maracujatangerine

[maracujatangerine]

BBU Community days day 10?/April 23: In-universe media

I fucking hate this drawing, but it’s an ad! (At least I drew something serious, I haven’t in too goddamn long)

#awesome #bbu #bbucommunity

[maracujatangerine]

Views from Mountain Hostel, Gimmelwald, Switzerland. ( via )

#I have actually been here #it was amazing #travel #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

Thank you for the shout-out, @wolfeyedwitch ! ❤️ I really appreciate it! ☺️

Some previously unmentioned BBU writers I really like:

@squishablesunbeam has a sweet and heartwarming recovery story with a character used to being treated as the eponymous object in The Palette: https://squishablesunbeam.tumblr.com/post/690092716942655488/tw-dehumanization-human-furniturefurniture

@hold-him-down has a well-written and complex recovery arc in The Fighter: https://hold-him-down.tumblr.com/post/663890614856876032/the-fighter

@deluxewhump has a complex and engaging pet in a frat house story: https://deluxewhump.tumblr.com/post/190809601414/frathouse-boxboy-masterlist-z2-or-my

@just-horrible-things Just Acting has a mysterious and intriguing plot: https://just-horrible-things.tumblr.com/post/662323214128709632/just-acting

so with whump

as a group? fandom? or any other word syebsj

usually it's fictional character and fics right but if you were to interact with other whumpees (that the term) like as roleplay or i dunno

would you or

okay maybe that's a confusing way of putting my question suwnsj

uh just tell me about your own experiences :3 if you wanna

Ok my experiences with whump? I'm not big on roleplaying (although it looks fun. just maybe not for me) so i'll talk about the community

They're awesome or at least the bubble I'm in like

There's one guy who got his acount deleted like a thousand times but he always swings back and he draws super well I like to reference from him and he's super nice

Then there this person who makes comics and they have so many I can't keep up

Then there's this uh lady? Woman? What's like a casual way to say it in english. Like guy but for girls. Anyway, she has a series that's so fun

And there's this person with such nice caracters I kinda picked my name from there.......

Oh, oh there's one thing that's like super nice and that's BBU

Its like a community worldbuilding like. Its premise is that there is a modern kind of world where humans are kept as slaves called "boxies" (because if people "order" them they arrive in packages)—thats why we call it the Box Boy Universe—and there's this organization called WRU (no idea what this name means i think its we r umpers or smth) that "trains" them and there are Safehouses for runaways and theres also The Pet Lib Movement

And it's a fun universe because everyone can use it! And so there's a lot of collaboration like, there's some part of the worldbuilding you don't wanna flesh out? This person here already did it. There is so much lore made by so many people and the fun is that you get to decide what is canom in your bbu

Also theres this person who took such a turn on it they (i dont remember their pronouns rn) imagined how it would be a bbu world but like in the black and white tv era. They did the origins of WRU (the evil slavery organization) and its like i haven't read it yet but it's such a fun concept

I also like the prompts. There's always some crazy thing I haven't thought about and it's lots of fun

There's also the community events (like febuwhump—one of the only i participed in lmao—where we get prompts for each day of february and write or draw something) idk they're fun people

#thank you for the tag! #whump blogs #whump writing #bbu

[maracujatangerine]

April 20 / Worldbuilding Prompt: Inspiration / What's an idea about the BBU worldbuilding that particularly inspires you, be it to daydream or to write?

It definitely has to be the healing…

The way boxies slowly relearn how to be human again, how to acknowledge their own needs and desires, that they themselves matter. Not only the role that they fulfil for someone else, or the usefulness that they can bring to the table, but them, as people.

I like how physical and mental healing go hand in hand. Sure, in fits and starts, and with some steps forward followed by several steps back, but that boxies having their physical needs met usually also helps with their mental healing.

I also really like how friends and caretakers can help, but that the boxies have to take the steps to heal by themselves.

#bbu community #bbu community days #bbucd24 #bbu #whump writing #maracujawrites #whump community #whump event #day 20

[maracujatangerine]

#reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

raise your hand if you reread fic comments when you’re having a bad day

those kind words can make all the difference sometimes

#totally yes #all the time #and readers engaging with my writing definitely makes me want to write more #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

Rules

Pets of the Silver Screen masterlist

Taglist: @maracujatangerine @clairelsonao3 @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @bbu-on-the-side

Multiple times over the years, Agatha learns the rules.

2.1k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, kidnapping, collar, beating, stress positions, dehumanisation, non-con nudity (non sexual)

Agatha juts her chin out, poise perfect despite the tip-toe position she's been forced into.

"My name is Miss Agatha Stanbury, daughter of Lord Kenneth Stanbury. Let me go and you may get out of this alive."

Foster Montgomery smirks, pressing his knife into her neck, blood beading along its edge.

"I think I'd rather keep you. Nobody's going to find you, certainly not after I'm finished with you." He drags his knife down her front, slitting her clothes. They mostly stay on, but it must be a very sharp knife to manage that. "Take them off."

"No."

He holds up the knife, reminding her. "What did you say?"

Agatha swallows but keeps her poise. She's going to be an actress, she can pretend she has nothing to fear.

"I said no. You have given me nothing to wear afterwards and I will not follow your disgusting commands."

"I have more suitable clothing for you later, if you earn it. But if you won't obey willingly I'll have to do it for you."

Agatha's barely had a chance to process the statement when she's slammed to the ground. All her bones are jarred and her nose explodes with agony. A boot seems to grind her into the floor as Montgomery removes her clothing piece by piece.

She hates herself for thinking it, but at least he lets her keep her knickers.

He grunts in satisfaction, and hauls her to her knees. She shoves his hands away and stands, but is back on her knees in less than a second.

"Stay." He reaches behind him and picks up a leather collar complete with tag.

Agatha doesn't move when he reaches out and buckles the suffocating leather around her throat, but not out of obedience. She just doesn't think she can.

She reaches up to touch it, but Montgomery smacks away her hand before she can.

"Don't even think about it. I'll only ever remove it if you need a punishment that might interfere with the collar somehow, so if you do so yourself I'll assume that's what you're after. But you do still deserve a punishment. Bend over."

Agatha swallows hard, the soft leather and cold metal buckle pressing against her throat. She doesn't move. She only came down for the season, she's not going to obey a kidnapper who's apparently obsessed with turning her into a pet.

He couldn't find a volunteer? There's enough of them.

