whumpy side blog

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

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

Nothing but empty, cold air. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s naked. 

Harrison is bathing him. 

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

He doesn’t want any of the answers. 

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

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

If only it were that. 

He peeks one eye open. 

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

He opens his other eye. 

Something simple, dismissible, understandable. 

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

Harrison sweeps down his side. 

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

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

Keeping still is nearly impossible. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s no easier to bear.  

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

His eyes fall back to Harrison. 

Again 

and again. 

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

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

Harrison continues to his hips. 

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

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

As Harrison moves the sponge lower, he braces himself. 

What if—

What if—

What if—

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

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

He’s relieved, numb. 

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

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

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

Harrison cleans his feet like he cleaned his hands. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All that matters—

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

His heart beats like a wing behind his ribs. 

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

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

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

Nothing at all prevented Harrison from noticing before. 

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

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

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

Wave the white flag.

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

He closes his eyes. 

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

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

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

Harrison’s touch is gentler than a sigh. 

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

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

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

And leaves. 

He’s cold, alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Sir had predicted, there were a lot of people there. Some of them moved very quickly, their arms full of items and bags hanging from their elbows. Others moved slowly, talking with each other or stopping to examine the things in the windows. And, sure enough, a few of them looked straight at Francis, looking long and hard enough to remember him later. He did not like that.

Francis tried to take deep breaths, like Ma'am had taught him once, and to focus on looking around. Sir had promised that the shop wasn't far away.

They passed a shop filled with bright colors and some of the items inside showed characters Francis had seen on television. Then they passed a shop that smelled beautiful and was full of small jars. Francis found himself turning his head to look as they went past, enjoying the scent.

"They sell tea there," Sir said, his voice relaxed, like he did this every day. Did he really go out into crowds like this all the time? Did Ma'am? It was overwhelming, though the tea smell was nice.

When they arrived at the store Sir was taking him to, Francis was relieved in one way, but nervous in another. They would be getting out of the busy part of the mall, but staying in one place would make him easier to watch. He had no choice, though, and Sir pushed the wheelchair through the doors.

"Okay," Sir said. "Here we are." They came to a stop near the entrance, but slightly to one side, where Francis took some comfort in the fact that a display blocked the view through the large, glass front windows.

"Angie and I put together a shopping list," Sir went on, "But it's all pretty basic stuff. Shirts, pants or shorts, some pairs of socks... should be easy to find."

Sir moved them over to a display of shirts and stopped close enough that Francis could reach out and touch them with his hands.

"Look through here and see if there's anything you like." Sir's suggestion was casual, but also impossible. There was too much. How was Francis to begin? And it wasn't as if he had... preferences. Likes. Francis gazed up at Sir in total bewilderment.

Sir didn't react- he just nodded, as if Francis should know what that meant. Still watching to make sure he was doing the right thing, Francis reached out and touched a shirt. Nothing happened and he decided maybe this was what he was supposed to do. Francis tried to look at the different designs, buying himself time to figure out what happened next, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone, that someone could wander up to them without warning.

It was when he looked up that was when Francis realized he was, in fact, being watched. There was a counter along one wall, halfway between the front and back of the shop, and there were two women sitting there, eying Francis and Sir with frank curiosity. Francis looked up at Sir, his eyes wide.

Sir followed his gaze, but when he realized what Francis was looking at, he just smiled, as if everything was all right, and nodded to the women. They smiled back, which made them look less frightening, and shared a look with each other that Francis couldn't decipher.

Then, to make things worse, the women got up and started walking towards them. Quickly, Francis pulled his hands back and settled them in his lap. He dropped his head so they wouldn't see him staring around the place as if he belonged there.

"Hi there," said one of the women. Francis sneaked a look up at them and found that it was the one with blonde hair talking. "Is there anything we can help you find?" She was talking to Sir, but the other woman was looking at Francis and when their eyes met, he lowered his gaze again, feeling his cheeks burn red with discomfort.

"I think we're just looking around," Sir said with a shrug. "My friend could use a few things."

The two women exchanged a look and the brown-haired one crouched down a little, so she wasn't standing over Francis.

"Man, what happened to your legs?" she asked, straightforward but not unkind.

Francis looked up at Sir again. This was exactly what he had feared. How could he even speak without giving them away? He knew the way he spoke was unusual.

But before Sir had a chance to respond, the blonde woman said, with a knowing look, "Would you like to take advantage of our private shopper program?"

This was clearly some kind of code, because Sir grinned at her like he knew what she was talking about and said, "Yeah, actually, that would be perfect."

"Great!" the woman replied. "Okay, I'll close the doors up. Would you grab me the sign?" The other woman popped back up and hurried over to the counter and brought back a sign on a string, which the first woman hung on the doors as she closed and locked them.

