#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]

[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.

-

[distinctlywhumpthing]

idk about you but i would literally sell my firstborn for a future/more-recovered-aiden-chapter 👀

~ 🍯

Once upon a time, the scene of Aiden waking up in the back of Leo's van full of painting tools, thinking for a second he was seeing in monochrome would not leave me alone. Three years ago today, I posted the first part of Unintentional to start telling that story <3

As a postiversary present to everyone from the beginning (seriously, this ask is from 2022), here's a timeline jump. (Don't tell Leo, he's a real stickler for order.) Thanks for sticking with me and the boys <3

More Than This

Masterlist

Snap. 

Aiden huffs, twisting and grinding the broken pencil tip through the last stroke even as it threatens to tear through the paper under his force. 

He should be able to do this. It’s all he ever does now. Practice speaking, practice reading, practice writing. Follow the plans for eating, for exercising, for sleeping. He shouldn’t complain, he finally knows what to be. There was a time he’d have let a routine like this support him like it was his spine. He was given a role to play but all he does is just that: pretend. He hasn’t made progress in weeks. The only thing he knows is how precisely he is failing. 

Across the room, Leo stops typing. “Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been at it for a while.” 

He doesn’t need to look to know that Leo will have that concerned crease between his brows, mouth turned down at the corners as he tries to assess what the problem is this time. Aiden is nothing but problems. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters but of course Leo is coming over. Would have no matter what he’d said. 

Leo fills a glass at the sink and turns to lean against the counter across the island as he sips it. Aiden doesn’t want to see whatever look Leo is giving him that will just crumble his resolve. The triangles and circles on the page blur in and out of focus as he blinks back tears. Tears from the strain of making his damaged, useless brain process not-even-fucking-letters for the last few hours. Nothing else.

When Leo finishes his water, he fills a glass for Aiden, slides it in front of him. “I’ll do some work with you then.” 

“No.” He definitely can’t look at Leo now. 

Leo takes a measured pause.

The apology is on the tip of Aiden’s tongue but he keeps his jaw locked. Harder to stave off are the physical reactions. His body wants to shrink away, to flinch and hide and beg and be hurt and held. He tightens his fist around the pencil, pulling it into his lap to hide that he’s shaking. 

“I know you want to make progress but it’s okay to take breaks.” Leo makes his voice gentle, tiptoeing through the minefield between them. "It’s not going to send you back, you’ve been working hard.”

“Nnnno. I…mmm—” He shakes his head as if he could shake off the rising frustration coming up to tighten around his temples, his throat, his chest. He’s been trying to avoid the stuttered conjunction between every word, always made worse by times like this. Harrison guaranteed he would never get out of a painful situation too quickly. 

Leo steps up to the other side of the island, leaning onto his elbows to lower himself into Aiden’s line of sight. “C’mon…”

He shakes his head, can’t trust himself to speak coherently. He’s being stubborn and stupid. Harrison would have threatened him by now if he hadn’t already backhanded him. He never dreamed of pulling something like this back with Archer or the Songs.

  “Alright, hon.” Leo gave him one last long-suffering smile and turned back to the sink. 

Aiden swallowed a sob, furiously blinking away hot tears prickling his eyes. Leo was never going to push him more than a little. Lead him to whatever line he’d drawn or found, offer to help him step over it, but be the first to abandon the idea if it was too much. 

“Why?”

Leo shut off the tap. “Pardon?” He dries his hands on the bright salmon-pink tea towel threaded through the pull for the dishwasher. Delia says I shouldn’t be so allergic to real colors, he explained when Aiden pulled it out from the perfectly folded stack of muted earth-toned cotton in the cabinet.  

“Why?” Aiden repeats, voice strained by the tightening in his chest. “I…don’t…mmm—” He squeezes his eyes shut, pushes past the stupid mumbling. “Why?”

“Why what, hon?” Frustratingly calm and earnest, so eager to help in whatever he can. 

