#cw forced institutionalization

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives Part 25: I Will Wait

~1580 words

CW: drugging, noncon undressing, nonsexual nudity, noncon touch, medical whump, forced institutionalization, ED mention, negative self-talk

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

~~~

DR MANDAL: I’d like to know how you like the staff and faculty here so far.

M BECK: Oh, they’re great. Everyone’s been wonderful.

DR MANDAL: No trouble at all?

M BECK: None.

DR MANDAL: That’s good to hear. What about the other patients, do you like your roommates?

M BECK: Sure, they’re alright.

DR MANDAL: No issues?

M BECK: We all wake up with nightmares, so it’s not like it’s fair to complain about that.

DR MANDAL: So no issues, but do you like them?

M BECK: I think so. I think everyone here hates themselves so much, it’s hard to connect with other people.

DR MANDAL: That’s very observant. Would you include yourself in that?

[0:26]

M BECK: Yeah.

~~~

The intake process was terrifying. Whatever drugs he’d been given had worn off enough for Simon to be awake, but not enough for him to resist as he was manhandled by orderlies out of the car and into a hulking rock of a building - the title of Fort wasn’t just for show. He didn’t have much time to look before he was inside, lifted onto a gurney and wheeled through a dizzying maze of hallways and into a cold room. Broad-shouldered orderlies leaned over him, and started taking off his clothes. One unzipped his coat, while another sat him up. The coat was jerked over his shoulders and off, and dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Then his turtleneck was peeled off, his arms gripped and guided by strong hands. He whimpered and flinched when they touched his skin directly for the first time, and he distantly registered a laugh. His upper half was dropped back onto the gurney and they set to work on his lower half. Someone pulled off his boots and socks while someone else started unbuttoning his jeans. This sent a shock of panic through Simon, he wanted to tell them to stop, but he couldn’t form the words. He couldn’t form coherent thoughts either, instead his head was overtaken by wordless waves of fear and shame and embarrassment as they pulled his pants and underwear down. A hand briefly grabbed his ass but Simon couldn’t tell if it was on purpose or not. Tears slipped out and ran down his temple and into his ear. He couldn’t even move to brush them away, much less stop anything that was happening. Someone whistled when his thighs were revealed.

“Bloodbag.”

“Yup.”

“Fuckin’ idiot.”

A vague figure ran a hand over his ribs.

“ED watch?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll be deciding that.”

The orderlies backed off, and a gray-haired man in a doctor’s coat took over, briskly taking Simon’s vitals and shining lights in his eyes, ears, and mouth. He manually pulled at Simon’s eyelids and jaw himself, and didn’t address Simon as he worked. Then, Simon could only lie there and watch as the worst happened: the doctor received a camera from an orderly and started taking pictures. His face. His scars. The bites. The flash of the camera left Simon blinded and dazed. The doctor barked at the orderlies to flip him over and Simon heard the camera click as he captured his backside as well. Then he was dropped onto his back again, a sheet was thrown over his lower half, and the room was suddenly quiet and empty.

His head flopped to the side on the thin padding of the gurney, mouth agape. Tears and drool slowly leaked out, out of his control. He felt disgusting. Violated. Scared. This had to be some sort of mistake. There was no way Chris would send him to someplace like this. Your boss and your friends were so very worried, Kelly had said - Gina, Amber, and Devon had had a hand in this as well. He needed to talk to Chris. This all had to be some horrible misunderstanding. It had to be.

He wanted Matthew.

He wanted to go home.

Maybe you made a mistake.

Simon drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, but was finally brought back by his stomach growling loudly. He’d lost a lot of his appetite over the last month, but even he could only go so long without eating. He found he could move his arms, and legs, and even slowly sit up. He discovered some thin, scratchy clothes folded at his feet: a long sleeved t-shirt and elastic-waisted pants, both a sickly shade of green, and started the laborious process of putting them on. He felt sick, dizzy, cold, and hungry, and his limbs moved half a second slower than he wanted them to. He had just pulled up the pants and was standing unsteadily against the gurney when the door opened. He flinched back, grabbing the gurney for support. The large redheaded orderly that entered looked him up and down.

“McKenna?”

“Yes?” Simon breathed.

“With me.” He stepped aside and held the door open. Simon tentatively scooted through under his gaze.

“Where-?”

“Left,” the man ordered.

Simon started walking to the left down the hall, but his legs wobbled under him and he staggered into the wall. The large man caught his upper arm, gripping it hard enough to bruise, and dragged him along.

“That hurts, you’re hurting me,” Simon pleaded. No response. “Where are we going?” Nothing. They passed by more doors and under more fluorescent lights, as well as beady-eyed cameras mounted in high corners. The surveillance reminded Simon of Lara’s house, and his heart pounded. He stumbled to keep up. “I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday, can -”

The orderly abruptly stopped and slammed Simon into the wall, pinning him there with an arm across his chest that knocked all the air out of Simon’s lungs.

“Don’t ask me for shit,” he growled, “Don’t ask anyone for shit, just do what you’re told, and shut the fuck up.”

Simon nodded, gasping for air. The orderly held him there for a long, threatening moment, clearly enjoying the power trip. Then it was back to being dragged.

After a few more confusing turns, they passed through a heavy security door and into an open room with round tables and scattered chairs, occupied by a handful of other people in the same green outfits as Simon. Orderlies were dotted around the room, observing as patients drew in coloring books and played checkers. It reeked of mildew and sick. Cameras stared from every corner.

“Don’t make any friends,” the redhead whispered in his ear, and released his arm. Simon staggered a couple steps forward, clutching at his aching bicep. Some of the other patients turned in their seats to watch him with languid curiosity.

