#tw bbu

[whumps-and-bumps]

Xenophobia - The Date

[CW: depression vibes, kidnapping, drugs/sedation, dehumanisation, bbu-adjecent, vomit mention/bodily fluids, branding, death mention] [Masterpost/Contents] [Previous] [Next]

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･. :･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

Xen checked themself in the mirror for what could have been the fiftieth time. They didn’t have many outfits to choose from, but they did the best with what they already had, since a shopping trip for special date-night clothes was out of the question. They squeezed into their newest jeans instead and their softest plaid shirt, and ended up fiddling and tucking and untucking and smoothing everything out for far longer than was strictly necessary. They hoped Salia wasn’t planning on taking them somewhere upscale and posh. The last thing they needed was to be made to look like as big of a fool as they felt.

They checked their phone for the time, and ran their hand through their hair once more before finally turning away. They were clean, they were doing their best, and this was the real them. It was all they could do.

There were multiple points on their walk to the park where they nearly stopped and turned around, but by some miracle Xen made it to the bandstand a few minutes early nonetheless. They had made sure to leave plenty of extra time for this exact reason - that, and there was always the possibility the walk would make them sweaty and stinky and that was the last thing they wanted to be on a first date. They still couldn’t quite believe Salia was interested in them; whilst it would never cross their mind to think such things about other people, they couldn’t find a single thing about themselves that they genuinely liked. Their face was too round, their body too chubby, hair too flat and they swore up and down that their shoulders had a weird slope to them. At least they tried their very best to always be kind and helpful to make up for it, but turning up to a first date with an offensive smell about them would not make things easier.

At this time of year it was thankfully still pretty light out, so Xen was totally at ease sitting on the steps of the bandstand as they waited for the mothfolk to arrive. The evening air was still warm, the setting sun lighting up the clouds with magnificent orange and pink hues – it was the a perfect atmosphere for a romantic date. The only other people in the park were a couple of dog walkers off in the distance, heading up the hill and presumably home for dinner. Xen’s stomach rumbled a little as they wondered what Salia had planned – they hoped it was a picnic.

A few minutes after six and with still no sign of her, their nerves had turned into a vibrating swarm of anxiety in their belly. They told themselves it was normal to be late – nobody else obsessively counted down the seconds on the clock  – but they couldn’t stop the nagging feeling that Salia had stood them up, that she was always going to stand them up, and that this whole thing was all a big joke. Maybe she was nearby, watching but never intending to approach. Maybe she was laughing with her friends, taking a video of the pathetic nerd who sat there waiting because they dared to think that somebody might want them-

“Excuse me, you’re Xen, right?”

They stood up immediately, their joints clicking and all the blood rushing to their head. Through the brief dizziness, they saw that the pink mothfolk that had approached them bore a striking resemblance to Salia, but was clearly not her; he was decidedly masculine in appearance with his short cream hair styled back and gelled, whereas Salia’s had been fluffy and messy and soft– or at least it had looked that way in her photos, and Xen would have passed it off as her profile just being filled with older pictures if their general aesthetics weren’t entirely different too. Salia had consistently presented herself as sweet and rosy, preferring big sweaters and fuzzy socks over elegant fashion. The man before her wore a designer tracksuit and a gold chain. Only their wings were exactly the same, both a shimmering pink and yellow that reminded them of macaroons and ice-cream. He wasdefinitelystill cute, though. 

“Oh, hi! Yes, I- um, Salia, right?” they replied in greeting, not wanting to be rude. Genders changed all the time, this could be a recent thing, and it wasn’t like it really mattered. 

He laughed, though, and they felt stupid. “No, no. She’s my sister.” He held out his hand for Xen to shake, and they took it. “She asked me to come along with her to meet you – you know how dangerous online dating can be these days. We wanted to make sure you weren’t some weirdo.”

Xen laughed too, still shaky with surprise and a little relief. “Of course! I totally get it, don’t worry,” they said brightly, giving him a firm handshake and hoping they weren’t too clammy. He wiped his hand on his tracksuit afterwards and they died a little inside. 

“She’s actually set up a little evening picnic for you both, but realised at the last minute it probably wasn’t a good idea to meet a total stranger in the park after dark on her own,” he explained with a smile. He glanced over Xen’s shoulder and tilted his head. “Are you okay? Did you bring anyone with you too?”

Warmth filled Xen’s cheeks as they shook their head. They didn’t have anyone to bring even if they’d wanted to. “Nah, I think I might have been a little too trusting,” they grinned instead. “Things like that don’t really happen to me – like, weirdos just don’t seem to take much of an interest. Thankfully.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “Okay… Well, if you’re happy to follow me, I’ll take you to where she’s set up and leave you two lovebirds to it?”

“Please,” Xen breathed out, trying to release the tension that was building in their shoulders from this awkward conversation. ‘Things like that don’t really happen to me’ – god, they sounded so pretentious and conceited. They couldn’t blame her – either of them- for being cautious. Online dating was bloody terrifying, and Salia was beautiful. They dreaded to think how many times things might have gone wrong for her, how many close calls she might have had. They checked their mobile was still in the back pocket of their jeans with a little pat and joined her brother on the path, ready for him to lead the way. At least he seemed lovely.

It wasn’t far to go – after a few steps, Salia’s brother veered off the little path and led them towards one of the many copses in the park. A single, quiet alarm bell started to ring in the back of Xen’s mind but they shoved it away. They knew this place. It was just a few trees and a couple of bushes in the middle of the green – not some mysterious, endless forest with nobody around for miles. They used to climb these exact same trees all the time - thick branches both ran low along the ground and high into the sky, making it the perfect playground. They should probably figure out what kind of trees they were one day. They also knew that inside the cluster of trees was a small clearing, the dirt well-packed and flattened by thousands of other visitors over the years. The more they thought about it, the more perfect the spot seemed for a romantic picnic – it was intimate, not isolated.

“She’s set up just in there,” her brother was saying, the two of them having made idle small talk on their way over. He paused just short of the trees, gesturing vaguely at the easiest route inside. They could kind of see a patterned picnic blanket through the leaves and branches, but hesitated anyway – that stupid alarm bell was still going off in the back of their mind. They wished it would go away. It was probably just nerves! This was it, this was the real first date, and the butterflies in their stomach were just from anxiety, not an awful gut feeling. They should stop assuming the worst of people all the time.

“Thank you,” they said instead, giving him their best smile back. “Are you, uh…”

“I’m just gonna say goodbye to her before I leave. I’m not staying, don’t worry,” he teased, holding a branch out of the way and motioning for them to hurry up. That wasn’t what they were going to ask, but whatever. He probably had places to be. Before they could let themselves chicken out for good, they ducked under his arm and pushed their way inside. Deep breaths. Stay calm.

It was a lot darker in there than they thought it would be, with the sun now so low in the sky. Once they were clear of the first layer of branches, they had just enough light and time to process that there were three figures stood around the picnic blanket instead of one, before a large pink hand grabbed their face from behind and dragged them to the side.

