i'm always looking for new prompts to fill! i'm in the market for
recovery stuff
living weapon whump
platonic whumpee x caretaker
addiction whump
bad caretaker
lady whump
hero villain whump
please no pet whump atm!
i don't do nsfw!
no plushie whump!
you can always send me others' prompts! if you'd like me to continue a drabble, the best way to let me know is not through a comment but through an ask, or @ me!
my queue is very long if you send me stuff and i don't answer right away i am not ignoring you! (inbox: 2)
i'm gonna run a (hopefully annual?) lady whump event over at @ladywhumpdiaries, check that out if you want to know more!
i have a roleplay blog at @goldiesgolden if you ever want to send me rp asks!
send me a five sentence fic starter!
my five sentence fics aren't tagged or trigger warned, so if you don't want to see them, block #five sentence fics
Silence (my book!!!) (SSBA nominee)
Rayan has always wanted a pet. Not the fluffy kind, but the kind that looks deceptively human. When the creature he’s been feeding out behind the dumpster turns out to be a pet, he can’t stop himself from taking it in. But Sil is a runaway for a reason. As secrets come to life and the Pet Protection Agency closes in, Rayan will be forced to question everything he thought he knew.
Masterpost
Drabbles
Prompts
oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter
they have their prescription sedatives. they have that gun in the safe. they have plenty of sharp knives in the kitchen. they have a high place from which to hang a noose.
will they ever talk about these things? obviously not. that'd get them admitted to the restricted ward in a psychiatric unit. so they just... live with it. knowing they could end it at any moment. finding comfort in the idea sometimes, other times being deathly frightened they'll actually do something
Sniper whumpee laying in some bushes with a rifle, doing their job, keeping still and trying to get a good opening, then SUDDENLY they're snatched up and damn, that's bad, why's there an enemy that just yanked their sniper rifle and now is putting it up to whumpee's head? Oh well guess the teammate that was supposed to keep an eye on the surroundings just left. Haha what happens now? OH WAIT WATERBOARDING IN THE FIELD HEEEEEEELL YEAH
Whumpee was lying in the bushes, perfectly hidden from the enemy, trying to get an opening with their sniper rifle. They'd been in this position for at least thirty minutes now, and their legs were starting to fall asleep. Didn't matter. They had an assignment to complete.
Caretaker was a ways off, keeping watch so nobody disturbed Whumpee in their quest. They were also hidden, hopefully well-enough, in their camo gear. The two of them had been a pair several times over the past months, and they'd gotten fairly well acquainted. Whumpee would've called them a friend, truth be told.
That was, until they were yanked up from where they lay, sniper rifle twisted out of their hand and put to their own head, and they realised that Caretaker had just… left. They didn't hear the sound of them leaving. They didn't understand why or how Caretaker left. They didn't know if this was an outright betrayal of the whole team, the whole organisation, or whether Caretaker had just decided they weren't friends anymore — or maybe they never had been.
"Who sent you?" the enemy asked, rifle still pointed at Whumpee's temple. Whumpee was better than this. Surely, even the enemy knew they wouldn't get a straight answer out of them. "I'm asking you a question. Who sent you?"
Whumpee stayed silent. The rifle was lowered, then fired; a bullet straight through their calf. Whumpee screamed, deciding that if their cover had already been blown, it didn't matter anymore.
"I'm asking one last time." The rifle was put to their temple again. "Who sent you?"
Whumpee said nothing. A dead hostage was no hostage, and Whumpee knew that well. They were essentially calling the bluff with their silence. And sure enough, the rifle was lowered.
"Alright," said the enemy, and they stepped back. "Tie 'em up and bring me the bottle of water."
Whumpee was wrestled onto their stomach, arms wrenched behind their back, tied tightly with coarse ropes. Then they were manhandled onto their back, and one of them put a cloth over their face. Waterboarding. A classic. Whumpee had been trained how to withstand it, so surely, this would be a walk in the park—
The water came down on their face, cold and uncomfortable. They were drowning. They couldn't breathe. Stop. Stop. Stop.
The water stopped, and Whumpee gasped for air. The cloth was still sticking to their face, restricting some of their breathing, but at least they weren't actively drowning.
"Who sent you?" came the same question, and Whumpee knew they likely weren't going to make it out of this forest alive.
