Rosy || 20-something || she/her/hers || Amateur Creative || Occasional Writer || Well chain me up and call me a scarlet letter 'cus I darn tootin' love me some sin.
Not gonna lie saw the pet daycare thing and originally thought it was the daycare with pet workers and thought âwow how smart early indoctrinationâ and now I imagine in big cities WRU runs a few top tier daycare centers (like the ones in their training places) with pet workers (and a few handlers, obviously) so kids grow up knowing how happy and wonderful pets are.
Think about Chris's classmate's certainty that her family's human pets were so happy and content, and scale that up to hundreds of thousands of privileged, wealthy children in every major city or less-wealthy children of WRU employees or any corporation that partners with WRU to provide employee daycare...
This really makes me wanna write the piece about the college student who witnesses The Class with Chris & whatâs her face, and is disturbed/shaken as he goes back to his off campus house where heâs taking care of his family pet while his parents are away in Europe/a place pets are banned.
The WIP was called âOh to be a Golden Retriever in an Upper Class Familyâ
Chris, dozing, hears the knob on the door turn and blinks, turning his head to see the tray being wheeled in.
As always, there is a half-second of dread, dropping his heart to his knees, before he remembers he's not at the WRU clinic. It's not a WRU employee, sullen and irritable or rough and terrifying... or, very occasionally, kind and gentle... coming in. Just a cafeteria employee from downstairs, smiling and giving him a nod.
He points to the side and puts a finger over his lips. The woman glances up and sees where Jake lays, cramped, on a kind of couch he's using as a bed while he stays, a flat pillow under his head and a thin blanket over him acting as a weak barrier against the chilly air, and gives a little mostly-silent chuckle at the sight.
"Your brother is still sleeping hm?"
Chris feels the warmth bloom in him, like it does every single time he hears it. He's Christopher Stanton all the time here, Jake's little brother. They have their whole story worked out. "He, he, he was up late," He says, keeping his own voice low, as the woman wheels the little tray over and places it over his lap.
Chris looks down - plain oatmeal with a little fruit, a cup of orange juice with a pop-off top, hot coffee for Jake, some plain toast. "Thank you," He says, softly.
It's so much like the clinic food. You got better food there than you did in the eating rooms for the trainees. Some trainees made trouble on purpose in the hopes a handler would hurt them enough to have them wind up there, just to taste butter again.
Just to be allowed to get some sleep.
"You're welcome, sweetie." She gives him a little wink. "Now be a good boy and eat up, okay?"
His head jerks up in alarm, but she's already turned away and headed back out the door.
Does she... does she know?
He shifts, uneasily, all the hunger that had been building in him gone, replaced by fear.
For @whumptober2021 day 22: Cursed | Demon | Obsession
CW: Religion talk, confession, just like so much catholic guilt, vampirism, vampire whumpee, shame, immortal whumpee, damnation talk, negative stimming, emotional manipulation, referenced past historical ableism, blackmail, what happens in this chapter is very important later onâŠ
-
Saugerties, New York, December 1912
Tristan is certain, at first, that the heavy wooden doors of the church will not open to him. His hands hover over the wrought-iron handles, curved in a beautifully fluid arch, one for each side. He feels like an intruder, although heâs spent most of his childhood in and out of churches like this one, in Ireland at first, and later on in the big church in the city where all the Irish from his tenement went, more or less together.
His mother had always made friends easily, and she had walked in a group with other mothers, the only one with only a single living child except for Bridget Sullivan, who was newly-married with just an infant.Â
Heâd asked his mother, once, why she had only him, when everyone else they knew had other children running them ragged. Sheâd smiled at him, and said, you were a gift, and one given to me in Godâs grace far earlier than we thought you would be.
He thinks, as he looks back, that he must have hurt her somehow, in being born, and that was why there had never been another child. But sheâd never acted as if she wanted anything more than just him.
Heâs lost in thought, looking over the doors but seeing far beyond them, looking back in time, when behind him someone clears their throat, discreet but unmistakable.
Tristan spins around, surprised. The sun is setting, throwing a golden light over the tombstones marking the graves that line either side of the churchyard, some tilted, some still wholly upright. Most of the names there are as Irish as his own. There are other churches he could go to, for certain, but his pack leader William had suggested this one.
Best to go away from the city, heâd said, take the train to a place where no one could possibly know him.Â
âIâm sorry,â Tristan says immediately, not sure exactly what heâs apologizing for.Â
A priest stands there, wearing a heavy coat over his cassock, a knit hat pulled down to cover his ears. His nose is bright red from the cold, marked along his cheeks. Heâs younger, maybe thirty. Tristanâs priest back in Ireland was an old man, the priests before he died in the cathedral in New York City had been older than this, too.Â
âHello,â The young priest says, with a kind smile, and a slightly flattened accent that tells Tristan he was born nearby, has probably lived his whole life here. âYou must be freezing. Iâm sorry, I stepped out to take a walk âround the churchyard. Come in, itâs warm inside.â
Tristan doesnât really notice the cold any longer, but he puts a smile on his face. Heâs glad he wore a coat, scarf, and hat himself, now. Otherwise he might have been known for what he is right away.
âThank you,â He says, stepping to the side. The priest moves up the steps and opens the door, gesturing Tristan in ahead of him.
He holds his breath as he steps forward, wondering if he will burst into flames, be sent down to hell, the second his feet move onto such holy ground. Perhaps the very Voice of God will shake the earth with His anger at His sacred place being desecrated by Tristanâs very existence.Â
Whumpee being confined in a small spaceâ such as a suitcase or a trunk. Theyâre trapped there for hours and hours, until all of their joints feel as though theyâre aflame and they think theyâre going to go crazy from the pain. They need to move and stretch their limbs, but they canât, not until someone is merciful enough to let them out.
Robin had been ripped from their cage by Master before the sun had even risen. It wasnât uncommon, a late punishment for an earlier mistake as time was only determined in its relativity by Masterâs will and his will alone. But Master had looked frantic, dragging Robin from their nest of blankets and pillows with a grip that tightened the anxiety around their chest until a lack of air left them wide-eyed awake.
âWeâre going away little Robin, far away, where those pigs canât bother usâ His voice was gravely, but not with the morning croak before Robin made Masterâs coffee. No, this was the angry crunch in his voice, the crackle that resounded with the phantom pains of past whip scars and broken bones. The voice that made Robin a good little birdie.
Robin was a good little birdie, who loved her cage and her nest and would never dream of flying.
But Robin sees the bright blue suitcase laid flat and open in the grand hall, empty and waiting and the emptiness speaks.
Daddyâs planes are like seagulls sweetie, they donât need to flap, they just ride on the wind.
The image of metal wings in an endless sky screeched in her brain with a mournful wail that shut out everything, shut out the words of Master as he gives Robin colorful pills. Shut out the trembling as Robin is folded into the blanket-lined blueness. Shut out the feeling of a mask wrapped around her face, something hard tucked behind the blankets.