Aiden wants to scream. It’s not fair, it isn’t Leo’s fault, but whatever has been sparked rages inside him beyond his control. “Why…do…mmm…mmm—” He mashes his lips together, forcing his lungs to fill with air. He will not start crying. 

Leo tilts his head to the side. “Why do I…help?” Aiden shakes his head, huffing out a breath that is perilously close to a sob. “Why do I…care?” 

It puts a rock right in the middle of his throat. He lifts his chin a fraction. 

Defiant despite having literally no ground to stand on, Harrison used to taunt when Aiden was strung up on his table. 

“Because I do. I do care about you…” 

Aiden’s heart skitters in his chest. He looks away, all the wind gone from his sails because he’s as easily swayed as a feather. No. He won’t be weak, pathetic, and needy. He’s angry right now. Frustrated and bitter. 

“There’s no one reason—”

“I…don’t—mmm—mmm—” He clenches his teeth together until they creak in the back of his jaw, blinking away more of the hot tears that refuse to fucking stop pooling in his eyes. 

Leo stands there calmly, crease between his brows confirming that he doesn’t like what he’s seeing. He’s worried. Always so worried and concerned and caring. 

Because he cares. 

Aiden stands, pushing away from the island and Leo. “I-I-I-I—” God, he wants to break something when it's like this. A wall he is just banging his head against, all the while becoming less coherent.

“Breathe,” Leo says, slowly rounding the end of the island toward him. “It will come. Just—”

“No. I…mmm…don’t…w-w-mmm—Fuck!” He slams his fist down on the counter. 

Leo doesn’t even flinch. 

Why should he? Of course he wouldn’t flinch. 

Aiden moves away from him, starts pacing back and forth. He wishes he could run, pound his feet into pavement until it dulls whatever is going on inside his head. 

“Aiden—“

“Not…mmm’my name.”

Leo’s expression falters. 

It’s a low blow. Aiden knows it, they both know it. All it does is deepen the disparity between them. Making him all the more desperate as Leo regains his composure. 

“If you want a different name—if you want me to stop calling you that, all you have to do is tell me.”

How can Leo be even calmer than before?

A sob escapes Aiden’s throat before he can swallow it. He turns away, circling the island to put it between them again. He doesn’t want Leo trying to comfort him. He doesn’t want it and he doesn’t deserve it. 

“I don’t want you to keep the name just because at the time you thought it was my place to give it. That’s not how I saw it then and that’s certainly not how I see things now.” 

Shame is oil on the fire, it only burns hotter. “Doesn’t…mmm’matter…”

“It does to me. I’ve never seen you as a Companion or treated you like one. I don’t expect anything, you know that.” 

“Fuck…you.” He surprises himself but pushes on anyway. Even steps forward so they’re closer, eye-to-eye, bold with the slab of stone between them. “That…doesn’t—doesn’t mmm’make a…difference. Doesn’t mmm’make..mmm’me…different—”

“Wait, that’s not what I’m saying—” 

“You—”

“I didn’t mean—”

He raises his voice to speak over Leo. “I’m’mmm…that’s…what-what…I am…” 

Leo waits to make sure he’s finished this time. The stretching silence makes his shouting seem ridiculous and Aiden burns under the unearned patience, the undeserved consideration. 

“I know,” Leo finally says.

“If you…don’t…mmm’w-w-want…this…why?”

Leo’s face falls and Aiden almost goes with it. He backs away from the gaping hole in his resolve. One misstep and he’ll be at the bottom of it, down on his knees. Putting a chink in Leo’s composure is no kind of feat. It only makes him feel that much closer to coming apart entirely. 

“Please,” Leo moves around the island, trying to get onto the same side as Aiden again. “It’s not that black and white—”

“Mmm…yes…it-is.” 

“But—”

“You-you…mmm…hate…it—” He points at Leo. Anyone else would have broken his accusatory finger. “You…hate…this…mmm’what…I am’mmm—” He backs away shaking his head. 

