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albatris · 22 hours

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Snippet Sunday!

this week we'll have some Quinn attempting to be sweet and nice

God, what to make? They weren’t a cook. They especially weren’t a cook next to someone like Nat. Why had they offered? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Quinn dug around in their fridge, hoping it would be the thought that counted. Maybe a stir-fry…?

They threw some fake chicken into a wok, alongside some carrots, onion and broccoli, and turned the heat to high. High meant it would cook faster, right? They didn’t want to keep him waiting too long.

They dug around in their pantry for some spices. What went in a stir-fry? Ginger, cumin… cinnamon? No garlic. Chili. Paprika? Quinn didn’t know what any of these were used for. And none of that would make a sauce. What went into a stir-fry that made it a sauce?

Oh, hell, the vegetables were burning. Quinn flitted back over to the wok and turned down the heat. Should they have put some oil in? They splashed in some avocado oil, and then a bit more. Maybe the oil and spices made the sauce? They chucked the spices in and mixed them around. Quinn tasted. Nope, not right.

In a sudden stroke of genius, Quinn typed ‘easy stir-fry recipe’ into their internet search bar with their free hand. Soy sauce. They needed soy sauce. Quinn poured in a generous dash, swirled it about. If that didn’t fix things, nothing would. They were too nervous to taste test it a second time.

He’d like it. He’d like it, wouldn’t he? At the very least, he’d be polite enough to pretend he liked it.

They let the stir-fry simmer for a few minutes, then dished some up into a bowl. To their dismay, their pulse was racing and they felt a little woozy. They slapped themself in the cheeks a few times, cursing themself for being so anxious. What the hell did they have to be anxious about?

They ventured down the hall to Nat’s room, only to find that he was passed out asleep already. Their bubbling nerves immediately turned to irritation, and Quinn quashed the feeling. This was probably for the best, and they were more than a little relieved, too. Their stir-fry most definitely sucked.

Quinn bumped into Alex back out in the living room, freshly clean and free of gore. It had taken its braids out and thoroughly washed its hair.

“Here,” Quinn said, holding out the bowl. “You can have this.” In its current condition, Alex probably wouldn’t be able to taste the difference between stir-fry and dirt anyway. At least it wouldn’t go to waste.

“Thank you?” Alex said, a question. “Did you cook this for Nat?”

“No,” Quinn said, their lip curled. “I just felt like cooking.”

“Sure.”

“I’m heading out,” Quinn said. “I’m going to Nat’s stupid apartment to feed his stupid cat.”

Alex took a bite of stir-fry. “Don’t do anything reckless,” it said around its mouthful. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“No relaxing, got it.”

Alex rolled its eyes at them.

“Try and rest,” Quinn said. “I'll help you with your hair later on tonight.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I don’t need help with it.”

“Would you like help with it? And doesn’t a scalp massage sound nice?”

Alex considered this. “Hm. Maybe.”

“The word you’re looking for is yes,” Quinn said. “Just let me look after you a bit, alright?”

“Alright,” Alex said. “This stir fry is awful, by the way. Even to my uncooperative tastebuds.”

“I didn't hear that.” Quinn hopped over to give Alex a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you soon!”

#a rental car takes a left down rake street and disappears #throws some veggies in a wok cooks them on high with a mess of spices for five minutes. bon appetit #also when u don't drink blood enough the Garble gets mad and makes human food taste horrible to you #But Even Alex Can Tell This Stir Fry Suck #snippet sunday

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3-2-whump · 5 months

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Caretaker 2 Intro: The Flicker of a Spark

Thank you @whumped-by-glitter for beta-reading this monstrosity!

TW/CW: blood, briefly mentioned scars, not sure what else, tbh

Author's Note: I know like a high school level of Spanish, I studied abroad in a Spanish-speaking country for one semester in college, and I spent more than two hours researching what cholo Spanish sounds like. That being said, if I got anything wrong, please tell me, and be kind about it. I am only human, but I would very much like to know one way or the other <3

Set five days after this

Nico, dude, pls respond.