"This is a program they have for the Safehouses," Sir told Francis quietly. "The owner of the store is one of us and his employees are, too, or at least they're on our side. They'll close up for a little while so we can shop in peace and you don't have to worry about strangers."

The two women were strangers, Francis thought, but he knew what Sir meant.

"So," asked the brown-haired woman who wasn't afraid to speak her mind. "Is this your first time in a store?"

Next Time: Francis makes friends and tries on clothes

Master List

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds

@honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000

@whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

@hellodecisionparalysis @anonfromcanada, @maracujatangerine

@wildliferehabstudent @phoenixpromptsandstuff, @bloody-boyfailure

"I promise, I'll be with you the whole time. This is a safe place to go- our network has people who work there and they vouched for it."

Francis didn't answer, which was the closest he got to arguing. He was sitting very still, quiet and tense. His hands were laid neatly on his knees and his lips were firmly set and trembling.

"I'm sorry," Tim sighed. "I know this is tough for you. I mean, I know it's even harder than I can understand. We'll take it slow. But this is an important thing to try. You need clothes- ones that are really yours. And you need to leave the house eventually. A shopping trip will check both boxes."

"Francis will be fine," Francis said, but it was an automatic response and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

"Okay," Tim said, mostly because he needed to say something. "Well, we're not going today, anyway, so that gives you time to get used to the idea."

"Yes, Sir," Francis replied, still automatic; as much as he was trying to hide his true feelings, they were clear to Tim. Tim patted him on the shoulder as he left the room and when Francis flinched, it made Tim feel like a monster.

That flinch didn't mean they weren't going to go, however. Francis had barely left the house, except for a quick trip to look at Christmas lights, and it was time to help him expand his horizons just a little. Tim had a plan for helping him take the next step, and he introduced it the following afternoon.

"I was thinking about our excursion," he said, trying desperately to sound casual, as if this conversation wasn't likely to send poor Francis into a very well-controlled panic. Indeed, Francis stiffened and stared straight ahead, setting his facial expression very carefully.

No way out but through, Tim thought to himself, and kept talking. "I've got something for you that should make your day easier. Let me go grab it." He left the room and returned a few moments later, holding a large bag. Francis still had not moved. "I got you something from our friends at the hospital, the one Mikey went to."

Francis' curiosity got the better of him and he looked up, though he couldn't bring himself to meet Tim's gaze. His eyes were wary, but not afraid anymore- not exactly. Tim was relieved at this; he was always a little terrified that he was going to damage Francis in some new way. He set down the bag and pulled out a tall, padded medical boot, then another.

"These are for your feet," he explained, in case it wasn't obvious.

Francis was still watching with slight skepticism, and nodded slowly.

"What do they- um- do they do?" he asked, somewhat fearfully.

"Protect your feet," Tim explained. He pulled back the velcro straps and removed the front. "You put your foot in here and then the front goes on, like this-" he demonstrated, holding it out so Francis could touch the velcro straps "-and then you velcro it shut." Anticipating the next question, he added, "It's not tight. It's really soft on the inside and the plastic on the outside means if something bumps your foot, it won't hurt you."

Francis' expression brightened at this and he consented to put the boots on. Tim held the boot while he placed his right foot gingerly into the padding, but he let Francis close and tighten the boot to his own preference.

There was a pause as Francis held his foot up, then nervously set it to the ground. He watched it, deep in thought, and then nodded. Tim helped him with the second boot and then Francis sat on the edge of the couch, staring at his feet.

"How do they feel?" Tim asked. Francis just nodded a little and shifted so that his feet were flat on the ground, as if he was going to stand.

"They feel very soft," he said in a wondering tone. "Like Francis could stand and it wouldn't hurt so much."

"We can try that," Tim suggested. "If you want- you don't have to."

There was another long pause and then Francis nodded. "Francis wants to try," he said. "But- but what if he cannot balance?"

"I have a solution for that, too," Tim grinned. "I was going to save this until you were ready, but if you want to try walking now, we'll go for it. Hang tight, I'll be right back."

Tim disappeared for a minute, leaving Francis sitting on the sofa, turning his legs slightly, even though it made him wince, and examining his new footwear.

This time, when Tim came back, he was holding a pair of forearm crutches. "I'll help you walk at first, while you're getting used to it, but then when you get more comfortable, you can use these."

Francis nodded, looking almost awed, and he very gently took the crutch Tim handed him. He ran his fingers along the cool metal and then slid his arm through the cuff to wrap his fingers around the grip.

Now he looked up to see Tim watching him and he smiled.

