#or whump adjacent at least

[distinctlywhumpthing]

would aiden be able to correctly say leo’s name, since he has problems with his speech? would it be different to the whole master / mister situation ? but on the other hand, if he did that would probably mean he would recognize that he is somewhat safe (and not expected to be a pet) ? which would make me just sob

Unintentional 24

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As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Surgical/medical whump, hospital setting.

“Alright, up you go.” 

Leo had to let Aiden’s hand go to move out of the way so Delia and Noah could help him out of the wheelchair to sit on the bed of the MRI machine. Aiden looked like he was holding his breath, all wide-eyed under the doctors’ hands even though neither one was wearing gloves and they kept up a steady stream of reassurances. 

It reminded Leo of that first day when the kid had grabbed a paint scraper and made like he was going to attack but went blank as soon as Leo touched him. It had happened a couple of times since. Aiden would just remove himself from the equation entirely like he had no say or didn’t want one. It always unsettled Leo. 

“You’re doing great,” Delia said. “Have you had an MRI before?” 

Aiden nodded, one bob of his head followed by the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed nervously. The tears had started as soon as they’d entered the room. Just silently falling but he kept his jaw set in what Leo hoped was determination. 

He gave Aiden his best reassuring smile, shifting from one foot to the other, hands jammed in his pockets. He didn’t want to crowd them but he felt weird standing away and just watching. 

But what could he do? 

This might be difficult but it was also important. Leo had already tried his luck going in blind and that had almost ended in catastrophe. He needed to know more if he was going to do a better job. 

They’d explained it to Aiden and he’d agreed. 

It wasn’t like Aiden was going to be able to tell them what he’d been through or what suffering he might still be enduring. He’d had already done so well with the IV and letting Delia redress his arm. 

Were they asking too much of him? 

Just because the MRI was painless didn’t mean it would be easier but his earlier successes had seemed promising. Still, there was no telling what kind of history they were pushing Aiden to confront with this next ask. It wasn’t as if his agreement offered any reassurance either.

He’d agree to fucking anything and everything. Whatever he thought they wanted or needed no matter what it cost him. That was the whole goddamn point of the Companion enterprise. Aiden had been relieved of his agency. It didn’t matter if they asked and triple-checked or praised him for giving them some answer so maybe the next one would come easier. It was asking too much of him. 

Delia had told Leo it was dubious consent and that it was all they could get at this stage anyway.

They needed these answers. They needed fucking anything to go off.

This was their best chance. 

“Okay, so you know what to expect…” Noah started to explain the process anyway. 

Aside from his eyes, flicking between their faces, blinking tears free with each pass, Aiden was perfectly still. Leo couldn’t tell if Aiden had stopped holding his breath yet. Probably not because Delia was checking over his bandages one more time. Leo didn’t know what he could do to make this any easier.

When Noah lifted some plastic contraption off the table, Aiden hiccuped a sob. 

Delia rubbed his back. “Are you doing alright?”

He nodded but also seemed to sink a little deeper into being absent, gaze becoming less focused. 

It made Leo’s chest feel tight. Or maybe it was residual stress from sneaking through the hallways to get here.

“Alright, let’s get you settled in.” 

He cleared his throat to ask if Aiden needed a minute but Noah was already helping Aiden lie down and he was going, if a little too easily. They pulled a blanket over him and then started fitting the headframe. 

When Delia snapped the first clip closed, Aiden whimpered and grabbed hold of the edges of the bed, fingers creating visible dents in the plastic cushioning. 

Leo halved the distance between them without even realizing he’d moved. “Aiden––”

“You doing alright, Hon?” Delia asked. Leo held his breath, waiting for the answer.

“Mmm…yeah…mmm’good….mmm’sorry...mmm’sorry…” His voice was thin with hardly any weight behind it. 

“It’s okay. You’re doing great, Aiden.”

Snap. 

Aiden continued the string of mumbled apologies. A reflex. One that he was so accustomed to, he didn’t even notice he’d forgotten to turn it off. 

Snap.

His voice started fading, down to syllables breathed instead of words spoken. The pauses between growing longer, sounds coming slower. 

Snap. 

Like he was drowning. 

Leo craned to see Aiden’s face over Delia’s shoulder but he couldn’t find the right angle in the spaces between the headframe and Noah fussing over the machine settings. Delia was explaining what she was doing, speaking to Aiden normally. He was probably fine. 

Well, not fine, but as good as he could be, all things considered. It would be counterproductive if the kid saw him panicking. Leo forced himself to take a deep breath. He was just tired and irrational, strung out on adrenaline and a healthy dose of guilt. 

Which was even worse now that he’d put this burden on Aiden’s shoulders, all the pressure to get answers. He wished he could have been good enough to not need them. 

He jammed his fists back into his pockets and made himself step back, swallowing his discomfort. 

There was no way he could have heard it.

He probably just imagined it. 

At the same time as the last snap.

And Noah saying, “Alrighty.” 

And Delia repeating, “All set. You’re doing great.” 

Maybe he felt it more than heard it. A tear falling, his heart beating. 

“…Leo?” 

It felt like the floor fell out from beneath him.

“Wait, stop!” He rushed forward. “Delia, take it off.”

She hesitated, hands hovering above the last clip. “What?” 

Aiden’s gaze was unfocused but his face betrayed no signs of discomfort.

“He said—I thought…” Maybe Leo had just imagined it. But the uneasiness continued to sink into his diaphragm, making his chest feel tight and his hands tingle. Things hadn’t felt right from the second they’d walked in here. “Never mind. Just take it off, it’s not okay. This isn’t okay.” He started fumbling with the clips himself until Delia and Noah took over, quickly removing the frame and helping Aiden to sit. 

He blinked at Leo. Well, more like at the wall beyond Leo’s left ear. Attentive but avoiding direct eye contact. Like he had done something wrong. He thought he was in trouble. 

Leo’s urgency evaporated, replaced by guilt and a familiar ache. He was always one step off-beat. Too little, too late. He took a deep breath and tried to keep the intensity he was feeling out of his voice. He’d already scared Aiden enough. “Sweetheart, you’re good. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s okay.” 

Wide, shining eyes finally slid over to meet his. 

“Hey—” He reached out to wipe a tear off the boy’s cheek with his thumb. “Aiden, you don’t have to do the scan. I was wrong. I thought—” 

Aiden tipped into him and as soon as Leo hugged him back, he looped his arms around Leo’s neck and started sobbing. 

“Okay, okay. Alright, sweetheart.” Leo wrapped his arms tighter around Aiden and pulled him close. Gave him the kind of hug he’d always been afraid would feel like a trap. He was starting to see it had a different purpose. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Aiden.”

Maybe Leo had only imagined Aiden saying his name but at least it meant Leo had heard him when he wasn’t okay. 

Delia wrung her hands. “I’m sorry, Leo. I thought he was managing—”

He waved her off, shaking his head. “It’s okay, my fault,” he whispered. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Of course,” she said quickly, turning toward the door. 

Noah hesitated and looked at his watch but Delia clicked her tongue and grabbed him by the sleeve. 

Aiden had settled into crying quietly, something closer to whimpering. 

“Hey, come on. Let’s get you away from all this.” Leo slid an arm under Aiden’s knees and scooped him up. He carried him into the observation room on the other side of the glass. They hadn’t turned on the lights in here so it wasn’t as bright. Just a couple of chairs and three dark monitors on the desk facing the window. 

Leo wished he could carry Aiden straight home where he knew they were safe. As safe as they could ever be in this situation they’d found themselves in. 

They would get there. 

Right now, they had a shrinking window.

He carefully set Aiden in one of the chairs and stepped back to pull one over for himself. 

That’s when he saw it. 

Aiden’s hands, resting in his lap. A posture so ordinary, he would have dismissed it immediately to look somewhere else. Aiden’s hands were shadowing Leo. Millimeter by millimeter. He never would have noticed if he hadn’t been watching it happen. 

Not following but reaching. 

It was so simple. How had he been so blind? 

He sat as close as he could, so their knees were almost touching, and gathered Aiden’s shaking hands in his own. Aiden held him back, fingertips curling into his palms and wrists. Trying to tether himself to the contact, to the closeness, to the comfort. 

It was so fucking simple. 

Aiden only held on tighter when a tear slid down Leo’s cheek. 

And then the words came tumbling out, breathless and without any pause because he couldn’t let Aiden wait another second, not even for Leo to compose himself with a breath. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Aiden. I’m sorry I didn’t get it and I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry you were alone. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you in time. I’m so sorry.”

Aiden opened his mouth like he was going to say something. Closed it instead and shook his head. His eyes fell from Leo’s face, his brow knitting together, and he started to pull his hands away. 

“Hey, look at me.” Leo held onto both of Aiden’s hands in one of his and used the other to lift Aiden’s chin. “It is not your fault, sweetheart. We’re going to figure this out. Together, I promise.” 

Aiden searched his face, just like always. 

This time was different. Leo could see it was more, feel it was more. It wasn’t simply Aiden searching for a trap or a threat, purely defensive. 

It was equally vulnerable. Always had been. 

Aiden could still manage to strike a match amidst all of the darkness he had encountered and still had shadowing him. Unfailingly producing a fragile flame to hold up to Leo. And in doing so, illuminating just as much of himself. 

It was an opportunity, it was a chance. 

To shelter the delicate light between them and share in its warmth. 

To be seen, to be known. 

And Aiden was inviting him. Aiden was giving it to him. He wanted Leo to step closer, cup his hands around the flame and never leave him in the dark again. 

After a minute, Aiden held onto Leo again, just a little more timidly than before, and Leo had made up his mind. 

It was so fucking simple. 

He took a deep breath. “Aiden, I need to tell you something.”

 

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @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 @jadeocean46910 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump @aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @the-magpiesystem @pigeonwhumps

#bbu #whump #bbu whump #box boy rescue #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu adjacent #clinical whump #medical whump #hospital whump #whumpee thinks caretaker is new master #clueless caretaker #touch starved #hospital tw #restraints tw #sort of #this one is pretty fluffy #at least by my standards #😈 #tell me if you think he really said it or not #;)

[basingstokemercury]

Facing a bit of a dilemma

I very much want to share some of my fanfiction with my parents once it's written (in particular I've pitched Guilt By Association to my mum and she loved the idea), but I'm not sure how to go about that while keeping my online and offline worlds separate.

I'd rather not have my parents following my Tumblr, as innocent as it is, and I'm not too sure about them reading those fics that give vent to the darker side of my imagination either.

I could always just share a Google Doc or something without giving them my AO3, but my mum does browse fanfic spaces sometimes and there might be a chance of her coming across it. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

#my mum's atlantis fic is a lot darker than I expected from her #but she openly dislikes whump and its adjacent genres #can't see the appeal in writing/reading about your favourite characters getting hurt #and honestly in my more introspective moments it does feel weird that I'm into that #hey at least I'm an adult now and not an eleven-year-old who constantly writes poems about death and gets taken to a psychologist

[whumpsoda]

Seeing Me in You - Delivery

Masterlist

Wrote this on a whim :3 pretty short but who caresssss… might write more??? Might also delete later

cw: pet whump, threat of recapture, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, institutionalized slavery

——————

He shouldn’t have opened the door. Checked the peephole at the very least, as if that would have done him any good.

He could never have escaped them.

August stared ahead into the corridor of his apartment building, jaw falling slack as his mouth went wide and eyes stuck agape. A lump formed quick in his throat, tightly wound with sick acid burning a hole through his neck. His organs flipped and churned over one another, brain filling with flooding nausea.

WRU employees. At his house. August was going to be sick.

Were they speaking? Their voices reduced to a muffle inside his mind, hearing going blank. An itching sensation flared over his arm, just the spot where his tattoo was carefully shielded by his sweater. He lifted a hand to scratch at his throat, the place where a cheap collar had once sat and rubbed around his neck. The memories stung, yet not worse than the sight of such specific uniforms.

No, this was much worse.

His pulse was quickening my the second, heart beating in and out of his chest. He couldn’t breath. Warm, thick bile was slithering it’s way up from his stomach, twisting his insides in contorted knots.

They found him. After so long of comfort and faux personhood, they had found him. Come for him even, to take him back as their property. To refurbish him. To sell him and beat him back into shape, and to train him yet again-

Before August could so much as collect his scattered, bleeding thoughts of past horrors and tortures, one of the employee’s lips parted. “Would you like us to bring it inside? Or leave it here?” He muttered, so casual August almost couldn’t digest his words.

August, body filling ever so carefully with disbelief and panic, trailed his vision down to his feet where his eyes stopped. A large, nearly-fit-for-a-human sized box sat at the workers’ feet. He knew that box well. Very well. He’d been inside that box.