Simon hugged himself tightly, breathing fast. He didn’t know what the orderly’s warning meant. He didn’t know what to do. He looked around the room in desperation and his heart leapt when he saw the back of someone in pink scrubs - a nurse, not a patient or orderly. The pink reminded him of Tammy at the clinic, and how kind she’d been. He wove through the tables to where she was talking to another patient.

“Excuse me,” Simon tapped her on the shoulder, “I just got here, I don’t know what’s going on, can you help me?”

She turned around slowly, her thin eyebrows high.

“Okay, number one, do not touch the faculty or staff,” she lectured.

“Oh, sorry, I -”

She snapped her hand closed in front of his face.

“Ah-ah! I don’t want to hear it. Who did your intake?”

“I didn’t - I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Do you know your room number?”

“N-no.”

 She huffed.

“Fine, I’ll look everything up for you. What’s your name, do you at least know that?”

“Simon. McKenna.”

“Thank you.” She strode away, ponytail bouncing, and exited through a security door that she opened with a keycard. Simon watched her go, pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

“That’s Linda,” said the patient she had been talking with - a very tall, very skinny man hunched over a hand of cards. Two others sat opposite him, an older man with a significant tremor and a boy younger than Simon, barely an adult.

“You don’t want to mess with her. I’m Chett, you wanna play cards with us?” the skinny man twanged, and grinned black and yellow teeth in an eerily familiar way that made Simon shrink back.

“S-sorry, no thank you,” he stammered.

“C’mon, sweet little thing like you needs friends!” Chett cajoled, but Simon was already backing away. He found a mercifully empty table and slouched down in the slippery plastic chair to wait for Linda. His heart thrummed and his eyes darted around the room at the other patients still giving him sidelong glances. None of them looked particularly friendly. The orderlies, on the other hand, looked downright hostile. They were all large men, some even larger than Matthew, and they glowered down over the patients like a bank of storm clouds.

Matthew. Simon felt tears spring to his eyes again. Hopefully wherever Matthew was sent was better than this. He put his head down on the table, sheltering under his arms. His mind replayed his last moments with Matthew. Their last kiss.

I’ll come get you.

Only a little while.

It’ll be okay.

You fucking idiot.

Regret started to bubble up in his stomach.

Shouldn’t have gone to the clinic.

He winced at the thought. Matthew, the real Matthew, was back and alive, and he was regretting that?

Worthless.

