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3-2-whump · 6 days

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The Auction Floor: Thomas Costa’s POV

Hi all,

In exchange for a chapter on the current timeline (a chapter I am still working on/fixing up before it is posted), I am posting a prequel chapter. Any and all prequel chapters will be found under 'Eternal, part 0.' They won't have nav arrows, but they will have an explanation to when in the story they take place, and a link to the masterlist to read more. Hope this system works for everyone!

This chapter happens slightly before, concurrently, and a little after The Auction Floor

TW/CW: death of a minor character (briefly mentioned), institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), creepy/intimate whumper(s) (sort of a multiple whimpers situation), manhandling (nonsexual) (towards the end)

Mob boss Luciano Antonio Costa – Boss Tony - had died, leaving mafia to his grandson, Thomas, to control. The newly-appointed heir didn’t look much like a typical Italian mob boss. With his blonde hair, steely blue eyes, and freckled fair skin, he hardly even looked Italian. However, the old boss never had any legitimate male heirs to pass the helm of leadership to, having only one daughter before his wife died. Although he begrudgingly accepted his daughter’s marriage to Tom’s father, an inconsequential gangster from the Irish mob, he had always intended to pass the family business onto his surviving grandson.

“I’m so sorry for your loss” began to lose its meaning after the fourth well-meaning chump, and unfortunately, Grandpa Tony’s funeral had a good turnout. “That was a beautiful eulogy,” one of many nameless faces sniffled. “You two must have been very close,” they’d said to him. Were we ever close, though? Thomas wanted to ask, remembering only the time they last fought. It may as well have been a lifetime ago when he was a teenager who turned his back on the family to try and live a straight life, but the guilt hung over him like a curse no matter how hard he had tried to run away from his fate as the next boss of the Costas. It was always about what he wanted me to be, not what I wanted. Never once was it ever about what I wanted to do with my life, he bitterly remembered. Even now, it was all about Grandpa Tony’s wants, as he accepted his role in leading the Costas. He cast a baleful glance at the casket as it slowly disappeared beneath the earth.You won, old man.

His underboss and a few of the capos, men that he had grown up with and who now supported him in running the large criminal organization, caught on to their new boss’ sour mood. Admittedly, it wasn’t hard to notice how intensely he scowled at the freshly filled-in grave. They suggested celebrating Thomas’ ascension to head of the family with drinks and a night out, but their idea of a night out was attending a black-market auction and maxing out the organization’s funds on frivolous shit. Powerful drugs, illicit weapons, plundered antiques, and –dear god, did Jaime just buy an arowana?! Thomas looked over the side of his whiskey glass disapprovingly.

He glanced over at a corner of the auction house that seemed to gather a large crowd. He shrugged and decided to join them to see the display. The crowd surrounded an entire floor-to-ceiling wall of glass, behind which stood people from all around the world, each divided into their own little compartments within the glass wall, each of them completely naked. The way they were displayed in those little glass tanks was oddly reminiscent of how fish were displayed at a pet store.

Get a pet, people had said to him. It’ll be good for you, they said, help lift your spirits, they said, if you’re responsible for keeping one little thing alive, maybe you’ll be more motivated to take care of yourself, they said. Surely those people had meant a cat or a dog or a python, and probably not an actual human being. Although, Thomas remembered the people giving him that advice were part of the major crime families of the city, too. Perhaps this was what they meant all along?

Regardless of what those people meant, it was a whole different thing to actually commit to owning a person. He’d never seriously considered it before, but now he found himself thoughtfully observing the merchandise behind the glass. Though there were a few people who were obviously adults, most of them were teens, and most them were girls, though there were a couple boys, too.

Whichever one he’d pick, they would have to be relatively attractive, if he was going to have to bear looking at them at the end of every day. He eyed a glass cell with a stunning blonde girl futilely trying to cover herself with her hands and ignore the gazes directed within her cell. Thomas pushed past the crowd and moved on; pretty girls like that would be swiped up immediately, so it wouldn’t even be worth the trouble to place a bid. The next cell held a freckled boy who leaned into the glass, fogging it up with his breath and writing ‘HELP ME’ over and over again with his finger. Thomas passed on that one, too. One by one he would find something wrong with the human assets behind the glass cases. Too shy, too desperate, not my type, that one just stares ahead and doesn’t even move…

He finally stopped around the last few cells, where a crowd had dissipated from in front of a glass cell with discontented murmurs. Inside that one crouched a small boy, knobby knees drawn to bony chest, thin, tan arms wrapped around his shins, and a head of messy dark hair resting on top his knees. The boy dared to look up from his hiding place. Loose, unruly waves of hair and thick, dark eyelashes nearly covered his expressive dark brown eyes. Those eyes hid nothing as they shone with fear. Thomas gripped the whiskey in his hand a little tighter. The child cut a striking image inside the glass prison, reminding him of a time and a place and an incidence he never liked to think about for long-

To his misfortune, his subordinates caught him staring. “Got your eye on the little slave, Tommy-Boy?” Luca asked as he sauntered up to him.

“Don’t call him that.” Even if that was technically what he would be, the whole concept still took a while for him to get used to. “I just think he’s cute is all,” he mumbled into his glass, draining it of the rest of the whiskey while he tried to convince himself the pink in his cheeks was only from the drink.

“Why don’t you place a bid?” Thomas whipped around to see Jaime lurking behind him. When did he get here? His eyes traveled down to the large picnic cooler on wheels, supposedly where Jaime’s new fish was. “Boss Tony, God rest his soul, left you quite the inheritance, I’m sure you can afford him,” Jamie snickered. He pointed to the sign above the glass cell, where the serial number and QR code were displayed prominently. “142225,” he read.

“Doesn’t he kind of remind you of-”

“You shut up. Right now,” Thomas warned.

“We’ll shut up once you place a bid, now come on! At least look up the little slave!”

Thomas sighed and whipped out his phone; the sooner he scanned the QR Code with the app the black market had made him download, the sooner his underlings would shut the hell up. A profile popped up on his phone screen, the men crowding comically around him to read over his shoulder. 142225 had been collected in Pakistan, was 5’1”, and weighed barely 90 lbs. at the last weigh-in.

“They like to starve the kids here,” Luca explained nonchalantly. “Makes it easier to control them.” Thomas glanced briefly at the thin boy inside the glass, frowning a little as he let that unsettling fact sink in. He quickly scrolled past the blood type, known allergies, and other information he deemed irrelevant to hover his thumb over the ‘PLACE A BID’ button.

“Well, go on, you know you want to!”

“He looks easy enough to take care of, and easy on the eyes, too!”

“We saw how enviously you stared at Matteo’s pet at the last New Year’s party, won’t it be nice to finally have one of your own?”

Eventually, their peer-pressure resulted in the new mob boss placing a bid, becoming $30k poorer, filling out some ridiculous form about any last-minute body mods he may want, and waiting until the end of the night to collect his new slave and go home. His companions had left hours ago, and every other buyer had gotten their slave already, so it was just him waiting alone in an emptying warehouse, trying to make small talk with one of the event coordinators.

“So, does he have a name?”

She didn’t even look up from her tablet. “He’s named whatever you want to name him.”

“Where is he from? Besides the collection point, where’s he actually from?”

