#the whumpy warm and fuzzies

[needfantasticstories]

Aaaah! This was such a cool surprise to wake up to!!!

My angsty-child! My beloved chapter for a story borne entirely of old Whumptober and Febuwhump prompts that I strung together into three different stories, but this one got the bulk of them. I’m slowly plugging along, winging it as I go but getting excellent advice from fellow writers!

Scene input and requests are welcome from readers, btw!

By @needfantasticstories

Summary:

The Chain discovers Ghirahim is continuing the quest to revive Demise. Now, in Wild’s era, he’s found others with the same goal.

(Feb 1, 2024: split ch 1 into two, and added chapter 3) (March 21, 2024: Prologue #1 added to beginning)

Tags:

Sky/Sun

Flora/Wild

Malon/Time

Sky-centric

Hyrule Needs a Hug

Sky Has a Bad Time

BAMF Legend

Ghirahim being Ghirahim

Hyrule Has a Bad Time

Hyrule Has a Blood Curse

Good Older Sibling Warriors

Mentioned Cia

Giant Spiders

Wind Swears

Legend Swears

Panic Attacks

Past Sexual Assault

Past Violence

Human Sacrifice

Monsters

Finished: No

Word count: 19,468

[galactic-gift-gathering]

Can you clarify the genre section of the wishlist? This is my first time with these kinds of events

Hey, anon!! I will absolutely give it my best shot ✨

First and foremostly (that’s a word because I say so), welcome!! We are SO HAPPY to have you join us! 🥳

Now, to answer your question…

Genres!

Basically, everyone has different tastes when it comes to the kind of fandom content they enjoy….

Some people love the fluffy, cuddly, sweet content that make you feel warm and fuzzy inside 🥰

Some people love the angsty, whumpy, hurt/comfort content that breaks your heart and brings you to tears 😭

Then there are people who love that action/adventure, chaos ensuing mayhem that keeps you on the edge of your seat 😱

When you provide prompts on your Wish List, they will probably be able to fit multiple genres! But which genres are you hoping for??

Take this prompt for instance: Cozy Sweater

If I asked for this prompt with the genres fluff, family, humor…someone might fill it like this:

Torrent Company gets matching sweaters, but chaos ensues when one of the sweaters shrinks in the wash and the brothers argue whose it was.

If I asked for this prompt with the genres angst, whump, hurt no comfort…someone might fill it like this:

Rex finds a sweater in the market just like the one Ashoka got him when she found out he didn’t have any comfortable civilian clothes. The sweater was lost at the end of the war, destroyed when his brothers turned against him and their Jedi.

He misses that sweater.

He misses Torrent company.

He misses his little sister.

He hopes she’s okay.

Our hope in having you provide preferred genres is that it will help those filling your prompts better understand your taste in content!

But if you’re actually totally good with any genre, you can say that too!! You can let the creator get ✨creative✨ with the prompt and the genres! 😄

You can even specify specific genres/fandoms/characters with each prompt too, like this:

Cozy Sweater (Fluff) (The Clone Wars) (Rex, Fives, Echo)

Broken Heart (Emotional Whump) (Rebels) (Hera, Kanan)

Forgotten Anniversary (Humor, Family) (the Skywalker Saga) (Han, Leia)

*

Thanks for the fantastic question! Please feel free to message either of us mods ( @kybercrystals94 or @fionas-frenzy ) if you still have questions (or you can tag us in the comments of this post toooo!)

[oliversrarebooks]

Gotta say: Your chemical imbalance piece was pretty darn great. This bit made my silly brain do a little warm fuzzy feeling kickflip:

5X2 rewarded their host's compliance with a pleasant vision of the ship's recreation district, filled with laughter and games and live music, one that their host used to be fond of before it became impossibly defiant. Their host latched onto the familiar, mollifying hallucination right away, like a young one with its comfort-toy.

Fun... pretty...

Yes, it is fun and pretty, said 5X2. You deserve it, because you're being very good right now. Aren't you glad I took you to the doctor?

It's got the whumpy intrigue but it's also comforting/soothing, you know? 👌 The shift to a more regressed, innocent, or childlike state is not something I've seen much in whump but always wanted to, specifically in the context of it being for soothing/comforting a character. Like your hypnosis writing in the bookseller series. Thank you for writing that in to your chemical imbalance piece. And the general comfy hypnosis or altered state vibes in bookseller.

I feel less like I'd be perceived as a weirdo for liking these fictional concepts since I see that others enjoy them as well through your writing. (Hence why I send an anonymous ask) And feel like maybe I can also possibly write or share things in this little community too.

Anywho: Your page is an absolute blessing upon my feed. Thank you for sharing your works!

Ahhh thank you so much, this is the best kind of comment to get. I really enjoyed writing chemical imbalance and I think it's going to be a personal favorite for a long time.

Writing this blog I've learned that there are actually quite a few people interested in a kind of cozy whump vibe. Of course I'm not the only one writing stories like this, not at all, and I take a lot of inspiration from ASMR videos with whumpy concepts, too. If you're a weirdo for liking it, then a lot of us are weirdos together, and I think that's the best place to be.

Please do write and share your work! There's nothing better than paying it forward and inspiring someone else to write!

Thank you again!

[serickswrites]

🥇 for any!

I did already answer this one, so I will pick another question to answer! Thank you for stopping by to ask. (I'm an extremely elderly computer and cannot put emoji's, so sorry). What was the very first scene or image that popped into your head before you ever wrote a word for my OC? For giant WIP, the first image that popped into my head was Mal in chains in a basement with baddie advancing towards her. (A very whumpy beginning vision).

Please enjoy a little something since I already answered your question!

Warnings: restraints, physical assault, violence, left for dead, blood

The smell of grass was overwhelming. Whumpee could barely relax into the soft grass that cradled them. Their shoulders burned from being pulled so tight by the rope around their wrists. One nostril was clogged with blood. And yet, all they could smell was grass.

Whumper had beaten them mercilessly. Had beaten them within an inch of their life. And Whumpee hadn't been able to escape. Hadn't even been able to fight back because of the rope. They had only been able to sit there and hope the pain would be over. Hope that Whumper would stop. And hope that they wouldn't die.

And they didn't die. Whumpee wasn't exactly sure what happened--everything had become so fuzzy. They just knew that somehow they had ended up facedown in grass. The warmth of sunlight on their back. Fresh air blowing across their exposed neck. And the overwhelming scent of grass.

Whumper hadn't killed them. But Whumper had abandoned them, left them to die in a field of grass. There are worse places to die. Whumpee only hoped that they would be found before they died. That Caretaker would find them and save them.

But as Whumpee's tenuous grip on consciousness began to fade, they realized it didn't matter if Caretaker found them. They were somewhere peaceful. Somewhere warm. And it was nice to be cradled by the grass. Nice to smell the fresh grass one last time.

[bunny300]

I want a story/scene where A is captured by B's army/nation/country (whatever) and brought to B.

Now who is A? I don't know. Is he someone important in the country/nation/army he came from? In all the stories I've read with similar situations, the other person usually is important, so what if A isn't? What if he's just normal/average rank in the army?

Like, imagine A being super bright but never having an opportunity to succeed. He picks things up quick and is an excellent soldier and strategist but maybe because of where he comes from, who his family is or something along those lines, any advancement was stopped. Because of that, his rank never improved so he isn't considered anyone important in his country/army by any means.

But say the camp he was at is invaded by the enemy and he responded the quickest. A was the one that crippled B's army invasion the most and actually created a situation where multiple companions successfully escaped, but he was ultimately caught, and to his surprise, finds out the order was to capture him alive and keep him alive.

While waiting for the inevitable meeting of his captor, B, he hears that his general/head of the army encampment or whatever, had been killed and that the majority of his fellow men were captured, all still alive.

This puzzles A. Why? Because B's country/army is widely known for NOT taking prisoners. In any invasion, they kill all those that fight against them. It is known that they won't kill unarmed civilians, but anyone in the army or carrying a weapon by time of invasion is better considered dead. If they're in the army, it doesn't matter if you surrender, they will kill you. Better yet if A's country has mandatory conscription and at a certain age or time they don't even have a choice. Maybe it's one of those, one man/person of eligible age in the family must serve or something.

So then now we have A, who hears that he was ordered captured alive, and his fellow brothers he's fought alongside are also alive, just held in a separate area. A finds it odd he's held isolated, alone in a cell, when it's become clear to him, by either being told or by listening to guards or other people that his companions are held in another area together. And so he waits. He can't do anything else. And after however long, he is brought before B.

Imagine A being pushed to his knees, forced to look up to meet B's eyes. And it becomes that beautiful "become mine" trope.

"Become mine."

"...what?"

"You are wasted as you are. From now on you'll be my strategist... As well as my companion. You'll follow my orders. You'll help me wage war. And you'll warm my bed."

"You're disgusting."

"You'll be the second most powerful man in my army."

"I won't do it."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."

B signals to someone, and the doors open and A finds C being dragged inside the room. C was just one of the many he'd gotten close to during his service. Imagine C being pushed to ground and held there, unlike A, who was left kneeling alone, C had a guard on both sides of him, holding him firmly.

"You know, A, we don't take prisoners."

Imagine A immediately making eye contact with B, "you can't."

"I can," he says, stepping closer to the still kneeling A making A crane his neck to maintain eye contact. "And I will." Imagine B reaching out and caressing A's hair and A jerking his head away on reflex. "I don't think you understand," he says before grabbing A's hair, "I'm trying to get along here. I could torture him before I kill him." B let's go slowly before running his hand through his hair, pleased that he doesn't move. "Whether I take prisoners or kill them all... It's all up to you."

I honestly love this whole frickin trope. It fills me with warm and fuzzy feelings.

[flufftober]

Umm..!!

What are guidelines for making a story fluff one??

I think i plotted a story and it was supposed to be a short crackfic but now somehow there is accidental adoption so I am not sure I can mark it under family fluff?

Hey there 😊 this is actually a really intriguing question 🤔

Okay, let's start with some "official" definitions I found:

Fanlore says

Fluff is often used in fandom to characterize any pleasant, feel-good work. It is sometimes described as the opposite of angst. Fluff may lack plot; however, unlike a PWP the focus is not sex, but displays of affection between two or more characters, whether their relationship is romantic or not. A fluff story may be gen and focused on family (or found family) interactions. It may also indicate a mood piece with warm, uplifting descriptions (...)

Yeah, I think this is already a very good definition! But let's continue:

WritingBeginner has a lot to say about the topic, like

You write fluff by defining your characters, setting, and goal. Then, you narrate a happy sequence of events between characters who have a strong, sometimes romantic, bond. You include meaningful dialogue and action to show them happy and in love. You also avoid any drama, conflict, or angst.

Honestly? I would say, let's scratch that last part! I love some angsty, whumpy fics that turn fluffy... or the other way around 😉 but they also say

Fluff writing is any story with a positive plot and happy ending. Fluff is popular in fanfiction and some roleplaying games. These stories tend to focus on happy themes and make readers feel good.