Read 01:10 am

Khaled shook his head with a frustrated huff. Here he was, walking the streets several blocks away from his master’s apartment well after dark, texting his best (only) friend on the clandestine cellphone he had gotten for him, and that bastard left him on read. He lobbed a discarded can across the sidewalk with a well-placed kick.

He had never realized how used to his friend’s welcoming smile and wholesome presence he’d become, until he’d had to go without. It had been five days. Five days of eating alone. Five days of trying to meet his eyes when they drove out at the end of the day, but to no avail. Nico could barely look at him, and the few times he did, it was with such palpable guilt.

But there was no reason to feel guilty. Even if he did feel betrayed by how easily his supposed friend fell in line, Khaled knew Nico didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, he has every right to choose his own future over a relationship with me. I would’ve done the same, he justified.

I’m not worth the trouble.

He was so lost in his mind as he mulled over the day’s events, that it took an unfamiliar presence bumping into his shoulder to bring him back to the present. A large man with a goatee bore his tobacco-stained teeth at him. “Hey, you, watch yourself!”

He ignored the stranger who bumped into him as he brushed past him and kept walking.

“What, you’re just going to ignore me, now? Who do you think you are?!” the man shouted.

A shorter, thin-eyed man walking alongside him joined in the provocation. “You heard him, vato,” he sneered, pockmarked face scrunched in a scowl. “You gonna come back here and apologize, or are we gonna have to make you?”

And, honestly, Khaled probably could’ve ignored the heckling and went on with his night in peace, until one of their tattooed hands gripped his shoulder and pulled him back towards them.

Within seconds, the larger man howled in pain as he recoiled his broken fingers from Khaled’s personal space. The other guy cursed something in a language Khaled did not understand, then turned toward him, fury blazing in his eyes. “¡Pendejo! So, that’s how it’s gonna be?!” With no other warning, he rushed toward him with a roar, his hands curled into fists. Were it not for the many escape attempts that devolved into fistfights, Khaled probably wouldn’t have stood much of a chance against his opponent. However, all that experience running away from and fighting off the mafia’s cronies had finally paid off. He deftly evaded the man’s haphazard punches, weaving in and out like a stubborn mosquito until he was finally able to land a jab up his opponent’s ribcage. Just as the second man crumpled gasping to the ground, the first one got up again, charging with his good hand raised. Khaled dodged that fist, too, quickly catching it and wrenching the man’s arm painfully behind his back. A well-placed elbow into his stomach knocked the breath from him. It could’ve been worse –he’d dealt with much harder hits before –but it was enough to make him loosen his grip. His opponent wrestled back control of his arm and punched Khaled square in the jaw, his teeth rattling discordantly in his mouth. He tasted the metallic tang of blood. He collected himself just enough to block the second hit in time, though the force of it felt as if it would break his forearm. A kick to the back of his knees brought him down to the concrete with a harsh thud, and soon the second man was dragging him up, arms pinned helplessly behind his back. “You shouldn’t have fucked with us, you-”

“Vatos, vatos, cálmate, todos.”

A clear voice rose from the fight scene. The man pinning Khaled dropped him instantly, letting him fall onto the pavement as he reverently addressed the source of the voice. “Julio,” he greeted, instantly backing away. Khaled glanced to the other man, who was also opening space between them as he tucked his broken fingers into his side. In front of them, along with half a dozen other men, stood one tall, thin young man in the center carrying himself with the confident presence of an apex predator, a leader –or a Boss, Khaled’s thoughts supplied. His dark hair was shorn close to his scalp, save for a choppy bleached mohawk running down the center. A glimmer of a piercing shone in the right cheekbone of his olive-skinned face, matching the barbell in his left eyebrow and rivaling the dangerous glint in his knife-sharp eyes. He wore an oversized army green parka over his upper body, well-loved and well-worn, if the custom patches and frayed seams were any indication. His long thin legs were clothed in dark track pants, tapering to spotless Chuck Taylors on his feet. Those feet walked calmly towards the three, stopping a mere pace and a half from them. “What’s going on here, primo?” he asked the first man, the one who provoked the fight. “It’s not like you to go two on one on some poor fucker like that.”