They weren’t here for him.

August could have jumped and squealed from a mixture of terror and joy that he was still safe, never to be recaptured and refurbished. At least, not yet, anyway. But there was a boxie in the process of a delivery at his apartment doorstep.

How could that be? How? What disgustingly cruel, rich asshole’s boxie was sitting inches away from him? Just waiting to be claimed as his own? And why?

His mouth moved swift beyond his own accord, mind gradually catching up with his quivering lips. “You… um, you can leave them there.” August croaked out, voice meek and continuing to waver no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“‘Kay.” He shrugged, and that was that.

They didn’t suspect a thing. No idea they dropped the order to the wrong person, let alone a former boxie. How impossibly lucky for the poor thing. August could barely believe it himself.

He watched with intense focus as the two employees calmly and quickly left, keeping an intense eye on them just until they finally turned the corner. As if at the last moment they would realize their mistake, and either take the boy back, or end up taking him as well.

Careful and terrified, as soon as he heard the pitter patter of their steps dissipate, he turned to the box.

August, still standing rigid in the doorway, with intense fascination trailed his vision over each and every little ridge of wood and nails, eager yet terrified to open it. He swallowed, thick and juicy saliva that rolled it’s way down his throat.

What just happened?

—————

Masterlist

Taglist- @softvampirewhump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

#Writing #my writing #whump writing #whump story #Bbu #box boy universe #box boy whump #bbu adjacent #Pet whump #pet whumpee #institutionalized slavery #Whump #whumpblr #Seeing me in you

[vexingwoman]

I'm radfem adjacent, and primarily consume "whump" for a lot of the reasons already detailed here. For me personally I find a lot of catharsis in this kind of content, but I admit a large part of it is probably my brain being rotted by fanfiction.

A lot of it is self fulfilling prophecy. It's simply way too difficult for me to see a woman character being hurt or tortured, and seeing a man under the same situation is in both parts a kind of revenge or catharsis for my own suffering. And if I desire to see this dynamic, there are truckloads of fanfiction and doujin about this specific topic, sometimes even with a happy ending. Someone else proposed that seeing your favorite character that vulnerable is appealing, which I think holds true for me as well. I think so many women are primarily drawn to gay male fiction because of internalized misogyny, but primarily in the sense it is difficult to see oneself in a sexual fantasy. Projecting or inserting myself into a female character requires so much internal observation of the self. It completely changes the dynamic in my mind, so it is so much easier to just insert a male character that I can project onto as the victim. With a female character I'm asking myself all these questions. Am I as attractive as her? Would the character I'm interacting with in this scenario ever be attracted to me? Would the sexual fantasy proceed in the same way if the other character perceived me as female? It is too painful to think about these things, so I just default to a comfortable impossible yaoi fantasy.

I find female fandom space fascinating, because it is the only part of the internet men have never had any interest in colonizing. So it's an almost clear mirror of how women feel in a hypersexualized society. There are certainly women who sexualize real gay men, but a fictional man is not a man. A fictional gay man is not a gay man. Lines on a screen will always be a projection. As long as women exist in a society where they are told constantly they could be raped, when all real life porn is men getting off to random women being raped, a lot of women will naturally turn that fear into a fantasy that can take the edge off of this constant, looming fear.

Very interesting. You touched on a sentiment I’ve had for a long time, which is that male characters get to be viewed as human first and male second, but female characters are viewed as female first and human second. For example, when a male character is emotional and vulnerable, it’s viewed as a consequence of his individual self. But when a female character is emotional and vulnerable, it’s viewed only as a consequence of her being female. I can definitely understand the feeling that envisioning yourself as a male character is much easier and requires less self-awareness or internal observation.

Honestly, it’s fascinating that you’re interested in the victimization of male characters, at least partly, as vicarious revenge for misogyny. It almost comes across as though you hate these male characters. However, as I mention here, most women in these communities are extremely vocal about loving, caring for, and adoring the male characters whose anguish they romanticize.

Overall, I’m learning that the radical feminist community has very differing opinions on this matter. You and many others have expressed the opinion that whump consumers are interested in male victims because female victims are too real and horrifying to read about. However, myself and others are of the opposite opinion, which is that whump consumers are interested in male victims because there is a lack of compassion for female victims—meaning, female anguish is only recognized for the horrifying tragedy that it is when imposed onto a male character.

@misandry-is-justified articulated this view nicely: “when a woman is victimized its to titillate the (male) audience, but when a man is victimized it is treated rightfully as a horrific and traumatizing incident […] this is why whump so often uses a male victim, because only then is trauma and violence treated as it should and only then is the victim truly treated as a victim.”

#radical feminism #radblr #misogny #sexism #whump community #whump #answered asks

[truebluemenace]

I don't normally write angst/whump/hurt no comfort like this but the idea wouldn't leave me alone.

Tails has a bad time in this. Sorry

1.8k words

All things considered, it didn’t take them that long to find Tails. There had been a time, admittedly before the two of them had any other friends, when Eggman had kidnapped Tails for days. It had taken Sonic a long time to even track the man down, let alone break into his base and rescue his friend.

Things were different now. Sonic was stronger. He had friends to back him up.

Sure, maybe the idea of kidnappings was a little more concerning now than it had been before Sonic’s six month… vacation. But what had happened then wouldn’t be repeated.

Especially not with Tails.

He had only been missing for a few hours when they found him. Or, more accurately, Sonic found him. Once he, Knuckles, and Amy had breached Eggman’s base, his friends let him rush off to find Tails without question. They’d stay behind and cover for him if any badniks tried to impede the rescue, but they knew how anxious Sonic was to get to Tails. Trying to keep him from getting there first would not spell out good results for anyone.

The cells were easy to find. Eggman usually built at least one or two into any new bases he developed, and it was simple to locate them if you were familiar with Eggman’s architectural style. They were normally underground and close to the center of the base. All Sonic had to do was find an elevator deep enough in and, sure enough, the cells were just outside of the doors when they opened.

The smell of blood and medical supplies hit his nostrils, and his heart started hammering.

“Tails?” he called out; the closest cell was empty, so he had to move past it to an adjacent one before he was able to catch sight of the fox.

He couldn’t prevent a gasp from escaping at what he saw, eyes going wide as he immediately plucked a quill from his head, plunging it into the lock on the cell with a significant amount of urgency.

Tails was lying in the corner, curled into a ball, trembling. Sonic couldn’t see what the cause was from outside the cell with the way Tails was lying, but he’d also caught the sight of white bandages with splotches of red soaking through.

“Tails, it’s me, I’m gonna get you out,” Sonic spoke as he fussed with the lock. Lock picking was not his specialty, and his inefficiency made his stress increase. He let out a frustrated grunt, kicking the bottom of the door as he kept fiddling with the detached quill in the lock.

The little pile of golden fur began to shift, unrolling from the ball he’d been in to look up. “S-Sonic?”

Tension drained from Sonic’s body at the sound of that voice. If Tails was conscious, everything was so much better than it would be otherwise. “Yeah, bud, it’s me.” He took a moment to pause his lock picking to look over at his little bro, and sucked in a gasp, almost wishing he hadn’t.

There was a haunted look in Tails’ eyes. It was like a shadow had fallen over them, despite the almost too-bright lighting in the cell. He didn’t seem entirely present, either, as if he was in a kind of daze. Any relief Sonic had felt evaporated in an instant. His little bro should not look like that. He dropped his focus back down to his task.

“Just hang on for a minute, I’ve almost got this open…”

“Use two quills.”

Sonic looked back at Tails again. “Huh?”

“Use two quills,” Tails repeated, now starting to shuffle around into a sitting position, back against the cell wall. It let Sonic see that the bandages were wrapped around Tails’ hips, but he couldn’t see more than that. “One to put tension on the lock and the other to move the pins.”

Sonic snapped his fingers. “Thanks, bud! I knew I was forgetting something.” He plucked another quill from his head and got back to work on the lock, noting that Tails didn’t perk up at his lighter tone like he’d hoped. Something was definitely wrong.

The first pin popped into place. Tails would be out soon. “What did Eggman do? How badly are you hurt?” he asked as he kept working away at the lock.

He didn’t expect Tails to whimper. The sound made him freeze. “Tails, bud--” He cut himself off when Tails whimpered again. The kid flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. Okay, this wasn’t good. Sonic focused his full attention on the lock.

After a few more clicks, he was able to turn it and open the door. Immediately he rushed to Tails’ side.

He wasn’t prepared for Tails to cower away from him.

“Hey, buddy, it’s just me,” Sonic said carefully, kneeling down on the floor next to him and holding his hands out. “Whatever Eggman did is over now. I’m getting you out of here.”

Tails shook his head, still not looking up at Sonic, still squeezing his eyes shut.

“At the very least I need to know how hurt you are,” Sonic tried to reason, reaching out a hand. “Can I see—”

“DON’T!”

Not expecting such an outburst, Sonic jumped, startled. Tails’ eyes had flown open and he, somehow, pressed himself further into the corner where he was sitting.

This was not going well.

“Tails, I need—” He cut himself off again when Tails flinched at the sound of his name. Was… was there something wrong with the name? Every once in a while, Sonic would ask his brother if the nickname was still okay, to make sure it wasn’t bringing up bad memories unnecessarily. Every time, Tails insisted that he liked the name, that it was better than “Miles”. But maybe Eggman had done something to change that opinion?

His eyes drifted down to the bandages around Tails’ waist. They were wrapped loosely around the front of his body, in a way that suggested they were simply holding in place the more important bandages on the other side. Tails’ back. Or, more accurately…

“He did something to your tails.” It wasn’t a question. The fox kit was positioned in a way that hid his tails from view. Now that Sonic had put the pieces together, it was obvious.

The whine that Tails let out was enough confirmation he was right.

“C’mon, bud, let me see,” Sonic tried to coax gently, unsurprised when Tails shook his head immediately. He forced himself not to sigh. He understood Tails’ sensitivity about his tails, but in situations like this, it could be a problem. He had to change tactics. “Alright, I don’t have to see right now. But are you too hurt to walk? I need to know if I have to carry you out of here or not.”

Tails just shook his head again.

“No? No what? No, you can’t walk? No, you don’t need to be carried?”

Tails didn’t answer, just sniffled.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Tails was just a kid. With how insanely intelligent he was, and how easily he kept up and fit in with his older friends, it wasn’t always obvious just how young he was. But Sonic knew better than anyone that he was just a child still. And on occasion, in rare situations like this one, he had to be treated like the age he was, and not the age he acted.

“Kid, can you look at me?” No reaction. “C’mon, just for a second?”

Two baby blue eyes opened slowly and met Sonic’s. There were emotions there that he couldn’t read, and that scared him. Sonic knew Tails better than anyone else on the planet; it was rare that he wasn’t able to read him flawlessly at this point.

“I’m still not sure what Eggman did to you, but it was bad, wasn’t it?”

Hesitation, then Tails nodded. Gaia, he looked absolutely miserable. Sonic was about ready to track Eggman down and make him pay, but Tails needed him right now. He had to hope that Amy and Knuckles were giving him a bad time for him.

“I’m not sure if you’re more hurt or more scared, but it’s okay to be feeling those things,” Sonic continued. He wasn’t sure if he was getting through to Tails, but he hoped he was. “You’re gonna be okay though. Whatever happened, it’ll be much better once we get out of here, but that means we actually have to get out first. Which is why I need to know if I have to carry you or not.”

Tails held his gaze in silence for a few seconds, biting at his lower lip. Then he turned his head away. The arms wrapped around his torso tightened. “It’s not gonna get better.”

Oh, Sonic’s heart could break at that. What the hell did Eggman do to his little brother in such a short amount of time to break his spirit like this? “Yeah it will, li’l bro, you’ll see—”

“No it won’t!” Tails didn’t yell as loudly this time, but it still startled Sonic. “You can’t say that, you don’t even… you don’t know what he…” The kid’s breathing started to accelerate, the signs of panic evident. Sonic was completely messing this up.

“Tails,” he said, wincing as he caught the flinch at the name again. “Please just let me help you get out of here. Whatever happened, we can find a way to fix it once we’re safe.”

Tails shook his head again. “It can’t be fixed,” he insisted, voice wavering.

“I doubt that’s true—”

“It can’t. It can’t.”

“Bud—”

“He took it.”

Sonic froze. “...What?”

Tails sniffled. “It’s… he…”

Realization dawned on Sonic like a bucket of ice water being poured over him. He pleaded to every god out there that what he was putting together was wrong.

“Your tails…” Sonic said, feeling like he was going to be sick.