I think especially that last part is important here and it's probably what I would've told you if I hadn't searched for "official" answers first. You wanna have your reader leave your fic with a happy smile on their face and a warm, fuzzy feeling. Basically, you want them to be this gif in the end:

Now, all that being said, lemme fall back on our normal mantra: whatever our prompts inspire in you is alright! You think it is fluffy? Then go ahead and submit it ��

Personally, I had some partially angsty fics among my 2021 entries because I write for fandoms that generally have darker themes. So naturally, those bleed into my fics. But as long as you feel that your fic still deserves the fluff tag (or the fluff & angst tag), then, by all means, go for it 💕

I really hope this answered your question 😊

[maracujatangerine]

Christmas gifts

- a gift for @whumpzone at @saintwhumpolas Whumpy Secret Santa Event 2021. All characters belong to Cerys and you can find her story here.

*

Linden was standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The snowflakes were dancing under the streetlights and covering the parked cars, the benches and all the naked trees with a soft, silent layer of shining snow.

He had helped Colton brush his teeth. Well, it was more accurate to say that he had brushed Colton’s teeth for him. Since Col had such a hard time even grasping the toothbrush, Linden had decided that he had to make sure it was properly done at least a couple of times per week.

Like every previous time, the pet had sat on the toilet seat and obediently opened his mouth for the toothbrush. He never resisted, but despite Linden trying to be as gentle and careful as humanly possible, Colton never stopped shivering either. Linden sometimes wondered if he even understood the purpose of the exercise, or if he somehow just thought that Linden enjoyed his discomfort. After the ordeal was over, Linden had asked him to change into his pyjamas and then come downstairs.

*

The pet stopped in front of the mirror and tried unsuccessfully to push down his unruly hair. He was wearing his new pyjama. The red flannel felt soft and warm against his skin. The top was a bit on the large side for him, but his Master had made sure that he would be able to simply pull it over his head. “Then you won’t have to fiddle with all these buttons,” Master had said. Colton was grateful. Still, the sight of the neat row of buttons made him uneasy.

Did Master want to undress his pet like a gift? Slowly revealing inch by inch of skin and devising new ways to hurt him for each newly opened button?

Col shivered at the thought, but forced himself to keep moving down the stairs. His Master had ordered him to come. No matter what he wanted him for, the pet only had to obey. Padding barefoot down the stairs, he hurried to kneel at Linden’s side. His Master smiled down at him, that genuinely warm smile that always awoke a little answering tendril of joy in Colton’s stupid heart. In the gullible part of him that wanted to believe that Master was as kind as he seemed.

“There you are, Col.” His Master sounded pleased. “Look, it is snowing so much! Isn’t it quite beautiful?” The pet nodded shyly. “Y-yes, Sir.” It was beautiful, even Colton could see that. But if his Master had said that the white snowflakes were apple blossom petals, Col would likewise have agreed. Whatever your Master wanted to hear…

“I have something for you.” Col’s heart skipped a beat, but before he had time to fully panic, his Master handed him a light, gift-wrapped present. “I wanted to give it to you while it was just the two of us here.”

Was he supposed to tear at the package? To destroy that beautiful, glossy, red wrapping paper with ugly tears that would cross the surface like scars? He would have liked to open it carefully, but with his broken hands, it would be impossible. Not knowing what to do, Col looked helplessly up at his Master. Linden smiled, a small, kind twitch in the corner of his mouth.

“Would you mind if I helped you?” He asked.

“Please...”

Please, help this incompetent excuse for a slave. Take mercy on me, for even this simple task is beyond me. But there was no mocking in his Master’s dark eyes when he reached out and pulled on one side of the string tied up in a bow. The whole knot unraveled easily. With shaking, clumsy hands, the pet unfolded the red wrapping paper.

Inside were a pair of mittens.

They were knitted in dark grey yarn with an intricate, white pattern. When Colton reached out a shivering hand to touch them, they were made of the softest, warmest wool imaginable.

“It’s alpaca.” Linden explained. “The inside is all rugged up and fuzzy, so they should be warm and comfy. Go on, try them on!”

When Col did, they felt so warm and gentle and safe that he almost cried.

“Thank you, Sir. Thank you! B-but, Sir, I have nothing for you.” Linden smiled.

“That’s no problem. Just you liking them is definitely reward enough.”

Col looked up at Linden, clasping his mittened hands together. “I-I like them so much. Truly, I do. Thank you, Sir.”

*

The next morning, Colton awoke early. He had slept uneasily. Half-nervously, half excitedly pondering his plan. Now, it was time to make it happen.

As quietly as possible, the pet snuck out into the kitchen. On the very doorstep, he was almost tripped up by a very excited Jaffa. The grey cat was weaving herself affectionately around his legs, making little inquisitive sounds in surprise over the early company.

“Shh, Jaffa” Col whispered. “Please, be quiet!” He hurried to give her a little food. With profound relief, he saw that it was enough for her to busy herself with crunchily chewing the kibble.

The pet couldn’t fully shake the feeling of being bad. Since that time when he scalded himself, his master had been clear in that he was not allowed to work in the kitchen alone. But surely, since it was for a gift, his Master would allow it this time?

Colton continued his preparations as quietly and quickly as possible. In another house, this would just have been a normal thing for a slave to do. But his master had never asked him for it, not once.

He almost spoiled the surprise by noisily dropping things while moving about the kitchen. But when his Master’s clock rang, Colton was ready with his preparations and had managed to avoid any accidents.

*

After Linden shut off his alarm clock, he heard a timid knock on the door and cautious steps departing. When he rolled out of bed and opened the door, the corridor was empty. To one side of the door stood a tall glass of chai, covered with a saucer filled with biscuits from the tin in the pantry. He took a cautious sip of the hot brew. It was properly whisked with milk, strong and sweet, just like Linden liked it.

*

Merry Christmas, Cerys! 🎄❤️🎄

And thank you to @saintwhumpolas for organising the event! ❤️

[wolfeyedwitch]

Current mood: dealing with IRL whumpy medical BS without a dedicated caretaker. (My SO is great but they're up to their eyeballs in their own shit so they're kind of Busy.) Could I please get some virtual hugs and warm fuzzies please?

[ceph-the-ghost-writer]

Comfort Tag

Tagged by @cryptidwritings! Tagging @whumpy-writings @thecyrulik @whump-cravings @not-a-space-alien and leaving an open tag all around.

Comfort Movie: The Dark Crystal. I remember first watching this while sick as a wee writing ghost, and have loved it ever since.

Comfort Food: Probably ice cream with some form of cookie in it.

Comfort Clothing: Big t-shirt, soft jogger sweats, fuzzy hoodie with cat ears.

Comfort Song: Hm. Something by Mind.In.A.Box maybe. I've let their ethereal sound take my mind off of things before.

Comfort Book: The Hobbit. Another childhood favorite.

Comfort Game: Hades. The banter and love between the characters gives me the warm and fuzzies, and the endless cycles of levels is good for draining off anxiety.

[whumpinggrounds]

Just As Sane As I Am

Short piece today because Covid fatigue. For @febuwhump day 19, “delirium,” Liam is getting a fever like me!

Tagging @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @brutal-nemesis, @deluxewhump, @whumpy-writings, @hearse-song, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @lonesome--hunter, @diyalogues, @warm-my-whumpee-heart

CW: male whumpee, big whumpee, little whumper, female whumper, creepy whumper, fever, delirium (duh), angst, noncon touch,

Liam knows when the fever starts. He doesn’t get sick often, but he vividly remembers his bout with appendicitis when he was thirteen. The itchy feeling under his skin. The heat. The tightness. The way his head aches, his tongue dries out, his whole body gets heavy as rocks. He knows a fever, and he knows when he starts to feel warm for the first time in Delilah’s cabin.

And then, too warm.

Still, Liam knows better than to say anything. He doesn’t want Delilah’s attention, even as he drinks more and more water, shivers hotter and hotter curled up on the couch. He holds out as long as he can, not wanting her to touch him. He’s not sure if she’s playing along, enjoying the sight of him getting weaker, or if she genuinely doesn’t notice his obvious weakness. He’s not sure which thought he finds more disturbing. Whatever the case, neither of them can ignore it anymore when Liam passes out cold on the cabin floor.

One minute he’s upright – swaying, sure, but upright – and the next, the dark rushes in. Black clouds sparkle across his vision, and his legs get fuzzy and weak. When he blinks back into awareness, he feels the chill of the cabin floor down his front, a faint ache in each of his knees. Over him, Delilah is cooing, her voice high and sweet and concerned, but the words come to Liam all bleary, confused. He lifts his head, but the room twirls around him as he does. Delilah makes a chiding sound. Surely, there are words in that blurred stream of sounds – but there’s no way that Liam could pick them out. Dizzily, he lets his head fall back to the wooden floor.

Time passes in a haze. Liam couldn’t tell if it’s minutes or hours slipping by, just that he’s hot and cold, he feels hands on his skin, he can’t see past the throbbing in his skull. He sees swirls, hears talking, singing, groaning. He doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not. He can’t focus on what he’s seeing or hearing, not past the crushing weight of what he’s feeling.

It’s not the itchy tightness of his skin, or the burning heat that alternates with bone-deep cold. It’s not the sweat wetting down his hair, nor the welcome chill of the cabin floor against his overheating skin. None of that bothers him in the slightest, not when he has other things to focus on. Not when he feels…not when he feels…

He feels someone cradle his head in their hands.

He feels someone pull him into their lap.

He feels fingers and hands, light little hands, and quick darting fingers, running up and down and down his chest.

He feels it all, over and over. When he twitches, or brushes distractedly at the touch, sometimes he realizes there’s nothing there. Sometimes there is – his fingers hit – and then it’s gone again, gone away, gone beyond reach.

Fingers. Hands. Touch. All over him, all over him. Some of it’s real and some of it isn’t – or all of it’s real and none of it isn’t – maybe none of it’s real, and all of it isn’t.

Liam doesn’t know.

He can’t find out.

He just lies on the floor of the cabin and shivers.

[justbreakonme]

Hi! I'm so glad to have found your blog, your writing and prompts are so whumpy and I love them so much!

Would you be okay if I were to use your prompts for writing something in the near future? If you don't mind, how would you like to be credited? It's also totally fine if you don't prefer it!!

Thanksss I hope this didn't come off as too on the nose, but if it did I'm sorry!! I'm just really, reaaaalllyyyy enthusiastic about you and your brain 🙈🙈 thank you for existingggg

Thank you so much! Absolutely, use anything you’d like, just tag me cause I’d love to read it! And again, thank you so much, I feel all warm and fuzzy now

[patheticlittleguy]

Fairy Dust

Masterlist. Part four of a series.

content warnings: hospital settings, descriptions of magical healing. Things are finally getting whumpy!

The Healer arrives at ten o’clock sharp. Like all Healers, he wears a white jacket with red hems and a big red plus sign on the breast. This particular Healer has short, dirty blonde hair, and looks mildly inconvenienced by everything around him. Leo kind of thinks he’s cute.

“What’s wrong with you?” The Healer says, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Instead of waiting for a response, he puts a hand on Leo’s waist.

Leo knows he’s in pretty bad shape down there, but he hasn’t really been thinking about it. As the Healer mutters to himself, Leo gets a vague idea of how bad it really is.

“Well, man, I think you’ve broken some kind of record for most bones broken. Congrats, I guess.”

Leo snorts at that, and though the statement had some troubling implications, he can’t help but smile a little bit.

