#bath aids

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League – Mend (Bath pt 2)

Masterlist

Immediately following this, time for a little wound care first-aid. Late-19th century, indentured servitude, power imbalance, past-noncon implied, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper dynamics. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

Wyatt lends August as much time as he can. The younger boy’s arms locked around his neck, forehead resting at the base of his throat. His back aches from holding them both above the steaming water earlier, sweat prickling along his spine. The fabric of his shirt adheres to his skin under August’s damp skin, wet hair tickling his jaw, too hot-breath trapped just beneath Wyatt’s collarbone. He lets himself stifle until he can scarcely breathe. 

“I’ll need you to release me if you want something dry for when you get out,” he finally grates. 

“Oh—” August straightens immediately, dropping his hands and startling when they hit water. “I’m sorry. Of course, sir. I forget myself, I’m sorry, sir.” 

“None of that.” He clears his throat. Forces air into his lungs against the feeling of confinement to better soften his voice. “You’ve done well, lad.”

August looks away, uncertain in the face of an admonishment and a compliment. He slowly draws his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around himself with a shiver. 

The afternoon has worn thin by now, the fire mere embers in the hearth. Without a pause to turn on a lamp or light a candle, the room fell into an early twilight. Meanwhile, the light from the window tells of a brilliant sunset starting beyond but the angle is all wrong to benefit from any of the glow. 

Wyatt bundles August in the bath linens Midge set out and ushers him to sit on the bed while he adds coal to the fire. He lights the lamp on the bedside table, favouring a warm flame over the electric. August tries to hide his flinch when Wyatt strikes the match, flicking his eyes away as though he hadn’t been watching closely the whole time. He’s desperate for a smoke—and a drink for that matter—but decides better of it, not wanting to push August more than he already has to. 

“Shall we see to your hip?”

August shrinks against the wall. “Nnn-no, no, no more.” Tears spring to his eyes and he pulls all the linens trying to bundle himself tigther. “I can’t—I can’t take anymore. Sir, I beg mercy of you, please—”

Evidently, August’s nerves are just as spent as Wyatt’s patience. The faster they get this over with, the better. 

“Easy…” He takes his hands out of his pockets, holding them out in a gesture of goodwill.

It takes a moment but awareness finally breaks through August’s fear. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t—I won’t—” Not enough awareness evidently, since he’s apologising for shying away even though he feared pain. It’s been beaten into him that such a misstep will cost him even more dearly. He visibly flinches as he pushes himself back to the edge of the mattress, closer to Wyatt. “It’s—I’ll—Please, please, forgive me—”

When Wyatt continues to give him space to settle, he panics. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats urgently. His hands untangle themselves from the linens, lifting as if to reach for Wyatt but he stops himself, folding his shaking fingers on his lap instead. “Please, sir. I’m sorry for being so much trouble. I’m thoughtless and difficult and I dishonor your generosity—”

“August, enough.” Wyatt finally interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I understand you are afraid. I understand you do not yet fully trust me. You have equal rights to both and need not excuse yourself further. I promise you, I do not take either as an affront to my person. There is no need to continue debasing yourself with this litany of apologies.”

It may well have been a slap. August looks down, nodding once. He won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze as he stands to shuck off the linen sheets. His fingers hesitate at the waistband of the still-damp drawers and he curls them into fists when they begin to shake. He makes a sound in his throat, a half-whimper that’s probably a swallowed apology.

The boy looks wretched. Trapped wrestling with his own will, having just been stripped of his only defense or safety by Wyatt’s ill-timed directness. 

Wyatt takes a measured breath, releasing his clenched jaw to make his voice softer. “It’s all right, steady yourself. Just one thing at a time, lad.” He reaches past the younger boy to pull one of the linens off the bed but August recoils so much at the proximity he nearly falls into the gas lamp before Wyatt catches him around the waist. 

Instead of panicking even more at the contact, August buries his face in Wyatt’s chest, fists gripping his braces to pull himself closer. 