Francis took to the crutches right away and practiced with them daily, although he was usually pale and tired after being on his feet for more than a few moments. When the day came for their outing, Tim put a folded wheelchair into the back of the car.

"It's not that I think you can't do it," he said, "But I want you to have another option if you get sore. The mall is kind of big and it's a lot more walking than here at home."

"Yes, Sir," Francis agreed, automatically. He was nervous again and sitting in the front seat wringing his hands, although Tim had the distinct impression that he wasn't aware of it.

They made the short drive to the mall in silence and when Francis saw the size of the building, he said, "Oh," in a very small voice.

"What do you think?" Tim asked, not really expecting much of an answer. "Should we start with the wheelchair and you can bring your crutches along to use in the store?"

Francis looked up and down the length of the building and nodded slowly.

"Okay. And we don't have to cross the whole thing. We're parked near our store, or at least I think that's the one we'll want."

There was another silent nod and Tim stopped talking. He got the wheelchair out and helped Francis sit in it. Francis was suddenly very pale and his hands were shaking. He whispered something and Tim had to bend down to catch it.

"What if someone sees me?" Francis whispered again. Tim straightened up and studied him. In his hoodie, sweatpants, and medical boots, Francis mostly just looked like he had been in some kind of accident. The look on his face was a giveaway, if anything was.

Tim took a deep breath, mostly to give himself time to choose a response.

"People are definitely going to see you," he admitted. "The mall is a pretty busy place and you're in a wheelchair, so, honestly, people are probably gonna stare. And it's gonna be weird." He stopped for another breath. "But they won't know you're a- a Box Boy. There's no way for them to see that. Okay? You're gonna mostly just look like a normal guy who hurt his ankles."

To his surprise, Francis looked comforted, and Tim was glad he hadn't lied.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," Francis agreed, and gripped the armrests with shaking hands.

Next Time: Francis visits the mall

Master List

Notes: I've had the idea for this subplot for literally a year or more. It was going to be a single chapter, but... so were lots of things.

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds

@honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000

@whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

@hellodecisionparalysis @anonfromcanada, @maracujatangerine

@wildliferehabstudent @phoenixpromptsandstuff, @bloody-boyfailure

Aiden slows down, sick anticipation worming under his skin, making him feel clammy all over again. He tries to draw out the last sip as long as possible. He has no idea what he’s going to say. Leo holds his hand out for the glass, setting it down on a coaster soundlessly. 

“M’sorry, sir. I…fucked up,” he rushes to say. “I’m so sorry.” 

Leo raises his eyebrows. 

It’s been weeks and weeks since he regressed like this but he doesn’t know the script to go with whoever he was impersonating today. As shameful as the backslide is, the acrid taste of self-loathing is familiar on his tongue. It’s oh so easy to raze the floodgates they’ve painstakingly fortified so he wouldn’t have to be this. But if he wanted to be something better, he would have told Leo where he was going. 

“Please, I didn’t—it won’t—” He’s just babbling now, cheeks hot because he’s only digging himself deeper and they both know it. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry…” 

Leo waits, lets the silence gather weight. Aiden wishes it would push him through the floor. Leo sounds tired when he finally asks, “You done?”

He swallows and nods, unable to find his voice again.

“What’re you doin’?”

“I dunno,” he whispers to his knees. 

“Yeah, I can see that.” 

Leo lets him squirm for another minute, waits until Aiden works up the nerve to meet his gaze. Leo looks even more disappointed than he sounded on the phone. Probably because after worrying all afternoon, Aiden’s trying to pull shit on him. 

“If you’re that upset, we don’t have to talk now,” he says because Aiden gave him no choice. Even if they both know he was faking, floundering, Leo can’t leave it unsaid. Can’t abide even a hypothetical chance of Aiden being uncomfortable. “I won’t push you.” 

His throat tightens, mouth thick with saliva. “I know.” He hates the look in Leo’s eyes, questioning and full of distrust. In Aiden’s ability to handle this and, even worse, in Leo’s ability to handle it carefully enough for Aiden. “Sorry,” he whispers. Leo just watches him. 

A twist of hopelessness grips his chest and he blinks back hot tears of frustration. One mistake after the other. Impulsivity keeps winning out. A handful of seconds, a snap decision and he’s at the bottom of a hole that took months to crawl out of. The worst part is that he knows better. He knows. 

Maybe he should use the out, take the night to pull himself together, but he can’t stand the idea of making Leo wait on him even longer. 

“We can…we can-can mmm, talk…now.” 

“Okay.” Leo scrubs his hands over his face and takes a deep breath. “What happened today?” 

He pulls the cuffs of his hoodie into his fists. “I dunno.” 