The Healer’s face is suddenly serious again. “This is probably gonna hurt, alright? Let me know if you need to stop.” He carefully sets a hand on Leo’s chest.

It feels warm and itchy, and then it burns. Leo can’t breathe. He feels something shift, and then it’s over. The Healer takes their hand away. Leo can breathe, but it’s shaky.

There’s a long moment where the Healer waits for Leo to catch his breath, and Leo tries not to cry. He finally manages to calm down, and then the Healer splays a hand on Leo’s right hip.

Leo nearly panics, and he forces himself to keep breathing steadily. He feels the itchy heat of the healing again. The muscles in his leg twitch minutely, weakly trying to jerk out of the Healer’s grasp. Pain pierces through his bones. Something shifts, and he cries out.

The Healer stops, giving Leo a moment to catch his breath. Leo swallows thickly. Everything is sort of fuzzy, like someone put TV static in a humidifier and left it on high.

A nurse says in a sickly sweet voice, “I think he’s done for the day, alright?” She shoos the Healer out, which frustrates Leo a bit. He never got the guy’s name.

Leo spends the rest of the afternoon fiddling with shadows. The nurses lower the amount of pain medicine he’s on, and he’s sound of mind enough that he can finally reach out with his mind and feel them. It’s like seeing an old friend again, partly because Leo has had a sad and lonely life and the shadows are like a companion to him.

He passes the time by seeing how big and silly he can make a shadow look before any nurses notice. As it turns out, people rarely pay attention to something as mundane as a shadow. He manages to keep a straight face as he makes a nurse’s shadow look like a cartoon monster, and then shrinks it back down to normal size before the nurse sees. It’s entertaining for a little while, but then he gets bored and stares out of the window again.

It occurs to him, out of the blue, that he hasn’t had a haircut in a while. He’s been more lax about them ever since graduation, a few months ago, but now it’s really starting to get long. Not that it matters that much. There’s no one he cares about enough for their opinion of him to matter.

Two days later, the Healer comes back. This time, his jacket is rumpled and his hair looks unwashed. Leo tries not to wonder if everything’s alright- the Healers are here to help him, not the other way around. There’s a time and a place.

The Healer has a hand on Leo’s knee- or, rather, the brace wrapped around Leo’s knee- when Leo blurts out, “What’s your name?”

The Healer’s eyes flick up, but his face is still angled away. It makes him look even more tired, somehow. “I’m Matthew,” he says. “Now, you know the drill. This is gonna hurt.”

Leo nods, and takes a deep breath. The pain is sharp and sudden, this time, and Leo instinctively tries to gasp but his lungs are already full. He exhales like a balloon popping, and another burst of pain leaves him gasping and shuddering.

“There, there,” Matthew says awkwardly. Leo’s throat aches with the need to sob. The Healer adds, “I’m all done. You can breathe now.”

Leo does breathe, in big gasps like he’s drowning. His whole body gradually goes limp again, ragdolling in slow motion. A nurse puts the back of their hand against his forehead, as if there isn’t a thermometer handy. His vision is blurry with exhaustion and tears, and he can’t make out who it is.

He’s still sniffling weakly as he falls asleep. When he wakes, he will not remember having dreamt. Diego will run his fingers through Leo’s hair, and say, welcome back to the land of the living, big guy. Leo will be perfectly content that way.

—-

taglist: @lave-whump @whumper-in-training

(Let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from the taglist!)

[actress4him]

In Irons 6 - Lashes

(For @brutal-nemesis ‘s Salt Water Day)

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @a-series-of-whumpy-events , @ladydani101 , @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: lady whumpee (male whumper), restraints, imprisonment, corporal punishment, whipping, blood, mild gore

.

.

It isn’t Marshall who comes down to the brig to fetch her this time. She hasn’t seen him at all since she was thrown down here what must have been at least twelve hours ago. Despite the fact that he’s just a pirate, like the rest of them, and that he helped tie her to the mast for her last major punishment, she still finds herself wishing that he was there, wondering why he’s not. He’s at least semi kind to her.

The two men that grab her by the arms have no intention of being kind, nor gentle. Their grips are bruising, their steps far too quick for her weary legs to keep up with. When she trips on the stairs, they just keep pulling, banging her shins against the wooden treads until she can get her feet underneath her again.

Everyone is gathered around when they emerge into the early morning sunlight. It can’t possibly be a good sign. She knows that she made the Captain plenty angry with her disobedience, but is every single crew member that eager to see her punished? Or is this some kind of twisted, mandatory gathering?

There’s a path through the men leading straight to the center mast of the ship, where Captain Payne is waiting, and for a moment she thinks she’s going to be tied up again. Her breathing picks up just thinking about it, the heat of the sun and her lips cracking and bleeding and visions coming to haunt her…

“Miss Gray.” The Captain’s voice booms across the otherwise silent ship, startling her out of her downward spiral. “You defied a direct order from your captain. Your punishment shall be twenty-five lashes.”

Adelaide is fairly certain that her heart stops beating altogether, but it doesn’t keep her from hearing the chorus of boos that arises from the crew.

Captain Payne waves a hand over the disgruntled crowd. “Yes, I know, only twenty-five, such a pitiful excuse for a punishment. She’s only a lass, however. We mustn’t break her...too much.”

He gets a few chuckles for that, but she hardly pays them any mind. Only twenty-five lashes? She can’t even imagine one. There’s no way she can survive that...can she?

Before her brain can even begin to process what’s about to happen to her, she’s being shoved forward, down onto her knees in front of the mast. The manacles around her wrists are yanked up over her head and fastened to a hook that she had previously noticed but never known the use of. Now that she knows, she thinks she might be sick.

It’s all happening too fast even for that, though. Something cold and sharp pricks the nape of her neck, and she begins to panic, but instead of pain following - yet - there’s a terrible ripping sound and the warm breeze hits her back.

Her bare back. Soft and pale, marked only by the same freckles that dot her face. More muscular, perhaps, than it had been a couple of months ago, but still utterly unprepared for the pain that’s about to be inflicted on it.

She hears the first strike just before it bites into her skin. It stings just as badly as she feared, worse, even, and she gasps loudly. The second comes before she’s recovered from the first, drawing a whimper even as she attempts to bite down on her lip to keep further noise in.

The third and the fourth have her squeezing her eyes shut, trying to take in deep, even breaths through her nose. These men already see her as weak. She can’t prove them right.

When the fifth lash laps over two of the others, her head jerks backward, and she bites down so hard on her lip she tastes blood.

It’s after that when she begins to lose track of the number. She needs to count, she thinks, needs to keep track so she can make sure they don’t go over, but what would she even be able to do if they did? She’s in no position to contest them. She’s not even sure she’ll still be conscious by twenty-five.

The deck has gone eerily silent, more silent even than during the night watches, only the awful cracking sound of the whip breaking through the rush of the wind and lapping of the waves. It’s as if every man on board is holding their collective breath, waiting for the moment she breaks and begins to scream and cry.

And Adelaide tries so hard not to satisfy them. But the lashes go on, and on, and on, and every bit of her back feels as if it’s been set on fire. Each strike of the whip on top of already burning skin is absolute agony, and soon the tears that automatically spring to her eyes spill over and soak her cheeks. Soon she can’t hold in her noises of pain anymore, grinding her forehead into the wood of the mast and finally allowing herself to gasp and grunt and even whine.

But she doesn’t scream. No matter how much she may want to, she won’t give them that.

Not when one of the lashes - oh stars, can’t this possibly be the last one? - wraps over her shoulder, ripping skin away as it’s retracted. Not when she starts to become aware of blood soaking into the waistband of her breeches.

Not when her stomach churns and her hearing starts to go fuzzy, and she’s almost certain that she’s going to faint.

At last, at last, no more lashes come. Adelaide hangs limply from her restraints, panting, vision still black around the edges, unable to think of anything past the all-encompassing pain. The mumble of voices from behind her sounds like it’s underwater. Vaguely she feels the vibration of footsteps, but she’s unaware of anything that’s happening until sudden, startling, cold water crashes over her, running down across her wounds and mixing with her blood before pooling around her feet.

And Adelaide screams.

The pain before was so incredibly terrible, but this is somehow so much worse. It feels as if a thousand knives have been stabbed into her back all at once. She throws her head back, wailing, uncaring now of whether or not they find her weak. It’s all too much.

She loses all awareness for probably no more than a few seconds. When she comes back to herself she’s slumped over again, manacles digging bloody rivets into her wrists. In the corner of her eye she barely registers a pair of shining black boots and a cane, which quickly turns into the smiling face of Captain Payne.

“That should get you nice and clean. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ an infection or anything.”

Salt water. Of course.

Noise resumes around her, but it’s just that, noise. Adelaide remains in a daze, unsure from moment to moment whether or not she’s actually even fully conscious. Something is jiggling her hands, and she cries out as they’re lowered to her lap, rippling the muscles in her back. Her ruined shirt slides down her arms. She can’t even bring herself to care. But someone almost immediately covers her with something that feels like a coat, draping it carefully over her uninjured shoulder and holding it tightly against her on the other side.

“Come on,” a low voice that should be familiar murmurs in her ear. “Let’s get you to your bunk.”

Lying down sounds wonderful, but she can’t. There’s no way she can even begin to move from this position. The person must gather this, because he presses a shoulder into her stomach and scoops her up, wrenching another short scream from her throat.

By the time he’s taken three steps forward, Adelaide has given into the blissful call of the darkness.

[itcantbe]

Whumptober No. 28: Good, you're finally awake

I've got two more whumpy things for you before the end of the month! I'd expound on what I was doing here but I fear I'd ruin it so I won't! Have you been to Elma Knoll? I picked it off the map and then ran there in the game to make sure it was a nice spot and it was!

No. 28: Good, you're finally awake

BOTW 1000 words On AO3

They’re lying on Elma Knoll. He’s on his back, and she is too, her head resting on his shoulder. It’s a beautiful day. Sunny, warm, bright. He runs his hand through her hair, combing the strands up with his fingers, watching as they glitter in the sunshine.

“It seems strange to lie here doing nothing,” he says.

She hums in agreement. They had spent so much of their time previously racing about the country, taking her to pray at the springs, inspecting the divine beasts, or visiting the various villages and settlements, that both of them are unfamiliar with idleness. It’s like some kind of dream.

Link sighs.

“But I suppose we should head back.” Where? To the castle, he supposes. Where else? The why of it eludes him but he doesn’t care. It’s hard to care much with the sunshine and the particular delight of being able to lie here with her like this, just like he’d always wanted.

He gropes next to him, seeking the sword that has been his constant companion since he was 12 years old. His brows pinch in consternation when he can’t find it. Where is it? Why doesn’t he have it? But then his brain supplies the answer. That’s right, they defeated the calamity. That’s why he and Zelda can enjoy the afternoon on the side of a grassy hill. They defeated the calamity, and he … he put the sword back in its pedestal in korok forest. So it could rest until it was needed again.

He doesn’t remember doing that, journeying to the lost woods. Lighting the torch to help find the way, winding through the misty trees until he reached the sunny glen where the sword lived when it wasn’t needed by a hero … none of it. But he must have. Why else did he not have the sword? But it doesn’t matter. He’s simply relieved to have finally shed himself of it. The sword itself only weighed a few pounds, despite the strength of the steel, but to wear it had felt like carrying the world on his back, bending him over and holding him down.

