I found the Box Boy Universe and really liked the idea and the shared-but-independent world around it. I would love to collaborate! (If I miss anything, please let me know. :)
Set in the Box Boy Universe, a broken man arrives on Lydia Winterthorpe’s doorstep. Will she and her friends be able to help Coriander regain his sense of self? Pet whump with a strong focus on recovery.
3. Lydia and Coriander: ongoing
2. Lost Property - a collaboration with @whumpzone
1. Lydia and Coriander: A new home
In enemy hands
A villain with a powerful talent is severely injured and captured by his enemies. Things aren’t always as they seem. Hero vs Villain.
In enemy hands
Miscellaneous Writing
Assorted writing. Reading recommendations, etc.
Miscellaneous Writing
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joey reveals some of his trauma and doesn't have a great understanding of it
written at 9pm and not proofread so go read the tags at the bottom if you're a little confused (i am also a little confused)
CW/TW: pet whumpee with slight existential crisis, (nongraphic) mention of involuntary body modfications (piercings, finger and ear amputations, 'debarking'), whumpee is slightly drunk
kinda references these two pieces
---
Marla had made mulled wine that evening. The year before she had been in Germany for part of the holidays and had developed an appreciation for the spicy drink. The taste was a little strong for Joey's palate, but he enjoyed the burst of heat as the liquid hit his tongue, and drank from his mug in small sips. The kitchen smelled warm and inviting. In the sink were two empty mugs; Joey still had his. He was presently seated at the bottom of the staircase in the hallway, mug cradled between his hands with his second helping of wine while he watched Aaron and Marla get ready for their date night.
He was a little bit tired from the day (The Fellowship of the Ring, a walk in the neighborhood, shakshouka on the kitchen island for lunch, and Marla's attempt at teaching him Crazy Eights) and a little bit buzzed from the drink. His inhibitions were altogether pleasantly lowered. He was dimly aware of this fact and it did nothing to pull him back down to earth again. Here he was, warm, comfortable, a little sleepy, full and sated, a treat between his hands and in the same room as his favourite people. He idly wondered if this feeling was happiness, or if it was just the alcohol that made him feel this way.
"We're going to be late, Marla. The reservation is at seven," Aaron said, sounding only slightly resigned as he held up Marla's midnight blue coat for her. He was already wearing his own, complete with the burgundy scarf Marla had helped Joey pick out and order for him for Christmas a few weeks ago.
Marla didn't pause her rifling through the drawer of the console table. "I know that, but I can't find my earrings-"
"What do they look like?"
That made her pause and look back at Aaron over her shoulder.
"If I don't know where they are, then you're not going to find them," she said, as if it was the plainest fact in the world. Maybe it was, Joey wondered. Aaron had thought he'd misplaced his tie one morning, only to find that it never left the drawer in the first place. The memory made Joey smile. He had seen Aaron exit his bedroom that morning, sans tie, but back then he had been to scared to bring it up. Instead, he had resigned to watch Aaron hurry back and forth between the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom until he finally found the rolled up strip of silk.
Right now, the though of not being brave enough to talk to Aaron seemed silly. That version of him felt far away, as if he was looking at him through water, light and noise distorted.
"Come on, I can help you look at least," Aaron said, as he not-so-descreetly glanced at his wristwatch. Marla closed her eyes for a brief second before turning to face him.
"Fine. They're little hoops, but wide at the bottom. Gold."
Aaron blinked and then cleared his throat. "What does that mean?" he asked, and Joey couldn't help but smile into his mug.
"Really? They're hoops." She moved her finger in a circular motion in the air. "There's no other way to explain it."
"Golden hoops," Aaron muttered, clueless, and Marla lifted her hand to her face.
"You can borrow mine."
The words slipped out of Joey before he could stop them.
They both turned towards him, and a little twinge of uneasiness woke to life in his chest at so suddenly going from being a spectator to being the sole object of their inquiring attention.
"Yours?" Marla asked, and Joey nodded.
"Yeah." He turned his head and brushed his hair back, and pushed the lobe of his ear out with his finger, showing them the stud.
"They're not hoops, but they're gold, if you want them."
Marla was the first to speak. She came closer to him and leaned down, studying the earring. "Are you sure?" she asked, meeting eyes with Joey. "You wear them all the time, I know they're important to you."
Joey looked down, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. "Oh, not really," he said. "I guess I just never took them out."
It was halfway true. Joey had never felt strongly about the piercings themselves. Not when the handlers had switched out the steel ones they had first punched through his earlobes for these goldens ones before he was packed in the box to be shipped, at least. However, he had been put in gold - piercings and collar buckle - because he had been told his Master liked gold. As time in his new home had passed and his Master had told Joey again and again, directly and indirectly, that he disliked him, he had still held on to a small hope that maybe he at least liked his golden piercings.