“The last time I didn’t know where you were, you came home beaten to shit,” Leo says, so softly it’s almost a whisper. His eyes are red, more than just exhaustion at the end of a long day. Guilt stabs at Aiden’s heart.

“I know…m’sorry.” It doesn’t feel like enough. 

Leo reaches for his hand and Aiden gives it, tears almost falling in relief. He never deserves any of Leo’s forgiveness but if nothing that just makes it all the more precious. 

“It’s not that you need my permission or have some curfew. All I want is to know that you’re safe.” “I kn—” His voice breaks. “M’sorry,” comes out a whisper. 

“Hey,” Leo says, squeezing his hand. He looks up sheepishly, even under the gentle admonishment. “Just talk to me, what happened today?”

“Delia had to…go…” 

He trips through the retelling: Noah trying to give him the usual exam until his nerves couldn’t handle the switch and how Aiden talked him out of doing it at all. 

“I told him—” 

Leo reaches for him and he flinches. He didn’t realize he was shrinking into the couch, curling away from Leo. 

“M’sorry,” he says quickly, shaking his head at his reaction. 

“Hon, what’s happening here?” 

“I—I—” He shakes his head again, this time to dispel the tears and panic rising in tandem while he struggles to get a grip. “I told him…the, uhm, exams just get me out and…” He’s whispering by now to force the words out. “Give you a…break.”

Leo frowns. “Aiden…” 

“S’fine.”

“Hon.”

“No, Leo,” he pleads. He turns away from the look of sympathy, pity. Concern that makes him want to choke.  

“Aiden.” 

He wants to fold like a lawn chair at that tone and the weight of Leo’s gaze. It’s the first time in months Aiden’s felt the phantom pressure of fingers against the back of his neck trying to push him to his knees. His lower lip starts to tremble but he refuses to give in. 

Leo is just as content to wait him out, which might be even worse than being insistent. He pulls his sleeves over his fists so Leo won’t see him digging his fingernails into his palms. 

As bad as that last part was to say, the next admission feels worse. Ungrateful. A lick too close to spoiled that would have angered his father and started the kind of argument that usually ended at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Said I’d, uhm, wanted to go…to New York.” He swallows. “Before.”

Leo tilts his head, brow furrowed. Searches Aiden’s face for a second as he chooses his words. It makes Aiden’s stomach twist. “This isn’t a confession,” he says gently. 

Aiden’s cheeks burn. Would he have told Leo everything anyway? Because it felt like he had to? That he owed him full transparency after leaving him in the dark for a few hours? It’s embarrassing no matter how he spins it: Over-sharing as a defense mechanism or being too thick to understand the nuance of the question. Either way, it’s hard to keep the bite out of his tone: “So? What?” 

Leo raises both hands in a show of peace. “I just want to understand how you wound up at some arcade with Noah and not on the bus like usual.” 

“M’trying,” he grits out, tears of frustrating burning in his eyes again. This time he pushes himself to his feet even though it makes him feel a little sick to his stomach to walk away from Leo in the middle of this.

He faces the big front window and stares out, forcefully tracing the line of the trees in the twilight to distract himself. The bright reds and oranges of the turning leaves muted to deeper tones, the forest mourning-veiled over a time that just a few weeks ago was still daylight. The summer sun has long since waned. 

“We went to-to…people watch,” he says, once he’s sure his voice will come out steady. “At first.” 

“Right.” Leo’s still sitting on the coffee table, hasn’t moved to follow him. 

“Then we, we, mmm’played some games.” It feels strange to admit. Sounds so foreign, he can hardly imagine it was really him, that he knew how to do that, start-to-finish, back to the car in one piece with only one huge oversight. “I, uhm, should’ve…”

Aiden tenses unconsciously when Leo moves behind him but he makes sure to relax before Leo’s hands gently rest on his shoulders. Leo’s murmured, “Easy,” tells him the revision wasn’t missed.  

It’s alright. You’ll remember next time.” 

He leans his head back against Leo’s shoulder and Leo wraps him up in his arms. 

Something unwinds inside him and his exhale feels impossibly long until he’s wrung out and empty. 

You’re worried he’s stifling but you’re the one doing all the stifling. Noah selling him out, even though Aiden was about to confess it all to Leo in his mindless desperation for forgiveness, still rings through him.  

“I dunno…about a next time,” he admits in a whisper. Something heavy tugs at his heart. 

“Did—” 

“M’tired.” 

Leo takes a breath. Either he’s going to push to say his piece or it takes effort to set it aside. Aiden feels exhausted by both and bites back the urge to apologize and ask what he was going to say, just for the balm of it. Even though he knows he’s reaching his capacity, knows that of all the remaining possibilities for discussion, each one requires more energy and care than the last. 