“Wait, no. Aiden, that’s not what I meant. You misunderstood—”

“No!” He wants to hit the ceiling. Better yet, put his whole body through a wall and get the fuck away from here. From these feelings. Leo wouldn’t follow if he went up to his room. Not even if he slammed the door and started breaking things. But he can’t. He’s only acting brave enough to set this fire, he could never leave the blaze unattended. Just like he’s only acting like he’s recovering into a real person.

It’s all just acting. None of it is real. 

Why?

He’s trapped and boiling, glaring at the charcoal-grey cabinets. He once put his fist through another one. A honeyed pine varnish with dark grain, an arched frame around the flimsy middle panel of each one. Hardly took any force to slam through it but he put his whole weight behind his fist anyway. 

Of course, Leo’s damn cabinets are solid wood. 

He cries out, turning away from Leo to slide down the cabinet he hasn’t so much as dented, cradling his hand against his chest. No point holding anything back now. He’s sobbing by the time he hits the floor, curling up tightly. 

When Leo comes over, Aiden’s reaction slips out before he can catch it. He shrinks back, sobs turning to whimpers. “Please…mmm’sorry, mmm’sorry…mmm’good—” He can almost see himself from above, staring up at Leo with those distrustful, unblinking eyes. Lips still moving through the shapes of pleas he’s crying too hard to vocalize. 

He hates that less-than-person. How little it controls and how much power it still holds. His shameless meltdown only puts him back exactly where he belongs. He’ll never be anything different. 

“I know, I know. You are good.” Leo kneels carefully, holding his hand out, palm up, between them.  “You don’t have to be sorry, it’s all good.” 

Aiden shakes his head, gulping in air between sobs, knuckles throbbing. “I didn’t—didn’t mmm’mean…” He didn’t know if the apology was for trying to ruin Leo’s kitchen or for exploding or for falling back on old habits. 

“I know, it’s okay. We’re good. Come on, let me give you a hand?” 

He swallows and tries to take a deep breath. Tries to compose himself, tries to get his mind to stop spinning through replaying and catastrophizing. He just wants—He needs—

“I—I used…t’be mmm’more than…this,” he blurts. 

Leo stops waiting for Aiden to take his hand and slides in next to him against the cabinets instead. They sit in silence long enough that Aiden starts to wonder if Leo even heard him but Leo finally says, “I know.”

Aiden bites his lip, afraid to look at Leo but he can’t look too closely at his hand or he’ll draw unwarranted concern. 

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me,” Leo says after another long pause. “I care about you. I’m here for all of it and I’m not going anywhere. I think maybe you know that or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“It's okay, hon. We're figuring things out as we go."  

Leo always means what he says so Aiden looks up, it’s for a different kind of reassurance. Leo gives him his half-smile, reaching out to squeeze the back of his neck. Goosebumps run down Aidne’s spine and he drops his head onto his knees, hiding his face. Leo wraps an arm around his back. 

Aiden has long since stopped preparing himself for Leo to pull away before he’s ready by the time Leo says, “So, how about that break?” 

He lifts his head from Leo’s shoulder, trying to gauge what he means.

Leo pulls him to his feet. “Come on, let’s go for a drive.” 

And his heart falls.

Masterlist

@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 @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps

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

@whumps-and-bumps @i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney (og asker?)

[sindrakart]

HES HERE

[gone-wrong-au]

Part 1.5! Theres supposed to be another page but I don’t wanna be up all night working on it nor delay it any more, so, have the first page in the form of part 1.5!!

Prev - Next

[chaoticmoron]

The show went horribly wrong.

I WANNA MAKE THIS AN AU WHAT SHOULD I CALL IT--

[justplainwhump]

They deserve it

This is a prompt fill for Day 3 of Whumpmas in July, @whumpmasinjuly-archive.

Set in parallel to the beginning of my BBU series Pet Safety, refers to the first two chapters.

Renee is just being a very creepy person.