“We don’t know.”

“How old is he?”

“We don’t know.”

Thomas barely suppressed a groan. “Is there anything you do know?” he ground out impatiently.

“Yeah. He looks even cuter when he cries.” The woman smirked over her tablet, looking over Thomas’ right shoulder. “He’s here.”

Thomas turned around to see the boy, now clothed in a white T-shirt and bluish gray sweatpants. He kept his eyes downcast and his hands folded in front of him. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly before dropping his gaze back to his bare feet. “Khaled,” he replied, voice timid and heavily accented, “but you may call me whatever you want, sir.”

Khaled. He silently rolled the name around on his tongue as if savoring an exotic sweet. Khaled. Thomas cast what he hoped was a reassuring smile, not that Khaled saw it with his gaze fixed to the floor. “Luckily for you, I like your name.” He strode decisively toward the exit, gently placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder to direct him. “Come with me, Khaled.”

In the nearly three-hour car ride back to Thomas’ home, the mob boss learned three things about his new purchase. Firstly, Khaled was shy, only speaking when spoken to and even then, using as few words as possible. Also, Khaled probably didn’t speak much English; how much of this was because he was shy, and how much of this was because he literally couldn’t understand him? And –finally, -Khaled could run. Since the moment the car parked, Khaled dashed out and sprinted into the street. He nearly got hit by a truck before Thomas could chase after him, pull him back, and drag him inside the apartment building. The scene of a grown man dragging a distressed kid who was screaming bloody murder probably shocked some residents, but fortunately the doorman was part of the Costas and did not bat an eye.

“It is too damn early for this!” Thomas complained to himself as he practically threw Khaled into the awaiting elevator. “Do you want to be leashed up like a dog, you little shit?! Cause that’s what’s going to happen if you keep trying to run away!”

“Let go of me, please!” the boy cried, his voice brittle and panicked like a scared, caged animal as he tried to twist out of the punishing grip on his arm.

“Like hell I’m letting you go, not after maxing out my personal credit card on you and pulling an all-nighter for the first time since Kandahar!” He violently jammed the buttons that would take them to the top floor of the high rise.

Soon the elevator dinged, doors swooshing open as they reached the floor of his penthouse. “Come on!” Thomas continued to drag the boy through the hallway, ignoring him begging in that endearing accent of his. Khaled’s complaints all but ceased as soon as he opened the door to his penthouse and let the boy step inside. His eyes widened, sparkling in awe, and his jaw dropped as he let out a reverent “whoa” that transcended any language barrier.

The living room to the penthouse itself was light and spacious, with large floor-to-ceiling windows that let in plenty of natural light, and minimalist décor to accent the living room. A large L-shaped couch dominated the living room and looked over the expansive rooftop and the cityscape beyond it. The rest of the room terminated sharply into a dining area with a large oak table and a wood-floored kitchen with two large granite countertops. An imposingly large door –the door to Thomas’ bedroom, -stood closed to the left of the living room. A hallway to the right branched off into an office on one side, and a guest bathroom opposite. A small staircase right outside the laundry room led to a storage loft spanning above the entrance. Thomas toed off his shoes at the door. Khaled, who wasn’t wearing any shoes, hesitantly walked in. Tom frowned when he noticed the dirty footprints left behind on his beige rug.“Would you like a bath, Khaled?” he suggested. The fact that Khaled didn’t reply made him again wonder how much English he truly understood. We can work on that. He sighed in exasperation as he gripped the boy’s arm and dragged him off to the guest bathroom. Once inside, Thomas deposited him at the entrance and turned on the lights and the fan. He got the shower head running next. Khaled stood silently watching him by the door as he tested the water’s temperature with his hand a few times. He nodded in satisfaction as the water finally reached an agreeable temperature. “Come on in,” he beckoned. Khaled inched closer to the bath tub. “Can I take off your clothes?” he asked. The boy blinked, then shook his head as he quickly took off the shirt himself. The drab sweatpants soon followed, and he quickly stepped into the shower. Thomas drew the curtain to prevent water from spilling and to give him a shred of privacy. As the boy showered, he soon realized Khaled had nothing to wear but that depressing little t-shirt and sweatpants. He took them to the laundry room and chucked them in the hamper, making a mental note to buy some clothes for Khaled as soon as possible. Cute as the small naked boy was, he was still a minor, and Tom didn’t need any extra distractions while he was adjusting to his new role as Boss of the Costa Family.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump

#whump writing #whumpee #creepy/intimate whumper #multiple whumpers #tw death mention #institutionalized slavery #pet whump #tw dehumanization #tw nonsexual nudity #nonconsensual nudity #tw minor whump #at time of story #manhandling #near the end there #I think I got all the tags but if i'm missing any do tell me

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distinctlywhumpthing · 9 months

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Unintentional 28

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CW: BBU-adjacent, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Ongoing raid, fear of recapture, clinical/hospital setting, side-effects/consequences of medwhump (cerebrovascular). Beta-read by @alittlewhump <3 Second ask is from this list

Leo told him to stay still and pretend to sleep, no matter what. One of so few direct orders, Aiden could count them on his hand. The very same Leo had just been holding, fingers warming his, giving him one last reassuring squeeze before he’d let go.

He couldn’t fail Leo.

Aiden pressed his hands into the bedspread to hide their shaking, to make them still. Starched-not-soft fabric in an orderly, woven grid under his fingertips. Hundreds of washes keeping it uniform for every new patient. Knuckles wrapped in the soft fabric of Leo’s sweatshirt. Left hand throbbing, forearms aching. Betadine and antiseptic sharp in his nose. The sounds in the hallway—the agents in the hallway. He knew those boots, those footfalls. He’d been here before.

He was there.

Beside the pool, clothes still damp from diving in, from sweating through what had to be hours of CPR. Dragged to his knees, slapped around, put in a van. The End.

He wouldn’t be able to give them his number this time, even if he wanted to. Except instead of taking a stand, he was simply too damaged. The idea of being beaten in front of Leo made his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He couldn’t shake his head, squeeze his fist, find something, anything, to anchor him to where he was, who he was. The simplest task impossible. He used to be more than a passenger, an observer, recognizing less and less with each visit. Especially when it was like this, when he fell beneath the surface, into things that were muddy and murky and meant to stay that way.

He wanted to look, to confirm what he kept telling himself was true, but he had to keep his eyes closed.

Leo wouldn’t leave him. Leo had promised.

But the very foundation of the conditioning was doubt.

With Archer it pushed him toward an impossible perfection. Empty responsiveness that only left him aching to do more, to be better.

It nagged him constantly with Harrison but there was little to be done. Harrison took what he wanted, didn’t care what kind of vessel it came from. All of his memories returned were not enough to erase the conditioning, relieve the doubt. The ache to be deserving.

He was certain it was worse to have both: what once was housed in the ruins of what he was now.

Leo had no idea what he was taking on. Had no idea Aiden was falling to pieces in his own head when all he had to do was stay still and be quiet.

He wasn’t meant to open his eyes but Harrison was peeling them open for him. Shining his penlight into one and then the other.

“I know you’re awake.” His tone was terse. Frustrated? There was a complication? A delay? It was hard to follow, his mind slow to process. He tried to turn his head but he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t, he was strapped down like always.