The wail of wings of metal crashing and screaming against pitch black asphalt shuts off her brain until it too is shrouded in blackness, silenced by the fog that wraps her mind in safety from the memories that were best kept in their own cage, away from Robinâs.
There is nothing but the darkness and the cold, the growing feeling of limbs turning to stone as muscles refuse to even feel the pain of hours of stillness. The blackness is freezing Robinâs veins, cold air stopped in her chest as it doesnât seem to ever be enough. There are few thoughts and few moments beyond a burning that hurts more than the cold in her body, a burning in the darkness of her mind.
Robin isnât sure how long she sits in the burning before the pain is brought to a knifeâs edge as the cage jostles and turns, a loss of gravity that leaves her unmoored in the unmoveably tiny space that has become her world. Itâs still so cold, but Robinâs tongue feels thick and heavy in her mouth, unable to speak or cry or beg Master to let her out. Itâs no longer cold enough either to sink into the burning blackness, the statue of her own body, and let time escape her. No, itâs a terrible place of exhaustion and tumbling and unreality that makes Robin miss the cold, miss the nothing, miss anything that felt like reality.
But eventually the movement stops, muffled noises able to make it past the walls of her world that she once thought were blankets but now wonders in the darkness if instead they are simply the soft pieces of her mind, the only pieces left to protect her.
The release of pressure on her body brings a sensation like a million needles crawling in her skin, light-footed pain that makes her gasp. The soft edges of her mind are peeled away and Robin wants to cry, doesnât want to find out what horror awaits her now that the cold and the fire and the tumbling have stopped.
But it is not pain or horror, it is warmth on what she thinks might be her head, if Robin does even exist. It is warmth and gentleness that makes her eyes burn with tears they donât have even as she is cruelly ripped out of the darkness.
â
Luggage easily gets lost. One delayed flight and suddenly your suitcase for that wedding in Colorado ends up instead in Tennessee. It gets more complicated in international flights, with suitcases ending up in the wrong country. Tracking down owners was hard work, but always interesting. It was often playing detective, looking for receipts in coat pockets or a handwritten note in a book. Of course, with technology it wasnât always that hard, but sometimes Elliot got to play detective instead of boringly logging numbers into a database that spat out a shipping label and sent an apology email.
Sometimes, Elliot got mysteries like the Bright Blue. The Bright Blue had showed up off a flight from New York City that had diverted to Canada due to weather. Theyâd had to switch most of the passengers to a different plane, and in the chaos apparently Bright Blue here got left behind. Normally, theyâd be able to stick it on the next bound plane but Bright Blue didnât have a receipt, a calling card, a cheap touristâs luggage tag nothing. No Bright Blue was a hard-shelled mystery the color of the sky, or those pretty bird eggs that make you think of easter.
Which meant Elliot got to go digging. They waited, wishing to savor the adventure, cataloging all their other suitcases for the day before they sat down with Bright Blue. It was tightly packed, heavy, possibly some travelerâs books wrapped in clothing as part of a move. Maybe some bricks. Theyâd had that before. The satisfying sound of the zipper was music to their ears as they flipped open the cover to see packing blankets. Wrapped around some lumpy object in the center.
Maybe some kind of art piece?
Gently Elliot peeled off the blankets to see
A girl. A girl with a shock of red hair, eyes bound with a blindfold. An oxygen mask sat firmly on her face, with what was probably a canister stuck against her body.
But she looked so still, and Elliot could practically see the blue-tinge on her finger tips, her lips as they shakily reached out a hand to touch her head. A small whimper escaped the body, something that mightâve been words.
âShhh itâs ok, Iâve got youâ Elliot quickly peeled off the blindfold, continuing to pet the girl with one hand as she squinted against the luggage roomâs harsh light. With her other hand, she reached for the radio on her hip.
CW: Abducted whumpee, description of missing person, captivity, BBU/WRU
Where Is Haven Gray?
r/FindTheMissing
âąPosted by u/bananasare2appealing
3 days ago
In the summer of 20XX, 21-year-old Haven Gray texted family and friends to let them know a second job interview theyâd just finished had gone well, and they expected to be offered the job.
They made plans to have dinner with a couple of friends to celebrate, but never showed up to the restaurant. They were reported missing by their parents later that night and have never been seen again.
Hey, everyone, this is my first attempt at a post like this, so I hope youâll go easy on me! Haven Gray is a kind of a personal case to me, I went to the same high school a few years behind them and there was still a lot of talk about what could have happened and like, their picture is in a memorial frame in the hallway by the principalâs office. Itâs just a really important case to me and I hope they figure out what happened to Haven one day.
Haven Gray was the oldest of three children born to Matthew and Maria Gray in the small town of Trenton, Indiana. Tall, with long wavy red hair and gray eyes, they stood out in a crowd in more ways than one.
Haven set records for their high schoolâs cross-country track team, played well on the school basketball team, and maintained a 3.5 GPA alongside plenty of extracurriculars and an active social life.
They then spent two years attending Trenton Community College, looking to finish out their degree at Indiana State University and go into the human resources field. They kept up a part-time job on the side, but during the summer before they would move to ISU, they decided to look for full-time work to help save up some money.
Havenâs mother Maria was interviewed after their disappearance by local news station INNW as saying that Haven was very excited about finishing up their degree and moving into their first real apartment.Â
Haven had seen an ad on a job-hunting website for a receptionist for a temp agency that specialized in placing HR professionals in nearby companies. Seeing a way to get some relevant experience before they finished up their degree, they applied and were contacted for a job interview.
Hereâs where things get just a little weird, before they get even weirder.
I totally forgot they liked to read :( I want Jameson to figure it out and start reading them all the SFF they want over the phone while heâs at Natâs. They probably know audiobooks are a thing, but Jamesonâs version is better :)
TW: dehumanisation, âitâ pronouns, pet whump, slavery. This is set in the BBU. This âverse will have a separate taglist so let me know if you want to be on it!
Female domestic and platonic combination required for services to a middle-aged disabled woman. Must be able to provide care and companionship alongside housekeeping and medical aid. Should have a calm and loyal disposition with a proactive attitude.
So the thing about The Great War is that a couple of years ago, a LOT of places honored the Centennial of the Armistice, 1918-2018. Many large memorial services were held all over places affected by the War,
and in Yvesâ Parallel World, which is ours but also different, he and Miss Edith attended one of the larger ones held in London⊠And she talked him into following proper military protocol and appearing In Uniform. Just like all the other veterans and soldiers were doing. His uniform. His Great War uniform, sans mask, with his military medals and the red collar tabsâŠ
Crowds parted around them. People looked at him like they were seeing a ghost at first. Then, in a very strange experience for him, other soldiers and even some civilians came up to shake his hand and say what an honor it was to be able to meet him. People backed off to give him a moment to be by himself looking at the display of ceramic poppies spread all over the moat lawn of the Tower of London as a memorial piece.