She pitches forward onto her hands and knees as he pushes her over, pulling her knickers down.

"Bare flesh is best for this. Pets obey. They don't say no. They don't talk back. You need to learn this."

Agatha has never had such a thrashing in her life as she receives then. No-one's ever drawn blood before. She's not passed out enough by the end to receive a reprieve though – he orders her to clean the house, and woe betide her if he finds a speck of dust or blood.

She experiences it all as if from miles away. As if from the gathering she's supposed to be at right now, with entirely different rules. She's not in her body, most of the time, and that's probably for the best.

That day and the next, she learns the rules of being Foster Montgomery's captive.

1) Don't say no.

2) Only speak when spoken to.

3) Don't talk back.

4) Address other people as sir or ma'am.

5) Always obey immediately.

6) Don't remove your collar.

7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.

She adds an extra one from herself, too, which she knows is true. Montgomery giving her a collar is not just him being a sick bastard, it's theatre, another part of the pretense. Because even if he were to parade her in front of those she loves, everyone knows that only pets wear collars.

8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.

Over the next few months, the rules don't change. The chores are hard, and the punishments harsh, and a lot more of her is scarred now. Very little of what Montgomery does has any logic to it.

But she still can't find an escape. She fears she's sinking into it.

_

When she's hired by Hayes Fletcher, more rules are added to the list.

9) Don't talk to the other pet.

10) If you disobey, it won't just be you who's punished.

Eloise won't receive whippings, of course, and no canings during the shoot, but she can be put in stress positions, or starved, or have a bucket of water dumped over her head before being left in the unheated studio overnight. And Agatha has absolutely no desire to subject her to anything other than a good hot meal and somewhere better to sleep.

_

Rule 7 is underlined dramatically by the inspector's visit. In the aftermath, Agatha's arm and back throbbing, blood pooling on the frozen stone floor that her toes are just able to touch, Eloise whimpering from her own position, Agatha makes sure to add another two rules to herself (though the second is altered after Eloise's angry objections).

11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.

12) Don't break the rules. Even Only if Eloise agrees to do so.

_

Agatha could possibly escape during the transatlantic crossing. She thinks about it. Even jumping overboard might be better. But she needs to see Eloise again. Be sure that she's alive and physically unhurt (from the sinking at least, Agatha has no doubt she'll have been hurt since). Tell her that she's brave, and a hero, because if it had been anyone but fellow pets she'd saved, if she was anyone but a pet herself, her actions would've been lauded, but instead it's Hayes Fletcher who's being praised for having such a good pet. Which isn't right, it isn't fair, and Agatha can't leave Eloise on her own.

That's when Agatha solidifies the last rule for herself, that's been brewing since she first met Eloise but she's never stopped to think about it before.

13) Her and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.

_

Then the Great War comes.

Foster Montgomery signs up to fight. He leaves Agatha in Hayes Fletcher's care, who lends her to the munitions factory, for good publicity and probably money (money for Fletcher? Money for Montgomery? She doesn't know. But neither man is big into philanthropy). Eloise isn't there. Agatha follows the rules Montgomery has already given her, hating the fact that they keep her alive.

Another few rules are added.

14) Don't become emotional.

15) Never make a sound.

16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.

That last is... profoundly obvious, at times. When the rest of the workers get to go home at the end of their shifts and she is kept working, or if there's no-one else at all, locked in the breakroom until morning. When she's fed less than the others, or when she's beaten, or–

It's so obvious, even more so than when she was hired by Hayes Fletcher. She hates it. And she's so alone here.

The war will be over by Christmas, right?

_

1915. Foster Montgomery is dead, and Agatha desperately wishes she could thank his killer, if anybody even knows. She gets a new tattoo, signifying her ownership by Hayes Fletcher (luckily, she knows his rules, there's no new ones to learn there). The Munitions Act comes into force, and the regular bombing raids start.

Monkey's paw. She's not alone anymore, but it means that Eloise, and several other pets, have joined her in the munitions factory.

She teaches Eloise what she's learned about staying out of trouble where possible. They have a dedicated bunkroom now, pets crammed in on old bedding on the floors of the worst-maintained rooms. They learn that only a few owners have paid for their pets to be taken to air raid shelters.

Hayes Fletcher hasn't.

Night after night they spend, trying to stay calm as bombs rain down around them. Occasionally they're still chained or tied up at night, for punishments, and when that happens Agatha worries the most.

She learns one more rule.

17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.

_

The war ends. By a miracle, her and Eloise are both still alive. Hayes Fletcher goes back to producing films, albeit with less success. Agatha watches as pet liberation campaigns grow, and the next decade approaches with force. The world seems a little more hopeful, things seem to be changing.

Except for her and Eloise. Stuck with the horrible, spiteful little man, punishments getting worse as he gets more frustrated and blames them for it (or maybe he simply has nowhere else to put his anger). The world's moving on, votes for women are coming, and she can't help but think of what her life might be like if she hadn't been kidnapped all those years ago.

She remembers rule 7. And the last time was dreadful, and another attempt could get them both killed, but she mentions her rule to Eloise one night and Eloise agrees. They have to try, don't they? Sometimes, it's the only thing you can do.

A week later, the film studio burns down in the middle of the night. Arson, probably. By the time the fire brigade arrive to the burnt out husk Agatha and Eloise are already sneaking onto a train to London.

_

"If the both of you want rules, I can give you some," says Ira, clearly reluctant, "as long as we can go through the ones you already have first. Is that all right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ira nods. "Why don't you write me a list then? We can go through them while Eloise is busy."

Agatha takes the paper and pen she offers, wincing as she sits down, heart skipping a beat. She's still not used to it.

At the end of the session, her list reads:

1) Don't say no.

2) Only speak when spoken to.

3) Don't talk back.

4) Address people as sir or ma'am.

5) Always obey immediately.

6) Don't remove your collar.

7) Punishments are always deserved, always hard, and given at the slightest provocation.

8) No-one's coming to my rescue. I'm not getting out of here unless I do it myself.

9) Don't talk to the other pets.

10) If you disobey, it won't be just you who's punished.

11) Don't talk about the situation to outsiders. It will only make things worse.

12) Don't break the rules. Only if Eloise agrees to do so.

13) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other. (Ira says she can get rid of this one partially too, but she's not so sure. Not yet)

14) Don't become emotional.

15) Never make a sound.

16) Just because you're working alongside people, doesn't mean you are one.

17) Sometimes all you can do is pray.