All Leo does is release him, squeezing his shoulders before he steps back. “Yeah, me too. Let’s call it.” 

He avoids Leo’s gaze as they shuffle past each other taking turns with the bathroom. It won’t be the first time he copped out of a conversation he didn’t want to have. Leo only lets him get away with it when it’s about Aiden’s past. If Leo wants to talk about anything else from tonight, he’ll bring it up at breakfast. Fastidious in his commitment to leave nothing unsaid between them after the way things started. 

“Night,” he says when he passes Leo’s cracked door after brushing his teeth. 

“Good night, hon.” 

His door closes with a soft click and he lets out a long breath into the quiet darkness of his room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m having an off day,” Noah defends as they step onto the sidewalk. “I’ve slept like five hours in the last three days.”

“Next time…I’ll…stay out of, of…your way,” he says, unable to keep the grin off his face. He uses air quotes to repeat, “‘this’s mmm, between…me and me.’” 

They stop at the crosswalk and Noah jams the button repeatedly as if he might recoup missed points. Digital numbers count down next to the red hand. “Look, I have certain high standards for myself.” 

Aiden laughs, pulling up his hood. The sun dropped behind the buildings, leaving the shade chilly. His stomach flips. “Wait. What, what…time is it?” He fumbles for his phone but Noah beats him to the punch. 

“Oh, shit.” He covers his watch with his hand like Aiden could even see it from this angle and Noah wants to save him just one more second of ignorant bliss. Aiden already knows they’re late. “It’s almost six.” 

When the light changes, they both break into a jog. 

It’s not until he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Noah’s car that he can pull his phone out of his pocket. A dozen missed calls and even more texts. All from Leo. 

“We should be there in under thirty. I think we’re behind the worst of the traffic.” Noah glances over. “Aiden?” 

He stares at his phone in his hands, letting his guilt swallow him whole. 

“I’m sure you can just call and explain. It’s not like—”

“He would…have let…let me…go,” Aiden whispers, mostly to himself. 

More than that, Leo would have offered to drive or pick him up. Reminded him to use his debit card and spend his paycheck on something fun for once. Leo would have been happy for him to go. Instead, he has no idea where Aiden has been for the last two hours, imagining the worst. For no fucking reason. 

Hot tears prickle in his eyes as he forces his fingers through the motions to return the calls. 

His hand shakes as he holds the phone to his ear. 

Leo picks up on the first ring. “Aiden? Are you okay?” His voice is full of panic. “Where are you?” 

“I-I—” Regret twists through him like a vice. It would have been so easy to send a quick text. He wants more than anything to just go back and take the three fucking seconds.

“Aiden?” Leo raises his voice like the connection might be bad. “Aiden, are you there?” 

He nods but of course that’s fucking useless. 

“Aiden? Are you…” Noah looks between him and the road. “Do you want me to talk to him?” 

Leo’s still trying to get an answer out of him. 

Aiden can’t seem to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. To admit that this was all his fault and start apologizing. He passes the phone to Noah and covers his face with his hands, hoping the sleeves of his sweatshirt will soak up any tears that escape. 

“Hey, hi. It’s Noah…No, no, he’s fine…I’m driving him home, we should be there in half an hour. I’m sorry it’s— What? Hello?” He grimaces and hands the phone back. “He told me not to talk on the phone while driving and hung up.” 

God, he must be so upset. Aiden clicks the ringer volume up as high as it will go and drops his head back into his hands. 

“He knows you’re alright and that you’ll be home soon. I’m sure he’ll forgive you.” 

“Of course…he’ll mmm, forgive…me,” Aiden snaps. “It’s not, not…that.” 

“Then what are you so upset about?” 

Aiden glares at him. “Why? Why do you…care?” 

Noah returns the stare as long as he can while driving, clearly offended by the question. Aiden looks away before Noah gets a chance to meet his eyes again. He can’t take any more guilt right now. 

They ride in weighted silence for so long that Aiden has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from taking it back. He’s uncomfortably hot in his sweatshirt, adrenaline still coursing through his veins and making his hands feel shaky. But he’ll be damned if he breaches the space between them to close his side of the air vents. 

Even if he wanted to answer Noah’s question, he’s not sure he could. It’s too hard to articulate how precious Leo’s trust is when trusting Leo should matter more to him. Or how this slip-up will mean weeks of hyper-vigilance on both sides. Or that he’s already spent too much of Leo’s fear and owes him a lifetime of perfect accountability. A life that— 

His breath catches in his throat when Noah turns toward him. 

Shoulders, neck and face, lips set in a tight line that stings like a papercut between Aiden’s ribs. 

But Noah’s just checking the blind spot as he changes lanes. It only lasts a second and then he faces forward.