Now, in Aaron's home, the studs existed in a sort of limbo that Joey had trouble examining properly. A part of him wanted to stay here, with Aaron, forever, and the earrings would be useless. Another part, maybe smaller but none the less just as insistent, wanted him to keep them in the event that he came under Master's care again.
"Well, I'd love to borrow them, if it's okay with you."
Joey gave her a small, lopsided smile and sat down the mug of wine on the step next to him, then reached up to remove his earrings.
"Sure," he said as he worked, soon having freed one of them from his ear. He deposited it in Marla's hand and turned his head to take out the other. "You can have my tongue piercings, too."
That stopped Marla in her tracks, as she was about to put the earring in her own ear. Behind her, Aaron looked up from his phone, eyes wide.
"Your… what?" Marla asked.
"These." Joey opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, showing off the twin studs on his tongue.
Neither Marla nor Aaron said anything. Both looked sligthly alarmed at his reveal.
What was that look? Had he done something wrong? He pushed his eyebrows sligthly together and closed his mouth again, suddenly self conscious. "Sorry," he said and looked away. "You don't want those. That's gross."
"Did you … always have those?" Aaron asked, stepping closer. Joey felt the odd, sudden urge to hoist himself up and move a step or two up the stairs, away from him. It was a foreign feeling, wanting to move away from Aaron, when he normally always craved closeness.
He hesitated for a moment to answer Aaron's question, considering the facts. "They gave them to me at the-" He cleared his throat and reached for the mug of wine again. "At the facility. I don't think I'd ever had earrings before that. Or, uhm. Tongue piercings."
"Oh, honey." Marla's brows pinched together and she suddenly looked full of grief. Joey didn't quite qet why.
"Did they really…" Aaron started, but he stopped himself and ran a hand through his hair instead. Joey cringed at the way he mussed it up. Marla had spent a full minute pulling her fingers through it this way and that before she had started looking for earrings, and now her work was in vain.
Thanks to Joey, even though he didn't quite understand either of their reactions.
"It almost didn't hurt," he hurried to reassure them. because he had learned that Aaron often didn't like hearing about the way the handlers and his Master had treated him. He always had this sullen look about him after, even though he tried to conceal it to Joey.
"They used a very sharp needle, I think, so it was quick. And they made sure I couldn't move, because if I did and the holes didn't align, they would have to do it again and it would be more painful."
Aaron drew a sharp breath of air and Marla reached for the banister of the stairs to steady herself. Joey grew more uncertain. It really hadn't been that bad. It was just a few piercings.
In a last ditch attempt to placate them, he retrieved a memory of the procedure another trainee had gone through. His own treatment was nothing in comparison, and they would stop looking at him as if he had been tortured.
"They took the little fingers of one of the others," he said and held out his hand, separating his little finger from the rest. "His buyer wanted him to have slim hands."
"Joey…" Aaron began, but he didn't finish. He stepped forwards instead and sat down next to him on the step, putting his arm around his shoulders. Joey didn't know what he meant by it.
"They cut the tips of the ears of a girl. Like that dog we saw today? They were sharp. She looked like an elf," he said instead.
Marla hitched a breath and she abruptly turned away. Aaron's arm tightened around him. Joey looked between them, uncertain. Hurting Marla was the last thing he wanted to do, only surpassed by the prospect of hurting Aaron. Or making them feel uncomfortable. Pets weren't for that. Pets should make their owner's life better, not worse.
He swallowed. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," Aaron reassured him immediately, and warm relief bloomed in his chest. "You didn't say anything wrong."
"It's horrible, what they did you," Marla said. Her voice was sligthly shaking, as if she couldn't hide it fully. She still wasn't looking at either of them.
"I think they made them sleep while they did it," Joey said, because it really wasn't that horrible, even though the others hade gotten the brunt of it, and he only had four little piercings to show for it. He gripped Aaron's hand in his own. His constant, steady anchor in any storm, even of his own making. "There was another boy, too. They, uhm. I think they said that they were going to debark him the next day. I'm not sure what they meant by it." He scratched at a spot under his eye. "They said that they wanted to make him scream a little before then. That it would be a shame to waste such a pretty voice."
That made Aaron hitch, too. He rested his forehead in his palm and took a few slow, steady breaths. Joey looked at him. Surely a few piercings didn't seem so bad now, right? No one had ever taken a scalpel or pliers to any part of his body. No handler had set out to 'make him scream'. His screaming had only ever been an unwanted byproduct of his training. He was lucky.
Aaron cleared his throat and straightened his back, seeking eye contact. Joey did not waver, even though meeting someone's eye sometimes made him queezy. Good pets keep their eyes averted unless specifically told not to.
"Just to be clear," Aaron said and pressed his palms together. "They didn't do any of this to you, right? Or anything else? Just the…" he pointed at his ears and mouth, frowning. "Just the piercings?"