Suddenly, Tails lunged forward and wrapped his arms tight around Sonic, burying his face in Sonic’s chest and letting out a wail. His entire body was shuddering with the force of his sobbing, the wetness of his tears soaking through Sonic’s fur in only a few seconds.

He wrapped his arms tight around his little brother, rubbing his back in a way that he hoped was soothing, gently shushing him and instructing him to breathe. But Sonic felt like he might need someone to console him, too, because he now had a clear look at what had happened.

At the base of Tails’ spine, there were bandages with just enough blood soaking through to be of note. They would have to be changed as soon as they could.

Because where there should be two tails, now sat only one.

#sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sth #sonic fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #miles tails prower #cw amputation #angst #whump #i might write a second part to this since. the actual idea that wouldnt leave my mind doesnt actually happen in this part #but i might not write it so i just decided i would post this

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 6 - Dizziness

Look I think Mariano just thinks that being dizzy is fun, that's my one explanation for how he gets when he's drunk or oxygen deprived

TWs: suffocation, oxygen deprivation in a controlled environment, lab-whump adjacent but it's the military, a mage gets flustered about oxygen dep (but it's safe for work, he's just blushy)

Luis tapped his fingers against his arm, watching through the window of the testing room. They didn’t need to be sequestered away for this one–all advanced soldiers going to specialized branches would go through it eventually. Laredo sat at a school desk, leaned over the worksheet he’d been given. He tapped the mechanical pencil against his lips, pausing before circling another answer. 

Luis’ eyes flicked to the monitor in Manuel’s hands. His oxygen saturation was still respectable. He was halfway done with the sheet. 

“Thoughts?” He asked, looking to Manuel. 

Manuel hummed, glancing back to where Izan and Dimitri were sitting in the hallway, oxygen masks strapped to their faces. Their lips were still paler than either Luis or Manuel would’ve preferred, but they were recovering nicely. “I think he’s doing fine so far. He seems calmer than Dimitri was, and he’s matching my pace, at least.” 

“I agree.” Luis said. “And none of you have anything else to do today or tomorrow, as discussed. Just recovery.”

Manuel smiled, bright and quick. “Thank you for readjusting the schedule. Especially with how Laredo’s heart gets sometimes, I just don’t think it’d be wise for anyone to be doing a ton of cardio for a little while.”

“Of course. Thank you for staying on top of things.” 

The numbers on the monitor flashed yellow, cutting Manuel off from what he was going to say. He squinted at Laredo, whose writing had slowed down. He was starting to tilt to one side. “Ah, there it is.” Manuel said, marking down the time. “I wonder if he’ll be as coherent after this point?”

Dimitri spoke up, pulling the oxygen mask away for a moment. “If he’s more coherent than me on the third essay question I’ll fry his controller.”

“Keep breathing, Dimitri.” Luis scolded, shaking his head. 

They watched the seconds tick by, melting into minutes. Laredo tipped further and further, before eventually falling completely to the floor on his side, pencil dropping beside him. “Time! Releasing the seal.” Luis announced, unlatching the door and letting oxygen rush back in. 

He watched as Manuel hurried inside with the third of four oxygen tanks, kneeling and pressing the mask to Laredo’s face. He leaned down and spoke to him, patting his face to help him wake up. Just as Luis was starting to worry, Laredo jolted up with a groan and scrambled to his elbows, drawing a sincere laugh from Manuel and a gentle pat of his shoulder. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Izan felt the same way. Nice and slow, now, your brain is still restarting.” 

When Laredo could stand he let Manuel help him from the classroom, face red and unable to look Luis in the eye. “Alright Mariano,” Luis said, pointedly ignoring the way Izan elbowed Laredo’s bicep. “Your turn, then we can go back.” 

Mariano nodded, stepping inside the room and taking the last fresh worksheet. He picked up the pencil, sat down, and watched the window for his signal. When Luis resealed the door and the air began to drain from the room, Manuel waved a hand and gave Mariano a thumbs-up. The timer began to count.

The first few minutes were entirely uneventful, with Mariano steadily working his way down the page. He didn’t seem to stumble on anything in the first half, but when the oxygen reached its lowest point and his breathing started to get strained, Luis watched the youngest member seem to shift. 

Always so stoic and almost-uptight, he’d expected Mariano to get frustrated like Dimitri did. He expected agitated fingers running through dark hair, brows furrowed as his brain stopped being able to process things as easily. He expected a deep frown, or a scowl.

Instead, tension began to fall away from Mariano’s shoulders. He leaned against the top of the desk more, tilting his head almost lazily as he reread the last question on that side and underlined a part of it. He tapped the pencil against the paper, drawing a looping, repeating shape in the margin as he thought. When he finally seemed to have an answer, he just drew the line to the beginning of his sentence without picking up his pencil. 

Luis watched him flip the worksheet over to the math portion–Mariano loved math, Luis realized, because he beamed. His elevated mood seemed to be more than just subject-related though, because as he wrote in the section where his name went and drew another set of circles next to it, he started shaking and covering his mouth. 

Laughing, Luis realized. Something about this tickled Mariano to his very core, even as he started filling in the math questions. Every time it seemed like the giggle fit was over, it would rear its head again and he’d double over, head against the desk, and his shoulders would just shake. 

“How are his levels?” Luis asked, grinning himself. 

It seemed like it wasn’t just Luis who found it contagious, since Manuel was fighting to keep his expression even. “In the yellow, and dropping, but at least he’s still in a good mood.” Mariano had just decided to keep his head on the desk as he wrote, glasses tilted from the pressure against the hard surface.

As his hypoxia continued, Mariano tried to pick himself up. He’d almost finished both sides, on par with the others. He glanced back up at the top of the paper though, and that seemed to fully do him in. He started laughing again, a faint, wheezy thing where every inhale was a desperate struggle. 

He just couldn’t get any more air, though, and with his eyes fluttering he slumped into unconsciousness against the desk, pencil rolling to the floor. 

“Alright, time. Releasing the seal.” Luis repeated the process from earlier, and as oxygen rushed back in, Luis accompanied Manuel inside. He had to see what had gotten Mariano so giggly. As he helped Mariano to the floor and Manuel got the mask on his face, Luis got a peek at the paper. 

Instead of his name, in not-cursive lettering that gradually dipped beneath the line, he’d accidentally written “Marimo”, then drew a wobbly circle nearby, with tinier circles coming up from it, and a little simple smiling face. As Mariano groaned and started to wake up again, Luis folded up the paper and pocketed it. That had been the happiest he’d ever seen Mariano, especially since joining the war mage program.

He almost wondered if a moss ball in a tiny aquarium would be a decent birthday gift for the teenager.

@cyberwhumper @whumperofworlds @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125 @bxtterflystxtches @lektricwhump (SORRY LEKTRIC-WHUMP I'M SURE YOU'RE SUPER COOL)

#whump #whumpril2024 #whumprilday6 #day 6 #dizziness #oxygen deprivation #suffocation #military whump #modern au #mage of violence #the leader #dimitri #manuel #laredo #izan

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, part twenty-one

masterlist here.

content warnings for: EXPLICIT noncon/dubcon, noncon drugging, forced nudity, cages, conditioned whumpee, multiple whumpers, intimate whumpers, bbu/bbu-adjacent, psychological whump

part twenty-one, easier

It gets easier. 

Jack doesn’t know how, but he does know why. It has to get easier, or there will never be any relief. It was the same with Bill, with all the others; the more he fought, the worse everything hurt. And this, this “arrangement” with Ivan is never going to end. He may still have his name, he may not have been obliterated by the Drip, but Jack is property of WRU now. Just as he was always meant to be. 

He is good. Sweet. Compliant. He is an instrument of pleasure, and he serves his master well. 

And so, it gets easier because it has to. It’s the only way he can face his future, such as it is. 

Ivan is a good master. Even if the first time he took Jack was painful, it was for Jack’s own good. So that he would know better than to resist again. And he does know better now. He won’t resist. He can’t. This is what he wants. It is the only thing he can want. 

In the morning, he swallows Ivan down with his breakfast. Then, if Ivan doesn’t have any clients, he is allowed to go upstairs. He crawls on all fours like the pet that he is, but Ivan doesn’t muzzle him. There’s no need. Jack slips under Ivan’s desk, and he waits for the tap on his cheek that lets him know he is needed. Sometimes, Ivan rests in Jack’s mouth for hours, but Jack doesn’t complain. He’s used to it now. 

If Ivan has clients, Jack is left in his cage, the beads thrumming inside of him and Joe’s hoodie puddled beneath his head. He doesn’t fight the beads anymore. Instead, he chases the sensation, letting his sweat bathe his bare body. He doesn’t come, though. He knows better; his body knows better. He rises, and he waits. Ivan likes to watch when he returns, likes to listen to Jack’s wanton moans. Sometimes, Ivan watches for a very long time. He likes to watch Jack go blind with want. But Jack knows: he is allowed to want, but not to have. Ivan only gives him release every so often–just to keep things in working order, he says. 

In the evening, Jack drinks his water from a bowl at Ivan’s feet. It is cloudy and bitter, and he knows it is drugged, but it doesn’t matter; it’s better than the hood or the leather sack. When the pall of the drug settles around him, when he is warm and pliant and fuzzy and faraway, Ivan carries him upstairs. It wasn’t that way at first. At first, he was restrained or bent over the steel table or forced into position ten–his hands and knees–on the concrete floor. But now, he is such a good boy that he is allowed in the bed. Ivan doesn’t even need to chain him to the headboard anymore. 

Sometimes, Ivan keeps him in the bedroom overnight. Not in the bed, because pets do not sleep in beds. But he has a special cage beneath the box frame just for Jack; the latest accessory from WRU’s new line, Ivan says. There is a pillow and a blanket, because Jack is such a spoiled boy. On those nights, Jack sleeps like a baby. He can stretch out, at least; it is better than his basement cage, better than the soiled hoodie. The hoodie doesn’t smell like Joe anymore anyway. 

Joe is going to be so proud of him. That’s what Ivan says. Jack hopes it is true. 

It is evening again. Jack knows because his bowl is waiting, Ivan’s wingtips shining beside it. He doesn’t look at Ivan’s face; pets show deference to their masters, and Jack is a good pet. But he hears the brisk pop of Ivan’s snap, and he lurches forward on his bruised knees to drink. 

“That’s a good boy, Jackie,” Ivan murmurs, scratching his fingers through Jack’s tangled hair. The pressure feels good on his scalp, but Jack knows better than to stop drinking. He has to keep going until every last drop is gone. Until he’s gone with it. Good boys let themselves go. 

“You know,” Ivan goes on, “you’ve done such a marvelous job lately. I can see that you’ve really adapted to the training protocol, that you understand your role. And you’re flourishing.” 

Jack keeps lapping at the water, but his cheeks color with something that might be pleasure. He’s done a good job. He is who he was always meant to be. 

Maybe he will be able to go home soon. He can show Joe everything that he’s learned. Start their new lives together. He knows his place now. He will make Joe so happy. And that will make him happy. He knows it will. There is no happiness but pleasing his master–his owner. 

“There are a few hurdles for you to clear before you’re done with training, my boy,” Ivan says. “But I know you’ll handle them with gusto. Won’t you?” 

The bowl is empty. Jack’s bare ass slides back to his knees, and he nods without looking up. “Yes, sir.” 

Ivan laughs. “Good to hear. Now, tonight, we’ll stay down here in the basement.” 

To his credit, Jack’s heart no longer plummets. It doesn’t matter where he is, so long as he is giving Ivan what he wants. That’s all that matters. 

“Have I done something wrong, sir?” Jack asks. His voice wavers, just like it is supposed to. 

“Not at all, sweet boy, not at all. I just have a very special surprise for you. A challenge. Do you think you’re up to the task, my darling?” 

“Yes, sir.” Jack folds over his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. 

Ivan’s toe flicks against Jack’s ass crack, and Jack spreads his knees accordingly. 

“I can see that you are,” Ivan laughs. “That’s good. Now, Jackie, I want you to assume position ten.” 

Jack shifts to his hands and knees without a second thought. 

“Excellent, my boy. Now, you stay–” Ivan holds his hand flat in front of Jack’s face, “And I’ll be right back with your surprise, hmm?”  

Ivan sweeps out of the room, leaving the basement door open, and it doesn’t occur to Jack that there might have been a time when he would have tried to follow. To fight. But nothing occurs to Jack at all. He waits, because that’s what he’s been instructed to do. His head is empty. 

Ivan isn’t gone for long; only a few minutes have passed when Jack hears the patter of footsteps on the basement stairs. 

“You’re not going to believe how far he’s come,” Ivan says. He isn’t speaking to Jack.  

“Oh, I’m sure I can believe it,” another voice answers. 