You deserve to be here.

~~~

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper

[systemofthestars]

The degree to which people say bad politics are caused by mental health issues is exhausting. People saying shit like "this person needs to be committed" is so angering. As a psychotic person who experiences delusions hearing people use those words as ad hominem attacks make me feel alienated and gross.

Just STOP, please, mentally ill people, including psychotic people, do not inherently have dangerous politics. We are not the ones doing mass violence, of course, some of us do, but the vast majority of people doing mass violence are not psychotic.

Mentally ill people can be dangerous, have shit politics, and be assholes. But so can people without any severe mental health issues.

Do not throw around the idea of institutionalized people, especially by force, if you don't get the problems mental health hospitals/units have. Do people not seem to understand the dark histories psychiatric facilities had, Not to mention the astonishing degree of violations, ableism, and violence people deemed "crazy" go through in psychiatric hospitals. Yes, we need facilities to give people higher levels of care. But being held against your will is traumatic. Being in underfunded/understaffed/under-regulated facilities is traumatic AF.

People who hear voices, people with dissociative disorders, delusional people, people with compulsions and all others considered crazy are not the real problem.

[morebedsidebooks]

Poison Ivy #19-21

Checking in with the Poison Ivy comic series again, we’ve reached a set of trio issues #19-21 forming “Origin of Species”. This writer G. Willow Wilson’s efforts in marrying together the contributions by many creatives over decades who have taken on the matter of Poison Ivy’s origins. Which if that sounds ambitious, you’d be right.

In media Ivy’s origins have often been recounted either by others or herself. However, because of the developments that led here in previous issues, this secret origin is too for all ones knows a last testament. With that frame dare readers hope for a more sapient, innermost version?

To begin issue #19 sees Pamela Isley off to a Seattle university as an undergraduate in a plant biochemistry program fatefully headed by Dr. Jason Woodrue. Wanting to best her peers (leading botanists Alec and Linda Holland plus Philip Sylvain), entranced both by the work and Woodrue, falling for a sexual relationship with him among other manipulations. When the next round of funding for the experiments runs out, Pam makes her first foray into crime.

Next for issue #20, as things with Pam and Woodrue continue to escalate, Wilson once more does not forget a relatively recent character in the schemes of things… Bella Garten.

Her last appearance to this in a flashback in #2, it’s been several issues. So, let’s take a minute to discuss Bella.

As a fellow student and love interest, specializing in botany and genetics going on to earn a doctorate, Bella Garten or the The Gardener as she would become first appeared in Batman #107 in 2021 creation of writer James Tynion IV. Plus, part of the thread of story involving Poison Ivy during the Fear State event and into the past. The one-shot Batman Secret Files: The Gardener (written by Tynion and art by Christian Ward) was also included in the first collected edition of Poison Ivy. However, the file, another secret origin comic is less about Bella Garten and more an attempt to appeal to Batman to help Ivy (around the Tom King Everyone Loves Ivy period) running through decades of Ivy’s character (with adjustments). Part of the history there exposed, particularly certain actions of Gardener, is uncomfortably weird.

Yet again an example of major violation done to Ivy by someone she trusted. The revelation resulting in a short confrontation between the two in Fear State Omega. (The issue also marking the end of Tynion’s Batman run with Art: Riccardo Federici, Christian Duce, Ryan Benjamin, Guillem March & Trevor Hairsine, Colorist: Chris Sotomayor and Letterer: Clayton Cowles). Where Ivy is having none of the presented defense.

In sum a character that functions more as a plot point, another retcon while trying to put it all (back) together. Yet, coherency that has been needed. Despite the American superhero genre (in)famously being one where seemingly everything and nothing is canon, something still important. So too, the first ongoing series for Poison Ivy not just ought to but, does endeavor to plumb over 50 years of a character’s existence. While bringing what each creative uniquely can. It’s worth asking then if Bella is made more too under Willow’s writing.

Wrapping up casting Ivy’s mind back, issue #21 arrives at the full Poison Ivy. Once again, becoming a human experiment (volunteering!) and transformation. An old life lost, the new leading to Gotham— yet for a unique green reason.

As a woman with growing abilities, confidence in using them, the law is just an obstacle to justice. But of course, conflict and differences plus mistrust with Batman result with Ivy in and out of the terrible Arkham Asylum. This would be the early pre-Harley days too, even though the Ivy costume calls back to the influential BTAS.

Then what can I say about the art I’ve haven’t already in other reviews. Jessica Fong continues to deliver pretty and pretty gross (body) horror main covers. (On the latter it took a while to prepare myself to read the previous issue #18. Though it’s not shocking that bodily autonomy, something Ivy’s origins raise too, makes the list of also current matters the series depicts.)

Marcio Takara definitely has set a bar as the main artist for the series. I wish he was drawing every issue. Though nothing against the other artists who have so far done so. It’s just that I generally wish for a creative team to be able to remain consistent through a run. I’ve praised colorist Arif Prianto consistently too. On the other hand, since these installments are Ivy believing she’s dying and mired in her distant past, I’m surprised there isn’t more of a difference exhibited of that. Why not really experiment with the paneling, designs, and color palette. Just as key the letterer Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou can switch things up to good effect. Actually, if part of the team working on Poison Ivy had to change briefly maybe here was where to do that instead.

In the end these issues of the comic series offer an origin stressing the choices and chances. A Poison Ivy that refutes being pathologized, focuses less on victimization, and more of her own creation and missteps along the way. It’s interesting too, if not still poignant, to look back to the first few issues of Poison Ivy. In soon coming up on two years, the series has issue by issue after issue grown and been recognized as an Outstanding Comic Book by GLAAD. After reflecting on a new(ish) past it continues forward.

[shywhumpauthor]

I am obsessed with the villain rehab writing and the whumper turned whumpee writing you did! Would you ever write a continuation to either of them?

Haha let’s pretend this wasn’t from February I’m so sorry

I always liked this piece, I never really had any motivation to continue it. I got an ask from an anon earlier this month for a continuation of this but from a different angle. That was my intention when writing this, but it was getting to be too long so the ideas in that ask will be included in the next part

To the anon who sent the ask earlier this month, it’s coming! I pinky promise. I loved the idea so much actually. Hero better hurry up

Villain Rehab Part Two

Continued directly from Part One

Cw: institutionalized abuse/torture, vague medical malpractice, manhandling, restraints, torture disguised as “treatment”, blood, sensory deprivation, starvation, blunt force trauma, implied broken bones, captivity setting, light suffocation/choking, vague themes of abandonment, mentions of accidental self harm/burning (villain has fire powers)