Leo had told him not to move.

Harrison snapped his fingers in front of his face. “I asked you a fucking question.”

He blinked a fraction of a second after he thought of it. He couldn’t remember hearing a question. There weren’t any quips surfacing and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to speak anyway.

He hadn’t felt this drugged before.

He wasn’t.

Leo—was Leo still there?

“For fuck’s sake.” Harrison demanded all of his attention by undoing the straps. “You’re lucky we need to do this or you’d be kissing a taste of freedom goodbye thanks to your attitude.”

Too slow to snipe back again.

He cried out when his arms fell to his sides, so heavy now that he had to hold them, fingers tingling as the blood rushed down to his fingers.

He had to stay still.

“I don't have patience for your bullshit today. Do not test me.”

He swallowed the next whimper, the reprimand curdling in his empty stomach. Unaware that Harrison had released all of the other restraints until he folded forward. Harrison caught him unceremoniously, wrapping his arms around him in a parody of an embrace that still made his heart race and his cheeks flush as if it were earned attention, a reward. Sometimes, he’d wriggle closer, moan in Harrison’s ear or whisper a few lurid suggestions. (Anything was better than being a lab rat.) Once even licked his neck but after that, Harrison had kept him unconscious for so long.

As much as he had nothing to lose, would push every button he could find in a fruitless attempt to force Harrison’s hand, his nerve was riddled with holes. Whenever Harrison was gone too long, he’d wonder if he’d ever come back. Doubt warping fearful anticipation into longing. He’d miss Harrison. Miss the attention, even of his scalpel, when there was a question of it never returning. He was nothing if not what they’d conditioned him to be.

“Alright, up you go.” Harrison’s voice still had an edge. They were in the other room across the hall but he didn’t remember getting there. Harrison pulled him to his feet, placed both of his hands on the rail bordering the room. “Let’s go, I don’t have all day.”

He gasped when Harrison let go, overwhelmed by all of his muscles working together for a purpose. But there was something else too, something beneath whatever drugs Harrison always gave him before these bouts of “exercise” to make sure he wasn’t too much trouble.

“I don’t feel right…” It came out slurred.

Harrison was busy on his phone and waved him on with his free hand. “You remember. One foot in front of the other.” He used the hard toe of his sneaker to prod against his bare heel until he moved.

Left foot forward. One step at a time.

His head hurt, ears ringing, vision wavering. Harrison would be furious if he passed out.

Right foot forward. His leg almost buckled and he gripped the bar tighter. The room spun.

“Something’s wrong.” The syllables were marbles in his mouth.

Left foot forward.

The fingers of his right hand slipped from the bar.

He couldn’t raise them again, like his whole arm had been numbed. His heart sprinted and stuttered, drilling fear deep into his chest. “Harrison, what did you give me?” The panic in his voice was clearer than the words.

“Whatever game you’re playing, I am really not—”

Right foot forward. The room tipped.

Harrison caught him and let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m fucking serious. Stand up and finish the lap.” He tried to shove him onto his feet again but he couldn’t balance.

He was crying now, tears sliding down his cheek. The ones on the other side lost in the fabric of Harrison’s lab coat. “I—I—can’t—I can’t—” No words came out at all this time, only sounds. “Harrison!” His vision spotted. Harrison lowered him to the floor, let him slump against the wall, listing sideways.

His expression was out of focus but his voice was stern. “This is your last chance. Stop—what—what are you doing?”

Harrison caught him again but he couldn’t feel where, only the other hand opening his left eye for the light. He didn’t feel his fingers on the right before his vision flared.

“Fuck.” Harrison held two fingers to his neck, checking his watch. “Look at me, talk to me.”

“I—I—I’m scared,” he cried. It was nothing, it was moans and slurs. “Harrison, help me, please!”

“No, no, no.” Harrison laid him down. “Squeeze my hand.”

His hand was empty, he couldn’t—

Harrison raised their hands into his line of sight. His right hand limp in Harrison’s grip. “Please, come on, Nothing. It’s nothing, you’re fine. You’re fine.”

He couldn’t feel his hand. “What did you do to me?” Again nothing came out. He whimpered when Harrison rolled him onto his side.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He must have been high out of his mind to hear those words.

“Talk to me, stay with me.”

How many times he’d wanted to say that himself but now he was the one leaving.

“Beau, come on. Hold my hand.” Harrison wrapped both hands around his left one. He didn’t think he’d ever done that without gloves on. It felt so warm. “Here, see? Stay with me, Beau.”

But Beau didn’t belong here.

He had died when she had, when he’d failed her.

“No, no, no.” Harrison was holding his face now. “Hey, ‘359. Come on, keep your eyes open. Trainee ‘359. That is a direct—” His voice broke. “Fuck. Please—”

‘359 was out of place too.

Fragments and pieces, hollow on the inside, incomplete before he’d been given Beau’s purpose.

A clean slate would always be empty, ‘359 couldn’t exist here.

“Please.” Harrison held him more carefully than he’d ever imagined him capable of. Like he was far from nothing, precious even. “Brandon. Forgive me.”

But he wasn’t Brandon.

Or ‘359.

Or Beau.

He only wanted to be Aiden.

And even though he could still feel Harrison’s fingers entwined with his, he was Aiden. Aiden being careful not to make a sound as memories drowned him. Aiden not moving a muscle or opening his eyes, pulse sprinting in his chest as they waited. He couldn’t feel anything under his fingertips anymore, was growing more and more desperate to check that he was in fact lying in a bed and not waking up on the ground beside Harrison or worse already back on his table. He—

The door opening brought everything in his head screeching to a halt.

It wasn’t Harrison’s warmth still lingering on his hand.

It was Leo’s.

Leo who had found him, sheltered him, been so patient and kind with him. Had risked everything by bringing him here.

He could keep still and quiet, bury his fear of what it would mean to go back, in hopes of selling this lie. To say nothing of what consequences Leo and his sister might face. He could never be the reason someone else was unmade. He owed Leo this, at the very least, as disappointing as he may have been in the rest of their short time together.

Or did he have a different kind of obligation now? Not just to please and obey but one of higher grounds. To earn everything Leo had given him so freely. To repay selflessness with a sacrifice of his own.

One of the agents cleared their throat and Aiden knew this was it. If he went easily, quietly, they might leave Leo alone. As long as he surrendered before Leo had a chance to try and improvise.

And he wouldn’t look at Leo at all. To make sure to implicate him as little as possible.

There were voices in the hallway but he couldn’t catch the words over the way his heart beat so loudly in fear, thudding through his whole body.

He promised himself he would tear the stitches in the van later.

Being manhandled into cuffs might start the job anyway.

He would—Aiden would do this to save Leo.

He sat up and opened his eyes—

In time to see the backs of the agents as the nurse ushered them out, hissing something about “immunocompromised” and “goddamn idiots, don’t they teach you to read?”

And Leo, staring at him in disbelief.

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#bbu #bbu-adjacent #box boy whump #box boy rescue #bbu whump #sympathetic whumper #carewhumper #pet whump #is it? idk #institutionalized slavery tw #hospital setting tw #CVA tw #stitches mention tw #medical whump #clinical whump #hospital whump #whump #whump writing

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mosspapi · 26 days

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Yknow. There are many, many, MANY things my parents are not normal about. But I'm pretty sure when I say "I wish my parents were normal abt sh" what I am really saying is "I wish they would follow their typical pattern of not caring about any of my struggles so it included not caring when I hurt myself, but they Do care and it pisses me off" because, unfortunately, they Do actually have the normal response to sh and I am the fucked up weirdo in this situation.