Aiden curls his hands into fists in his lap but Noah doesn’t look his way again. He’s not sure if it’s guilt alone gnawing at his chest. The feeling only deepens the closer they get to home. Aiden tells himself it’s anticipation, the dread of seeing Leo’s concern and broken trust in person. 

Noah rolls to a slow stop at the last turn before Leo’s street. 

A single streetlamp illuminates the intersection. In the bubble of light, everything else is obscured. The blue house on the corner, flanked by stonewall-skirted fields, the column of woods they drove through to get here. Aiden can’t even find the moon. 

They sit there long enough that Aiden finds he’s holding his breath again. He wonders if he ever started breathing again at all. 

Noah flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, grip so tight his knuckles are white. 

“This was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” he says, so softly Aiden feels like it wasn’t meant for his ears. A secret surrendered to the stop sign to pay their passage. A confession creased by so many folds its paper no longer sits flat, wedged into the stonewall where no one will ever find it. He doesn’t know what to say. 

Noah makes the turn. 

Minutes later, they pull into the driveway. Aiden opens his mouth, not even certain what he’ll say but knowing it has to be something. He—

Leo’s already outside. 

“Fuck.”

Noah clears his throat. “Are you going to be okay?” He reaches over, hand hovering like he wants to stop Aiden from getting out of the car. 

Aiden finally earns his gaze and isn’t sure what he sees there. Whoever they were an hour ago, in the arcade and even in Delia’s apartment before, might as well be characters in a movie, slowly fading in the harsh light of reality. Aiden doesn’t know who that was, who Noah was trying to be to him, what version of himself he was trying to invent or resurrect to fit the fleeting fantasy. It doesn’t matter, it’s over. 

“Thanks…for, for today.” 

He cuts off Noah’s reply with the car door and turns away but his feet won’t carry him to meet Leo halfway. 

Just like on the phone, he’s frozen. Aware of Noah watching him stand there immobilized while Leo rushes forward, fears no less soothed by this display of paralysis.

Fuck’s the matter with you today?  

Noah steps in front of Aiden before Leo can reach him. “Wait, hold on,” he says, both palms raised. Aiden didn’t even realize he got out of the car. 

Leo balks at Noah. “Are you fucking kidding me?” It’s the most Boston he’s ever sounded. And that’s the extent of reaction Aiden’s brain gives him. 

“We’re just a little late so maybe take it down a notch.” 

Leo looks like he wants to take Noah down a few notches. He’s only a few inches shorter than Aiden but Leo could break him in half on a bad day. With one hand behind his back. 

Aiden puts a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “I—” 

“What the hell?” Leo’s eyes lock onto the back of Aiden’s hand but it’s Noah’s wrist he grabs. Aiden flinches. “Did you take him to a fucking club?” 

Noah doesn’t even try to pull his arm back. “No, of course not,” he grits. “It was just an arcade.” 

“Why was he out with you at all?” 

“He can make his own decisions.” 

“Watch it.” The warning in Leo’s tone makes Aiden’s heart stutter behind his ribs. 

“Chill out, man.” Noah steps closer, shouldering Aiden behind him and getting in Leo’s face. “You’re worried he’s stifling but you’re the one doing all the stifling.” 

“Noah.” Aiden feels it like a blow, all the air rushing out of his chest.

“You’re way out of line,” Leo growls. 

Aiden hasn’t seen this side of him since he took down three guys after they pulled him out of Leo’s van that first night. Watching Leo wipe his bloodied knuckles on a handkerchief as if that kind of thing happened all the time had been a raindrop of fear in an ocean of terror that day. Tonight, it’s the sea itself and the tide is coming in. 

“Try me.” 

Aiden holds his breath, blood rushing from his face, his head. 

He doesn’t know who will take the first swing but this is all his fault. 

If anyone deserves to be hit, it’s him. 

He’s shaking like it will be. 

He can’t remember the last time but he’s always known how to take a punch. 

It must have been Harrison. 

Open hand. 

No weight behind it. 

Another last strike unearths itself from somewhere deep and dark and Aiden tumbles right in. 

Falling? 

Did he fall down the stairs again?

Coach will—

“Aiden?” Noah presses two fingers under his jaw. He lifts his phone flashlight and Aiden shrinks away from the brightness. His back hits something solid and he flinches again.

“Easy.” It’s just Leo. Holding him. Everything comes screeching back. A tilted screen being righted, the focus shifting from fuzzy to sharp. 

Fuck, he’s on his knees in the driveway. 

Leo and Noah—

“Can you take a deep breath for me?” Noah asks. He lowers his voice to add, “into your lungs, like we talked about.” 