The voice is familiar, but Jack can’t quite place it. Whatever Ivan laces the water with is starting to take effect; his ears rush warm and his joints feel like wax. His head lolls on his neck, but he stays on his hands and knees. He will not break position. Cannot.

“Well, Mr. Kenyon! Look at you!”

Mr. Kenyon. The name swims in Jack’s brain. No one’s called him that in so long. It doesn’t even feel like his name anymore. 

There’s a gentle nudge at Jack’s backside. “It’s alright, Jackie. You can look up. Show our guest your pretty face.” 

Jack looks up, blinking against the overhead light. The man’s face is shadowed, but even so, Jack recognizes him. The sharp chin, the beady eyes, the whispy mouse brown hairline. Immediately, Jack’s balance falters, and he sinks back over his feet. 

“Aw, now, Jackie. Don’t be scared. You remember Dr. Seligman, don’t you?” Ivan kneels beside Jack and runs a careful finger over the ridges of Jack’s spine. “He’s the one who helped bring you here to me.” 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, even though he isn’t supposed to. He remembers, just barely. Carl’s low snarl, the smoke detector, the drinks–drinks that Seligman mixed. Snatches of foggy time. Being shunted down stairs. His clothes being cut from his body. Hands, shifting, groping, pulling. Waking up, bound in a straitjacket, in this basement. 

Because Jack was taken. Because this is never what he wanted at all. But now, he doesn’t know how to want anything else. 

“Open your eyes, sweet boy,” Ivan coos, but his hand rests heavy on the back of Jack’s neck. A warning. 

Jack complies. Seligman’s horsey face is just inches from his own.

“Dr. Peters was right about you, wasn’t he?” Seligman’s lips creep into a wet smile. “You’re just perfect.”

And Jack is perfect. When Seligman caresses his cheek with papery fingers, Jack lets his mouth fall open. When Seligman teases his soft palate with a jagged fingernail, Jack does not gag. 

“No alarm reaction at all,” Seligman says in wonder. He wipes his wet fingers on Jack’s cheek and swats at Jack’s chin, a silent command for Jack to close his mouth; Jack does. “This is extraordinary, Ivan.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” Ivan’s nails twine with the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck. “He’s almost ready, I think. But I’m still dosing him with a sedative on occasion. That’s part of the reason I asked you to come.”

Seligman stands, still studying Jack from above. “What do you mean?”

“I thought we’d run an experiment,” Ivan says. His touch withdraws, and Jack whines. Ivan only chuckles. “Good boy, Jackie. You just be patient while we discuss. Position five.”

Jack folds in half, a penitent at worship. He listens, but he doesn’t really hear. He is boneless and warm, any real understanding lost in the fog that gets thicker with every slow breath.

“What’s your proposal, Ivan?”

“He’s already been dosed tonight. I say we do what we discussed now, with his typical drugs, and then repeat the exercise tomorrow, without sedating him.”

Seligman sucks his teeth. “So you’ll know if his compliance is drug dependent or not.”

“Precisely.”

Seligman half-laughs. “I suppose I could be talked into it.”

“All for the sake of science, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Faraway as Jack is, his stomach still jolts. He knows he’ll do what’s asked of him—there is no asking, not really—but there is an unfamiliar pinprick of fear worrying his belly; he hasn’t been scared in a long time. Still, he stays where he is and waits for instruction.

“You’ll take his mouth,” Ivan says, his voice cool and matter-of-fact, “and I’ll take him from behind.”

No. They can’t do this. Jack can’t do this. He’s never done it before. He is so good, so good at everything else. He can show them, if only they’ll let him. He wants to raise his head, to protest, but he is too fuzzy, too well-trained. He doesn’t move.

“If you insist,” Seligman replies.

“He’s quite adept at oral stimulation. I’ve made note of it in his file.”

Jack closes his eyes again. Yes, he is good at that. He’s always been good at that. Even Bill thought so. But now, he is practiced. A professional. 

“I’m sure the agency will be pleased.”

Ivan laughs. “And so will you.” He claps his hands. “Up, Jackie. Ten.” 

Jack raises himself to hands and knees, and he keeps his eyes on the slate gray floor. Seligman’s feet move away, but Jack hears the gentle drop of a zipper. Ivan squats down in front of him, tucking his fingers beneath Jack’s chin. 

“Now, my good boy, you’re going to show off all of your training. You are so close to being ready for your next step, but we still need to assess, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack whispers. 

“Good. Now, when Dr. Seligman is ready, you’re going to take him in your mouth, and you are going to make him come. You can do that, can’t you, Jackie?” 

Jack nods. He can do that. It doesn’t matter if he wants to. Of course he wants to. Of course he can do this. It’s what he was made for, isn’t it? What he’s been training for?

Ivan grips the sides of Jack’s jaw with punishing strength. “What’s that, sweet boy?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Ivan’s fingers relax. “Right. While you’re doing that, I’m going to fuck you. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

The pinprick of fear tears into Jack’s gut, widening, burning. But he nods again, the world blurry in front of his eyes. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my darling,” Ivan says. He presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead. “Isn’t this nice, Jackie? Letting others do for you. No choices to make. Just the simple kind of life you were always meant for.” 

“He’s a very lucky boy.” Seligman’s naked, downy-haired legs appear just beyond Ivan’s shoulder. 

“He is. And his Joe will be so proud.” 

Seligman laughs. “Prescott? Oh, Jesus. I’d forgotten.” 

Jack whimpers before he can stop himself. They shouldn’t make fun of Joe. Once Jack gets home, he’ll prove what a big man Joe is. He’ll let Joe do whatever he wants, the way he always should have. 

“Yes, Jackie works very hard for his Joe.” 

“Does Prescott even know–” 

Ivan pops to his feet. “Enough talk, I think. Jack knows what to do. Let him show you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Seligman says. 

“Alright, Jackie.” Ivan’s voice drifts behind. “Position one. Let Dr. Seligman guide you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Jack pushes himself to his feet, but before he can rise to standing, Seligman’s dry hands wrap around his shoulders, holding Jack’s trunk parallel to the floor. Jack hates the feeling of the man’s skin on his, but it doesn’t matter; what he feels is unimportant, and he knows it. Still, he shivers, and Seligman squeezes his shoulders. 

“Open that beautiful mouth, Mr. Kenyon,” Seligman says. 

Jack follows orders, and when Seligman slips himself–limp, pink, cold–between Jack’s lips, Jack immediately does what’s expected of him. He flattens his tongue, pushes himself down, lets Seligman guide him back and forth, back and forth. 

“My goodness,” Seligman breathes. “My goodness.” 

Jack doesn’t have any goodness of his own. He is almost grateful when he feels the familiar warmth of Ivan’s hands on his hips.

“That’s it, sweet boy, keep going. Don’t let me distract you,” Ivan murmurs. He kneads his thumbs against Jack’s tailbone, using his knuckles to tease at the cleft between Jack’s buttocks. 

Jack isn’t distracted. His cheeks hollow, and when Seligman’s grip grinds against the hinges of his jaw, Jack moans. The sound is protracted, muffled by the weight of Seligman against his tongue, but it doesn’t matter; Seligman laughs and pats his cheek. He’s hard now, and his hips thrust forward against Jack’s waiting face. 

“That’s right, Mr. Kenyon. You are the star pupil, aren’t you?” 

Jack knows the words are wrong, but just now, he can’t explain why. There is nothing but sensation, nothing but a body that floats in space, ready to be used however his betters see fit. He lets Seligman’s pubis press against his nose; he will breathe when he can. There’s no reason to fight. 

“He is quite teachable,” Ivan agrees. 

He slaps Jack’s ass, sending Jack’s body forward until Seligman is teasing his throat. Jack’s buttocks are cleaved apart, stretched so far open that he almost feels like he’s being ripped in two. But it’s alright. Ivan is only getting ready to prepare him; Jack is lucky. 

There’s a soft hocking sound, and then something warm and slippery drops between Jack’s ass cheeks. Ivan’s thumb slips between the mounds of skin and muscle, and then he circles Jack’s hole. 

“Hold him still for a moment,” Ivan says over Jack’s head, and Seligman slows his rhythm, smashing Jack’s face between his sandpaper palms. 

“Christ, Ivan. You’ve done a wonderful job.” 

One of Ivan’s hands finds purchase on Jack’s hip again; his grip pulses around the bone. “We’ll see, won’t we?” 

Ivan guides himself down, and then, with one sticky thrust, he is inside of Jack. He ruts forward, gently, just once. A kindness. Seligman eases himself forward too, laughing a little. But Jack isn’t afraid. He is just a good boy. The warmth spreads inside his head, and his throat flutters as Seligman pushes into it.

Ivan rocks against him. “Now, sweet boy, now, we’re going to see what you’re really made of.”

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy1, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @termsnconditions-apply, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-anime-blog-blog, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @ramadiiiisme, @sunnie, @sadboysanonymous, @panic-whump

#behavior modification #tw noncon #jack kenyon oc #ivan peters oc #bbu #nsfwhump #it's been a minute #but jackie's back #tune in soon for a continuation #you know #since the experiment isn't over

[numbuh-7-knd]

Inspired by this post, where I was trying to come up with non-whump/angsty scenarios for

Character A holds Character B in their arms while kicking open a door.

Which quickly turned into Desert Duo/Mumscarian fluff which then transitioned into general hermitshipping fluff. feel free to elaborate on any of this if you feel like it, I'm probably not going to do much more than maybe upload this to AO3 as is.

Scar grabbing Grian (or Mumbo, or both) to watch disney movies. they're hanging out at Scarland and Scar talks about something he's building in Scarland and how it was inspired by such and such movie (maybe it's something for the adventure area of the park, inspired by a disney attraction that was inspired by Peter Pan) and Grian says he's never seen that one.

Scar gasps dramatically, before picking Grian up and flying to the Scarland Theatre, slamming the door open only to remember that it's only a facade, probably flying into something, rushes to the castle, he doesn't have a bedroom or sitting area, and then rushing them to Grian's base looking for a spot to watch a movie, only Grian doesn't have one either, rushes to Mumbo's.

He startles Mumbo, and Either Mumbo's vault is good enough for movie watching or they involve the rest of the hermits until they find a sufficiently comfy place for movie watching, all the while refusing to put Grian down.

Maybe for added hilarity he hands Grian to mumbo for a bit so he can get Jelly or snacks, or both.

Mumbo going along with it and Grian complaining about it while not actually fighting them on it, like my cat does when I hold her sometimes and she wants to pretend she's not a cuddle bug and verbally complains the whole time while snuggling and staying put in my arms even though we both know if she really wanted to get down she'd jump out of my arms or bite and scratch me.

Scar claiming it's "soulmate privilege" when Grian complains, and Mumbo jumping on that claiming "Soul Sharing" privilage. The other hermits jump on that with those amounts them with soulmates (the ones who participated in double life) joining with their soulmates while the ones who's soulmates aren't hermits complain and those without soulmates pout about it, until someone agrees to be "honorary soulmates" with them. Grian and Scar agree that Mumbo's a part of their soulmate trio no questions asked. Cleo offers to be Joe's honorary soulmate, saying that what's one more when she already has Scott, and Joe accepts but also wants Ollie as an honorary soulmate.

Impulse and Bdubs hang out, making Etho jealous, while Tango longs for Jimmy and Zedaph feels left out. Maybe Skizz can be his honorary soulmate.

Etho misses Joel at least a little bit, but he also does not like seeing Bdubs cuddling with Impulse. Does he wish he was cuddling with Bdubs instead? Yes No, he's just... bothered by them cuddling, for some reason. It's weird! double life was months ago now! they've completed a whole 'nother season of the life series and started another one! and besides look at Zed! look how sad he is! *Camera panes to Zed, busy trying to complete Zedvancements* Impulse and Tango should be doing stuff with him not worrying about something as silly as soulmates!

Gem offers to be Pearl's "honorary soulmate" since Scott didn't want her.

Maybe BigB visits for Ren, or maybe Ren spends it with Doc, who has to be talked out of having the entire Sci-craft server over.

The Hermits end up arranging a big sleepover/movie night to invite their various soulmates or soulmate adjacent people over to the server to hang out. They build a "drive in" movie theatre in the shopping district.

halfway through the "movie night" they have to move indoors because the area wasn't spawn proofed enough. They end up in someone's base or shop with lots of pillows and blankets on the floor. maybe they go to scar's bed shop, or they make a pillow fort in the iBuy lobby.

#hermitcraft #hermit shipping #trafficshipping #desert duo #double life #mumscarian #goodtimeswithscar #Grian #Mumbo Jumbo #trafficblr #my writing

[bloodredfountainpen]

@juneofdoom day one:

“Help me” | failed escape | on the run | fetal position

Contains/CW: pet whump, bbu adjacent, institutionalized slavery, self dehumanization, failed escape, cuts, broken bone (arm), delirium, reference to torture

Original part here

——————————————————————————

Master Liam screwed up.