Joey swallowed and nodded rapidly. "Just the piercings."
"Okay," Aaron said and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't move. Neither did Marla, still half-turned away, leaning one hand on the banister.
Nobody said anything for a while, until Joey cast a look at Aaron's wristwatch. He couldn't decipher the time but he could see that one of the hands had moved. He swallowed.
"Please don't miss your reservation because of me," he whispered, loathe to be the reason they were late.
Aaron smiled, although it was a little mournful, and a weight lifted off of Joey's shoulders. He hadn't destroyed it all with his disclosures.
"C'mere," Aaron said as he stood back up. Joey followed and let himself be enveloped. They both hugged him, tighter than usual, but it felt good, not restrictive.
"Do you want us to stay home?" Marla asked as Aaron rubbed Joey's cheek with the pad of his thumb. "We can, if you don't want to be alone," he agreed. Joey shook his head.
"Please don't. You have been at home with me every night."
She squeezed his arms lightly. Her lips tilted up in a little smile.
"You are sweet, Joey."
He shrugged one shoulder and looked down at his socked feet. Being sweet was almost the same as being good.
"There's that pasta dish in the fridge, right? And the soda you like?" Aaron said, even though Joey knew that Aaron knew perfectly well what was in the fridge. Still, he nodded.
"We'll only be gone few hours. I've restocked the wood for you." He took a step back, starting to button up his coat. "Call us anytime. I mean it."
"Thank you- Oh! My other earring. Here." Joey freed the remaning ear from its earring and handed it to Marla, who held it in her palm as she pulled her heeled boots on. "Thank you," she said. "I'll put these on in the car. Aaron, we need to go!"
"You're the one who- nevermind," he said, faux-annoyed, winking at Joey as they both went out into the cold, dark night.
Joey remained in the hallway, looking at them through the warped glass in the door. He couldn't make out their shapes, but he could see the car lights turning on, shadows passing them as they moved around it, and finally, the red taillights growing weaker and disappearing around the bend.
He was warm and comfortable, his people were only a phone call away, and most importantly, he hadn't ruined anything tonight.
---
They were silent for a long time.
"I'm not hungry anymore," Marla said eventually. She looked down at the golden studs she still held in her hand. The sight of them made her nauseous. She imagined a herd of faceless, uniformed men holding Joey down, piercing his ears and pulling his tongue out to pierce that too. She imagined him scared and confused after having his memory wiped, not seeing a single familiar face or feeling a frindly touch. She shuddered.
"Me neither," Aaron said. Still, his hands held the steering wheel tightly as he took off the highway. The restaurant where they had reservations, a spanish place that specialized in paella, was only a few minutes away.
"I didn't even know they could do that. I mean, earrings? Sure. But cutting their ears off? Amputations? And-and… Aaron, they took someone's voice away!"
"I know. It can't be legal."
"Fuck the legality," Marla said, aware of how it sounded coming from a lawyer. "They're people. Just because they're in vulnerable situations, being coerced into uninformed decicisions… they can't do this to them. They can't get away with it."
Aaron's knuckles whitened. He had been stewing in the same thoughts for weeks, months, now. The outrage. The helplessness. The complete and utter lack of any way to make it better, other than to take care of the broken man in his house the best he could.
"I don't know what we can do about it," he said in the end, because it was the only thing he knew to be true. He worked on autopilot as he parallel parked. Marla put the earrings in a zippered side pocket in her bag.
None of them moved, even though the car was in park and they were already twenty minutes late for their reservation.
"I don't know," Aaron repeated. He still hadn't let go of the wheel.
Marla sighed, looking out of the side window. This far down in elevation the temperatures were higher and what had been snow in the air around Aaron's house was big, heavy raindrops here. They hit the window like little projectiles, exploding on impact.
i'm listening to gathering moss, by robin wall kimmerer, and she is talking about a very odd job she was consigned to do, where an eccentric millionaire recuited her to consult on a "habitat restoration". when she arrives, the job they actually want her to do is to tell them how to plant mosses on the rocks in his garden. he wants it to look like a specific, beautiful wild cliff in the woods nearby, with centuries-old beds of moss growing thick and strong. she tells him it is impossible. such a thing would take decades to accomplish.
later, she is called back to look at the progress of the moss garden and is amazed by the thick, well-established mosses. how did they do it? she asks.
then they take her out to the woods and show her that they have been blasting huge chunks of rock out of the cliff, packaging them in burlap, and moving them to the owner's garden.
This quote really got me: "The owner is a man who loves mosses, and the exercise of power. I have no doubts of his sincerity in wishing to protect them from harm, once they conformed to his landscape design. But I think you cannot own a thing and love it at the same time. Owning diminishes the sovreignty of a thing, enriching the possessor and diminishing the possessed. If he truly loved mosses more than control, he would have left them alone, and walked each day to see them."