No answer.
More water.
Whumpee gasped. They had been trained for this, and yet it was just as unbearable every single time as that very first time Leader had done it to them.
"Who sent you?"
Whumpee didn't consider themself defiant. Others might've spat insults at their torturers, or taunts, but they were of the mind that silence was sufficient for the job — no need to make it intentionally harder on themself. They weren't defiant; they were just loyal to the team.
content: emotional whump, past trauma, past kidnapping
When Caretaker awoke, there was a strange, ominous feeling, a pit in their stomach. They ignored it.
They went to the bathroom, then to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Whumpee's bedroom door was still closed — sleeping in, as usual.
Around 10, Caretaker was starting to feel like they couldn't ignore the feeling anymore. They didn't want to bother Whumpee, but they decided to knock on their door anyway.
"Whumpee? Breakfast's ready."
No response.
The worst came to the forefront of their mind immediately. What if Whumpee had done something to themself? Their depression was worst during the night.
"Whumpee?"
They pushed the handle down, and the door opened; revealing an empty room, with a bed unmade.
"Oh no," Caretaker breathed. Whumper had come back. They had taken Whumpee.
But there was no sign of a break-in, and the window was locked from the inside. How had Whumper gotten in?
Another, possibly less nefarious but equally soul-crushing option popped into their head. What if Whumpee... left? Of their own accord?
Was Caretaker that unbearable?
They slowly walked into the room, searching for any sign that Whumpee had left on their own. A note, a goodbye message, anything. There was nothing.
Should they call the police and report a kidnapping? Or did Whumpee disappear without wanting to be found?
content: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, lady whump, lady whumpee, past noncon, past trauma, slut-shaming, child whumpee, threat of self-harm, restraints, broken bones mention, minor whump, grooming a child to be okay with torture and participate in it
It had been seven years.
Two months of Errol trying to get her pregnant.
Eight of carrying the child.
And about six years of the baby being trained like some sort of attack dog.
Adela hadn't gone to kindergarten, because Errol wanted to keep her home as long as possible. And with enough money, you could do basically anything you want. She would've been homeschooled as well, starting this year, but Sheila managed to shed enough tears and beg him pitifully to let Adela attend a real school. She wasn't equipped to teach her at home, and she wanted Adela to interact with other kids her age instead of hanging around Errol and his 'friends'.
It turned out to be a bad idea.
Adela came home from her first day of school with red, puffy eyes, and she slammed the front door so hard that Sheila jumped. "Adela?" she called, and her daughter walked into the living room and threw her schoolbag on the floor.
"I'm never going back!" she cried. Sheila was by her side in an instant.
"Adela, sweetie, what happened? Did someone say something to you?"
"It's your fault!" she went on. Sheila was taken aback. "Everyone knows you're a whore!"
How Adela even knew that word, Sheila didn't understand. And what… what even was this about? How did people know something like that, when it wasn't true? "Sweetie, let's sit down."
"I don't want to sit with you!"
"Please, let's sit."
Adela huffed and puffed but eventually took a seat on the couch. Sheila sat next to her. "Can you explain what you think a 'whore' is?"
"Someone like you! Who had sex super young and got pregnant! Everyone knows that's what you did, everyone calls you a whore, everyone says I'm gonna become a whore too!"
Rape culture was well and good, Sheila thought distantly. Victim blaming too. She didn't have a choice. Errol had made the decision that as a forty-year-old man he would go after her, a teen, and get her pregnant. She didn't have a choice. She couldn't run. She couldn't fight off someone twice her size. She couldn't abort when Adela was just a little fetus in her womb. She didn't have a choice in any of it.
"A 'whore' is a bad word used to describe sex workers," Sheila said as calmly as she could. "Sex workers are people who offer sexual services for money. Did I do that?"
"I don't know."
"I didn't. Will you do that?"
"No!"
"Then you won't be a 'whore'. But that's a bad word, Adela. Derogatory. Do you know what that means?"
Adela shook her head.
"It means it belittles those it's used against. Do you want to belittle others? Do you want to belittle me?"
Adela looked away. Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. "It's your fault. All of it is your fault."
Sheila's heart was breaking for her. Errol had ruined both of their lives. Speaking of Errol, she wouldn't have been surprised to learn he had planted the seed in the kids' heads about her, that he somehow played a role in everyone knowing she was a teen mum.