Content / warnings: BBU, voyeuristic whumper pov, creepy/sadistic whumper, mention of (group) noncon, filmed whump, forced to watch, demeaning language, this is pretty rough in general. Also short pregnancy mention but that is in no way part of the whump, and not related to whumpee.

Renee has never told Cory, that she's paid WRU's refurb unit double to be sent the tapes of their pets' processing. He wouldn't understand, she wagered. Her husband had always had a soft spot for his plaything.

So she patiently waits until he is at work, before she puts on a record of Haydn's "The Creation" and then curls up on the couch to watch the tapes for a third time, just as the first soloist starts to sing.

They're vile, these videos, but it's that particular, thrilling flavor of vile, that makes the hair on her arms stand up and her heart flutter.

It's nothing sexual that she feels, as she watches Cory's pathetic little WRU whore writhe in the brutal hold of two sturdy Guards, underlined with Haydn's magnificent music. It's another sort of pleasure. Peace of mind, maybe.

The pet on the screen is in a disgusting state, covered in blood and come. One of the men in the video fucks her roughly from behind, the other lands punch after punch. And next to them, fixed to the white wall with clinical looking fastings, Renee's own pet, the good, perfect Rosa, cannot to anything but watch.

Renee smiles at the perfect composition of that ensemble. It's the same lazy, content smile she sees on her friends faces after a holiday or a day at the spa. She's ordered that treatment, after a short consultation with WRU Customer Satisfaction.

They deserve it.

Blanca deserves it for her audacity.

Rosa deserves it for her lack in loyalty.

Cory deserves it, for the too long looks he liked to spare for Blanca, for the lingering touches, for the barely veiled adoration of her whore body.

On screen, when the man pulls out, lets her drop to the floor like a wet rag only to make space for a fresh team, Blanca doesn't even react any longer. Pathetic.

Renee hums and takes a sip of that pricey, fizzy non-alcoholic peach drink she's bought just for this occasion and imagines it's champagne. She has to take care of herself and her body these days. Not too much stress, the doctor has ordered.

Good that she has just the way to unwind.

The video is silent, but it's easy to see that Rosa's cries must be devastating, as she witnesses the wayward pet get beautifully, perfectly ruined.

She'll never forget her place again.

Renee smiles fondly and rests a hand her rounded belly. There's a month or so still, until Rosa is needed back here, to fulfill the duty she's been purchased for.

WRU assured her that Rosa's loyalty would never be diverted again.

On the screen, a handler drags Blanca's lifeless body away.

"Bye bye," Renee whispers, and lifts the champagne flute to her lips.

Only Rosa remains in the white room, crying, strung up on the wall. Renee zooms in on her teary face and smiles softly. The video won't end for another 43 minutes. And, just like the last two times, Renee is not going to miss a second of it.

[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.

[bbufann]

brighter version for my mobile users and also because it is hard to see

[modgirlyreposts-revamped]

Bro could’ve said literally anything else before that segway to the break- 😭😭

[distinctlywhumpthing]

This Time

(Unintentional 30)

Previous — Masterlist — Next

CW: BBU-adjacent (institutionalized slavery), brief references to past-beating, fear of noncon drugging. It's the boys' first time out in public together, we're being gentle, this is practically all fluff. Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

When it’s seven o’clock and not a minute sooner, Leo says, “I’d feel better if you came with me.” He almost adds ‘this time’ and wonders if Aiden is also remembering the last time Leo left him alone while he ran into a store. 

Aiden’s eyes widen. “I…mmm…I…” He timidly raises a hand to the base of his throat, gaze falling as he does it. 

Leo tries not to read shame into his uncertainty. He clears his throat, wanting to sound as casual as possible. “I know. I looked it up and the law says you just need some form of identification on you. It doesn’t have to be…uh…” Nope, he can’t say it out loud. “But that’s really more if you’re on your own. If you’re accompanied…” 

He will also not be repeating the stipulation that in the absence of ‘wearable restraints’, anyone with a ‘plausible reason or concern’ may request that Leo ‘subdue’ Aiden or they are within their rights to do so themselves ‘by any means necessary’. Which unfortunately “explains” the bastards who tore him from the van that first night.

