[distinctlywhumpthing]

Masterlist Masterpost

Unintentional (Aiden & Leo/Aiden & Harrison) Classic whumpee-thinks-caretaker-is-new-master trope. This particular box boy is dealing with the "side effects" of some experimental surgeries. Caretaker is clueless and whumpee is practically mute, let the misunderstandings begin. (Plus gratuitous medwhump full of twisty power dynamics and defiance!) Ongoing!

In League (August & Wyatt) Late-19th century whump: Indentured servitude, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper, power dynamics, team whump/found family vibes, nefarious activity. Semi-AU to Together. Ongoing!

Involuntary BBU-adjacent: Our poor boy is abandoned in a foreign city and adopted by a band of waiters who live and work together far from their Sicilian homeland. Recovery, found family, and independence in a country where the System isn't legal. Sporadic at best

Together (August, Wyatt, & Emma) Captivity whump: Conditioned-to-be-mute whumpee, masked whumpers, whumpee as caretaker, whumpee forced to whump. Ohsomanytropes. Complete.

Apart (Wyatt & Emma) Prequel to Together: Pre-captivity and captivity. Power struggles, plenty of "No, don't fall for it! Get out while you still can!", and hate-to-love-it-love-to-hate-it dynamics. Complete.

Sink or Swim (co-written by @alittlewhump) BBU-adjacent pet whump: You've heard of box boys and guard dogs, loyal pets designed to cater to every whim of their owners. It's easy to forget that four-legged friends aren't the only kind of pet out there, isn't it? Keeping exotic fish can be a challenge well worth the reward of having a unique pet all to yourself.

[doumidas]

sickens him in practice

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Hellllllllll yeah

[doumidas]

what appealed to him in theory

solitaire masterlist: act i / act ii ♤ prev

content: pet whump (bbu/institutionalized slavery), effects of alcohol, vaguely incestuous implications (no actual incest, they are unrelated), brief implication of past CSA, sexual themes, argument between whumpees

port & sonny have a discussion about what happened.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

Sonny knew that Port was not going to mention the fact that he knew Sonny was tipsy, but Sonny knew that he knew, and Sonny had a feeling that Port knew that Sonny knew that Port knew, too. 

All Port said to him was: “Are you feeling okay?”

“Better,” Sonny said. “Better.” When he closed his eyes, he had the sense he was spinning atop the bed like a skipping record. 

“Good,” said Port’s voice beside him.

By the time Sonny and Rida had gotten their fill of fresh air and returned inside, they found the living room vacated. Both Tal and Port had retired to bed. When Sonny pushed open the door to his room, he found Port laying flat on his back, without a blanket, fingers intertwined over his chest. Sonny might have thought he was praying had his eyes not been wide open and glazed over, pointed at the ceiling fan. 

He was still in the same position now, not having moved an inch in the time it took Sonny to change into nightclothes, turn out the light, and crawl into bed beside him. 

“You’re like a brother to me,” Port said, unprompted. 

Oh. There it was.

Over the course of the night, with the aid of whiskey, Sonny had successfully pushed from his mind what he remembered of that interaction up until just now, and would have been perfectly happy to leave it unaddressed. It took every modicum of his control to prevent his face from morphing in a way that might reveal some particular emotion. The mask didn’t matter, however, because when he opened his eyes Port was still not looking at him.

“I love you,” he said by way of response. It was not what he had intended to come out of his mouth, even if it was the truth.

Port finally shifted, no longer stone, twisting and pushing himself up onto his elbow. Sonny thought his brown eyes were beautiful, even in the dark, in a way that made him want to simultaneously shy away from the eye contact and keep staring into them forever. There was a furrow between Port’s pale brows. “I love you, too,” he said. 

There was no hesitation in his words. For some reason Sonny was surprised by how unflinchingly he said it, even if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it from him— but never so blatantly, never face-to-face like this. Only ever in the dead of night, Port’s lips pressed to his hair or near his ear, whispered in soft or scary moments. He’d figured Port might find it difficult to say in any other context.

“Okay,” Sonny said.

Port sat up fully and interlaced his fingers in his lap. One of his thumbs brushed over the other, running along the fingernail. Sonny could not see too well from this angle or in the darkness, but he knew from every past sneaking glance at Port’s nimble hands that the nail was warped, like dented sheet metal or the rippling surface of a pond. 

“I’ve been thinking about the files,” Port said.

It took Sonny a moment to realize what he was referring to, with the sudden non-sequitur. Those redacted documents. Port hadn’t seemed very interested at all two days ago. At this point, Sonny was done with them, too. “What about them?”

“I think… I get why you wanna know more about who you are.”

Sonny shook his head minutely, listening to the soft scratching sound of his hair rubbing against the cotton pillowcase. “I don’t care anymore,” Sonny said. “I decided I don’t want to know.”

Port stopped rubbing at his thumbnail. “Really? Why?”

Sonny turned his face away, frustrated. He had not intended to continue thinking about this at all, let alone put it to words for Port’s benefit. Sonny cursed his stupid fucking immune system and his own self and every single circumstance that had led up to this moment. “Yesterday…” he said through his teeth, “…in the bathroom, it brought up some shit I don’t really wanna think about. I don’t wanna look back at all, including anything in those files. I’m done with all of it.” 

When Sonny turned back, Port was looking slightly pained, some discomforted emotion pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were very still, aimed at some spot on the blanket, as he looked for words to say. “Did… did you know who I was?” he asked.

Fucking embarrassing. Sonny pressed his palm to his forehead, fingers in his bangs, and groaned. “Forget it happened.”

“Did you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s all fuzzy.” He felt a little fuzzy right now, like he might dissolve into the bedsheets. 

Port rubbed at the back of his neck, over the delicate collar. “Y’know, family… has been on my mind, lately,” he said haltingly. “And I just feel like I should tell you… You’re family to me.” The look he was giving Sonny was something a little wide-eyed, a frightened sort of sincerity.

Sonny didn’t want to look at it. He brought his other hand to his face and pressed both palms to his eyes, scoffing. “Do you always have to talk around things like this?” The pressure had stars exploding behind his eyelids. “Just say what you really wanna say.”

Quiet. Darkness. “Did you mean to, uh, lick me?”

Sonny nearly laughed. Only Port would word it like that. 

It was something he’d wanted to do many times before, in moments tantalizingly close to Port’s bare skin, restrained only by his sense. When he was sick, he’d had none. Right now, Sonny thought he might still have none. And even though he hadn’t really known whose neck he was pressing his tongue to at the time, it did not matter. It was not the real question Port was trying to ask. “Yes,” he said.

Port did not respond to that. Sonny told himself he would simply lay in the silence and force Port to say something if he truly wanted to talk it out. He wondered if Port was mulling over his words right now, eyes still and focused in the way they were whenever he was calculating a response, trying to decide on a way to let him down easy. He could not help but imagine the way Port might be looking at him— as he hid behind his hands in a way that now seemed pathetic rather than resolute— perhaps with pity or apprehension or disgust.

His resolve for silence did not last even a minute. “I’m not your little brother,” Sonny said, even if it sometimes felt that way and he didn’t always hate it. “I feel like you put me in this box. You put me in this box and you refuse to see me any other way. And you think I’m, like, incompetent and… and immature.” The words were spilling out of his mouth.

“I—“ Port sounded weak. “I just don’t know where this is coming from.”

Sonny injected as much incredulity into his voice as he could manage. “You had no idea?”

Port’s voice was suddenly a little bolder, words a little quicker. “I mean, do you really think that would be good for us? Really?” 

Sonny was brave enough to pull his hands away and open his eyes. He set his jaw and fixed Port with a look he hoped came across as angry rather than ashamed, swallowing hard, fearing the bob of his throat was too obvious. Port’s look in return was something akin to wariness, nervous wrinkles under his eyes. “I don’t think you actually want me like that, Sonny.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me what I want.”

“I’m all you had, and you’re all I had, for— what— eight months? I’ve been the only person around for you to… to put those feelings on.”

“For god’s sake, stop talking.”

“You’re just starved for—“

“Shut up!”

“—for that sort of stuff. You’re a romantic sort of person…” Port had started to drawl out his words, and his eyes could not stick to a single spot for more than a few seconds, rolling all over the room— landing everywhere except on Sonny. “…and I think you’re misinterpreting your love for me.” 

Sonny could feel the heat rising to his face and sweeping over his entire body like a fiery alcohol flush. He burned. He could imagine too well the thought going through Port’s head: This stupid child doesn’t know what he wants. Sonny remembered they were not alone in the house and had the restraint not to raise his voice. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he hissed.

Port’s eyes steadied, looking down at him, and Sonny realized it was ridiculous to be laying flat on his back having this conversation. He sat up, rising to Port’s level. 

“I’m not trying to put words in your mouth,” Port said, shrinking away. “I just…”

He did not care for whatever stupid explanation Port would try to give. “Why did you even bring this up in the first place?” he asked, throwing his hands up. “What are you getting out of it? Do you get hard to the thought of humiliating me?”

Something cracked in Port’s expression, then. Sonny could not stop himself from continuing.

“You want me to answer your question? No, I don’t think it would be a good thing for us. Which is why I’ve never fucking brought it up before!” His hands balled into fists. “I was sick, man. I wasn’t thinking when I did it. And if you’re really as oblivious as you say you are, you never, ever would’ve known, because I was never going to bring it up.” 

Port just stared at him, mouth shut.

“Are you happy we’re talking about this? Is this making you feel better? Is this conversation productive to you?”

Port’s wide eyes dropped to his lap at the same time his hand rose to his temple. He looked heavy in every limb of his body. “I… thought it would fester,” he said quietly.

“You’re the one who was making it awkward,” Sonny snapped. “You refused to look at me.”

Port’s eyes squeezed shut, pained. The skin of his forehead dimpled as he pressed his fingers there. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and despite himself Sonny found some of his frustration melting away at the sad sight before him. “I’m sorry,” Port repeated. “I was nervous. And I— I scared you real bad. I really messed up. I’m just… awful,” he finished weakly.

This switch in his demeanor— the evaporation of all that condescending self-superiority— really took the wind out of Sonny's sails. He no longer wanted to shout at him or insult him until he broke and admitted to the ways he was hurting him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Sonny asked.

Port stared blankly into his lap. “I’m a terrible person, Sonny. I just lie to you and upset you.” His words had a flat affect to them, like he was reading from a script. Like it was something he’d gone over in his head so much he had lost all the emotion behind it. “I’m even doing it now. I… I deserve…” he trailed off. 