#filed under 'things I should tell my therapist instead of the internet' lmao #prolly delete later im just tired of hiding it but dont want to deal with their reaction to it again #esp bcuz they'd prolly go thru with having me institutionalized fr this time lmao #I mean I'm an adult I don't think they can actually do anything without my consent but I wouldn't put physically forcing me to past them #armchair speaks #tw sh #tw sh mention #sh mention #uhhhhh hopefully that covers it? this prolly won't b up long but just in case lol

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kim-poce · 2 years

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Full House 26 - Weird Master

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CW: pet whump, caretaker new master, eating disorder mention.

=-=

“Everyone chose one,” Eri said, quickly adding “You don’t need to! of course, only if you want,” he glanced at the bedroom’s window, “The sunlight here is good.”

Little One didn’t touch the paper where Eri had printed the plants pictures —he had figured out that showing the gallery on the laptop would exige more closeness than the boy would be okay with— but at least he was looking at it, even if just not to look up to Eri.

"Pink choose the bunny-like ones," Eri said, filling the crushing silence, "And Day choose-"

"Go." Little One said, it was a single, low-whispered word. And to be honest Eri didn't want to leave, he had barely got there!

Before the tube Little One would allow him to stay longer, even if only to sit on the other side of the room, but now? Now he is scared of his name, angry at his shadow; all the little progress Eri had earned gone.

Almost all. He told himself, getting up. The boy had told him to go so, on some level, he knows his word has value, and he knows that he can choose to be alone, “Okay, I’ll leave,” he gestured to the pictures of the plants, “If you want any of these you can tell Beige, and he can tell me. For now, excuse-me.”

- - -

Master is weird, really really weird.

The others think he is weird because he is more kind, that’s not all that weird. Former Mistress had her friends over often, they all had pets treated well better than any pet in that house.

Night said this Master can’t be trusted because he is lenient in punishments, which could only mean one thing: trap.

Little One disagrees, people don’t expect much from pets, they know they are just dumb animals, so they don’t take their mistake as seriously as the trainers make the pets believe. As long as the pet had no intention of disobeying, the punishment is brand to none. Again, in houses other than this one.

What makes this master weird isn’t his kindness, it isn’t even the fact that he doesn’t force him into touches —some of Former Mistress’s friends also didn’t force it—, his habit of making the pets pick also wasn’t weird, they were never asked to pick anything important, there is no difference between the plants in this list and which shoes matches better with Mistress’s dress.

What made Master Eri weird was his way of talking, he didn’t try to say something to a dumb animal, he tried to actually talk, he wanted full conversations, he wanted opinions, and he seemed not to bear being around a pet and stay silent. This was weird.

Part of being a pet meant that you would often stay quiet and do nothing, like furniture in the living room. Little One can’t do this, can’t be quiet, can’t be silent, can’t do anything. But good pets can.

Little One listened to him a little bit, he rather not pay attention to any word; they hurt way too much. But he never yelled, and his gestures were so little that Little One had trouble pinpoint what exactly he was talking about —He would like it if Master could gesture more instead of talking, but of course humans never care what a pet wants.

Master only talks nonsense, and not the nonsense the pets should agree and move on (“Don’t you think Gil is such a bitch?” “Am I pretty in this dress?” “Do you want to dance with me?”) No, he talks about the weather and plants, he talks about the color of the curtains he wants to buy, and then —rather than asking for a meaningless comment about the subject— he asks about Little One’s day and plans, and thoughts and many other things Pet shouldn’t have.

Little One can’t even answer the questions he was trained to, much less this. A new form of talking is too… rule-free, too hard to understand, so he doesn't try. Why try anything anyway? Try never meant nothing, trying didn’t made the touches less torturing, the beating less painful, trying never made the world make sense, it didn’t even allowed food to stay down. Trying is useless, and hurtful and bad and he doesn’t want it anymore!

"Go." the word left his mouth before he could think. Would it get him punished? Maybe, probably. Can he do anything about it? No, never. So no trying is worth it, he just kept staring at the green pictures. Little One was barely aware that he was muttering, he always was, he wondered if he was saying something bad or if he was begging. Begging never worked but he can't really control his body any longer, in truth he never could.

Master said something about Beige and left, leaving the paper behind, a thing Little One is too dirty to touch, so he blew on it and watched as the paper fell on the floor, which was impossibly cleaner than his hands.

Little One glanced at the paper for a while, then at the tube being used to feed him. He wanted to take it off, he didn't like the feeling, nor the meaning of that thing. But he had promised Beige, he didn’t quite know what a promise meant, but he felt that he should leave the tube there for a while longer.

When he curled up in himself under the blanket, partially blocking the sunlight with it, he was barely aware that he was sobbing, although he didn’t quite know the reason.

=-=

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @octopus-reactivated, @sufferfictionalcharacters, @rat-father, @badluck990, @onlybadendings, @inpainandsuffering, @mazeish, @neuro-whump, @freefallingup13, @sideblogformindtrash, @extemporary-username, @extemporary-username, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @neverthelass, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpfessional, @sinning-shipping-trash, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @scp-1296, @dont-touch-my-soup, @endlesscyclezz, @nicolepascaline, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @dyingisbadforyourhealth

#whump #pet whump #caretaker new master #eating disorder mention #caretaker new whumper #institutionalized slavery tw #institutionalized slavery #Full House #Eri #Little One #my writing

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paradoxesofgalaxies · 1 year

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I think something I need to talk to my therapist about is that due to our previous experiences with therapy, it's very easy for us to fall into "compliance mode" in therapy.

TW: forced institutionalization, SI

We've been in and out of therapy since we were 9. And we learned early on to not talk about certain things. Especially by the time we were in high school, we knew there was always the threat of being locked up. Every interaction with a therapist or counselor was with the knowledge that being too open ran the risk of being thrown in the psych ward. So we were honest, but not too honest. Anything to do with suicidality or self harm couldn't be mentioned. Everything needed to be checked before being said to make sure we weren't saying too much.

And compliance was a necessity. Don't argue. Don't fight back. Don't be labelled noncompliant. Just an extension of surviving at home and at church.

We've changed a lot of those patterns. We're more open now. More likely to be honest about how we're doing. But we still fall back into compliance mode too easily. I often have to remind myself that it's harder for them to lock me up as an adult.