“I know, I know, but I didn’t think it would be so hard to beat some sense into him,” the man complained. “That little twig really made me and Luis work for it!”

Julio glanced skeptically at Khaled, who had just recollected himself from the ground. “What, him?” The corners of the Boss’ mouth turned up in a deriding smirk. “Are you getting so rusty, Alphonso, that you can’t even handle one skinny little twink?”

“Why don’t you try fighting this ‘skinny little twink’ yourself, you fucking beanpole?” Khaled’s mouth replied before his common sense could catch up. The smirk on Julio’s face dropped only a moment, until it was replaced with a wider, shit-eating grin. The golden hazel of his eyes reminded him of a cat’s eyes in the way they glowed with the pleasure of finding a mouse to toy with before they eat.

“Alright, he speaks!” He reached a tattooed hand from the depths of his parka to help Khaled stand up on his feet. His knuckles read ‘FUCK.’ Khaled didn’t have to guess what his other hand said. “You wanna go, pendejo, let’s go!” Julio laughed. He stepped back to his entourage to shed his coat, revealing long, sinewy tattooed limbs sticking out from a large t-shirt, its sleeves cut off and band logo long since faded. The gang formed a circle around them, giving Khaled and Julio plenty of space to have their fight while making any chance of escape impossible.

“Look.” Khaled raised his hands palms-out, his momentary bravado quickly forgotten, “I just want to go home, okay?”

“And you will, if you win,” Julio said, stretching his long limbs methodically as his catlike eyes sized up his prey. “But you wandered into our territory, and you pissed off my cousin. You gotta answer to that, you know, and if I win, I will make sure you do.” He dropped into a crouching stance, muscles tense as a bowstring, practically twitching with anticipation. “Now, let’s fight!”

Cheers erupted over the impromptu crowd as the two circled around each other, looking for the right place and moment to strike. Julio’s fist arched up like a whistling arrow and bore down toward Khaled’s face. He blocked it, wincing a little at the impact on his already bruised forearm. For being as skinny as he is, this guy sure has some force behind those hits, he thought. He successfully blocked a couple more punches –though barely-, and gradually Julio drove him from the sidewalk to the middle of the road, the crowd parting for the fighters and cheering all the while.

After another successful block, Khaled found an opportunity to land a kick to his opponent’s ribs. He swung his leg toward the man’s ribs. Just before his foot could meet Julio’s side, the tattooed hand whose knuckles spelled ‘YOU!’ caught it in a death grip. Khaled paled. “Nuh uh,” Julio tutted. He yanked up, unbalancing Khaled and sending him crashing to the hard asphalt. The fall knocked the breath out of him for only a moment as he fell onto his back. With enough presence of mind to remember he was still fighting, he swept his other foot at Julio’s ankles and brought him tumbling down to the trash-littered street too.

The crowd’s cheers grew frenzied as their Boss and the trespasser tackled, rolled, and straddled each other across the broken glass and loose rubble on the ground. Khaled wrested his fingers into Julio’s mohawk to hold him still as he hit him. Julio sunk his fingers into the top portion of Khaled’s undercut and slammed his head into the asphalt. Golden eyes like knives gleamed with the promise of a painful end as the man on top of him snarled like a beast. All too soon, Julio ended up mounted on top of Khaled, sitting on his chest, one hand on his throat, the other hand raised and primed.

Is this it?

The wildcat could finally eat his kill.

Is this how it ends?

In place of fear, or sorrow, or even the base need of every creature to get up and fight in the face of a threat to their survival, Khaled surprisingly felt nothing but peace as he stared into those aureate irises.

Why am I so okay with this?

“Go ahead,” Khaled spat between bloodied lips. He no longer pressed against the hand holding his throat. He lay his head back beside the ashes of long-extinguished cigarettes. “You win.”

Those knife sharp eyes met his, and for a second, they softened. Golden hazel melted into deep brown. The wildcat sheathed his claws.