To cap the day, he now has the distinction of having been the only person in history to have met both Queens Elizabeth. She was in attendance, her people noticed he was being noticed, and so there was an impromptu meeting, where the Queen formally thanked him for his service in front of the Press, and newspapers ran the pictures. Heâs still got a photo from that.
A more local memorial was held closer to home for the people of the West Country who served, and thereâs a great picture of him and âFishâ in their uniforms, falling into an emotional embrace- Theo James Fisher, whom he met when Fish was a young officer -and still a human during the War! (meeting again after Fisher had become a vampire was a shock to them both in the 1940s.)
@ashintheairlikesnow So since weâve got parallel Parallel Universes, with War Veteran Vampires, I gotta know: Did Vampire!Chris mark the Centennial? Did he hear people talking about it? Did he attend any memorials?
The Vampire version of Chris was still being held by Oliver during the time of the Centennial events. His sense of time was fairly fluid, since he was never allowed to leave, and he struggled to mark the passage of days.
However, Oliver helped organize local events, and even flew out for a Centennial ceremony in London. He left Chris behind - had he known he was a veteran, he would have taken him with, but⊠Chris didnât tell him.
No one has known for decades that Chris fought in the War - he tells no one, and keeps his experiences to himself. They feel too immediate to him, still.
When he mentions shellshock to Jake is perhaps the first time heâs opened up about it in a half-century.
When the guns fell silent, Chris was behind enemy lines, being held as a prisoner of war in a German camp. It was another full year before anyone thought to put him on a ship back to America. By the time he returned, any hint of gratitude to the âUndead Armyâ for their service had been buried under the usual revulsion and fear of them, and so Chris simply melted into the darkness. He was too shellshocked to try and make use of the opportunities vampires who served were given to be shifted into society during the time, and ended up living in the cellar of an abandoned home whose owner had never returned from the war, venturing out only at night and only when he had to. He trembled and shook for years, lost hours to staring off into space. It faded, some, with time - and God knows Chris has plenty of that.
His only lifeline to holding onto himself during this time were letters from someone he befriended during the war. He doesnât know what happened to the letters after Tooley got hold of him.
He was free for the half-century marker of the ending, and if you look at the right photos, you can see him in the background of a few photos taken during a remembrance in New York. He looks like any other exhausted teenager dragged from sleep to attend.
When Oliver went to the centennial in London, he brought Chris back some little trinkets heâd picked up - a snowglobe of London, a black t-shirt with a red poppy on it (the fabric of the shirt was too scratchy for Chris to wear, but he liked to look at it), and a large book with a âvisual historyâ of WWI.
Chris secretly loved the book.
Heâs in it.
His face, in the photo of a few American POWs in a German camp, is so smudged and dirty that no one else knows itâs him.
But one day while Oliver was out, Chris cut that photo out of the book, and took it with him when he was rescued, kept hidden.
I love the idea of there being an exhibit or website about the âUndead Armyâ, trying to humanize them, where Chrisâs letters are featured. Like, maybe tooley sold them to some war/vamp collector and slowly they made there way to this collection. I just get so sad thinking of all Chris lost ash I will stand behind my canon that everything heâs lost slowly ends up in a museum or something dammit
I really wanna know what happened during the painful bath that Nanda promised Jameson a while back. Baths in whump have the potential to be so soothing and excruciating at the same time, which kinda fits Jamesonâs whole character donât you think?
CW: Pet whump, dehumanizing language, intimate whumper, dubcon touch NSFW (not explicit), implied dubcon (fade to black), referenced blood and whipping, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, creepy comfort, drowning, talk of sui (to escape torture), implied death by drowning (unnamed oc)
r/LetsTalkTrueCrime
NEW VIDEOS of the Box Boy Killer! Never Before Seen!
âąPosted by u/oshaycanyousee 14h ago
So I got a really good response to my short series on the mysterious Box Boy Serial Killer (you can find my previous write-ups here, here, and here).
Well, recently I discovered something entirely new that I think you'd enjoy getting a look at! Found among personal items belonging to Nathaniel "Nanda" Matthew Benson: a medium-sized external hard drive containing nearly 750GB of photo and video content.
The hard drive was labeled 'Personal'. Police stated there was a second hard drive labeled 'Professional', but what content was on there, if anything, has never been released.
Technically, neither has this. Someone from within the police department leaked a bunch of videos and photos at some point, and I was able to get ahold of them thanks to a friend of a friend (who shall go unnamed, don't want to tip off whatever FBI agent is watching his internet activity, haha... or is it her or their internet activity... FBI Agent will never know.)
In my writeup on Nanda Benson's life with his Boxie, I didn't have a ton of details on how they interacted with each other. Finding this trove of info definitely changed a few things on how I view their relationship.
Take a look and let me know if it makes you maybe reconsider a few details, too. FYI: This does have nudity and some spicy times! Nothing worse than you've seen on HBO or whatever, but like, fair warning.
[Embedded Video Player With Title: Bathtime With Boxie: NSFW and Yet Somehow Still Oddly Wholesome Kind Of]
The video begins with the tub already filled with water, hot enough to gently steam. It's a gigantic soaker tub, large enough for four people to easily sit without crowding, nestled alongside a window in a truly enormous, incredibly well-lit bathroom. Everything is in shades of white, which makes the person in the frame even more immediately the enter of attention.
A young man with short, shaggy brown hair and dark eyes sits in the tub. He looks up, wrinkling his nose and glancing away. Only then does a bright red mark, darkening already to a bruise become obvious on one side of his neck.
"Don't fucking tape this," He says. His voice is slightly rough-edged, as if he's been screaming, and he sounds exhausted. "That's weird. Not taping the fucking but taping the after bit."
Red welts are visible above the line of water, marking his shoulders and arms. The welts are a deep red that is nearly purple - they are surrounded by bright red irritated flesh.
"Oh, but I like you like this." The voice holding the camera is deep and amused. The camera wobbles slightly and then settles, and soon enough a second man enters the screen. It's clearly Nanda Benson himself, stark naked.
Where the Boxie is heavily bruised and beaten, Nanda himself would be spotless if he werenât flecked with drying red spots that are clearly the pet's blood.
"Yeah, well." The pet shifts to the side as Nanda steps in, hissing softly in contentment at the sudden burst of heat when he enters the water. He settles down against a bench set in to the side of the tub, and opens his arms.
The pet moves immediately into them, without hesitating. His eyes flicker nervously back to the camera and then away again.
"Yeah, well-... yeah well what, pet?" Nanda laughs as he pulls the Boxie into his lap, toying one hand already damp from the tub over the ring at the front of his collar. "Cat got your tongue after that fun we had together?"
"Tongue's the only thing you didn't take," The pet responds, almost playfully flirtatious. "I guess you'd miss it too fucking much."
"If I took your voice, who would call me a fucking idiot before I fuck him into the ground, hm?"