Now he was free.

He next wakes to the faint light of morning, sheets soft against his bare skin, and smiles at Zelda, nestled warm and just as naked next to him. He takes a moment to fiddle with the ring on the third finger on his left hand, its weight strange and unfamiliar. Well, he hadn’t been wearing it long, Zelda sliding it onto his hand only the day before. He holds it up, the gold gleaming in the early morning sunlight, and frowns.

He thinks most children dream of their wedding day, finding that one person they will spend the rest of their life with. It had been everything he had wanted — but he’s surprised how little of it he remembers. The other champions must have been there … he has a vague impression of red hair the color of the desert sunset, a beak as sharp as the Hebra wind, hearty laughter like boulders rumbling down the mountain side, a sweet voice that held the music of a cold stream tumbling through a meadow. But not much else.

But it doesn’t matter. He knows his wife — he smiles at the word, hardly believing he could be so lucky to ever say it, much less apply it to her — she had looked beautiful that day, he was sure of it, even if the details were fuzzy. He remembers her golden hair, and the way her eyes had sparkled like dew on summer grass. He struggles to remember the day for a moment more before giving up. The part he was really looking forward to was this, waking up next to her, finally having her all to himself. He’d imagined it so often it was hard to believe it was real. He rolls to his side and wraps his arm around her, burying his face in her hair, and goes back to sleep.

Now he’s at her coronation, and he stands behind her, like he always has. He looks down to see that he’s in his royal guard uniform, the collar just a bit too tight and the boots a bit stiff — everything is brand new. It’s blue, everything is blue. He’s aware of a vast crowd before him, stretching out from the balcony of the castle and packing the streets. The city is a riot of color, blue and gold and blue and red, and every building is bedecked in banners and bunting, flags flying from nearly every window and rooftop. There’s cheering, a constant roar as the people joyfully welcome their new queen.

He stands next to someone, the impression of a large, imposing man beside him. It's her father, he guesses, but he can’t really see him. It’s so blue, it’s so bright. He only has eyes for her anyway, watching her shine golden as she greets her people as queen. He burns with pride, and love, and happiness, to see her come into her own. He feels alight with joy that he can be here with her, to see this day at her side. It’s like a dream come true. The crowd roars, the sun is so bright, a golden light shining in his eyes. He squints, trying to see her; he wants to remember every detail he can. But all he gets is a flash of gold, the green of emeralds.

The light is so bright, it’s all he can see. He closes his eyes to shut it out. But it does no good, the light fills him up, refuses to let him turn away. The golden light calls to him to wake up, wake up. Open your eyes. And he does, wet and cold, in a room pulsing with blue light. He feels like something has slipped away while he slept, but he can’t remember what. He can’t remember anything.

[usaonetwothree]

First of all thank you thank you thank you so much for the johnny whump!!!

Also wondering if there's any chance you will be writing any johnny whump featuring more johnny/Carmen? Maybe an extension of that part of The Agreement where she's examining his injuries? The thought just gives me total whumperflies!

Thank you so much for the message, Anon!! And you're most welcome! The show is just teeing it up so nicely. I'm really just continuing what they started :)

I hadn't thought about an interlude to The Agreement, but now my plot bunnies are going. Give me a few weeks to see what I come up with! I'll post it here for sure, and if it's long enough, I'll copy it over to ao3 as a second chapter.

In the interim, I have the start of a whumpy two-chapter fic that I don't know if I'm going to finish. Working summary is "Johnny doesn't have time to get sick. Besides, it's just food poisoning... right?" I'll post the completed first chapter below, and the plan for chapter two would be from Carmen's point-of-view from the ambulance ride through surgery and Johnny finally waking up. I wrote a lot of the ideas I had for her part into Conflict, which is why I think I'm stalled on it here in coming up with something different. I don't know how long it'll take me to figure that out (if ever) but at least you'll have the first chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Thank you again for the kind message!

Pain exploded in his side, worse than he’d ever felt before. He had reference for this: he’d torn, strained, bruised, strained, dislocated and broken many things in the past. This pain blew them all away. It was he’d been stabbed with a hot knife up to the hilt, and someone was twisting it around in his guts.

His hand went to the area, came away warm, but he wasn’t bleeding. Felt like it. Felt oozing and wet and raw.

Somehow, above the nausea, above the stabbing ache in his head, he knew this was serious. And he needed help.

He couldn’t remember where his phone was. Didn’t have time to stop and think.

With every inch of his skin on fire, he leveraged himself off the couch and almost screamed as utter agony raced up his side. His knees buckled but he didn’t let himself fall. If he did, he knew he wouldn’t get back up.

Partially hunched over, he stumbled forward, careful not to jar his torso. He caught the door before the handle, barely cracking it open before he almost fell through. He jabbed his right elbow into the stucco wall, used that as a guide.

Elbow on the wall, left hand on his abdomen, trying to hold whatever was wrong in. One foot in front of the other.

It was the only thing going through his head.

Left.

Right.

Left.

A chill tore up his spine. His brain went fuzzy for a second and his elbow came away from the wall.

He almost went down again, caught himself at the last second. Leaned so far right he almost bashed his head into the stucco.

But he was vertical again.

He kept going until he hit another door.

The door that could help him.

Everything hurt now. He was sweating, burning up. His eyes felt like they were bulging out of his head, and his limbs were trembling.

He tried to knock, lost his balance. Went down in a heap of limbs.

His side crashed into the ground and fire tore through his abdomen, pain so sharp and intense he couldn’t speak—couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.

He thought he smelled something familiar. Heard something close. Felt something against his forehead.

But it was lost in a wave of blackness.

A * A

Twelve hours earlier…

Daniel LaRusso walked into Miyagi-Fang to hear a sound he was uncomfortably familiar with. As his own stomach churned in sympathy, he stepped closer to the small wood door leading to the bathroom and rapped on it.

“Everything okay?” he asked, scrunching up his nose as the stench filtered out into the dojo.

“Fine,” a thin voice gasped.

“Johnny?” Daniel rapped harder on the door. “Let me in.”

“‘m fine.”

Daniel then heard the toilet flush and someone heave themself upright, before the faucet was turned on.

“Johnny, what’s wrong?” The worst-case scenarios were flashing through Daniel’s head: Johnny had gone after Kreese and gotten his ass kicked, he was drunk and trying to sober up before class…

But when the door slid open and a pale-faced and miserable Johnny stepped out, Daniel knew both were wrong.

“Are you sick?”

Johnny shook his head, then winced. “Don’t think so,” he said as he shuffled to the inlaid bench and sat down, propping his head against his hands with his elbows braced against his knees. “Bologna might have turned."

“I told you you should stop buying that stuff,” Daniel said as he fetched a water bottle from the small fridge and sat down beside Johnny, sliding it between his side and forearms.

“Then what am I going to have for breakfast?” he groaned, ignoring the bottle of water.

Daniel lightly wiggled it so it tapped Johnny’s arm and side. Groaning, the other man straightened up so his head was leaning against the paneling and took the water. “Cereal.”

Johnny took a small sip of the water and grimaced. “Milk goes bad,” he said faster but in a much steadier tone.

“Drink it faster. Or have eggs and bacon.”

Johnny groaned and clenched his jaw as his chest heaved painfully. “No more… food talk,” he ground out.

“Duly noted.” Daniel stood again and grabbed a towel, wetting it in the sink and laying it over Johnny’s forehead as he sat back down.

At first, Johnny pulled back in surprise, the towel slipping, but then he caught it and visibly relaxed.

“Thanks,” he muttered, closing his eyes and resituating the towel.

“How are you going to teach like this?”

“It’ll pass.”

“Uh huh.”

“Weren’t supposed to... be here this early,” Johnny mumbled as he shifted in his seat. He winced again then slowly lowered himself so he was lying on the bench, bringing his socked feet to rest on the wood as well. Daniel, who had originally been in the way, just shifted so Johnny could lie down unimpeded.

“That’s not making me feel a whole lot better.”

“’ll be fine by four,” Johnny replied. “Got like... an hour right?”

“Thirty minutes at best, and you know Miguel is always early.”

“’ll be fine by then,” Johnny repeated, somehow sounding so sure that Daniel found himself believing him.

He stood, then lowered the singular shade over the window. “I’ll come get you before class starts.”

Johnny just shook his head, though Daniel had yet to see his posture actually relax.

And yet, twenty minutes later, Johnny was standing in the backyard, dressed in his gi, looking… surprisingly normal. He was still a little paler than usual, but had clearly tried to push some color back into his face, judging by a few fading streaks on his cheeks.

“How?” was all Daniel could ask. The last time he’d had food poisoning, it had taken him four days and a trip to urgent care before he could leave his bedroom without puking.

“Mind over matter,” Johnny mumbled, straightening up as the kids began to stream in through the door.

That was… bullshit? Unbelievable? Incredible? But at the core of it, so very Johnny.

The kids were so caught up in the latest non-karate drama at the high school that none of them shot Johnny another glance. He did look at Daniel, grinning genuinely, and mouthed, “Thanks.”

Daniel just nodded, then set out doing the last bit of preparations for class.

A * A

If Johnny was being honest with himself, he should have known something else was wrong. His stomach had been hurting all day, even though he’d barely eaten anything since dinner yesterday: fried bologna, ketchup and some leftover rice Carmen had brought a few days ago.

But there was too much going on for him to be sick. There was getting the kids ready for the All-Valley, so they could once and for all remove Kreese from Cobra Kai—not that Johnny would be reinstating that name anytime soon anyway; his budding relationship with Carmen—which Miguel still did not know about; and the knowledge that Robby and a handful of his other students were doing who-knew-what under Kreese’s command.

There wasn’t any time for his problems.

So he’d taken a Tums last night, not really understanding how that had shown up in his medicine cabinet, and tried to sleep it off.

He’d shot awake somewhere around two, tangled in a thin sheet, sweating so badly it felt like he’d just come in from a run. But something else was wrong. His face felt too hot, the skin too tight, and his stomach continued to flip lazily, despite him begging it to stay where it was.

He’d cranked up the fan, and sipped some water, which was a mistake.

His stomach had rolled and he was puking up his meager dinner not long after. He sat there for a long time, head leaning against the cool seat, until he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken again when his forehead slid off the toilet and thudded into the vanity.

He was cool this time, freezing, and shit, that was signs of a fever. That much he knew.

He did not have time for this.

Still on his knees, he managed to reach the shower dial and turn it on. Then he crawled into the tub, clothes still on, and sat there, letting the cool water beat on him while he shivered uncontrollably.

He could not get sick. This had to be a twenty-four hour thing. The kids all came in with their runny noses, who knew what they got into at school. Maybe it was time he caved to LaRusso wanting hand sanitizer stations on the way out for those germ-minded kids.

Eventually the freezing water had become unbearable and he barely managed to reach back high enough to turn it off. Then came the more difficult task of stripping off his wet clothes, which he ended up doing still sitting in the tub, because the act of fighting with his clothes while standing seemed rather exhausting.

But then, he did have to get up, and it took everything he had to stay that way. His head swam and his stomach lurched.

That was when he felt a stabbing pain in his stomach around his navel.