His admittance of his faults was not at all satisfying, nor did it ring as true as Sonny had expected it to. “Stop,” he said. He felt bad, and at the same time, he was angry at Port for making him feel bad.

“Sometimes I wish we never met, for your sake.” Port’s voice was quiet. “You’d be happier.” 

That sent a stake straight through his heart. “Jesus. Stop it. This is—“ hurting me. No. That was not the right thing to say to him right now. “That’s not true,” he said. “You’re the most important person in the world to me.”

Port was silent for a moment. “I feel the same,” he replied. His eyes lifted, hesitatingly, to meet Sonny’s. In all their guilt, they were still beautiful. 

Sonny had told himself he wouldn’t try anything. He had told himself he would not try to take whatever his feelings were for Port any further. But, of course, leave it to himself to get sick and drunk and stupid and smash open the bottle he had worked so hard to stuff everything inside. “Is it really so impossible for you to see me that way?” he asked, against all better judgement. 

Port’s eyes dimmed a little, brows ever-so-slightly lowering on his forehead. “Still hoping?”

“…I’m drunk.”

“I know.”

“I just… can’t help but wonder what it would be like,” Sonny admitted quietly. 

Port tilted his head almost imperceptibly, face turning a little contemplative. 

Sonny did not want to be subject to whatever was going through his mind. He laid back down, head on the soft pillow. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced, though he did not pull the covers up and did not close his eyes. His lidded gaze ran along the blades of the ceiling fan.

Port was unmoving for some time. Perhaps a few minutes passed where he simply sat there, Sonny sensing his stare.

Then he shifted. The mattress beneath Sonny dipped lower as Port’s weight moved closer to him, two points of depression joining into one. Sonny could feel his own eyes going wide and bewildered as Port’s arm carefully and deliberately swung over him, hand landing by his other side. Sonny glanced to his lean forearm, then up to his face. It hovered above him, expression unreadable. His wavy hair hung down from his forehead and over his ears. 

The last time someone had leered over him like this, he’d been choked to unconsciousness. The memory rose to his mind unbidden and unwelcome, but Port did not seem so sinister. In fact, Sonny had imagined being in this position so many times it was downright surreal. He could not be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

Port’s face dropped lower. Sonny stopped breathing. He blinked at Port’s upturned nose, almost afraid to look him in the eye. He could smell the mint off him, feel his soft breath. Port was so close that Sonny could count each freckle on his cheek, if he wanted. There was the scantest layer of air between their faces, and Sonny would only have to lift a few inches, and then their lips would be touching.

So that’s what he did. Port met him halfway. And then they were kissing. 

...If it could even be called that. It was little more than a chaste, dry press, closed mouth to closed mouth. Port’s eyes were shut. Sonny observed his pale eyelashes, and the slightest twitch in his eyelid, and then Port was pulling away. It had lasted maybe a single second.

Port’s face was still quite close, brow furrowed. They stared at each other for a moment. Sonny felt like a weight was pressing his chest into the bed and at the same time like he might simply float away, or just spin forever and ever the same way he did when he closed his eyes.

It had been too quick. He’d lifted his head on such instinct and suffered such shock that he had not had the chance to savor the moment. He needed to try it again. He gently placed his hands on either side of Port’s head, over his stick-out ears and soft hair, and pulled him back in. 

Sonny tried to really focus on the feeling of Port’s warm mouth against his, focus on the heat radiating off his skin and the sheer sensation of what it was like to have this man leaned over him with his palms pressing into the mattress on either side of him.

It was not as he'd pictured this moment. Despite how many times he had imagined Port like this, and in ways more illicit than this, it suddenly felt too vulgar to try anything more. In all of his prevailing chasteness, and his still unmoving lips, Sonny could not bring himself to try and coax Port's mouth open or let his hands wander anywhere else. Something about it would feel corruptive.

He loosened his grip on Port’s face and gently pushed his head away to signal that he was done. Port straightened his arms so that he was no longer so close to Sonny’s face. Brow still knit, his eyes fluttered open. They were intensely pensive. 

“Did that satisfy you?” Port asked, after a moment. 

“Why did you do that?” Sonny asked. It was a genuine question.

“I wanted to see if…” His eyes slid away as he trailed off, aborting the thought. His head hung lower from his shoulders and he shook it side to side, hair swaying gently. “I don’t know.”

A non-answer. Absurdly, Sonny found himself endeared by such a Port-like response, even as it pained him.

“Did it feel right to you?” Port asked. 

Sonny hesitated, even as he knew his answer immediately. “No.”

“Okay,” Port said, with some sense of finality. "There you have it.” 

He removed himself from Sonny’s space and sat back so that he was no longer on his hands and knees. His expression was difficult to read. Sonny felt bruised.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Port muttered.

It had been so much more alluring in fantasy, without all these strange strings attached. Sonny wondered if they might be better off if this had never happened at all. It was too fresh to tell. Would it really have rotted within him? Would he have been haunted by the question: What could have been, had I tried? 

“No, it’s okay,” Sonny said, even though he still had not decided if it was the truth or not. “I think it was a good experiment.” Maybe this confirmation of his doubts would allow him to forget about it for good. “So can we move on from this, now? No more hang-ups?”

There was the subtle bob of Port’s head. The noncommittal response was not satisfying to him. “I’m serious,” Sonny said. “I don’t want you to kill yourself feeling guilty about it. And don’t feel guilty about what happened yesterday, either. I want us to go back to how we were. Before…” He swept his hand through the air. At everything. “…all this.” He was pleading.

Port nodded more deeply. “That would be nice.”

Sonny did not like that answer, but he simply lifted his arms to interlace his fingers behind his head and inhaled deeply, filling his chest with air. He pinched his elbows inwards so they covered his ears and acted like blinders, imagining what it would be like to squeeze so hard that his eyeballs popped out of his skull. He exhaled. A sigh. 

He shifted his legs under the blanket and pulled it up to his collarbone. “I’m actually going to go to sleep now,” he said, still spinning. But he knew he would not sleep. He would lie awake and replay the moment over and over again behind his eyelids, even as it sickened him.

"Okay," Port said. "Goodnight."

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

taglist:

@ahyestheagonies @alternateminds @arobear @bacillusinfection @cooljewishboi

@distinctlywhumpthing @elegantinternethottub @hellodecisionparalysis @i-am-soggy-cereal @jumpywhumpywriter

@justanotherchangeling @masterofdumbassery @ohagany @oldspruceinn @paingoes

@painwithoutplot @palinoiahart @pumpkin-spice-whump @secretlythegodofdesire @sirnef-fenris

@string-of-broken-hearts @suchprettypieces @supasos0 @technicallydeliciousdeer @toyybox

@weibun-art @wits-and-wrongs @wollemi-whump @ziptiesnfries @yourlocalgaefae33

@zozgreenery

[distinctlywhumpthing]

W O A H.

My main question is, will we see any of this exchange immortalized in art??? 👀

[distinctlywhumpthing]

18 for the wij prompts? (preferably unintentional..)

18 from wij is smoke. ngl, I was like...smoke? You want me to set their house on fire? Smok...ing? Not something I can picture Leo or Aiden doing but have written for Harrison (end of this & implied here).

Anyway, I'm lying in bed thinking smoke, smoke, smoke. Nothing. I start daydreaming about what I would really like to write and what I'd really like to write is Harrison & Aiden meeting up post-Leo, with Leo there(!) even, but there's this one really crucial discovery Aiden needs to make first... and, boom, up in smoke. *Might be helpful to read this for more snippets of Aiden's fragmented recalling of his first/only contract!

(If you had a more literal smoke scenario in mind, please feel free to send it in! Also, I'm posting this whenever like wij is a fluid prompt list instead of a calendar 💫)

cw: victim self-blaming, internalized ableism, past noncon, past self-harm & past suicide attempt mentioned frankly.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

It’s just a normal trip to the store. 

He and Leo split up to get through the list faster. He’s just grabbed the cereal when he sees them. 

It always seemed too theatrical, melodramatic even, when people in movies and tv shows dropped everything in a moment of shock. 

But it’s almost reflexive. To empty your hands when everything you’ve built your life around goes up in smoke. So your fingers are free to cling to the fragments. To pluck the burning, rising remnants of all meaning out of thin air. 

The cereal box slaps against the grey industrial linoleum, followed closely by the saltines and the mayonnaise. Thank god it’s the plastic squeeze bottle because there weren’t any of the glass jars they usually buy. If it weren’t for the explosions of sound in the vacuum inside his head, he’d never be able to tear himself away from that face, that expression, those eyes. 

An impossible ghost in the flesh. Not a ghost at all. 

And to think he felt a flash of uncertainty at the substitution of a fucking condiment minutes ago. Enough to make him hesitate for a half-second before pulling it off the shelf. It’s the same brand and we need it for dinner, he defended to himself. (And last he checked the container the mayo comes in was not on Leo’s List. The secret one Aiden keeps diligent catalog of in his head.) 

He stumbles back, away from the groceries he’s meant to bring back to Leo and the cart. Away from the curious, judgmental, bored, prying looks of the other shoppers. He’s not fast enough and his ruination incarnate starts to turn. Either from the noise or the sense of being near a spectacle and wanting, needing to make sure you’re not it. 

Aiden spins and smacks right into a scowling, broad woman but doesn’t stop long enough to make sense of her clucking accusation as he mechanically and clumsily rushes from the store. His skin prickles under the weight of a too-familiar glare on his back but he can’t bring himself to turn and meet it, confirm he hasn’t immediately been passed over as a random weirdo. He weaves around someone’s cart at the last second, almost takes down a whole stack of Nilla Wafers and knocks shoulders with someone else in his careening retreat until finally he’s stumbling over the rubber spaghetti carpet of the entrance. 

Blessed fresh air and sunlight blinding him and all he can feel is his heart beating so hard he thinks it will crack him open and there will be nothing at all inside because he doesn’t know what’s left. Maybe one of the bored stock workers will lend him some notes for taking inventory. 

He ducks down the space between the grocery store and the Barnes & Noble. It’s not the skinny alley he wishes it were but he can tuck behind the fenced off dumpster, beside a stack of empty wooden pallets, and pretend it’s the best hiding spot in the world. 

His breath rattles through his throat, lungs like wet plastic bags caught on branches in the wind. For a second, he thinks he might pass out. His thoughts have slowed to a crawl. Glacial in grasping onto the next rung of reality, they just hang there suspended. Flight, freeze, at least he got out of there before fawn tripped along. 