The new rules are easy, and straightforward, and Agatha doesn't entirely trust them. The list now reads:

1) You belong to yourself.

2) You will never be punished, no matter what you do.

3) You and Eloise only have each other, and will always have each other.

4) Sometimes all you can do is pray.

_

Agatha kneels on the floorboards, trembling. It's her turn today, Ira asked her to clean and she said yes, she's not sure why except she's so used to not being allowed to say no.

She hopes she's done well. She hopes she's done well. She hopes she won't be punished.

Ira doesn't do punishments. But all the same, she hopes she won't be punished.

There's footsteps, then they stop.

"Agatha?"

"I've finished cleaning, ma'am."

A hand on her shoulder. "Agatha, please look at me. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Come on, look up."

Agatha obeys hesitantly. And gasps. Ira's eyes are dark and warm and how could Agatha ever have thought otherwise? Ira gets down to her level as Agatha grasps her hands tightly, pulling her into a rare hug.

"Rules one and two, Agatha."

"I belong to myself," whispers Agatha, still clutching Ira tightly, "and I will not be punished."

Ira's two rules. The only two she'll ever make.

1) I belong to myself.

2) I will never be punished, no matter what I do.

And there's a third, that Agatha has added herself, that she thinks she probably can after so long. Rule number 5, now Ira has been proven correct and number 3 has been partially removed (Agatha does not only have Eloise now).

5) Ira keeps her promises.

#this is amazing #i really like it #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

What are some chronic illnesses that can only occur in a fantasy setting?

[maracujatangerine]

Yay! It is back! ❤️

I loved it last year! This time I will be very busy during this first week, but I’ll try to get into the spirit of things towards the end.

Thank you for a great event @bbu-on-the-side!

Come on everyone! Join in!

BBU Community Days 2024! In April!

Thank you, BBU community, for existing! To celebrate this community and our shared universe, I'll host a second instance of the BBU Community Days.

The event is open to everyone who enjoys the BBU. You don't have to be a writer or a long time participant, or anything, it's enough to just be someone who is fascinated by the universe! There's also no need to fill in all the prompts; no completionist badge will be awarded. The only "rule" is: if you want to boost your own content, please always boost someone else's too.

This year's prompts are in parts similar to last year's, some even stayed the same due to their success and popularity. Looking forward to seeing your new takes to it.

[Rules]

All prompts and a transcript of the image can be found under the cut as well.

April 14 / Community Prompt: (Re)Introduction / (Re-) Introduce yourself and give a little overview about your BBU writing / creations, favorite tropes, and the like.

April 15 / Worldbuilding Prompt: Questions (and Polls!) / What's an open question you've always asked yourself about the BBU?

April 16 / Writing Prompt: "RULES" / Write a BBU story based on the one-word-prompt and share it!

April 17 / Showcasing Prompt: Boxies / Talk about your current favorite boxie OCs (one of your own, one or more by someone else) with commentary on what makes them special to you!

April 18 / Creation Prompt: Memes & Prompts / Create a BBU meme (that would work in-universe or as a meta commentary - your call!), or curate a little BBU prompt list to inspire fellow writers, artists or roleplayers!

April 19 / Community Prompt: Favorites New & Old / Talk about the writers, characters or stories that most inspired your BBU journey - and if possible include a "new" favorite that you discovered (or that has only been been written) after last year’s event!

April 20 / Worldbuilding Prompt: Inspiration / What's an idea about the BBU worldbuilding that particularly inspires you, be it to daydream or to write?

April 21 / Writing Prompt: "OUTSIDE" / Write a BBU story based on the one-word-prompt and share it!

April 22 / Showcasing Prompt: Handlers or Owners / Talk about your current favorite BBU whumper OCs (one of your own, one or more by someone else) with commentary on what makes them special to you!

April 23 / Creation Prompt: In-Universe Media / Create a piece of media that could exist within the BBU!

April 24 / Community Prompt: Fanwork / Create a piece of fanwork (fanart, fanfic, moodboard, playlist…) for someone else’s BBU story, character, setting, pairing, or whatever inspires you about them!

April 25 / Worldbuilding Prompt: Archetypes / What’s a standard element of BBU worldbuilding you love to come back to in your own writing, and that makes you happy to see in others’? What are potential spins to it?

April 26 / Writing Prompt: "MADE FOR IT" / Write a BBU story based on the prompt and share it!

April 27 / Showcasing Prompt: Caretaker / Talk about your current favorite BBU caretaker OCs - be it pet lib activists, kind (?) owners, a boxie's loved ones... - (one of your own, one or more by someone else) with commentary on what makes them special to you!

April 28 / Creation Prompt: Collaboration / Create a piece of BBU content together with another community member! 

#bbu community #bbu #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

Paulo’s Captivity

(his most and least favorite captor is the same man)

CW: nsfw (or Easter Sunday service), explicit noncon, captivity, gang/group noncon, pet whump, begging, bruises, cigarette burns, guilt about compliance during noncon, sti mention, intimate whumper, ***whumpee has explicit physical reaction and pleasure from noncon***

-

The thing that wouldn’t leave Paulo alone was the relief he felt when they’d finish.

Even if it meant he’d only be left alone for an hour, or three, or that someone might give him some way to clean up, or a bottle of water to drink.

Often they would go silent when they came, rigid, eyes closed as if they were angry with him for making them do this to him. Others would bite his neck til he yelped out loud and moan filthy things in his ear, smelling of state cigarettes and the disinfectant whiff of alcohol.

Sometimes he helped them along. That’s what made him feel filthier now, especially after John had made the comment about getting him tested. He thought John, who seemed only to alternate between sterile practicality and almost reluctant but much welcome tenderness, probably meant nothing offensive by it. He’d even been generous enough to say it wouldn’t be Paulo’s fault if one of them had given him something. But John didn’t know all that happened, the whole ugly truth of it. John was probably picturing violent rapes, ones where he was held down by two men and abused by a third, and when he’d struggle they’d hit him in the face or punch him in the ribs.

And that is how it was, once or twice, at first. That was terrifying, and he thought for sure they’d kill him as soon as they were finished.