Leo runs a hand over his hair. “We’ll be in and out in five minutes, it’ll be fine.” 

Halfway to the door, Aiden loses his footing. Leo’s ready though, catching him with an arm threaded under his shoulders. 

“Mmm’sorry…” Aiden clutches Leo’s sleeve with his uninjured hand, leaning into him to steady himself. He doesn’t let go once he’s standing so Leo keeps an arm around him.

“No worries. It’s icy as hell and Converse aren’t exactly known for their traction.” They’re also not very warm so Leo ushers the wobbly kid on, making sure to steer him where there’s road salt or dry patches.

 They pause outside the door so he can pull Aiden’s hood off and make sure the scars on the back of his neck are covered by its fabric. “Hands out, right?” he reminds. Aiden nods. 

The last thing they need is some racist assistant manager on a power trip insisting on frisking him. Just the thought has Leo rethinking this whole stop. He’d never be able to stand aside and let that happen. The poor kid has already seen the worst at the hands of strangers; there’s no telling what reaction yet another pair might set off. Leo might be able to spare him the experience by outing him as a Companion but that isn’t exactly risk-free either. Leo doesn’t think he’d be able to make a passable demonstration of the “justice” he’d rain down later on his sticky-fingered Companion and even if he could, he’s pretty sure Aiden wouldn’t be play-acting terrified. After what he already had to put the kid through tonight, he doesn’t want to risk anything else testing the fragile trust between them. 

Aiden shifts from one foot to the other. Leo’s hesitance is making him even more nervous. The parking lot is still empty and Delia’s car has real locks and an alarm he’d hear from inside. Maybe there’s no need to take any risk—

“What-what…if…mmm’I…mmm…” Aiden looks over his shoulder to where he just slipped, furrowing his brow. 

There’s no way Leo can bring him back to the car now, not without confirming that he doesn’t trust him to manage his own two feet either. Sure, he’s not very stable on ice but it’s been weeks since he tripped in the house. Regardless, it’s one hypothetical Leo would happily handle.  

“You’ll be fine, you can do this.” 

Aiden drops his gaze. Leo can’t tell if it’s because he’s shy about the encouragement or if he thinks it’s just empty words. 

“I’ve got your back, kiddo,” he says, straightening Aiden’s beanie that doesn’t need straightening. “I’ll catch you if you trip again.” 

Aiden meets his eyes and only searches them for a second before nodding. 

Any remaining apprehension on Aiden’s part is eclipsed by a quiet overwhelm once they step through the door. His eyes widen and he looks even smaller surrounded by the full shelves, under fluorescent lights. He follows Leo closely, practically brushing against his side as though they’re jostling through a crowd and might get separated even though there’s no one else in sight. 

Leo steers his mind away from wondering too much about the last time Aiden was in a store. 

They walk along the even-brighter cosmetic aisle toward the prescription counter at the back. Aiden looks away from the little mirrors framed by bright red, pink, and coral lipsticks. His eyes trace the bottles on the other side instead, shampoos in colorful plastic, hairsprays in metallic spray cans, and gels in an array of containers all lined up in rows. He keeps his arms perfectly straight and pinned to his sides but his fingers twitch there. Like maybe he wants to touch something but he thinks he’s not allowed to. 

Leo pauses by the shower gel, earning a concerned if not startled stare from Aiden. “Easy, all good. Why don’t we pick one you like?” 

Aiden looks at him like he just suggested flying to Mars. 

Leo picks up the brightest red bottle, flips the cap open and sniffs. Nothing special, just a generic soap smell. He holds it out for Aiden who, slowly, eyes flicking up to Leo’s three times before he leans forward all the way, inhales too. 

“Anything?” 