Look, we all know this is true. But there isn't a SOURCE for this, and the graph itself is basically illegible beyond "ooh colors". If we want to be good stewards of our informational resources, we need to cite our sources.
From a reverse image search, I found the website Show Your Stripes, run by the University of Reading in the UK, which is likely where the above graph originated. It provides temperature data for various regions of the world from approximately 1900-2025. For example, here are graphs for Canada, India, and Papua New Guinea:
All clearly show a sharp rise in temperature beginning around approximately the 1980s, which corresponds with the graph in OP's post. But now we know where this data came from, and we can verify its validity accordingly.
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A much longer followup to the little teaser I posted a lil bit ago.
WARNINGS: BBU-adjacent, semi-explicit medical procedure, only mildly researched field medicine
Sebastian gives Jaime a scarf to cover the band of metal affixed around his throat, and a medical mask that will, in addition to its actual hygienic purposes, obscure the bottom half of his face. It’s the best he can do, he supposes.
This work is sort of a game of Russian Roulette sometimes, where everyone shows up hoping the other person has an empty chamber. People are vetted as best they can be in such an underground operation, but it’s not impossible that someone untrustworthy slips through the cracks. It’s why real names are never used and why Sebastian is taking any additional risks when it comes to potentially identifying Jaime to the wrong person.
The patient is a man who looks to be older than both Jaime and Sebastian, and with his age comes a well-earned wariness. He shrinks back when they enter the hotel room. (People rarely feel safe enough to offer up their own homes for these meetings).
The man who opens the door for them—who presumably set up the arrangement—looks so much like the man perched on the end of the bed that Sebastian does a double take.
“He’s my brother,” the man offers. “My twin.”
Sebastian has a lot of questions, but not enough gall to ask them out loud.
There’s no way this man is the holder of his own brother’s contract; family members aren’t allowed. And the patient on the bed is very plainly still trapped in the system, judging by the collar fastened around his neck. Is his brother actively trying to get him out? Is tonight the first step on the road to escape? Or does he have an arrangement with the person who does hold his contract? Seems unlikely but not impossible, but regardless, it’s none of Sebastian’s business. He’s here to offer medical care, and when he gets a better look at the man on the bed, he can see that he obviously needs it.
There’s currently a towel—once white, now stained a deep red—wrapped tightly around his forearm.
Sebastian crosses the room slowly, aware of how the man stiffens as he draws closer. When he reaches him, he drops to one knee, putting himself below eye level.
“Hi,” he says. He has to actively stop himself from continuing the thought with an introduction, with asking his patient’s name in return. “I understand you have a pretty nasty cut on your arm. Do you mind if I take a look? I’m not going to do anything right now except look, I promise.”
The man’s eyes shift quickly from Sebastian’s to his brother’s, taking a brief detour to where Jaime still hovers near the door.
“It’s okay,” the brother tells him softly. “They’re here to help you, M—” He catches himself before he lets the name—whatever it is—slip.
The man on the bed returns his gaze to Sebastian and lets out a slow, trembling breath. He gives the barest of nods and relinquishes the tight grip he has on the towel, holding his injured arm out like a sacrifice.
Sebastian tries not to think too much of it when the man turns his head sharply away at the sight of the medical gloves he pulls from his bag. It’s hard to ignore the small, subdued flinches at every squeak and stretch of nitrile.
He is quick and efficient as he rolls back the blood-soaked cloth, careful not to let his fingers brush skin. The cut is deep. He knew it would be; the kind of people who have connections to this network don’t call on them unless they’re absolutely desperate.
“It needs stitches." Sebastian makes sure to speak directly to his patient, looking him in the eye rather than the person who brought him here. “I have a local anesthetic with me. Two injections, given the length of the cut—just here and here. Then you won’t be able to feel a single stitch after.”
The man’s eyes move to his arm, tracking the length of the cut.
“It’s up to you,” Sebastian says. “Everything we do here is ultimately up to you, okay? I can give you my honest medical opinion, and I can answer any questions you have as best I can.” He waits until he has the man’s eyes again before continuing. “I can tell you that, without suturing, this cut will keep reopening and your risk of infection increases. I can also tell you that the injections will hurt far less and be far faster than being stitched up without the anesthetic. But it’s your call.”
When the man speaks for the first time, his voice is rough and raspy. “You’ll… You’ll wait until it’s numb? Before you start?”
Sebastian’s teeth grind from the effort it takes to keep his face neutral.
“Yes,” he promises. “Absolutely. After a few minutes we will test it, and we won’t start until you tell me it’s okay.”
The man looks once more to his brother before he nods his assent. “Okay.”
Sebastian drops into work mode, relieved to have a clear plan ahead of him now. So much of this work feels like helplessly swimming upstream, but this particular thing is something he knows how to fix.