“It’s all right, you’re all right.” Wyatt’s never known someone so terrified of assault to be so equally desperate for physical comfort. He would have expected a strong aversion to the latter, a fact he need not dally on, especially now. He grits his teeth and indulges August a few more moments of shushing and rubbing his back until goose pimples begin to rise on the younger boy’s skin despite how much he clings to Wyatt’s warmth. “Come along. We’ll finish quickly and get you settled by the fire.”

“Yes, sir.” August whispers. He pulls back, red in the face and still averting his gaze as he releases his grip on Wyatt’s braces. He lets Wyatt reach past him for one of the linen sheets which he folds for August. He turns his back, even taking a few steps away to ease August’s fears, waiting until he clears his throat, apparently unable to find his voice to tell Wyatt he’s ready.

It’s a task in itself to remove the old bandage. Thankfully, Doc left a pair of shears as there’s no way in hell August could stand Wyatt using a knife. Nevertheless, he whimpers when the cold metal brushes his upper thigh and holds his breath until Wyatt’s through. 

The wound still looks as raw and painful as when it was cauterized but his leg around it is less red. 

“You’ll have to lie back,” he instructs as gently as he can. 

“I—of course. It’s—I—” August still won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze, an aversion that does him no favours as Wyatt watches his grow distant. The lad bites back at least a dozen more apologies as he tries to arrange himself, attempting to keep his shoulders and head propped with one arm behind himself, gripping the sheet between his legs with the other. But he doesn’t have the strength, besides the angle being all wrong. 

Wyatt forgets to stifle his sigh and August flinches. “On your side, lad.” 

August corrects his position as instructed, breath growing ragged as Wyatt prepares the supplies they’ll need. He should talk August through this, say anything to distract him, but he only finds himself growing angry. Angry at the cruelty that broke the trembling boy before him so that he awaits even basic care with fear. Angrier still at the man who caused all of that pain. 

August flinches when Wyatt dabs the wound to dry it, bending his knees as if to curl up before he catches himself. “Sorry—I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I swear it.” 

The pledge only makes Wyatt’s temper flare. Sworn rival and enemy aside, he’ll kill Keats the next time he lays eyes on him. 

When Wyatt touches him with the iodine-soaked cotton, August’s hand flies out to grip his wrist. His eyes widen and he releases his fingers from Wyatt’s wrist one by one, taking pains not to make another sudden movement.

“Sir, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt says, beating him to the punch. August blinks, hand still hanging in the air between them. “I should have given you notice. I know it hurts.” 

“No, I’m—” August finally meets his gaze and Wyatt wishes he hadn’t. Can August see he’s wrestling with ill-timed anger instead of comforting him? “It’s nothing.” 

He’s the one who should do better. “Here.” He holds out his free hand. August hesitates. “Take it, if it helps.” 

August does, gripping his hand tightly, probably as tight as he can, though it’s nothing close to strong. He works adamantly to keep himself quiet through the rest of the treatment. Wyatt can only imagine how badly it must hurt from the way he bites his lips together, tears escaping even as he pinches his eyes shut. 

“There, that’s it,” Wyatt says, discarding the cotton and putting the stopper back in the iodine.

August blinks quickly, dispelling more tears. Wyatt pulls him up slowly in case it’s from the fresh movement.

“It should hurt less the next time,” Wyatt says, if only to assuage his own concern. 

August looks down at his wound for the first time since they started. “It doesn’t—” He meets Wyatt’s eyes, a strangled sound escaping his lips. 

It’s all Wyatt can do to scramble for the wash basin and get it in the boy’s arms before he gets sick. 

“I’m sorry—” he starts gasping even as his stomach still tries, now in vain, to empty itself further. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Hush, lad. Hush.” He runs his fingers through the still-damp curls at the nape of his neck, waiting for him to find his breath again. 

August accepts a damp cloth to clean his face. Takes a sip of the water he’s offered. “I’ll clean it myself. Please, sir.” 