He shrugs noncommittally, nervous now that Leo’s put him on the spot but Leo wants this to be light and fun, though that might be a leap. He goes for one that says ‘coconut-something island bliss’ in a yellow bottle. Smells nice enough. Aiden leans in a bit easier this time and, though barely discernible, wrinkles his nose. 

“I think not,” Leo offers. 

Aiden shakes his head. 

“Go on, pick another one.” 

He bites his lip and raises his good hand. Hesitates a few times as he scans the shelf before pausing in front of a teal bottle. His fingertips rub together absently as his gaze slides over to Leo, who gives him a reassuring nod. He carefully picks it up. Luckily, this one only needs to be pressed down to be opened and he gets it right away. He holds it out to Leo first—something floral this time—just shrugging once he smells it himself. 

But now he’s into it. 

Leo pulls a pink bottle off the shelf as Aiden chooses purple. Their arms cross in the air when they hold them out to each other and Aiden’s lips almost twitch into a smile. Leo wants to beam but he forces himself to play it cool. 

Aiden replaces his bottle and picks another red, ‘blood-orange orchid blossom’. It smells only of citrus because last time Leo checked, orchids don’t smell like anything so why even call it that except to fool people into paying more for something just because it sounds fancy?  

A black Axe bottle Leo is relieved Aiden also hates, Irish Spring, a classic Dove. Aiden only has trouble with one of the tops. Leo worries it’ll kill the moment but Aiden just passes it to him and finds another bottle. 

After a few more, Aiden goes back for the purple, or actually, ‘lavender fields in summer’, pulling it off the shelf again with about as much confidence as if he were playing Russian roulette. 

“Nice, good job.” 

Aiden huffs and tucks his chin against his chest, hiding a small smile that might just be relief but Leo hopes is something more. They feel different, this smile and the one in the car. Leo can’t put his finger on how they’re different but he finds himself willing to do just about anything to see one again. 

He has another internal debate about whether or not Aiden should be next to him at the prescription counter. In the end, he decides it can only help his case later if a neutral third party explains the medications to them both. 

The pharmacist is young and way too energetic for seven in the morning. Leo makes zero effort to match the vibe. He slides his license across the counter. “Hi, I’m here to pick up some prescriptions, please. Marshall.” 

“Marshall, Marshall, Marshall,” she repeats as she searches the system. “Leo?” she asks like it’s not on the license she’s holding. 

“Yep.” She passes it back and disappears behind the shelves. 

Aiden’s still as stone beside him. Leo smiles reassuringly but it’s no match for the basket of prescription bottles the pharmacist returns with. He should have read Noah’s notes to know exactly what they were getting into. 

A two-week course of—thankfully—liquid amoxicillin. High-dose naproxen for pain as needed. A refill of his paroxetine thanks to Delia. She’s good. He definitely would have skipped it to reduce the sheer volume of pills he would be picking up with Aiden. At least the pharmacist skips the instructions because she can see it’s a refill of a medication he’s been taking for years. 

The last is the worst. Alprazolam with an over-the-top warning that it “causes extreme drowsiness” and “do not operate heavy machinery”. Finally, the real nail in the coffin: “it’s a potent tranquilizer.” Five doses, no refills. He definitely should have read Noah’s notes first. 

Leo rushes to end the exchange and move on to damage control. He grabs a basket from the stack, sweeps the medications in, and resists the urge to rush Aiden out of the whole damn store. He walks them to the far right, along the cold cases of sodas and drinks and freezers filled with ice cream, bags of ice, and a smattering of frozen dinners, mostly for one. The opposite side of the aisle is lined with chips but Aiden’s eyes are glued to the pile of white paper bags in the red plastic basket. 

Christ, where to start? 

“Aiden, can you look at me?” He does, of course. Eyes shining and full of betrayal. “Hon, I know you heard some things back there—” 

“...good…” 

“What?” 