He covered their mouth and their nose to keep them quiet as they cried out in surprise, and a split second later a sharp pain stabbed them in the side of their neck. He shushed them, easing them onto their knees as their body weakened but grabbed a fistful of their hair to force them when they resisted. Still, Xen kept trying to wriggle free – they needed to run, they should have already run, they should never have come at all - but they were losing feeling in both their arms and legs too quickly, and their vision turned spotty and dark. They couldn’t see. They couldn’t breathe. His hand clamped down even tighter over their nose as the three strangers closed in on them, securing their wrists and ankles with zipties whilst they were too scared and disorientated to fight back.

They could just about feel a warm, wet mouth bite down on the inside of their wrist before it went fully numb. A scream bubbled up their throat but died as quickly as it began, muffled by the hand and choked by tears. “O positive,” a voice said distantly.

With everything now in total darkness and their body useless, the last thing they felt before they went under was the sting of a second syringe.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

Maybe it had all been just a dream – a horrible stress nightmare before their first date. That was more likely. 

Things like this just didn’t happen to people like them.

Xen’s mind was too cloudy still to think clearly, but they often felt like this when waking up in the morning. It wasn’t unusual for them to drift in and out of a hazy dreamland. No amount of convincing themselves otherwise would change the truth.

Their body hurt. When they tried to open their eyes, they still couldn’t see; they tried to sit upright, but their arms and wrists were bound tightly to their sides with what felt like packing tape. They were hot and clammy, their skin sweating profusely - but even if their legs hadn’t similarly been bound together, there were no blankets for them to kick off the bed. They were not at home. This was not a dream.

Strong hands rolled them over and over on whatever surface they were laid on, rolling them up in some kind of plastic; it took them a moment to place it before they groggily realised it was bubblewrap. They tried to open their mouth to speak, to ask what was going on, to beg for help or freedom or even just to cry out - but it was taped shut and stuffed with cloth. As soon as they realised, panic finally hit them like a tidal wave and they began hyperventilate. 

They were drugged.

They were bound.

They couldn’t breathe.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The next time they came round, they no longer had any hope of it being just a bad dream. The sensations were far too real: the tight blindfold of bubblewrap and packing tape around their face, the rumbling of large wheels over old tarmac, the musty smell of sweat and plastic and piss – they were still groggy, but it was visceral. They fought hard not to panic again. Their mouth was still taped shut, breathing calmly and through their nose was their only option. Freaking out would only make it worse.

Despite being blindfolded, their head was still spinning. Every bump and pothole sent spasms of pain up their spine until they couldn’t figure out which way was up and which was down, and when the vehicle swerved around corners they slid around like loose baggage. Sometimes they hit things that were soft, sometimes they hit against the wall. They tested their ability to move, hoping they may be able to brace themselves at least a little bit when the next slam came; but although the paralytic Salia’s brother had given them had now worn off, they were bound far too tightly to do much more than twitch their fingers and toes.

Salia’s brother…

Tears welled up behind the blindfold. How could they have been so stupid? 

After what could have been hours, the vehicle finally turned for the last time before slowing right down to a crawl. After a brief stop and a pause, it then slowly began to reverse - if the muffled beeping was anything to go by. It was parking. They had arrived. This was it.

The engine was turned off, leaving everything eerily still and quiet until Xen heard the unmistakable sound of the rear doors being unlocked. Light just about hit their eyes through the plastic and tape as they swung open and a blurred figure climbed inside; they quickly squeezed them shut again, their breathing picking up and their body starting to shake in its wrapping. The newcomer didn’t notice. They likely didn’t even care. They began to unload the back of the van, calling over other people from outside to help them get everything done faster.

“Brace yourself, this one’s heavy.”

“Okay, take it through – yeah, through those doors there.”

“This one’s a wriggler, make sure you get a good grip on it and don’t let go.” 

The voices were barely audible through all the layers of plastic around them, but before Xen could process what they were saying there was a grunt and a heavy thud, followed by a muffled cry of pain. Someone berated someone else for potentially damaging a product, another person yelled for them to stop talking and keep working, but despite the noise all Xen could focus on were the soft groans and whimpers coming from the dropped body. 

They were not alone.

They were not alone.

It was an awful comfort, knowing that someone else was going through this hell with them. Were there a dozen others? Were there more? They had no way of knowing.

The footsteps came closer again. They shouted out around the gag the best they could whilst someone grabbed their legs, quickly slinging them over their shoulder like they were no more than a sack of potatoes. Struggling had no effect either, so they tried screaming again - but with the fabric stuffed into their mouth they may as well have kept silent. It didn’t matter. Nobody was listening anyway.

They were carried unceremoniously into the building that contained their fate, only aware they had crossed a threshold when they heard another door open and close. It was impossible for them to tell how much time had passed since that stupid date – it was light out, so it was probably the following day but with the amount of drugs in their system it could just as easily have been a week. Their mouth was dry enough that they weren’t able to drool on the gag anymore, and the hollowness in their stomach could easily have been from fear instead of hunger. It was only as they became properly coherent and awake that they realised – in abject horror - that their lower half was sticky and damp and disgusting. 

Everything was still contained within their clothes and the bubblewrap, but now they were aware of it, the smell hit them like a sledgehammer. So, it had clearly been long enough that at some point they had emptied themselves. Whilst unconscious. They must have been in that van for days – unless the drugs had something to do with it, of course, which was still very much possible. If any part of them had previously had the strength left to feel hungry, it was definitely wiped out now.

Xen had no idea when they had last been given cocktails of drugs, but it was clear nobody had bothered to administer more for a while now. The further inside the building they got, the more awake they felt, and the faster their terror was catching up with them. They wished someone would stab them in the neck again. If they had been allowed to stay unconscious, then they wouldn’t have to know what was happening to them - they wouldn’t feel any of that anxiety or fear, they could just slip away into the light when their time came. As long as they were awake and sober, they would be forced to actually experience everything. They would be forced to feel.

The person carrying them tossed them onto a table with a thud. Xen groaned as they were rolled onto their stomach; though winded, the bubblewrap had actually protected them a bit from the force of the impact - just not the shock of it. A hand then pushed down onto the back of their head, holding them firmly in place – instinct took over, and they thrashed around in a desperate attempt to wriggle free. Despite their best efforts and garbled pleas, a small blade was pushed into the bubblewrap at the top of their neck, and the stranger slowly dragged it down length of their spine. Curiously, though, they made sure to only cut the wrapping and tape. Xen wasn’t so much as nicked, they realised -

They were being opened like a fucking parcel.

Their efforts to escape didn’t earn them so much as a reprimand. They writhed around the best they could, but with their arms and legs bound so tightly together, they felt like a worm trying to crawl from a bird. They probably wouldn’t ever be thought of as anything more, now.

The stranger continued to remove the rest of the bubblewrap, turning them over and cutting away as needed then discarding the scraps in a nearby bin. The tape around their limbs was unfortunately left intact, but at least they could feel air on their skin again. The last of the packaging to be removed was, of course, the plastic over their head. It was a miracle they had still been breathing at all – despite all the disgusting smells, they couldn’t help but to inhale deeply as soon as their face was free. It only burned a little.