But yeah, this is probably something to discuss with my therapist

#galactic gab #forced institutionalization tw #forced hospitalization tw #suicide mention

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polyamorouspunk · 1 year

Note

You seem like a nice guy but probs a bit scary to get on your bad side. And you fight terfs so bonus points ig

I’m gonna say yes to that because I have bpd and I’m VERY good at manipulating people and gaslighting them and playing the blame game and it’s very easy for me to frame myself as the victim and anyone else as the “bad guy” and that spills out when I’m upset and a lot of times even “taking accountability for my own actions” feels like just a piece in my “games” if you will to make myself more credible. I’m not so much of a scary angry person so much as a I will make you cry and make you feel like you’re the one at fault while I’m bully you. I DON’T do that anymore, I do want to be clear about that, but before my bpd started to be treated I was a very shitty person who sometimes made people feel bad about themselves just from them disagreeing with me. However, yes, I have dissociated and done some violent things or said some violent things and I think that leans more towards “angry violence” stuff. I’ve had people fear that I was going to attack them with a knife and kill them legitimately so like yeah, I have Scary Cluster B Mental Illness That Makes Me Prone To Angry Outburts, but like, I am harmless really, like, I’m *not* going to stab someone in their sleep, it’s a lot of that misunderstanding like oh of course the girl with the scary mental illness is a serial killer! vibe which I embrace for the aesthetic.

#being open about my past has led people to cut me off but I think that being transparent about how I used to be kind of a shitty person-#-is important #people are like wow you used to be mean? sorry can’t stan that #while I was an actual child ; a literal minor ; with a severe undiagnosed mental illness #but it reached levels where I was threatened with institutionalization so I learned to shut up about it real quick #and I have faced abuse from it too which I’m also open about #punk gets mail #personal #mental health tw #heavy topics tw #violence tw #abuse mention

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interdimensional-chaos · 1 year

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Reading "A madness so discreet"

Yeah uh, Crooms kills the goddamn baby

Like, the mom wanted to deliver him. She even had a foster mom she was okay with taking the baby when he arrived

And Crooms fucking kills it because she's a sadistic monster of a woman.

Sure, that wasn't her intent, probably maybe, more likely she didn't care and those super hot sheets suddenly staining with a lot of red and the arrival of a small Corpse was a "happy accident" or "really gross another thing to beat Grace for"

Idk.

I kinda don't care.

In a weird, horribly despicable way its probably the best thing that could have happened to Grace because that's how she got into the cellar and then found her ticket out of there and away from her pedophile of a dad for good.

But I can't express how much I want to punch Crooms, Heedson, and a good chunk of side characters that are just mentioned.

Like, accurate look at an insane Asylum at that time. Pregnant daughter? Oh she's insane. Wife's complaining about her period cramps? Asylum's your answer.

It's horrible and they managed to make goddamn lobotomy look like an escape instead of the cruel and overused "easy fix" it was treated as.

And the doctor doing it calls it out! He does say they treat it like an easy fix, but that he doesn't know if the people are okay in there after he's done!

Anyway, good book but damn it should have some trigger warnings.

#miscarriage #miscarriage cw #insane asylum #institutionalization tw #lobotomy mention #lobotomy tw #abuse #abuse cw #institutional abuse #A madness so discrete

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simply-starryeyed · 2 years

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another nothing turned into a war. another triviality turned into a power trip.

but this time. is not like any of the ones before. no more silences, no more appeasing. that is a quiet way to die and if she shall kill me - if i am going to die it will not be by her hand - i will die screaming.

and so. «after everything i’ve done for you? i didn’t try to help you? have you forgotten about everything i’ve done?»

right. everything you’ve done. every time i sobbed my eyes out because of you in front of you and you didn’t flinch. every time you threatened to institutionalise me. but that was trying to help, wasn’t it, mother?

instead i say «no. we’re not doing this.» i slam the door shut. one more silence. but never again will i appease her.

@nosebleedclub - nov. xxx: “after everything”

#poetry #poems #mine #writerblr #tw childhood trauma #tw trauma mention #trauma tw #tw cptsd #tw implied sa #tw institutionalization #tw institutionalisation #nosebleedclub #nosebleed club

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distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year

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In League — A Lucky Blunder

Masterlist

Summary: The boys finally caught their rival gang's spy but something about him has their leader intervening in his punishment. Beta read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, kidnapping/abduction, nudity (non-sexual), restraints, bruising from implied beating, whipping, scars, torture/interrogation, taunting of prisoner, multiple whumpers, dubious caretaker.

A high-pitched keening wound its way through the house.

Wyatt paused, pencil hovering over his place in the row of numbers. It was early evening. Sunlight entered the window at a low angle to cast long shadows through yellow-orange light. The boys would be winding down from the day which meant they were winding up for the night.

“Tommy?” He called for Frankie’s lad, the portrait of his ruddy-haired father in miniature. A child of about ten years who was always close at hand, ever-keen to make a farthing running errands. Especially if he could smugly tell younger boys later that he wasn’t at liberty to divulge the particulars. As though he was the rare child-confidant of the entire gang. He did have a fair pulse on what was going on, if a little slanted by the perspective of his youth.

Another cry, twisting all the way upstairs, most likely from the cellar two floors down. In the house—their house—not a thing could transpire unnoticed, such was the size and layout. Wyatt liked that. All was within reach and what one could hold in the palm of his hand, one could command.

Although, his appreciation and pride were diminishing by the second as the cries continued and grew more insistent. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh and almost ran his fingers through his hair before he remembered they were smudged with graphite from doing the books.

“Tommy!”

Finally, a clatter and then short, snappy strides as the child scrambled across the kitchen and up the stairs. “Yessir?”

“What is that fucking noise?”

Tommy swallowed, trying to catch his breath. “They found that man. The one ‘tipped off Keats.”

“Is that so?”

About a month ago, a beggar had shown up on their streets. He’d seen the man in question himself—more of a boy really, no more than twenty—huddled outside the door of the pub and shuffling around the streets covered in a ratty blanket.

Around the same time, a number of plans had been mislaid. At first, it had seemed only as though they’d mismatched their timing. Until one night, when they’d had a raid planned on a warehouse, expecting just a few guards and found its owner—one of their biggest rivals—Keats, had two dozen waiting instead.

It had nearly cost two boys their lives and one still had a bullet in his shoulder. They had pulled the usual threads, made sure to reassess the loyalties of certain parties. The beggar, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. No one thought twice about an urchin disappearing. But then, a handful of days later, Jack’s sister had seen the very same accompanying none other than Keats himself.

A short ten days later, here he was, apparently paying for his trickery in the cellar, having finally been apprehended.

No one noticed Wyatt coming down the stairs. All backs were turned, including the one getting belted. Their captive was stark naked and covered in grime with patches of bruises darkening along his ribs. His wrists were tied together and hooked over his head so that he was forced onto the balls of his feet. From the looks of it, he’d managed to bear his due reward silently for a not-insignificant length of time. Raised welts crisscrossed from the back of his neck down to his calves. It was plain by the scars on his back that this was not his first beating. Not much of a distinguishing feature around these parts.

Alfred was winding up for what would no doubt be the first lash that drew blood. The rest of the group surveyed from a loose half-circle, some sitting on overturned crates and others leaning against the soot-blackened walls. Wyatt hadn’t been down here in ages, couldn’t say what was in half of the cobwebbed crates stacked in the corners. The air in the cramped space was beginning to smell pungent, cigarette smoke clinging to the ceiling in spite of the open street-level windows.

Wyatt put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs. He waited until Alfred was about to strike. “What’d you find, lads?”

At least one of the men jumped, a few others sat up just a fraction straighter. Alfred let the swing fall short. Only the tail end of the belt met its target, who hissed as another welt rose on his pale flesh.