But maybe the most horrible aspect of all of this was seeing how Adela looked at her with less and less love as the days passed. She didn't outright say she wanted to belittle Sheila, but Sheila wasn't sure she would've said no. Her outbursts were becoming more and more frequent as well.
"I can go in and talk to your homeroom teacher about bullying," Sheila offered.
"Yeah, right. And make it worse. I dealt with it."
Sheila froze. There was something about how she said that that made her afraid. "You dealt with it?"
"Yes."
"How, sweetie?"
"I pushed Claudio off the stairs when we were going to recess. Nobody saw it was me, I made it look like he just tripped and fell. Nobody believed him when he said he was pushed."
"Adela, that's… That's not a good thing to do."
Adela reached down and pulled something small out of her sock. It was a Swiss blade. "I could've used this. I will if he says something again."
Sheila snatched the Swiss blade right out of her daughter's hand. "Adela! Are you insane?" She regretted saying that as soon as the words left her mouth. But she was so flabbergasted, she was so— terrified.
"Give that back! Daddy gave that to me!"
"You're not getting it back! I'm putting this away, and you're definitely not bringing it to school, and you're most definitely not hurting others with it!"
"Claudio deserves it!"
"We're going over to Claudio's house right now, and you're going to apologise for pushing him down the stairs!"
"We can't."
"What?"
"Claudio's not home."
"Where— where is he?"
"In the hospital. He broke his arm when he fell."
Sheila closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. There was no remorse in Adela's voice. She didn't even know why she expected it, after all of this. "Okay. I'm going to school with you tomorrow, and we'll see if Claudio comes. If he does, and if he's dropped off by his mother, we'll talk to them."
"I'm not talking to him."
"You are, and you will admit to what you did, and you will apologise."
"Daddy wouldn't make me do this!" Adela snapped. "Daddy would be proud that I dealt with it on my own, without any help from any of you!"
"Well, Daddy isn't home. So unfortunately, you're stuck with the worse parent."
"Yeah, a whore parent."
Adela was too young for discussions of rape, Sheila told herself for the hundredth time. This wasn't the time to explain it. It wasn't. No matter how much she wanted to defend herself, this just wasn't the time. "Grab your bag and go to your room. I'm not taking you out of school just because you had one bad first day. You're going back tomorrow."
"Just wait until Daddy comes home."
"I don't care what Daddy says!" she snapped back, and once again, she regretted it as soon as she'd done it. She took another deep breath. "Daddy and I disagree on most things. I don't doubt he will be excited to hear this story of yours, but that doesn't mean what you did was right."
Just then, the front door opened. Errol walked in.
"Daddy!" Adela jumped off the couch and ran over to him to give him a big hug. She didn't hug Sheila anymore. "Mommy is being really mean to me! But I know you won't be! Can we go out?"
"No," Sheila said from the couch.
"Why does Mommy have your knife?" Errol asked when he saw her holding it.
"She took it away!"
Errol gave her a look. Sheila didn't care. He admired her strong will and personality so much, she would get a piece of it today. "I took it away because she threatened to hurt a classmate with it. Which, I assume you'd agree, is bad."
"Well, what did that classmate do?"
"He called Mommy a whore and said I'd grow up to be a whore as well!" Adela said, filling him in. "But I dealt with it. I pushed him down the stairs and he broke his arm. I made it look like an accident."
Errol ruffled her hair. "That's my girl."
Of course he would do that. Adela was beaming now, tears long forgotten. "Can we go out now?" she repeated, and Sheila wanted to tear her hair out. She hated these outings. She hated the violence Adela was exposed to, ever since she was a baby. She hated that her daughter was growing up to be cruel. "I can chain Mommy up for you."
Sheila's eyes widened. Adela had never said that before. "Adela—"
"I think that's a good idea," Errol cut in. "Bring me the chains and the lock."
Adela ran off. Errol walked over to her, still sitting on the couch, and grabbed her wrist, twisting the knife out of it. "This is Adela's, I believe," he said with a smirk. "So I'm giving it back to her."
"You're raising a monster," she hissed.
"I got it!" Adela yelled as she ran back into the room with the chains and lock.
"Good. To the radiator, just like I do," Errol instructed, and Adela walked over and grabbed Sheila by the hand to lead her to it.