Wyatt tsks. “You’ll do no such thing. You’re staying in bed once your leg is redressed.” He tries to remove some of the impatience from his tone. “Midge will bring you some broth and then you can sleep or read, whatever you like, but you’re staying in bed.” 

“Yessir.” August turns away, hiding his face and the colour rising there. 

He deserves patience and kindness, especially since he’s already stuck with Wyatt for a nurse. As pathetic as it is, Wyatt knows he’d have more of both if he could have a cigarette. But they only have one task left and he August’s nerves are wrung out as it is. They’ll both just have to survive a few more minutes. 

“Think you can stand again?” He pulls August back to his feet. “You can hold my shoulder.” He kneels and August grips a fistful of his shirt instead, fingers finding their way inside his open collar. 

Just another minute. 

He undwinds the beginning of the clean bandage, carefully aligning it with the wound before letting it rest there. Unwinds some more length to wrap it behind—

August jumps out of reach, jerking Wyatt aside with him. He’s forced to crane his neck to avoid being choked. “August.” 

He releases him immediately. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” His voice trembles. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean—Sir, truly—” 

Wyatt holds up a hand. “It’s fine, I’m fine. Let’s try again.” When August doesn’t immediately step back in front of him, Wyatt pulls him into place, making August gasp. 

“Sir, I—”

“Please, August. Just one more minute.” 

He takes his silence as assent. 

Wyatt begins again, aligning the bandage over his wound before continuing to wrap it between—

He prevents him from stepping aside with a hand on his good hip. 

“August. Take a breath.” 

August only whimpers above him, free hand fluttering as though he can’t decide between gripping Wyatt’s shoulder or pushing him away. 

“I’m trying to be as quick as I can. Just hold still and—” Again, August can’t stand his hand passing between his legs. He tries to twist out of Wyatt’s hold but with nowhere else to go, pitches over Wyatt’s shoulder. 

Wyatt lunges to prevent him from hitting his head on the soaking tub. August cries out, fighting against hands on him even trying to break his fall. When they hit the ground, Wyatt’s beneath him, face pressed between August’s bare chest and the thick carpet. His skin starts to teem. 

August tries to move but his arms are pinned between them. “I’m sorry—”

Wyatt shoves him off, getting to his feet and dragging August up by the tops of his arms in one swift motion. The boy yelps in surprised pain but Wyatt’s certain he’s not holding him tight enough to leave any mark. 

“Sir, please—” He whispers, fear thinning his voice as Wyatt heaves him onto the bed and lets him drop to a heap there. 

“Fuck,” Wyatt huffs, raking his hair out of his eyes and straightening his shirt. “Now you’re bleeding.” 

August’s eyes flick down but not long enough to truly appreciate the red blooming on the bandage, holding it in place despite the fall. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off Wyatt, not now. 

“It’s either me and you—” He jabs a finger at himself and then August who flinches at the gesture, terror plain in his face. “—or it’s the rest of the house holding you down again.” 

August shakes his head quickly, eyes filling. “Please, sir. I beg your pardon. I—”

He groans and turns away. His outburst has landed them back at baseless groveling, right where they started. He tries to pull in a deep breath but can still feel August’s weight, meager as it was, pinning him. He has to get out of this room. Just recenter himself and they can try anew. 

August sees the departure in his eyes as soon as he turns and rushes to right things. “Sir, please. Forgive me—” 

“August—”

“It was stupid of me, thoughtless and stupid.” Wyatt takes a step back but it only serves to carry August further from logic. “I swear I’ll do better. Please, sir. I don’t deserve it but please give me another chance.” 

“Enough—”

“Please,” August cries, voice breaking. He abandons the sheet and rises to his knees, holding out his arms to reveal their scarred undersides. “Punish me then, make me do it right. Sir, please—” 

Wyatt shakes his head and lets the overwhelming tide of defeat carry him from the room. 