That was the thought that rang through G-22985’s mind as he stared at the other end of his leash, the latch hanging off its hook. He could just leave, there was nothing stopping him from just walking off, nothing to stop him from running away.

He knew that Master Liam wouldn’t be back for hours, so he entered the trailer, which wasn’t allowed, but Master Liam wasn’t there to stop him, and he needed to do something about his many, many, open wounds. He painfully disinfected and then bandaged the cuts, then fastened a makeshift split around his broken front paw. Master Liam had smashed it with a hammer the other day as punishment for… something. G-22985 didn’t actually remember, but that was probably because of how much Master Liam liked to hit him in the head, which made his memory quite fuzzy at times.

Maybe I am just a stupid animal.

That thought crept into G-22985’s head as he tended to his wounds, even as he stood up on his hind paws for the first time in months and adored it, a voice at the back of his mind screamed at him that he was being bad.

Finally, after doing all he could for his injuries, G-22985 hesitantly crossed the threshold and headed into the woods.

——————————————————

As if the skies themselves were scolding the runaway Pet, it had done nothing but rain for days. G-22985 didn’t know how long he’d been away, but he knew it had been at least a couple days, because the sun had set and risen more than once. He’d spent his time hiding under a rocky overhang trying to stay conscious. Despite the throbbing in his forepaw and all over his body, all of that was worth it, because it had been days since Master Liam had beaten him, a new record.

In a rare moment of strength, G-22985 found a sharp stone and began to saw away at his leather collar.

I… need… help, thought the runaway Pet. Once the collar finally snapped, he deliriously stumbled out of his shelter and headed toward civilization. The rain soaked through his fur and thin clothes as he struggled to stay upright. Tremors racked his body as he fought what he suspected was a raging fever, but still, he needed to keep moving.

What should I say if I find someone?…

‘I’ve run away from my Master and I need help?’…

They’d send me back to Master Liam, I’ll never eat again…

Shit, it hurts…

Everything hurts.

“Hey, hey you! Pet! Where’s your owner?”

Was… someone talking to G-22985? He looked around, vision blurred, and spotted a pair of hikers approaching him.

“Please, help me,” he managed to slur out before falling to his knees and losing consciousness, the last sensation was indistinct shouting and an unfamiliar hand on his head.

————————————————————————

G-22985 lay curled up where he’d started his misadventure. His bandages and splint had been confiscated, and new bruises adorning his skin. Shouting emanated from the trailer. Master Liam’s boss was in there with him, and G-22985 almost felt bad for Master Liam, who was having a new asshole torn by his graying superior. Almost. The words “more trouble than it’s worth” echoed clearly, and G-22985 knew he was done for.

When the white clad ModiPets employees came for the nearly catatonic Pet, he didn’t try to fight back. He didn’t try to run, to beg, even to cooperate. He let himself be dragged into the van by his collar, but when he arrived at the facility, he wasn’t met with lethal injection or a fatal dose of electricity. Instead, he was met with a haggard middle aged woman holding a cattle prod.

“What, you did you you’d get off that easily? No pup, the mercy of death isn’t something we spare for defects like you. I’m going to break those delusions of personhood you have in that fluffy little head of yours, and I’m going to build you back up into the perfect mutt. Prepare to become a whole new dog, mutt.”

Tag list (I have one of those now! Even tho it’s just the one person, I’m honored). @maenr

#pet whump #bbu adjacent #failed escape #june of doom #whump #whump community

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

Previous // Next

CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, food mention, starvation

[A/N at the end of the chatper]

Rowan spent fifteen minutes pacing in his hallway before he settled on who he would call. A lump lodged in his throat every time he passed by the box the boy arrived in - what was he even supposed to do with it now? - and his heart fluttered whenever his finger hovered over his chosen contact. 

“How are you supposed to help this victim recover if you can’t even make a phone call, you idiot?” Rowan chastised himself as he rubbed his palm against his brow. Rationally, making a call was the best way to get himself and his new houseguest some help. Rationally, Rowan knew that this had to happen sooner or later. But rationality hadn’t exactly been governing Rowan’s choices over the past two days. 

It took another two minutes of anxious pacing before he sat at the kitchen table, hit the call button, and heard the phone ring once, twice, three times and-

“Hey there, Rowan,” the familiar and ever-cheerful voice said, and it hit Rowan like a ray of golden sun. “What’s up, man? You doing alright after the liquidation event yesterday? I know those are hard on you.”

Rowan paused, took a breath, and closed his eyes. Now or never.

“Listen, Grey, I might have done something a little impulsive when I was there.” The entirety of his admission wasn’t quite ready to come to Rowan’s lips. All of a sudden his throat was dry, and his knee bounced beneath the table. 

“Please don’t tell me they clocked you,” Greyson groaned. Greyson - just Grey to Rowan - was the current Vice President of the Pet Liberation Front, North American Division. Greyson also happened to be Rowan’s best friend. They’d known each other since they onboarded at PLF together more than a decade ago, and although their paths had diverged, a common mission still united them. Grey had taken on pet liberation as his full-time job, and Rowan had stuck with the weekend volunteer gigs. 

“No, nothing like that,” Rowan said hastily. “No cops, no drama, no one suspected a thing. I even got all the footage you asked for. But I uh… I saw a victim there. He was just different, okay? I can’t tell you what it was, not exactly, but there was something about him that I’ve never seen before. I looked at him and I just- I couldn’t say no, so I- I rescued him. Cash upfront for a lifetime contract, signed on the warehouse floor, delivered this morning. He’s in my spare bedroom right now.”

“Jesus Christ,” Grey muttered, and Rowan could picture his exasperated face from hundreds of miles away. The other man only continued after releasing a deep sigh. “You aren’t trained as a rescuer, you haven’t been assigned a rehabilitator, and there’s no way we can get him in for a medical work-up on such short notice. You're in way over your head with this.”

“I know, I know.” Rowan could concede that he fucked up, just a little, or maybe more than a little. But the boy was alive in that spare room rather than being burned to ash in the industrial cremator. That had to count for something, right?

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” Grey asked this over the sound of distant keystrokes, the frustration in his voice already dissipating. “You purchased him at a liquidation event, which means there's something they determined was defective, so this isn’t even a standard rescue case. Give me some details and I can try to connect you to a rehabilitator for emergency intervention. If you send me scans of the purchase papers - they should be in his box with the instruction manual - I can also open a rescue file in our system for him.”

Rowan let out a soft breath of relief. Grey had shifted into his rescue-oriented mindset, which meant that if he intended to continue scolding Rowan, it would at least come at a later time.

“I- I don’t know why he was sent for liquidation. He’s only been here for a few hours, and I’ve been too focused on not making a mess of things to figure it out. The WRU agent said that he had stopped listening to direct commands, but that’s all the information I got. He hasn’t reacted to a single thing I’ve said this whole time. Physically, he seems to be in decent shape. Walking, kneeling, any kind of movement, he had no problem. There’s the usual scarring and some fresh wounds around his cheeks, ears, and neck, but that’s it.” Rowan thought back to the deep wounds gouged into the boy's head, and again wondered what sort of torment would cause such persistent injuries. A shiver crept up his spine, but Grey cut in before Rowan's imagination could get the best of him.

“Hmm. Alright. It looks like our roster has one volunteer rehabilitator about five miles from your address, an Allison Herrera. She’s been with the PLF for four years now, and she’s assisted in more than ten successful rehabilitations with different rescuers in your area. I’ve sent her your contact information, and she doesn’t have any other cases at the moment, so you should expect to hear from her soon.”

“You are a miracle worker, Grey.” Unlike just a few minutes ago, Rowan was no longer in this alone. Help was on its way. Of course, as the rescuer, he knew he would have to do most of the work. The most a rehabilitator could offer him was guidance, advice, assessment. But by god, Rowan was going to take it.

Grey gave a soft, strained chuckle. 

“No, you’re the miracle worker today. You gave that boy a second chance at life, and that’s worth more than all the money in the world. I wouldn’t ever recommend doing what you’ve just done, but I know you did it with a good heart and good intentions.”

“Yeah. I just… I couldn’t let him go. Not this one, not this time.” 

Grey sighed again, and Rowan liked to imagine that he was smiling.

“Now get back there and try to settle your new houseguest in. Remember, it's firm suggestions, not commands, are the best to begin the transition process. Conversational tone, soft voices, lots of praise. Read through the PLF rescue manual, and then read it again. Allison will tell you more when you end up connecting.”

“Alright, I’ll do my best. Thank you, really. I promise I’ll try to call you at some point when I’m not in crisis mode.”

“Not holding my breath, bud. You just take care and keep me updated.” And with that, the line went dead, and Rowan was back on his own. 

---

Pet almost let one tear fall down its face as it soaked in the newness of everything around it. Kneeling was hard after so many hours in the box, but that was okay. Pet had done things that were so much harder. These floors weren’t even cement, so it thought maybe it could even kneel all day without its knees bruising. 

The food Master left was still just out of reach, and Pet's stomach was filled with the daggers of hunger, but Pet remembered Master’s words with gospel-like reverence. Don’t eat. So it didn’t. If this was Pet's first test in its new home, it would prove itself to Master, it would show just how obedient it could be.

Usually it was easy for Pet’s mind to grow empty, for it to submit to the nothingness, to surrender wholly to a place without pain. It wasn’t meant to think, it was trained not to. But today, Pet was struggling not to think. There was too much new. It was more frustrated than ever that it couldn't quite hear its new Master’s voice. It couldn’t tell if it was a scratchy voice, or if it was a soft one, or if it was a warm, deep roar. All Pet knew was that there were distant, muted words that floated beyond its grasp. 

If Pet was going to be good, it had to learn fast. Even if it didn’t have the exact words, it had to learn what Master wanted, and what Master expected of it. The better Pet anticipated its Master's needs, the less it got punished. A reliable pet was a good pet.

Even when it got hard to hear its old Master’s commands, Pet knew him well. Pet knew what time breakfast was to be prepared, how Master liked his floors cleaned, and which tools to offer up for punishment when Master was angry. It was routine, predictable, and even if it couldn’t hear every exact command, it was comforting to Pet. Every day was the same. There were no guesses, no surprises. Days and pain all bled into one another as the silence grew. Every day was the same, every ache anticipated. 

That was, until it was dropped back off at the facility for re-training. Discarded.

Not all of this new was bad. New Master smelled like no other Master that Pet had ever had - he smelled almost like bread fresh from the oven. The house had soft wooden floors, not cold tile, and the light came from soft, yellow bulbs. It was warm here, and the space was snug with narrow halls and close walls. It wasn’t particularly clean, at least not as clean as its old Master would have expected, but Pet didn’t mind. 

And since it hadn’t heard its new Master yell, then Pet thought that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t suffer much more pain today. The idea of punishment made its heart flutter uncomfortably in its chest. 

Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t flinch. Don’t think. Calm down. You belong to Master. Master can do with you as he pleases. You are Master’s property. Your only concern is to listen to Master, please Master, obey Master’s every command. 

Before Pet could try to escape to blissful nothingness once more, Master’s feet appeared in the doorway. They sidestepped the plate - still untouched - and came closer to Pet. It braced its muscles as subtly as possible, preparing for the inevitable strike. There was another mumbling of words, just as indistinct as before.

Pet stopped breathing when a hand touched its chin, ever so gently, and titled its face upwards.

---

A/N: Wow! Thank you all so much for the outpouring of love I have received for this story. I must admit I abandoned it back in October as my life got busy, but I have a total of fifteen chapters currently written, with more on the way. So yes, this work is continuing!

Reading the kind tags and comments so many folks have left genuinely brought tears to my eyes. Your kindness has been overwhelming in the best possible way. Thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

I think I got everyone who asked to be tagged for this, but please ask if you would like to be added! Please let me know if you have been added in error, and you will be promptly removed.

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic

#bbu #whump #pet whump #whump community #whumplr #whump writing #tw dehumanization #hear no evil #chapter 4

[bbu-on-the-side]

[Image description: Text on a background of white tiles; the title is “BBU Community Days”, subtitle “Whump event, May 17 - May 31, hosted by bbu-on-the-side”] 

Because this community is a niche within a niche, but with so much common ground and such a beautifully open worldbuilding set up, I felt like offering a little platform to get to know each other! 

And voila - the BBU Community Days!

Unlike classic prompt events, this is primarily focused on community building! It will 15 daily prompts in five categories: writing prompts, creation prompts, community prompts, worldbuilding prompts and showcasing prompts.

