingers there, focusing on the sensation.

Breathe in. Tap. Breathe out. Tap. Rub feather. Breathe in. Tap. Breathe Out. Tap.

Breathe. Breathe. Move.

“The keeper, I presume,” Sir says, holding out his hand to shake with a sunny, smooth Made-for-TV smile. 

Jake’s eyes rake down to Sir’s hand and back up again, chips of cold blue narrowing as he slowly sets the shopping bags in his hands down. He seems taller than ever, now, in his simple sage-green t-shirt and jeans next to Sir’s fussy pastel polo shirt and slack. They’re two separate lives that Chris has lived under two different names, represented by two men staring each other down in perfect silence.

After a moment’s pause, Sir drops his hand.

“I’m not his keeper,” Jake says, keeping his voice even. “It doesn’t work that way, Governor.”

“Mmmn, not my title any longer,” Sir says, a touch regretfully. 

“Yeah, and good goddamn riddance. I hope the charges stick,” Jake says flatly. Chris has no idea what he’s talking about, but something in Sir’s face goes colder, thoughtful. Considering Jake, the way he used to consider Chris, like they are just boys under a microscope, seen on a cellular level by men like Sir, designed for nothing else. 

“For his sake, you had best hope they don’t,” Sir says, still smooth as silk, but the coldness lingers, trails around the edges. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

Sir only smiles. Chris isn’t sure what the game was, exactly, but he knows that Jake has just lost it. “Nothing, keeper. How much does my boy cost to feed these days, anyway? I see you’ve got quite the haul, there.” He gestures, a languid motion, towards the pile of plastic bags Jake set on the pavement in front of the store. 

“He’s not your boy,” Jake says, evenly. His eyes skip to Chris - there’s a question there but Chris can’t remember quite how to answer it. Or how to speak at all. He rubs his fingers over the feather, back and forth, pressing into the lines carved in there as hard as he can. The brick wall is rough, soothing as his fingers dance along it. 

Finger-twist-tap-tap-tap. Finger-twist-tap-tap-tap. Finger-twist-tap-

“Don’t tell me you’ve picked that up again,” Sir says. He sounds disgusted. Chris can’t stop himself from glancing up to see the look of derision worn openly on his face. “You were so well trained, too.”

“Trained?” Jake’s voice is a ghost of sound, but something crackles in the whisper.

Chris’s face flushes bright red. He pulls his hand away from the wall and drops the feather, crossing his arms in front of himself, shoulders hunched nearly to his chin. He looks up, finding Jake watching him with a twist of pain showing on his own face. 

Chris has disappointed Jake, he thinks, by not being able to be stronger than this.

He closes his eyes against a rush of tears, tries to push them back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-

“You okay?” Jake asks, and there’s a hesitation, a word left unsaid. It occurs to Chris that Jake is trying not to say his name, while badly wanting to.

Chris just shakes his head, lips pressed together. If he tries to speak, he knows he’ll trip on all his words, and Sir will mock him for that, too. Instead he stays quiet, and still, and stares straight ahead. Just like he was trained to. Just like he used to.

Just like he did when Jake first met him. 

He’s not okay. He’s not, he’s not okay at all.

Help me.

His lips move to form the words but no sound comes out. Chris opens his eyes again to meet Jake’s, pleading with him. There aren’t any words, he can’t remember how to say them. There’s only the begging he can do without sound.

There’s only the way he can move his lips, all the fear catches the screaming and holds it inside the stillness.

Just like before.

Save me.

“That’s better,” Sir says, softy. “Now, beautiful boy, you just stay there being pretty while-”

“Oh, you can just go fuck yourself on like six rusty knives, you absolute son of a bitch-”

Jake throws the punch before either Chris or Sir can so much as react to the movement, and Chris flinches back with a cry when he sees Jake’s fist connect with Sir’s face, the look of open loathing he wears there as the man crumbles to the sidewalk.

Jake looks up, taking a deep breath. “Chris. Call Nat and tell her to bring the car. We need a fast ride home.”

Chris still can’t remember how to make the words happen out loud. There’s a static inside his head, too much it’s all too much, and he clutches onto the feather necklace at his chest, mouthing, why?

Jake knows the question he’s asking.

Jake gives him a half-cocked smile, closing his hand in a fist.

“Because I’m about to punch this asshole again.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Vince and the Phone

A phone call between Vincent Shield and his girlfriend, Tara. Tara belongs to @fairybean101 and is used with permission! Thanks for letting me use your girl to talk some sense into my poor movie star.

This post references Who’s the Better Box Boy by @shameless-whumper heavily, so please read that if you haven’t yet to understand Vince’s reactions

CW: Referenced past violent assault, and referenced psat and current noncon

Tagging: @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @lump-of-whump, @whimpers-and-whumpers​

He can’t stop fucking watching it.