Wyatt wasn’t the oldest nor was he the longest-standing member. The group operated mostly by consensus but he was indisputably its leader. After all, he had been the one to rescue this house of cards from collapse before they had completely lost control. He’d recast the senior members into roles that didn’t require temperance and recruited younger men to fill the ranks instead. The younger the better, hungry to prove themselves and yet to develop the arrogance and pride that had prevented their predecessors from changing with the times.

They had swiftly replaced brute force and standoffs in broad daylight in favour of subtler methods, refocusing on activities with higher turnovers that required a fraction of the effort and didn’t put them atop wanted lists. Half the city was still under the impression the gang had in fact collapsed and retreated back to the slums.

Alfred turned, face as red as the skin he’d just been beating raw. Either from the strength he was putting behind his arm or from feeling caught. He wasn’t the type to come up with the first idea himself but was always the first to volunteer to carry another’s. “It’s Keats’ spy.”

“We finally caught up with him,” someone else chimed in, making a few others chuckle.

Frankie sauntered over to clap the accused-spy on the shoulder, making him tense. “Just having some fun.”

That earned a few laughs from the audience and the boy ducked his head as if to hide.

Wyatt cleared his throat. “Come on, let us have a look.”

As Frankie made the captive turn on his toes, Wyatt was struck by two things.

The first was the curious wound on the soft side of his hip, looking as though someone had inexplicably carved a piece of meat off him not long ago.

Secondly, and more notably, Wyatt was struck by the fact that this was altogether a different boy.

Part II

Together/Apart taglist: @painsandconfusion @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @whumpy-writings @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake @subject-v @susiequaz12 @writer-reader-24 @whumpinthepot @wormwriting

#whump #whumpee #whump writing #multiple whumpers #dubious caretaker #captivity whump #torture whump #interrogation whump #prisoner whump #restraints tw #captivity tw #beating tw #nudity mention tw #burns tw #loss of consciousness tw #kidnapping tw #institutionalized slavery tw #abduction tw #smoking tw

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reserwrekt · 2 years

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I hate my mother. "Omg how could you? She's your mom." I've been put in a mental institution for 6 months with kids younger than me who's mothers sold them to prostitution. What the fuck can you say about that?

#too hard for normal foster parents to deal with #not to mention juvenile jail with girls who've been through literally every terrible thing you can imagine.#ignorance is bliss ig #tw abuse #tw abuse mention #tw #tw parental abuse #also ive been institutionalized many times but im referring to the orphanage #it was worse. way worse than the hospital. actually i kinda liked the hospital lol #i could trauma bond with other emos in the hospital and miss school to express my feelings through art all day #the kids at the orphanage are there because we were all considered basically #and it was at least 80% poc

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kim-poce · 2 years

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Full House 30 - “Garden”

Previous | Next

Masterlist

This came out a bit more bittersweet than I planned

CW: Pet whump, multiple whumpees, caretaker new master, force-feeding mention.

=-=

There were two bromeliads on the youngest's window, as he did not join the others in the garden. Between the bromeliads was one of Beige’s aloe vera, so it was like —Beige liked to think— a small part of the outside inside the room.

Purple and Pink put their in the living room, it was —Purple was sure— bad behavior, but the opportunity of putting green things around the room he is in the most is too good to let pass.

Night put his outside, in a spot he can always watch when on guard, and Day's was inside his room by the window.

The pets weren't sure where Master's was, maybe in his room? Must be since no one could see it around.

Master Eri said that they could use the garden —a small, stair-like thing with three "steps", each one was in truth a wooden box full of black earth— as they wished, and that he would plant his other one later.

“So…” Day started, he was talking really often lately, not only the whispers to Night from time to time, not only the little warning of what he heard to Beige so he could do something about it, he was truly talking.

Night —as always— had a theory of the reason, he said the pets always used every little time they could to talk to each other, to warn each other, because they needed to in order to survive, and now every time they are alone and out of the earshot of Master they talked, he also said —while putting a lot of emphasis in how this must be a trap and how bad Master is— that there are less warning now, less perceived dangers, and more time together, so the pets still talk, but now they can talk about things other than a way to stay alive.

“Where is he now?” Day asked in a low voice, carefully digging a small hole in the soft soil, taking way more time than needed.

“W-w-with the boy,” Pink told, Master had entered the bedroom right after he left, which was scary but fast.

“Doing what?” Night asked, not caring about hiding the anger in his voice at first, but being more careful after Pink flinched. He had planted his snake plant in a couple of seconds as soon as he arrived and was now stabbing the soil with a plastic shovel, “We shouldn’t let Sir Eri stay with him.”

“We are pets, we can’t tell Master what to do,” Purple said, his voice trained but with a drop of warning.

“We can if we try, people are idiots anyway.”

“Night,” Day scolded, looking from one side to another, “Enough.”

Night tsked his tongue, he kept stabbing the soil, but now with a slightly shivering hand.

“What if-” Beige started, tracing his fingers on his aloe vera, “He said he won’t- won’t hurt us so what if-”

“Nope,” Night cut, “He is human, so he is bad.”

“I… I don’t want to to badmouth him but please Beige, don’t… don’t create hope,” Day said, voice full of worry and sadness.

Beige glanced at the lapdogs, Pink shook his head and Purple swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact.

“Y-you… you must be right,” he said, heart racing, he didn’t want to say that he won’t be able to steal things with the way Master is organized, he didn't say he can't help the way he did anymore, it would make the others scared, and he certainly wouldn’t say what he thinks Master’s identity is, he wants to be sure before telling such scary news.

The “garden” —it was kinda hard to see the five plants in there as a garden— was all planted already, but Master had yet to come to plant his, which wasn’t too bad, it was the end of the afternoon, the area was shadowed and the day wasn’t hot.

The lapdogs appreciated the sunlight and outside air, most of the time they must stay pretty and kneel in the living room, looking down rather than out the window.

Beige also enjoyed the time out; an allowed time to rest, near most of the other pets. He felt less lonely, even if just for a while.

“I didn't talk to him yet,” Purple admitted when the talk moved back to Little One, “Master never said I could go there.”

He also didn't say you couldn't do it. Night thought, but he knew that permissions must be clearly stated. “You want to?”

“I don’t want him to think I don’t want to meet him,” Purple said, the only time he had seen him was when he was punished in The Room, back then, the boy was unconscious and Purple was too scared and in too much pain to really pay attention to him. “But… but I’m not allowed.”

The other pets silently agreed, it isn’t because everyone is being bad that Purple needs to misbehave too.

“Is he… eating?” Day asked, Beige just shook his head.

Pink swallowed hard before speaking, “What is… what is the problem with with food? I know he doesn’t- he can’t eat, but why?”

Beige, Day and Night glanced at each other uncomfortable, “It’s…” Night started when the other stayed in silence, “... there is this… this funnel and Day hold him and I… I force the the food down and…” he was looking down guiltily, “He used to to throw up so… so there was a gag, and he he couldn’t… anymore, but he tries so…”

“Sorry, I I shouldn’t asked I-”

They all kept silent for a long time after that, just looking down at the ground. The only sound was coming from Night still stabbing the soil with the shovel.

“Oh!” Beige said, “I I almost almost forgot to to tell, he doesn’t he doesn’t like touching he he hates it, since since always.”