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

[dandelion-wings]

just read a delightful OT3 story in another fandom involving hot baths and massages, and now I am directly yoinking a bunch of its beats so I can tell myself a bedtime story about Lisa and Kaeya bullying Jean into a hot bath and massages. 10/10, do recommend

[redcomet-stims]

do you mind making a ex-aid stimboard for 2 characters named parado and emu hojo? I just rlly Wana see them cuz they mah comfort chars

I don't mind, I can do that! ^w^ Here you go :3

🥼🎮💿 Parado & Emu Hojo (Kamen Rider Ex-Aid) stimboard for @cloversovertime :3

Thank you for the request, and I hope this is good ^w^ Sorry if I went too hard on the tech-y/video game theme...😭 I just got excited about it since I love including tech themes in my boards whenever I get the chance. And also because I read/found that this show contains lots of video game-related motifs and....OH YES I LOVE THAT 😍😍

I haven't had any experience with any sort of Kamen Rider series, but I feel like it's something I'd enjoy- and when I was reading up on these characters, their personalities and stories and the general setting/plot of this specific show- it really got me kinda, you know, interested in it! I might give this show a try sometime ^^

Anyway, I hope you like this ^w^

Sources:

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[goshyesvintageads]

Johnson & Johnson, 1979

[tkbrokkoli]

arthur took his first breath after coming back from the dead just so he could immediately scream from the top of his lungs

[thebardostate]

A Terminal Lucidity Experience from AIDS-Related Dementia

An eyewitness account from the surviving partner (from Threshold: Terminal Lucidity and the Border of Life and Death by Alexander Batthyány, 2023, pg. 84-85.)

When my boyfriend suffered from (AIDS-related) dementia, our friends were there for him until his behavior became unbearable to many of them. Their visits eventually tapered off. This was a terribly lonely time. The medication no longer worked. His confusion got worse by the day. Then, he went blind. Nothing remained of the erstwhile theatre actor, who held so much promise in the eyes of his teachers - or rather: in the eyes of us all; who had been fabulous on stage, in the role of Cyrano de Bergerac; who always had an open heart for the unconventional and eccentric, for those who despaired of everyday normality. He had become a shadow of his former self; there was nothing remotely evocative of that amazing person. Only his beautiful hands remained, gesturing as he engaged in conversations with his hallucinations. Now he, who had never rejected anyone, had become an outcast. We were terribly lonely. In truth: I was terribly lonely. He, after all, had his imaginary companions. On his last day, however, shortly before he died, he looked me in the eyes. I swear: he was blind, but he somehow found my eyes and looked straight at me. He held my hand and thanked me for remaining with him to the last. Then he asked me to write down who of his friends and siblings should receive which books, as well as various mementos of his performances. He remembered.

He was of course very weak and his speech was slow and his mouth dry. But beyond that he was quite revived, and as generous as ever. We spent some time rehearsing his ideas for his funeral. It was perfectly natural. And yet it was extraordinary - probably the most extraordinary experience of this whole arduous journey to his death. After roughly one or two hours, his powers left him. He had difficulties breathing and he dozed off. I quietly left the room and entered the hospital corridor. Leaving his sickbed was like leaving a magical space for the cold and brutal reality of the hospital.

When I met the ward physician in the corridor and told him that my boyfriend was completely lucid and conscious and looked me in the eyes, he tersely commented that [his] blood values had deteriorated, that I should be prepared for the worst. When I telephoned some of our friends in the evening, I was met with near universal disbelief. I had been blessed, but do you know how lonely it is to be given a gift and having no one who even believes in it? My boyfriend died the next day, from a massive stroke. I was never happier, or more miserable, than those days. I keep this last encounter with my friend in my heart. I still can't speak or write about this without...crying, crying.