Vince finally gives up and calls her - one benefit of their relationship for him has been Tara’s simple willingness to pick up the phone so he can ask her to yell at him any time, day or night. Tara never seems to sleep, she’s burning herself out rescuing all those poor Box Boys and Babes, and so she’s never more than a few moments of ringing away.

And she always picks up when Vince calls.

When Eli had initially asked him to consider acting as some kind of go-between for the pet lib people - he’d known Eli for a while, they ran in some of the same circles sometimes - he’d nearly said no.

But he wanted to help; even then, he’d understood something was really, really wrong with the whole human pet system. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it, then, because why not let people sign their lives away? Vince did that every time he signed a contract for a new film and had to stop doing anything but working out and eating stupid plain chicken for months.

But Eli had known more than he let on, at first, and a couple of years later Vince was sitting up in the middle of the night, half-plastered, replaying a video of some poor son of a bitch with Vince’s face laying on his back, ankles flush to thighs, legs spread. 

The red in the poor thing’s face, embarrassed and ashamed of something that, according to Tara, he couldn’t have refused to do even if he’d wanted to. 

And to Vince, it looked like he wanted to refuse.

He caught the look the other one - the one that the Host kept - gave, presumably, Owen behind the camera. Flat and controlled, an attempt to stay expressionless, but Vince could read the helpless fury there.

“Yeah, you and me both, buddy,” Vince muttered, raking a hand back through his hair as he pulled up Tara’s number. “Both of us get pissed as hell and both of us do fucking nothing about it. At least you have an excuse, I guess. I’m just a goddamn coward.”

Tara’s number was next to an icon of her face, a serious scowl with her red hair a halo around her head. She hadn’t wanted Vince to take the photo, but she’d been the one to choose which of the seven he took got set as her icon on his phone.

It took four rings for Tara to pick up.

“What dumbass thing are you doing now?” Her voice is sharp as ever, but laced, he likes to think, with friendly affection. “It’s two in the morning, Vince.”

“Don’t yell at me for being up, I’m between projects and I always get all weird with my sleep schedule when I’m not working. What are you doing up?”

“Handling some new reports from another group,” Tara replies, and Vince can hear her shuffling papers in the background. “They got word on an upcoming raid, managed to split up their documents and records before the cops found them. We took in a few of their rescues, a couple of other groups took some. All the rescues are taken care of, which is what matters, but shit.”

“Shit…?”

“They’re hitting too many groups. I think someone is talking. But you don’t want to hear about my shit tonight… what’s up, Vince?” There’s a pause and before he can answer, Tara asks softly, “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

Vince glances down at his laptop, where the video is currently paused, right on the shot of the look of pure unadulterated trying-to-hide-it murder Colton - who is apparently Dustin Anderson, pet liberation activist, and oh shit what a fucking ominous soundtrack that knowledge starts up inside his head - is giving Owen Grant. He moves the timer back and sets it up to replay the look on the Kauri kid’s face the second he heard the Host say Position 34.

The red flush, humiliated and nervous, the subtle sidelong glance to the other pet only to see the confusion on his face and realize oh shit, I’m the only one of us who knows this.

Did pets judge each other? Did Kauri leave and the other one, the Dustin one, think oh, that one’s a whore when they left?

Probably not. 

No, the reaction shots gave too much away for Vince to even think unkind bullshit like that. No, the pets clearly cared, at least a little. The rescues they brought in mostly avoided each other at first, while all the conditioning was in place, but these two look like maybe they wouldn’t. Or at least not as much. 

He rewinds again right to the start, watching for the moment Owen Grant looks up, surprised, those green eyes on the camera so soft and friendly.

“He’s such a fucking liar, Tara,” Vince says, and his voice shakes.

“Yeah, okay, so you’re watching it.” Tara sighs, and he can picture it - rubbing the spot between her eyebrows with her index finger and thumb, taking a deep breath. “Vince, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t punish yourself this way.”

“He’s a liar. He goes on camera - what fucking right does he have to do that, by the way - and he stands right fucking there and lies about what happened between us, lies about what I, what I did with him-”

“No.” Tara’s voice is sharp, and it cuts through Vince immediately. His mouth snaps shut. “What he did to you, Vince. We’ve talked about this. You didn’t do anything but go to see your friend one night when he seemed down. Everything after he put the drink in your hand is what he did to you.”

There’s a silence and Vince tries to tell himself she’s right. She’s always right.

Eventually, he gives up to the pull of just letting Tara run the show and smiles, wondering if she’ll hear the expression in his voice. “Yeah, okay. But still… you know he didn’t get someone like that Box Boy by accident. You know he lied about that, too.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tara’s voice is clipped, and goes slightly quieter. “We got a potential informant in the company, and I’ve just seen Grant’s custom order form.”