It was only a second later that Julio was helping Khaled off the asphalt, brushing the dirt and broken glass from both their clothes all the while. The keen sharpness of his eyes returned, as if the momentary lapse in the Boss’ composure had never happened. “Hey, you got pretty close, man.” He collected his coat back from his posse and fished around the pockets, eventually pulling out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. He wordlessly offered Khaled one, but he politely refused. “Been awhile since I threw some serious chingasos,” he said as he lit his cigarette. “Been even longer since someone was able to throw it back at me.” He leaned against a nearby lamp post as he huffed a plume of smoke into the night. “No way just some random guy could stand a chance against me. Who are you with, twink?”

“The name’s Khaled, beanpole,” Khaled bristled. “And I’m with the Costas.”

“Ha, the Costas? The Costas?” Julio took another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, and I’m the fucking pope,” he snickered. His gang awkwardly laughed alongside him.

Khaled brought his bloodied fingers up to the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head and turning around to show his exposed back and shoulders. The laughing immediately ceased. The bluish-black ink of the skull and snake insignia was tattooed starkly on his skin, just above old, crisscrossing scars. “How in the fuck–you bear their mark, you really are a –but, how?” he sputtered. “They’re old-school mafia, there’s no way they’d just let you –you’re not even –how?!”

He slipped his shirt back on and turned to face his astounded former opponent. “It’s a long story that I don’t feel like telling,” he muttered.

“What about those scars-”

“-but I am unquestionably a Costa, and therefore I am under my Boss’ protection,” Khaled continued, interrupting Julio’s question. Speaking of ‘Boss,’ he’s gonna kill me he if he wakes up and finds out I snuck out this late, he belatedly realized. He awkwardly raised a hand and waved. “Now, I really must get back to my Boss. Goodnight.” He turned to leave.

He didn’t make it more than two steps before the rival Boss called out to him. “Wait, Khaled-”

All too suddenly, the moment of potential comradery was ruined by a car pulling up next to their semicircle. The gang protectively huddled around their leader as some of them immediately assumed defensive stances. The window to the familiar car rolled down.

“Khaled! Jesus, I was worried sick!” Thomas shouted, his voice nasally and unusually low with congestion. The man paused his scolding when he took in Khaled’s new cuts and bruises he didn’t make. “What happened to your face?” He turned his head to glare at Julio, who was glaring back with equal amounts of animosity. “Estrada, did you do this?!”

“Boss, I’m fine, really,” Khaled said, leaving the tightly knit group of guys and making his way to his master’s car. “I was going to get you some cough drops -you’re out, remember? It’s settled, I won… I think…” He made his way to the passenger side door and let himself in. “Let’s just go home so I can ice my face, okay?”

The man grumbled his dissent, but reluctantly pulled away, driving Khaled back to the apartment they shared.

“Those chop shop sons of bitches are bad news, boy,” Thomas warned. “They’ve got no honor! Stealing and scrapping whatever they can find, infringing on our territory, the territory my family fought for, just to –they kill for cash, you know!” They pulled into his usual spot in the underground garage as the rant sent the boss into a coughing fit. “Shameless,” he sighed. “I don’t want you anywhere near them, understood?”

Khaled wisely said nothing.

Thomas glanced at Khaled’s lap, frowning when he didn’t see a convenience store bag in his hands. “Did you even get a chance to buy those cough drops?”

Rather than being caught in his lie, Khaled decided to go for a half-truth. “No, master.”

Thomas huffed, which triggered another cough. “You know, you are so lucky I am sick right now,” he groused on the way from the parking garage to the elevator. “I barely had the energy to drag my ass down here to get the car and rescue you. And I definitely don’t have the energy to beat some sense into you!”

As Khaled later stripped himself to prepare for a shower, he paused as he noticed a small business card in his pants pocket. How in the hell –what? His mind replayed any and every possible moment Julio or someone else could’ve slipped something into his pocket without him noticing.

He carefully lifted it out as he shucked his pants off his legs and threw them into the hamper. It was the business card to an auto repair shop, with ten numbers underneath.

“Wait, Khaled-” The way Julio said his name replayed in a loop in his head as he stared at the ten-digit phone number with his secret phone in hand.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee

@generic-whumperz @bamber344

#whump writing #tw blood #scars briefly mentioned #whumpee #whumper #new caretaker just dropped #we're really stirring the pot now folks

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