Xen blinked up at the person – a werewolf, they realised - that was handling them. Their eyes were still blurred with tears, but they wanted to at least put a face to whoever was deciding their fate. As he worked, he looked at them with such indifference that Xen had no doubt he’d done this hundreds of times before and not once recognised the horror of it. They expected him to be ugly, maybe; ugly and cruel and haggard, like a true cartoon villain, but he was just some guy. Someone they might have passed on the street a thousand times without a second glance. 

Now that they weren’t blindfolded by tape, they could see they were definitely in a warehouse or processing facility of some kind. The footsteps of workers echoed on the metal floor, conversations and screams alike bouncing off walls and high ceilings until they all muddled together in wall of noise. Was that good or bad? This wasn’t some small-scale, underground trafficking ring – this was planned. Industrial. Organised.

He left them laying on the table for a moment, stepping aside to retrieve something from a tower of metal drawers nearby. They couldn’t see what was in his hand, and he turned them back onto their stomach before they could get a better look. He brushed away the hair at the back of their neck, forced them still again with one hand firmly on the back of their head, and pressed whatever he was holding just below their hairline. At first it felt cold against their skin – like a smooth pebble, barely an inch wide, being rocked from side to side. They realise as it grows impossibly hot that it is not a stone. It’s a brand.

The fire consumes their entire body, and burns all rational thought away. 

The pain spreads down their back from where it touches their neck, white-hot and brutal, burning some kind of arcane symbol or crest or number into their flesh. They think they might be trying to scream through the gag, but they can’t quite tell. Their throat is sore, and they think they might puke, but can’t hear anything over the ringing in their ears. They writhe as much as they possibly can against the hands and the tape and the stone. It doesn’t help.

Another atrocious smell joins the assault on their senses. Their skin was melting, confirming to the shape of the brand, and when the werewolf finally pulls it away it sticks to it like melted plastic. They’re dimly aware that if they do throw up, as much as they want to, they’ll choke. This can’t be how it ends, drowning on their own vomit, right? It just can’t. Their future had always seemed fairly bleak, but not this bleak.

In a moment of weakness (albeit not the first, and definitely not the last), Xen thinks of Salia. Their virtual conversations had been so sweet and hopeful – they hadn’t quite dared to think it through, but if they’d worked out, maybe they’d have been able to move out of their Dad’s place and make a real life for themself. She had been Xen’s chance at a good life, and a future so good is impossible now. For a moment, they selfishly wish that Salia was there with them, even if she couldn’t help – but that’s when it finally sinks in. 

Of course she isn’t here. She never existed in the first place.

Shame and humiliation burn their cheeks as they realise how badly they were fooled. It made so much more sense now, all of this did – they were so stupid. How hopeless and desperate must they be, not just to still wish a figment of their imagination was there to help them, but to have believed anyone would want to be their friend in the first place? 

Tears drip down Xen’s cheeks again, hot and wet and salty. They may be stupid, they may be disorientated and confused but they still know what this place means for them. Whether it happens now, suffocating on their own puke, or in a few hours or days (or weeks, or months, or years), when a monster drains them of all their blood, they are going to die. They are going to die unloved. Unremembered. Unimportant.

They stop struggling. It’s probably better to just accept their fate, isn’t it? Rather than make the inevitable more painful. They are going to die either way.

“Where’s this one going?” A bored voice cuts through their thoughts. The werewolf picks them back up, slinging them over his shoulder like they’re nothing. “Butchers? It’s got enough meat on it.”

“No. Brandeschi’s placed an advanced order for a couple dozen, he’s sending a rep over to pick some out. Take it to Prim to get it cleaned up and sorted out. They’re not gonna buy one that smells this bad.”

Although that name means nothing to them, it still sends shivers downs Xen’s spine. Best case scenario, they would be put to work – used for their free labour on a farm or in a factory. Worst case scenario is pretty much everything else. They could end up a in a brothel, as breeding stock, as blood or meat or spare parts – they’d heard stories, read news reports about what humans were allegedly forced to do in North Irades, and now they were going to find if it was all true.

They hope they’ll be killed quickly, rather than drawn out over weeks or months. Keeping them alive only to be fed from was a pathetic existence – an electric shock and a slit throat would be a kinder death than being hooked up to a machine and slowly farmed for their blood until their body eventually gave out.  Unfortunately, it’s not like they have a choice in the matter. 

The werewolf carries them away, past more tables with more humans being unpackaged and branded, and down a stretch of corridor. Under the sounds of muffled screaming, they can hear people begging, too – some furious and fighting, others desperate and wailing, all of them terrified. Xen understands every last word they say, but it’s like they’re all speaking a different language. The monsters here just do not care.

Monsters.

That term has never felt more literal.

[Masterpost/Contents] [Next]

[sw33t--t00th]

I just heard an owl outside bro, imma go see what it's doin brb

Update: WTF IS THAT?????

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Leo reads Aiden's Intake Form

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Leo jumps when his phone vibrates against the countertop, a flat buzz like an insect trapped inside a jar. It’s only Delia, probably calling on her drive home to chat, but his chest tightens as he raises it to his ear. 

“Can you come outside?” She asks. 

“What? Why?” 

He’s expecting an annoyed tsk but instead, she just sounds tired. “Just come outside. Alone.”

If only for the reassurance of seeing Aiden content, Leo goes all the way upstairs to tell him he’s going to grab something from the van. 

Aiden’s lying on his stomach in bed playing on his Switch, feet kicking lazily in the air. When he sees Leo, his eyes flick around, like he’s checking to make sure his bed is perfectly made or he didn’t leave a stray sock beside the laundry basket. He waits until Leo’s in the doorway to sit up and put the screen aside, looking relieved as he does. Leo knows how much effort it takes every second he doesn’t snap to attention. 

He’s convinced Aiden will smell the lie on him but he just says okay and nods. No questioning gaze or hesitation. Aiden picks up his Switch again but keeps it resting on his lap. Hopefully just until Leo turns away and not until he’s closed the front door behind him.  

It rained earlier. The pavement, still holding the heat of the day, evaporates the water quickly, mist hanging just above the ground in the yellow cast of the street lights. Delia’s parked behind the cover of his van. His stomach tightens at her deepening subterfuge. 

Delia has the heat in her car cranked to the highest setting and it smells exactly like the hospital and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He wants to get out immediately. 

“So? What’s—” 

“Here.” She holds a piece of paper out to him. Right before he takes it, she pulls it back again. “I just want to say, for the record, that I wanted to take his number off this and destroy it. There’s a big chance most of this is made up and it’s only his place to tell anyway.” 

Delia finally meets his eyes, waiting. 

“What do you want me to say?” The backseat is absolute chaos. Scrubs and other clothes are strewn about. He counts no fewer than six water bottles and thermoses. And the cherry on top: half a loaf of bread—bag not fully closed—and peanut butter and jelly jars, complete with the knife she must have used to make her dinner, strawberry jam dripping onto the upholstery underneath. He sighs and forces his attention back to Delia. “I can’t know if I agree with you or not if I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Fine, but I tried.” 

“Duly noted.” He means it earnestly but she rolls her eyes and reluctantly hands him the sheet of paper. His stomach is doing somersaults before he even starts to read. It’s a bad photocopy of a bad scan. The handwriting is fuzzy at best, the lines slanting across the page. He has to squint to read it. 

Handler. 

Committed. 