Laughter climbs out of his mouth, jolting him back to the brick of the building behind his back, the asphalt where he sits. He has to clap both hands over his wild, hysterical grin before it slices his head in half like a watermelon. What is he even made of? Instead of nothing at all, maybe it’s just liquified now, syrupy juice will run down his ears, over his nose and lips. The overturned top of his head a tiki bowl on the pavement. Just waiting for someone like Harrison to slip a straw in, stir it around and take a taste. 

You’re being dramatic, the Harrison in his head says flatly. As close as if he were resting his temple on Aiden’s shoulder. Watching the whole scene unfold like a movie he would never choose but will obstinately sit through to the bitter end, if only for the opportunity to heckle as proof of his superiority. You can pick next time, Aiden easily cedes. Somatic comfort in giving him exactly what he wants, folding to the familiar dynamic, because that well-worn crease is rest compared to resisting. What’s the point? 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. He’s been out here long enough Leo decided he’s taking too long. He’ll make a lap or two around the whole store. Then he’d pretend finding Aiden early was serendipitous. All the while swallowing a sigh of relief, playing at nonchalance when just a second ago he was pulling out his phone in a panic.  

But Aiden’s nowhere to be found so Leo does call. His phone pulses with the fear Leo must be feeling but Aiden can’t bring himself to share in it, can’t seem to move. He just waits for the second call to come a heartbeat later, buried in his hoodie. For Leo to use the Find feature to get Aiden’s phone to sing a chorus of shrill beeps, silenced or not. Sometimes he can’t hear it if he’s working, if it’s across the room, or he left it on his pillow. Sorry! He’d text back, adding a monkey emoji covering its eyes. Leo would always call him after that. It’s okay, the first words out of his mouth. Twice, Aiden’s let the routine play out on purpose, just to have Leo’s reassurance in his ear. Squirming from the sweet guilt and the way it warmed him from the inside out.  

He tries to see if he feels anything knowing Leo is zooming in on the little map and rushing to find him. Guilt for making him worry? Shame for losing it in public, yet again? He peels his hands off his face and presses them into the gritty pavement, tiny rocks digging into the skin of his palms, the pads of his fingers. At least he can feel that. 

There should also be at least a tiny shred of comfort, of warmth, at the fact that Leo knows him well enough to come peering around every obstacle in the no-man’s land between the buildings to find his hiding nook. Empty handed of course because Leo would abandon anything to come to his rescue. 

Leo kneels down, close enough to reach but leaving enough space that he’s not boxing Aiden in. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s freaked out. Face lined with worry, eyes searching and probing and Aiden knows his dead expression isn’t giving him anything. 

“Aiden,” he has to ask. He’s never gotten any better at letting Aiden suffer silently. “What happened? Are you alright?”

He jerks his head in a nod, drags a hand over his face to try to reset the muscles. “I saw someone—some…two,” the sounds roll over his tongue, meaningless syllables. His lips twitch into a smile. She smiled. Right at him. As unreal as all the words, spoken countless times already and washed clean of all meaning they reach his lips. “Two people.” 

“What?” Leo’s panic doubles in turn. “Did they recognize you?” 

He shrugs. That smile. “She might’ve but she’s…she’s only…” He’s crying. “Three now.” He wipes the tears off his cheeks. “She turned three,” he whispers to himself, grinning giddily. Testing Leo’s anxiety. 

“Aiden? What about the other person?” He looks like he’s about to throw him over his shoulder and sprint to the car. 

“Dunno.” He can’t bring himself to care. Nothing else matters. She turned three. “If he did, he’d call.” It’s not funny but he can’t help laughing. “He’s…an asshole,” he laughs. “He always hated me. Didn’t stop him fucking me—” He claps both hands over his mouth but it only makes him sound more manic. 

Leo’s jaw hangs open. 

He tries to pull a breath through his nose, gags because he can’t stop laughing. Has to release his out-of-control mouth again to choke down enough air. He flaps a hand at Leo. It’s fine. 

Leo shakes his head, a gentle pushback. 

He tries harder to get a hold of himself, presses the heels of his shaking hands to his temples. Switches to covering his eyes. Pulls his hood down low over his forehead instead. He’s still laughing. Or something close to it. 

“I think we should leave…” Suggested with all the care of trying to balance a soap bubble on his finger tip, like Aiden’s about to detonate. (Hasn’t he already?) 

He nods, tears streaming down his face. Leo pulls him up with a strong grip around his wrist and doesn’t let go of his arm. Aiden puts his head between his knees as soon as he’s buckled in, unable to remember if he did it himself or if he even opened his own door. 

Eventually, the hysterical sounds coming out of his mouth simmer down to a silent vibration deep in his chest. A rumbling, rearranging of everything that used to hold him together. 

They’re halfway home before Leo pierces the silence he let Aiden rest on for the last ten minutes. “I’m gonna need to know who you saw. Just tell me it wasn’t…” He shoots a nervous glance at Aiden, testing the waters before he nevertheless throws a rock in. “...Harrison?” 

“No, no.” The idea is almost enough to make him laugh all over again. Imagine. He stops himself from blurting that Harrison never touched him like that. Leo should have known already it couldn’t possibly have been Harrison from that comment alone. He will have to clarify that nuance later. For some reason it’s important, a needling itch he won’t be able to leave untouched. 

“Okay…” Leo tries to give him a minute to answer on his own but he’s out of patience. Counting without Mississippis. “So?” 

He leans his head against the window, watches the blur of leaves against the clouds. They’re already starting to turn, the first hint of fall coming in to soften the brightness of summer into shades of sepia. “Mira, Mr. Park.” 

“What?” 

“Even after everything I did, they’re alive.”  

Leo blinks at him, has to brake hard when he misses the light turning yellow and it’s red by the time he looks back at the road. “You’re serious? Aiden. Aiden—”

“Leo,” he cuts him off. They’ve had this conversation more than once. 

When he forced himself to confess because he couldn’t bear the thought of Leo signing for legal responsibility of him without knowing. He practiced through tears night after night, condemning his reflection in the powder room mirror while Leo slept upstairs. Like a ritual of self-flagellation, punishment in equal measure for his mistakes and for still not having full faculty of his speech. A murderer, he finally articulated. What? Was it in self-defense? Leo didn’t believe him. No, I killed two people. He felt his soul shake under Leo’s silence. Minutes of it, until he thought it would press the life right out of him. Did you mean to do it? Aiden shook his head. Okay. He didn’t think it was right to promise he wouldn’t do it again, knowing what he was capable of. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” he tells Leo’s profile in the car. He lets himself smile again. 

“Like fuck it doesn’t matter, Aiden. You were…” Leo pulls over and stares out the windshield as the traffic streams past. He punches the steering wheel, making Aiden tense. 

The second time, he found himself in an exhausting tunnel of nightmares about it. He couldn’t see an end, thought he had to earn a reprieve. Leo caught him with a lighter, burning lines with a heated knife high on the sides of his ribcage where he thought they’d never be seen. He’d spelled out the entire series of events in a panicked, desperate defense, so articulate was he at last. You didn’t kill anyone, you’re blameless. Leo was furious, devastated. Two people are dead because of me, because of my actions. I killed them. It was much worse than the first time. What else was a complete lie? All Aiden could do was apologize. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. Louder and louder to try to drown out Leo’s escalating desperation to find something, anything to tip the scales in his favor. Nothing was worse than letting Aiden go on believing this about himself, until it was. Did you even slit your own wrists or did Harrison come do it for you? And then he was crying too hard to get the words out and Leo surrendered, rushing in to hold him and wrap him up in a tide of his own apologies. We’re not done with this. He’d whispered between kisses to the crown of his head. But there was no way either of them would bring it up again. 

It starts to rain, little drops hitting the windshield. 

“Please don’t,” Aiden whispers, holding onto the smile even though the muscles in his cheeks are starting to tremble. Tears stinging the corners of his eyes. 

Leo still won’t look at him. “This is how you should have felt all along. Dead or alive, nothing that happened that day was ever your fault. You were being hurt, you were being—”

He pulls Leo’s hand off the steering wheel. “Please?” 

The most recent time, it brought itself up. A series of perfectly laid dominoes falling to pave the path to him refusing to babysit Jesse’s daughter. Leo caught on instantly and this time he was prepared. What if I had been in your position? Determined to keep his cool and find a weak spot in Aiden’s resolve. You weren’t. Again and again, mapping out hypothetical situations after alternate chains of events after endless what-ifs. Would you blame me? What about Delia? He’d just shake his head. It’s different. There was nothing Leo could draw on from his own life, no horror he’d shared in close enough to even hold a candle to the darkness Aiden was sheltering. Please, I promise to be good, he finally said, letting tears fall from his eyes, pretending it was hard to meet Leo’s gaze. I know what you’re doing. He faked a flinch. I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to change your mind. He nodded solemnly, genuine in the hopelessness in his expression. Another layer of punishment to fit the crime: Leo having to share in his suffering. One more addition to the list of things he’ll never repay. 

The rain falls harder, audible on the roof of the car. Competing only with the rush of tires on the wet road outside. 

He squeezes Leo’s hand in both of his, begging him to cede. 

“God.” Leo sighs, looking skyward for serenity, patience. A purer, softer kind of grace than the thorned yoke Aiden had pinned himself under. Mirroring the punishments he bore on the outside. Needless, all of it. 

He cries from relief. Trembling in the upside down state of the world now that the smoke has cleared. Uncertain how to hold the fragile clarity that it’s within reach to deserve all the good. Maybe it wasn’t smoke at all but snowfall. Everything fresh and clean, just like when Leo found him. A sob escapes his lips. 

Leo brushes the tears from his cheeks. “Com’ere.” 

Aiden gathers fistfulls of the back of his shirt, breathing in the smell of fabric softener, of Leo, of home. He feels weightless. Cocooned in Leo’s arms and the knowledge that there’s nothing left to forgive. 

Mira turned three. 

Previous — Masterlist — Next

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

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

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @vivisectophile

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

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

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

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

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

@handsinmotion @arobear @dj-subwoofer @deluxewhump @wildliferehabstudent

@isnt-from-around-here

[kinkykatdomme]

Please, roll your eyes again. You’ll look so pretty with my handprint across your face.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Harrison to Aiden: Please, roll your eyes again. I want to see my handprint on your face.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

18 for the wij prompts? (preferably unintentional..)

18 from wij is smoke. ngl, I was like...smoke? You want me to set their house on fire? Smok...ing? Not something I can picture Leo or Aiden doing but have written for Harrison (end of this & implied here).

Anyway, I'm lying in bed thinking smoke, smoke, smoke. Nothing. I start daydreaming about what I would really like to write and what I'd really like to write is Harrison & Aiden meeting up post-Leo, with Leo there(!) even, but there's this one really crucial discovery Aiden needs to make first... and, boom, up in smoke. *Might be helpful to read this for more snippets of Aiden's fragmented recalling of his first/only contract!