"Come on, Mommy."
Sheila wasn't moving. She wasn't about to be chained to the radiator by her own child. With her dad's approval.
"Mommy!" she repeated, and Sheila recognised it as the beginning of a temper tantrum.
"Mommy doesn't want to be chained," she said calmly. "And Mommy doesn't want you to keep going out with Daddy."
Adela turned to Errol. Errol looked back at her in a sort of 'well, what will you do now?' way. He wanted to test her. Whether she could do what she'd set out to do.
Adela began crying. "Mommy doesn't love me!" she bawled. Sheila knew this was an attempt at emotional manipulation — Adela knew well that she hated so see her cry, and would indulge her when it happened. But not this time.
"Mommy loves you very much, sweetie, but I won't be chained."
Adela kept weeping and tugging on her hand for a few minutes, and while Sheila's heart was breaking, she wasn't budging. The tears stopped almost in an instant when Adela realised they weren't working. It was scary.
"Daddy?" Adela asked.
"Yes, sweetheart."
"Give me my knife."
Sheila's heart was racing as she watched Errol hand her the knife. Adela made the blade pop out, and Sheila was about to get up and literally run out of the room— when Adela placed the blade against her own arm. "If you won't let me chain you up, I'll hurt myself, Mommy."
Sheila just sat there. Bewildered. Reeling. Before she knew it, she stood up and walked with Adela to the radiator. Adela chained her right hand to it, then popped the lock in place. Then, she put the Swiss blade back into her unicorn pattern sock.
"Good job, Adela," Errol praised, and Sheila was too shocked to say a word. "Now, let's go. I'll buy you some ice cream on the way."
"Mommy said I need to apologise to Claudio," Adela said in a tone that was so clearly looking for her dad to completely contradict Sheila and get her out of the obligation.
"The kid who said those awful things? Oh, no, sweetheart. You did what you had to do. Kid had it coming."
"Yay!" she said, bouncing after Errol. "I love you, Daddy."
Caretaker stirred in their sleep, then jolted awake. It was as if he had heard a sound coming from inside his room. He looked around and found the window open — weird, considering he'd always closed it before going to bed.
When he got out of bed to remedy the problem, he almost tripped and fell over... something.
Someone.
"Father," the person huddled by the foor of his bed said.
For a moment, Caretaker almost forgot he was a priest. There was a stranger in his room.
No, not a stranger. Even in the dim moonlight, he could make out the silhouette of a regular parishoner. A member of his flock.
In his room.
At night.
"Whumpee," he tried to say calmly. "Did you come in through the window?"
"Yes." They slowly stood, and suddenly, Caretaker was very much aware of their imposing figure. It was never imposing during mass or at confession — Whumpee usually spent those times on their knees in worship.
"Why?" was all he thought to ask.
"I need the Eucharist."
"Right— Right now?"
"Yes, Father. Please. I need it."
"Whumpee, I'm not sure—"
"Please."
Caretaker considered them. Safety concerns aside... Whumpee seemed pretty desperate. "Why don't we sit down and chat?"
"I need the Eucharist."
Whumpee was getting very worked up over this, so Caretaker relented. "Okay. Just... Just give me a second to get ready. You will get to take the Eucharist. Just give me a moment."
Immortal whumpee who hasn't eaten in years, reintroducing food into their shriveled stomach.
#354
thank you for this prompt i'm actually really proud of how this turned out, i hope you guys enjoy as well :)
content: immortal whumpee, past trauma, aftermath of whump, captivity, starvation, emeto, rocky recovery, recovery fic, comfort, multiple whumpers (referenced, not in the story)
It had been years.
At first, the hunger pangs were bearable. Even when days passed, Whumpee could tell itself it would be over soon, their captors would return and feed it, and it wouldn't rot away in a cell forever. Days turned into weeks. Whumpee got hungrier. It started to punch the walls so that plaster would fall off, and it would eat that. It wasn't satisfying, but it was something in its stomach. Weeks turned into months. The plaster was gone from the wall in most places. Months turned into years. There was nothing but the dull constancy of hunger pangs coming and going like waves in the ocean.
When the door finally opened, Whumpee didn't even move. It stayed lying on the cement floor, staring up at the ceiling. It couldn't be bothered to move its emaciated body an inch.