No way this was some sort of flu.

He was reminded of Miguel pulling the package of bologna out of the fridge and frowning at the date. “This is over a week old, Sensei.”

“It’s fine,” Johnny had said.

Miguel had looked a split second away from pitching it, but had put it back in the fridge and chosen the bag of pretzels on the counter instead.

So this was food poisoning. It had to be.

He’d be in for a rough night, but it should be over by tomorrow, when he needed to be at the dojo, when he needed to be on.

The knowledge didn’t make his illness any easier, but it had made it manageable. He’d thrown up a few more times; felt his stomach cramp so severely, it doubled him over; and had eventually fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, ankles bracing the toilet, head leaning back against the far wall.

He didn’t feel better, per say, when he woke, but good enough to haul himself out of the bathroom, change into a loose shirt and sweats, and into the kitchen where he sipped at some OJ, literally the only thing in his entire kitchen that didn’t send his stomach rolling again.

At some point, he’d passed out on the couch watching TV and had jarred awake two hours before class.

He had to be there.

So he’d dry swallowed some aspirin and chewed another Tums, begged whoever was up there to keep them down, and headed out with the OJ tucked under his arm.

He’d barely made it to the dojo when his stomach began to cramp again, induced by the shifting horizons while he was driving. LaRusso found him and his once-nemesis had been surprisingly gentle. When he was better, Johnny owed him more than just a quick thanks for being decent about it, instead of leaving him to suffer on his own.

He’d had to pull over on the way home to puke again. Though he didn’t know what he was bringing up at this point. It was all acid and gunk from what he could see.

He was less than a mile from his apartment complex and he sure as hell wasn’t walking, so he slid back into the car, focused with all his remaining energy and went approximately ten miles an hour in the righthand lane the remaining way.

His fever was kicking up again as he parked, and his stomach began to ache with new intensity. He barely made it to the couch before he was retching again into the bowl he’d so left there earlier for just that purpose.

His head was pounding, his ears ringing, and the pain in his stomach had shifted so it was on his lower right side. He’d bruised a kidney before and it’d hurt in its own way, but it had been nothing like this. He hadn’t even fought anyone since Kreese. Couldn’t risk injuring himself and getting benched. Not with everything that was at stake.

It felt like he was getting the massage from hell, but inside, down in his guts. They were churning, dancing, twisting, oblivious to the pain they were causing. His actual organs hurt, however that was possible.

He sipped at the water, and immediately retched it back up.

Somewhere deep down he knew that was bad. Knew he needed to stay hydrated. Knew he hadn’t drunk enough the past eighteen hours. Knew he could replenish some of it from the shower, but it was so far away.

He just leaned his head against the arm rest, shifting until he found an angle that didn’t make him violently nauseous, and must have passed out.

It was only when he woke up that he knew something was seriously wrong, and that he had to get some help, and ended up passing out again in front of Carmen’s door.

Only it hadn’t been Carmen who answered.

“Sensei!” Miguel shouted, trying and failing to catch the older man. “Mama! Yaya!” he shouted as he dropped to his knees beside his Sensei, whose face was red and flushed but otherwise seemed uninjured.

“Sensei, please.” Miguel begged, tapping Sensei’s face and feeling the heat radiating off it. “MAMA!” he yelled again as he jabbed his fingers into Sensei’s neck, finding a thin pulse.

Then arms were on his shoulders, pulling him away, as his mom replaced him.

“¡Llame una ambulancia!”

Yaya was telling him to back up, was shoving her phone into his hands.

He didn’t remember making the call, but he must have. His mom was trying to rouse Sensei, had unbuttoned his shirt, and was swearing.

“Qué pasa?” Miguel demanded, but she didn’t answer.

“Ice, Miguel,” his mom was ordering, still bent over Sensei. “Quick!”

His feet were moving, grabbing whatever frozen vegetables they had in the freezer and handing them to his mom, who was placing them around Sensei’s neck, under his arms, around his groin.

Sensei groaned, flinched, but didn’t rouse.

“What’s wrong?” Miguel heard himself ask, but his mom was telling Yaya to take him in the apartment instead of responding.

“No!” he shouted, planting his feet. “I'm not leaving.”

His mom turned to look at him, a bit of panic in her eyes before she could hide it. “Go inside, Miggy. Please,” she said very carefully.

As much as Miguel didn’t want to, he did. Until he heard the sirens. Then he was outside the door again, watching as the paramedics swarmed Sensei.

They were asking his mom a bunch of questions and she was rattling off the answers. Then Sensei was on a gurney and they were rolling away and his mother was climbing into the ambulance with him, and then they were gone.

Miguel felt Yaya’s arm wrap around his upper back, not tall enough to reach his shoulders, and he turned and buried her head into her shoulder, letting the tears fall.

[haro-whumps]

Group Whumpees 13: Spirit

CW: Slavery, depression, less than great self-image, ghosts and the discussion thereof, multiple whumpees, aftermath of abuse, blink and you miss it references to noncon, catholicism (brief)

Tag List:  @bleeding-demon-teeth @theycomeinthrees @redwingedwhump @whimperwoods @inpainandsuffering @whole-and-apart-and-between @whump-whump-whump-it-up @whumpingupastorm @newandfiguringitout @lonesome--hunter @looptheloup @icannotweave  @deluxewhump @whumping-every-day @yeet-me-out-a-window @what-a-whumpy-world @burtlederp @swordkallya @finder-of-rings @fairybean101 @adventuresofacreesty @arlennil @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @lumpofwhump @thatsthewhump @pinkdiamondprince @shameless-whumper  @whump-only @infested-with-bloodv2 @kiretto-laorentze @eatyourdamnpears @whumpzone @bluebadgerwhump

How many references can I fit into one whump story on the internet? And yes, Galo’s ass is canonically phat.

Masterlist

They had never discussed it, really, never quite put it into words, but when they went to bed there were common configurations they all slept in. Evan almost always insisted on sleeping with his back to the wall, Sasha needed the edge of the bed so she didn’t wake them when she got up in the morning, and Greyson was almost never in the middle so he slept just in front of Sasha. Lilah and Nyla would take turns in the middle, occasionally switching with Evan or Sasha if they were hurting. 

Evan was hurting, now, his leg making the journey all the way to the wall a lost effort, so he was in the center. Lilah curled up in his arms, so Nyla’s back was to the wall. In theory, then, Greyson should be at Evan’s back, and Sasha at his back, and yes, that had been how they’d slept the night before.

But that night, Greyson had insisted that Sasha lay between himself and Evan, knowing he’d been weirdly adamant about it and that his family was concerned. But he knew, very well, that he would not be able to sleep that night, and would need to move out of bed without waking them.

And, indeed, the sliver of moonlight that managed to find its way in through the tiny rectangular window at the very top of the room landed on Greyson, wide awake, propped up on one elbow. His tired eyes (and god, he was so tired, but not in a way that craved sleep) surveyed his family, their soft bodies, their loose hair, the gentle curves of their hands.

He sat, apart from them.

Honestly, he’d been apart from them for a long while. 

He could ask for no firmer proof of that than the events of that very day. Lilah, little Lilah, who had clung to his arm, to Nyla’s skirts, to Evan’s vests, who had hid behind their bodies from Mistress Bethany’s wrath, now bravest of them all. But should he be surprised? She and Evan were always thick as thieves, didn’t it make sense that she would collect some of his bolder habits? She had always been playful, among them, was that something that she’d extended towards free people? Was this new? In small part, Greyson felt like he should know.

In large part, Greyson didn’t feel a damn thing.

He knew he had, once. He remembered feelings, could even summon the ghosts of them, as he looked over his family. Fondness. An aching longing that stretched over his skin. He’d felt something at his Mistress’s grave, though he couldn’t summon even the phantom of such emotions now.

Lilah was brave, standing proud before the man who, by all rights, should terrify her. Evan was calming down, lashing out less, barely lashing out at all, really. Happier. Easier. The defensive hunch so characteristic of his shoulders was slowly lowering, so slowly Greyson hadn’t even noticed until he looked and found Evan had practically no hunch at all. Nyla, she was happier, unwinding sliver by tiny sliver, but she was. She’d allowed herself to be gently corralled into bed, even if it had been backed by an order from their master. She was willing, just barely, to let down her guard, even if it meant an increased chance of imperfection. She did not, by Greyson’s observation, seem so petrified of imperfection, anymore. And Sasha, Greyson ran a thumb very gently over the skin of her upper arm, Sasha was going outside, she was smiling, her eyes had lost the permanently watery quality to them. She was more openly affectionate, freer with touch.

What was Greyson?

Greyson was the same as Greyson had always been. Quiet. Thoughtless. Hollow. The shell of a man who’d broken and been left to gather dust where he shattered. 

His family was growing, healing, but an inanimate thing cannot heal. He was beyond repair. An old plaything that had been used dry, and when opened found empty inside.

If someone were to take a knife against him, carve open his skin and split the seam, would they find anything? They’d find blood, oh yes, he knew that he could still bleed. But beneath his skin and blood, would they find bones? Beneath where his ribs should sit, would anyone find a heart? Did he still have lungs, were there entrails to be lifted? Or would they find empty air and still, placid blackness? A broken papier mache balloon, a wrinkling, decaying pumpkin with its insides carved out.

He took his hand from Sasha’s skin. It didn’t feel right to touch her as he thought such things.

Three decades. Perhaps only two and a half. The years...they were blurry. And Greyson wasn’t naturally inclined to keep track of the time. He’d spent more of his life with his Mistress than he had without her. Was he even good, for anything else? He knew other men his age didn’t look like him, like they were faded and falling apart. She’d had every right to get bored of him, uncomely as he was.

His thoughts were all over the place, slipping and sliding this way and that. He should go to sleep. It was late. He was tired. God he was so tired. He laid down. His eyes stayed wide. He forced them shut. Attempting to relax made his eyes open again. This was pointless.

He leaned back up on his elbow again, looked at his family. The fondness there was growing colder. Not in general, just for right then. Would he go cold in the larger sense, though? Was a thing like him even truly capable of actual, meaningful love?

He got out of bed.

The bed fit four better, anyway. At the very least it was what they were all used to, though they’d all adapted to the company of their fifth quickly, since Master Galo.

Greyson wished he understood him. He doubted he ever would.

But that wish, that doubt, they were glancing, shallow things. Sort of like how everything in Greyson’s life felt incredibly shallow, like an optical illusion. His whole person, his whole life, he was just an illusion. Presenting the facade of depth but if you reached out to touch him, you would find your perception all wrong.

The basement was too dark to see in, but that was fine. He knew where the stairs were, where the rail was, he’d walked them multiple times a day, every day, for three decades. Or perhaps just two and a half.

The main floor was lighter, distant street lights and the moon curving their way in through the dark, casting long shadows where the blackness did not already swallow them whole. It was still dark, but Greyson did not want to turn any lights on here, either. He could navigate the darkness fine. Was it because his own soul was like this house? Kindred spirits, filled with lonely shadows in the black.

But, that was strange. Light cast against the familiar portrait at the end of the hall, like someone had left a light on in a nearby room. Greyson approached, the lack of glasses making the details fuzzy but he certainly knew what he was looking at. He peered around the corner and came to a halt.