Aiden stares at him.

Noah’s face falls and he opens his mouth to say something but Leo helps Aiden off the ground before he gets the chance.  

“I think we’re done here.” Leo doesn’t give Noah a second glance. “Let’s get you inside.” Aiden doesn’t look back either. 

Previous — Masterlist — Next

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He leans against the table while Aiden drinks, absently fiddling with the blood pressure cuff beside him. His dark hair falls over his eyes, brushing the five o’clock shadow on his cheek before he rakes it back in one unconscious sweep.

Aiden looks down at the glass in his hands, turning it side to side, precariously balanced between his fingertips. “You don’t…have to…mmm, pretend, you know.” He glances up, just long enough to see Noah’s brows knit together. 

“What do you mean?”

He slides off the stool and brings his glass to the sink, feeling Noah’s eyes on him the whole time. His heart stutters. “I know it’s…it’s a front.” There’s no weight behind the words, behind the gamble. He doesn’t even know why he’s pulling this thread. 

Noah plays dumb. “A front?” 

“It’s just to…get-get me out. The bus…the time. Mmm, another…safe place.” 

“Oh.” Did he really not know? “Why do you play along then?” 

Aiden shrugs. “Mmm, gives Leo a…break.” 

“I’m sure that’s not—” 

“It’s…fine—I’m fine.” He turns back to the sink, pretending to look out the window. “You don’t…have to-to…mmm, waste your…day off.” 

In a second, Noah will tell him that another purpose behind these little appointments is to help him with his aversion to all things medical. 

“I’ll see…Delia…next week,” he adds. 

Now it does sound like he’s just trying to get out of having his vitals taken. 

But Noah just says, “Okay.” 

He resists the urge to watch Noah pack everything back into the bag and return it to its home in the closet. Instead, he busies his hands washing the glass. There’s a bowl and spoon in the sink so he washes those too. Can’t help but smirk remembering the time Leo went off about her apple-scented dish soap being too artificial to leave the dishes truly clean.

The clock on the wall tells him he could catch the next bus but then he’d be home too early. His usual bus isn’t for another three hours. In practice, the bus affords little opportunity for independence with its shitty schedule. Aiden’s always the youngest passenger by a good five decades because no one else bothers. Half the time the bus is so delayed, Leo ends up having a heart attack which honestly seems to defeat half of the point of sending Aiden on these weekly adventures. But it’s always been about going through the motions, an imitation of agency, more than the real thing.  

Delia usually can’t stay the whole time, either rushing off to work or coming from a shift, which is another dimension of this whole program. He doesn’t hate the time alone but it’s challenging to find ways to keep himself busy that aren’t so overtly obvious he’ll get in trouble for doing housework. He makes sure to play some show on her Netflix account so she’ll see the false progress of his downtime.  

Aiden jumps when he turns to find Noah behind him, leaning on the table again. 

“Don’t you work with Leo? Why do you need to get out of the house if you already have a job?” He seems genuinely curious. 

For some reason, Aiden imagined no secrets between him and Delia. Especially after Noah moved into her spare room a few months ago. It seems conceited, in retrospect, to think the two of them would spend their precious free time discussing the ins and outs of his progress. Exactly the type of paranoid assumption WRU hammered into them, to fear all manner of omniscience. 

“Uhm…” Aiden redirects his thoughts to the question while he towels his hands. “They-they think I’m…mmm…mmm…” He swallows, takes a breath. “Stifled. That I’m…missing…mmm, autonomy.” 

Noah looks at him, really looks at him, like he’s letting Aiden’s words sink in letter by letter. It makes Aiden want to squirm. He looks down at the towel in his hands, folding it against his torso into a neat rectangle. Noah still hasn’t said anything when he turns around from threading the towel through the handle of the dishwasher. 

“I don’t know…” He hears himself saying just to fill the silence. “Maybe some-some people like…me are but I’m’not. I don’t feel…stifled going to-to work and…coming home. Mmm, hanging out on mmm, weekends. I don’t…need more.”

“Why don’t you just tell them?” 

He should have expected that. “They won’t…get it,” he says lamely.  

“It made sense to me.”

Aiden swallows, heat rising to his face. “Yeah but…you’re not—you don’t feel mmm, responsible for-for…helping…mmm, reclaim my whole…life.” 

“Alright, fair.” 

“And-and they’d…think it was…mmm, training. All they’d hear is…I don’t-don’t think I mmm, deserve a…real life.” 

“Huh. Well, when you put it like that…” 

“See?” 

Noah holds up his hands. “I’m not saying I agree with that assessment. You’re entitled to want a quiet life. To be satisfied with that, everyone is. But especially someone who’s been through what you have.” 