"Um, I'm looking for, uh, Whumpee?" came a hesitant voice from the top of the stairs. Like the voice's owner was scared to venture down into the basement. "Is anyone there?"
It had been so long since it had used its voice, Whumpee wasn't sure it knew how to anymore. But this was its one chance at companionship. At food. At freedom — hah, what a distant fantasy. "I—" Their voice cracked, and it had been so long since it'd received water or anything to wet its lips and throat with. "I'm here."
"Whumpee? Oh, uh… Okay. I'm coming down."
Steps descending the stairs. When Whumpee attempted to push its body up to see who the new arrival was, it found it had lost the strength to. Its emaciated body had been stripped of all muscle, and it simply couldn't support its own weight.
"Oh," came a softer voice, from closer. Whumpee turned its head to look at them.
The stranger was at most 20, a laughable number compared to the centuries Whumpee had spent on this earth. They looked equal parts scared and intrigued. But Whumpee wasn't looking for emotions. It was looking for food. It found none on the stranger's person.
"You've been alone down here for quite some time, haven't you?"
"Water," it choked out.
"There's water upstairs. I'll open this door now, okay? And you can come out. Whenever you're ready."
Another laughable concept. Nobody ever waited for it to be ready. Nobody ever asked its consent. Nobody ever considered its feelings. And now that this stranger might do all of those things, it had lost the ability to cooperate. A cruel joke.
"I can't," Whumpee said, but the jingling of keys drowned out its weak voice.
"Hm?"
"I can't. Too weak."
"Oh." The stranger stepped into the cell and crouched down by its side. "I see. I should've expected this. Well, you look light enough to… to carry. If that's okay. Is that okay?"
"Can I really— Can I have water?"
"Yes. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
Whumpee nodded. The stranger picked it up in a bridal carry, and Whumpee could do little more than hang there limply as it was carried upstairs. Everything was bright up there. It closed its eyes and let the stranger carry it where they willed.
It was soon set down on something foreign, something so unlike the cold, cement floor. Something soft. Whumpee opened its eyes — it was on a sofa.
It soon heard the sound of a tap being turned on, then a glass being filled. If there was anything left in its body to produce liquid, its mouth would've probably watered at the mere prospect. The stranger came back and helped it sit up, then held the glass to its lips and helped it drink.
Oh.
Oh.
Whumpee closed its eyes. It gulped down the water all too quickly, and like the horrible little monster it was, it immediately asked for more. The stranger fetched it even more. This repeated at least five times by the time Whumpee was satisfied.
"Would you like something to eat as well?"
It was just common courtesy; the stranger must've seen the state it was in. Paper-thin skin sticking to bones that were jutting out, the result of several years of starvation. With fresh, cold water in its system, Whumpee felt a little more daring. A little more alive. "Yes, please."
"A sandwich?"
A sandwich. So casual. So mundane. Nothing sounded better than a sandwich. "Yes, please."
The stranger left to prepare it, after laying Whumpee back down on the sofa. Whumpee listened to the vague sounds of it being prepared, and it imagined the soft, fresh bread, the fillings — what fillings would the stranger use? Ham? Cheese? Tomato? Lettuce? Eggs? Would they use condiments? Mayo? Ketchup? The possibilities were endless — and the way the bites would slide down its throat one by one. And with how generous the stranger was with water, maybe it would be possible to ask for even more than just one sandwich. Whumpee, for the first time in years, felt giddy with excitement.
The stranger returned, once again helping Whumpee sit. "It's just a simple peanut butter and jelly, I hope that's okay."
Peanut butter. It remembered eating whole jars of it before it was captured and imprisoned. And jelly, sweet and sour, wonderful, grape jelly. It got so excited to be able to bite into it, it even forgot its manners, not thanking the stranger for the food before it dug in.
Oh, this was so much better than eating plaster off the wall. This had taste, actual, real, good taste. Whumpee bit and bit and bit and it definitely bit off more than it could chew but it didn't care, it was being fed, it was genuinely, actually being fed.
Then its stomach did a flip, and suddenly it was retching, onto the remainder of the sandwich and onto the stranger's kind hands. It was mortified. And most of all, it mourned the food.
"I still want to eat it," it said before anything else, staring intently at the vomit-covered sandwich. "Please? I'm sorry."