Aiden swallows, wets his lips. He’s clutching the bottle of body wash like it’s keeping him upright. “I-I-I’ll…be…mmm…good.” His eyes flick to the basket and back to Leo’s, pleading. 

“Of course you will. You are good. You’re always good, I know that.” 

No dice. Leo’s reassurances mean nothing, not with what he’s holding. He drops the basket behind him, an arm’s length away. The gesture is met with open suspicion. 

“Hon, the only thing in there that you have to take are the antibiotics. To fight off the infection in your hand. The liquid one Delia talked about, right?” 

He nods once but his eyes narrow. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Delia and Noah only wrote the other prescriptions to give you options. The pain killers, the anxiety pills, they’re only if you want them.” 

Aiden’s expression crumples and he shakes his head. Distressed by the suggestion that he would ever choose to take anything? Or can he only see the whole thing as a trick, a mockery of his agency or lack thereof? 

Leo’s heart aches for him. There’s nothing he can say that will erase all of that history or make it any easier to carry. “Okay, okay. I know this is overwhelming but I wanted you to hear it for yourself. I mean, from someone other than me. That way when you… If you… You can decide…” Aiden looks at him miserably, eyes still burning with betrayal. Leo’s only digging himself deeper. “One of the prescriptions is for me anyway,” he flounders. “Let’s just—” He reaches for Aiden’s shoulder but he steps back, out of reach. 

For a moment they just stare at each other. 

Aiden takes another step back and his eyes widen, surprised to find himself where he’s just stepped. Surprised Leo hasn’t grabbed him yet. His gaze slides from Leo’s face to a point over his shoulder and Leo’s heart sinks. 

The door? Would he run? Aiden takes a step forward, eyes still locked over Leo’s shoulder. 

“Wait—” Leo can’t handle the thought of losing this kid for the third time tonight. His eyes film over with tears. “Ple—”

Instead of walking around him, Aiden steps right into his arms. 

And then the sound hits his ears and Leo turns, shuffling Aiden behind his back for the shelter he was seeking. He wasn’t trying to run, he heard people coming in. He leans into Leo’s back, free hand gripping a fistful of Leo’s jacket so tightly Leo can feel how hard he’s shaking. They don’t have much of a height difference but he’s ducked his head to try to hide better, Leo can feel his cheek against his shoulder blade. 

It’s no wonder why—though Leo is impressed by his hearing—the guys are similar enough to the group that beat the shit out of him that first day. They laugh and banter their way to the first case in the aisle like this is just one stop in a fun night that’s still going. They pull out a six-pack of Red Bull and head to the registers without so much as a glance Leo’s way. 

He doesn’t move until Aiden does and Aiden waits until they’ve picked out a scratch-off and multiple vape flavors, joking with the cashier. Leo doesn’t bother keeping the judgment off his face with Aiden tucked behind his back. They stay, frozen like that until the pair amble out of the store. 

Aiden straightens, releasing Leo’s coat as soon as the first set of automatic doors slides shut. Leo turns to find him staring ahead unseeing, bottle in one hand and the other still closed into a tight fist. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Leo keeps his voice a whisper, all too aware they’re still in public. “It’s all right, they’re gone.” 

Aiden nods but only reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut once, twice, blinking away more tears each time he opens them. His fist trembles between them, arm still locked where it was holding Leo’s coat. 

Leo’s nervous to touch the poor kid considering the mental whiplash he must have—thinking Leo might drug him against his will only to be forced to depend on him for some semblance of safety—but if Aiden’s clenching his fist as tight as it looks, he’s putting too much strain on his stitches. 

“Can I give you a hand?” Leo holds his out, palm up. 

A few days ago, he’d spent a whole bathroom re-tile brainstorming a phrase to use during these moments when he didn’t know where to begin. Something neutral, not explicitly offering help but still open-ended enough that Aiden might get what he needed.  

Without even looking, Aiden drops his hand into Leo’s, uncurling his shaking fingers to grip him tightly. Leo’s momentarily dumbstruck that it worked. Has to be a fluke. 