The guards were on them a moment later, barking orders, pushing and shoving them. A cold numbness that budded in their chest was quickly spreading, swallowing the voices and sensations around them. Vaguely, they registered a guard unhook the chain connecting their cuffs to the table, another grabbing them under an arm and hauling them up to stand. Villain’s feet moved along with them, steps hesitant but unresistant as they were led from the room.

The bag of food Hero had brought remained on the table, untouched. The thought of eating left a bitter taste in Villain’s mouth.

When they got to the corridor Villain knew their room resided in, a small spark of relief flickered through the fog that clouded their body. A sudden, intense longing to bury themself under the thin blanket on their bed seized their chest. Instead of pausing by the door, the guards that flanked them continued walking, leaving Villain to look back over their shoulder, faltering slightly. One of the guards’ hands found their hair, twisting their head around to face forwards.

“Don’t resist,” the guard ordered gruffly as Villain stumbled, not giving them a second to center their balance as the pair continued to pull them forwards.

They didn’t move that much further before stopping outside a different door. It looked similar to that of the block Villain was assigned to, but instead of a big “E” painted on it to indicate the hall, the blocky letter “F” glared back at them.

Over the months, they had learned the system, or at least their own interpretation. The “A” block was the most lenient, with the smiling patients and the group activities and the walks through the courtyard. The ones that weren’t a danger, that could be trusted. The “B” block required a bit more supervision, but they were often allowed to interact with the residents of the A block, most of the same privileges as far as Villain was aware. They had never been in either, so they weren’t really sure of the differences, if there were any. The C block was isolated from A and B, contained within their own wing. Villain hadn’t spent any time there either, but they knew that from C and up, the sectors did not interact.

Villain had started in “D”, so they knew a bit more about that. They hadn’t spent long there. Most of the patients were kept separated from each other, each had their own room and such. Villain remembered the beds—actual beds, not cots. They were far from perfect, but looking back they were a luxury. That described every aspect of D, honestly. The food was crap but at least it was food. Chicken, vegetables, rice, standard meals with little flavor or seasoning. It had reminded them of cafeteria food, but in comparison to the tasteless crap they gave in E, it was the most delicious thing they’d ever tasted.

D had had actual staff members, not just guards. Attendants and nurses would deliver their meals, stay and talk to them for a short while if they wanted. Villain had never earned the privilege, but they knew that things like books and puzzles were obtainable in D with “stellar behavior”, as they’d been told.

Restraints in D had been rare and based off true necessity, never left on for long. They remembered the padded leather feeling against their wrists and ankles, the terror that had bubbled in their chest when they were first secured to their bed following an “outburst”. A staff member had checked on them every so often, shadowed by a guard. It couldn’t have been more than six hours before they were released, once they had been determined to be stable and no longer a threat. They couldn’t believe how they had felt the first time, how pathetic it was. How pathetic they had been. They’d long since gotten used to the restrictions of the cuffs.

They couldn’t have spent more than a week in D before they were moved due to what the doctors would refer to as the incident. It had been an accident, they really didn’t mean to. No, if Villain had meant to, things would’ve turned out much worse. They hadn’t even been awake, it was a nightmare. They had jolted awake in a panic to burning blankets, blisters swelling along their palms. They were moved to block E before breakfast.

The difference between D and E was drastic and certainly for the worse. They had spent the rest of their stay in E, until now. The unspoken threat of the next corridor had kept them in line, and though there were small incidents along the way, but nothing big enough to warrant a level change. Those slip ups were dealt with, consequences such as loss of meals or increased therapy sessions following.

They couldn’t think of why they were being moved up. They were far from perfect, but hadn’t it been clear that they were trying? No, obviously not.

You’re not willing to put in the effort, that’s what Hero had said. Villain’s stomach flipped.

There were two scanners on either side of the door. Both of the guards had to scan their keycards and enter a code for it to hiss and slide open. They escorted Villain in, and the door closed behind them.

It was noticeably colder. The compound couldn’t be considered warm, at least not the parts Villain had ever been in, but this was freezing freezing. The hallway was shorter than the others, doors stationed evenly on either side. There were numbers above each door, stretching from 1 to 12. The hall was narrow, so much so that it was tight for the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder, each guard only inches from the wall. It was darker, though the lights seemed brighter. Cold, LED whites that burned Villain’s eyes to look at. At the other end of the hall, there was another door, slightly different from the rest. Instead of a number, above it simply read “Control”. Villain wasn’t sure what that meant, or if they wanted to find out.

The guards pulled them down the hallway, stopping outside of a door with the number 9 above it. There was a bolt lock at the top and the bottom, both already undone. Above the handle, there was another thicker deadbolt lock, and another scanner like the one outside of the hall’s entrance. The guard to their left reached for the identification tag at his chest, pulling it against the retractor to reach the sensor. A quick buzz and a small green flash of light granted him access, and he tugged open the deadbolt above the handle, pulling the door open, sidestepping so it didn’t hit him.

The room was bare and small, a low ceiling that Villain could probably touch if they stood straight and raised their arms. The walls and floor were all made from smooth concrete, as was the ceiling. It was dark, but with the light seeping from the hall they could see the outline of a flat light on the ceiling, and a vent near the light. It was empty, completely empty except for the black eye of a camera above the door, a red light indicating its functioning status, a small circular drain in the center of the floor, and a metal hook built into the wall opposite the door, close to the floor. Connected to that hook was a short chain, couldn’t be more than a three feet long, with a thick metal loop opened at a clasp.

Villain’s stomach dropped as one of the guards pushed them forwards, rough hands on their shoulders shoving them down to the floor. A dull flare of pain jolted up their arms as they caught themself with their forearms, the cuffs around their wrists clinking against the floor.

“Wa- wait,” Villain croaked, their voice scraping against their throat and they tried to twist around, but a boot planted firmly in their back, forcing them down. A strangled grunt escaped their chapped lips as that boot soon turned into a knee, digging into their spine as the guard knelt down. Their chest heaved as they tried to draw in air against the pressure pinning them to the floor, which the guard must have mistaken as an attempt of protest. It didn’t take him a moment to react, a hand twisting in Villain’s hair and quickly slamming their face into the concrete.