Pink looked up, “T-this explains why he backs away when I touch the bed… thank you I’ll I’ll keep this in mind.”

They all wanted to ask how things would be from now, but neither of them would be able to answer, and talking about it would only scare them, so they tried to simply enjoy the little current piece instead of thinking about the uncertain future.

Master came after a while, he praised everyone, gave pets to everyone, and planted his small succulent in a corner, as if he didn’t want it to mix with the pet’s plants, “It’s getting late,” he said, “Let’s come back inside, I made dinner today.”

Beige glanced up, but before he could beg for forgiveness Master told him that it was okay, he patted him once more and they all came back inside. Master was nice once again, as all the days before that, and the pets were just actively killing any hope threatening to grow, and trying to keep these nice moments in their memory because they know it won’t last long.

=-=

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-blog, @wolfeyedwitch, @octopus-reactivated, @sufferfictionalcharacters, @rat-father, @badluck990, @onlybadendings, @inpainandsuffering, @mazeish, @neuro-whump, @freefallingup13, , @sideblogformindtrash, @extemporary-username, @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @neverthelass, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @whumpfessional, @sinning-shipping-trash, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @scp-1296, @dont-touch-my-soup, @endlesscyclezz, @nicolepascaline, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @theadorelocksly, @dyingisbadforyourhealth

#whump #Pet whump #multiple whumpees #caretaker new master #caretaker new whumper #force-feeding mention #institutionalized slavery tw #institutionalized slavery #Full House #Eri #Beige #Night #Day #Pink #Purple #my writing

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furiousfinnstan · 4 months

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THEODORE-SHORT STORY🌌🛸💫

A sort of coming of age story following a young "human being" who is forcibly institutionalized after a psychotic breakdown.Love,tears,dissociation and waiting eternally for a spaceship that never comes ensues.

tw for mention of death and murder, hallucinations,psych ward,ableism,ableist language,main character losing touch with reality thru most of the story,dissociation,memory loss

READ THEODORE (ORIGINAL) HERE

READ THEODORE (UNCENSORED) HERE

my k0fi monthly supporters saw it first!

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3-2-whump · 3 months

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Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

next>

Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

#whump writing #oc intro #viridian oc #whumpee #pet whumpee #tw minor whump #tw slight gore #tw noncon nudity #tw noncon bodymod #slavery tw #slavery whump

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hold-him-down · 7 months

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Welcome to Belleview - Chapter 1

Notes: ~11 years after the beginning of The Fighter, this is not a Luke/Leo story but is in-universe.

TW: Institutionalized slavery, nonsexual nudity, starvation mention, human euthanasia mention, degrading language, all the things.

✥ ✥ ✥

From the outside, it is a beautiful campus. Elegant in its simplicity, with three brick buildings forming a crescent at the mouth of a long, rose-bush lined drive that intersects wrought iron gates.

Today, police swarm it, more for the optics than anything else. They’re not here to enact change, or to start building moral credit, but they are here, and so he smiles, shakes hands, introduces himself.

He opens the double-paned glass door, which sits just in front of a set of reinforced steel bars, and he’s immediately met with the silence of a reception area from which all of its workforce has been escorted out.

Almost all.

“Lincoln Prescott?” says a singular man, in his mid-twenties on his best day, peeking around the corner. He’s nervous, skittish even. Fidgeting palms run down his sweater and he smiles, but it’s not the smile of someone who’s happy, welcoming, comfortable, warm.

Lincoln returns the gesture and nods. He doesn’t extend his hand. Instead, he turns over the key he’s just been handed, and he reads the man’s name-tag.

Jared Fisher, Handler. Level Two.

Jared smiles sheepishly and takes off the name-badge. “I wasn’t sure if I should wear it. I guess… I guess it’s not really needed anymore.” He holds it out to Lincoln, who stares at it for several seconds, before he sets it on the counter behind him.

“Uh,” Jared says, cutting through the silence of the massive waiting area. “I’m sorry. I know, I’m sure, that you’re not– I get it, I mean. I know I’m the enemy here.”

Lincoln narrows his eyes, shaking his head once.

“They said if I– Uhh, they said they’ll take it into c– consideration, I guess. When the trials start. When… whatever is going to happen, happens.” He swallows, and Lincoln feels something that is related to sympathy, but not quite it. He lets that feeling fizzle quickly. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” Jared says quietly.

There’s silence again. Lincoln lets it settle over him, watching the ex-handler’s fidgeting intensify, before he says, “Oh. You’re waiting for me to speak.”

Jared shrinks.

When the final nail in the coffin of support for the trade and consumption of government-sanctioned slavery had been hammered in, there wasn’t the type of frenzy that anyone expected. That morning, people, by and large, woke up, had their coffee, showered. They caught their trains to work, they read their news and they watched, closely, but there wasn’t an uproar. They stole glances at their phones and monitors for updates, for news, for what happens next.

Truth be told, it had been heading this way for a while. Within the last ten years, Individual states had begun passing legislation that, in hindsight, paved the path for widespread challenges to the system, led by a few congresspeople who finally woke the fuck up. Things turned violent early, with protests, rallies, boycotts, demonstrations… everything imaginable.

Videos of workers being tortured, followed by videos of workers recounting their own stories, began making national headlines. Consumers of workers’ labor fought hard to sway public opinion back to the positive outcomes the system had brought the country, but with each passing week, with each new video of a worker strapped to a table being violated in unimaginable ways, it was a losing battle.

As local legislation was passed, certain states became a kind of safe-haven for runaways. And eventually, things started going federal.

The most significant bill, the one that fully outlawed the use of worker labor and reinstated the ‘freedom’ of current workers, was going to be codified that morning. It wasn’t unexpected, at that point, but still, the infrastructure, the plan, was… well, it had holes, to say the least.

The workers who were deemed functional, by some arbitrary metric, would be relocated to massive government-owned housing units. They would share rooms by the half dozen, be fed, given medical attention, and slowly be reintegrated into society. No one knew exactly how that would work, but it had been successful in the states that had already outlawed worker labor (with some notable exceptions), so the plan, half-assed as it was, was set into motion.

Former safehouses were repurposed as halfway houses for those who were less “independent.”

Individual volunteers were gathered who would open their homes to those who were unable to care for themselves but didn't pose any significant safety or medical risk.

In the days leading up to the vote for reinstatement of worker rights, when it was clear how things were going to go, people did go into a frenzy. Hospitals scrambled to hire, doctor’s offices scrambled to modify policy, the call for volunteers to offer shelter, food, medical assistance, jobs… it was madness.

But that morning, the morning the final nail landed, it was quiet.

Jared leads Lincoln down a narrow hallway, spouting off information as he does. The linoleum tiled floor is clean, but peels around the edges. The walls are white, chipped along the corners and where the doorframes meet the drywall. The ceiling is white, but there’s a yellow cast. The fluorescent lights that line the halls give it a sort of eerie post-apocalyptic vibe, and it’s fitting.

The building, Belleview, is eerily quiet. There’s no obvious screaming coming from within, so it’s already better than he expected.

Jared slaps his keycard against a box outside a set of double doors, and Lincoln takes a breath. The volunteers are gathering outside by now. His group of nurses, doctors, caretakers. They could be with him, but he wanted this run-through alone. To give him time to make sure the plan that he spent the last week finessing would work.