[archersartcorner]

The way Pib’s hypothetical thrice upon a time was described in the last Adventuring Party had me wondering how that would play out in the final fight… Super self-indulgent, but I liked the idea that Tomas would insist on popping out of Mother Goose’s book to protect his scared lil kitty :-) I think this miller’s son should FIGHT

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League – Draw (Bath pt 3)

Masterlist

Conclusion to Bath and Mend, time to wrap up the first aid. Late-19th century, indentured servitude, power imbalance, past-noncon implied, whumpee forces caretaker to trigger them, whumpee propositions caretaker (nothing happens), dubious caretaker. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

August calls after him but it’s unintelligible amongst his sobs. Even with the door shut between them, Wyatt can hear him growing ever more hysterical. His skin crawls. 

He bolts to the other end of the hall, hands unsteady as he pulls out the blessed cigarette case and matchbook. The smell of sulfur sets his nerves buzzing with the promise of respite only a breath away. He has to delay by one more to steady his hands in order to align the flame with the end of his cigarette. 

If only the first drag could last forever. 

A distant pain flares in his fingertips but he’s too occupied savouring the longest inhale he’s taken all morning. 

He needed this hours ago. 

Unfortunately, his inevitable exhale brings him back down to earth. 

August is still crying in his bedroom. As is his right, with Wyatt losing all patience and leaving him there bleeding. Failing him once again and this time the lad will certainly remember Wyatt's dereliction. 

He sighs, smoke from his exhale hanging in the air with no breeze to clear it. Midge hates when they smoke in the house away from an open window. He’ll have to make his excuses to her too. 

It wasn’t like this with the others. Not even Hugh, who required leagues of patience. He takes another pull, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the banister spanning the length of the hall. Never before has he been so absent from the others, so quick to temper, so impulsively invested. He fans the cloud of his next exhale, trying to dispel it. 

Something about August pushes him to extremes. Theo made clear what he attributes it to and Wyatt isn’t too proud to admit the truth in his theory. But that awareness does nothing to lessen his attachment, his determination to see this one through. 

He takes a last drag and stubs out his cigarette at the half.

August only cries harder when Wyatt slowly pushes the door open. At the very least, he’s clinging to the crumpled sheet in his lap again. “Please—” he hiccups. “Please don’t—please don’t—”

He’s about to tell the younger boy he has no intention of hurting him, and apologize for doing so before, when he deciphers what August is repeating. 

It nearly brings him to his knees. 

“Oh, August, lamb.” The endearment makes August cry out as though it were a strike. Wyatt approaches the dissolving boy slowly. This certainly reframes all of his previous groveling. Most of his placating served to keep Wyatt engaged. By any means necessary. He would rather be hurt to any degree than abandoned. Or perhaps ‘discarded’ is a better term from what he’s let slip about his time with Keats.

“Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me alone.”

No part of the insight is satisfying. 

“August, August.” He lowers himself onto the bed, staying an arm’s reach away. “August, look at me.”

He tries but he’s beside himself. His eyes can’t seem to rest as he watches Wyatt’s every move, his hands, his lips, his brow, his gaze for only a moment before they flick somewhere else. August’s hands shake in the air, hovering uncertainly. He wants to hold himself, he wants to be held, he checks the sheet again. 

“All will right, lad. Come here—”

August bites his lips together and shakes his head adamantly, leaning away from Wyatt’s outstretched hands. Before Wyatt can kick himself for damaging the one comfort the boy could find, August thrusts the unrolled length of bandage into his hand. 

“It’s all right, there’s no need for haste.” Wyatt sets the bundle down. “Once you’re—”

He picks it up again, pressing it into Wyatt’s hands. “Please.” He’s no longer sobbing but his entire body hitches with each ragged breath, tears still running down his cheeks whenever he blinks. 

On one hand, it’s unlikely he can get more upset than he already is but on the other, Wyatt would rather save him what suffering he can. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Take a—”

August wails in frustration, swiping at his cheeks with the backs of his hands. “Please,” he repeats, voice raw. 

It would be easier to take him at his word if he wasn’t fighting shy of eye contact. “You don’t have anything to prove. What I said earlier—”

“Just fucking get it over with.” 

Wyatt raises his eyebrows but August still won’t look into his face. He wonders if he’s missing a rare glimpse of the fire in his eyes. 