But as he’d gotten less interesting, and stopped fighting, they’d come to him alone or in pairs, try to find new ways to get him to react like he had initially. Two of them found that cigarette burns did the trick. They’d smoke them first, not wanting to waste cigarettes on him entirely, and when the cherry was close to the filter they’d stub them in his skin so he’d buck and whimper. Eventually he came to see the inevitable rape as the finale, and he’d look forward to getting it over with. Sometimes he’d go limp and let his eyes roll back into his head like he was unconscious, or dead, but then they would do something to him to make him lively again, and he couldn’t allow himself to go limp, his whole body was tensed for another blow or kick or cigarette butt. Other times he’d make shameless pornstar noises and feign a bewildered, slack-mouthed expression because he found it made some of them finish faster, which he would do anything to facilitate.

One particular man always came alone. He was around six feet, maybe in his early forties judging by the flecks of silver in his dark hair and the well-weathered quality of his skin so many of them had. He wore a faded brown leather jacket and had a scar on his right cheek that kept his stubble from growing over a one inch streak. He had gray eyes like slate and a knowing, gravely murmur he made soft for Paulo, like he was actually talking to him, not at him or to themselves like the others did.

The man with the scar wanted him to beg, he finally realized, and would stop hurting him once Paulo said the words he wanted to hear, in a convincing enough manner. It always got him hard, and then he’d reward Paulo with a rough but very controlled fuck. Paulo caught on, started pleading with the man before he even opened a pocket knife or lit a Camel Light. This clearly amused him, but it mostly worked. The man would grab Paulo by a fistful of hair and pull him close, pull his head back so his neck was vulnerable. He smelled of diesel and the brown leather jacket, and his beard was coarse and close, like the bristles of a horse brush.

“Please,” Paulo whispered, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Please don’t hurt me. I’m too sore. It’s too much.”

“Where does it hurt, baby?” The man with the scar murmured in that low register of his.

Paulo let a whimper come into his voice. This man wanted it, and if he didn’t get it, he would find a way to coax it out. “Everywhere.”

“Aw. I’ll be real gentle then, Paulo,” he said, kissing Paulo’s nose. As far as he knew, this man was the only one that knew his name. He was the only one that had ever asked.

This time started no different than the others with this particular man. He always brought lubricant— real lubricant, not some questionable substitute Paulo was afraid of having inside him— a mercy he no longer took for granted. At first he had put on a condom, but he’d since given up that little facade. He slicked himself and then put a slick finger gently inside Paulo, who flinched at the cold, invasive touch. This man was the only one who ever used a finger to prep him, too. The prodding, massaging digit was somehow more intimate than a greedy, violent cock in him, and his face always burned when the man did it.

Then the act itself. He was used to it now. How it still hurt at first was just a familiar, almost comforting sensation. If they were onto this part, it would be over soon and he could sleep for an hour or so, as if trying to erase his short term memory of the event.

What was different about the man with the scar was the way he’d position Paulo, and the way he’d fuck him. He’d hold him down so he couldn’t be bounced up and down by the motion— movement couldn’t help absorb the thrusts. He’d hold him still and fuck into him quick and deep, the whole time watching his face. Paulo couldn’t escape the eyes like chipped steel or the hands that held him. On this instance, the third or fourth identical violation, Paulo felt with rising horror that he had somehow relaxed into this inevitability enough to feel an aching, damning pleasure deep inside— and the man with the scar knew it. He recognized it immediately, smiling with straight white teeth, and fucked him faster and slightly shallower, pulling him forward a few inches to make the angle even more dramatic.

To his horror, Paulo felt he was hard for the first time in weeks. His breaths were coming shallow and sharp. The skin of his chest and neck was flushed, and the lube between their skin felt tacky and obscene. His whole body was relaxing around one tensed point deep inside him that threatened to blank out the rest of his existence with this demanding, overwhelming stimulation. His body still hurt from the beatings, but the man with the scar was not doing anything to press on his bruises or chafe on his burns. He had never hit him or done anything else violent or surprising when he fucked him. And now his traitorous body was responding by enjoying this depravity.

“There you are,” the man said to him, tracing his thumb over the wet head of Paulo’s cock, rubbing it slowly back and forth on the sensitive slit so teasingly so he gasped.

Had he ever been so hard? It’d been so long that it felt nearly painful. He panted as the man toyed with him. He had to squeeze his fingernails into his palms to keep himself from something stupid like pushing the man’s hands away from all his oversensitive parts. The reddened slit of his tip was drooling more clear precum than before, and the man didn’t miss the opportunity to torment the sensitive head with his thumb again. He jerked forward half an inch involuntarily, his abdominal muscles contracting in little spasms.

“If I could take you home with me I could train you to come just from this,” the man said in that knowing, confidential croon of his, rubbing up and down over barely a half an inch of the tip of his twitching cock. Paulo was horrified at how easily he slipped further into the comfort of physical pleasure, of being made to feel something other than pain. “We’d get you begging for all sorts of things you’ve never even thought of before.” He smiled at the thought. “Despite what you think, you’re still practically a virgin to me.”

As his mind reeled with what that could possibly mean, the man finally squeezed his cock at the base instead of torturing him. He whined, unable to close his knees even an inch, speared by his captor’s thick cock and vulnerable to his every whim. He tensed in anticipation, which only made the feeling of being fucked raw more intense as the large, calloused hand worked his red and swollen cock between them with deliberate, controlling strokes. His knees trembled around the man’s hips, his fingernails dug for more purchase in his palms as he forced his hands to stay still and compliant at his sides. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it, though he did try at the very last moment, which only made him come harder, twitching and whimpering through it as it seemed to go on and on. The man with the scar watched and grinned serenely at him as he came over his own bruised belly, legs spread and trembling around the man’s hips.

“You’re a sweet little whore,” he said once he finished and pulled out of Paulo. He cleaned and tucked himself back into his pants. “I could tell. Just gotta find the right buttons and push them.”

Paulo shuddered and clenched around aftershocks of pleasure, the ecstasy of which dulled as they faded and he was left with a mess on his belly and between his legs. His skin was no longer flushed and the air felt cold against his bare thighs.

The man handed him his preferred and most coveted reward— an unopened bottle of water. Then he left, and Paulo could not sleep for the waves of sick guilt that wracked him like fever.

#this is just brutal #very good #reblog #others #explicit

[maracujatangerine]

I liked this: “You okay?” he asked, and they both knew he meant it in the immediate sense, because anyone could surmise he was very much not okay in the greater scheme of things. ”

Nice with a self-aware pet!

You should give Paulo more comfort. Maybe a blanket

John drove all day, north on route 20 to avoid Dallas traffic, then east and east and east into the red sunrise that glowed in the streaks of dust on his windshield where the wipers could not reach.