(If you had a more literal smoke scenario in mind, please feel free to send it in! Also, I'm posting this whenever like wij is a fluid prompt list instead of a calendar 💫)

cw: victim self-blaming, internalized ableism, past noncon, past self-harm & past suicide attempt mentioned frankly.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

It’s just a normal trip to the store. 

He and Leo split up to get through the list faster. He’s just grabbed the cereal when he sees them. 

It always seemed too theatrical, melodramatic even, when people in movies and tv shows dropped everything in a moment of shock. 

But it’s almost reflexive. To empty your hands when everything you’ve built your life around goes up in smoke. So your fingers are free to cling to the fragments. To pluck the burning, rising remnants of all meaning out of thin air. 

The cereal box slaps against the grey industrial linoleum, followed closely by the saltines and the mayonnaise. Thank god it’s the plastic squeeze bottle because there weren’t any of the glass jars they usually buy. If it weren’t for the explosions of sound in the vacuum inside his head, he’d never be able to tear himself away from that face, that expression, those eyes. 

An impossible ghost in the flesh. Not a ghost at all. 

And to think he felt a flash of uncertainty at the substitution of a fucking condiment minutes ago. Enough to make him hesitate for a half-second before pulling it off the shelf. It’s the same brand and we need it for dinner, he defended to himself. (And last he checked the container the mayo comes in was not on Leo’s List. The secret one Aiden keeps diligent catalog of in his head.) 

He stumbles back, away from the groceries he’s meant to bring back to Leo and the cart. Away from the curious, judgmental, bored, prying looks of the other shoppers. He’s not fast enough and his ruination incarnate starts to turn. Either from the noise or the sense of being near a spectacle and wanting, needing to make sure you’re not it. 

Aiden spins and smacks right into a scowling, broad woman but doesn’t stop long enough to make sense of her clucking accusation as he mechanically and clumsily rushes from the store. His skin prickles under the weight of a too-familiar glare on his back but he can’t bring himself to turn and meet it, confirm he hasn’t immediately been passed over as a random weirdo. He weaves around someone’s cart at the last second, almost takes down a whole stack of Nilla Wafers and knocks shoulders with someone else in his careening retreat until finally he’s stumbling over the rubber spaghetti carpet of the entrance. 

Blessed fresh air and sunlight blinding him and all he can feel is his heart beating so hard he thinks it will crack him open and there will be nothing at all inside because he doesn’t know what’s left. Maybe one of the bored stock workers will lend him some notes for taking inventory. 

He ducks down the space between the grocery store and the Barnes & Noble. It’s not the skinny alley he wishes it were but he can tuck behind the fenced off dumpster, beside a stack of empty wooden pallets, and pretend it’s the best hiding spot in the world. 

His breath rattles through his throat, lungs like wet plastic bags caught on branches in the wind. For a second, he thinks he might pass out. His thoughts have slowed to a crawl. Glacial in grasping onto the next rung of reality, they just hang there suspended. Flight, freeze, at least he got out of there before fawn tripped along. 

Laughter climbs out of his mouth, jolting him back to the brick of the building behind his back, the asphalt where he sits. He has to clap both hands over his wild, hysterical grin before it slices his head in half like a watermelon. What is he even made of? Instead of nothing at all, maybe it’s just liquified now, syrupy juice will run down his ears, over his nose and lips. The overturned top of his head a tiki bowl on the pavement. Just waiting for someone like Harrison to slip a straw in, stir it around and take a taste. 

You’re being dramatic, the Harrison in his head says flatly. As close as if he were resting his temple on Aiden’s shoulder. Watching the whole scene unfold like a movie he would never choose but will obstinately sit through to the bitter end, if only for the opportunity to heckle as proof of his superiority. You can pick next time, Aiden easily cedes. Somatic comfort in giving him exactly what he wants, folding to the familiar dynamic, because that well-worn crease is rest compared to resisting. What’s the point? 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. He’s been out here long enough Leo decided he’s taking too long. He’ll make a lap or two around the whole store. Then he’d pretend finding Aiden early was serendipitous. All the while swallowing a sigh of relief, playing at nonchalance when just a second ago he was pulling out his phone in a panic.  

But Aiden’s nowhere to be found so Leo does call. His phone pulses with the fear Leo must be feeling but Aiden can’t bring himself to share in it, can’t seem to move. He just waits for the second call to come a heartbeat later, buried in his hoodie. For Leo to use the Find feature to get Aiden’s phone to sing a chorus of shrill beeps, silenced or not. Sometimes he can’t hear it if he’s working, if it’s across the room, or he left it on his pillow. Sorry! He’d text back, adding a monkey emoji covering its eyes. Leo would always call him after that. It’s okay, the first words out of his mouth. Twice, Aiden’s let the routine play out on purpose, just to have Leo’s reassurance in his ear. Squirming from the sweet guilt and the way it warmed him from the inside out.  

He tries to see if he feels anything knowing Leo is zooming in on the little map and rushing to find him. Guilt for making him worry? Shame for losing it in public, yet again? He peels his hands off his face and presses them into the gritty pavement, tiny rocks digging into the skin of his palms, the pads of his fingers. At least he can feel that. 

There should also be at least a tiny shred of comfort, of warmth, at the fact that Leo knows him well enough to come peering around every obstacle in the no-man’s land between the buildings to find his hiding nook. Empty handed of course because Leo would abandon anything to come to his rescue. 

Leo kneels down, close enough to reach but leaving enough space that he’s not boxing Aiden in. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s freaked out. Face lined with worry, eyes searching and probing and Aiden knows his dead expression isn’t giving him anything. 

“Aiden,” he has to ask. He’s never gotten any better at letting Aiden suffer silently. “What happened? Are you alright?”

He jerks his head in a nod, drags a hand over his face to try to reset the muscles. “I saw someone—some…two,” the sounds roll over his tongue, meaningless syllables. His lips twitch into a smile. She smiled. Right at him. As unreal as all the words, spoken countless times already and washed clean of all meaning they reach his lips. “Two people.” 

“What?” Leo’s panic doubles in turn. “Did they recognize you?” 

He shrugs. That smile. “She might’ve but she’s…she’s only…” He’s crying. “Three now.” He wipes the tears off his cheeks. “She turned three,” he whispers to himself, grinning giddily. Testing Leo’s anxiety. 

“Aiden? What about the other person?” He looks like he’s about to throw him over his shoulder and sprint to the car. 

“Dunno.” He can’t bring himself to care. Nothing else matters. She turned three. “If he did, he’d call.” It’s not funny but he can’t help laughing. “He’s…an asshole,” he laughs. “He always hated me. Didn’t stop him fucking me—” He claps both hands over his mouth but it only makes him sound more manic. 

Leo’s jaw hangs open. 

He tries to pull a breath through his nose, gags because he can’t stop laughing. Has to release his out-of-control mouth again to choke down enough air. He flaps a hand at Leo. It’s fine. 

Leo shakes his head, a gentle pushback. 

He tries harder to get a hold of himself, presses the heels of his shaking hands to his temples. Switches to covering his eyes. Pulls his hood down low over his forehead instead. He’s still laughing. Or something close to it. 

“I think we should leave…” Suggested with all the care of trying to balance a soap bubble on his finger tip, like Aiden’s about to detonate. (Hasn’t he already?) 

He nods, tears streaming down his face. Leo pulls him up with a strong grip around his wrist and doesn’t let go of his arm. Aiden puts his head between his knees as soon as he’s buckled in, unable to remember if he did it himself or if he even opened his own door. 

Eventually, the hysterical sounds coming out of his mouth simmer down to a silent vibration deep in his chest. A rumbling, rearranging of everything that used to hold him together. 

They’re halfway home before Leo pierces the silence he let Aiden rest on for the last ten minutes. “I’m gonna need to know who you saw. Just tell me it wasn’t…” He shoots a nervous glance at Aiden, testing the waters before he nevertheless throws a rock in. “...Harrison?” 

“No, no.” The idea is almost enough to make him laugh all over again. Imagine. He stops himself from blurting that Harrison never touched him like that. Leo should have known already it couldn’t possibly have been Harrison from that comment alone. He will have to clarify that nuance later. For some reason it’s important, a needling itch he won’t be able to leave untouched. 

“Okay…” Leo tries to give him a minute to answer on his own but he’s out of patience. Counting without Mississippis. “So?” 

He leans his head against the window, watches the blur of leaves against the clouds. They’re already starting to turn, the first hint of fall coming in to soften the brightness of summer into shades of sepia. “Mira, Mr. Park.” 

“What?” 

“Even after everything I did, they’re alive.”  

Leo blinks at him, has to brake hard when he misses the light turning yellow and it’s red by the time he looks back at the road. “You’re serious? Aiden. Aiden—”

“Leo,” he cuts him off. They’ve had this conversation more than once. 

When he forced himself to confess because he couldn’t bear the thought of Leo signing for legal responsibility of him without knowing. He practiced through tears night after night, condemning his reflection in the powder room mirror while Leo slept upstairs. Like a ritual of self-flagellation, punishment in equal measure for his mistakes and for still not having full faculty of his speech. A murderer, he finally articulated. What? Was it in self-defense? Leo didn’t believe him. No, I killed two people. He felt his soul shake under Leo’s silence. Minutes of it, until he thought it would press the life right out of him. Did you mean to do it? Aiden shook his head. Okay. He didn’t think it was right to promise he wouldn’t do it again, knowing what he was capable of. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” he tells Leo’s profile in the car. He lets himself smile again. 

“Like fuck it doesn’t matter, Aiden. You were…” Leo pulls over and stares out the windshield as the traffic streams past. He punches the steering wheel, making Aiden tense. 

The second time, he found himself in an exhausting tunnel of nightmares about it. He couldn’t see an end, thought he had to earn a reprieve. Leo caught him with a lighter, burning lines with a heated knife high on the sides of his ribcage where he thought they’d never be seen. He’d spelled out the entire series of events in a panicked, desperate defense, so articulate was he at last. You didn’t kill anyone, you’re blameless. Leo was furious, devastated. Two people are dead because of me, because of my actions. I killed them. It was much worse than the first time. What else was a complete lie? All Aiden could do was apologize. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. Louder and louder to try to drown out Leo’s escalating desperation to find something, anything to tip the scales in his favor. Nothing was worse than letting Aiden go on believing this about himself, until it was. Did you even slit your own wrists or did Harrison come do it for you? And then he was crying too hard to get the words out and Leo surrendered, rushing in to hold him and wrap him up in a tide of his own apologies. We’re not done with this. He’d whispered between kisses to the crown of his head. But there was no way either of them would bring it up again. 