Revision. 

“What—”

Parents. 

Sedation and five-point restraint. 

Leo’s stomach churns. “What the fuck is this?” He holds it away even though he’s barely halfway through. 

Delia takes a deep breath. “The good news is that if we finally have his ID number, we can move forward with the paperwork for—” 

“Do not finish that sentence right now,” he grates. 

“Strictly as a means to an end,” she quickly adds. “You know it’s the first step—”

“Stop with the legalese. I already agreed to that. I want you to tell me what the fuck I’m reading.” His shirt is starting to stick to his back, he wants to rip off his jacket but the seat is too far forward in this stupid car. 

“It’s an intake form,” she says softly. 

“That is the easiest part to read.” He turns off the damn heat and the absence of noise rings in his ears. “Seriously, Delia. What does this mean? ‘Straight Paths’? ‘Committed by his…parents’?” 

“There are a lot of different ways into the System, it was designed that way. Criminals out of for-profit prisons, homeless off the streets, all the stuff you already know, but it goes deeper.” He can hear the venom, even through her clinical voice. “They have so-called treatment programs for alcoholism, addiction, and…well…straight paths.” 

He feels sick to his stomach. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“I know, it’s awful.” 

“What does ‘revision’ mean?” He isn’t sure he wants to know. 

“That’s the term they use for administering amnesics.”  

He forces a breath in. 

“But we already know that he has some—maybe even a lot—of his memories,” she rushes to say. 

“Memories of having ‘five-point restraints’ used on him?” He spits, making her grimace. “Where did you even get this?” He’s gripping the vile document so hard it shakes. 

Delia carefully extracts it from his fist. “One of Noah’s safehouse contacts has a contact at one of the facilities. They’ve helped in situations like this when we had no choice but to pull records. We only use it as a last resort because it’s so risky for everyone involved. The last time we did this it was a matter of life or death and we needed a medical file—” 

He’s not even listening anymore. All he can think about is Aiden, innocently playing video games upstairs. Comfortable, content. Now, Leo will have to face him with these fresh horrors in mind. Even if he tried, he’s not sure he could hide that he learned something new. But, like Delia said, this should have been his to share. He runs his hand over his hair. 

“I wish there had been another way,” he laments uselessly. He wishes he listened to her and never read any of it. “Are you sure it’s him?” 

“No…that’s the thing…” She swallows. “We’re going to have to ask him.” 

Leo shakes his head. “Jesus Christ, Delia. You know what it’s like for him every time we’ve tried. We can’t—” 

“I wouldn’t suggest it if there was an alternative. It’ll be different this time because he doesn’t have to try to say it or write it.” 

“But what if he still can’t recognize it?” He scrubs his hands over his face. “You said yourself the sequencing, the long number sequence—” 

She has to whisper it, “His conditioning should override any symptoms of his aphasia.” 

Leo gets out of the car, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He makes a beeline for the edge of the parking lot and vomits into the neat row of bushes there. 

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps

@batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight

@whumps-and-bumps @i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney

[pyrepostings]

Looking at articles about branding horses/cattle for accurate dialogue reasons, and the vibe on these articles, I swear.

Today in "wouldn't it be messed up to talk about people/human pets like we do real animals":

"The cow may budge and bawl for a moment, but no long-term harm or pain is done to the animal."

idk, sounds like something WRU would say in a pamphlet trying to upsell you into shelling out for a fancy designer brand add-on to your boxie.

[bbu-fan-blog]

The BBU channel posted a video on TikTok talking about a boss, and Billie sure looks... different.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Call Mom

CW: PTSD/flashbacks, BBU in general, haunted, ghosts, reference to a murder, severe chronic panic

Jameson's Masterlist (scroll down)

-

Aw, crap. Hey, Johnny, do you remember where I put that girl's number? Like, Katie, or Caitlyn, or... do you remember? Hey! Johnny! Put down the fucking xbox controller for two fucking minutes and give me a hand, won't you?

Fingers snap right in front of his face.

Johnny!

Jameson jerks in a breath that sounds like a whine, sitting straight up. The fan blows cool air over his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, cold inside and out. The air in his room is freezing, suddenly. Outside it's so dark you can't even see the trees - the power outage must still be going, there aren't any streetlights. Thanks to the clouds, no stars or moon, either.

Just darkness.

Wait, if the electricity's out...

He looks up. The ceiling fan is perfectly still above his head, even while ice-cold air keeps goosebumps rising on his arms, the hair standing up at the back of his neck.

See, was that so hard? It'll take like five minutes if we work together, I swear.

"Nat?" He mumbles. "S'at... you?"

Checked there already, actually. Checked the fridge, too, so where the hell did I put it?

He's the only person in this room.

Jameson goes from still half-asleep to fully, painfully awake and aware in a single breath.

The voice comes as clear as if it was right next to him, a voice as familiar as his own - but he has no idea whose it is. There's no one here but him - even Trash Cat isn't here any longer, probably hunting a tiny piece of plastic downstairs that he'll end up stepping on in the morning. So far she hasn't eaten any of them. He doesn't even know where she's finding them.

Johnny, come on. Let's, like, retrace our steps.

His head starts to ache more with every single word, the pain working like tendrils behind his eyes, a pressure trying to crush his skull from the inside. Something flashes, bright and almost like a spectrum of rainbow colors, in the corner of his right eye, but it won't resolve when he turns his head.

I got home from work, I told you we had a hot customer who gave me her number, and then... then what?

Jameson stares into darkness so complete it feels like it has weight. Like it's sitting on the bed next to him, like the mattress dips underneath it. A body made of memory, slowly pulling together the pieces of what's been hidden. Clawing them out but leaving deep weals across the inside of his mind, like a corpse's fingers digging into loose dirt to climb out of his grave.

"Caitlyn," He whispers, as the thought crystallizes. A memory, pure and perfect. Some sliver of whatever they broke the person he was into. Some small piece of the man who signed up. "Her name was Caitlyn, not Katie. She... wrote it on the fucking paper."

Right! Okay, so, clearly I told you her name, and then what?

Jameson turns his head, and there he is.

Hank.

His breath catches in his throat.

Hank is younger than he is, even though he was older then. The older brother, trapped in time, while Jameson - Jonathan - keeps aging. The rakish smile is still there and, Christ, Jameson had forgotten that he'd done that stupid thing to his hair - you forgot everything about him, you begged them to take him away from you so that it wouldn't hurt anymore. He's still got that one crooked tooth he'd refused to get braces to fix. That crooked tooth had been in his dental records. It was how they identified his body.

The fucking crooked tooth, the silver-colored fillings, then the DNA tests...

"No," He whispers, going for a vicious hiss, but what comes out is far too close to a whimper. "No. This is-... this is a flashback. This isn't real, this isn't-"

Maybe I left it in yesterday's pants?

"This isn't real, fuck off." Jameson shoves himself off the bed, forgetting his stupid fucking legs don't work. His knees buckle as soon as they have to take his weight.

He lands wrong on one arm and the pain spikes up through his shoulder, making him cry out in the hoarse, rasping voice that his life has left him with. "Fuck!"

He rolls onto his side, but he can't stop himself.