Discuss tropes and concepts, share ideas, gush about your favorite creators and play around in the sandbox! The event will be a success, if you’ve had fun and if you’ve met at least one or two cool new creators to follow!

This is open for BBU writers, roleplayers, or plain enjoyers of that world. If you wonder if you're "allowed" to take part, the answer most certainly is “yes, you are”. Includes BBU AUs and "BBU-adjacent" universes. 

Prompts will drop in the course of the weekend on this blog, and the event itself begins on May 17th!

Looking forward - and please share this announcement to boost!

#bbu #bbu prompts #bbu event #bbu community #bbu worldbuilding #whump community #whump event

[peachy-panic]

Cracks in the Glass

Back with the chronological Do No Harm storyline. Takes place the morning after this chapter. 

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, PTSD, sleep deprivation, implied past noncon, implied past mouth whump, fearing caretaker is new whumper, nightmares, flashbacks, overuse of the words “I’m sorry,” and That One Trope. You know the one. 

Morning rolls in like the tide. It starts with a golden bar of light on the carpet beneath the window, slowly inching toward him like waves licking up the shore, washing the last remnants of night out to sea. In under an hour, every dark, gray shadow in the room has been baptized in sunlight. Jaime is awake for every second of it.  

He watches the rise of a new day with a distant sort of dread. Exhaustion pins him in place, dragging his eyelids down, then up in a slow blink. From the corner of his bed, curled up tight on top of the covers that don’t feel like his to burrow under, he counts down the minutes until he needs to move.

The arrival of dawn is as much a relief as it is a burden; at least his fight against sleep is over for now. It means he survived the night without any of his nightmares coming to fruition.  

Though, as his memory is sure to remind him, Mr. Torley didn’t touch him on the first night either.  

Casting the thought as far away as he can, Jaime pinches his eyes shut one more time, trying to produce some moisture against the dry fatigue. Then, scraping the bottom of the well for energy, he forces himself to sit up.  

It is the morning of his second day under Dr. Tate’s contract, and Jaime has made himself a promise: He will do well here.

He has been given a rare opportunity here. Even after the kind of night he’s had, he can recognize that as objective truth. Jaime has survived worse on less sleep, and in all the time he has known Sebastian, he has done nothing to earn the warped fantasies Jaime’s mind insists on projecting onto him. He knows that. Still, the prospect of looking him in the eye today, of sharing space with him when he can still feel the tactile pseudo-memory of a body weight on top of him, constricts around his ribcage like a boa.

One good thing about staying up all night: He doesn’t have to worry about oversleeping. If nothing else, he can start this day by getting something right.

He doesn’t let himself think too much about the clothes he selects from the closet. Dr. Tate—

Sebastian made it clear it’s up to Jaime what he wears, but it’s been a long time since Jaime had a choice that isn’t an illusion. In the end, he picks a plain black sweatshirt and matching pants.

His fingers hover over a drawer of socks, reaching and then wilting. The soles of his feet still remember the chill of Mr. Torley’s hardwood floors, never allowed a barrier of warmth between them. Jaime presses his toes into the soft fibers of the carpet beneath him, grounding himself in the present.

This isn’t Mr. Torley’s house. These aren’t Mr. Torley’s rules.

He thinks of the bulleted list tacked to the fridge in the next room over. “Rule” number seven: The clothes in the closet belong to you. Wear what makes you comfortable. Sebastian wouldn’t have given him socks if he didn’t want him to wear them. Reluctantly, he opens the drawer and plucks out the first pair he sees.

There is a persistent unease that clings to him as he hovers around the kitchen, one he hasn’t felt in a long time. No matter how hard he tries to separate himself from the past, memories of his first contract intrude in everything he does. The first week of a contract is the hardest. There is so much uncertainty, so many opportunities to mess up.  

It’s a narrow line they are taught to walk in Domestic training: moving through a Keeper’s house with enough assertion to fulfill your duties without assistance, but never feeling so comfortable as to lay claim on any part of it.

It is the place you will spend your days. In some cases, it is the only place you see for the entire length of the contract. It is the place where you sleep, where you bathe, where you eat when you’re allowed and fuck when you’re told. But you must never, ever mistake it for your home.

Mentally, Jaime shuffles back through the tour of the house Sebastian gave him yesterday like a deck of flashcards, remembering mugs are in the cabinet above the sink, sugar is to the left of the microwave—

As if his brain is operating three large strides behind his body, Jaime’s thoughts slam into him with the force of a freight train: He doesn’t know how Sebastian likes his coffee. He doesn’t know what he prefers to eat for breakfast. Jaime neglected to ask.

Anxiety thrums in the tips of his fingers. Jaime made himself a promise less than an hour ago to do better, to be better, and he has set himself up to fail already. Pressing his palms into the cool surface of the countertop, Jaime closes his eyes and tries to think, but it’s hard when he is so tired. He is so, so tired. He tries to ignore how good it would feel to keep them closed for another couple of seconds, minutes, hours.

Do something, his instincts scream at him. The idea of being empty handed when his Keeper walks into the room, armed with nothing but an apology and a useless promise to be better, is not an option.

Forcing his eyes open, Jaime imparts a false calm over his body, making his limbs move with calculated detachment as he gathers what he needs: A mug, some coffee grounds, sugar. He remembers, with a fleeting breeze of relief, the way Sebastian had offered milk and sugar in tiny shot glasses on the side. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best he can do for now.  

Tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow will be better.

He will do well here.

-- -- --

Sebastian stops short in the doorway, one fist raised to cover a silent yawn.

Jaime is already in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his back to him. The smell of fresh coffee wafts through the kitchen, prodding at his groggy brain. He couldn’t have managed more than a few restless hours of sleep, and the promise of caffeine is a siren song calling to him.

He doesn’t seem to hear his entrance right away. Selfishly, Sebastian takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he is bundled in warm, clean clothes in his kitchen, as safe as he has ever been in the time Sebastian has known him. Absently, he notices Jaime has chosen the warmest pair of sweats from his closet. He makes a mental note to turn the heat up a few ticks tonight.

After a few moments, Sebastian clears his throat. “Good morning,” he says.

It’s not so much a flinch that happens, but the very controlled suppression of one. Jaime’s shoulders draw up toward his ears and his body goes very still. It’s just a second or two before he carefully smooths out his posture and turns to face him.

“Good morning, Dr. Tate.”

“Sebastian.” The correction slips out before he can stop it, regret hot on its tails.

“Sebastian,” he echoes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He smiles. “I know it will take some getting used to. It's fine if you just call me whatever makes you comfortable for now. Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes,” Jaime says automatically. “Thank you.”

Yeah, he should have seen that coming.

Sebastian moves slowly across the kitchen to lean against the counter island. “You made coffee,” he observes as casually as he can.

The last thing he expects is another apology, but Jaime’s mouth twitches downward. He turns around to retrieve a full mug from the counter behind him, and when he holds it out to Sebastian, his eyes are lowered. It occurs to him then that Jaime hasn’t really looked him in the eye since he entered.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says again. “I realized this morning I never asked how you take it. If… If you tell me what you like, I will have it ready tomorrow morning.”

Suddenly Sebastian is wide awake, and it has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the cold, slick nausea sliding down his belly.

Fuck.

He lets out a long, slow breath. Because fuck. He is doing the worst fucking job at managing this.

“Jaime,” he says carefully, taking the mug from his hands. He sets it aside and turns his full attention back to him. “I’m sorry if I didn’t make this explicit to you yesterday. But I really, really don’t expect you to cater to me like this. That was never my intention.”

“I don’t mind doing it,” Jaime says too quickly.

“I’m sure that’s true.” He feels out every word slowly. “But you know that’s not the reason I purchased your contract, right? This isn’t what I brought you here to do.”

Despite his best efforts, somewhere, somehow, Sebastian must have stepped on a conversational landmine. Jaime goes very still. He drops his gaze along with his fidgeting hands.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to.” It’s nearly a whisper.

“Jaime, I…” He stops.

Behind Jaime, he spots two shot glasses on the countertop; one filled with milk, the other with sugar. Just like Sebastian prepared for him the day before when he wasn’t sure how Jaime liked his coffee. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Without thinking, Sebastian reaches past him to grab one of them. Jaime flinches so hard he stumbles into the lip of the counter. He manages to catch himself, but not without knocking his hand haphazardly behind him. It happens quickly; in a split second, the floor around them is covered in crystalline fragments of sugar and glass.

What happens next is so unexpected that Sebastian’s brain blips out entirely. For a full three seconds, he can do nothing but stare as Jaime drops into a kneel amidst the rubble, glass crunching like sand beneath his knees.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking at when Jaime tilts his head slightly upward, closing his eyes tight, but his stomach drops out as he watches his lips part—too slow and deliberate to be anything but intentional—into an open mouth.

-- -- --

Open your mouth.

Mr. Torley’s voice looms above him, as sharp and vivid as the glass digging into his knees.

His heart is racing out of his chest, his fingers slick with perspiration and sliding where they lock together behind his back. Jaime’s fear is the most palpable thing in the room. All he can think—over and over like a mantra echoing off the inside of his skull—is please don’t let it be the glass.

“Jaime,” he hears distantly. The voice comes from somewhere far away and wrong and dangerous, because he isn’t Jaime here. Can’t be Jaime here.

Endless seconds pass, but he keeps his mouth open. Waiting. Maybe the anticipation is part of the game. If it is, it’s working. He doesn’t dare close his mouth because don’t you trust me? Don’t you trust me? Close your eyes, open your mouth, close your eyes, open your mouth, open your mouth, open your—

“Jaime.”

It’s closer this time. Inches away, but he still can’t open his eyes.

Ceramic is thicker, Mr. Torley reminds him. Unlike glass… One wrong slip of the tongue and you’ll be swallowing blood.

Hold still.

Hold still.

Hold still.

Jaime waits and he waits and he waits for the smooth side of the glass on his tongue. Waits for the fingers on his chin, pressing his mouth shut. Waits for the moment it will be over and he will be called to the bedroom.

I’m sorry, he wants to plead. But the words don’t make sense with his jaw locked open.

The sudden touch makes him flinch. He tries not to, knows he will only hurt himself more if he moves, but he can’t help it.

The touch isn’t to his chin this time, though. Instead, warm skin flattens against both of his cheeks.

“Jaime, please open your eyes.”

And…

And suddenly he doesn’t want to. Dread of an entirely different kind trickles over him as clarity moves in, slow and forbidding.

Because that isn’t Mr. Torley’s voice, and this isn’t Mr. Torley’s kitchen, and those definitely aren’t Mr. Torley��s palms cradling his face between them. He can feel his own skin flushing with heat under Sebastian’s touch and he absolutely cannot open his eyes to face him now.

What has he done.

“Please?” Sebastian’s says. The pad of his thumb brushes back and forth over Jaime’s cheekbone, so softly he doesn’t know if Sebastian is even conscious of it.

When he finally manages to press his lips together, his tongue is dry and sticky in his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“No, no. You don’t have to be sorry,” Sebastian says. “Just open your eyes for a second. Please, look at me.”

His body responds to the direct command before his mind does, and suddenly he finds himself staring into a familiar pair of green eyes. They’re so close to him now. He doesn’t think he has ever been this close to Sebastian except… 

He blinks to a flashbulb memory of bloodied clothes and a towel around his waist and strong arms holding him up on a locker room floor.

Sebastian. It’s just Sebastian. He helped him then, and he is helping him now. He has not hurt him. He will not hurt him.

“Can you see where you are?” Sebastian asks.

Jaime looks around him and nods, and then again with more confidence.  

“Good. Okay. You’re okay.” Jaime feels his small exhale of relief against his skin. “Come on. Let’s… Let’s get you out of the mess, okay?”

The mess.

The mess Jaime made.

The moment he shifts his weight to try and stand, his teeth snap together against the flare of pain that shoots up his leg. He doesn’t need to look down to know he’s bleeding.

“Easy,” Sebastian says. He holds out his arms and Jaime grabs onto them without thinking, pulling himself unsteadily onto his feet. Another piece of glass digs into his foot when he steps down. Sebastian must pick up on his suppressed reaction, because he quickly ushers Jaime to the side. “Come on. This way.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Jaime tells him feebly as he limps alongside him, toward the living room. “I can clean it up.”

“Don’t worry about that right now.” Sebastian deposits him onto the couch as gently as he can. “Can I help lift your leg?”

Jaime nods, weak and boneless as his socked foot is hoisted onto the coffee table. He chokes back a bubble of absurd laughter at how Mr. Torley would react to Jaime putting his feet on the furniture.