“Let’s get set up on a stable surface,” Sebastian says, standing up. “I brought disinfectant with me so we can make this as sterile as we can, under the circumstances.”
Jaime, to his surprise, is moving before Sebastian even finishes the thought. He makes eye contact with Sebastian and points toward the hotel desk pushed against the far wall.
“That’s perfect.” Sebastian nods, inappropriately pleased with Jaime’s quickness. “Let’s pull it over here. You can stay on the bed,” he tells his patient, “and I’ll take the chair on the opposite side. That will give me the best positioning, I think.”
Jaime helps him drag the desk across the carpet, careful not to bump the patient’s knees as they settle it in front of him.
When Sebastian pulls a container of disposable wipes from his bag, Jaime holds out his hand. Sebastian blinks, then hands them wordlessly over.
Jaime is quick but thorough, wiping down the full surface of the desk as Sebastian gathers the rest of his materials. He unpackages and lays down a sterile prep mat, pulls out a syringe and a vial, then unrolls his suture kit. He doesn’t miss the way his patient’s breath hitches and he looks away from the gleaming steel.
“These tools have been thoroughly disinfected ahead of time,” Sebastian says, mostly to distract his patient from his anxiety. “But we’ll do another alcohol pass before we get started.”
This time, Sebastian takes the initiative to invite Jaime into the fold. He holds out the box of gloves and a couple of alcohol wipes, and he sees in his eyes that he and Jaime are similar in this regard: much more at ease with a clear directive on what comes next.
As Jaime diligently cleans his forceps and suture scissors, Sebastian settles into the rolling desk chair across from his patient and changes into a new set of gloves.
“I’m going to start by wiping down the injection site for the local anesthetic,” he narrates, ripping open another alcohol wipe. “Can I touch you? Just with this pad, nothing sharp.”
He nods again, eyes squeezed shut.
The room is pungent with antiseptic, and he can’t miss the effect it has both on his patient and on Jaime. Jaime is keeping his reactions under wraps, but Sebastian knows him so well by now—and isn’t that a quiet revelation?—that he can recognize the tightness around his eyes.
“I’m going to inject the anesthetic now. Two quick pinches, and then you’ll start to feel your arm go numb pretty quickly. You ready?”
His patient lets out a slow, controlled breath. Sebastian shoots a quick look toward the man’s brother, wondering if he should suggest coming over to hold his hand, to offer some kind of comfort. But he doesn’t know either of these men, doesn’t know their relationship at all. Currently, the brother is pale as a ghost with his back against the opposite wall, watching with one hand pressed over his mouth.
Sebastian wishes he could find a window of opportunity to get his patient alone and ask the question—how did this happen? Did someone do this to you? Did the person who brought you here do this to you? But what could he do with the answer, realistically, should it be the one he fears?
Don’t focus on that. Focus on what you can fix.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Sebastian nudges gently.
“I’m… I’m ready.”
***
After a terse, quiet ten minutes, Sebastian double, triple, quadruple checks that his patient’s arm is fully numb. He reassures him twice that he can and should be completely honest about whether or not he still has any sensation, that they can wait a little longer if they need to. When his answer doesn’t change, Sebastian gets to work.
Unfortunately, even with the anesthetic, his patient is trembling so badly that it’s getting hard to keep his lines clean. Sebastian rests one hand on the man’s elbow to stabilize him, hopefully light enough that it won’t read as restraint.
Sebastian tries to keep his head down and stay focused on his work. He’s certain this man just wants this to be over, and Sebastian isn’t keen on dragging it out either, but when the man’s ragged breathing increases to a concerning rate, he has to make the offer anyway.
“Do you need a break?”
The frantic breathing pauses altogether for a couple of seconds, as if the man has been caught in his fear and is holding his breath, awaiting punishment.
“It’s okay to say yes.”
The words startle Sebastian, because it was exactly what he was going to say, but they come instead from Jaime’s mouth.
Sebastian looks over at him. Jaime is looking intently at the patient, and Sebastian realizes it’s the first time he’s spoken aloud since they entered the room. With his mask still in place, his voice is slightly muffled, but unmistakably kind.
“This isn’t like how it is there,” Jaime says. “I promise. He isn’t like those doctors. You’re allowed to tell him to stop, and he will listen.”
At this, Jaime meets Sebastian’s eyes—only for a fleeting second—before his attention is back on the patient. Sebastian lets himself stare a few seconds longer. He can’t help it.
Maybe it helps that the mask obscures the thin line of his mouth, or that the collar around his neck is still hidden by the borrowed scarf. But the Jaime he’s looking at now seems more confident, more certain, than he’s ever seen. There is absolute conviction, Sebastian realizes, behind the words he’s saying.
In that moment, Sebastian realizes he’s getting a glimpse of the person behind the walls that the system has forced Jaime to build around himself, and he doesn’t want to look away.