It starts to rain, little drops hitting the windshield. 

“Please don’t,” Aiden whispers, holding onto the smile even though the muscles in his cheeks are starting to tremble. Tears stinging the corners of his eyes. 

Leo still won’t look at him. “This is how you should have felt all along. Dead or alive, nothing that happened that day was ever your fault. You were being hurt, you were being—”

He pulls Leo’s hand off the steering wheel. “Please?” 

The most recent time, it brought itself up. A series of perfectly laid dominoes falling to pave the path to him refusing to babysit Jesse’s daughter. Leo caught on instantly and this time he was prepared. What if I had been in your position? Determined to keep his cool and find a weak spot in Aiden’s resolve. You weren’t. Again and again, mapping out hypothetical situations after alternate chains of events after endless what-ifs. Would you blame me? What about Delia? He’d just shake his head. It’s different. There was nothing Leo could draw on from his own life, no horror he’d shared in close enough to even hold a candle to the darkness Aiden was sheltering. Please, I promise to be good, he finally said, letting tears fall from his eyes, pretending it was hard to meet Leo’s gaze. I know what you’re doing. He faked a flinch. I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to change your mind. He nodded solemnly, genuine in the hopelessness in his expression. Another layer of punishment to fit the crime: Leo having to share in his suffering. One more addition to the list of things he’ll never repay. 

The rain falls harder, audible on the roof of the car. Competing only with the rush of tires on the wet road outside. 

He squeezes Leo’s hand in both of his, begging him to cede. 

“God.” Leo sighs, looking skyward for serenity, patience. A purer, softer kind of grace than the thorned yoke Aiden had pinned himself under. Mirroring the punishments he bore on the outside. Needless, all of it. 

He cries from relief. Trembling in the upside down state of the world now that the smoke has cleared. Uncertain how to hold the fragile clarity that it’s within reach to deserve all the good. Maybe it wasn’t smoke at all but snowfall. Everything fresh and clean, just like when Leo found him. A sob escapes his lips. 

Leo brushes the tears from his cheeks. “Com’ere.” 

Aiden gathers fistfulls of the back of his shirt, breathing in the smell of fabric softener, of Leo, of home. He feels weightless. Cocooned in Leo’s arms and the knowledge that there’s nothing left to forgive. 

Mira turned three. 

Previous — Masterlist — Next

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

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

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @vivisectophile

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

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

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

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

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

@handsinmotion @arobear @dj-subwoofer @deluxewhump @wildliferehabstudent

@isnt-from-around-here

[distinctlywhumpthing]

18 for the wij prompts? (preferably unintentional..)

18 from wij is smoke. ngl, I was like...smoke? You want me to set their house on fire? Smok...ing? Not something I can picture Leo or Aiden doing but have written for Harrison (end of this & implied here).

Anyway, I'm lying in bed thinking smoke, smoke, smoke. Nothing. I start daydreaming about what I would really like to write and what I'd really like to write is Harrison & Aiden meeting up post-Leo, with Leo there(!) even, but there's this one really crucial discovery Aiden needs to make first... and, boom, up in smoke. *Might be helpful to read this for more snippets of Aiden's fragmented recalling of his first/only contract!

(If you had a more literal smoke scenario in mind, please feel free to send it in! Also, I'm posting this whenever like wij is a fluid prompt list instead of a calendar 💫)

cw: victim self-blaming, internalized ableism, past noncon, past self-harm & past suicide attempt mentioned frankly.

Previous — Masterlist — Next

It’s just a normal trip to the store. 

He and Leo split up to get through the list faster. He’s just grabbed the cereal when he sees them. 

It always seemed too theatrical, melodramatic even, when people in movies and tv shows dropped everything in a moment of shock. 

But it’s almost reflexive. To empty your hands when everything you’ve built your life around goes up in smoke. So your fingers are free to cling to the fragments. To pluck the burning, rising remnants of all meaning out of thin air. 

The cereal box slaps against the grey industrial linoleum, followed closely by the saltines and the mayonnaise. Thank god it’s the plastic squeeze bottle because there weren’t any of the glass jars they usually buy. If it weren’t for the explosions of sound in the vacuum inside his head, he’d never be able to tear himself away from that face, that expression, those eyes. 

An impossible ghost in the flesh. Not a ghost at all. 

And to think he felt a flash of uncertainty at the substitution of a fucking condiment minutes ago. Enough to make him hesitate for a half-second before pulling it off the shelf. It’s the same brand and we need it for dinner, he defended to himself. (And last he checked the container the mayo comes in was not on Leo’s List. The secret one Aiden keeps diligent catalog of in his head.) 

He stumbles back, away from the groceries he’s meant to bring back to Leo and the cart. Away from the curious, judgmental, bored, prying looks of the other shoppers. He’s not fast enough and his ruination incarnate starts to turn. Either from the noise or the sense of being near a spectacle and wanting, needing to make sure you’re not it. 

Aiden spins and smacks right into a scowling, broad woman but doesn’t stop long enough to make sense of her clucking accusation as he mechanically and clumsily rushes from the store. His skin prickles under the weight of a too-familiar glare on his back but he can’t bring himself to turn and meet it, confirm he hasn’t immediately been passed over as a random weirdo. He weaves around someone’s cart at the last second, almost takes down a whole stack of Nilla Wafers and knocks shoulders with someone else in his careening retreat until finally he’s stumbling over the rubber spaghetti carpet of the entrance. 

Blessed fresh air and sunlight blinding him and all he can feel is his heart beating so hard he thinks it will crack him open and there will be nothing at all inside because he doesn’t know what’s left. Maybe one of the bored stock workers will lend him some notes for taking inventory. 

He ducks down the space between the grocery store and the Barnes & Noble. It’s not the skinny alley he wishes it were but he can tuck behind the fenced off dumpster, beside a stack of empty wooden pallets, and pretend it’s the best hiding spot in the world. 

His breath rattles through his throat, lungs like wet plastic bags caught on branches in the wind. For a second, he thinks he might pass out. His thoughts have slowed to a crawl. Glacial in grasping onto the next rung of reality, they just hang there suspended. Flight, freeze, at least he got out of there before fawn tripped along. 

Laughter climbs out of his mouth, jolting him back to the brick of the building behind his back, the asphalt where he sits. He has to clap both hands over his wild, hysterical grin before it slices his head in half like a watermelon. What is he even made of? Instead of nothing at all, maybe it’s just liquified now, syrupy juice will run down his ears, over his nose and lips. The overturned top of his head a tiki bowl on the pavement. Just waiting for someone like Harrison to slip a straw in, stir it around and take a taste. 

You’re being dramatic, the Harrison in his head says flatly. As close as if he were resting his temple on Aiden’s shoulder. Watching the whole scene unfold like a movie he would never choose but will obstinately sit through to the bitter end, if only for the opportunity to heckle as proof of his superiority. You can pick next time, Aiden easily cedes. Somatic comfort in giving him exactly what he wants, folding to the familiar dynamic, because that well-worn crease is rest compared to resisting. What’s the point? 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Once. Twice. He’s been out here long enough Leo decided he’s taking too long. He’ll make a lap or two around the whole store. Then he’d pretend finding Aiden early was serendipitous. All the while swallowing a sigh of relief, playing at nonchalance when just a second ago he was pulling out his phone in a panic.  

But Aiden’s nowhere to be found so Leo does call. His phone pulses with the fear Leo must be feeling but Aiden can’t bring himself to share in it, can’t seem to move. He just waits for the second call to come a heartbeat later, buried in his hoodie. For Leo to use the Find feature to get Aiden’s phone to sing a chorus of shrill beeps, silenced or not. Sometimes he can’t hear it if he’s working, if it’s across the room, or he left it on his pillow. Sorry! He’d text back, adding a monkey emoji covering its eyes. Leo would always call him after that. It’s okay, the first words out of his mouth. Twice, Aiden’s let the routine play out on purpose, just to have Leo’s reassurance in his ear. Squirming from the sweet guilt and the way it warmed him from the inside out.  

He tries to see if he feels anything knowing Leo is zooming in on the little map and rushing to find him. Guilt for making him worry? Shame for losing it in public, yet again? He peels his hands off his face and presses them into the gritty pavement, tiny rocks digging into the skin of his palms, the pads of his fingers. At least he can feel that. 

There should also be at least a tiny shred of comfort, of warmth, at the fact that Leo knows him well enough to come peering around every obstacle in the no-man’s land between the buildings to find his hiding nook. Empty handed of course because Leo would abandon anything to come to his rescue. 

Leo kneels down, close enough to reach but leaving enough space that he’s not boxing Aiden in. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s freaked out. Face lined with worry, eyes searching and probing and Aiden knows his dead expression isn’t giving him anything. 

“Aiden,” he has to ask. He’s never gotten any better at letting Aiden suffer silently. “What happened? Are you alright?”

He jerks his head in a nod, drags a hand over his face to try to reset the muscles. “I saw someone—some…two,” the sounds roll over his tongue, meaningless syllables. His lips twitch into a smile. She smiled. Right at him. As unreal as all the words, spoken countless times already and washed clean of all meaning they reach his lips. “Two people.” 

“What?” Leo’s panic doubles in turn. “Did they recognize you?” 

He shrugs. That smile. “She might’ve but she’s…she’s only…” He’s crying. “Three now.” He wipes the tears off his cheeks. “She turned three,” he whispers to himself, grinning giddily. Testing Leo’s anxiety. 

“Aiden? What about the other person?” He looks like he’s about to throw him over his shoulder and sprint to the car. 

“Dunno.” He can’t bring himself to care. Nothing else matters. She turned three. “If he did, he’d call.” It’s not funny but he can’t help laughing. “He’s…an asshole,” he laughs. “He always hated me. Didn’t stop him fucking me—” He claps both hands over his mouth but it only makes him sound more manic. 

Leo’s jaw hangs open. 

He tries to pull a breath through his nose, gags because he can’t stop laughing. Has to release his out-of-control mouth again to choke down enough air. He flaps a hand at Leo. It’s fine. 

Leo shakes his head, a gentle pushback. 

He tries harder to get a hold of himself, presses the heels of his shaking hands to his temples. Switches to covering his eyes. Pulls his hood down low over his forehead instead. He’s still laughing. Or something close to it. 

“I think we should leave…” Suggested with all the care of trying to balance a soap bubble on his finger tip, like Aiden’s about to detonate. (Hasn’t he already?) 