“Stop resisting,” the guard growled.

Villain grunted, a flash of light exploding in front of their eyes as their head made hard contact with the ground. They swore they heard a crunch, the taste of iron quickly flooding their mouth and clogging their nostrils. The guard reached forwards, the pressure on Villain’s back increasing as he put more weight against them in order to reach the chain. The metal links scraped against the floor as he pulled the looped end closer, fooling with it for a moment.

Hot tears welled in Villain’s eyes, the initial shock of the impact quickly shrinking to the pain radiating back through their skull. Something seared against their hands, burning but they barely registered it. Something cold pressed against their throat, digging in for a moment before it latched with a click, catching a few strands of their hair in the clasp.

The pressure on their back released and Villain twisted to their side, blood dripping down their throat. They stumbled up, but a pressure around their throat tugged them back down, the links of the chain clinking with their movement. They coughed, spitting blood as their chained hands rose to their face. Their palms were burning, heat twisting down their forearms but that was a pain they were used to. Their lungs were starting to ache, but each attempt to draw in air only brought more blood flooding into their mouth. They looked up, vision blurred with the tears that freely dripped down their cheeks, mingling with the blood on their chin. All they saw was a flash of the two guards, both looking down on them with disgusted expressions before the door shut heavily, and all they heard was the mechanical click of the lock, followed by three heavier thumps of the deadbolts being pushed into place.

The room was dark, completely dark. Not even a sliver of light filtered beneath the door. The only thing they could see was the small bead of dull red light, letting them know that they were being watched. It was silent, not even the hiss of the vents could be heard, only their own heaving breaths and strangled sobs.

[itsawhumpsideblog]

BBU Community Days 2024, Day 3

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

CW: for institutionalized slavery, emotional abuse, manipulation, drunkenness and drunk antics, a lot more swearing than normal, burning with cigarettes, forced to self-injure

"Shit, why didn't we invest in one of these earlier?" The speaker was a tall man in wrinkled slacks and a polo who looked like he was probably a good shot. There was no gun in evidence, unless you looked behind the counter of his establishment, but it didn't need to be visible for his customers to know that crossing him would be a bad idea.

"Cause they're fucking expensive," his bookkeeper replied, in the weary tones of someone who had explained this before. "We had to start coming out in the black consistently before we could afford the expense. You know that."

"Yeah, yeah. I know." The first man looked down at their new acquisition, kneeling on the floor next to the counter, looking down at his lap and wringing his hands. "Hey, uh- you- uh-" he looked back up at his colleague. "Hey, Ed, what do we call him?"

"His serial number is GU2938." Ed was engrossed in whatever he was doing on a laptop and didn't even look up.

"Nah, that's a mouthful. I'll just call him Pet, that's easy enough. Hey, Pet, there's some food there in that bowl for you. Take five and eat up, but be quick. We're gonna have customers in here in a few hours and we gotta clean and everything."

"Yes, Master," GU2938 replied, as he had been trained to, and scurried over to the bowl. It was full of scraps, probably the remnants of food humans had ordered but not finished. Sometimes people were so busy gambling or getting drunk that they forgot they had a meal in front of them. One of the first things GU2938 had learned was that people on a binge of any kind- betting or drinking or drugs- were unpredictable and did not always act according to logic that he could discern.

Once he had finished eating, GU2938 went back to the counter and crouched next to it, rubbing his knuckles and bent over to ease a bruise on his right side. The previous night, his first in the bar, had been an education, to say the least. It was his third day with his Master, but he had arrived mid-week and the bar was quieter on a Thursday night. Master had said that was best, since it gave him an evening to observe and learn his job.

GU2938 had been purchased to serve as a bouncer for the drinking-and-gambling establishment his Master owned, a dimly lit and slightly greasy place that was accessed by knowing which alley it was in and which stairs to go down to find the door. People did not come here for a quiet night out and GU2938's job was to get them out of the bar when Master determined that they were too drunk or high or broke to give him any more of their money.

Thursday had been quiet, with only a handful of regulars who hadn't left the Pet alone, but hadn't exactly hurt him, either. They only wanted to play with him, ordering him around just to watch him follow their commands. They had ordered him to bring their drinks from the bar, poured condiments on the table just so he would have to clean it up, and made him lick ketchup off the floor. When they lit a match, Master intervened.

"Hey!" he barked, so loudly that GU2938 jumped, although the regulars did not. "You were having your fun- fine. But you don't damage my property. I bought that to do work, not keep you entertained. That's what the races are for." He scowled at the men and waved GU2938 back to his corner beside the bar.

Friday had been very different, in a way. There was more work to do, or at least, more of the kind of work Master had in mind. GU2938 broke up a fight over poker and had to throw out a man who had gotten so drunk he forgot where- or possibly what- the toilet was. Then GU2938 had to clean up after the man, which might have been even worse than hauling him to the door.

When Master turned the lights off, locked the door, and left at almost 4 in the morning, GU2938 finally sat down and hoped he could fall asleep. It was hard to do, just like it had been hard the previous night. The floor felt very flat and a little sticky, and the small, barred windows didn't admit any light beyond a neon glow from some other business across the alley. Through the thin wall, he could hear the sounds of cars outside and the occasional siren and the strange noises frightened him.

GU2938 squeezed himself as far under the bar as he could manage. He was tall and broad-shouldered and the training at the facility had focused on building his muscles so that he would be marketable as a guard dog. He had learned a lot during his training- how to throw a punch and, more importantly, how to take one; how to dart past an opponent and use their own body weight to throw them; even where to put his hands to make someone pass out, permanently if the order was given. But the main thing he had learned was that he hated to fight.

He could fight, it turned out, and well. He was big enough to hit hard when he was ordered to do it and he was surprisingly fast for someone his size. He was perfectly compliant in the gym and ate the diet he was given, perfect for building muscle and laced with steroids that the WRU left off the guard dogs' medical records when they were sold.

But every time a fight ended, GU2938 would pause, look at his opponent, and break down in tears. And every time, the guards would make fun of him, order him to stop crying and, when he couldn't, beat him until he was too stunned to react any more. Then they would take him back to his cell where his wits would slowly return to him. He lay on the floor every night, seeing the face of the Pets he had fought in his mind's eye. He worried about them until he saw them again and could reassure himself that they were still breathing, even if they were damaged. His own injuries, even when they were severe, were less painful than the knowledge that he had hurt someone else.