The pet flushes, looking down at the water, at the slightest pink of his blood still running into it. "Sir-"
"Ssssshhhh. I like you insulting me. I like punishing you for it more." Nanda mouths at the unmarked side of the pet's neck, pulling him back-to-chest where he sits, so he's facing the camera directly again. The pet's back arches when Nanda's teeth dig in, making a soft, high-pitched whine as his head drops back onto the man's shoulder.
The camera picks up the quiet splash of water as the pet tries to move away and is pulled roughly right back, catches the refracted sight of Nanda's hands on the pet's thighs forcing them apart, each of his calves on the outside of Nanda's thighs.
"Please-... H-hurts-"
"You love it," Nanda whispers, and bites down again, right into the crook of the pet's neck where it meets his shoulder. The cry this time is wild with a mix of pain and something darker, the pet's hands moving helplessly up and back to clasp just behind Nanda's head. His back is nearly a bow, every muscle trembling with a need to escape and to hold perfectly still, both at once.
When Nanda pulls back this time, the camera picks up the blood smeared on his teeth before he runs his tongue over them. It finds the light glinting off the fresh blood welling from the new bite along the pet's shoulder.
"It's too much," The pet says, struggling to sit back up straight, turning to look at Nanda. For a moment, his shaggy damp hair and angle hides his expression from the camera's gaze.
The twist of his spine, though, shows the bloodied whiplashes making their way up his back nearly to the nape of his neck.
"It's too much," The pet repeats, in a whisper. "Please. Please, it's too fucking much, if you fuck me again I'll fucking die. Please."
"Now, pet," Nanda teases, flirts shamelessly, running his wet hands through the pet's hair. He grips on tight and forces his head back again. The profile of the pet's face shows the slight bump of a broken nose healed almost perfectly, but not quite. The gasp he makes when Nanda's free hand presses over the welts on his chest is loud enough for the camera to catch. "You know you don't get to say when it's too much."
"You'll f-fucking kill me," The pet protests, voice tight from the angle forcing his collar to dig painfully into his throat. "Please, I... everything hurts so much..."
"You love the pain." Nanda's eyes look up to meet the camera before a more sinister smile finds its way across his face. "I know what you can take better than you do, pet, and I think you can handle one more. Sssshhh, here we go. There..." Nanda exhales softly as the two of them shift in the tub, the pet making a soft pained sound, his hips rolling as he is worked slowly down into position.
Then Nanda chuckles and slides his entire arm over the welts marking the pet's torso, holding him tightly in place. "Now take a deep breath."
"Wh-what?" The pet's eyes widen, comprehension coming a half-second too late. "Wait, don't-"
Nanda's hand gripped into the pet's hair plunges him forwards, bent at the waist, forcing the Box Boy's head suddenly under the water. The pet struggles desperate trying to get his head back up to breathe. Nanda grunts in a rhythm as his hips snap up and down again. He groans, "So fucking tight, goddamn I love you, you fucking slut for me-"
[/END VIDEO]
The video cuts off there, but my friend tells me the rest of it is basically the kind of stuff you have to pay a monthly fee for everywhere else on the internet.
But there's another video, from way later, that I find a really interesting contrast and comparison. Same friend got me this one. It involves Robert, whose write-up you can see right here.
[EMBEDDED VIDEO: Titled Holy Shit, No Wonder He Killed Him]
The screen is black for a few seconds, with the sound of someone taking the cap off a camera before things come into blurry view and then slowly into focus.
The bathroom in this video is tiny. It's barely large enough for everything in it, and a person sitting on the toilet will damn near bash their knees into the side of the bathtub. The grout in the tile floor is dark with old stains, and the tile itself needs either serious scrubbing or an exorcism.
Sitting naked in the bathtub is a young man with long blond hair that hangs in filthy, dirty clumps down to his shoulders. His face is streaked with mud and worse, and he has a black eye that has nearly swelled his left eye shut entirely. His hands are bound with rope stained brown with dried blood, held up in front of him.
His one good eye, maybe blue, follows with a kind of resigned terror the person behind the camera.
He sits in water up to his waist, but by the way he is shivering, it's clear that the water is not even warm, let alone hot. Further bruises mark his ribcage and his legs. One leg juts out in front, and something about it seems like it might be broken.
The camera is handheld, panning slowly from the young man's torn and lacerated heels and feet through his bruised leg - one swollen - and then back up to his face.
"Tell me your name." The voice is Robert Weber's.
The young man's mouth twists in a snarl that fades as quickly as it came and he looks away, to the side of the tub marked with deep soap scum. When Robert's house is searched, there are scratches in the tub as though someone had clawed that deeply into the sides in an attempt to escape. "It's..." The young man inhales, winces at the pain. "It's twe-... Twenty-One. M-My name is... Twenty-One."
"Good. And-... what did we practice saying next?"
The man's jaw trembles visibly onscreen. Then he says, flat and numb, "My name is Twenty-One and I have... two weeks to l-live."
"Perfect. Now I promised you a good scrubbing if you played along downstairs-" The young man flinches, closing his good eye and curling up in the tub as best he can. "-and I will keep that promise." There's a pause, jostling as the camera is slotted into a tripod to continue filming. Then, Robert's voice is suddenly deafening. "Dog! Get the fuck in here!"
The door opens with the creak of hinges deeply in need of oiling, and then the Boxie moves into view. He's skinny, malnourished and underfed, and his hair is roughly cut short in uneven hunks. He has bald spots worn in by the muzzle that is buckled over his mouth, making his breathing an audible rasp. He glares with unhidden hatred.
"Give Twenty-One a bath," Robert says, and his hand moves into view as he pats the Boxie on the head. The Boxie flinches but then forces himself to hold still, closing his eyes as the pat turns into prolonged petting. His muzzle is unbuckled and then removed. Robert's fingers drift over his bald spots, play along the red marks pressed into his skin by the muzzle, move over a scar cut into one side of his mouth that wasn't there in the video with Nanda.
The Boxie is naked but for an old dog collar around his neck.
Robert hums, disappears entirely from view. The door opens and closes again. The sound of a lock clicks.
The Boxie looks at the young man in the bathtub, who doesn't look up. "Fuck this shit," The Boxie mumbles, but he moves - dragging one of his legs a little, and there are ropes tied around his ankles that ensure he can do little more than shuffle - and finally kneels next to the tub. "Are you going to be a shit?"
The young man looks at him with surprise. "You... I've never heard you talk before," He whispers, looking fearfully to the side towards the door.
"You've never seen me without the fucking muzzle before, either," The pet replies. His voice is far rougher than the first video, suggesting long-term damage to his vocal chords. "I asked you something. Are you going to fight me and be a shit about this or no?"
The young man hesitates, then shakes his head. "I couldn't fight if I wanted to anymore," He says, like a man confessing a sin. "It all hurts too much. You know? I had a girlfriend-"
"Stop it." The pet cuts him off and leans over, picking up a stiff washcloth and soaking it in the water until it's soft enough to use again, running it over the young man's shoulders. For all the edge of meanness in his voice, the pet's touch is clearly gentle. "You're going to fucking die here, better if you don't talk about stuff that gets you fucked up first. Forget her."