The door to the den was open, which was hardly noteworthy in itself, but lamplight spilled out of it, yellow and warm. The sight settled a coldness in Greyson’s chest, whatever he had left in there frosting over. There had only ever been a single lamp in that room, and Mistress had knocked it over when she collapsed, that day before she died. Greyson had picked up the larger pieces and vacuumed the smaller, had emptied the vacuum’s basin into the same bag as the larger pieces and lampshade and set the bag outside for the garbagemen to collect.

But there was lamplight coming from the den.

Greyson felt numb. Numb, and cold, a churning pit of fear pounding at the glass his feet walked across, shadowy hands ready to swallow him whole as soon as the numbness broke. With each step towards that light, his body grew colder, colder, so by the time he reached the doorframe his whole body shivered violently.

The old, well-worn armchair was positioned so that it looked over the rest of the room, and would only require someone sitting in it to turn their head to look at the doorway. So he did not see her face, right away, just her dark, curly, slightly-frizzy hair that stressed her so, the fabric of her light blue nightgown over her arm and shoulder.

Slowly, she turned her neck and looked straight at him.

The numbness broke the moment their eyes met, Greyson’s hand snapping up to his mouth and his body convulsing, curling in on itself, with a hand to his stomach. This can’t be happening some part of him thought desperately.

“M-Mistress--”

“I’m barely in the ground and already your behavior’s gone to shit,” she snapped, in her voice, her voice. “Is that how I taught you to greet me? Do you think this is appropriate?”

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, rushing forward, in front, to bend and kiss her hand but she stopped him two feet away.

“Kneel.”

He crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, elbows wedged between his spread knees and hands clasped out in front of him, head bowed and eyes staring wide and vacant at his shadow on the carpet.

“Up and about dressed like that. Disgusting.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hot tears against his forearms. He hadn’t cried from fear in...years. He’d forgotten he could.

“I heard you, you know,” she said, voice pitching low.

His eyes squeezed shut and he choked on a sob. “I’m sorry.”

“Think you can just go to my grave and say whatever you want?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“Did you think ‘oh there won’t be any consequences, I’ll just do whatever I want’ like a little entitled rat?”

“Please, I’m sorry, Mistress, I’m sorry!”

“You like my nephew better than me, don’t you?”

“No, Mistress, I--”

“Liar. You only say that because you got caught in the act.”

“Please,” he blubbered, rabbit-pulsed and shaking apart on the carpet.

“You’re a disgrace, Greyson.”

“I’m sorry,” he wept, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry Mistress I’m sorry.”

--

Galo moved to a room at the front of the house, peering through the window, but yup, the driveway was still empty. Not that he had genuinely expected that to change overnight, but still, better to check. He yawned, stretched his hands up above his head, and went back to his room to grab his cell phone.

“Hi! My name is Galo Fotia, I scheduled to have a dumpster dropped off at my address two days ago, but it did not arrive that day or yesterday. I was--no, go ahead? ...Yeah, no, I absolutely understand that, sometimes things just get lost in the process. Yeah, yes please, I appreciate it.” Galo descended the stairs as he spoke, bare feet against the soft carpet. “No, it’s no problem, just, as soon as you’re able. I--” Galo stood straighter, something… off. “Mhm, yep, thanks a lot. Have a nice day now, bye!” he said, cutting the conversation a little shorter than he would’ve liked.

But he felt alarmed. And in this house of horrors, any bad vibes he got were very much worth listening to. He pocketed his phone and rolled his shoulders, ready to widen his stance and square himself to look as massive and menacing as possible if he found a threat. He made a beeline for the den, whatever signals his brain was giving him were leading him there, and blanched to find Greyson, of all people, there. Face down on his knees with clasped hands extended out. Wearing pajamas.

“Uh, Greyson?” Galo asked, anxiety spiking up at the full body flinch--really, more of a jolt--that came with Galo’s words. “You alright there dude?” He tried to keep the alarm out of his voice but was pretty sure he did not succeed at all. He moved to Greyson’s side, noticing how the man was kneeling pointed at the old armchair, and carefully went down on one knee, not wanting to spook him more.

Greyson was awake. Mouth-breathing, twitching, but he didn’t move for a long moment, not until Galo lightly placed his hand on Greyson’s back and gave a light, slow stroke downward. He heard Greyson swallow, and watched him slowly separate his fingers and press his palms to the floor. Galo moved a hand to Greyson’s front, helping him lift up to somewhat-sitting, and winced sympathetically at the dark shadows under his eyes and the dried tear-tracks there.

“Hey,” Galo said gently, leaving his hand on Greyson’s chest and continuing to pet up and down his back, “Ground control to Major Tom. What’s goin’ on here, dude?”

Greyson looked at him, then up at the armchair. His body trembled all over, then went still again under Galo’s palms. His lips cracked open but no sound came out, and Galo rubbed a circle into the back of his neck. “Take your time.”

“She was here,” Greyson stated, and fear crawled up Galo’s spine. Haha, that was fucking ominous.

“What do you mean by that, Greyson?” Galo asked, kind of proud at how his mental screaming only barely filtered into his tone.

“She. Mistress, she, she was here. Last night. The light was on and she was sitting here.”

“Okay,” Galo said, mentally adding the armchair to the list of things he would be throwing into the dumpster when it arrived. Actually, he might put it in the middle of the driveway and set it on fire. “Okay, that’s alarming.”

“She spoke to me,” Greyson whispered, lifting a knobby hand to his face and covering his mouth. “She--she was here. She was right here.”

“Right, right okay, Greyson, can you stand for me?” Galo asked, moving the hand on his back to under his elbow. Greyson nodded and Galo stood slowly, hands bracing Greyson and glad of it. His legs were shaky at best, and Greyson caught himself on Galo’s strong arms, body trembling and staggering.

“How long were you kneeling there?” Galo asked gently, waiting as Greyson winced through the pain of circulation returning to his lower body.

“I… at least half of the night--I didn’t sleep, Master.”

I can tell Galo thought with another glance at the bags under Greyson’s eyes. But oh, the thought of this poor man kneeling there for half the night, more, dawn sliding over his body as he continued to kneel in one of the worst rooms in the building…

“Okay,” Galo said, mostly to himself, “Okay, deep breaths. Greyson, do you maybe wanna go get dressed? I’ll get this all sorted out, don’t worry, but I think you might feel better if you do.”

Greyson nodded, because when did Greyson ever disagree with him, and Galo helped him down the steps. He kept an arm extended for Greyson to brace himself on all the way to the slaves’ room, and he knocked twice on the door. Nyla opened it with confused alarm, which turned into just-alarm when she caught sight of Greyson.

“Hey, weird developments in the night,” Galo said, looking at the spot just above Nyla’s head because her nightgown was very flimsy and pretty and he Was Not Looking, “Greyson’s kind of going through it. Could you all come up to the kitchen once you’re dressed?”

“Yes, Master,” Nyla said, glancing at him as she reached for Greyson, and Galo brought his arm forward to help Greyson along.

“Cool, excellent, let me know if Evan needs help with the stairs,” Galo said and rushed off. There were two wolves inside him: one that was absolutely flipping its shit about potential ghosts and one that was blushing about seeing Nyla in her nightgown and what was his life that these were the things warring for his attention? What was his life? Why was this his life?

Sasha was in the kitchen but nearly jumped out of her skin when he came in through a different door than he usually did.

“Hey, morning, weird things going on,” Galo said, bypassing his usual greeting. “Can you freeze bread dough? Or like, refrigerate it? Because uh, yeah, just, I don’t want your work to go to waste but I think today is a good day for us all to be outside.”

Galo reached up on top of the fridge and pulled down a nicely sized cooler. “And, in the spirit of being outside, like, all of today probably, would you please pack breakfast and a buncha fluids into here for me?”

Sasha took it with a nod, visibly befuddled. “Great, thanks, sorry to alarm you but some weird--I already used that adjective--just, stuff’s happening, okay? Stuff is happening that I think we would all prefer not to be happening aaaaand I’m gonna take care of it but I’m gonna take care of it outside.”

Sasha nodded again, wrapping the bread dough in saran wrap and setting it in the fridge.

Galo pulled out his phone and started googling. It turned out people could get dressed pretty quick here, though, because he’d barely saved two phone numbers to his notes app before the other four were entering the kitchen, dressed with pinched expressions. Evan was on his crutches with Lilah at his side, and Nyla had one of Greyson’s arms braced in both her hands. He was covering his mouth again.

“Great, cool, so, Greyson saw a ghost last night and I think we should all just have a nice day off outside.” Sasha’s head snapped towards Galo with wide eyes, dropping the bag of grapes into the cooler which, hey, of all the places they could be dropped. “Yeah, yup, I’m gonna talk to some people who are, uh, more professionally inclined to the supernatural than I am, but in the meantime I would like not to be in this building. Or for any of you to be in this building. So, garden party.” Lilah stiffened, “Oooooor whatever we wanna call it. Just.” Galo gestured towards the door and lifted the cooler for Sasha. “Outside.”

Lilah helped him find and set up a large umbrella to keep the sun off them, Galo carrying the heavy weighted base for her. While they were in the garage, away from the others who sat together around Greyson, Galo asked, “Has Greyson ever seen ghosts before?”

“No, Master,” Lilah answered, sticking a can of bug spray in her jean pocket.

“Good thinking,” he praised briefly, “Okay, I’m gonna drink my breakfast and make some phone calls. Do you think it’d be more reassuring for me to stick close to y’all, or should I move over and give you some privacy?”

“Privacy, sir, just for a bit. We all want to ask Greyson for details. And comfort him, if we can.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Galo said, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand not holding the metal base. “I appreciate the guidance.”

Lilah looked up at him and gave a brief smile. “Well, hypothetically we’re in cahoots, right? I’m only behaving sensibly, sir.”

“Yeah. Even so, I’m still grateful for it.”

Once the umbrella was up and Galo had snagged the thermos Sasha had prepared for him, Galo told the group that he was gonna be a couple benches over so he could make some phone calls, but please come get him if they needed him for literally anything.

He was an hour into calling people when he finally got ahold of someone willing to help. “Hello, may I speak to Father O'Reilly?” Galo asked, and when the man was on the line he took a deep breath, ready to repeat himself for the umpteenth time.

“Hello Father, my name is Galo Fotia and let me preface by saying this is not a prank call. I am legitimately asking, do you do exorcisms?”

“I… would like more details,” the priest answered, and honestly? That was the best response Galo had gotten so far.

“Someone I live with saw a ghost last night, and while I do not consider myself a man of any particular faith: I don’t mess with the supernatural. Someone who lived here recently died and it seems like a very real possibility that she’s haunting us, since she was a bitter, malicious, cruel person. It could also be a demon. It could also be a nightmare or hallucination but personally I would prefer to cover absolutely all my bases, so, do you do exorcisms? Or, I dunno, at least come take a look?”

“I believe that would be doable.”

Galo heard himself sigh, shoulders slumping. “Thank you, Father. Today?”

Galo gave him his address and number, asking him to call him when he arrived because, again, Galo didn’t fuck with ghosts. He was not going back into that house until someone with a degree in Weird Bullshit was there with him.