He looks up again. He doesn't want to remember Hank but he's desperate for one more look at his face. Just the one more time.

Just once more.

Hank sighs, raking a hand back through his hair, leaving it mussed-up and sticking out, looking ridiculous. He did that all the time. Bit his nails, too, and tried everything to stop but he never did. He wore those jeans with the ripped knee all the time, their mother had hated it. Hank, wearing the t-shirt for the band they'd gotten concert tickets for but never got the chance to see. Hank, dead for years, smiles to one side at a brother who isn't there.

The brother who erased him.

"Hank," He whispers. "Hank, you gotta-... you gotta go. You're hurting me-"

Damn. Man, it wasn't in my jeans either. Well, I'll find it sooner or later, I guess. Hank shrugs. His eyes are in shadow, not quite defined. Jameson wonders if it's because he's forgotten what color his brother's eyes were, forgotten it deeply enough that even this can't pull it back.

It'll be okay, Johnny. It really will. Hank looks right at him. Jameson's breath catches in his throat. The room is so cold the air burns as he breathes. It never gets this cold in California. It can't be this cold in California. I mean it. Don't cry yourself to sleep over this.

"I cried myself to sleep... all the time, but I don't now. I'm not-... that guy." He can barely speak. He sees his breath puff out when his lips move, and Jameson slumps back. His voice cracks, it creaks like old floors. He didn't stop crying for weeks. He didn't leave his bed. He did any drug he could find trying to not think about Hank, until he realized there was only one way to make sure he never had to think about what he'd done, by letting Hank walk home alone that one night, again. He didn't want to think about that pain anymore.

They had promised him he wouldn't ever have to hurt like this again.

They lied about that, too.

Jameson makes a sound he refuses to admit is a choked-off sob. "I'm not him, Hank. I'm not Johnny... not anymore."

Hank stands, and it's impossible. He's not here. But he holds out his hand anyway, and Jameson takes it without thinking. Hank's grip is so cold it burns, but Jameson lets his dead brother pull him to his feet anyway.

He smells like earth and ice.

"I'm not him," He whispers.

Right, like that argument ever works. Hank just grins, shaking his head. The man Jameson was - the one he had begged to leave behind - is the reason Hank will look like this in his memories forever. He's the reason there isn't another Hank, only this one, locked in the memories he wanted to boil and burn out of his own head. They're still there, though. They break through.

They never stop breaking through.

He would crawl back into Robert's cage himself if it only meant he didn't have to remember that it's his fault Hank is dead.

Tears run hot down his cheeks - the only thing in him that isn't frozen is his grief, wildfire in his chest leaving nothing but ash behind. Forests after wildfires are ghosts, Hank said once, when they were both high and everything sounded fucking important.

Jameson had called him an idiot - he remembers that now. But... he also thinks Hank was right. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can, focusing. He isn't here. Hank cannot be here. "I don't remember... remember you-... I don't want to remember you! It was my choice to forget!"

Hank claps him on the shoulder. His smile goes briefly gentle and soft. Jameson can see it with his eyes closed. Whatever you say, man. Just promise me you'll call Mom sometime soon, okay?

The pain is too much. If he can't pass out soon, he might die just from having to experience it, unending, never stopping, rising higher and higher. "Mom...?"

Yeah, dumbass. Mom. Our mother? Who gave birth to us and never lets us fucking forget it? I keep trying to talk to her, but I guess my signal's bad. Hank laughs, and Jameson's whole body breaks with the sound of that familiar laughter. The way Hank could throw his head back without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, how he'd hear that laugh across a crowded room and know it was his brother's, know right where he was.

Until he didn't.

Until nobody did.

Until the cops found what was left.

Until-

Jameson jolts again, and finds himself still lying on the floor next to his bed. He's burning up, boiling hot, pouring sweat until his sleep shirt sticks to his back and his arms feel slick with it, his hair sticking to skin. A droplet trickles down the back of his neck like a fingertip, barely touching. He rips his shirt off, then his pants, throwing them as far away from himself as he can, until he's naked on the floor but it isn't enough.

He's still sweating, still breathing in harsh gasps, fighting around the strength of his racing heart to get enough air to fill his lungs. He looks frantically around, but no one's here.

The ceiling fan circles lazily overhead.

He takes in a breath, his heart pounding. It feels like it's going to grow wings and fly away, up his throat and out of his mouth. He's still crying, he realizes only now. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can and fights tears back through sheer willpower and rage, curling his hands into fists. Just like they used to be, his fingers know - muscle memory of mittens that had kept him powerless, once. Now, he does it on purpose, and he forces them to curl through the pain.

Forces down the dream.

Wills himself to forget he ever had it.

"Four... f-four things you can see," he whispers to himself, slumping back down. His voice keeps trembling, catching, and it's everything he has to open his eyes again around the pounding headache in his skull and look. "The-... moon. Out the... window. The, my dresser... for my clothes... M-My, uh, the picture Nat p-printed of me and Allyn... fuck, the... the doorknob."

Every time he thinks he knows how much of his body can hurt at once, some nerves he didn't know existed decide to join the party. He has to breathe in and out, slow and controlled, trying to will his body to cooperate. He won't walk tomorrow, he can tell already. It'll be a day to spend in bed, or using his wheelchair. It might be a week until his body lets him walk again.

He fights back a new well of rage and despair at how well he knows the next way his body will fail him. He can't think about that right now, or the pain and the panic will spiral out of control. He might hurt someone. He can't hurt anyone, not ever again.

He won't.

"Three... things I can touch," He murmurs. "My, my... my shirt, fuck, gross, sweaty... my... my hair... the floor, feels... cold, feels good... the corner of my bed..."

It helps. He makes himself focus on this, on real things, not the nightmare of his brother.

He won't remember his brother.

He won't.

"Two things I can hear. Uh, the, there's... crickets or something outside, and-... and I can hear-"

Hank's voice whispers right next to his ear.

Call Mom.

His breath hitches.

"Not real," he whispers. "One... one thing I can taste..."

All he tastes is blood, and for one horrified half a second he's sure it's Hank's blood, until he realizes he bit his tongue in his sleep.

The blood is his own.

Call Mom.

-

[battersweet]

When i said i want Aristotle to die brutally. İ meant a death like from Danganronpa executions, not sum silly shit like an anvil drops to his head or getting shot. İ mean something like Junko's execution where they slap all the executions to this bitch. Except that 'Bye Bye Ouchies' bullshit if ı'll see anyone drawing or writing this you'll be Rainbowdash and I'll be Pinkie Pie in the Cupcakes HD

[gone-wrong-au]

Billie and Fanto are temporarily out of commission… but now Aristotle is here to keep us company!

Wonder what’s wrong…

Prev - Next

[cepheusgalaxy]

The WRU customer’s guide

Chapter 2 - Product receival

(Distributed by WRU ©)

Your Boxie arrived! And now what?

Congratulations on getting your new Pet! The WRU staff thanks you for your preference. 

We assure your new Pet is suited to attend all your necessities and wishes thanks to its top-tier training with WRU’s most brilliant teams of professional handlers. If your experience is enjoyable, please consider leaving a feedback on our site! Your opinion matters a lot to us.