The young man leans over to give easier access to his back. The soft whimpers he makes show that there must be some grievous injuries back there that the camera can't see. "I-I know I will. Die, I mean. Do I really have-... is it really two weeks?"
"Yeah." The pet takes a bar of soap and runs it over his own hands, rubbing them together to work up a lather. The soap found in Robert Weber's house after his death is Irish Spring and Dove - it is believed he used different soap for different captives according to his own odd whims. "He's put little heart shapes on a calendar he marks off. He'll hurt you a little worse every fucking day and then make you beg for him to end it."
The young man slowly nods, looking at his bound wrists. There's a soft sniff, but he seems too tired for tears. "There's no chance of getting away, is there."
It's not really a question.
The pet answers anyway.
"You're the twenty-first, and none of the others have. What do you think?"
"I-I can't do this."
"You have to." The pet gets a red Solo cup sitting on the side of the tub, fills it with water, and pours it down the young man's back. He hisses and cries out softly in pain. "He doesn't exactly ask your goddamn preferences."
"Help me escape," The young man pleads. "Help me get out of here."
"I'm fucking hobbled," the pet snaps. "He'll be on us both before we even made it out of the hallway. You think I'm fucking stupid? I'm the only one who might not die if I stay good. Come on, lean forward so I can wash your hair."
The young man moves to obey, hands disappearing beneath the filthy bathwater, and then he turns, looking over his shoulder. He and the pet share a long, silent moment. Then he leans over far enough to put his mouth nearly to the pet's ear and whispers something so low that the camera doesn't pick up the words.
The pet inhales sharply.
He looks at the door, and then back to the young man.
"Are you sure?" He asks, and the edge is totally gone from his voice, now.
The young man nods, slowly. "Please," he says, a little louder. "If I have to-... please. Not him. I-I know you'll get punished, but... please. God, please, just this one thing." His hands come back up to grip onto the pet's hand where it lays along the side of the tub.
The young man leans forwards, and his forehead gently rests against the pet's. They are silent for a long moment.
"Please, don't let him be the one to kill me," The young man says. "I know I'm g-going to die, but... let me take that a-... away from him. Please. God, I don't even know your name, but-... please."
The pet swallows, then nods, tipping his head back to press a kiss to the young man's forehead. "I don't have a name. What's your name? I'll remember it. Your real name."
The young man's throat bobs and he whispers into the pet's ear again.
He sits back up, leaning over until some of his long hair falls into the water. "I'm-... I'm ready."
The pet takes a deep, deep breath, moves up to kneeling with his thighs vertical, lays both hands on the back of the young man's head, and says, "I hope it's better, wherever you go."
Then he pushes the young man's head underneath the water.
[/END VIDEO]
According to my friend, there's more to that video as well, but obviously it's been cut to take out the end of the poor guy. Now, my friend swears up and down the pet is crying at the end of the video, that he can see tears, but I'm not sure.
That doesn't really line up with the pet killing people before this, you know?
But one thing it does prove is that the Boxie knows the name of one of the unidentified victims. If he could be found, we could give that man back his name and get his family the closure they deserve.
I know some of you argued with me last time that the Boxie is clearly a VICTIM and not a PERPETRATOR, and I definitely admit this second video maybe suggests you're on to something there.
But I still think we have a Boxie killer on our hands here - I just think maybe I was wrong about why he's killing them at all.
HOW DID I MISS THIS god poor Jameson no wonder heâs having such an awful time. Thatâs just a lot on him and to have that sort of stuff be his only memories? The only times he had agency, where he was the one brutalizing for once? He needs a hug stat
Ridley drops off B for his teeth modification procedure
Tag list:Â @mylifeisonthebookshelf @finder-of-rings @rosesareviolentlyread @wingedwhump @justplainwhumpÂ
CW: dehumanisation, pet whump, tasers, manhandling, collars, prong collar, conditioning/memory loss
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The foyer of the WRU reception was not nearly as cold as it was inside the Facility. It was warm, painted with a soft orange. All around were posters plastered on the walls advertising the products. And the benefits for volunteering to become one.
A graphic of smiling young man in a collar waving with the words âYour New Life Starts Now!â emblazoned above. âLeave your life behind and find a forever loving home!â
B stared at the poster, his head tilted to the side as he read the words. He was still allowed to read, they had made sure he still could read.
Ridley shuffled his weight from foot to foot beside him, restless and annoyed at being made to wait. He fiddled with Bâs leash, twisting it around his hand to snap it taut. Bâs attention was back to his owner in an instant.
âLook at this loser, B⊠You reckon you were like this before I found you?â Ridley muttered to him, nodding to the sobbing man at the front desk. The one that was making them wait. He was slouched over, whimpering as he signed the contract theyâd pushed in front of him. He was gently escorted by two handlers out through the door with a sign in big block letters:
NO ENTRY: AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY
âI dunno, sirâŠâ B murmured, watching them go. He signed up for this too.
âAh so sorry to keep you waiting.â The receptionist said, waving them forward and clearly flustered from the sudden Acquisition.
âYou should be.â Ridley said, in an equally pleasant tone and flashing the receptionist a grin. He stepped forward, tugging the leash sharply despite B already being right at his side.
âBut no hard feelings. I have my dog here booked in.â
The receptionist looked to B, softening. âAw, well hello there, big guy. How longâs his stay here with us, sir?â
I am so torn and desperate for an AU where Ridley abandons him there so Connor gets him sooner and begging Ridley to come back and remind B he is loved/take him away before Ferrick gets his hands on him HES JUST A WEE LAD
Ridley drops off B for his teeth modification procedure
Tag list:Â @mylifeisonthebookshelf @finder-of-rings @rosesareviolentlyread @wingedwhump @justplainwhumpÂ
CW: dehumanisation, pet whump, tasers, manhandling, collars, prong collar, conditioning/memory loss
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The foyer of the WRU reception was not nearly as cold as it was inside the Facility. It was warm, painted with a soft orange. All around were posters plastered on the walls advertising the products. And the benefits for volunteering to become one.
A graphic of smiling young man in a collar waving with the words âYour New Life Starts Now!â emblazoned above. âLeave your life behind and find a forever loving home!â
B stared at the poster, his head tilted to the side as he read the words. He was still allowed to read, they had made sure he still could read.
Ridley shuffled his weight from foot to foot beside him, restless and annoyed at being made to wait. He fiddled with Bâs leash, twisting it around his hand to snap it taut. Bâs attention was back to his owner in an instant.
âLook at this loser, B⊠You reckon you were like this before I found you?â Ridley muttered to him, nodding to the sobbing man at the front desk. The one that was making them wait. He was slouched over, whimpering as he signed the contract theyâd pushed in front of him. He was gently escorted by two handlers out through the door with a sign in big block letters:
NO ENTRY: AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY
âI dunno, sirâŠâ B murmured, watching them go. He signed up for this too.
âAh so sorry to keep you waiting.â The receptionist said, waving them forward and clearly flustered from the sudden Acquisition.
