I just know my mutuals go ”oh this evan guy is posting a lot about these rambol_va audios” so they search it up and get flashbanged with the most homo audios known to man
some yumeshipping of my dogsona Bowser and Elijah from Rambol_VA's bandit series
cw: captivity, abuse, neglect. content does go away after the first half
The holding cells beneath the bandit camp were heavy with the stench of sweat, rot, and unwashed bodies. The air was thick and stagnant, clinging to Elijah’s skin as he moved through the dimly lit corridor. The flickering lanterns cast long, uneven shadows that danced across the rusted bars and cracked stone floor. Somewhere in the distance, a man cursed, a chain rattled, and a bird flapped against a broken window. This place smelled of forgotten things—things left to decay in the dark.
Elijah didn’t like being in there. The cold, the grime, the hopelessness that seeped from every corner. But he had reasons to be.
His boots echoed softly as he followed Garrick, the grizzled bandit captain whose voice was rough as gravel and sharp as a blade. Garrick’s words buzzed past Elijah’s ears like white noise—complaints about lost trade, foolish hires, and promises broken. Elijah barely registered them. His senses were turned to something else, something lurking beneath the usual stink of this place.
Then it hit him: a sour, pungent scent.
Elijah stopped before a cell tucked away at the end of the hall, partly hidden behind a tattered burlap curtain that hung limply from a rusted nail. The air felt thicker here, heavier, warmer—as if the rot was alive.
“What’s in here?” Elijah asked, voice low.
Garrick snorted, eyes flickering to the cell like it held something burned. “That one’s trouble. Wolves raised him… tch. Found him wandering the edge of the forest three weeks back. Bit two of our men already, and that’s after we got him locked up. Tried to sell him. No one wants him.” His lip curled. “He’s more beast than boy.”
Elijah pushed the curtain aside and crouched to peer inside.
There, curled up in a bed of rotting straw and ragged blankets, was a boy—or at least, the shape of one. His skin was pale, smeared with dirt and dried blood, raw and scratched where he’d obviously fought to survive. His limbs weren’t lean. He looked like he had weight before, clearly losing much of it now. Folded up like a predator, ready to spring or flee. His hair was tangled and matted, streaked with grime, bits of leaves, sticks, and burrs knotted into thick strands.
The most striking thing was the ears—dog-like, drooping, swollen with crusted buildup that gleamed sickly in the faint light. His left ear twitched in pain, and Elijah could smell the sharp tang of yeast and infection. The boy’s sharp, canine eyes met his—wide and wild. Full of suspicion and hurt.
Elijah’s heart clenched at the sight.
A thick, bristled tail was curled tightly against his legs, tucked low in a posture of fear.
He’d seen neglect before. He had been neglected. He’d seen cruelty inflicted by both men and nature. But this—this was something else. This boy had been abandoned in the wild, left to rot. Raised by wolves who had no idea how to love a human.
“Poor bastard…”
Garrick spat. “Tried cleaning him once. Bit my finger near clean off.”
Elijah ignored the warning. He slid his hand slowly through the bars.
The boy snarled, lips curling back to bare sharp teeth, claws scraping against the stone floor. His muscles coiled tight. Ready to strike.
But Elijah’s skin was thick. A bite would barely graze him.
Instead of pulling back, Elijah laid his palm flat just above the boy’s head and began to stroke the tangled hair gently. The tension in the boy’s wild body slowly began to unravel. Muscles relaxing. Eyes blinking in disbelief.
The boy shifted forward, pressing his forehead against the cold iron bars—and Elijah’s palm.
“You’re not a monster,” Elijah whispered. “You’re just hurt. I’m taking you.”
The boy gave a flick of his tail.
The journey back to Elijah’s quarters was silent except for the soft padding of bare feet against stone. Bowser—the name Elijah had given him on impulse—moved awkwardly, preferring the balance and speed of four limbs, but trying to follow on two.
Elijah let him into the cramped room he called home. The air smelled faintly of worn leather, oil, and meat smoke. It was far from a palace, but it was safe. Elijah made a small bed on the floor for Bowser, placing a threadbare blanket in a pile. Bowser circled and circled before finally settling, curled tightly with tail wrapped protectively. His ears twitched with every sound—the creak of wood, the distant howl of wolves, Elijah’s steady breathing.
Elijah reached down and let his fingers trail through Bowser’s tangled hair, feeling the coarse strands between his fingers. Part of it was assessing the work ahead. But mostly, he was petting him.
“You’re safe now, boy.”
Bowser’s eyes fluttered closed. His tail thumped faintly.
The next morning, Elijah prepared a basin of warm water, mixing in herbs he’d traded for to soothe infection and dry skin. Bowser’s ears throbbed, swollen and painful. When Elijah got close, Bowser growled—a soft warning—but he allowed himself to be lifted into the water. The boy’s body trembled at first, muscles tense, eyes wild and wide.