The stranger made a face. Even a kind stranger could only be kind for so long — Whumpee wondered what its punishment would be. A lashing? More years down in the basement? The thought, detached as it was from its emotional landscape, sent little more than a small shiver down its spine. What was a few more years of solitude and starvation?
"No, I think…" They withdrew, letting Whumpee fall back onto the sofa. It didn't have the strength to push itself back up again. "I think… Huh, well. We need to clean this up, and then I'll make some soup instead. Maybe that'll stay in your stomach."
"I don't need cleaning, I need the sandwich," Whumpee said, like a petulant child. "Please," it added, hoping to soften the stranger's heart. That sandwich had been so good. The best thing it'd ever eaten. And now—
No. Don't be ungrateful. Soup was good. Soup was fine. It was still food, even if it wasn't… chewable.
"You definitely do need cleaning," the stranger said, and when Whumpee tried to lift its hand to lick off some of the vomit, they even smacked its hand away. Whumpee whimpered. "Don't do that. Look… Ugh, I can't believe my grandpa did all this."
Grandpa? Its captors were a group of middle-aged men. Just how many years have passed?
"I'll help wash you off. I'll clean the sofa as well. And in the meantime, I'll put some water on the stove with a soup cube. How's that sound?"
"I really want the rest of the sandwich," it said before it could've controlled its stupid, greedy mouth.
"Look, I know. You're starving. But you really shouldn't eat what you've puked up. Please. Just let me help."
And so Whumpee did, because what else was there for it to do? It couldn't have protested if it wanted to. And so the stranger helped it wash off years of accumulated grime, turning the water almost black as it washed down the drain. They helped it into new, soft clothes, then carried it back not to the living room, but to the kitchen. They set it down on a chair as the water in the pot boiled, giving off the scent of freshly seasoned chicken broth. Then, the stranger took a ladle and put two big ladlefuls into a bowl, setting it down before it on the table.
"We're gonna take it slower, okay?" they asked.
"I never asked your name," Whumpee said, though its eyes were fixed on the soup.
"Oh, right. I never introduced myself. My name is Caretaker. My grandpa… Look, I know this looks bad, that my grandpa did all this to you and now I'm here, and I'm— But I'm different, okay? I would like to set you free, but with how you are right now, I don't think that's feasible. So, uh… You're stuck with me for a little longer."
"Okay," it said easily. Caretaker had given it water, and was trying to feed it. It couldn't have asked for a better captor. "Can I eat?"
"Yes. Slowly. Spoon by spoon, okay?" Caretaker lifted a spoonful to Whumpee's mouth, and Whumpee tried to savour it, it really did, but it ended up gulping it down and opening its mouth for more. "Spoon by spoon. So it can stay in your stomach."
"Spoon by spoon," it repeated, though it wanted to scream give it all to me now, and give me that sandwich, and give me all the contents of your fridge, and give me more even still. "Thank you," it said, remembering its manners.
"Of course." Another spoonful. "We'll get through this, okay? You and I." Another spoonful. "You'll feel much better once this settles in your stomach."
"Okay," it said quietly. "Thank you."
Caretaker smiled. If it had any brain capacity to focus on anything but the soup, it might've noticed the eerie resemblance they had to their grandfather. But where his smile was always a sneer, a cruel twitch of his mouth, theirs was gentle and kind.
whumpee who's never going to be well. they might have periods of being better, but they're never going to be fully well. they might dissociate. they might slip into psychosis. their chronic illness might flare up despite taking medication and doing self-care. does caretaker accomodate for that and are they patient? or are they about to abandon whumpee because they're too difficult to deal with and this isn't what they signed up for?
whumpee who's been staring at a wall for the past hour, unmoving. they should be out, enjoying their freedom. caretaker is trying to coax them out of their room too. but they just can't muster the strength. all they can do is lie there and stare.
whumpee who can't stop crying and nothing the team does seems to help. they want to stop crying. they thought they'd tire themself out by now. the team is helpless. and starting to be annoyed. and whumpee doesn't want to annoy people, they just can't stop their miserable crying
whumpee who's supposed to be better. they took their pills. they did their therapy. they went to rehab. by all accounts, they've walked the steps and now they should be sitting back, enjoying the rewards.
except they're not better. and everyone around them is getting tired of it.