By the time they were approaching Texarkana, he could tell Paulo had had it. He looked exhausted, the AC that kept the cabin of the truck comfortable for John was making him cold. His two black eyes drew attention everywhere they went, and Paulo knew it. All day he pulled the hood of his new gray Walmart sweatshirt over his head whenever they stopped. It was mostly why John didn’t stop at any diners or restaurants, but got them drive-thru bagels and gas station drinks, stopping only to put gas in the truck or for a bathroom.

Around five pm Paulo dozed off in the passenger seat and woke with a start ten minutes later, breathless and terrified.

“Hey,” John settled, looking back at forth between the boy and the road. “You’re okay. You just fell asleep. You’re safe.”

Paulo unbuckled his seatbelt and flung it off like it had been trying to strangle him, slowly catching his breath. He looked over at John.

John nodded at him. “You’re okay,” he repeated. He held out his hand instinctively, wrist resting on the middle console with fingers spread out in offering. Paulo looked at it for a moment before lifting his own, cautiously, like it might be a trick… like John was going to grab him tightly by the wrist. Gingerly, he set his palm atop John’s. John closed his fingers gently over Paulo’s hand— surprisingly cold— and gave it a friendly squeeze. “It’s okay,” he said again, and merged into the right lane to drop his speed down from eighty to seventy. “Bad dream?”

“I just… I get confused when I fall asleep.”

John nodded to show his understanding. “Your brain forgets you’re safe now.”

The look in his eyes was hungry, almost longing. That’s why John kept talking to him like that, repeating the same comforting things over and over. It seemed to work.

At dusk John pulled into a truck stop adjacent with route 49, which ran all the way down to Shreveport and was therefore a popular trucking route. It was a Navis truck stop, massive and glittering like an oasis in a vast desert of dust and corn and highway. He eyed Paulo as casually as he could, trying to see if he’d picked up on the Navis sign as well. Jack Kinsington lived on the tobacco farm that once made his family rich, but his money today came from being CEO of the successful truck stop chain he started in 96’ with John’s uncle Theo— Navis.

Paulo seemed to recognize it, to know what it meant. He dropped his eyes from the sign, the unmistakable compass rose that made up the letter a. Jack had the same compass rose over the door of the barn where he kept his playthings— racehorses and two-legged pets alike. John pulled up next to a gas pump and put the truck in park.

“You look beat, kid.”

Paulo sat up straighter. “I’m fine. Sorry.”

“You wanna get in back for a while? You can lay down.”

Paulo eyed him, then looked over his shoulder at the backseat of the truck. “Okay,” he said.

John felt satisfied that the suggestion worked. He topped off the truck with gas and went inside for a fresh pack of nicotine pouches. The store was clean and bright. John waited in line beside racks of hats, snow globes, shot glasses. He noticed a rack of blankets and touched one, pleased at how soft it was. He tucked one under his arm and stepped forward to the register.

“Here,” he said back at the truck. “Go ahead and get comfortable.”

Paulo climbed in the back, using one of John’s bags as a makeshift pillow propped against the passenger side door. “I got you this,” he said, turning in his seat to drape the soft blanket over the boy. For a moment Paulo looked surprised, and then took the hem of the blanket to pull it up a little higher. “Thank you,” he breathed, and lay his head against the backpack.

“It’s okay if you want to try to sleep,” John told him. “I want to get a few more hours east before we stop for the night.”

He wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t find the words. Briefly, he reached back and set a hand on Paulo’s shin beneath the blanket and gave a gentle squeeze. “You okay?” he asked, and they both knew he meant it in the immediate sense, because anyone could surmise he was very much not okay in the greater scheme of things.

Paulo nodded, tucking his chin under the blanket in a way that made John want to climb in back with him and offer to hold him if he wanted, if he needed a kind touch. He didn’t know if that would be helpful or welcome after what he had just been through, but he would gladly do it if it would comfort him. Maybe he was being too presumptive. Naive, even. This boy, this traumatized and beaten pet, was tolerating him because he had no choice. He was desperately hopeful, but not yet really trusting. It wouldn’t do to conflate the two. It would be unspeakably cruel to gain his true trust for such a short time, anyway. He’d have to betray him soon and give him back to his rightful master and owner. There was no sane way around it.

“Couple more hours,” he said, and turned forward to put the truck into drive.

(Previous)

#reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

These are great!

I particularly like this one:

“Caretaker is a naturally caring and nurturing person. Whumpee is an aloof, headstrong, independent son of a gun. When Caretaker sees the condition Whumpee is in, they jump into Mother Mode immediately, and although Whumpee absolutely HATES being cared for (mostly just because they aren't naturally very emotional or friendly), they realize they have no choice. Still, Whumpee has no idea how to handle being cared for physically and emotionally, so what they say and do inevitably end up being awkward, blunt, cold, or out-of-place.”

Most whump is serious and dramatic, which is wonderful, but I also want to see some comedic whump/caretaker action. Like slapstick, sitcom type humor. Here's some examples:

Caretaker dumbfounded by Whumpee's severe mood swings due to delirium, stress, overwhelm, etc.

Caretaker is a naturally caring and nurturing person. Whumpee is an aloof, headstrong, independent son of a gun. When Caretaker sees the condition Whumpee is in, they jump into Mother Mode immediately, and although Whumpee absolutely HATES being cared for (mostly just because they aren't naturally very emotional or friendly), they realize they have no choice. Still, Whumpee has no idea how to handle being cared for physically and emotionally, so what they say and do inevitably end up being awkward, blunt, cold, or out-of-place.

Whumpee and Caretaker share a braincell. Whumpee gets hurt, Caretaker panics attempting to tend to an also panicked Whumpee's wounds. Caretaker accidentally makes it worse, and when Whumpee tries to help in their delirious/pained state, they also make it worse. They blame each other for everything. Caretaker probably also gets hurt attempting to handle first aid/medical supplies. Cue incoherent frantic yelling. Whumpee passes out, wakes up later to see Caretaker sitting next to them (along with Medic who begrudgingly tended to Whumpee because they actually know what they're doing). The two knuckleheads have a sappy Bromance moment while Medic rolls their eyes, lecturing them to be more careful.