Under the bar, GU2938 thought of the other Pets and closed his eyes against the mental images that formed the only memories he had. He began to rock back and forth, as if trying to shake the pictures away, and then found that the swaying reminded him of the last time he felt safe. It had been in the box on the truck between the facility and the bar. In that box, nobody was there to hurt or frighten him and he knew he would be left alone as long as the truck kept on swaying down the road. GU2938 tried to pretend that he was back there in the box on the truck and eventually he fell asleep.

He was woken late in the day by his Master opening the door and turning on the lights. GU2938 jumped up and stood with his head bowed at respectful attention as his Master crossed the room to the bar and set down a box.

"Got you something," he said. "Come here." Master opened the box and drew out a thick black collar with a small box attached to it. When GU2938 came over, Master reached up and fastened it around his neck. "That's a shock collar. I got the remote right here, see? I don't want to have to use it, but if you leave here or you disobey me, I can and I will. Understood?"

"Yes, Master." They were the only words GU2938 had uttered in recent memory and he heard his own voice so seldom that he was almost surprised by the sound of it, soft and deep and uncertain.

"Good. Now fill the cooler and get the floor mopped." Master went off to his own tasks in the back office.

GU2938 hated the feeling of the collar. It wasn't actually too tight, but it felt like it was and it made him cringe whenever he turned his head and felt the material rubbing against the front of his throat. He tried not to turn his head much, but it was difficult to remember not to move naturally. Even worse, he had no idea what Master's idea of disobedience was. GU2938 was trying his hardest to be a good Pet, but he was very afraid that Master would disagree.

As the weeks passed, GU2938 became more accustomed to the rhythm of life in the bar. He found that sleeping sitting up and leaned against the inside of the bar was more comfortable than trying to stretch out on the floor, especially with the collar snug around his throat. He also slept with one hand inside the collar, holding it away from his windpipe. Master fed him at least once a day from anything left in the kitchen before closing time and Ed, the bookkeeper, even gave him permission to eat scraps off of customers' plates when he did the dishes. He was hungry, but on most days not painfully so.

Only dealing with the customers never got easier. When Master ordered it, he had to throw them out of the bar sometimes, but Master also let the customers order him around when they wanted something. Occasionally, they played a game with him where they made a rule he had to follow for however long they said.

They seemed to play this game about once a week and GU2938 dreaded it. The first time they played, the rule had been that he had to do a somersault whenever one of them clapped. After he had rolled across the dirty floor a few times, one of the customers got it into his head to start applauding, making the Pet roll over and over around the bar until his back ached from contact with the hard floor.

The next time, he had to serve them with his eyes shut until they said he could look. The bartender played along and even Master laughed when someone put a chair in front of him to trip him when he brought a table their bill. The Pet went sprawling, afraid to open his eyes even to catch himself, and landed hard on his wrists. Without looking, he picked himself up very carefully and felt his way to the nearest table.

"Wrong one," someone said, when he tried to give them the little plastic tray with the paper and pen on it. There was a roar of laughter as he felt his way from table to table, each of them refusing the bill, until he was touching the back wall.

There were no tables left and he found himself shaking and afraid, because he didn't know what to do next. Should he ask again? But then Master would think he was questioning the honest of Master's customers and he wouldn't like that.

"Give it here," said Master's voice. "And go back to the front."

Still with his eyes squeezed shut, GU2938 went. Master must have delivered the check and the game continued, with GU2938 delivering food and drinks in between orders from the customers to go find the pinball machine or tie a customer's shoes.

The game came to an abrupt end when GU2938 slammed into the pool table and spilled an entire tray of beers all over himself and the floor.

"Open your fucking eyes and clean up that mess," Master snapped. GU2938 blinked in the light as he opened his eyes for the first time in hours and beheld the immense mess in front of him. Entirely without meaning to, he began to cry and almost immediately there was a sharp stinging feeling at his neck that made his whole body tense up. It only lasted a second, but when it ended, the spot on his neck under the little box didn't feel right and he ached horribly.

"Enough," his Master said in an angry voice. "I don't want to see any of that bullshit. Just clean. it. up."

"Yes, Master."

That first use of the collar marked a terrible turning point in GU2938's life. Now that the bar regulars knew he could be shocked, and knew one thing that would make Master do it, it seemed to become their goal to make Master shock GU2938.

In addition to the Rules game, they began betting on how long it would take them each night to make him cry. In between watching races or poker on tv, they pinched him as he passed or kicked his ankles or kneed him when Master wasn't looking.

If he had seen in, GU2938 supposed, Master would have stopped them, if only to protect his investment. The night one man pressed a lit cigarette to the Pet's arm, Master yelled at him and made GU2938 throw him out- but he had already been shocked and the man had won his bet. Every night GU2938 did his best not to cry, from either pain or fear, but they managed to find his breaking point all the same.

When they left and GU2938 had done his cleaning and eaten a bowl of leftover scraps, he would wedge his aching body and all its bruises under the counter and think about a quiet, dark box in a quiet, dark truck and rock himself back and forth until he could calm his adrenaline enough to sleep.

Things reached a crisis point the night the TV set broke. It might have had something to do with the bottle a very drunk customer had thrown at it earlier in the week, or it might simply have been a very old set. But whatever the cause, it broke in the middle of a race and the customers had been very invested in watching cars circle a track.

"Fuck," Master swore, and emptied the contents of his pockets onto the bar until he found his phone. He smashed the buttons and yelled into it, already sounding angry. "My fucking TV just died." There was an indistinct voice from the other end, and then Master said, "So what? The race was on and the TV just died, just like that." Pause. "Yeah, I know." Pause. "Well, I think we probably need another one, dumbass." Pause. "What the fuck?" Master sighed. "I'll be back when I sort this out," he announced to nobody in particular and stormed outside, still swearing at whoever was on the phone.

GU2938 was already nervous to be left alone with the customers, but when he saw that Master had left the remote to his collar on the bar, he thought he might be sick. He wondered for a split second if he could hide it until Master got back. Even if Master shocked him for it, it would still be better than whatever the customers might do.