Your pet's serial number and designation can be verified at its register that was printed and shipped alongside the product, and also sent to your online mail. If there is a mistake and you can't find it, please refer to custome service on the nearest WRU store or our site, wru.com.

What's included in your product

Inside the box that you received is one (1) WRU Box Boy, which is wearing a basic WRU shipping uniform and collar. Alongside it is your Pet's Owner’s File that includes its designation, medical record and further information.

If there is any damage or parts of your delivery missing, please don’t hesitate to call the WRU team (DDD xxxx-xxxx) that will promptly resolve your issue.

Unboxing your Boxie

Unboxing your new Pet should be very easy. However, if this is your first time unboxing a Box Boy you might ask your deliverer to assist you.

[ID: A loosely drawn pet box with the WRU logo on the side as well as two handles instead of one. Below the box is written "Box lol". /end ID.]

Please check if your package is an WRU Pet Box.

The Box was sealed during the shipping process to avoid opening up and damaging your Pet on the way. To unlock it, remove the bolt of the door and pull the six locks arranged as 2 on the top, 2 at the bottom and more 2 on the left side. This should be enough to unlock your box.

Your new Pet is awaiting inside! It might be curled up awake or sleeping, in which case you can press the button under the red compartiment on the right side of the Box, which will send a quick shock to awake it.

Depending on the delivery, your boxie might have stayed in there from two to nine hours. Give it some time to come out of the package, and it should kneel in front of it. If you think your Pet is taking too long to come out or is not taking the supposed position, it might be hurt or confused, in which case, you can demand a self diagnostic by asking it if there is any damage. If that is the case, do not worry; You can acess the Pet First-Aid guide on our site or refer to the nearest WRU store, that will promptly take care of it for you.

Tip: You can keep the Box until you have arranged a proper enclosure for your Pet.

Settling your new Pet

After taking your Box Boy out of the package, look for a green sheet that contains its information and history. That is your Pet Owner’s guide. Be sure to verify it is indeed your Pet and that it has not been any mistake in the shipping process.

Your Pet is now ready to serve you, but it needs you to state the boundaries and rules of your house, so it may act accordingly. You can let them in some room as you put the shipping package away.

Once you’re done, show your house to the Pet and tell it what its duties are gonna be. You might name it or assign a room and belongings to it, if you so wish, but be assured it doesn’t need any accomodations besides the basics to be in its best behavior.

If you have any doubts about accomodating your new Pet or how to handle it, please check our site for more information.

Thank you for trusting WRU with your comfort! :)

Did you know?

WRU © not only cares a lot about our customers, but also we care about the environment!

In order to fight climate change, we in WRU adopted the Tip for a Tree project, in which every dollar you donate goes to WRU’s partners who are working for a greener future!

Acess more information at wru/tipforatree.com.

[ID: The WRU logo, a grey W with a V crossed over it. /end ID.]

--

lmao what do you guys think

credits of the logo to @endless-whump

[will0thew1sp-art]

Oh yeah I made a "your character here" thingy with Barnaby. Who's his lucky partner?

[sindrakart]

HES HERE

[whumps-and-bumps]

Break for Jas, desire for Varro, and hide for Willow?

From this ask game :)

break: What would cause your OC to break down completely? What do they look like when that happens? Has anyone ever seen them at their lowest?

Jas rubs the back of his neck, unwilling to make eye contact. His mouth is pressed into a hard line and his brow furrowed - he does not look the kind to break down easily, despite the haunted look in his eyes.

"That depends on what you mean by 'break down'," he says, and shrugs. "I think I shut down more than break. When - when Xen came forward to Terra, and told her what they'd seen, the world just stopped. Everything I had worked so hard to bury was now on display for everybody to see. There was no going back. I couldn't breathe, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep..."

He takes a deep breath to steady himself. He looks down at his prosthetic hand, clenching and unclenching it rhythmically before speaking again. "That was definitely my lowest. Sat in Rune's office, still trying to cover everything up but finding out he had footage of it. He knew I was lying, that I'd been lying for years, protecting someone that he hated..." he shakes his head. "I'm glad now, of course. Xen probably saved my life, and I'm finally happy and free. But in the moment, I thought I was going to die."

desire: What's one thing your OC wants more than anything in the world? Are they open with that desire? Why or why not? What would they do to fulfill it?

"Freedom," Varro breathes, without hesitation. He squeezes Rune's hand reassuringly, knowing that guilt is still whirling around inside him, and it will never actually leave. "It was all I wanted then, and all I want now. It's changed shape, it's a different kind of freedom now, but freedom all the same."

He settles into a smile. He still holds onto Rune's hand, and when he looks at him, there's so much love in his eyes. "I don't think I ever hid it from you. I fought being your pet every step of the way, even when you thought you'd broken me," he says with a bit of a cheek. "I hide it from strangers, though - it's dangerous to appear defiant. For that first year, all I wanted was to be able to go back home, and I didn't care who knew. Now that I've chosen to come back here, though, I wish I could tell people it was my choice. I wish I could tell people that I love you, and you love me, and it wouldn't get us killed."

"I wish you could live a normal life here," Rune says softly. Varro nods.

"That's the real goal," he agrees. "The freedom to live as we please. But we're working on it."

hide: What does your OC hide? Why do they hide it?

Willow folds her arms, looking down at you as you ask the question. "If I told you, I wouldn't be hiding it, would I?" she says, but there's a curl of amusement. After a moment, she pats her waist.

"There are scars under here. Lots of them. I hide them because they make people ask stupid questions, like 'what happened' and 'who did that to you'. I got bored of answering those a very long time ago. I'm a different person now."

You get the feeling that she has more secrets than a few scars, but that's for another day.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Fresh Start

cw: panic attack, obsessive/compulsive behaviors. leo's usual dubious/clueless caretaker vibes. tiny mention of aiden's self-destructive behaviors. shaky trust being tested, my beloved.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Movement sends pain radiating through Leo’s back and shoulder. His memory connects the discomfort to the hospital recliner and he bolts upright. 

But they’re home. Safe. 

He’s just paying the price for deciding to sleep on the floor outside Aiden’s room after a bought of anxiety convinced him he wouldn’t be able to hear if Aiden needed him. He—

Aiden’s bed is empty. 

His mind races through worst-case scenarios, heart tripping along to keep pace but as soon as he fully turns around, Aiden is right there. Curled up on the hardwood, no pillow or blanket, just shy of reaching the doorway. Fallen out of bed? Collapsed? Had Leo slept through him needing help after all? He reaches for his shoulder. What if— 

“Aiden? Aiden?” 

The kid startles awake, a small gasp escaping his lips as he clumsily but quickly straightens to kneel. Dark eyes wide even as he blinks away sleep. He crosses his arms, hand cradled carefully in the center of his chest. 

“What happened? Why were you on the floor?” 

“I—I—mmm…mmm…” He shakes his head and lowers his gaze. Not a good sign. “Mmm’sorry—I’m’sorry—” 

 “Are the stitches okay? Is there blood on the bandages? Are you in any pain?” Leo reaches for him and Aiden flinches back, hard. Now he’s certain something is wrong. 

“Mmm’good,” Aiden says, voice wavering. He still won’t make eye contact and he’s slowly, almost imperceptibly inching away from Leo. 