“Do you?” Jaime asks the man. “Want to stop for a minute?”
The man is looking up at Jaime through pleading, bloodshot eyes, his jaw trembling with the effort of keeping his mouth shut. Jaime casts another quick glance at Sebastian before stepping decisively forward and reaching for his scarf. He unwinds it from around his neck as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside the man, careful not to jostle him. Sebastian’s chest lurches but he doesn’t say anything, just watches as realization dawns in his patient’s eyes, his entire expression shifting to one of shock, and then… something like relief.
“I don’t need a break,” he says.
Jaime takes this without question, just nods once, then wordlessly offers his hand. The man only takes a moment to consider, then takes it, firm and desperate. As the two of them hold hands, the man screws his eyes shut and turns his head toward Jaime’s shoulder, not quite making contact, but taking shelter in him nonetheless.
Jaime looks at Sebastian and gives a single nod.
Sebastian gets back to work.
***
Jaime waits until they’re shut away in Sebastian’s car—parked a couple of precautionary blocks away from the hotel—before he speaks.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to take off the scarf.”
Sebastian looks over at him. The scarf is back around his neck now, re-secured before they ever stepped out of the hotel room, but the mask is gone, leaving only the faint pink indents on the bridge of his nose.
Sebastian notes, with more than a little pride, that his statement was not phrased as an apology.
Good.
“It was your call to make, and you made it,” Sebastian says. “I’m not upset with you.”
Jaime is quiet for a moment. “I know,” he says finally. “Thank you. For helping him. He’s probably not lucky about a lot of things, but he was lucky to have you.”
There’s something in those words that Sebastian doesn’t let himself examine too closely, but they soften the air in the car anyway.
“And thank you for letting me come with you.”
“You were right.” Sebastian shrugs. “You were helpful. You made a really shitty situation a little less shitty for someone.”
“I guess I have some experience in that area. From the opposite side of the desk.”
Sebastian starts the car and begins maneuvering his way out of a bad parallel parking job, grateful for something to do with his hands so that he doesn’t do something stupid like lean across the middle console and pull Jaime into his arms.
They’re halfway home when Jaime clears his throat. “We made a pretty good team, didn’t we?”
I don’t know how you got a good grade in being a passenger on an airline but that’s a totally normal thing to achieve and I’m not seething with jealousy at all.
Ziya didn’t think he ever stopped crying. Not in any way that mattered.
It came in waves. Ugly, heaving sobs faded into stinging eyes and a head full of cotton, back into howling wails and then quiet sniffles.
He was making chicken biryani, a recipe that Parker taught him. Maybe that was what triggered it. Maybe it was just the onions.
Either way, silent tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping off the point of his chin, splattering against the counter and the floor. He was pretty sure a few drops had fallen into the rice, he’d have to compensate with less salt.
It was easier to work through the tears than wait for them to stop. He was starting to believe they never would.
=
Mimette was trying to teach him how to walk.
“Just watch how Courtney does it,” she said, “do what she does.”
Ziya watched Courtney and the rest of the models stood off to the side watching him. Their eyes were sharp, pointed blades that stuck into his back and pinched his muscles every time he moved. He wondered how much coverage the trial had gotten, he wondered how many of them had clicked on an article about it. He wondered if any of them had been in the gallery.
He walked. His eyes burned but he walked anyway.
=
“You’re okay,” Mr. Prichard soothed, “you’re okay.”
The car was parked on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking. Ziya’s chest trembled with every breath. He choked on air and the wet feeling on his cheeks, he could barely remember what it was like for his face to be dry.
Fingers carded through his hair, a hand squeezed his own. Slowly, he was made to lean his head on Mr. Prichard’s shoulder, the center console jutting uncomfortably into his hip. He didn’t mind, though. He’d forgotten how nice it was to be held.
Niney was in the backseat. Niney was always there in some capacity. Silently watching, probably judging. It made Ziya’s cheeks burn, although it was probably hard to tell mixed in with the ever-present redness ringing his eyes.
Niney never cried, Ziya was sure of it. He admired it as much as it terrified him. That quiet, emotionless demeanor was suddenly aspirational instead of unsettling.
Ziya couldn’t believe he was finding fucking Niney aspirational.
=
He stepped on the scale and immediately let out a sigh of relief. He’d gained nearly three pounds that week.
His stomach had a bit of flab to it. Not much, but noticeably more than a month ago, when he’d examined himself in the same mirror. He pinched it between his fingers, finding it hard to believe it was actually there.
He was nowhere near where he used to be but he was making progress. He’d even started exercising when he had the time, trying to gain some of the weight back as muscle.
“One-thirty-two?” Mr. Prichard asked, Ziya wasn’t sure when he’d poked his head into the bathroom door.
“Yeah,” Ziya replied. He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.
“Okay.”