He wasn't fast enough. One of them saw it and grabbed it out of the pile of loose change and crumpled receipts.

"Hey," he called to the other men, "Look what I got!" This was greeted with a round of drunk cheers that made GU2938 feel sick.

"Okay," said the man holding the remote. "First rule, umm... you have to walk around with your eyes crossed. Now go to the pool table and see if you can hit anything."

GU2938 did as he was told. He made it to the pool table and tried to pick up a cue, but he was so concentrated on the pool balls that he forgot there was a second condition.

"He's looking at them," someone called and instantly there a shock ran through him, making his muscles seize.

"No good," called the man with the remote. "Next rule? Anyone?"

"Make him eat gum off the bottom of the tables," someone suggested, to laughter. There was plenty of gum on the undersides of the tables and the chairs, too, as GU2938 well knew. As instructed, he scraped some off and put it in his mouth, but when he gagged, they shocked him again.

Then they had him carry a plate on his head and shocked him when it fell off. He had to turn a cartwheel and was shocked when he couldn't. With every broken rule, the shocks seemed to last longer and he was sure they were turning up the intensity. He couldn't help himself and screamed with each wave of electricity that shot through his body.

Prank call the emergency phone number.

Stand over here and piss into the potted plant.

Use this lit cigarette to draw a smiley face on your palm.

Stand under the target while we play darts.

Punch yourself in the face. No, harder. Right in the nose. Not like that.

Every time, they shocked him and with every shock, GU2938 felt his body grow weaker and felt his mind grow more afraid. His heart didn't feel right anymore, as if it skipped a beat when the shock came, and his legs could barely hold him.

At last, they got what they really wanted and he began to cry. Not just a few tears, like most nights, when GU2938 could keep himself mostly under control and the shocks from Master would be brief and comparatively light. Now, it was as if floodgates had opened and he sobbed from somewhere deep inside himself, the tears pouring down his aching face. He could feel a ball of grief deep in his stomach and he leaned against the bar and covered his face with his hands, as if they hadn't already seen.

"Uh-uh," the man with the remote crowed. "You're not allowed to do that. Your Master said you weren't. Didn't they train you better?"

GU2938 was sobbing too hard to answer or even to begin to collect himself.

"Guess not," the man said. He was looking out into the bar, talking to the other customers now, as if he was onstage speaking to an audience. "I guess we better help you out, get you properly trained. What do you think, boys?"

There was a cheer and to a background of applause, GU2938 felt the shock in what might have been slow motion. He could hear himself screaming at the top of his lungs as the man with the remote adjusted the intensity for maximum effect.

There was the feeling of a burning ring around GU2938's neck and he fell full-length onto the floor as his body tensed up. It was like an induced seizure and he felt his limbs shaking, his joints striking the tile. His teeth were grinding together and his eyes rolled in his head and then even the screaming stopped because he couldn't get a breath and his throat felt like it was on fire.

It only stopped because Master came in and shouted, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? I paid good money for that and you motherfuckers are just ruining it for fun." He kept on in that vein for some time, but GU2938 heard none of it. Consciousness ebbed and flowed and eventually someone dragged him behind the bar and left him there, supine and weeping, for the rest of the night.

The last thing that happened was Master shoving a bowl of scraps towards him. "You got the night off," Master said, "But I expect you to work double tomorrow to make it up."

"Yes, Master," GU2938 tried to say.

His blood ran cold. He hadn't made a noise- Master had spoken to him and he had answered but no noise had come out. GU2938 grabbed frantically at his throat, trying to pull the collar away. He opened his mouth in a silent scream, but there was nothing to hear.

Years later...

They were the first ones to arrive, which meant that Mikey had time to get the podium set up where he wanted it while Angie, Tim, and Nathan unfolded metal chairs into straight rows. Francis parked his wheelchair at the back of the room and got his crutches situated comfortably, pulling the sleeves of his flannel down smooth under the cuffs around his forearms.

"Are you ready?" Francis asked Mikey as they took their places at the front of the room.

Mikey shrugged. "I think so," he signed and Francis grinned.

"You'll be fine, I know you will. We'll do it just like we practiced at home."

"You're right, I know. But either nobody's going to show up or too many people are."

"Either way. Just like we practiced."

Mikey nodded and they watched the door as it opened to admit a stream of people. The local meetings of the Pet Liberation Movement were invitation-only to ensure that everyone in the room could be trusted; it looked like tonight everyone who was welcome had chosen to show up.

By 7:00, the library's conference room was standing room only and there was a low buzz of chatter as the attendees waited for the program to begin. Mikey focused on the front row, where Angie gave him an encouraging smile and a subtle thumbs-up. Nathan made a silent but enthusiastic cheering motion and Tim gave him two thumbs up, grinning broadly. Mikey blushed and laughed, but he felt better.

When the door had stayed closed for several minutes, suggesting that nobody else was coming, Mikey looked over at Francis, who nodded that he was ready to begin. Mikey raised his hands for quiet and the talk slowly died away as people noticed the gesture.

With a nervous deep breath, Mikey began to sign as Francis interpreted for him.

"Good evening. My name is Mikey and even though I'm using Sign Language, I'm not deaf- I'm mute. I lost my voice permanently because a shock collar was used on me when I was being kept as a Pet. My friend and fellow rescued Pet, Francis, and I are going to talk to you tonight about our experiences as victims of the Pet trade."

Master List

Notes: The end sort of just came to me, but I'm in love with the idea of Mikey becoming an activist. Also- is Mikey actually Ferdinand the Bull? Discuss.

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

[emmettland]

Milk Boy AU post lab whump thoughts

CW: dehumanization, carewhumper exploiting whumpee, dehumanized whumpee further dehumanized by society, mobster caretaker, immoral caretaker, immoral whumpee, test subject whumpee, forced institutionalization, forced corrective surgery

after nineteen years of being in operation, the milk lab is finally put under investigation, determined to be extremely unethical and in violation of multiple laws, and is shut down. David is one of the many employees to be imprisoned, facing a life sentence for the atrocities that he took part in.

which leaves Logan, the lab's loyal milk boy, with nothing.

the government attempts to put Logan in a mental hospital, but nobody knows how to deal with something like this. half of them aren't even sure if Logan is a person, since he looks like...that.

against his will (though it's really just his conditioning), Logan is forced to undergo corrective surgery that removes the extra pair of breasts and milk-producing glands in his organs. aside from some surgery scars, he looks...normal. like every other human.

but he feels nothing like one. nineteen years of being a test subject, of having only one purpose, and Logan has no idea how to be a person. and now that he can no longer fulfil his purpose, why is he even still alive? does his 'family' plan on rescuing him from these awful people telling him how fucked up he is? is this all just a test?