“You’re doing great. We’re almost done.” He wraps his other arm around Aiden who shudders, finally exhaling. Leo wishes he could just hold him properly, until he stopped shaking, until he felt safe, no matter how long it took. “I just need to grab a few more things and then we’re outta here.” He gives Aiden one last squeeze before releasing him. 

The list from Noah is actually in his sister’s handwriting, first the prescriptions with more specific instructions and then a bunch of other things. Before he attaches himself to that fucking depository of pills again, he grabs a bag of pretzels and another of popcorn off the shelf to add to the basket. It’s an obvious move but at least now the prescription bags aren’t staring at them.

“Sterile gauze and bandages,” he tells Aiden, who nods stiffly, falling in to shadow him as he weaves through the store. He could move faster but he can’t risk anything else going wrong just now. 

Aiden doesn’t react to anything else Leo adds to the basket. As much as Leo wants to involve him, give him some choice or context, he can see the kid is dead on his feet. He is too, has been all night. 

Clothing basics happen to be at the end of the last aisle on their way to the registers. Leo wonders how bad is it to get some for Aiden now. Probably not as bad as it was to let him go this long constantly borrowing Leo’s. A pack of t-shirts, a pack of boxers, a pack of socks. Black for sure to avoid his tendency to flat-out panic about stains. Evidently, even this strip mall CVS is influenced by the pretentiousness of the surrounding area: there’s a choice of organic cotton that costs about forty percent more. Leo wonders if that means he can permit himself to feel forty percent less shitty for not getting Aiden even one thing to call his own sooner. 

He’s not sure what to expect when they get to the register. The woman in her mid-forties has hoops in her ears and acrylic French tips tapping on the side of her lime green phone case. She unabashedly continues scrolling, even after Leo says hello until he finishes unloading the basket. 

“Morning,” she says offhandedly as she starts scanning and bagging. 

When Leo leans away stack away the empty basket, Aiden steps forward to soundlessly place the bottle of body wash on the counter. 

“And good morning to you too, darlin’,” the cashier says, winking theatrically. 

Leo is about to step in front of him, make some remark about the weather to pull focus, but Aiden flashes her a smile that is as dazzling as it is vacant. Leo finds it unsettling but the cashier laughs, joking about how Aiden should look her up when he’s ten years older. Leo forces a chuckle as he pays, shoving the receipt in his coat and telling her to have a nice day while he grabs the bags off the counter. 

She returns the pleasantries and waves at Aiden. Leo’s jaw almost hits the floor when Aiden wiggles his fingers back as they walk away. 

Outside, Leo shifts all the bags to one side, turning to offer Aiden his other arm. 

He holds on right away, glancing around nervously like he's a deer about to step into an open field. He can’t seem to decide if he should watch his footing or surroundings. The street lights cast harsh angles on his face, hollowing his cheeks and throat, deepening the weariness under his eyes. 

Night and day from the mask of a smile he’d pulled on inside and haunting in an entirely different way. Leo is struck again by how little he knows about Aiden, how much he may never know, and the fact that if he’s going to do right by him, he’ll have to be ready for it all.

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@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 @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps 

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

[ssstupid-sssnake]

Finally got around to making fanart for @gone-wrong-au !!! :}

[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

[gone-wrong-au]

GONE WRONG AU OFFICIAL BLOG

⚠️ WARNING: BLOG WILL INCLUDE TOPICS SUCH AS: ⚠️

CHARACTER DEATH BLOOD GORE SAD THEMES BLAMING OF ONESELF

The “Gone Wrong” AU is a Billie Bust Up AU where Fantoccio’s show with Billie went horribly wrong.

Occasional comic strips will be posted, adding onto the story.

The two main people to ask right now are:

FANTOCCIO BILLIE

—

Semi-Selective roleplays. This blog is mostly for the AU, though ask box is open to both the mod, and the characters.

Questions relating to production of the blog can go to @chaoticmoron

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