=
Cajun chicken with caesar salad and garlic bread. It wasn’t Ziya’s most complicated dinner, but it smelled great and he was hungry after a full day of deep cleaning the office. He set the table, plated the food, and waited, ready to wow Mr. Prichard and Niney with the presentation.
When Mr. Prichard entered the room he walked straight to the table, picked up Ziya’s plate, and scraped half of it into the trash.
=
“It’s not that hard.”
“I know!” Ziya snapped. He was irritable. Irritable and so fucking hungry. Every time the scale tipped past 130, Mr. Prichard would cut his portions in half until it went back down and he was starting to lose his fucking mind over it.
It had become a ritual, every morning he’d stand on the scale and find out how much he’d be allowed to eat for the rest of the day. That morning he’d been 131, so he was allowed a single egg while Niney and Mr. Prichard enjoyed twice as much on slices of buttered toast.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” Mr. Prichard ranted, motioning to the section of floor they’d taped off as a pseudo-runway, “just do better. Stop flopping around like you don’t have any fucking bones.”
He almost preferred the basement. Back then he didn’t have to look at the face of the person starving him. He didn’t have to cook three meals a day that he wasn’t allowed to eat.
“I hate you,” he said and he meant it.
“Hate me all you want, we’re not leaving until you can do it right.”
=
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Prichard said, “I’m being way too hard on you. I know you’re trying.”
Ziya didn’t last long before the tears started to prick his eyes.
=
The two of them were on the couch, a blanket and a bucket of popcorn shared between them. Mr. Prichard swirled a glass of wine in one hand while he paged through Netflix on the other. Niney was on the floor, his head resting against the arm.
Mr. Prichard nudged Niney in the side with his foot. “Why do you never sit on the furniture?”
“I’m–” Niney turned to face him, eyes wide and brow furrowed. His mouth was hanging open, like he couldn’t believe the question had left Mr. Prichard’s mouth in the first place. “I’m not allowed, sir.”
“Who told you that?”
“You, sir.”
Mr. Prichard took a sip from his glass. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did, sir.” The level of vitriol in Niney’s voice wasn’t something that Ziya ever expected to hear directed at Mr. Prichard of all people. “A few weeks after you brought me home I upset you when I reminded you that I needed to be present every time you left the house unless you contacted a judge to get special permission and then you said that I wasn’t allowed to use the furniture at all without your permission. You said that if I was going to whine at you like a dog, I should act like one, sir.”
“Huh…” Mr. Prichard paused, a small smile spreading across his lips like he was recalling a funny memory, “I guess I did say that. I totally forgot.”
An awkward, weighted silence blanketed the room.
“May I sit on the couch, sir?” Niney asked.
“Not after giving me that attitude,” Mr. Prichard replied.
=
Ziya was sitting on the closed seat of the toilet in the studio’s bathroom, bawling his eyes out. He’d been in there for way too long, he knew that someone would come in to check on him soon and he was dreading it. He wasn’t even sure what he was crying over.
They’d spent all day doing his makeup, trying out different looks. All he had to do was sit in the chair and look pretty, but after a few hours he felt the familiar choked up feeling and decided to hide away before the tears spilled over.
He inhaled his own spit and hunched forward, collapsing into a fit of coughs. The smell of wet mascara made him cry harder. He was ruining it. It had taken so long and he was ruining it. He was sure it was mixing with his tears, carving dark lines through his foundation and his contour, smudging his eyeshadow.
He dabbed at his face with toilet paper, trying to carefully lift away the moisture without bringing any of the product with it. Once he was finally confident that his face would stay dry he left, keeping his eyes glued to the ground so he wouldn’t have to look at the damage in the mirror.
When he stepped out the door, Mr. Prichard grabbed him by the chin and rotated his face left, right, up, and down.
“I like it,” Mr. Prichard said, “it’s very avante garde.”
Ziya decided to stay quiet. He was more than willing to let Mr. Prichard believe that it had all been the makeup artists’ doing.
=
His own fingers were choking him, brushing against the back of his throat and pressing down on his tongue, making him gag. Mr. Prichard had one hand in his hair and the other around his wrist, holding him over the toilet while his stomach convulsed and his eyes watered.
Two months ago, Ziya could have thrown Mr. Prichard right off of him, could have stormed right out of that bathroom. He never appreciated the moments that reminded him just how weak he had become.
“The next time you steal something out of the fridge,” Mr. Prichard said, “I’ll buy you a fucking muzzle.”
Ziya nodded, his teeth knocking against his knuckles.
=
He was laying on the floor, picking at the shag carpet because he had finished his chores for the day and he didn’t have the energy for anything else. His collar itched. He wanted to scratch it. It was made out of some kind of cheap wicker material, the sort of thing that looked light and breathable up until it had been fastened against his skin.