He was not a man of faith, but he went to religious men first. He was aware of the irony. “Yeah, well, in the immortal words of Regina Spector, no one’s laughing at god when they’re desperate,” he muttered to himself. Or however that song goes. Whatever adjective she uses, he thought. It was a whole song. Not important. Focus.

Google reviews spoke very highly of a website that was designed to all but physically scream “I’m a scam.” But every person who left a comment professed that the psychic agency in question had solved their problems, and it had a five-star user rating. So Galo cautiously navigated the page, bright colors and comic sans putting him on edge to exit out at the first sign of a popup or potential malware.

His phone call with the agent was nearly identical to his call with the priest, explaining the ghost situation. He was asked more questions: when did this start happening (last night) what was the person’s relation to the deceased (he was her slave) how recent her death was, did Galo know of any unfinished business she might have, and a brief discussion of prices. Galo might’ve been daunted by the gaudy webpage, but the agent was nothing but professional on the line.

Satisfied he’d exhausted both a religious and non-religious form of supernatural-fuckery, he returned to the group. They were sitting clustered together on a long stone bench, Nyla and Evan on either side of Greyson, Sasha holding onto Nyla’s arm and Lilah sitting on Evan’s leg, the uninjured one. Nyla held Greyson’s hand and Lilah’s palm rested on his shoulder, and his hand still covered his mouth. Poor guy.

“No, please, stay sitting,” Galo rushed when Sasha heard his approach and triggered everyone else realizing he was there. “I’m just comin’ back, no need for formalities.” He looked directly at Greyson, face involuntarily screwing up in pity. “How’re you doing, Greyson?” he asked with a low, quiet voice.

The older man shook slightly, his fingers curling against his lips before lowering his hand. “Better than you found me, Master.”

“Good,” Galo said, sinking down to sit with crossed legs. “No, no! Stay,” Galo said, raising both hands to stop the group. They all, Lilah included, looked panicked to be sitting up higher than their Master. “I’m sitting on the ground because I want to, I happen to like it down here. Please, just stay where you are.”

“...Yes Master,” Nyla answered after a tense moment, deliberately settling herself back on the stone and smoothing out her skirts. She looked different without her usual apron on. Galo couldn’t wait to see her in one of the dresses she’d ordered.

Now was not the time brain, get it together.

The others took their cue from her and sat back, Lilah shifting off of Evan to sit next to him on the stone. 

“Thank you,” Galo said supportively, smiling up at them. “Nyla, where’s the carbon monoxide detector located in the house--or, a building this size would probably need more than one actually…”

“I, sorry sir?” Nyla said, smiling but eyebrows twisted up in confusion.

“The carbon monoxide monitor?”

“I… am not certain, sir, what you mean?”

“Oh. Okay, uh, hm.” Galo nodded slowly. “Yeah, so, that’s something I’m gonna go ahead and order. You don’t need to mind me, I’m just gonna sit here and do that real quick.”

Galo pulled out his phone again and googled how many he should even get. Google suggested one for each floor, and possibly extra ones in or directly outside sleeping areas.

“I would actually kind of prefer it if you all didn’t stare directly at me while I do this,” Galo mentioned as mildly as he could, but they all snapped their gazes away in an instant anyway. He… ugh, whatever, don’t overthink it. He ordered six, just to be safe, and pocketed his phone again.

“Alright, so, I’ve got a priest coming over hopefully within the hour, and an appointment with a psychic this afternoon. I’ll just order lunch and we can eat out here, because, uh, ghosts.” Galo gestured vaguely. “I’m not taking chances with that shit.”

“Yes, Master,” Nyla said, “Is there anything you would like us to do in the meantime?”

“Mmmnng” Galo hummed, scratching at his undercut. What to do with a group of people who’d never relaxed a day in their lives? 

“Oh, uh, actually, since I have you all here!” Galo said, remembering. “I wanted to make a statement that you’ve all been very good for me so far, and I appreciate all the effort you’ve put in, but I want to do away with some of my aunt’s old rules.” Galo noticed confusion on most of their faces, but Sasha’s was the only one holding any real sense of distress so he marked that down as a win.

God he needed to find a way to make Sasha, specifically, feel more comfortable around him.

“So,” Galo lifted three fingers, eyes rolling back to the side as he tried to remember if that was right. “First, I don’t care about stuttering. I understand my aunt apparently had a thing about it, but I don’t, so if you stutter I won’t mind.” Evan’s eyes flicked, briefly, barely noticeable, to Sasha, before he resumed being as stony-faced and attentive as the rest of them. Lilah, Nyla, and Greyson didn’t react, but Galo suspected that might be because they were deliberately refraining.

“Second, it’s okay if you don’t move super gracefully around me. It’s okay if you do, too, but like, you don’t have to put an effort into it if you don’t feel like it.” Nyla, impossibly, sat up straighter at that, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“And, uh, fuck,” what was the third one? Oh yeah, “Smiling! I don’t need you to make pretend-expressions at me. If you wanna frown or anything you’re allowed.”

They collectively looked baffled. Galo, who was pretty sure he was just allergic to awkward situations, pulled out his phone again with a cheery grin.

“I have Netflix! There are a couple different movies I’ve thought looked cute that I haven’t gotten around to yet. I mean, my phone screen is kinda small but I bet we could make it work if we all just sorta get in close.”

Evan reacted positively to that, though his expression shuttered the moment Galo’s eyes flicked to him. “That sounds wonderful, Master,” Nyla said politely, but she also kinda sounded like she meant it, her smile taking that softer quality that Galo associated with genuine pleasure. Galo smiled up at her. “Cool.” He’d need to grab his portable charger while the priest was in the house, but he should have enough battery to last until then. He pulled up Song of the Sea, which had selkies, not ghosts, and sat with his back to the group, right in front of Greyson, lifting his phone with one hand. He was strong, so he could keep his hand lifted up like that for a while, and he’d just switch hands when he did get too tired.

They were about 3/4ths of the way through the movie when it auto-paused for a phone call. “Aw, shit, to be continued,” Galo said as he rose, answering the phone with a hello. He jogged around to the front of the house, not passing through it, and waved hi when he caught sight of the priest.

“Hello Father,” Galo greeted politely, extending a hand. 

“Hello, my son,” Father O'Reilly greeted in turn, eyes darting to Galo’s tanktop and then doing a double take. Galo glanced down, and oh, yeah. He was wearing his “Mothman wants what I have” shirt. The one with the art of Mothman’s GIANT ass. Probably not the most professional. C'est la vie. 

“So about the ghost,” Galo said, attempting to get back on track. “Wait. My shirt probably makes it seem like I’m not taking this seriously. I am taking this seriously. I just, didn’t realize what I was wearing, I--”

“It’s alright,” he cut in, much to Galo’s relief.

“I’m a little jumpy today,” he said with hands held half in front of him, “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Please, show me where the spirit was seen.”

Galo led him to the den, very much hoping that Greyson had just had, like, a super bad nightmare while sleepwalking. That would be the best option. 

“He said the light was on, but when I found him this morning the lights were all off,” Galo said, settling a hand on top of a bare side table near the armchair and leaning on it. “This is where he saw her,” he said with a gesture towards the chair. 

“Mm,” Father O’Reilly hummed, examining the armchair. He examined the rest of the room lightly, not opening anything or prying. Which. Good. Because the dumpster still wasn’t here and Galo really didn’t wanna explain the cabinet full of weapons and chains to a Catholic priest. The man just said a few chants, what Galo assumed were Hail Mary’s. He finished with the lord’s prayer which Galo did know, due to his own churchly upbringing, and Galo muttered along under his breath. Well over a decade later and Galo still knew it word for word (but then, he could also probably sing Veggie Tales verbatim so who knows if that was indicative of anything). 

“The Lord has blessed this home and those within it,” the priest assured as he headed out, “Rest easy now, my son.”

Galo did not believe that at all but he thanked the priest gratefully regardless. He grabbed his portable charger and his laptop, then headed back out to the slaves.

“Good news, the priest has come and blessed the house. I’ll meet with the psychic this afternoon and then we should be able to head back inside.”

Galo ordered pizza, plugged his phone into the portable charger, and then pulled up the rest of Song of the Sea on his laptop. Nyla, interestingly enough, settled herself on the ground next to Galo when he sat down again, and he was gonna protest but…

Well, if it was just her.

This was an interesting exercise in proximity, too. Galo tended to see them fleetingly, just here or there unless something was going on, and rarely all of them together at once. They were stiff around him, but he was kinda stiff around them too, for all he tried to project only friendly, relaxed ease. They were… still figuring out how to exist around one another.

The dumpster arrived mid-afternoon (yay! A project Galo could work on some other time) and they’d started another movie by the time the psychic arrived, and Galo took his laptop inside with him to plug it in while things happened. He was a little more okay cutting through the house with the priest having been there, which meant his first look at the psychic was when he opened the door.

Before him stood a relatively short, middle-aged Japanese man with a polite smile who was absolutely SHREDDED. Just completely fucking JACKED. Galo’s face immediately lit up in unadulterated delight.

“Hi!” he greeted, extending a hand. 

“Hello,” the exorcist greeted with a mild accent. “Are you Galo Fotia?”

“Yes, that’s me! Mr. Kageyama? Or, uh, Kageyama-san?”

“Oh, either’s fine,” the man said with a wave of his hand, smiling pleasantly. “I apologize for coming alone, my coworker had something come up so it is just me today.”

“Yeah, that’s cool. You can uh, you can get rid of ghosts without your partner though, yeah?”

“I am the primary agent who handles spirits, yes,” he reassured.

“Thank you, great, so, uh, this way?” Galo led him to the den and pointed at the armchair, but Mr. Kageyama shook his head.

“There is an evil spirit in this house, but it is not here,” he stated plainly, and Galo’s face froze in a wide eyed smile. 

“Ah. Yeah?”

“Mm,” Mr. Kageyama said with a nod of his head. Fortunately, he looked utterly unperturbed, because if the professional looked bothered Galo was going to Lose His Whole Shit. “May I lead the way?”

“Uh, yeah, yes, please,” Galo said with a weak gesture, edging closer to the older man. No way in HELL was he going to be alone in this house for even a moment.

It occurred to him, distantly, that between the shady website and Galo’s own nerves, this man might possibly just be winding Galo up to scam him. But Galo had the money! Scamming was a non-issue. And if there was an issue, Galo was all too happy to pay this nice, buff man to make it go away. Please dear god.

Mr. Kageyama walked out of the den, over into the dining room, but paused, staring up at the ceiling. “No, upstairs,” he mumbled, turning back around and leading Galo up the steps, down the hall, directly to Auntie Bethany’s bedroom. Galo’s steps slowed as he realized where Mr. Kageyama was heading, and he felt his breathing going tight as he came to a halt completely, a couple feet away.

“Well,” Galo said with a strained chuckle, making Mr. Kageyama pause and turn. “I know you’re the real deal,” Galo told the man standing in front of Auntie Bethany’s “tool closet.”

Mr. Kageyama nodded and turned back to the closet, settling his hand on the door handle. “This is not a ghost,” he stated plainly, “but it is an evil spirit. They can sometimes form in places of concentrated hatred, pain, and anger. It does not have any memories since it was never alive, but it does have a ‘mind’ that might interact with the living.” 

Mr. Kageyama stared at the door a moment, then removed his hand from the handle. “It is strong. It would’ve taken years to gain this sort of strength.”