âYou should be.â Ridley said, in an equally pleasant tone and flashing the receptionist a grin. He stepped forward, tugging the leash sharply despite B already being right at his side.
âBut no hard feelings. I have my dog here booked in.â
The receptionist looked to B, softening. âAw, well hello there, big guy. How longâs his stay here with us, sir?â
I am so torn and desperate for an AU where Ridley abandons him there so Connor gets him sooner and begging Ridley to come back and remind B he is loved/take him away before Ferrick gets his hands on him HES JUST A WEE LAD
CW: Drunkenness, drug addiction, blood drinking, vampirism, creepy abusive comfort, WWI-period-appropriate xenophobia and brief vague possible homophobia reference, dehumanization, war whump
"Now, that'll get you blotto faster'n French liquor," Kirk says, sinking back against the muddy trench wall, careless for the dirt caking itself into the hair at the nape of his neck.
His helmet lay beside him upside down on the ground, and his brown hair was free to explode in its wealth of curls, a kind of halo around his head. He had one arm out, sleeve rolled back. His hands were caked in mud and smeared with drying dirt - above the line of his sleeve, though, the skin was paper-white, almost clammy.
It was this white skin that the vampire's fangs were buried in.
"Shit, Holden, y'gotta have 'im bite you, too." Kirk's grin widens. The shells had gone silent but every man flinches, now and then, hearing a phantom sound or feeling a rumble beneath their feet.
At least it's finally stopped goddamn raining.
The venom rolls through Kirk's veins, soothing his jangled nerves. He can barely feel the trembling in his hands and it feels like his mind, when it's in him. He's a farm kid from western Nebraska, the second son and not needed so much as the first to bring the crops in. So here he is, learning to love the feeling of teeth in his skin.
Maybe when he gets shipped back home he'll stick to the cities. They say the vampires have their dens there, where they can hide. You can buy venom enough to quiet your mind for a day or two, the city boys tell him.
They're in it as deep as he is, now.
Feels like half the American army is itching for venom these days.
"No thank you. I'm not gonna get sent home and start chasing fangs like the rest of you." Holden squints, looking up into the dark sky, the rolling clouds that seem far too close to the ground. "It'll rain again soon."
"When isn't it going to rain again soon? Oh, right, when it's already bloody raining." That's a Brit, they just call him Tommy. No one knows his real name.
He claims to hate them all, but since half his unit was blasted apart two days ago, he's hung with the 'Yanks' close enough. Kirk thinks he's fond of them, even if he won't admit it. Or just scared to be alone. He can understand that. He's terrified of the thought himself. "Shove the little vamp over to me, Kirk, I want some."
The vampire pulls his fangs free, licking over the wounds he's made until they close. He's a skinny little thing, pale as paper with bright red hair they stuff under his helmet when he's running medic checks in No Man's Land, trying to make him less obvious. Sure, he can't die from gas, but he can be blown to bits by a whizz-bang fast as any living soldier can.
"Please," The vampire says, turning big green eyes up to Kirk. "I, I, I'm tired, please, can I sleep?"
He's got heavy dark circles under his eyes. It's kind of cute.
"No," Kirk answers, curt, shoving the vampire away by his head, watching him fall into the mud. His uniform is marked with it, now, a dab of dirt over the 'V' sewn next to his medic's cross. There's a satisfaction, in Kirk, just in seeing the little thing laid low.
He won't die in this war, and Kirk probably will, but before that happens he can at least hurt something he can see. You can't see old Fritz when you fire on him from a distance - but you can see a vampire flinch in the dirt. It's not much.
It's something.
"Must be daytime," Holden speaks up, still staring up at the clouds. "You can't tell, weather like this, but if the fangs're tryin' to sleep, must be day."
"He sleeps when we're done with him, and not a moment before." Kirk's voice is a murmur, eyes half-closed. He's drifting in it, the way the venom dulls and deadens the eternal ache in his back and legs. The Germans could come roaring over the bags right this second and Kirk wouldn't give a damn at all. Let them kill him, at least he can go with venom in his veins, not as a basket case carried off the field. "Not a second before. Go on, bloodsucker. Get over to Tommy and help him get some shut-eye, huh?"
"I've been drinking all night, pulled some rations off someone," Tommy groans, rubbing his fingers at his temples. "It's done no good at all." It's a funny little gesture, so oddly normal and casual. Reminds Kirk of home.
His throat tries to close, homesickness bowling him over. The wish to return to his mother's worn smile, sit down to dinner and have her ask him about his day, when his problems revolved around the harvest and the hard backs of the pews in church-
He takes a breath, forcing it back, and gives the vampire a vicious kick in the ribs, listening to his high-pitched cry and how he curls around himself with a smile of his own.
Oh, he'll die, probably. The others from his town already have. But he can remind himself he's still alive, for now. One way or another. He can cause pain he can't feel himself, for once.
"I said get over to Tommy and smooth out his sharp bits, bloodfuck."
"Yes, um, y-yes, Kirk," The vampire says, pulling himself onto his hands and knees. His fingers are smashed into the mud deep enough to nearly disappear. If they could only get a few days of sunlight to dry out all this dirt, it wouldn't be such hell.
As it is, his socks've been damp for weeks, his boots feel like they're caging his feet in a swamp. He's worried about trenchfoot and trying not to think about it. He stole these boots off a dead German when his own started to fall apart, anyway.
He could've probably gotten new ones, but... it had felt good, taking something from Fritz after Fritz took so much from him.
Kirk tries not to remember that the German soldiers he fights have never caused him a single moment's harm on purpose. They're only fighting for the same reasons he is - because someone higher up who doesn't give a damn about them said to.
Kirk had been all gung-ho for the war until he'd been sent over here to fight it. All those articles in the newspapers, all the speeches given by men standing in town squares... it had all made it seem so patriotic.
They never tell you, Kirk thinks bitterly, that you'll be sent into a slaughterhouse. They don't tell you you'll spend your day breaking a vampire's fingers one by one just to watch them heal back into place and listen to his little cries.
Just to pass the time.
"Trade me your flask while the fangs takes care of you," Kirk says, and Tommy hands it over easy enough.
He watches Tommy grab the vampire by one arm and yank him over, vicious and violent, making the vampire boy cry out again. The sound is starting to grate on Kirk's nerves. It makes him sound too human. He hates being reminded that every vampire used to be a person.
He drinks whatever's in the Brit's flask, and it burns down his throat just the way he needs it to. Wipes out his worries, relaxes shoulders that seem always to be tensed up nearly to his chin.
His mama's a teetotaler, back in Nebraska. He'd been one, too, until the first bombardment. Now he drinks anything he could get his hands on, and the officers mostly looked the other way.
"Bite," Tommy orders. Kirk raises his eyebrows when Tommy doesn't roll up his sleeve but pushes the vampire's face instead towards his neck, turning his head to the side to bare it.