“May I?” He feels a tug at his ankle and looks down to see Sebastian’s finger hooked into his sock. Jaime nods again. The fabric catches on the way down, causing Jaime to bite the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed.

“Shit, Jaime.”

His eyes shift back to Sebastian, who is eyeing the bottom of his foot with a grimace.

“One second, okay? I’m going to grab the kit from the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Much to Jaime’s horror, the moment he is left alone in the living room, his eyes start to burn. He blinks quickly, willing them to stay back, but the onslaught is too sudden to stop. Hot tears of humiliation roll down his cheeks. Sebastian walks in just as he is scrubbing the back of his arm across his face but doesn’t mention it.

“You’ve got a couple of cuts on your foot,” he says instead. “I think there might still be a piece of glass in one of them.”

As he settles down on the coffee table beside his leg, Jaime recognizes the change in his tone. It’s the same voice he used to hear in the clinic sometimes; smart and serious and gentle.

Sebastian unzips the first aid kit and pulls out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and a pair of tweezers. Jaime, tucking his hands just out of view, curls his fingers tightly in the throw blanket beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says, pausing before he touches him again. “I really need to clean this out. I…” He pauses, a small muscle working at the of his jaw. “This isn’t going to feel good, but I promise I’ll work quickly. Is that okay?”

For a second, Jaime can only stare back at him numbly.

“I need to clean it,” Sebastian repeats when he doesn’t respond, “but I won’t touch you again unless you tell me it’s okay.”

Jaime’s fists curl tighter into the blanket. After a moment, he forces his mouth to move.

“It’s okay.”

-- -- --

Nothing could have prepared Sebastian for having to perform another painful procedure on a terrified Jaime. He definitely hadn’t banked on the possibility that it would happen on the morning of their first full day together, on the tail of an obvious episode of PTSD.

There were too many similarities to the first time Sebastian hurt him. That day in the operating room haunts Sebastian’s dreams, and this procedure brought every memory rushing back to the surface.  

Every time Jaime held his breath or suppressed a flinch, Sebastian felt the pain shoot through his own body. He tried to keep his voice low and steady, talking him through every step. For whatever that is worth. Not much, he assumes.

Even when he finishes wrapping his foot, the worst isn’t over

“We should probably check your knees,” he says quietly. “If it would make you more comfortable, we could—”

Before he can even finish making the offer, Jaime stands robotically from the couch, gingerly putting weight on his bandaged foot, and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. He pushes them down his hips and steps out of them in a fluid, practiced motion.

Sebastian blinks, caught off guard by the sight of pale thighs in his eye line. Quickly, he shifts his eyes to Jaime’s face, only to see his is back to avoiding Sebastian’s gaze.

“Okay.” Sebastian clears his throat.

The moment Jaime sits again, Sebastian does his best to discreetly toss the throw blanket over his lap, giving him the option to cover himself.

“These don’t look too deep.” He is overly conscious of Jaime’s eyes tracking his hands as they work over him, gently wiping the blood from the scrapes. “I think your pants kept the glass from getting into the skin, at least.”

Jaime gives a jerky nod.

Sebastian lets a couple of minutes pass in silence, centering his focus on the task at hand and listening for the subtle changes in Jaime’s breathing.

He tries not to think about the way Jaime’s muscles jump every few seconds under his touch. Tries not to think about all the ways this could have gone worse—a world in which the cuts were deep enough to require stitches. The only thing worse than Sebastian having to administer the sutures himself would be taking him to a WRU-approved clinic to watch someone else do it.

When he can’t ignore it anymore, Sebastian clears his throat and tries to inject some degree of confidence into his tone.

“Jaime,” he says. “Do you want to talk about what happened in there?”

The recoil isn’t quite physical, but Sebastian can feel it anyway.

“I’m not upset with you.” Sebastian assures him quickly. “Not even a little. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Or. You know. Did I…? I mean, was there something I did? To trigger that?”

His answering swallow is thick enough that Sebastian can track the movement of his Adam's apple.

“No, sir.” He slams his eyes shut. “Sebastian. I’m sorry. I know it’s Sebastian. I will get it right.”

He thinks he might be sick if he has to hear another apology directed his way. Sebastian takes a slow, deep breath. “Hey. Okay. Maybe… We don’t need to talk about this right now.”

He waits until Jaime opens his eyes again, meeting his gaze. And for the first time, Sebastian sees his exhaustion in plain sight and hates himself for missing it. The rims of his eyes are red, and below that, the skin is sunken and gray. He pushes down the swell of guilt and makes a decision.

“Why don’t you go back to bed for a little bit?” he suggests, trying to inject enough encouragement without making it a command. “You look like you haven’t slept much. I can’t say I blame you. It’s been a pretty intense week, yeah?”

Jaime keeps his eyes leveled just below his chin. Sebastian sighs.

“Listen. I can take care of the kitchen. You just try and get some rest, okay?”

For a few seconds, the only indication that he heard him is the familiar battle of apprehension in his features. Finally, he nods—a forced, mechanical movement that echoes in the way he pulls himself to his feet.

“Do you need help?” Sebastian hovers at his side without touching. He hands his folded sweatpants back to him. “Do you need… anything?”

He pauses, only for a moment. Sebastian has never seen a smile laced with so much fear.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

He watches him limp down the hallway, unable to look away long after the door clicks shut behind him.

-- -- --

Whiskey has never been his favorite, but it happened to be the first bottle his eyes landed on. Sebastian watches the amber liquid coat the sides of the glass as he tilts it between his fingers. He feels it should be noted in his favor that he at least waited until the clock said PM before pouring it.

The phone against his ear rings once, twice, a third time, and he has a sudden heart-sinking fear that it will go to voicemail. But halfway through the fourth ring, he picks up.

“Hello?”

“I’m fucking everything up.” The words tumble out of him as soon as he opens his mouth. “He’s miserable and I don’t think he’s sleeping and I did something today, I don’t even know what, and he had this… this… I don’t…”

“Tate.” Ezra’s voice, quiet and firm in the way that he uniquely seems to have mastered, cuts him off. “Take a breath. And start over.”

Sebastian follows the orders as best he can, sneaking in a quick swig of his drink in between.

“Ezra, I really need your help.”

-- -- --

Past glass incident from the flashback here. 

Jaime’s mention of blood and a towel and a locker room here. 

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort 

#do no harm: jaime & sebastian #they are... really not off to a great start #but they are both trying so hard #whump #whumplr #bbu #like bbu adjacent? #whump writing

[hussyknee]

Does reading a lot of books "count" if they're all only popular light-read novels? As opposed to classics and literary fiction and whatever 600-page in-betweens are called. I can tear through all of Cat Sebastian (who's either hit or very, very miss for me) before I can pick up, like, Sharon Kay Penman, even though they're both popular historical novellists, because SKP's are about real historical figures and wars where a lot of horrible things happen to people. So of course my brain is convinced that SKP's novels "count" more than CS's, because it only counts if you have to struggle through an emotional morrass that makes you feel glad to live in climate collapse because at least nobody is sticking people's heads on spikes anymore.

This is also why I can only stand well back from literary fiction and poke it with a stick like I'm waiting for rats and snakes to jump out because, afaik, most of them are about people being sad and ruminating on the Human Condition. I don't get why I have to read about that, given I'm a sad person who's trapped in the Human Condition.

(I sometimes think the people that write these things are either so removed from the unwashed masses that they can look at them like a science experiment or five inches from offing themselves at all times. Presumably some of them are those mythical Normal People who have somehow emerged from the existential soup without any mental illnesses. Idk. How tf do you write fiction about real human pain that isn't even self-indulgent whump fic? I'm still trying to recover from having read Ninety-One Whiskey four years ago.)

You'd think the solution would be to just read some escapist fantasy, except the serious non-YA adjacent stuff that get submitted for Hugo awards (or Netflix and HBO adapations that shit all over the source material) are also about Bad Things Happening To People. I suppose this is better than white Christian manifest destiny bullshit like Lord of the Rings* where Bad Things Only Happened to Boromir, whose fans are the kind of people who think Gone With The Wind is a literary classic instead of Ku Klux Klan propaganda or people like me who are pathologically obsessed with conservative white bullshit**. And yet have I ever picked up NK Jemisin, who seems to be for all intents and purposes the queen of decolonial high fantasy? Of course not. Better to bear that media where Bad Things Only Happen To Imbibers Of This Racist Bullshit, than fly to others Where Bad Things Happen To The Characters that we know not of***.

It's really fucking hard to be extremely mentally ill and have OCD that won't let you DNF stuff that bores and distresses you and makes you think anything that lets you have safe, happy fun is just easy mode riffraff of no nutritional value.

***Still trying to figure out where Guy Gavriel Kay fits in. Without, you know, just reading the damn books.

**Tbh the reason conservative white bs is so appealing is because conservatives genuinely believe in the Just World theory. They rationalize the chaos of reality by assuming that the world used to make sense and work the way it should until Bad People happened to it, and it can be restored to its rightful glory if we can just root out all the shit that upended the old order. That's fascism in a nutshell and why its so deeply seductive even to people suffering under it.

*No, I'm not going to explain why LoTR is smuggling white supremacy. Y'all care more about defending the intentions of white men living in the fading era of the British empire than understanding how they could possibly have internalised white Christian supremacy that informs their writings about Fair, Enlightened Folk of the West yearning for a mythical past where they reigned supreme. Figure it out.

#actually ocd #hyperempathy #reading #books #high fantasy #fantasy #historical fiction #decolonization #knee of huss

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional 25

Previous—Masterlist— Next

CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Past surgical/medical whump alluded to, hospital setting. As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump &lt;3

Found. 

Found. 

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with ‘found’. 

It wasn’t good or bad or safe or pain or any of the others that WRU had made so bright and shiny and accessible they were practically glued to his hands. Even when he went deeper, spiraling down into the shadowy, muddled places he cared not to linger in, there was no space for it anywhere. 

Found.

It didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was what it meant to Leo. 

And he had absolutely no fucking clue. 

“Aiden, I found you,” Leo repeated, like he was able to see exactly how long it was taking Aiden to glean any meaning from the phrase.

His head was hurting, even with all the drugs he’d agreed to. That had to be a bad sign, a sign that they’d lied and the drugs were doing something else since they certainly weren’t eradicating all of his pain. He made sure his grip hadn’t changed around Leo’s hands. Leo’s hands holding his. Like maybe they were all that was holding him together. 

Leo was almost smiling, his eyes still full of emotion. A few tears had fallen just moments ago before he’d made an apology exactly like the one Aiden should have made and couldn’t make. Leo’s eyebrows were still raised because he was expecting this to mean something but Aiden wasn’t clever enough to figure it out. More tests that Harrison designed him to fail. 

He nodded once, holding his breath, hoping to hell that Leo would give him some indication that it was the correct response or at least one that would earn him more explanation. 

Leo tilted his head a fraction of a centimeter to the left and took a breath but the exhale was shorter than the inhale, more audible. 

Fuck. 

Aiden flinched when Leo reached for his shoulder. “M’sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re good.” Leo rubbed his thumb in circles over the starchy fabric of the hospital gown. 

He wanted to cry. He wasn’t good. None of this could be leading anywhere good.

Leo leaned forward, for some reason undeterred from driving at this point. “Aiden, the day we met. When you woke up in the back of my van, remember?”

Yes, he remembered. A promising first impression.

“That morning, I stopped to get coffee on my way to work and I found you—”

Found whatever lies Harrison had written, raising his hopes so they’d have even further to fall.

“I found you, unconscious in a snowbank off the parking lot—”

No…

“I-I thought you were homeless. I was going to give you my coffee but when I saw you—” Leo reached for his cheek and this time Aiden was too stunned to flinch. “—I just, I didn’t think twice, I wanted to help you, to keep you safe.”

None of this made any sense. Why would he make something like this up? What was the point? 

Leo let out a breath, like a sigh. Was he relieved? 

He was looking at Aiden expectantly again and Aiden wanted to scream. 

Why couldn’t Leo just give him the answer?

“I didn’t even realize that you were a—” Aiden was left to hang in the full shame of what he was, what he had been reduced to. “—Companion. I just wanted to help. I’m sorry I fucked it up, not seeing what was right in front of me, not helping you as well as I could have.” 

There really wasn’t any point in trying to understand the purpose of this fresh test. 

Christ, it was convoluted and he was way too damaged to ever hope to follow. 

His throat ached from holding back sobs.

Nothing he could do would make anything better. 

Worse might be possible, but at this point, did it really even matter? 

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t—Aiden, are you with me, sweetheart?” 

His gaze had shifted off Leo’s face to stare, unfocused, at the light of the MRI machine coming through the window. 

Leo searched each of his eyes, one and then the other, to make sure he was paying attention now. 