He nods, tears streaming down his face. Leo pulls him up with a strong grip around his wrist and doesn’t let go of his arm. Aiden puts his head between his knees as soon as he’s buckled in, unable to remember if he did it himself or if he even opened his own door. 

Eventually, the hysterical sounds coming out of his mouth simmer down to a silent vibration deep in his chest. A rumbling, rearranging of everything that used to hold him together. 

They’re halfway home before Leo pierces the silence he let Aiden rest on for the last ten minutes. “I’m gonna need to know who you saw. Just tell me it wasn’t…” He shoots a nervous glance at Aiden, testing the waters before he nevertheless throws a rock in. “...Harrison?” 

“No, no.” The idea is almost enough to make him laugh all over again. Imagine. He stops himself from blurting that Harrison never touched him like that. Leo should have known already it couldn’t possibly have been Harrison from that comment alone. He will have to clarify that nuance later. For some reason it’s important, a needling itch he won’t be able to leave untouched. 

“Okay…” Leo tries to give him a minute to answer on his own but he’s out of patience. Counting without Mississippis. “So?” 

He leans his head against the window, watches the blur of leaves against the clouds. They’re already starting to turn, the first hint of fall coming in to soften the brightness of summer into shades of sepia. “Mira, Mr. Park.” 

“What?” 

“Even after everything I did, they’re alive.”  

Leo blinks at him, has to brake hard when he misses the light turning yellow and it’s red by the time he looks back at the road. “You’re serious? Aiden. Aiden—”

“Leo,” he cuts him off. They’ve had this conversation more than once. 

When he forced himself to confess because he couldn’t bear the thought of Leo signing for legal responsibility of him without knowing. He practiced through tears night after night, condemning his reflection in the powder room mirror while Leo slept upstairs. Like a ritual of self-flagellation, punishment in equal measure for his mistakes and for still not having full faculty of his speech. A murderer, he finally articulated. What? Was it in self-defense? Leo didn’t believe him. No, I killed two people. He felt his soul shake under Leo’s silence. Minutes of it, until he thought it would press the life right out of him. Did you mean to do it? Aiden shook his head. Okay. He didn’t think it was right to promise he wouldn’t do it again, knowing what he was capable of. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” he tells Leo’s profile in the car. He lets himself smile again. 

“Like fuck it doesn’t matter, Aiden. You were…” Leo pulls over and stares out the windshield as the traffic streams past. He punches the steering wheel, making Aiden tense. 

The second time, he found himself in an exhausting tunnel of nightmares about it. He couldn’t see an end, thought he had to earn a reprieve. Leo caught him with a lighter, burning lines with a heated knife high on the sides of his ribcage where he thought they’d never be seen. He’d spelled out the entire series of events in a panicked, desperate defense, so articulate was he at last. You didn’t kill anyone, you’re blameless. Leo was furious, devastated. Two people are dead because of me, because of my actions. I killed them. It was much worse than the first time. What else was a complete lie? All Aiden could do was apologize. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. Louder and louder to try to drown out Leo’s escalating desperation to find something, anything to tip the scales in his favor. Nothing was worse than letting Aiden go on believing this about himself, until it was. Did you even slit your own wrists or did Harrison come do it for you? And then he was crying too hard to get the words out and Leo surrendered, rushing in to hold him and wrap him up in a tide of his own apologies. We’re not done with this. He’d whispered between kisses to the crown of his head. But there was no way either of them would bring it up again. 

It starts to rain, little drops hitting the windshield. 

“Please don’t,” Aiden whispers, holding onto the smile even though the muscles in his cheeks are starting to tremble. Tears stinging the corners of his eyes. 

Leo still won’t look at him. “This is how you should have felt all along. Dead or alive, nothing that happened that day was ever your fault. You were being hurt, you were being—”

He pulls Leo’s hand off the steering wheel. “Please?” 

The most recent time, it brought itself up. A series of perfectly laid dominoes falling to pave the path to him refusing to babysit Jesse’s daughter. Leo caught on instantly and this time he was prepared. What if I had been in your position? Determined to keep his cool and find a weak spot in Aiden’s resolve. You weren’t. Again and again, mapping out hypothetical situations after alternate chains of events after endless what-ifs. Would you blame me? What about Delia? He’d just shake his head. It’s different. There was nothing Leo could draw on from his own life, no horror he’d shared in close enough to even hold a candle to the darkness Aiden was sheltering. Please, I promise to be good, he finally said, letting tears fall from his eyes, pretending it was hard to meet Leo’s gaze. I know what you’re doing. He faked a flinch. I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to change your mind. He nodded solemnly, genuine in the hopelessness in his expression. Another layer of punishment to fit the crime: Leo having to share in his suffering. One more addition to the list of things he’ll never repay. 

The rain falls harder, audible on the roof of the car. Competing only with the rush of tires on the wet road outside. 

He squeezes Leo’s hand in both of his, begging him to cede. 

“God.” Leo sighs, looking skyward for serenity, patience. A purer, softer kind of grace than the thorned yoke Aiden had pinned himself under. Mirroring the punishments he bore on the outside. Needless, all of it. 

He cries from relief. Trembling in the upside down state of the world now that the smoke has cleared. Uncertain how to hold the fragile clarity that it’s within reach to deserve all the good. Maybe it wasn’t smoke at all but snowfall. Everything fresh and clean, just like when Leo found him. A sob escapes his lips. 

Leo brushes the tears from his cheeks. “Com’ere.” 

Aiden gathers fistfulls of the back of his shirt, breathing in the smell of fabric softener, of Leo, of home. He feels weightless. Cocooned in Leo’s arms and the knowledge that there’s nothing left to forgive. 

Mira turned three. 

Previous — Masterlist — Next

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

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

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @vivisectophile

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

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

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

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

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

@handsinmotion @arobear @dj-subwoofer @deluxewhump @wildliferehabstudent

@isnt-from-around-here

[ruchi-writes]

enemies-to-lovers is about power, actually

I think a lot of people misunderstand why enemies to lovers is so popular. It’s quickly become one of the most pervasive tropes in many novels. Is it the banter, the tension? That’s definitely part of it. But if that were true, then friends-to-lovers and literally any romance with good dialogue and characterization would scratch the same itch. For some, it does, but for many…enemies-to-lovers just hits different. 

My theory is that it isn’t actually about love, not really. I think it fulfils a fantasy that no other trope can provide: the fantasy of being seen as an equal. 

Think about what specifically makes someone an enemy in fiction. It’s not just someone the MC dislikes, it’s someone who can affect them in tangible ways, maybe even have the power to ruin them, challenge their worldview, expose their weaknesses, etc. The relationship begins with conflict because the characters are fundamentally opposed in some way. It doesn’t matter why, but they’re fighting. There is a struggle for dominance. 

I would argue that the most impactful enemies-to-lovers moments are never the romantic moments, they’re the scenes where power shifts. They BOTH lose: they’re forced into a position that would have horrified them at the beginning of the story. They end up needing (or wanting) each other. 

That’s why I think people are often disappointed when a supposed enemies-to-lovers story turns out to be a milquetoast attempt where they’re just kinda mean to each other for a few pages, and then immediately start making out. Where’s the risk, the actual threat? If the characters aren’t capable of genuinely affecting one another, then the relationship isn’t actually transforming in a satisfying way. The appeal is in the fact that they have power over each other, because the eventual trust they build requires real surrender.

Because here’s the thing about enemies; they pay attention, and usually more attention than anyone else. They notice weaknesses because they’re actively looking for them, they notice strengths because they need to account for them. They notice habits, blind spots, ambitions, fears. 

They study the MC with a level of scrutiny that borders (and later crosses) intimate, but unlike friends (or supporting characters in the MC’s corner) they’re not willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, they don’t overlook flaws out of affection. Which is exactly what makes the eventual romance so satisfying. It feels earned. 

It’s easy to imagine being loved by someone who sees the best version of you, but it’s an entirely different thing to be loved by someone who has seen you at your worst. That’s why this dynamic often feels more convincing than romances where the characters are immediately into each other.

I imagine there are many who go through life feeling misunderstood, or worse, that the people who love them only love the polished, perfect version they present to the world, almost like impostor syndrome. But what if there was someone who couldn’t be fooled by this carefully constructed image? 

When someone more powerful chooses someone, maybe the fantasy is protection. When it’s someone less powerful, the fantasy might be admiration. But if there’s someone intelligent and observant enough to see the MC as an equal, the fantasy there is the most intense and honest validation. 

Which means enemies to lovers was never about turning hate/annoyance into love, it was about turning power into vulnerability – which is a terrifying loss of power, which THEN leads to intimacy. 

[wxngstic]

untangle me. ⚡︎

[kazzzistired]

Feeling inspired... Might put off writing and think about it the whole time

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Unintentional is one of my all-time favorite stories. Watching Leo and Aiden doing their best vs Harrison being, well, Harrison.

You write them so well and I go back to reread all the time.

Thank you for reading and rereading and for saying this! <3

[distinctlywhumpthing]

“sponge bath debacle” ?? :0

(🧽 ask from this game) cw: what it sounds like...but maybe not that bad in the way you would think...? idk

masterlist

Absence gnaws the air when he comes to. Even though it sinks its teeth into his mind instantly, impossible to ignore, he can’t quite put his finger on what’s missing. He feels it like an unexpected step between the rooms of sleep and consciousness. His stride falling through empty space for untethered seconds until it hits home, lower than anticipated, jolting the body with its newfound altitude. A few inches felt like miles. 

He takes stock of himself but he doesn’t feel any new pain. There’s hardly any pain at all, it’s been days since Harrison cut into him. The most recent sutures have healed, leaving behind just the dull ache as his body tries to complete the closure layer by layer within. 

It’s not until his heart shoulders off the initial disturbance, on its own descent, that he figures it out. For the first time in as long as he can remember, the monitor doesn’t echo back the stubborn, persistent metronomed proof that he continues to survive this hell. His heart beats alone. 

Nothing but empty, cold air. 

Something whispers over the skin of his left arm and it takes all his focus not to tense every muscle. His other arm rests against his side. 

No heart monitor and no restraints? It must be a dream or a hallucination. 

His desperate, fracturing mind conjuring a tender ghost from the past. But the air is cool against his skin, his body heavy where it meets the table, anchored by his weight. Heels, hips, shoulders, the back of his head; it feels so real. 

The touch comes again, light as an exhale over his skin. 

He stays perfectly still, eyes closed. Doesn’t even try to see if he could move because he doesn’t want to break the illusion.

The third touch is so light, it’s all-consuming. 

His mind drives after the feeling. Willing it to turn back and meet him where he expects it, can embrace it. Instead, the sensation vanishes and takes his last restraint away too. 