His eyes meet Kirk's, and he smiles, bitterly. "Works faster this way," He explains. Kirk just watches as the vampire's fangs glint in the eternal dim twilight, hesitating before they bury themselves in Tommy's skin.
The little monster's back arches, pressing them chest-to-chest. A low rumble comes from somewhere deep inside, the animal sound the vampire makes during a good feed. He doesn't do it much with the regular unit any longer, they mocked him for it and one day he stopped.
The vampire's throat works as he drinks, and Tommy's arm slides around the monster's thin shoulders, forcing him closer. He's nearly kissing his forehead, this way.
It's an embrace, and altogether more intimate of one than Kirk thought he'd ever see from the cold, standoffish Brit. He feels a blush creeping up his neck and his cheeks as Tommy lets his head fall back, groaning softly in a kind of contentment as the venom hits. The sound isn't quite like a groan at all, it's more like-
"Fucking hell, Tommy, are you an invert?"
"Invert suggests I give a damn what bites me," Tommy replies, without opening his eyes. His slurred speech deepens, goes slow. His hand curves around the vampire's shoulder, holding him tightly. "I'm after oblivion, lads. I don't care what parts the fangs have that give it to me."
"Fang-chaser," Holden says, good-naturedly. Clearly not bothered the way Kirk is. Maybe that's just his farmboy past talking, that he's even unsettled at all. Maybe Tommy's got a point - who cares what's between a vampire's legs if you're only interested in the damn thing's mouth in the first place? "Fucking fang-chaser, that's what you are. End up in a den getting your hips bit like Oscar Wilde."
"Who's Oscar Wilde?"
Holden laughs. "You should try reading a book or three sometime, Kirk."
"Sure, sure, whenever I get the damn time in-between running over this blasted nothing. In any case, Tommy's definitely a fang-chaser."
"Guilty as charged... just like you two." Tommy's hand slides up into the vampire's hair, gripping tight and gently pulling backwards. The vampire's fangs slide free, and it laps at the wounds, rapidly. Tommy groans again. Kirk finds himself unable to look away at the bob of Tommy's throat. How good does it feel, in the neck? He's never thought to try it. He thinks about it now. "Turn me in to face discipline for unnatural relations with the fangs and I'll do the same to you."
"Yeah, yeah, we got it. Fucking Limey bastard." There's no real animosity in Kirk's voice. He's too distracted, drunkenly considering the vampire boy's mouth. Wondering if he knows how to kiss. "You shared your liquor, I shared our bloodsucker, we're both of us in it to our necks."
"Not me," Holden says, innocent and pure as the driven snow. As if he weren't the one to give Kirk the idea to use the venom in the first place.
Kirk throws a clot of mud at him, which he dodges, laughing. They're all laughing, soon enough, except for the fangs.
The vampire lays there, his head pressed to Tommy's chest and forcibly held in place by his arm. His eyes are slightly wide, unfocused, and Kirk leans forward.
"What's this, then? What'd you do to the fangs, Tommy?"
"Hm? Nothing. Oh, I'm pissed as can be, do they feel the liquor in your blood?"
"I'm guessing they sure do. You drunk, fangs?"
The vampire's eyes drift over to Kirk, move too far to one side, come back again. He swallows, thickly. "I... I think I, I, I am," He says, and tries to push back against Tommy's chest, to free himself.
The Brit's arm crushes him back into place, his other hand moving up to run through the vampire boy's dirt red hair, petting him like one of the ambulance dogs. Kirk and Holden laugh at the vampire's weakness. "Stay right where you are," Tommy murmurs. "Or I'll run you through with my bayonet and let you squirm all day."
"Christ," Kirk says, blinking. "That's a bit rough, isn't it?"
"He's not alive, what does it matter?" Tommy lets out a bitter little laugh. "Might as well get a preview of our own ends, shouldn't we?"
"You two, maybe." Holden crawls into the dugout, the little bed-space, a kind of cave dug in underneath the upper layers of the trench. He lays down on his back, closing his eyes, hands behind his head. "I'm going to go back home and never think of you lot ever again."
"I pray every night to make it home," Kirk says, nodding along. "Not sure anyone's listening, but I got to try, don't I?"
"What happens to the fangs, anyway?" The Brit looks up, rocking a little back and forth. As if the bloodsucker were a baby needing soothing. The vampire boy has relaxed against him, the liquor-laced blood he drank lulling him into a complacent bonelessness. Kirk watches the vampire boy's fingers start to tap over the Brit's chest, a strange movement he's seen the boy do before in his few relaxed moments between the scream of the shells. He hums, low in his throat, tuneless.
"Huh?" Kirk blinks. "What d'you mean, what happens to him?"
"After the war's done. What are they gonna do with the bloodsuckers? Can't exactly pin a bloody ribbon for valor on them and send them on their way, now can they?"
"Nope. I don't know what happens. Maybe they'll just stake them all and have done with them."
The vampire shudders, giving a little whimper. Tommy leans down, lips moving against the vampire's hair. "Ssssshhhh. Not to worry, little fangs. War's not over just yet, now is it?"
"N-... no. Not, not, not, not yet." The vampire's eyes close, pink-tinged tears creating pale tracks in his dirty face. He's a sad drunk, then, Kirk figures.
Aren't they all, these days.
"Maybe you'll outlive us all, and make fools of us for keeping you." Tommy speaks with a patronizing affection, as mocking as it is tender, petting through the creature's hair still. It's... unsettling to watch. Kirk had figured the Brits and French probably killed all their vamps, since they were all disturbed by the sight of the vampire medics when the doughboys first arrived in Europe.
This, though... this makes it seem like Tommy's known a vampire or two himself, in his life. And he's sure as fuck not unfamiliar to what venom is good for outside of giving relief from agony to the injured.
Kirk frowns, thoughtful.
He's turned into a thoughtful drunk, too, thanks to this goddamn war. Sad and thoughtful. What a fucking waste.
"Sleep," Tommy says, almost gently, to the drunk little vampire. "I've got you. Sleep, little one."
The vampire's eyes slip closed. He doesn't breathe - there's no sense of his chest rising and falling. Kirk has to look away before the sense of wrongness, watching Tommy cuddle a corpse, makes him sick.
He takes a long, long draught from the flask, and relishes the burn that reminds him he's human, and alive.
His own eyes slip shut, and he prays for an hour or two of sleep before the next screaming shell bursts overhead.
SPECIAL CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains a series of arguments regarding the Box Boyâs whole concept, and a survivorâs reactions to it, that may hit too close to home both for survivors of assault/abuse and also considering American history of institutional violence. Please do not read if you think you are not in the right headspace for this, and feel free to message me for a rundown/synopsis of this chapter if needed.
CW: References to pet whump, institutionalized slavery, Box Boy universe, vague referenced noncon/conditioning, self-loathing, victim-blaming, survivorâs guilt, ableism (both internal and external). Also includes some self-harm/negative stimming including head-banging during a meltdown.