“Yeah,” Galo breathed. “My uh, my aunt--look, the stuff that’s in there, please know that I would never…”

Mr. Kageyama glanced at him, nodded once, and placed his hand against the plywood. “I don’t need to open it. I can do my work from here, and I feel I probably do not want to know.”

Galo blinked as the light in the room warped, physically waving around Mr. Kageyama in a purplish blue, then just as suddenly went back to the cheerful, neutral light of the daylight coming in through the windows.

“...ah.” Galo said. Ghosts were real. Evil spirits were real. Psychics? Also real apparently! This was a lot to take in during one day.

“So, that thing, the evil spirit,” Galo said, fiddling with the neckline of his top, then rubbing his undercut, “that’s what looked like my aunt last night?”

“Probably not. Although it was powerful, usually only ghosts can look like human beings. It could have induced a nightmare in a susceptible mind, though.” Mr. Kageyama approached Galo and asked, “May I speak with the man who saw the ‘ghost?’”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Galo took the lead this time, and debated on if it would be impolite to ask about leisure activities during a work assignment. Eh, fuck it, Galo was friendly. “So, what gym do you go to?” Galo asked. Mr. Kageyama brightened, and the two talked companionably the entire way out to the garden. Mr. Kageyama seemed to favor afternoons for his exercise, while Galo was definitely a morning man, and they compared notes on their weekly rotations. Apparently Mr. Kageyama had a group of people back in Japan who he videochatted with he’d befriended back in middle school, where they all kept tabs on each other and stuck to a group routine, even though many of them didn’t live in the same city or even country as the others, anymore.

Galo longed for friends like that.

“Hey, guys,” Galo greeted as they rounded a hedge. Nyla was on her feet in a flash, and Galo hastened to assure the others they could stay sitting, yes, even with Mr. Kageyama here. “He just wants to ask Greyson a couple of questions, okay?” Galo said, and Greyson’s adam apple bobbed visibly. He stood and walked to Galo and Mr. Kageyama, and Galo pressed a hopefully reassuring hand to his back as he passed. “We’ll just be over here,” Galo said to both Greyson and Mr. Kageyama.

“Yes sir,” Greyson said as Mr. Kageyama nodded, and Galo went to Nyla as they left.

“Everyone over here holding up okay?” Galo asked, reaching up and letting her kiss his hand before he caressed the side of her head, stroking a thumb over her hair.

“Yes, Master,” she answered, and if his eyes did not deceive him she actually smiled a little as she leaned into his touch, eyes slipping slowly closed like a cat before she blinked them back open and stood straight.

“Easy,” he breathed, not wanting to scare her off but feeling like that was so precious. “So, I can repeat myself when Greyson gets back if Mr. Kageyama didn’t catch him up to speed, but Mr. Kageyama found an evil spirit in my aunt’s old bedroom. Not a ghost, apparently, but like, a conglomeration of evil energies? I’m pretty sure. He got rid of it though.”

Galo explained how Mr. Kageyama had walked straight there, and Evan confirmed that the dining room was in fact directly underneath Auntie Bethany’s bedroom, and everyone knew that the ‘tool closet’ was as good a place as any for terrible things to fester.

“So… magic is real, sir?” Lilah said, sounding dumbfounded and struggling with the information as much as Galo felt.

“Honestly, I’m just gonna ignore that and ideally never bring it up again,” Galo stated. Sasha nodded, Nyla and Evan staring into the middle distance, Nyla with a fist lifted to her lips.

“...Yes Master.”

When Greyson and Mr. Kageyama returned, Gresyon’s hand was tight-knuckled on the lapel of his jacket, eyes down, but his posture immaculate. “Mr. Fotia?” the psychic asked.

Galo rejoined Mr. Kageyama and walked out of earshot, Galo drumming his fingers on his thighs. “So,” he prompted, scanning Mr. Kageyama’s face.

“I do not believe the evil spirit was what caused last night’s vision,” Mr. Kageyama stated mildly. “It is not impossible, or even uncommon, for extreme stress to manifest as audiovisual hallucinations. I would strongly urge you to seek the counsel of a psychiatrist.”

“Yeah,” Galo said with a heavy sigh, “yeah, trust me, I know. They’ve all got appointments with therapists this upcoming week.”

Mr. Kageyama hummed and nodded approvingly. It made Galo feel… nice. It was pleasant, knowing that at least someone approved of his decisions.

“There are no more evil spirits in the house or nearby; did you have anything else I could help with?”

“...If I may get oddly personal, how do you get your glutes to look like that?”

“Oh, I was simply born with very little fat on my hindquarters.”

“God, I’m so jealous,” Galo said, laughing. “I feel like one of those old ladies that jokes about everything she eats going straight to her ass and thighs.”

Mr. Kageyama laughed politely, bringing up the exercises he favored that really worked out those muscles, and Galo compared his own routine. They both seemed to welcome the positive change in topic, and kept it up all the way back to Mr. Kageyama’s car, where Galo thanked him again, paid him for his time and service, and waved goodbye.

He sighed, and looked to the house, rubbing at his undercut. It was safe to go back inside. No ghosts. Just demons of a metaphorical kind.

--

Master Galo had been generous. More than generous.

Greyson was aware that he was, in a large way, very ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew how it looked, to find him kneeling in front of an empty chair, talking about lights when the lamp was gone. He knew that the questions the psychic had were only asked to gauge his mental state, whether he was a raving lunatic or not, no matter how politely the man had framed the words. He knew that it was foolish, for a man in his 40’s to be frightened by ghosts.

But Master Galo had taken his concerns seriously. His large hands had been gentle on Greyson’s aching, tired body, bearing his weight when his own hollow legs couldn’t. He’d touched him softly, brought them all outside and forbade them from work, removed long-standing rules when by all rights he should be punishing Greyson for the inconvenience, hired not one but two different professionals to handle Greyson’s childish fears.

He knew he did not deserve this.

But Master Galo demonstrably cared very little for what Greyson deserved. He gave very openly, very freely, very frequently. 

He had ordered them to please try and take the evening off, and allowed Nyla to beg to water the plants, and hadn’t been even remotely irritated by the contradiction. Lilah disappeared while Sasha and Greyson helped Evan back down to the basement, and Greyson was almost inclined to worry on her whereabouts, but only almost.

Master was inexplicably kind, and Lilah had tried strange boldness with him before. If Master Galo caught her out and about with no reason for her wandering, the worst he would do would be direct her back down to the basement. Greyson was surprised by his own certainty, that she was fine.

But Master Galo had always been kind, even from his youth, and Greyson had known him, in whatever small way, the longest out of everyone here. Should he truly be so surprised by his Master’s kindness?

Shortly after Nyla and Lilah had both returned to their room, Greyson gave voice to the rattling thought that had taken up new residence inside his empty skull.

“Greyson,” Sasha tried to dissuade, because apparently the only times Greyson felt want were when his wants were absurd.

“No, he can go,” Nyla said, her brow furrowed a little, Lilah and Evan glancing between the three of them.

Greyson nodded to Nyla, his shoulders curving in a shallow bow, and left their room. He heard Sasha’s frustrated noise, and then, surprisingly, the door.

“Sasha?” he asked, surprised, and she firmly wrapped her arms around his, her strong fingers digging into the nonexistent flesh of his arm.

“So you d-don’t see any more ghosts a-alone in the house,” Sasha said firmly, her mouth pulled in a determined line.

Greyson opened his mouth to protest--he didn’t need walked up the stairs and down a hall--but found he simply did not have the energy to argue, and he didn’t really want to in the first place. He was surprised he had even the single want he currently possessed, and even his surprise was a shallow, hollow thing. Like a car wreck glanced at on the morning news.

“Thank you, Sasha,” he said, lifting his free hand to pat at hers, and he left it there. Palm to knuckles, skin to skin.

He was so tired.

But regardless, he wanted to do this, despite his fatigue, so he climbed the stairs again and sought out his Master. He was sitting with a damp cloth over his eyes, arms spread over the back of the couch, legs spread carelessly, head tipped back and his ridiculous shirt on display.

Greyson really shouldn’t have an opinion about his Master’s wardrobe, and yet, that one thought continued to flit about in the back of his mind, like a tone deaf background character in a serious scene.

Greyson, silent as the air, pressed his lips to Sasha’s cheek in thanks for taking him here, then waited until she was gone to knock on the doorframe.

“Master Galo.”

“Greyson?” Master Galo asked, sounding alarmed, sitting up in an instant and pulling the washcloth from his eyes. “Hey, dude,” he said, beckoning him in, and Greyson went, straight-spined and graceful despite his Master’s earlier retraction of the rule. “Are you okay?”

“I am, Master, thank you,” Greyson, and it was more or less the truth, he figured.

“What are you doing here, instead of with the others?” he asked as Greyson knelt and kissed his hand. It was so big, he noticed, like he’d noticed every time he kissed it. At first it had alarmed him. Now he didn’t feel anything at the observation.

“I wanted to thank you, sir,” Greyson said. My body is present and available for your service and pleasure, please use me as you see fit. The words were familiar and worn, though he was perhaps the only member of his family who had ever meant them, when he said them. He would’ve meant them now, too, if he thought he was allowed to say them.

“You don’t need to,” Master Galo said, sounding tired of Greyson’s fawning, and Greyson at first resisted the urge to grip his own wrist to soothe himself. “You didn’t sleep at all last night, aren’t you tired? Go to bed, Greyson.”

“Please, I wanted--” his words cut out. He… was not the most eloquent speaker. He did grip his wrist, then, and swallowed hard. This was defiance. He’d been given an order. He pressed himself to speak anyway. “To… seek comfort, Master.”

He hadn’t told Nyla and the others about that part. They weren’t… they hadn’t had the same relationship with Mistress, as he had. They never saw the part of her that Greyson missed the worst.

“Yeah?” Galo asked, no more than a whisper. “What--what can I do for you, Greyson?”

Greyson’s shoulders slumped in relief that his defiance had not pushed his Master to anger. “Please, Master, may I rest my head against your leg?”

“Ah, sure?” Master Galo leaned back against the couch, shifting as he did. “Like, just, sit there?”

“Unless you would prefer I do something, Master?”

“No. No, definitely not. Uh,” Master Galo gestured at the thigh closest to Greyson, which was probably about as large as Greyson’s waist if he was honest. “Go ahead?”

When Greyson was a teen, he’d pillowed his arms across Mistress’s knees and rested his head there as well, her fingers petting at his hair and shoulders. As he’d aged, his arms had left the equation, simply kneeling at her side with his head against her skirt.

Now, with his Master, he let his posture relax further, sitting on his rear instead of his ankles, his wrist grasped in his lap, his glasses held loosely in that hand. Master’s thigh was warm against the side of his face, his eyes closed and knees pressed to the front of the couch. Master’s hand gently caressed his skull, passing over his hair just behind his ear.

Greyson sighed, some pale shade of contentment passing through him, his body slowly, very slowly, unwinding. It happened in increments, first his legs, then his shoulders, then his jaw, then his brow, all of him melting under the steady, slow pass of his Master’s hand over his head.

God, he was so tired.

He woke in bed, with the others, in the basement, with no recollection of how he’d gotten there.

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