“Please,” August amends. The muscles in his shoulders and arms tense as he works to still himself and quiet his breathing. 

The lesser of the two evils is most certainly to let August grow irate by refusing to do this now. But Wyatt would rather not deny this single outspoken request. Even if it will go over like a lead balloon. 

August lies back with a huff before Wyatt has the chance to concede verbally. Likely because he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. 

Wyatt starts by cutting the bloody end of the bandage off and gingerly removing it from the wound. August doesn’t flinch once, though his knuckles are white where he grips fistfuls of the sheet between his legs. 

Nothing left but to begin. 

“You’ll have to—” 

August bends the leg in question so his thigh is off the mattress, placing his foot flat on the mattress. 

“Right and—”

He spreads his legs to give Wyatt room to work. 

“It’ll be over—”

“Don’t,” August whispers. “Please.” 

He nods, though he’s certain August is still taking pains to avoid looking at him. He threads the first pass meticulously, taking great care not to make contact with his skin. 

Still, August starts trembling. He tries to make haste but winds up grazing the inside of August’s thigh with his knuckle. August whimpers and claps both hands over his mouth. 

“If you need—”

“Don’t stop,” he blurts, immediately covering his mouth again but not swiftly enough to hide that he’s crying now. 

Wyatt makes it round once more before August's legs fall together, the lifted one shaking as he works to keep it bent. “August...” 

“Please, just help me,” he sobs, fists coming down to grab either side of the quilt beneath him. “I want—I want it finished—”

“No.” He can’t. He won’t keep pushing him. Or himself for that matter. “There’s no reason—”

“Wyatt, please,” August wines. 

As gently as he can, he prises the younger boy’s legs apart, taking his injured leg onto his lap to keep it elevated. He tries to be as fast as he can but every brush of skin results in more force needed to hold August in place. Every touch makes progress feel further.

What the fuck is wrong with him that he’s doing this to such a broken boy at the irrational instruction of the very same? He loathes himself—and August—for putting him in this position. 

Finally, it’s over. It takes three tries to tie the knot. 

“All right,” he says, relief washing over him as he releases August. “It’s done.” 

He doesn’t move, hands limp at his sides, eyes fixed unseeing on the ceiling above. 

“August, come now.” He’s loathe to touch him again, his stillness even more concerning than his hysteria. “We’ll get you dressed and you can warm by the fire.” 

If it’s space he wants, Wyatt will gladly step out to finish his cigarette. Perhaps if he keeps the door open, it won’t feel like such a separation. He moves to stand but August sits up, slim fingers catching his wrist. 

“Wait, sir, please. You haven’t finished…”

Wyatt swallows. “Yes, I have. Your leg is bandaged now.” He tries to pull away but August only moves closer.

“Please, I want it.” 

“August. No.” He takes his hand in both of his and August’s grip goes slack. “Look at me. Look where you are.” 

He stares right through him, a haunted smile that is anything but alluring pulling at his lips. “Please,” he repeats, letting his legs fall open. 

“No.” 

Wyatt drops his hand and stands but August catches his shirt. “Please,” he pleads, a hint of the earlier panic returning to his voice. “I’ll do anything you want, just don’t get Master Keats.” 

Wyatt feels sick. “August, that’s not what’s happening. You’re safe here, he can’t hurt you anymore.” He pulls his own dressing gown off the footboard. Has to bat August’s hands away to drape it over his shoulders and doesn’t bother threading them through the sleeves before he cinches the tie around his waist. 

“I—I—” August looks down at himself and back at Wyatt, brow furrowing. His eyes are more distant than Wyatt’s ever seen them. Wyatt pulls him to his feet but when he starts leading him away from the bed, August digs his heels in. “Wait, but I—” 

He picks him up, carrying him across the room instead. 

“No! Please! Master Keats will—he’ll—” 

Wyatt is selfishly grateful that August’s sobs prevent him from voicing the end of the sentence. He sets the younger boy in the armchair but even without his arms, August manages to hold him. Wyatt kneels which couldn’t be more apt. If he’s to bring him back without simply holding him for as long as it takes, he’ll be begging. 