Nicholas/Henry (referenced multiple times) belongs to @orchidscript
âExcuse me, can I ask a question?â The one who raises his hand is⊠Eshiram, maybe? He lives over in Dalton, Chris knows him, more or less. Sort of. The way you know people who live near you, even on a campus as big as this tone.Â
âYeah, go ahead.â The grad student who teaches the discussion meetings for their Social and Political History class waves one hand in a quick, not quite dismissive gesture.
Behind him, thereâs a projected photo of a young man sitting, testifying in court, wearing a suit and tie. Above his head, the words, The Human Pet Industry and Human Rights, 1952-20XX, are angled just so, framing the young manâs head like a halo.
Chris refuses to look at the image of the young man, caught mid-speech. They already had to watch the video recording of it, discuss the way the lawyers phrased their questions to make the young man look innocent or calculating, depending on what they wanted the jury to think, when Chris could have told everyone in here it wasnât fucking possible for a pet to calculate like that.
Or maybe it was, and Chris just wasnât any good at it, when it was him.
âSo, weâve spent all week sitting in lecture, and here, talking about how the pet industry is absolutely fucked up-â
âExcuse me?â A girl sitting three seats to Chrisâs right and a little ahead of him turns around in her chair to give Eshiram a flat glare. âThat is not-â
âWait your turn, Callie,â The grad student says, looking weary. âNext time I have to tell you to let someone finish a sentence⊠Man, just, donât make me do that. Go on, Eshiram.â
Okay, good, his name is Eshiram. Chris is getting better at names, but itâs still hard, and on days like today itâs harder than ever. Itâs not that he isnât paying attention, itâs just that the scar on the inside of his left wrist, that pale reminder of the life he lived before this one, itches and burns more and more as he stays silent, listening to them talk about a life heâs lived like itâs an abstract concept and not a nightmare Chris will never be able to completely wash off his skin.
âThanks. So, we talk about the pet industry, but I just-⊠why doesnât anyone fix it?â
âGolden Retrievers are pretty happy dogs,â Someone says, and Chris feels himself choke on their words.
Mmmm I am now thinking of the unfinished WIP I have based on this conversation, and specifically these words. Of a college student who has the family box boy with him while his parents are off spending a year abroad. The WIP, is of course, titled âOh, to be a Golden Retriever in an Upper Class FamilyâÂ
Set earlier in the series after Hydrotherapy pt 1 and Hydrotherapy pt 2
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Sean restrained himself from jogging down the long corridors to Alfieâs room after hearing what had occurred from the nursing staff. He wasnât a man prone to anger but this- this would do it.
He was so caught up in his concern and utter frustration that he burst into the locked patient room.
Alfie flinched in surprise, awake enough to register the quickness of the entry.
Sean remembered himself and took a deep breath, he couldnât let his anger show in front of Alfie. With a twist in his chest he conceded that the kid had grown so sensitive, so easily spooked, he wouldnât understand and it would only rattle him.
âIâm sorry Fie, I didnât mean to barge in here.â Sean supplied as a means to apologize on more levels than one, he typically knocked, a courtesy most staff members didnât supply to the patients here.
âSâokay,â Alfred responded quietly and Sean noted with a cursory look that he had been recently sedated despite the fast reflex when he first entered.
âI just- I heard, about what happened⊠how are you feeling?â
Alfie looked to the floor for a moment, clearly embarrassed to be a victim once again, âIâm okay. But they came in last night and said I was screaming again.â
Alfie knew he didnât have to explain himself any further, his nightmares had been an ongoing supplication for sedation. The night staff really didnât have a choice and then risk the sleep of other patients, rest was so vital for their stability after all.
âWell we can take it easy today, I could take you to the sun room, would you like that?â
Sean watched as Alfieâs eyes drifted back down to the floor absently. He hated to see him like this.Â
â⊠Maybe later.â
âSure, bud, is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable? We could go for a hot shower?â
His gaze darted back up to Sean, âNo- please, I donât want to do that.â
Tumblr is being awful and didnât let me know but this piece is BEAUTIFUL god itâs so sad to think about. Poor Fie just wanting some comfort or anything for his nightmares and just getting more sedation. More drugs, and treatments, a vicious cycle.Â
Seanâs fucking guilt in the moment and I can only imagine how many moments after this, looking back, at how utterly he and everyone failed Alfie. Obliterated his trust. and god Alfie holding onto Sean with his eyes, desperate for any modicum of comfort it HURTS SO GOOD I love this story
Can I just say vampire as medic in WWI sounds like an excellent book idea and I feel like there could be a lot of meaning there and I want to read a whole book on the war now
I have a couple books I recommend!
All Quiet on the Western Front is a classic for a reason. I'm not much of a war novel person, but this was really riveting. About very young men sent to the front, the changes they go through, and what it's like trying to survive long enough to return.
A World Undone is a full history of World War 1 and can be a little bit of a slog in some parts, but it's got a really excellent look at the avalanche of pointless decisions and awful inevitability that took a bunch of countries who did not want to go to war and set them at each other's throats anyway.
Wasteland isn't about the war itself, but rather the effects of World War 1 on the burgeoning genre of horror filmmaking. Many of our classic horror stories from the 20th century came from men who survived the war, or just missed fighting directly in it but were affected by how it changed the world nonetheless. Poole's book is a really cool look largely into how the psychology of nations traumatized by war was expressed by filmmakers in different ways.
As far as the vampire medic during WW1 idea... yeah, I have some further thoughts on it and oh, I'm so excited to see what I can pull together.
Yessssss @rosesareviolentlyread Redwinged has a vamp character who has at least one piece set during the war! (I can't remember offhand if there were more, I only remember the one?)
This is all fantastic Ash, but also Iâm still not sure I want to re-inflict All Quiet on the Western Front on myself. I mean I like whump, and making myself cry, but itâs been 8 years and im still not sure im ready for a reread
But the others I will def check out not enough good WWI fiction
Excuse you I do follow you for your cooking and would love a list of cookbooks I should get to try fun things
I gave a quick list of recommendations on this ask answer last night, but let me add:
Ottolenghi's Jerusalem cookbook is a basic must-have in my house. So are Mowgli and Chaat, two Indian-focused cookbooks. One has a lot more of your home-cooking style recipes, the other really emphasizes Indian street food and snacks, and oh my god the bhel puri I made blew my damn socks off. So good.
Casablanca is a really good Moroccan cookbook that makes me so genuinely sad that lamb is so expensive here.
Original Local is another indigenous American cookbook, but it's very very focused on cuisine from the upper Midwestern region of the United States, so some stuff in it may be harder to find in other areas, or pricier.
Also, if you really want a decent cookbook that will lay out basics like baking good bread, that sort of thing... the Farmer's Cookbook is just excellent. My go-to bread recipe is in there, as well as an herbed biscuit recipe I often whip up quickly to serve alongside various meats, or use as the dumpling recipe for a chicken and dumpling stew or casserole. I also learned to make a few easy cheese recipes, jams, etc from here. It's a really really nice basics cookbook, highly recommended.