Whumpee is rendered unable to go on due to wounds or illness in the middle of nowhere. A kind stranger Caretaker happens upon them and decides to take them in and nurse them back to health. Whumpee is completely out of it and is just happy to have found help. Quickly Whumpee realizes that, although Caretaker is an expert in medicine, they are a little... off... nonetheless, Caretaker is Whumpee's only hope at survival. Caretaker ends up being less like a kind doctor and more like a mad scientist - insane, chaotic, but willing to "nurse" Whumpee "Back To Health". Think TF2 Medic.

i need more of these sorts of scenarios, but I'm awful at writing comedy.

#whump prompt #writing ideas #writing #writing prompts #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

 Hey btw, another worldbuilding thing: You can, and actually should have weird and impractical cultural things. They’re not inherently unrealistic, for as long as you address the realistic consequences as well.

 Let’s say you’ve got a city where there’s tame white doves everywhere. They’re not pests, they’re regarded as sacred, holy protectors of the city, and the whole city cares for them and feeds them like they’re pets. They’re so tame because it’s a social taboo to hurt or scare one. Nice pretty doves :)

 Then someone points out that even if they’re not seen as pests, doesn’t having a completely unchecked feral pigeon population - that not only isn’t being culled, but actively fed and cared for - mean that there would be bird shit absolutely all over the place?

 A part of you wants to say no, because these are your nice, pretty doves. To explain that there’s a reason why they’re not shitting all over the place, maybe they’re super-intelligent and specifically bred and trained to not shit all over the place. The logistics of how, exactly, could anyone breed and train a flock of feral birds go unaddressed.

 An even worse solution would be to not have those birds, editing them out of the world. No, they spark joy, you can’t just toss them out!

 Now, consider: Yes, yes they would, but the city also has an extensive public sanitation service that’s occupied 90% of the time by cleaning bird shit off of everything. One of the most common last names in the area actually translates to “one who scrapes off dove shit”, and it’s a highly respected occupation. And thanks to the sheer necessity of constantly regularly cleaning everything, the city enjoys a much higher standard of cleanliness, and less public health issues caused by poor public sanitation.

 The doves do protect the city. By shitting fucking everywhere.

#cool stuff #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

Hello! Would you write a Villain finding out that the city's bravest (Villain's favourite) Hero has an irrational fear. Domestic vibes?

...if it interests you ofcourse!

this DOES interest me i love this!!! thank you for the request, hope you enjoy :D

-

Despite what the city thinks of them, the villain is not a soulless monster.

Now, the villain always enjoyed a good scare. A knife too close to the face, or a finger on a detonator, or a good old kidnapping. Easy scares, something that would scare anyone.

The hero is facing the villain’s guard dog, though, and the villain’s starting to suspect that their usual slight scare isn’t as slight as they intended. 

The villain’s dog is a doberman, of course, with the teeth and the growl to match. They chose him because everyone’s scared of dobermans, and so far he’s done a pretty good job of keeping nosy heroes out of the villains business—because most heroes have the sense to turn on their heel upon seeing him.

This hero though, the absolute moron, does not seem to have this sense. They’re cowering on the floor and are decidedly not running away like they’re meant to.

The villain gives the hero a half-thoughtful nudge with their toe. “[Hero]?”

The hero’s gaze snaps up to them momentarily before settling back on their dog. “I-Is that yours?”

“Yeah.” The villain gives him an affectionate pat on the head. He’s too busy growling at the hero to respond. “He is.”

“Can you, uh, call it off or something?”

“He’s a guard dog, [Hero],” the villain snaps with a hint of exasperation, “I’m not meant to call him off, you’re meant to leave.”

“Okay, yeah, great, cool, yeah.” There’s a moment of silence filled with the dog’s rumbling. “I–I can’t leave.”

The villain snorts at that. “I know you probably worked very hard to get this far, but I can’t let you go any further. Nice try though, I—”

“No.” The hero’s voice is so quiet the villain barely hears it. “I can’t leave.”

Clearly there is a secret meaning in that. The villain can’t be bothered figuring it out. “It’s the, uh, it’s the dog,” the hero continues after a long moment. “I’m– I’m really afraid of dogs. I just freeze up when I see one, um…”

The villain can’t believe it. On any other hero, they would’ve struck gold with this. But this hero is one of the nicer ones, one of the ones that seems to have a sense of morality beyond the skewed moral compass the agency seems to drill into all heroes.

Long story short, this hero is one of the villain’s favourites. They can’t leave them like this—it’s embarrassing, for one.

The villain puts a hand on their dog. “Alright, calm down.”

The growling stops almost immediately. The dog sits, oddly polite, his head tilted like he’s just seeing the hero with interest for the first time. The hero looks back at him with no less horror than before.

The villain flops down next to them. “He’s harmless now, see?” They reach a hand out, and the dog snuffles his nose into their palm. “He’s well-trained. He only does things like that on my command.”

The villain gives him a scratch under the chin and his tail thumps rhythmically on the floor. The hero’s eyes don’t move from his face. “What’s, uh, what’s he called?”

The villain should’ve seen it coming. They could lie, maybe, but their dog would rat them out immediately. He’s too well-trained, goddamnit.

The silence stretches a second too long. “His name’s Tiny.”

Tiny’s ears prick up at his name. The hero blanches and accidentally catches his attention again. “You call that tiny?”

“It’s ironic.”

The hero watches in pained silence as the villain makes a show of petting him. They’re pressed into the wall like they’re hoping it’ll swallow them whole, their hands balled into anxiously white, tight fists.

Such a stupid name has clearly not done its job. The villain holds a hand out to the hero. The hero stares at it like the villain’s handing them a gun.

“I’m trying to help you here,” the villain says after another painfully long moment. “Give me your hand.”

The hero slowly—agonisingly slowly—sinks their hand into the villain’s. The villain’s grip snaps around their wrist so fast they yelp.

“Okay,” the villain says smoothly, “now you’re going to pet him.”

The hero’s eyes widen and their mouth moves in what is clearly about to be a sharp god, no.

The villain tugs them forwards before they can complain. Tiny bumps his nose against the hero’s palm hopefully. The hero’s breath hitches, their arm tense in the villain’s hold.

“Calm down,” the villain says, not unkindly. “He likes you, see?”

The hero finally shifts their hand to give Tiny a halfhearted pet. He leans into it avidly, his tail thudding joyously against the floor again.

A smile tries to break on their face, their body finally relaxing slightly. They sink into relief a little too easily, leaning into the villain a bit more than the villain’s willing to admit they like.