He reached up and stopped, his fingers just a few centimeters short of his neck. Memories of switches and cattle prods and I can’t remember, sir flashed in front of his eyes. He set his hands back down on the carpet.
Light footsteps approached from the kitchen. Niney sat down next to Ziya’s head.
“You need something?” Ziya asked. Niney rarely made conversation for conversation’s sake, there was always a purpose behind his seeking out Ziya’s company.
“Do you know what day is coming up?” Niney asked. What an ominous fucking question.
“Paris?” Ziya guessed.
“No.”
Ziya paused, trying to conjure any other important dates from the depths of his memories before it hit him. “You’ve been here for almost a year, haven’t you?”
“Uh,” Niney blinked, “not that.”
That made sense. Ziya couldn’t imagine Niney or Mr. Prichard wanting to make a big deal out of that anniversary.
“Then what?”
“Mr. Prichard’s birthday is coming up,” Niney said, like it was supposed to be common knowledge.
“How was I supposed to guess that?” Ziya scoffed.
Niney shrugged. “Mimette told me. I thought she might’ve told you, too.”
“Okay.” Ziya sat up a little too quickly, having to stop and blink away the vertigo. “So what do you want me to do about it? Bake a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
A quiet indignance gnawed at the back of his mind the same way the hunger was gnawing at his stomach. Why the fuck would he bake a cake for someone who probably wouldn’t even let him eat it? It was a mean thing to ask of him. He wondered if Niney had meant for it to be that way. They’d been getting along better but Ziya still wasn’t convinced that Niney actually liked him. There were times, mostly when Mr. Prichard was being his usual touch-hungry self, that Ziya could feel Niney’s glare stabbing into the back of his skull. He could never quite catch the look, could never prove to himself that he wasn’t just imagining things, but deep down he knew he was right.
Regardless, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do and maybe he could sneak a few dabs of icing when no one was looking.
Book Recommendation: Epic adventure with solid female friendships
The Boneless Mercies by April Genevieve Tucholke
I found this book by chance in a second hand bookshop on a trip to Riga, Latvia - and I’m very glad that I did.
It is a strong, beautiful book about friendship, courage, grief, and what it means to live a good life.
April Genevieve Tucholke writes forth her Scandinavia-inspired Vorseland with light, deft penstrokes. Her worldbuilding is brilliant and delicate, never overloaded. Her world feels like it is much wider and more lived-in than what we get to see - which I think is a hallmark of great fantasy worlds.
She makes a few missteps with her Scandinavian inspiration - you don’t pick cloudberries on hills, for example - but her ideas are beautiful. I particularly love her green-haired sea witches.
Her main characters are mercies, a group of strong young women surviving by ingloriously giving death to people who are ill and suffering and whose families pay for an easier end. Their friendships, courageous Frey, taciturn Runa, mysterious Ovie, kind Juniper, and more people they meet along the way, is the beating heart of the story. The rest is a heroes’ journey through a fresh, magical world.
This book focuses on friendship and not romance, which I think is a really nice change.
I particularly like that the author never shies away from complexity, this world is more shades of gray than black and white. I love her focus on female friendships and it is a joy to spend time with her characters and discovering her world.
There is a free-standing second book called Seven endless forests which I’m looking forward to reading as well!
It's called the Global Justice Report, it is here. This is an actionable plan which can be sent to legislators and demanded of political parties. We could save the world within our lifetimes.
It has always been possible. It is still possible.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I had a dream last night that I ran away from fascists and ended up at this farm that was full of this weird but very large prehistoric animal that was like a fluffy Tapir and I want to know if it actually exists. It was about the size of a Dairy Cow.
For those wondering about the fox. Grace has a subtle motif with this animal throughout the movie, but especially this shot where they pack this toy fox with his belongings on the Hail Mary. The pose of it looked a little haunting to me, thus prompting this illustration.
__________
(Small/large prints are also available on my etsy ❤️)
me: QUIET! this is the deadliest ray known to man. one milli milli milligram of poison from its sting is enough to stop a grown man's heart in under a minute! and he answers only to me! behold your DOOM!
stingray: *nudges my hand*
me, getting down on my knees in front of the tank so i can look him in the eyes: Mortimer, please. i'm trying to be intimidating here.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
My question is about whump in materials that are not part of the whump community.
What do you think whump in books/movies/tv-series that aren’t explicitly whumpy get right? And conversely, are there any pet peeves or things you think often are done badly?
Thank you!
Maracujatangerine
hi!
i'm gonna be honest i feel like less whumpy stuff is usually less concerned with medical accuracy which i find fun! not to say more whumpy stuff doesn't take liberties (god knows i take liberties with my stuff) but whump usually has more medical thought put into it which sorta can suck the fun out of it sometimes
as for pet peeves it's more of a general thing but it's especially pronounced in whump: i cannot stand first person unless under very specific circumstances...idk why i just don't like it