“What?” Vince’s feet thump to the ground and he sits up. Around him his home is perfectly silent, pure white, and kind of cold. He likes it better when Tara has to stay over, pretend she’s sleeping with him that night. Then this place feels like it has life in it. 

Mostly, even when he’s home, it just feels... empty.

“Yeah. We had someone come through and offer to get us some info, and Owen Grant’s order form was in the documents he gave us to show he was good for it. This is… this is the most detailed custom order form I’ve ever seen, Vince.”

“Did he-...” Vince tries to swallow back the question, but it tumbles out anyway. “Did he really just want him for-”

“No, it’s more fucked than that.” Tara’s quiet - Vince can hear his own blood, his heartbeat, his breathing. “Are you sure you want me to tell you?”

“Yes. No. I don’t, I don’t know… will it make me feel better or worse to hear it?”

On screen, Kauri is shocked and Vince watches his flinch, the tears standing in his eyes, still pleading and wide in some hope that Owen will rescue him. Vince grinds his teeth in anger at the way it looks to see his own face, so perfectly broken and needy, looking always to Owen to be saved.

Exactly how Owen had always wanted to see him.

“Probably worse,” Tara answers, and there’s a hint of gentleness there. Tara isn’t gentle with very many people - with him, with Eli, maybe a few others. Always with the rescues, the broken men and women hiding from the system under fake names and with forged documentation, pulled from homes and those two-bit emporiums selling bullshit knock-off Box Boys and Babes. She doesn’t have a lot of gentle left in her, after her own ordeal - but she always finds a little for Vince.

And he doesn’t even try to be ashamed of himself for needing it.

“Tell me anyway. That poor kid probably feels enough like shit, I might as well join him. I’m the only reason he’s even in this mess.”

“Well, okay, it might make you feel better to know he was already in the system. They called him 645898,” Tara reads the number out loud with real hatred edging her voice. “He was already in training before Grant put in his order, but I have a hunch they new Grant had been sniffing around the site and picked him up to have him ready for the order. And fuck, what an order. I don’t know what we’d even do with a rescue like this one, Vince.”

“What? Why? We’ve rescued others that are, that were, that… um…”

“Got their brains fucked out of them?” Tara asks with bitter near-humor.

“Yeah. That.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely seeing his share of that-” Vince winces, closing his eyes, trying not to remember Own’s hand pressed over his mouth, the look in his eyes as he’d whispered I’m so fucking tired of hearing you say no all the time, Vince, the way the ropes had dug into his wrists until they were rubbed raw and bloody. “-but it’s worse than that. He wouldn’t even go with us if we showed up at Grant’s front door.”

“Let me guess,” Vince says heavily. “He wanted the pet to love him.”

I just want you to fucking love me, you piece of shit! Is that so much to ask, Vince? Huh?! Is that so much to fucking ask?!

“Yep.” Tara doesn’t try to soothe him, to paper over old wounds with pretty words. That’s what he loves about her - Vince’s world is one of fake comfort and false friends, and Tara never gives comfort she doesn’t drag out of herself with real sincerity and she’s the truest friend he’s ever had. “If we tried to take him, he... he wouldn’t go. And that’s just the fucking tip of the fucking iceberg, too.”

“Perfect.” Vince sighs. “This kid had no idea what he was signing up for, huh?”

“Vince. You and I both know hardly any of them actually sign up for anything. You and I both know how they get the pets to sign our contracts.”

Vince licks his lips, hesitating, his blood running a little cold at the thought. “Yeah. Yeah, I know, I know how they do it. I know it.”

“Close your laptop, Vince. Go to sleep. This kid won’t be any less or more fucked over if you do. We’ll work on his case, I promise, he’s just… he’s going to be tough. He’s not in a house where we can walk up, he never leaves so we can’t catch him in a vulnerable, open place. And if we did… he wouldn’t go. The conditioning is thorough, Vince, and I’ve no doubt he loves Grant and is terrified of the idea of being taken away from him.” Tara sighs, again. She has a whole library of sighs, and Vince loves her for each and every one of them. “I have to talk to Eli about it, we need a better plan for dealing with this one, but trust me - I’m going to figure this shit out. Your clone and Dustin, we’re going to figure it out.”

“If you don’t, Tara? What if you can’t figure it out, for either of them?”

“Then…” Tara trails off. “Then it’s like I said. They’re no more or less fucked over than they were before I knew about them.”

It’s Vince’s turn to snort. “Tara. We both know that’s not how you operate. You never stop thinking about any of the ones you couldn’t rescue.”