“He’s softer than I thought he’d be,” the hero comments. Their voice has lost that tense edge, thankfully.

“He’s a good dog.” The villain sighs and Tiny huffs back. “He’s done a great job of keeping your lot out.”

The villain finally lets go of the hero’s wrist to let them give him a scratch under the chin. “Until me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a very weird anomaly. He was probably wondering why you weren’t hightailing it out of here like everyone else.”

The hero hums thoughtfully. “He didn’t bite me.”

“I don’t teach him to bite; he’s just here to scare. Maiming people I don’t like is my job.”

The two of them fall back into silence for another moment, though this one isn’t long or uncomfortable. The villain simply watches the hero suck up to their one line of defence, their breath a lot more even than it was before.

“Speaking of maiming people,” the villain continues, “we should get to me kicking your ass at some point, shouldn’t we?”

The hero laughs brightly, and the villain tries not to feel too relieved at the sound. “Yeah, I suppose so.” They get to their feet, shaking the ache out of their limbs. “As long as you don’t use your attack dog as an unfair advantage.”

“I already told you, [Hero], he doesn’t do the biting” — The villain springs to their feet excitedly — “I do.”

#cute #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

there's a cherry blossom tree in DC that keeps blooming every year even though it shouldn't and the park service keeps thinking it's dead and then it keeps blooming! well they're removing a lot of trees to rehabilitate the area and they've said it's finally time for stumpy to go and they're going to mulch it and use the mulch to enrich all the other trees so it can help everything else keep going. and they're also going to plant spliced little pieces of it all over so that stumpy can live forever and this is genuinely sending me into a spiral

#cool stuff #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

So when Jesus rises from his grave everyone rejoices and it becomes a holiday but when I, Count Dracula-

#dracula #reblog #others

[maracujatangerine]

Companion, pt. 2

A (slightly delayed) follow up to this chapter. Jaime & Sebastian add another member to their little makeshift household.

WARNINGS: The usual BBU stuff, animal shelter setting, collars, mentions of past foster care, anxiety, but mostly good things happening here.

The animal shelter they chose is in the heart of the city. Their website mentioned that they often deal with overpopulation, since it’s the biggest one in the area, so Sebastian thought they might have the most positive impact by adopting from them. They have a list of available animals with photos that they update daily, but Jaime turned down Sebastian’s offer to look through them.

He doesn’t tell him that swiping through a catalog of strays, deciding their fate behind the comfort of a computer screen, feels too much like how a prospective Keeper might shop for their Companion. How someone once shopped for him.

They make a plan to go on Saturday morning, and Jaime spends the rest of the week quietly stewing in an unnamed anxiety. He doesn’t bring it up—not when Sebastian talks excitedly about pet toys he found online over dinner, not when his nerves cut into his ability to fall asleep at night, and certainly not when he is buckled into the passenger seat, watching the big, yellow bridge that leads into downtown come into view. 

The building itself is large but sparse, all cement-gray walls and scuffed floors and signs of age that reflect a probable lack of funding. As they walk through the main hallway, flanked by rows of doors and cages, Jaime thinks that it reminds him a little of the training facility. He keeps that to himself, too. 

There is a volunteer—a young woman with her hair in a bun and a stain on her shirt—showing Jaime and Sebastian around. 

“The dogs are back this way,” she says. “Green tags on the doors are puppies under six months. Yellow tags mean they can be a little jumpy around people, red equals not good matches for homes with young children. Blue tags mean they’re seniors. Those are usually the ones that have been with us the longest.”

Jaime tries hard not to think about what happens to the senior dogs that overstay their welcome. 

“Cats are on this side,” she continues, pointing to her left. “We just ask that you wash your hands if you enter one of the playrooms, and avoid direct contact with any red tags. Any questions?”

Sebastian looks at Jaime, who tenses slightly at the attention but shakes his head. 

“I think we’re all good.” Sebastian says. 

She smiles. “Just let us know if you have any questions.”

With a nod, they set off down the hall on their own, Jaime sticking close to Sebastian’s heels. 

“So,” Sebastian says, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “Anywhere in particular you want to start? Young? Old? Big? Small?”

Jaime looks around at all the cages, suddenly overwhelmed—by the decision, by the sharp whines and barks for attention, by the closeness of the other prospective adopters, by the sad, watchful eyes of the animals as people pass them by. By the collars fastened around their necks, reminding Jaime of the weight of his own, the visibility of it peeking up through the dip in the sweatshirt neckline. Absently, he touches the warm metal with his fingertips. 

Sebastian seems to sense his discomfort, because he eases back. “You know what? Maybe we just take a lap or two and see what happens,” he says. “Maybe there will be an instant connection.”

They start with a black lab with a green tag on his cage door, who instantly jumps up and tries to paw at them when Sebastian sinks into a crouch.

“Well, aren’t you full of energy?” Sebastian’s voice lifts into a high sing-song tone when he speaks to the dogs, and the surprise of it is so endearing that it momentarily pulls Jaime from his inward spiral. “Only five months old,” he says to Jaime.

Against his wishes, memories of a long lost life in foster care rise to the surface. Jaime had been old enough when he entered to know that his chances of finding a family to adopt him were low, and only getting lower with each passing birthday.

“I’m sure she’ll be very popular,” Jaime says.

“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees, sticking his finger through one of the holes in the grate so that the puppy can sniff him. “You’ll find a home in no time, sweet girl.”

They move past a few more cages, Sebastian seemingly thrilled with the prospect of bringing any one of them home, but Jaime’s anxiety only grows. It’s when they come upon a cage with a golden labrador puppy—one that looks a little too similar to the fading image he has of a puppy from his childhood—that he reaches a breaking point. 

He takes a few steps away—not so far as to wander away from Sebastian’s watch, but a couple of doors down the row. Jaime takes slow, deep breaths as he looks down at the sleeping dog in the kennel in front of him, trying to imagine her laying on Sebastian’s living room rug. Trying not to imagine what it might look like to feed her every day, to brush her, to walk her, to love her, and then to leave her behind in six months when Jaime is called back to the facility. 

Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind Jaime’s straying, so he allows himself the space, moving slowly along the row of animals. He makes it all the way to the end of the hall when a flash of movement catches his eye. At the corner, secluded away from the glass-walled play rooms, is a singular cage with a black cat inside. The flash of movement he saw, it seems, was the cat’s abrupt recoil from a pair of reaching hands.