Jared stops at the first door, and pushes a button outside of it, bringing to life a screen. There’s a name on the top, and Lincoln glances through the information he’s shown. Jared presses another button, and the door unlocks audibly, the light above it turning from red to green.

Inside is a man, with nothing else. Brown hair, blue eyes. He doesn’t look at them.

“This one can get aggressive.” Jared’s voice is matter of fact, as he points out the information on the tablet. “They come here to… you know, to be of whatever use they can be until they…” he whispers, and Lincoln offers him the briefest of glances. He regrets it immediately. “Expire.”

Lincoln turns his attention back to the screen, and so Jared continues. “We have 21, uh… residents, right now. I think that’s what we’re supposed to call them now. They were… well, you know. They were workers, but the rejects, I guess. They’re in… they’re in various states of um…”

Lincoln clears his throat tersely, throwing a warning glance to the ex-handler.

“Well, okay. I’m sure you’ve been briefed, and if not, I’m sure you will be.” He begins walking again, letting the last door close without another glance, as he approaches the next. “We tried to take as good of care of them as we could. They’re fed and watered and we tried to... whenever we could, some of us tried to offer them some comfort.”

He stops at the door. “Obviously, they’re here for a reason, so they don’t tend to be super… uh, super cooperative or trainable or anything. They’re usually just… they’re here for a short time, and then–” He stops himself this time, without the warning glance.

“We call this guy Tank, but I think his real name is Tyler, if that means anything to you.”

Lincoln nods. “Does it say here? Anywhere on here? What his name is?”

Jared fiddles with the screen for several seconds before it comes to a demographic page. It lists 20 inhabitants, and presumably, their room numbers.

“Look at that,” Jared says then, interrupting Lincoln’s review. “Looks like I was right, it is Tyler. That was a guess.”

Lincoln takes a breath, because there’s no benefit to causing a scene here. If Jared was offered leniency, then he was a handler who, at least on the surface, wasn’t as bad as he could have been.

“Anyway, this one used to be aggressive, too." The door opens and Jared gestures to the man who lays on his stomach, bandages across his back. "But now? Nothing going on in there.” He points to his own temples, and lets the door swing shut. He switches to the video feed, where Tyler stares into the camera.

Jared continues along to the next room, and Lincoln follows behind him, his thoughts racing.

Lincoln Prescott was already in his car on his way to the site he’d been assigned to oversee before they even finalized things in the White House. It’s a temporary solution to a very serious problem, they said. It would take ten to fifteen days to get those who were in no shape to get to a halfway house the medical attention they needed and find suitable placements for them.

In the meantime, they were safest where they were. He was needed to help organize the volunteers and medical personnel, and to act as a sort of director of the temporary housing facility.

So he drove. He knew it would be bad, maybe the worst of the worst. He had been briefed. He was given a stack of files of the inhabitants that he would be overseeing. He looked it over that night, and every night since then. He spent the last six days memorizing every face, every backstory.

It was a site to house those that the government had deemed unable to be placed, for one reason or another. Too violent, too unpredictable, too difficult to be trained. From what Lincoln could gather, these workers served any and all purposes. Their primary reason for existence was, it seemed, to trial training techniques, to trial drugs, to motivate the workers who were difficult, to show that there were worse fates.

They ranged in ages from 19-26. None survived longer.

“Doctor Prescott?” Jared asks, from somewhere far away. Lincoln looks up from the tablet, and Jared is already down the hall at the next door. Lincoln takes a breath, biding his time. They’ve gone through eighteen of the men, with Jared's special commentary on each of them. Twice, Jared had promised that he wasn't a bad person, and that the culture had been one thing, but now it was another, and he was ready to pivot.

Only once had Lincoln felt himself snap, and had to excuse himself before serious harm was done.

Some of the men were given the accommodation of a bed, some of them were given clothing, some had rotten food in their cells, some had broken bones, open wounds. Some slept fitfully, and some slept so completely still that Lincoln thought that they might not be alive at all. Jared had assured him, in those moments, that they probably were.

Jared opens the door to the twentieth room, with a small, “We call this one ‘Felix.’ I think you’ll like him,” as he does. The man, short blonde hair and dark brown eyes and at least forty pounds less than his frame should support, blinks himself awake. He sits in the corner of the tiny room and stares at Lincoln. He tries to smile, but the tremors that rock his body make it hard to buy. He doesn't wear any clothes, and has one of the DLS-issued shock collars affixed to his neck. His ribs shake when he breathes too deep, but again, he tries to smile, even as he backs further into the corner.

Jared is speaking to him, but Lincoln doesn’t clock exactly what’s being said. The man looks so afraid, but still, he lifts his fingers in a sort of wave, shaking as he does. Lincoln waves back, offering him a small smile in return.

“We’re not allowed to euthanize them,” Jared is saying.

“What?”

“When they hit the end, I mean. We have to give them enough food, give them enough water. If they choose to stop eating or drinking or… whatever, that’s on them. We can’t assist them. Once they’re too far gone, sometimes we’ll just stop trying to get them to eat, and let them go.”

He thought, by now, that he’d heard it all. His eyes widen. “Is that where we’re at with him?”

Jared shrugs. “He’s sick. The director said he’s gonna go any day now, but it’s better if we don’t directly cause that.”

Lincoln doesn’t attempt to keep the hatred out of his eyes.

“He knows,” Jared says. “They all do. Once we stop pulling them for testing, it’s only a matter of time. He wants you to pull him, though,” he continues. “He wants to know it’s not his time yet. He wants to show you he can still be of use. He doesn’t really speak anymore, but he tries to be sweet, so we will keep him in rotation.”

“Stop talking,” Lincoln says then, his fist in a tight ball but, remarkably, not around the man’s throat. Jared’s mouth snaps shut.

“Show me the last one, and then you’re finished here.”

As they retreat away from the man’s cell, the door closes behind them, and Lincoln watches the hope leave his eyes.

They make quick work of the last door, and the weasley man leads Lincoln back through the main wing, mumbling about how there were several wings they didn’t tour, but he at least got to see all the residents, and how if he has questions, he is more than happy to take a call, day or night, and how…

✥ ✥ ✥

The volunteers stand in a haphazard group, each with a color coded name-badge to at least give Lincoln a starting point as to their role. He begins by directing the doctors and nurses to rooms, providing instructions on how to access the rooms, providing instructions on how to access the medical files, providing whatever information he can.

They’re working on finding placements for each of these boys, he tells them. But they all require intensive, specific treatment. As they find placements, they’ll be housed, and once they’ve placed the last boy, the volunteers will be reassigned.

As the last of the volunteers heads inside to get their own bearings, Lincoln takes a step back, regarding the innocuous building.

“I guess that’s that,” Jared says from behind him, taking a step forward and extending his hand out once more. Lincoln looks down at it, shoving his hands into his pockets, as Jared mumbles, “Welcome to Belleview.”

UNTITLED SYSTEM COLLAPSE STORY TAGLIST: @pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings

#belleview #institutionalized slavery #this is going somewhere #its going places #maybe not to the pulitzer prize people #but places #nonsexual nudity #torture mention #government stuff #it's a set up ok #they'll be sweet soft guys eventually

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