“Please, August…” 

He curls against the wing of the chair, hiding his face against the fabric as he cries. 

Not without hesitation, Wyatt reaches out to brush the tears off his cheek. August whimpers, chasing the touch until Wyatt finds himself cradling his face between his hands. 

“Come now, show me you’re still brave in there. One bath can’t have doused that fire.” August sniffles, chin trembling. At least his eyes are clearer, even if they’re full of doubt. Wyatt squeezes his shoulders. “There’s fight in you yet. I know it, sweet lamb.” 

He pulls in a shaky breath, conflict playing out on his face. He’s trying so hard to reach that version of himself, to square his shoulders, to step away from his past. But he had to be small for so long, even without the ties that bound him, their force isn’t so easily forgotten. 

Wyatt feels his own tension rising the longer he observes. “I’ll make you a deal,” he tries. Bribery is bread and butter around these parts after all. “Have you ever had hot chocolate?” 

August’s eyebrows knit together and he shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere around Wyatt’s shoulder. 

“Melted chocolate and milk, served warm…”

Now he has the feral little thing interested. His dark amber eyes flick up to read Wyatt’s face, to see if he is spinning tales or telling the truth. He’s certain the younger boy wouldn’t be able to discern the difference either way. He could fool almost anyone with a bluff, very few walking the earth know his true tell. In this case, though, it isn’t a lie. 

“Does one…drink it or eat it with a spoon?” August whispers, as though afraid of scaring away the offer. 

“You’ll have to get dressed and find out for yourself.” Now he has his full attention. “I’m sorry for losing my patience. I do hope you’ll forgive me in time.” 

August narrows his eyes. 

“The deal stands,” he reaffirms. “If you’re interested. Though you ought to get dressed either way. ” 

“I don’t—I don’t understand.” 

“Which part?” 

“All of it,” he admits in a small voice. He pulls an arm out to swipe his hand under his nose. “Why did you even come back when I was being so difficult?” 

“Why’d you let me back in here when I was being so difficult myself?” 

August furrows his brow. “Sir…”

“All right. For starters, this is my room and I won’t give it up so easily.” He points to the corner beyond the foot of the bed. “Only one with two windows.” 

“That’s not—”

“I know, lamb,” he chides gently, reaching out to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. August leans into the touch until Wyatt indulges his cheek with a caress. “But you’re not going to like the true answer.” 

He pulls away, fear colouring his expression. 

Wyatt leaves his hand between them, trying to show that this doesn’t change anything from one moment to the next. “I don’t know why I want to help you, only that I do and I will so long as you’ll let me.” 

August shakes his head. “Sir—” 

“I warned you, lamb.” He uses the term of endearment again, hoping it will win him some favour and it does, August leans back within reach though not back into his hand. Wyatt stands to retrieve the parcel he’d carried home this morning, dropping it on the boy’s lap “Lively now, I can see you shivering.” 

August unwraps it delicately like the paper and twine are gifts in themselves. He fingers the underclothes inside. The right size and wool, the warmest they had. He looks up at Wyatt and back at the garments as if to make sure they haven’t disappeared. 

“Thank you for giving me another chance.” He’s heartbreakingly earnest, though Wyatt couldn’t guess if he means in this moment or every chance that proceeded it.  

“Honestly, I could thank you for the same.” Wyatt ruffles his hair, marvelling in the downy softness of those curls now that they’re clean. The gesture brings the colour back to August’s cheeks. “I’ll give you some privacy to get those on. Midge will bring up some hot chocolate for you and something to eat if you can.” 

August looks down, hands falling limp in his lap. “You’re leaving.” 

It’s not a question and he won’t meet Wyatt’s gaze, is only punishing himself by prompting a verbal sentencing. Wyatt unrolls his sleeves, leaving the cuffs unbuttoned. He replaces his waistcoat and pulls on his jacket. All the while, August doesn’t raise his eyes, a cumbersome silence dividing them further. 