“Don’t put your fingers in the cage!” A young mother scolds, grabbing her child’s wrist and pulling him back from the cage. “You’re going to get bit.”

The kid gies a grumble of complaint but moves onto the next door quickly, not sparing a look back at the cage. Jaime watches as the black cat shrinks even further behind a wadded up blanket, pressing herself to the back corner of the cage, where no one can reach. Her bright, green eyes scan the area, back and forth, watching for invaders. She doesn’t look aggressive, Jaime thinks. She looks scared. 

Without realizing it, Jaime has taken a step toward the cage. He sees both a blue and a yellow tag on the door and tries to remember what the codes mean. On a small slip of paper at the top of the cage, the name “Bella” is written out in sharpie. 

“Hi Bella,” he whispers, barely audible. “You’re okay.”

Slowly, broadcasting the movement as much as he can, he lifts a hand and places the tip of his finger just at the edge of the cage; not enough to intrude the walls of her space, but hopefully enough to be a show of invitation. Bella looks at his finger for a long few seconds, then up at his eyes. Stupidly, Jaime smiles, like it might soften her to him.  

“Pretty eyes, right?”

The sudden voice startles him, even more for the fact that it isn’t Sebastian’s. He pulls his hand away like it was burned and turns to find another young woman with a volunteer shirt on. 

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

“No need,” she says, then nods her head toward the cage. “I think you’ve got her attention.” 

Jaime looks back at the cage and finds that the cat has taken a few steps out from her hiding spot, a curious nose pointed where Jaime’s finger had been. Carefully, darting a quick look at the woman for approval, Jaime lifts his hand again. This time, the cat only stares at it for a few seconds before she bumps her nose against his skin. A breath of a laugh startles out of him. 

“That’s the most contact she’s had with anyone on her own terms,” the girl says. “She must like you.”

“Can I ask…?” Jaime starts then hesitates. The woman's gaze dips, almost unwittingly, to Jaime’s throat. He watches something flash across her expression before she schools it with a neutral look. 

“You can ask me,” she tells him. 

“Why is she in a cage by herself? Away from the other cats?”

“She’s FIV+.”

Jaime glances back at the cat. “She’s sick?”

The woman nods. “It’s an immunodeficiency virus. There’s no cure for it, but it’s entirely possible for cats to live full, happy lives with it. But it’s best that she goes to a home with no other cats.”

“I think he… My…” Jaime clears his throat. “I think he is looking for a dog.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “I see.”

As if summoned, Sebastian appears at his shoulder. “Oh, look at this cutie!”

Jaime tries to conceal his startled jump. “Her name is Bella,” he says quietly. 

“Look at her,” Sebastian croons, crouching beside the cage but not attempting to make contact. “She’s a love bug.”

“She’s actually quite shy,” the woman says, taking the smallest nudge of a step in front of Jaime to stand between them. “I was just telling him how he must be special to win her over so quickly.”

Sebastian’s first instinct is to shoot Jaime a smile. He stands slowly, knees cracking, and says, “I can’t say I’m surprised.” Then, to Jaime, he adds, “I didn’t know you were a cat person.”

“I’ve never had one,” he says honestly. 

“Hmm.” Sebastian turns back toward the cat, studying her for a few long seconds before he says, “Do you like her?”

Jaime blinks, letting his hand slowly drop to his side. In his periphery, he sees Bella raise a paw to tap impatiently against the cage wall. 

“I…” He looks to the cat, to the volunteer, and back at Sebastian. “Yes.” 

Sebastian nods, once, decisively, then turns to the volunteer. “We’ll take her.”

There’s a moment’s pause. They both turn to him, surprised. “I… I thought you wanted a dog,” Jaime says. 

He shrugs. “I think Bella has made the decision for us, really.” He nods toward where she is still perched at the edge of the cage, nuzzling against the bars to reach Jaime. “I mean, look at her. It’s out of our hands.”

He is fawning over the cat—who has decided to regard him with a look of skeptical displeasure—but Jaime only has eyes for Sebastian. He blinks up at him, trying to tame the spread of warmth in his chest. “Really?” he asks. 

Sebastian gives an uncertain smile, one that Jaime is becoming more and more familiar with. “Is that okay with you?”

Jaime swallows tightly, lowering his voice. “You’ll keep her?” he asks, trying to ignore the inquisitive glance from the volunteer. “Even when I’m gone?”

It looks like there’s a lot more that Sebastian wants to say, but in their present company, he only meets Jaime’s eyes and says, “Yes. Of course”

Jaime breathes out and gives a single, decisive nod. 

“Alright then,” the woman breaks the silence after a few tense moments. “Let’s get the paperwork started.”

***

On the way home, Sebastian drives carefully enough that his knuckles go white around the steering wheel, trying to avoid every bump and crack in the road. Jaime is in the backseat, which is an arrangement Sebastian normally wouldn’t prefer, but it’s only because he wants to be able to sit next to Bella’s carrier. 

He casts a glance in the rearview mirror to see Jaime gently running the back of his finger against the mesh wall, ducking his head so he can peek inside. 

“What should we name her?” Sebastian asks, almost regretting breaking the moment of reverence. 

Jaime sits up, meeting his eyes in the mirror. A dip of confusion forms between his brows. “You don’t like the name Bella?”

“Oh.” Sebastian blinks. “I—no, it’s cute. I like it. Just… I think most of the time the names they’re given in the shelter are temporary things? People usually change them to whatever they want when they bring them home.”

Jaime is quiet long enough to make Seabstian think maybe he’s stepped in something he didn’t mean to. Then, he asks, “Do you think she had a name before the shelter?”

Sebastian shrugs. “They didn’t know much about her history. If she was a stray her whole life, I guess she probably didn’t.”

He looks back down at the carrier, continuing the slow, soothing motion of his finger. “I’m okay with whatever name you decide for her,” he says, and Seabstian can’t help but hear a bit of dejection slip through. 

The pieces connect, and Sebastian considers the kind of weight a name might carry for someone who has had his stolen. 

Sebastian tightens his grip on the steering wheel, keeping his voice as even as he can. “No, I think you’re right,” he says. “Bella suits her just fine.”

****

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing@whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort  @termsnconditions-apply  @cyborg0109  @whumplr-reader  @pinkraindropsfell  @whatwhumpcomments @honeycollectswhump @pirefyrelight @handsinmotion @alexmundaythrufriday @scoundrelwithboba 

#ooh complicated feelings #i like this #very well written #reblog #others