“Did something happen? We’ll call Delia if we need to. I just have to see that you’re okay.” He reaches for him and again Aiden cowers back. He hits the futon frame and whimpers. 

The sound strikes another cord of fear in Leo, doubling his panic. “You’re not in trouble but if the stitches tore or you’re in pain, I need to know.” 

Aiden swallows. “I—I—mmm…mmm…” 

Leo strains to hear him at all and considers just grabbing him. He has to see— 

“I—I—” Aiden shakes his head, gaze still lowered. His hands tremble as he lifts his arms, turning them toward Leo. 

It’s the most anguished surrender he’s ever seen.  

“Hey, woah. Look at me, it’s okay.” 

Aiden lifts his chin. For a split second, his expression looks incredulous before its replaced by a more familiar one of distrust and fear. 

But it was enough. 

The kid’s not even breathing, eyes filmed with tears as he obediently holds Leo’s gaze. 

You’re scaring the shit out of him.

Leo pushes himself back quicker than necessary, earning another flinch from Aiden who crosses his arms back over his chest protectively, curling against the bed frame. Leo moves to sit in the doorway, heart still pumping adrenaline through his veins, and tries to focus on his breath. 

Aiden watches him with open wariness. As defensive as day one. 

This is supposed to be a fresh start, their second chance. In the six weeks since finding Aiden in the snow, Leo succeeded in isolating him and not much else. And here he is, only driving that wedge deeper. He’s supposed to be better equipped now that he’s not completely ignorant but it doesn’t seem to make a goddamn lick of difference. Leo should have admitted months ago that he wasn’t right for this but his selfish denial carried them way past the point of return.

Too little too late isn’t going to cut it anymore. The kid deserves more. Someone who’s going to fucking listen to him. Someone he can trust and rely on. He’s going to need so much support. He can’t shower without wrapping his arms and hand, which he can’t do himself. He’ll need help changing the bandages. Not to mention the antibiotics. He probably never slept well to begin with, if last night is any indication. He barely eats. He was hurting himself all along right under Leo’s nose. He fucking tried to—

Aiden sounds like he’s trying to breathe through a straw, inhales shorter and shorter. Leo looks over to find Aiden already watching him, brow furrowed. 

When Aiden tilts his head, Leo realizes it’s him. 

He’s the one gasping like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. 

Great.

“I’m sorry,” he forces out, but it’s barely audible. “I just—I need—” 

He stumbles down the hall, sparing both of them from a backward glance, and shuts himself in the bathroom. 

Leaning against the door is no good, he feels pinned there by the pressure in his chest. 

God, like he just cornered Aiden. 

He fumbles to turn on the sink, hands shaking. His fingers feel like precarious stacks of marbles rather than joints, skin slick from perspiration. Why did he have to replace the valve with stupid spoke handles? It takes a few tries before he can cup his hands together to hold onto any water. Given how little he’s breathing, the first splash feels like he’s waterboarding himself. He straightens, gasping and sputtering, but the innate reaction overrides his anxiety and he manages to pull in some deeper breaths. He keeps his hands under the tap and forces focus on the sensation of the cold water against his skin, the air in his lungs. 

One, two, three, four…one, two, three, four…

The panic recedes the more he breathes but guilt is quick to fill the vacancy. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, letting his prescription run out. He’s useless when he’s like this. 

His hands still shake as he twists off the faucet, nerves wrung out and cold. He avoids his reflection and turns to leaning against the counter while he towels his hands dry. His phone’s almost dead from not being charged all night. He stares at the chat with Delia, his string of blue bubbles filling the right side, unanswered. The last one, “What time do you get off today?” is a poor cover for his real question, “How soon can you come over?” Without hesitation, his anxiety is all too happy to supply countless awful explanations for why she hasn’t had three fucking seconds to send a single thumbs up in the last six hours. His pulse steps up again, his fingertips start to tingle. 

Leo drops his phone back into his pocket and scrubs his face with his hands, forces another few rounds of deep breaths. There’s a headache building right behind his eyes. More sleep will help but he has to take care of Aiden first. Starting with an apology. 

He finally turns to meet his tired, bloodshot eyes in the mirror. The lines of his face, deepened by exhaustion, make him look like he’s pushing forty and the fact that he hasn’t shaved since last weekend isn’t exactly helping. He scratches the corner of his jaw where there are a few traitorous white hairs. When he reaches for his toothbrush, he knows he’s stalling but how will he even start explaining his reaction to Aiden? 

At some point, he replaced his toothbrush on the charging stand and started washing his hands. Based on the suds caught in the drain, he already washed them more than once. He can’t get stuck here, not now. His heart starts rushing again and his throat feels tight, panic and frustration balling in his chest. How many times has this happened in the last day alone? 

“It hasn’t been this bad for years,” he whispers in his defense to nobody. 

But he still can’t stop. Not yet. He meets his eyes in the mirror again, ignoring the flare of self-pity and disgust. Just one more time, he tells himself, trying to believe it. 

Four pumps of soap. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…

The door opens and he immediately loses count; isn’t sure if he wasn’t finished yet or if he’d already started over again. Aiden peeks through the crack, crease between his brow telling Leo he’s also biting his lip. When Leo meets his gaze in the mirror, Aiden ducks back into the hallway. 

Shit. 

Aiden wouldn’t have taken such a liberty without knocking first, probably more than once and only then after Leo was in here for way too long. Another total failure for the list. But at least it was enough to knock him out of the loop. 

The poor kid looks like he’s expecting a hell of a lot more than Leo suggesting breakfast when he comes out into the hall. He’s pressed against the span of wall between the top of the stairs and Leo’s bedroom. Not quite adjacent to where Leo stands in the bathroom door but clearly trying to find some middle ground that isn’t retreating to his room at the end of the hall. 

Leo buys them both a little space by turning to the washer and dryer to switch their laundry from last night. He wonders if Aiden notices the two extra towels he used when he needed more than one shower to feel like he could sleep. God, he’s completely unraveling. 

Aiden is no more relaxed when Leo faces him again. 

“Aiden, look—” he says at the same time Aiden says, “M’sorry.”

He holds up a hand and Aiden flinches. 

Well, that’s about right after what he pulled. But man, if it’s not a kick in the gut while he’s down. To make matters worse, Aiden seems to think it’s his responsibility to set things right after being subjected to Leo’s irrational panic. His guilt starts to turn in to a physical ache in his chest.  

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Aiden watches him carefully like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, long fingers worrying the cuffs of the hoodie. “You’re not in trouble,” Leo adds, taking a note from Delia. “Just finding you on the floor—” 

“Mmm….you…w-w-w—” Aiden shakes his head, swallows. “Mmm…here…” Leo waits but Aiden doesn’t say anything else, just huffs out a little sigh of exasperation before letting his gaze slide to rest on Leo’s make-shift bed. Which of course he tidied, blanket neatly folded and pillow set on top. His eyes lift to dance around Leo’s face, searching for some sign that he’s getting it. 

“I was sleeping here…” Leo feels obtuse stating the basest fact he can pull out of this exchange but Aiden nods. 