“Hm. Maybe I’ll make it work this time if I try hard enough. Go to sleep, Vince. Eli’s on my other line. He took in a rescue and he’s been calling me for advice about her.”

“That’s funny. Me calling to ask you about this Kauri kid, and Eli’s right in his house, at the exact same moment, calling you for advice about, uh, whatever her name is.”

“Keira. She asked him to call her Keira.” Tara is quiet. “Kauri and Keira. Funny, the two names together like that. Eli even says her hair is dark and curly... Anyway, you need sleep and I need to keep moving.”

“Right, because you’re a sleep shark, if you sleep you’ll die,” Vince teases her. She laughs on the other line, and he relaxes all at once. 

Did the people who kept Tara, in the shadowy past she only rarely opened up about, ever make her laugh? Did they have any idea how wonderful it was to hear the sound? Did they know her laugh was nearly as gorgeous as the red of her hair? If Vince had ever been remotely into women, someone like Tara might have been just his type.

As it was, his fake girlfriend was probably his best friend. And the only person on Earth who knew what Owen Grant had done to him, when he was 20 years old and looked exactly like the Kauri kid that Vince was watching, once again, lay on his back on the screen.

Ankles against his thighs, legs spread apart, the flush of shame in his eyes and his skin and in the way he moved when Owen yanked him back to his feet moments later. 

“You have meetings tomorrow,” Tara says, softly. 

“So do you,” He counters. He scrolls down to look over the comments, staring at the array of usernames and inane babble. Mostly just people praising the Host’s cleverness, how funny they are, what a great idea to have two Box Boys face off like that.

Then one catches his eye.

@finder-of-rings: Kauri seems really sweet. God I hope owen isn’t hurting him. It’d be so, so easy to do just anything he wanted to him! They’re all alone and he can’t say no to anything, right??? God, that’s so scary… imagine being all alone with someone like Owen Grant and he can do literally anything to you and no one will stop him and no one will help you! Someone should do something!

There’s a slew of replies telling the commenter they’re making a mountain out of a molehill, that the Box Boys signed up for this, it’s all part of the system, whatever. 

Vincent just stares at the words as they go in and out of focus.

“Vince?” Tara’s voice seems a little fainter. “You listening?”

Imagine being all alone with someone like Owen Grant and he can do anything to you - and no one will stop him - and no one will help you.

“I don’t have to imagine it,” Vince whispers. “I’ve been there, Finder of Rings. I’ve fucking been there.”

“Hey, no, are you reading the comments, Vince?” Tara’s voice is sharp again, cuts through the fog and the way his throat has gone tight, his heart beating fast, a dizzy fear pounding in his mind all the way down to wrists that still remember how it felt to be tied down. 

A throbbing pulse of phantom pain in the rib Owen had broken, in the eye he’d punched. Some of Vince’s teeth are fake because of Owen Grant.

“Never, ever read the comments, Vince. Never. That’s… we have people who read the comments just to troll for info and even some of them get freaked out. Don’t do it. Or…” The softness is back in her voice, again. “At least let me be there with you when you do.”

“Yeah… yeah, no, you’re right.” Vince’s voice is shaking as he closes his laptop screen, shutting away the vision of Kauri and the Host’s boy carefully not looking at each other as the episode ended. I hope the other pets don’t judge the ones like you, little clone, he thinks. I hope, I hope, I hope.

“I’m going to bed, Tara. You’re right and I should take your advice and just… just fucking shut off for a while. Are you going to take my advice and do the same?”

“Fuck no. I’m calling Eli to see what help he needs with his rescue. She’s a sweetheart, she’s been really put through the worst the system does to people. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Vince.”

“And you’ll die if you sleep,” Vince says, and both of them laugh this time. 

She hangs up and Vince sits in his quiet, empty house, thinking of the comment he’d read.

Someone should do something.

He thinks of Owen screaming in his face, holding him by the chin, the way he’d choked on his own blood and the tooth down his throat as he cried and begged Owen not to kill him. Thought of what it had been like when Owen’s mom had found out and Vincent had stumbled out of the old apartment where Owen used to live, beaten half to death and unable to tell a single living soul what really happened.

It’d hurt his career, if he did. He was just getting real acting jobs meant for adults, then - he’d signed Carlotta Grant’s legal shit and taken a year to recover and then come back and become a fucking superstar. It had felt like enough for a while.

He couldn’t have risked his career, then, when it was only getting started. And now...

It’d murder his career to step one foot out of line, now - and put the pet lib people he worked with at risk, if he publicly said a fucking thing about Owen Grant keeping what amounted to a blow up doll with a pulse that looked just like him.

He had to trust Tara, and the people like Tara - the people braver than him.

“Someone should save that poor kid,” Vince mutters, alone in the dark. “Someone should do something. But it’s not going to be me.”