“You did well today,” he says from the door. “I’m proud of you.” 

No dice. August doesn’t move a muscle. He looks so fragile, from his bony knees to the ribs one shouldn’t see, climbing his chest to his delicate collarbone, the column of his throat. He doesn’t cry, just lets the armchair swallow him as if he could disappear before he’s abandoned. 

Sometimes no one wins. 

“I do hope you’ll forgive me. In time.” 

The frigid evening air bites at his lungs, every inhale rendering their capacity smaller. His eyes sting from the sharp, relentless wind. He couldn’t light a cigarette if he tried so he buries his hands in his pockets and quickens his step but the further he gets from the house, the more Wyatt feels like he’s lost. 

Masterlist

@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 @meetmeinhellcroutons

[nebulousfishgills]

So I got the candles--

[doyourequirefirstaid]

[dropping spidersilk cloths on Megatron from a lower branch]

[aibidil]

when my MIL died, I decided that I needed to suck up my outrage at the gendered inequity of it and take it as my job to make sure my FIL and BIL would always get their Christmas stockings filled. It isn't hard and needn't be expensive (my theory is they should be filled with some fun candy and stuff you need anyway from the drug store or grocery store, like lip balm and hair ties and hand cream), but it seems like only moms ever go to the trouble. So while I've decided to willingly pick up the mantel despite my knee-jerk allergy to any task foisted on women, this is a

call to all Christmas-celebrating dudes: take a few minutes to fill some fucking stockings this year🎄

[vcrnons]

little bit early in the day to get the whole cold head, racing heart, start of a meltdown feeling but we’ll push through i guess ?

[2005noroithecurse]

exhausted head hurty already I hate being around the medicaid ppl they're beyond idiotic & unhelpful

[jackhammerhim]

i wish i could split my body in two so I can fulfill my needs more efficiently. I make breakfast while I sit outside, I brush my teeth while i eat, and then my two halves can come back together to form one me again. i hate eating when I'm hungry because it feels like a chore but if I can divide myself I can eat the same amount much quicker and also wont have to feel my full stomach until I'm joined together again. plus id be able to indulge hyperfocus without having to neglect my bodily functions. now I can get up to go to the bathroom without having to stop playing Stardew Valley!! or crocheting or whatever id be doing. one half thinks half the thoughts and the other half thinks the other half so if I had a really bad time with ruminating or compulsions I can divide take half of it and cope easier. divide and conquer

[ramblingaro]

The policies around weed being banned ARE racist but context is important for the difference with Phelps, Richardson, and Davis-Woodhall.

Weed is (wrongly) classified as a PED (performance enhancing drug) - Richardson and Davis-Woodhall tested positive during competition. This means that during in-competition drug testing, they were found to have weed in their system. This resulted in sanctions for violations of anti-doping policies - which means voiding results of competitions during that time frame. This happens to any athlete testing positive for a PED in/around competitions.

Phelps did not have a positive test, but rather a photo of him seemingly* using a marijuana pipe became public. USA swimming sanctioned him for violating their code of conduct and banned him from competing for 3 months and withdrew their financial support of him. However, there was no positive tests in/around competition, so there were no doping related sanctions applied.

Again, weed is absolutely not a PED and shouldn’t be classified as such and the only reason it is classified that way is to harm Black athletes. But, the difference between the outcomes of Richardson, Davis-Woodhall, and Phelps comes from the different circumstances of the incidents. The classification of weed and the subsequent policies around its use are the issues here.

*i use ‘seemingly’ because it’s an image, not a positive test, so while we can all extrapolate that yes he was using weed, it’s technically not hard proof of use like a positive test - hence why he wasn’t sanctioned by USADA/WADA

[weisscreamcake]

my lesbian aunt (who married into the family) apparently got into it with grandpa because he wouldn’t stop the constant criticisms and he hasn’t spoken to her in days. and i’m just glad that somebody told him to cut that shit out