He opens his eyes carefully, as if the stroke of his eyelashes against the cold air could ripple through the room and disrupt whatever waits to be seen. 

It must be a hallucination. His spectre looks like Harrison but is completely unrecognizable. 

A new drug, one Harrison didn’t even bother allowing him to witness being doped with. Poison lacing reality with lies. He’s high out of his mind, there’s no other explanation. 

Harrison—“Harrison”—stands over him, same white coat as always, same scrubs underneath. 

What’s impossible is how tranquil he looks. Completely at peace, not a line visible on his face, not even to smile. His serenity runs so deep, it resonates in the air around him and doesn’t need to be named by such an insignificant expression. It’s clear in the perfect symmetry of his posture, the gentle bend in his neck, the balance and grace of his movements. 

For an endless moment, all he does is drink in the differences as other-Harrison stands over him. Even the light in his eyes is changed, familiar brown revealing that all along they’ve been secreting away an undercurrent of ochre, warm to the core. 

He keeps perfectly still, isn’t sure he wants to move, if he even can. Especially since Harrison doesn’t seem to realize he’s awake. 

As wrong as this whole thing feels, disturbing it is an even more unsettling idea. 

Harrison lifts a sponge out of a basin and he braces himself for the sting of ice-cold water but it’s neither hot nor cool. Like it’s been measured to the exact temperature of his skin. Harrison slides it over his stomach. In methodical, meditative sweeps, washes his whole torso. Focused entirely on the task, never a glance spared to see if his work is observed. 

His mind somersaults under the touch, thoughts racing like goosebumps through his head. Second to the strangeness of Harrison is everything else about this situation. 

He’s naked. 

Harrison is bathing him. 

How much has Harrison already washed? How much of this aching softness did he miss? How much more will he have to endure? Is he supposed to be awake? Is he supposed to be able to move? 

He doesn’t want any of the answers. 

Harrison starts for his shoulder and he lets his eyes slip closed. Surely Harrison will notice he’s awake in such close proximity. The idea of being caught sets his heart racing and he wonders if Harrison will catch sight of his pulse sprinting in his throat. Or detect the shift just by touching his skin. 

But Harrison continues from his shoulder down his arm. The path of his sponge, slow and thorough, painfully familiar surgical precision. It could simply be careful maintenance of a delicate and valuable piece of machinery, vital equipment. A possession needing upkeep in order to perform. Thoroughbreds need to be curry-combed and brushed, hooves carefully cleaned and inspected after a ride. Even a dog needs to be washed if it runs through mud.

If only it were that. 

He peeks one eye open. 

Harrison doesn’t look up from where the sponge slides along the crease of his elbow. 

He opens his other eye. 

Something simple, dismissible, understandable. 

Instead, each whispered brush of Harrison’s sponge feels like it’s painting him into existence. Right here on the table. The only anchor that’s ever mattered. Binding him to his bones, to the ache and cold. Every new touch is the first touch, all others before forgotten. Until he’s ringing with it, alone.

Harrison sweeps down his side. 

He wants to roll into it, bend toward it. It’s all he can do to suppress a shudder, to maintain his breathing. 

He’s more relaxed than he’s ever felt. 

Keeping still is nearly impossible. 

Harrison dips the sponge in the basin again, squeezes it out. The trickle of water echoes, thunderous in the empty air. Harrison cradles his wrist in one hand and passes the sponge over the back of his hand. His palm. Methodically twists over his thumb, washing each of his fingers in turn. Nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Surgically precise, cold. 

He wonders if this is what Harrison looks like operating on him. 

Cutting him open, tearing him apart. Serene and wholly at peace. Destroying the very fabric of his being in the name of innovation. And now bathing him with that same kind of ease, like they’re one in the same.

The thought is as terrifying as it is other. Something unnamable and dangerous that he can’t look at head-on but that wedges itself inside his ribcage, spined and barbed, digging in to make its presence undeniable. 

He wants to destroy it. Crush this living thing like a moth caged in his palms. Trapped and writhing, uncomfortable between them. Wings beating like a heart. He can’t stand to let it go on, suffering alone. It will never survive, released into the open air. 

Harrison lays his hand back down and picks up the basin to walk around the foot of the table, breaking the spell.

The bitterness of the poisonous hatred filling his head, his chest, almost takes his breath away. His desire to annihilate this unnameable thing. Pretend it never existed. A ghost without a name. 

Harrison starts repeating the whole process on the other side. At least now he knows what to expect. 

It’s no easier to bear.  

He tries to distract himself by staring at the ceiling. Counting the familiar tiles. Counting the lights. 

His eyes fall back to Harrison. 

Again 

and again. 

Until he’s desperate to forget this version of Harrison and the alien air around him. 

He can’t stop it from flooding his mind like poison, staining and burning itself into his memory. It’s impossible to keep his eyes closed. It takes all of his focus to keep himself still, to suppress the urge to twitch and jerk, just to see if he can. The fact that he can open his eyes, that he’s breathing on his own, thinking clearly—unreal Harrison aside—makes him think that he could move but that it’s very important he doesn’t.

Harrison continues to his hips. 

Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. He definitely won’t be able to fly under the radar anymore. 

There’s a good chance Harrison will hurt him for spying like this, on the care of his own body. For intruding to meet this version of Harrison he’s never been allowed to see. Affronts to Harrison’s person are usually punished with violence. Three broken fingers for a slap to the face, for calling him a sadist. 

As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself. 

What if—

What if—

What if—

He imagines the worst possible physical reaction he could have and the equal or amplified retaliation Harrison will rain down. 

But there’s nothing different about the precise and careful way Harrison cleans between his legs. His touch is neither hurried nor lingering. It carries the same methodical attention used everywhere else and doesn’t feel any different either. 

He’s relieved, numb. 

He’s roaring and writhing, poisoned, blood-curdling, somewhere else. Far, far out of reach, alone. 

The minutes ache forward, blurring together. He can’t remember what brought him to awareness anymore. How long he’s been the silent, invisible observer to this task, a ghost. Harrison continues to his legs, routine immersing him to the point of reverence. Like he’s done this a hundred times. A practiced mantra, a prayer, followed until it’s leading the way. 

He thinks he’s glad to have missed the weight and repetition that wore this path so deep. The feeling that there is no other way this could go, no other order or process even considered besides the one Harrison follows. He doesn’t like to feel its density, existing outside his awareness as something so established, almost named. 

Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands. 

He wonders if he was ever ticklish. Nothing about this touch is ticklish, light as it is. There’s something about his skin that welcomes it, everywhere. Nothing but cold left in its wake. 

He wants to claw the feeling of predetermination out of his cells. 

Harrison’s expression never changes, immortal calm like he’s carved from stone. 

Was every step of his life leading to this? Fate, destiny, piss poor luck. None of it was ever under his control and in the end he’s here. All paths led to this one, a master architect mapped it out, one thread to follow. Harrison uniquely equipped to take him apart not only in body but in mind. 

Cutting him open, bathing him. It aches to consider the two acts in parallel, in convergence. They can’t exist on the same plane, let alone in the same person. He can’t even begin to reconcile this version of Harrison with the one he’s used to. The one who looks at him, speaks to him, listens and questions. Hits and hopes and waits. 

What possible name can he give to this kind of creator? 

Nothing is delicate enough to braid or knot or burn this thing born them. Alive and writhing, it evades interference. The moth again. Its existence is impossible and the fleeting, vulnerable life of it will pass. If not now, soon. It’s pulsing poison through his veins. All of this has an expiration date and it’s never in his control. He’ll die here, aware or not. Perhaps just like this, witnessing it all like a ghost. Alone in the cold, through to the end. 

Harrison cuts him open with the same peaceful attention as bathing him; or he bathes him with the same serene consideration as cutting him open. One in the same; two different realities. He doesn’t want answers. 

All that matters—

Harrison’s teeth snap together, the movement echoes through the rest of his face. Muscles in his cheeks tensing, brow furrowing. 

His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs. 

Harrison knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

Harrison’s gaze snaps to his, eyes dark and as familiar as coming home; the only living thing he looks up to now. 

He almost stops breathing. Except he didn’t do anything to raise the alarm. Nothing changed. Not a hitch in his breath or a twitch in his fingers. 

Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before. 

It’s impossible he didn’t know all along. 

An even deception. Holding onto pretense for fear of what might lie in its ruins. 

Or the entire thing was intentional on Harrison’s part. It would mean he should be able to move his limbs, that Harrison was just waiting for him to be the one to give up the ruse. 

Wave the white flag.

The air crushes from his lungs. The awful, haunting feeling growing where it implanted itself inside his chest. Roots inching deeper, poison spreading. It’s unfathomable. 

He closes his eyes. 

Removes his awareness, his participation, in the whole raw, binding, undoing exchange. 

Just in time for Harrison to run the sponge over the hollow at his throat, where his pulse skips and jumps. Tracing his neck to his chin before curving up his jaw. Harrison ghosts across his forehead, down his nose, anointing each cheek in turn. Even his ears and behind them. 

He expects pain, or discomfort at least, when Harrison moves behind him to attend to the crown of his head. 

Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh. 

He wants to choke, break, scream, wants to pull it under his skin. He doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to know if he ever had the choice. Wishes he’d never opened his eyes. That this poison spreading through his veins had already killed him. That he was the ghost. 

Even if that would mean never catching the moth, ending it. Alive and fragile somewhere in the air between them, wings beating like a homeless heart. 

Harrison finishes his task unhurried, unobserved. Just like every other time.  

And leaves. 

He’s cold, alone. 

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom; maybe when he gets to 20 posts i'll make him his own...)

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

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

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @vivisectophile

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

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

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

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

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

@handsinmotion @arobear @dj-subwoofer @deluxewhump @wildliferehabstudent

@isnt-from-around-here

[whumpmasinjuly2026]

Prompt Reveal

Thank you for everyone's patience, I hope everyone who wanted to join found the new blog! It's time to share this year's prompts!

(Drumroll, please!)

On this blog, we won't reblog submissions, only use it to post prompts, tags, useful info and of course to answer any questions you might have.

We will post the tag for each day, and we ask that you use two tags when filling prompts this year so that others may find your creations easily: 

Tag 1 —> #wij26day__ (Fill in the blank with the appropriate day number for the prompt you are filling! For example, if you are doing the prompt for day 21, make sure to tag your post with #wij26day21.)

Tag 2 —> #whumpmasinjuly2026

Be sure to also tag @whumpmasinjuly-archive if you would like your posts reblogged to our official archive account! Of course, feel free to use any other relevant tags too!