He looks away, doesn’t need to see the pity on Noah’s face when he backpedals from pointing out the elephant-sized baggage Aiden carries everywhere. But the awkward apology never comes. Aiden peeks at him from the corner of his eye but Noah’s cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. Not searching Aiden’s face for triggers, not overcompensating. His dark eyelashes are almost long enough to sweep his cheekbones. He replaces his glasses and catches Aiden’s gaze.

Aiden blurts the first thing that comes to mind: “I w-w-wanted to…mmm, move to…New-New York City before…well…before.” 

The corner of Noah’s mouth lifts. “Yeah?” 

Ohgod. Did he just start a whole other conversation? “For-for college…” He shoves his hands into his pockets, tries to mirror Noah’s casual posture. “Work…and take some…mmm, classes. I didn’t know…what I w-w— what to study.” 

“Why New York?” 

“Mmm, my town…was…boring. The…city seemed mmm, exciting. So-so many people.” Noah waits an extra beat again. “I was…kind of mmm, lonely as a…kid,” he admits, immediately regretting the confession. Something twists and flutters in his chest at the extra depths Noah’s silences seem to reach, unearthing things he thought long buried and pulling them out into the light.   

Mercifully, Noah isn’t interested in dissecting his childhood. “Is there any part of you that still thinks about that dream?” 

Aiden shakes his head quickly. Admitting any of this is starting to feel ungrateful. Leo’s given him so much and continues to be nothing but generous. That dream belonged to a different person, in a different life. He looks up to find Noah watching him, still waiting for a real answer. 

“No…I-I just mmm, wonder…what it…would have been…like.” He’s almost whispering by the end. 

“Hmm.”

“What?” He instinctively steps back, heat rushing to his face as he tries to figure out where he misspoke. 

Noah’s smiling. Easy, relaxed. “Well—and feel free to say no—but maybe we kill two birds with one stone? Boston’s no New York but it’s still pretty cool.” 

He laughs, a nervous imitation of Noah’s that mostly dies in his throat. “What? No. Wait. Are-are you…mmm, serious?” 

“Yeah, come on. We can find somewhere to do some people-watching. Like you said, you don’t need an exam.” When Aiden just stares back blankly, he adds, “But if things take a turn for the worse, you’ll have a doctor on call,” and even winks.  

Aiden balks at him. 

“What do you think?” 

He doesn’t. He can’t wrap his head around the idea. He doesn’t go out. Just work and home and Delia’s every Saturday. He’s only ever been to a handful of stores with Leo and basically hated every second. “What-what…about…the bus?” 

“You and I both know that no one with a real life rides the bus.” 

He tries to hide his smile. “I-I…don’t know…” 

“We’ll take my car and I’ll drive you home after. You’ll still be on time.” 

His heart races at the idea alone of going off-book like this. Of doing something different. Maybe it’s a warning as much as nervous excitement. He hears himself agree. 

Aiden’s not sure exactly how Noah talked him into the arcade from sitting in his parked car sipping dive-thru root beers and watching people come and go. It’s nothing like the handful of outdated pinball games and claw machines in the corner of the bowling alley where his grade-school classmates had their birthday parties. 

“Come on.” Noah catches his entry-stamped hand and tows him through the throngs of people. A group to their left erupts in cheers and rambunctious high-fives, making him jump. 

For starters, it’s dark. The space is only lit by neon tube lights crisscrossing the ceiling like a messy subway map, slowly pulsating from one color to another. Strobes blur an entire corner of the space where he guesses a bar must be since they had to flash their IDs to get in. The rest of the arcade is covered with game machines, each one emitting lights and sounds, attracting its own crowd of onlookers who, in turn, add to the countless, overlapping conversations filling the air. The place is pulsing with energy, thrumming with sound. He’s so busy taking it all in that he stumbles into Noah when he stops.

“You okay?” he asks, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in so Aiden can hear him over the blaring music. 

He swallows. His heart jackhammers against his ribs, palms damp with sweat. He pulls in a deep breath. It smells like beer, sweat and bodies, someone’s vanilla-floral perfume, a hint of nondescript fruity vape smell. His feet are only visible where they cover the neon-flecked carpet that glows up at him in the blacklights like funfetti. He exhales. 

“Yeah.” The corners of his mouth twitch at the fact that he has to shout even though they’re standing so close. He nods to show he means it when Noah pulls back to see his face. 

Noah grins and presses some quarters into his palm. They feed them into neighboring skeeball machines, each releasing a column of time-worn wooden balls. 

If someone told him he’d be playing arcade games again one day, he wouldn’t believe it. Not at any point since his life was signed away. 

He swings his arm back and lets go.

Masterlist — To be continued...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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