He burned under the valuation. 

“Aiden, I didn’t buy you, I—”

“Stop.” He stood, the chair rolling away behind him. 

Did he just say that out loud? 

He staggered back, away from Leo and in search of his balance. 

It was all too much, all of this was too much.

“Aiden?” Leo rose to follow him slowly, hands at his sides. Always so careful and calculating. 

“Nnn—please,” he sobbed. 

“Easy, it’s okay—” 

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his temples.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Leo said quickly. He reached his hand out. “I didn’t mean—I only wanted—”

“Don’t!” Louder than he’d intended, clearer than he thought he was capable of. “Nnn…please,” he added too late. Leo’s face had already fallen, just for a moment before he’d returned to looking concerned.

“Don’t…come near you?” 

Nothing could have been worse. Aiden let himself crumple to the ground, arms coming up around his head as he tried to fold away. To sink into the grave he’d dug for himself hand over fist.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Aiden shook his head, sobbing. Everything ached. “Nnn—please…nnno…don’t…nnn…lie—” 

After a while, he wondered if maybe he hadn’t said it out loud. Or Leo hadn’t heard his whisper. Or was pretending he hadn’t heard. He tried to quiet his crying to hear. Maybe Leo had left and now, finally—

“I’m going to come sit by you, okay?”

He didn’t move or object so Leo crossed the room and sat beside him. Aiden peeked out to see him dragging a hand over his face, elbows on his knees. 

“There’s probably a dozen better ways I could’ve explained that. Delia told me to wait, she was probably right—she’s always right. I’m sorry.” He sighed, glancing over and caught Aiden watching him. He smiled that half-smile, the one that made a few lines appear by his eyes, the one that looked so kind. “Hi, hon.”

He flushed, despite himself, despite everything, and was so glad his face was covered. Leo’s smile faded and in another well-trained reaction Aiden feared he was disappointed. He almost reached for one of the practiced responses, out of habit, to try to salvage the exchange. 

“I’d never lie to you, Aiden. I know there’s nothing to make you believe that’s not just another lie but I have no reason to lie to you, sweetheart.” 

Aiden couldn’t see the reason either. Unless it were just for sport, which would mean Leo was exactly like Harrison, and Aiden couldn’t face that at all. 

He lifted his head, resting his chin on his knees. His arms were starting to throb from holding his legs up to his chest.

Leo smiled again, same smile as always. 

Same as the time he’d torn open a bag of mini marshmallows in the parking lot, sending them skittering all over the slush, trying to bribe Aiden out from under his van. Same as when he saw Aiden waiting for him downstairs every morning. Same as when he came home every day. 

His heart hammered in his chest. It didn’t seem possible that he could be interpreting all of this right. That any of this was right for him. There was one way to tell. He was pretty sure he’d said it before, correctly, even though he hadn’t really meant to. He’d always been too afraid to practice. The name had never felt like it belonged to him to say. 

The sounds were all there, like they wanted to be spoken. He took a breath—

“Leo?” 

Aiden jumped and Leo put a hand on his back. “It’s just Delia.” 

“Hey, checking in. We can head back now.” 

They each took a side and lifted helped Aiden to his feet. Delia’s name tag clicked against her stethoscope as she leaned down to help Leo. He couldn’t read her name, of course, but there she was in the photo, a wry smile on her lips. He wondered if she had been instructed to look serious but couldn’t keep a straight face or if the security guard in charge of pictures had a sense of humor. 

This was definitely not a place for people like him.

This was a real hospital. 

Delia was a real doctor.

If Leo didn’t have any papers or a contract for him, they really weren’t anywhere remotely related to WRU.

All of that sneaking around had been real. 

What exactly were Leo and Delia risking by bringing him here?

“Sweetheart?” Leo’s hand on his cheek made him gasp. 

He looked between their faces. Apparently, they’d meant for him to be paying attention.

Leo caught onto his panic. “Hey, it’s okay.” He moved his hand down to rest on Aiden’s shoulder. “We’ll head back now. You don’t need to do the scan, okay? It wasn’t fair of me to expect that of you. You can rest a bit more until it’s okay for us to go home. Sound good?”

His head nodded automatically. Leo kept one arm around him as they turned toward the door. 

He planted his feet. 

Leo stopped guiding him. “Aiden?”

He just wanted—he couldn’t— He flapped a hand. What the fuck was that going to convey? He used it to cover his face instead, shaking his head. “Mmm’sorry…m’sorry…” 

“It’s okay, take your time. We still have time,” Delia said. 

The silence swelled as they waited for him, waited on him.

Leo and Delia exchanged a glance that made him want to evaporate. They were confused and he couldn’t fucking articulate a single goddamn thought in his head. This was not going to work or end well. He couldn’t do this. 

He kneaded his brow, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Does it hurt, hon?” Leo rubbed his shoulder. 

Aiden shook his head and tried to swallow the knot of frustration building in his throat. “Mmm…I…I…”

Leo considered him patiently, with that concerned crease appearing right between his brows. 

Aiden couldn’t decide if it made him want to fall into his arms or at his feet. 

He should just be cooperative and go back. 

But maybe it wasn’t only selfish. Leo deserved to know. Even if he was pretending it didn’t matter how damaged Aiden was. Not to mention whatever that meant if Leo hadn’t even wanted a companion in the first place.

Now, he’d done it. Tears started running down his cheeks. He swiped at them with the back of his unbandaged hand but they kept coming. He groaned and it just sounded like a sob. 

“Aiden, honey. Whatever it is, it’s okay.” 

He wondered erratically if he might actually respond better to having it beat out of him. If all of this kindness and patience and consideration was what made him flounder. How could Leo still be so patient with him after the tantrum he’d thrown earlier?

“I…mmm…mmm…” Forget about want, need, have to. It was like Harrison had reached in and removed specific words from his head. Which was exactly the reason why this was so important. He pointed at the black monitors lined up under the window, cringing at how debasing the monkey-gesturing was. “…please?”

“You—you want to do the scan?” 

Something released inside of him, letting free a sob too. He nodded, wiping his face again. 

Leo’s brow furrowed even more. “I’m sorry, I should have asked. I didn’t think—”

He shook his head quickly, now crying in earnest. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have done or said anything to make Leo—

“Alright, okay. Hey, Aiden, hey.” Leo moved closer, squeezing both his shoulders. “It’s okay. If this is what you want, we’ll make it happen.” 

He sniffled and nodded. He wanted to sink into the floor for making so much trouble. For the way it was making him feel to have Leo gently thumbing the tears off his face and acting like everything really was going to be okay.

Previous—Masterlist— Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @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 @aseasonwithclara @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

#bbu #bbu whump #box boy whump #box boy rescue #dubious caretaker #clueless caretaker #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu adjacent #hospital whump #clinical whump #captivity whump #medical whump #whumpee thinks caretaker is new master #whump #institutionalized slavery #dehumanization tw #internalized ableism tw #well this is the one kids #time to push them off this damn cliff already #😈 #pet whump #pet whumpee

[bokettochild]

have you considered violet incident adjacent whump 🤔 ik they usually happen bc the boys do something stupid but being publicly known as warriors' family might cause some Issues in his era

I have actually!

I've actually had a few people come to me and ask whether or not I could do a whup, usually off that same premise, but the issue is this: I did that thing, so now I don't know if I can do it again.

I wrote a fic in 2021 where, because of association with the captain, someone gets whumped, and it was all well and good (and very clearly my 2021 writing) but I'm not sure how to do a Violet without very much emulating the old one.

Unless I intentionally did a bunch of callbacks to it in a sort of comparison of my current writing and my early stuff? the debate's still on....

I'm also hesitant to stray away from the crack aspect too much. Violet is fun because of crack, and while fluff is well and good, the true fun is in the oddity of the situation, soooo..... yeah.

That said, I have a few Violet ideas, so maybe I'll just ask for a vote on which I should work on and you guys can at least get something new soon :)

#the violet incidents #asks and answers #linked universe #linkeduniverse

[himboskywalker]

Greetings, I am an old Star Wars fan but new to obikin discourse of any kind. Back in the prequel days, I loved Obi-Wan but was blinded by my hatred of Anakin. However, as I aged and the characters grew into what we saw in the Obi-Wan show, I'm forming new opinions.

A question though, to you as an experienced obikin shipper and author, I have to ask. One of the reasons I've never been able to ship it before is because, from literally every angle (unless the fic is a complete AU), obikin is a deeply unhealthy relationship dynamic with no hope of a truly happy ending. And that makes me very sad. How do you navigate this? Although I do love extreme angst and much whump for my fave characters, I do like to imagine that all could be well for them eventually. How could you see this happening for Obi-Wan and Anakin in a mostly canon SW context?

Hello There! And welcome to the Obikin community after all these years!

You'll hear many differing opinions on this and mine certainly isn't definitive, but I personally do not consider their relationship dynamic inherently unhealthy or without hope of happiness or a resolve for a happy ending. I understand the age gap makes many people uncomfortable, as does the mentor/apprentice dynamic, and those are completely fair things for people to dislike. But I think the greatest misconception about this ship is that Obikin focuses on Obi-Wan and Anakin when Anakin is very young and while he is a padawan. And while there is certainly that dynamic, and I myself have written them when Anakin is still a padawan, you will find that is by far not where we focus on their dynamic.

For myself, my favorite era to focus on them is during the Clone Wars. Anakin is no longer Obi-Wan's padawan, he is in his twenties, a war general, and co-leading an entire Intergalactic military fleet with Obi-Wan. While they still retain the dynamic of mentor and apprentice, they very much become equals. Obi-Wan stops referring to Anakin as padawan, Anakin refers to Obi-Wan as master far less, they treat one another as best friends and comrades, as that is the more equal roles they step into during this period. And of course in reality, in real life we would raise eyebrows at the very least at a romantic pairing with this age gap and mentor/apprentice dynamic because of inherent power imbalance ect ect. But it's fiction, and Anakin as a character is one with agency and far more responsibility and power than a real person would be capable of in our world. But even with all that, I'm not one to get hung up on things being considered problematic or unhealthy with a ship, it's fictional and I'm a grown human fully capable of parsing reality from not, and what is acceptable to explore through art and what is not in real life.

But if that nuance of their relationship bothers you I recommend the plethora of gorgeous Clone Wars era fanfiction in our community, that is often canon compliant or adjacent, and which explores their dynamic on a far more even playing field. But as far as canon no hope of a happy ending, I completely disagree (in a very friendly way!) Even in canon, platonically as they are, Obi-Wan bends reality and manipulates the force at the very end to ensure Anakin becomes a force ghost when he dies. Even after their lifetime of pain and heartache and sorrow, Obi-Wan in death chooses to keep Anakin's soul with him in the afterlife. The implication of course is that they can then spend literal eternity together, and I personally find that very comforting and uplifting.

But as far as no hope for happy endings in canon compliant or adjacent fanfiction, you will actually find lots of brilliant obikin works that blend beautifully with the canon universe, explore obikin, and allow for a happy ending. In a perfect world I would see it going as Anakin being able to control his fear and to let go while the Jedi triumph in the Clone Wars and Sidious is defeated. You would be surprised at how many iterations there are for a brilliantly happy ending that only require a minor change to the plot. And while I am an avid shipper, I also am perfectly content as they are in canon, platonic and still so tangled up in each other they are an intrinsic and inseparable part of each other's characters. No matter how you look at it, platonically and canon or through a romantic lens, they loved one another ardently and to the foundations of their being. Any story where Order 66 didn't happen and Anakin stays in the light and they continue to love one another is a happy one for me! I love them! I love their friendship and brotherhood and literally every dynamic in-between, because they are two halves of a single whole in canon.

I see an infinite number of happy endings for them. Because to me the act of Anakin not falling is achievable in countless ways, and defeating Sidious in just as many! I'm a writer, I see nothing but a lifetime of story and alternative endings. You could say a near canon option for them to have a happy ending is simply that Anakin did not decapitate Dooku and Sidious is revealed, you could say he simply told Obi-Wan he was having force visions of Padme dying, you could say Padme refused to marry Anakin, you could say Palpatine choked on a bagel lol

And I know with the Kenobi series now it seems terribly unhappy and a dynamic of pain and sorrow. But there is so much material where they love one another and are happy that I find it a simple thing to focus on that. The core of what I am so obsessed about for this ship, is that even canon they love one another so much it is a fundamental part of their characters. You can't have one without he other. And to focus on, even beyond fanfiction and fandom, the ending is literally that Anakin chooses the light in the end and that Obi-Wan never stops loving him, and that they are together forever.

#I'm not sure if I answered your question exactly so if you need me to clarify on something or expound I certainly can lol #obikin #star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #fanfiction #fandom #asks