You can also find a banner that you can use in your posts (if you want, not required) under the #wijbanner tag.

The prompts are divided into three categories: community (white boxes), question (red boxes), and creation (green boxes). Everyone is free to participate as much or as little as they want–there’s no completionist requirement!

This calendar provides a preview of the prompts, but on each day a more detailed post will be released with more context and additional suggestions for each day’s task. Similar to previous years, all prompts and other important information will be found on @whumpmasinjuly under the #infowhumpmasinjuly tag for ease of access, or here under #wij26day0.

This blog will also use the tags #wijquestion , #wijcommunity , and #wijcreation respectively for each post so that you can filter and find the type of prompts you’d like to do. 

Below the cut you can read the whole list of the prompts for this event:

(Re)Introduce yourself

What is your earliest memory of enjoying whump?

Restraints

Send an ask to 3 people you haven't interacted with yet

Who are your favourite whumpees?

Bloodbath

Create a prompt for someone else to fill

What are your all time favourite pieces of whump media?

"That's not what I meant"

Reblog some of your favourite whump gifs

Where did you find your place within the whump community?

Falling

Give a sneak peak at something you're working on

What is a recent whump obsession of yours?

Dizzy

Give some fic recs

What is your favourite part of whump?

Smoke

Go back to a favourite whump fic/gifset/art piece and leave a comment

What's one thing you would say to a/your/your favourite whumpee? (It won't impact the plot)

Chekhov's gun

Reblog some of your favourite whump art

How did you end up joining the whump community?

Pickup

Check out someone's rec from a previous day (fic/gif/art) and leave a comment

What's a trope you love that deserves more attention?

"I don't want to"

Create a whump meme

What would be your ideal whump situation/what's your whump wishlist?

Broken

Fill a prompt created by someone else from Day 7

[brainstreams]

[inhurtandincomfort]

"It's incredible how much your body can take. That's the beauty of all this, really. Every time you think it's too much, you prove yourself wrong. You're more resilient than you give yourself credit for."

[distinctlywhumpthing]

“Just take the compliment. You’re good at this.”  – Harrison in Invasive Exam/Toothache

[distinctlywhumpthing]

question time:

how would aiden’s development and recovery look like if he was in an actual, professional safehouse? with people, who know what they are doing, and other rescues?

what would aiden’s life have looked like, had he not been signed over to wru? what would he be like?

alright everyone, i'm calling it. this ask *brushes off dust and squints * is from the 12th of august 2022. it has passed the statute of limitations for being an actual in-story answer and will instead now be meta below the cut.

i had big plans for leo to sneak off and visit a safe house:

that's as far as i got (back in 2022 and apparently one revisit in 2024).

as you can see, the plan was to make it all very cagey and to the tune of: is leo considering moving aiden to a safe house???

how i imagined the rest of his visit/tour:

well-meaning but clearly frazzled/haggard/overworked staff (probably like two staff to ten to twelve rescues?)

one ex companion/rescue would drape himself all over leo when they're introduced and then get sternly told off for it and runs away crying which sets leo on edge

the others are helping prepare a meal, shy but seemingly well-adjusted; one or two even make eye contact and chime in or answer questions

leo gets hung up on the ones who don't though, the ones who won't raise their eyes, the ones who freeze in their work when they sense him watching

there's also a 'troubled' companion who has his hands in cloth restraints sitting on a couch. he has bruises on either side of his forehead. one of the staff is reading aloud to him while he rocks back and forth. the guy giving leo the tour assures him that it's just for his own safety that he's restrained. leo notices scratch marks all over his arms too so he belives them but also thinks this is a bandaid slapped on a much bigger problem that might not be getting the right attention

the house is clean, not-quite cozy but comfortable enough, two to three to a room which seems okay, lots of books and puzzles and games. there's probably a chore wheel, schedule for movie nights with who's turn it is to pick

probably they're only allowed outside at night and even then just onto the screened-in porch so that there is no risk of being seen

in one of the bedrooms they find the overly-friendly rescue pulling himself together. he apologizes and asks to try again, holding his trembling hand out to shake leo's. this melts leo's heart and he's glad to also witness his tour guide offering a congratulatory fist bump to the rescue for being brave

right before he leaves, a fight breaks out. seemingly over nothing which freaks leo out even more than the fact that the rescues end up drawing blood. the staff start yelling and use physical force to get control of the situation and onlookers also get scolded for not alerting the staff or stopping it sooner/getting too close/leaving their work/crying too loud/adding to the chaos and leo's like get me the f out of here; possibly he unfortunately gets dragged into helping some way, even if it's just "watch him and make sure he doesn't leave this chair" while the staff member gets a first aid kit.

tour guide finally is free to walk him to the door and apologizes for the chaos but mostly in a defensive/we're doing the best we can/who are you to judge us/you have no idea how hard this is day after day vibe. which, yeah, leo sees that they need more hands, they need more breaks, but also, the whole thing does not sit well with him.

(and in retrospect, i'm like, there's no way anyone would buy that he'd even think for a second about sending aiden to a safe house after that experience!)

in reality, the sneaky thing leo was alluding to was potentially starting a safe house of their own but with him and aiden together helping like one (1) ex-companion at a time. (aiden has mentioned wanting to do something but he can't exactly do anything public with his history/profile, etc.)

while the experience convinces leo help is certainly needed, he is not reassured about the whole idea. he remembers how difficult things were with aiden at first, how he could barely even speak (which they now know was apashia and not brainwashing) but still. none of it was easy and he's just been painfully reminded of this fact.

the end.

(well, the beginning of that whole arc but i'm not sure that's where they're headed anymore...)

oh. and the actual answer to the question how would aiden's recovery have gone? i think most safe houses are like this, so his chances of ending up somewhere better are quite slim. plus, we know he has shit luck in general (: i think he would have gotten little individual attention, the staff would have been nice to him because he didn't cause trouble but their patience for his limitations would have been finite because it was a dry well to begin with. if things were really bad/the house had a lot of tension, he would have been a super easy target for bullying. like, others taking his food/things because he can't articulate it (which also means he would be the perfect target for any predatory staff). he might have learned to defend himself with violence, which only got him into more trouble. either he makes it through by the skin of his teeth until *vague legal paperwork* happens and he gets an id and then can move to a sort of halfway house place where he'd work a night shift stocking shelves at walmart or as a janitor or something. probably most of them don't really make it past that point unless they establish a social network outside of other ex-companions (i.e. so they can move in with roommates that are "regular" people and then help them climb a step higher on the societal totem pole.) since aiden never recieved 1:1 help and probably saw a doctor for all of fiften minutes for routine check-ups, he probably did not get over the apashia as successfully and basically was just labelled as selectively/traumatically mute. therefore, he would basically be in that stagnant place unless he lucked across another one-in-a-million leo-finding-him-in-a-snowbank kind of miracle (we all know that had nothing to do with chance, right?)

so: bleak but he would make it work? probably make friends with other outcasts, spending time outside, very bare life.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

I feel like Aiden is becoming less antagonistic/defiant as his time with Harrison goes on. Is that true or am I delusional and wrong

Oof good question. I was going to answer this as a meta ask but as soon as I started to imagine how it would go if Harrison pointed that out...

I suppose this takes place right before the stroke and its aftermath.

"You seem..." Harrison pauses, chewing the air as he tries to find the right word. A piece of hair hooks down over his forehead, separated from the rest of the perfectly gelled-back coif, undetected in its dissonance.

He wants to reach up and rip it out of Harrison's scalp, tear the patronizing curiosity off his dumb face. If only he weren't so groggy. And restrained.

"...less antagonistic lately."

He blinks at Harrison. His pulse is slow and steady. It takes a lot more to get a rise out of him these days; 'less volatile' would probably be more accurate. But mostly it feels more like his body is just tired. Heart and nerves and even his consciousness spent from marching on and on and on, bearing it all. He sleeps more than ever. Can't be bothered to keep track of Harrison's progress and whatever incidental step they're on. Not that any of it has made any sense lately.

Finally, Harrison pushes his fingers through his hair. His usual unconscious-bordering-on-nervous tick inadvertently returns the escapee to its brethren. A place for everything and everything in its place. God, he really is losing his mind.

"And you seem less directional lately."

Harrison's lips thin. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know. It all used to be very, 'this is the first step' and 'one last procedure' blah blah blah." He uses air quotes even though Harrison would have to break eye contact to look at either one of his hands, stretched away from his body in the restraints.

It used to be amusing, watching Harrison try not to fidget and twitch impatiently in a pause. Trying to decide if he needs to fly off the handle or dish out some blood-spilling reminders of who's in charge. Harrison tries valiantly to hide it but even in his drowsy state, he catches Harrison shifting his feet well before he rakes his hand through his hair again.

Harrison's patience is a snake, sometimes content to bask on a rock all day long, waiting for the sun to warm its cold blood. Today, it's hungry.

"And?" Harrison grits.

He hums, imagines the possible words and syllables rolling over his tongue, around his mouth. Is he a little high? Maybe Harrison has been slowly drugging him into this stupor. He can't quite summon more than a feeling of emptiness at it, the same dull, sleepy void he's been inhabiting for a while. Should he be relieved? Sad or angry at the idea of Harrison phasing him out in such a way, if it's even true?

Harrison clicks his tongue.

"Do you even know what you're working towards anymore?" he snaps. At the start, impulsive because of the interruption to his thinking, which is a heavy act nowadays but his irritation wilts and crumples quickly.

He feels the shock of what he's done like a rush of cold air on his bare skin. This was not a thread he meant to pull. There's no backtracking here. Nothing to do but watch it all unravel. He bites his tongue to bleeding.

"Seems I was mistaken," Harrison says wryly, taking a step back. And another.

He feels something then. It takes him a minute to name the emotion.

Harrison spins on his heel and leaves. He wasn't even in the room for five minutes today. Did he bring a coffee with him? Was there any on his breath to signal that it's the start of the day and he would have time later to come back down? Of course, it could have been lunchtime coffee, mid-morning coffee, mid-afternoon coffee, end-of-shift coffee. He's grasping at straws. For all he knows, Harrison was here for hours and he slept through it. He can't remember if he woke up to Harrison arriving or just to Harrison speaking to him. How long will he be left here to fade in and out of his thoughts?

His throat aches.

Regret, he realizes. His body is leaden with it and empty all at once. He hopes sleep will claim him quickly.

Or something else more staying.

masterlist (harrison is at the bottom)

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

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

@wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @vivisectophile

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

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

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

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

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

@handsinmotion @arobear @dj-subwoofer @deluxewhump @wildliferehabstudent

@isnt-from-around-here