“I—my—” He scrunches his face up and shakes his head. He’s pinching and pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves now, grip tightening. He swallows hard twice before he tries again. “I’mmm…you…here…” 

“You…” Leo hopes he’s not taking too far of a leap. “...moved onto the floor when you saw me there?”  

Aiden turns his head away like he’s expecting to be slapped, gives a tiny nod. 

“That’s okay, it’s okay,” Leo says quickly. “But you didn’t have to sleep on the floor just because I was. Anyway, that runner is actually pretty thick, I—” Aiden bites his lips together like he wants to say something else. “What is it?” 

He knots his fingers together then separates them after a quick glance up at Leo, smoothing them against his thighs. “I—I—mmm…” He takes a deliberate step closer, halving the space between them. Does it with the air of stepping up to the chopping block. He waits for Leo to connect the dots. When he doesn’t, he lifts one of his hands, stopping just shy of brushing the back of Leo’s, before letting it fall again and tucking both behind his back. 

“Oh.” 

Despite his countless missteps, Aiden wanted to be closer to him. 

“Well, that’s okay.” When he realizes it sounds like giving permission he amends, “I mean, of course it’s okay. You can do whatever you want. Sleep wherever you want.” 

Aiden furrows his brow.  

“Sorry. I just mean— We never— I was worried—” Leo takes a breath. “You…” Cried yourself to sleep in my arms. “...fell asleep and I didn’t know if you wanted me to stay. I didn’t want you to be surprised when you woke up.” He sighs. “But I guess you were anyway…” 

Aiden shakes his head. “S’okay.” 

This kid would let him get away with murder…and then try to apologize like he invented death. Leo has to learn to get out ahead of these things if they’re ever going to have a chance.

“Were you—Did you have bad dreams or…” 

He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug but doesn’t meet Leo’s gaze. 

“We’ll figure something out for tonight, yeah?” 

Aiden nods. He keeps his eyes down but he’s dropped his shoulders from his ears, hands in the pocket of the hoodie. Leo wants to wrap him up in a hug, make sure knows he was never in trouble, and tell him he never has to sleep alone again if he doesn’t want to. 

“I shouldn’t have freaked out like that,” he blurts instead. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Dark eyes search his. 

“It’s just— I panicked and I wasn’t thinking straight. After last night— After everything— It’s worse when I haven’t slept enough but it’s not your fault. It has nothing to do with you—” This word-vomit explanation is doing him no favors but he can’t seem to stop. “I promise it won’t happen again. I just want to make sure you know you didn’t do anything wrong, it was all me and I’m going to—” 

Aiden opens his mouth and closes it again. 

“What?” 

He shakes his head, dropping his gaze. 

Leo scrubs a hand over his face. “Short story long, I’m sorry for panicking.” 

Aiden peeks up at him then looks down again. Slow and deliberate, he pulls his good hand out of his pocket. He keeps it low, arm bent just enough to allow him to turn his palm up. A suggestion of an invitation, rather than an overt one, and one that could easily be missed.

Leo can’t help but smile as he squeezes Aiden’s fingers. 

Now Aiden ducks his chin against his chest in a good way. Not quite smiling but almost. 

“How about some breakfast?” 

“Mmm’yeah…mmm’thank…you…” Aiden parses the words carefully.

“Eggs and toast sound okay? I think we’re out of bacon.” 

Aiden nods. “Mhm.” 

He’s agreeing too quickly, making himself easy and accommodating. Is it because he’s afraid or does he think he has something to make up for? Either way, it feels like backward progress and Leo wonders all over again how he will ever rise to this occasion. 

But he can think of worse ways to spend the rest of the day than trying to get a real smile out of Aiden. So at least he has somewhere to start.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

[billiebustup-confessions]

Confession #243

[Confession: I am going to be straight-up honest; I hate the Barnatoccio ship. I hate it so much. It's all cute n' stuff BUT OH MY GOD- I can't even find fanart of other bbu characters except BARNABY AND FANTOCCIO. "Oh Barnaby would- *insert fanon shit that is not even close to canon-ish for the character to do* Or "Fantoccio would do-" HELL NO. THEY WOULDN'T. Everytime I see a headcanon for these characters, it's always not even RELATED TO THEIR PERSONALITY or just sexualizes them for audicence/ creator appeal. I don't damn care what people say, Barnaby and Fantoccio are overrated characters to the point that I don't even seen them THAT likeable. And the amount of (Fem oc) x Barnaby just icks me. And really, there is so many people who just fanonizes the hell outta these characters till they're not even that recognizable.

It just pisses me off that just fanonizes Barnaby to be a “UwU sOfT BoY wHo wILl nEveR dO hARm" and Fantoccio to be this FREAKY AH PUPPET. OH. MY. GOD. ACCEPT THE FACT THAT THESE DUDES WOULD EITHER MURDER YOU AND EAT YOUR ORGANS FOR BREAKFAST OR MANIPULATE YOU LIKE A PUPPET AND USE YOU FOR ENTERTAINMENT OR CONTROL. I really hope that this fandom doesn't end up like FPE or sum shit like that.]

[whumpinthepot]

Whump prompt

Stalker obsessed with person A turns themself in to become a boxboy and be delivered to person A so that stalker can be owned by them and loved forever

[bookofnottheaxolotl]

The death of Aristotle Elmtwig

In short, Aristotle has just been reunited with Arthur, but the good feelings dont last long. This one is definately not for the faint of heart.

(Wrote this for my mutual @battersweet because they wanted to see Aristotle die a horrifying death.)

_______________________________________

As much as they had wanted to, Aristotle couldnt believe their eyes. Hadnt it been more than fifteen years? Hadnt there been nothing that suggested he was even alive?Regardless of all of that, this was realy happening. Arthur had returned.

Before Arthur could say a single word, Aristotle caught him in a nearly claustrofphobic embrace, not intending to let go anytime soon. Neither were sure how long the silence had lasted, when it was broken by an all too familiar voice. Dimitri.

"Would you look at that. At last, the two lovebirds are back together." "What do you want, Dimitri?" Arthur had hoped for some peace, but alas. "Dont you have anyone else to bother?" Dimitri though for a moment before replying. "Wow! Im bothering you!? Thats quite rich coming from the ones who always seem to be in the way of my plans."

"Considering most of your plans involve putting other people in danger to make yourself look like a hero, yes." This time it was Aristotle who spoke. However, before they could say anything else, Dimitri lashed out in rage.

The first spell he cast caught both Aristotle and Arthur off guard, and the force was enough to knock Aristotle back several meters. While Aristotle laid on his back trying to catch their breath, Arthur fired back a spell at their attacker. Dimitri, the coward that he was, fleed at the first sign of trouble.

The spell had hit Aristotle right in the chest, and the resulting injury was simply too much. Arthur ran over as fast as he could, but despite his best effords, by the time he was able to stop the bleeding, Aristotle has already lost too much blood. "Come on, Aristotle. Not now." Arthur cried, tears streaming down his face. "Not like this."

Despite everything, Aristotle felt unusualy calm. As the sunlight seemed to fade away, it dawned on them it was barely noon. They tried their best comfort Arthur, but his voice seemed to come from further and further away. Their hearing was the last sence to go, and Aristotle slowly fell into oblivion.