“You’re not drowning,” Elijah murmured, running his hands gently over the tangled hair, careful to avoid the sore spots. Bowser whimpered low, then slowly relaxed.
The process took hours—washing away filth, scrubbing grime from skin and hair, working carefully around swollen ears. Elijah worked patiently, whispering reassurances.
When it was over, Bowser shivered, steam rising from his skin. He curled on the wooden floor, vulnerable and silent—but not afraid.
Elijah pulled an old, oversized sweater from a pile of clothes. Bowser’s ears twitched. He eyed the strange garment with suspicion. Elijah kept his voice low and even.
“This is a sweater. Soft. Not sure if you’ll like much else.”
Bowser sniffed but didn’t run. Tentatively, Elijah slipped the sweater over his head, tugging on the long sleeves that swallowed his hands. Elijah placed out a pair of knee-high socks from the pile. They weren’t his—more than likely a long-lost partner’s he’d taken late in the night.
Bowser shuffled awkwardly. The clothes felt foreign and restrictive. But he didn’t whine. Didn’t growl. Elijah watched him adjust to the new sensation of fabric on skin—the gentle squeeze of the socks, the weight of the sleeves.
“You look ridiculous,” Elijah said with a small grin. “But better than nothing.”
Bowser’s eyes, sharp and wary, flicked between Elijah and the new clothes. Trying to make sense of this strange ritual.
“You’re mine now,” Elijah said, fastening a worn leather collar around Bowser’s neck. The bell jingled. Bowser froze. His ears flicked slightly. But Elijah’s hands were steady, patient.
Bowser leaned into the touch, trusting.
The first word Bowser ever said was “more.”
He was crouched at Elijah’s feet, knees bent awkwardly, eyes wide and glinting with hunger as Elijah tore off another piece of dried meat and held it out. Elijah hadn’t expected anything different—Bowser had gone weeks communicating only in gestures, grunts, and barks. But this time, the sound came out ragged and cracked from under his breath.
“...M’rr.”
Elijah raised his brow. “More?”
Bowser’s ear twitched. A slow, unsure nod.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely something. Proof of concept.
From there, the learning was slow—like taming fire with bare hands. Bowser didn’t take to books or paper, didn’t sit for lessons. Elijah taught him through repetition, reward, and association. He spoke deliberately, slowly, holding up items. “This is a bone,” he’d say, pointing. Then again:
“Bone. Say it, pup.”
“...Boh,” Bowser muttered.
Elijah sighed. “Close enough,” he said, tossing the bone to the ground. Bowser pounced after it.
They sat by the fire most nights after that. Elijah on a crate with a knife in his hand, sharpening it. Bowser perched on his lap in socks and sweater, watching. Every word was a victory.
“Hand,” Elijah would say, holding out his own.
Bowser mirrored him. “Hh… hhan.” He looked down at his own hand, turning it over like he’d never seen it before. Elijah didn’t sigh this time. Just watched him. Eighteen years and the boy hadn’t known the name of his own hand.
Some words came easier than others.
“Hurt.” That one Bowser picked up fast. When Elijah knelt to clean the crust from his ears, Bowser would whine and whisper the word like a warning.
“Safe.” Elijah said it with the same tone he used to calm horses—low and even. “Safe. You are safe.”
Bowser would echo it, quiet and shaky. “Suhhf.”
Each time, the words came out crooked, sharp in his throat. He used them only when he needed something badly—food, warmth, closeness, attention.
“Cold.”
“Drink.”
“Elijah.”
That one caught him off guard the first time he heard it.
“You know my name, huh?”
Bowser blinked, understanding the cadence of the sentence. He nodded. “El’ja.”
Elijah chuckled, stopping the food he was cooking. “Yeah. That’s right. You’re not dumb. You’re just feral.”
Bowser didn’t know what that meant, but he liked the way Elijah said it—not cruel, not mocking. Just truth.
There were hard days. Days Bowser growled through every sound, refused to speak at all. Still sniffed plates even when told what was in them. Still hid under the bed from thunder. Still only walked on two legs when Elijah insisted. But with each word, he took on more shape.
“Stay.”
“Come.”
“Mine.”
That one, especially. Elijah repeated it with emphasis when Bowser clung too tightly to his arm, tail wagging.
“Mine.”
Bowser echoed it, beaming—as if the word itself was a collar.
At night, Bowser curled at Elijah’s feet, tail flicking softly in dreams. Elijah often reached down, running fingers through untangled hair, whispering, “Good boy.”
Bowser stirred faintly, pressing his face into Elijah’s ankle. “El’jah,” he mumbled, barely a word.
“I’m right here,” Elijah whispered, rubbing behind one warm ear.
There was nothing else to say. Just the quiet between them. The fire’s glow. And a soft, wordless trust that didn’t need translating.