the other residents are freaked out by him, don't know how to treat him. the staff feels sorry for him, but at a loss of how to help. Logan becomes increasingly volatile and violent, to a point where he needs to be kept restrained and sedated for most of the time. most of the staff deems him beyond help, wondering if it would be more merciful to just end him.

Dr. Cassius Helven is called in. as an expert on severe trauma and abnormal psychology, Cassius is granted by the government to take Logan home with him and conduct his treatment there. unlike the mental hospital, Cassius coaxes Logan in with familiarity; treating him like a pet, giving him a schedule, letting Logan fall into a routine without having to interact with others or 'be a person'.

Cassius makes a huge amount of progress with Logan. he teaches Logan basic reading and writing, important life skills, things that will help foster his independence. he encourages Logan's curiosity, lets him explore the world and realize that it's so, so much more than the lab he called home. he helps Logan want to become a person.

because Logan is Cassius' success story.

the fame and fortune that Cassius amasses is extraordinary, and why wouldn't it be? Logan is an entirely unique case study, given what he went through. whereas others failed with him, Cassius succeeded, making an excellent reputation for himself and his career. it thrust Logan into the spotlight as well -- not as the genius who figured out how to treat a former test subject, but as the pitiful test subject. even when Logan wants to be a person now, society refuses to see him as such. he'll always just be the milk boy. the 'human cow'. the freak.

Logan wants to move out of Cassius' home, wants to get away from the media. but how can he? Cassius has done so much for him, and he reminds Logan of that whenever he wants to say no to him, for anything. it's a new form of cruelty for Logan; learning how to say no, and then not being able to.

inevitably, public opinion splits. now there are people saying that Logan should be freed, not kept as a case study, as a spectacle. and there's a significant number of people with significant connections who are backing the Liberate Logan movement.

Cassius tries moving homes, tries keeping Logan hidden, but it's his own teachings that do him in. while showing Logan how to use electronics, Logan discovered he has a passion for them, and had been studying them intensely. he finds a way to bypass the controls Cassius put on his computer and get onto the internet, where he reveals the address of Cassius' new home.

the protesters move in. they stand outside during the day with their signs and chants, getting plenty of media coverage and annoying Cassius. but at night, things escalate. someone throws a brick at one of the windows. a mob breaks out. a whole swarm of people with their own reasons, all uniting under one cause. stop Cassius.

Logan escapes in the chaos. Cassius suffers a few minor injuries, but nothing more. it's the protesters that get brutalized the most.

Logan has nowhere to go. for all that he's learned, he has no idea how to live on his own, still struggles to take care of himself. everything is hard, and painful, and overwhelming. his bare feet hurt on the sidewalk. he shivers from the cold. he misses Cassius' bed.

he ends up curled up in an alley, drifting off from exhaustion, when a gunshot startles him. Logan isn't quite sure what the sound is. but when a man comes walking down the alley, blood splattered on his face and clothes, Logan recognizes the blood. it's obviously not coming from the man, it's someone else's.

but of course, being raised how he was, violence and murder don't phase Logan one bit. as the man soon realizes when he sees Logan there, staring up at him curiously. he recognizes Logan from the press; impossible not to when he's the media's favorite topic.

it's unprofessional and dangerous to leave witnesses. but Derek really doesn't want to kill the poor thing. he asks Logan if he's lost and Logan says no, he doesn't want to be with Cassius anymore. Derek asks if he has anywhere to go. Logan says no; he was hoping to find an unpopulated area, somewhere with no humans. he's starting to realize that his 'family' was right; he's not human at all. Logan doesn't think he likes humans very much.

Derek agrees. he also doesn't like humans very much, and reassures Logan that he isn't one. Logan is confused, asks what Derek is then.

"A monster," Derek says with a smile. "Or so I've been told."

monster. that's a new word for Logan. he's heard people call Cassius one, but Cassius insists that they're lying. that's good. he wouldn't trust Derek if Cassius was a monster too.

"I don't know if I'm a monster," Logan says. "They call me a freak."

"Hmm. That's a different type of monster."

"Oh. What type are you?"

and really, this seems like the best solution to Derek. no witnesses. the young man clearly doesn't know right from wrong, and if Derek takes him in and hides him from the media, nobody will be able to question him. hell, he could fake Logan's death just to make sure nobody goes looking for him.

so it makes all the sense in the world to ask:

"Would you like to find out?"

[caspers-delusions]

Psych Whump Masterlist

💉💉💉

This is going to be my go-to list every time I find something with medical or psych whump in it that I want to remember. I'll reblog it frequently and try to keep it updated but it's going to start small because good psych whump is so hard to find. (This in no way endorses medical abuse, I'm a mentally ill individual but I love consuming psych whump in media. Just about everything in these movies, books, etc are at the very least morally gray so consume at your own risk. Also, I only enjoy these things in fiction. Irl it makes me sick to my stomach, I know bc I've experienced some of this.) I'll try to add trigger warnings for each one but I might miss some so I apologize in advance. If you have any recommendations please message me! I'm scouring the internet for good psych whump but medical/sickfic whump is also wanted.

Movies:

A Cure For Wellness: Guy gets tricked into becoming a patient at a "resort" that's really a mental hospital in disguise that uses its patients for nefarious means. CW: incest, medical abuse, teeth falling out, sexual assault, some weird eel shit ^^There's probably more but I haven't watched the film in a while.

TV Shows:

Moon Knight: Whole season of psych whump, the main character has DID and loads of past trauma. Has a huge ancient Egypt theme and the MC gets (kind of) forced to accept psychiatric care. CW: lots of ableism, mental break, psychotic episodes, forced institutionalisation, child abuse, restraints

Gute Zeiten, schlechte Zeiten: German soap that's been running since 1992. The specific episodes that have good psych whump are from 26.5.2017 to 01.06.2017. Extremely hard to find online, only some clips/gifs exist as of now that are easily viewable.

Perception: Schizophrenic professor who teaches at a university spirals and gets put in a mental hospital. He has a caretaker friend who helps him and the professor also sees hallucinations of an ex-girlfriend who helps him solves mysteries. CW: extremely inaccurate portrayal of schizophrenia, delusions, paranoia, and really any mental illness for that matter; lots of ableism, I think I remember one character calling the professor a freak, people treat him really badly

Books:

House of Leaves: This book is a fever trip but the MC (kind of?? The book has multiple authors, it's honestly very confusing but it's great) suffers from declining mental health and spirals hard. CW: child abuse, lots of sexual content, mentions of a caretaker beating a child, mentions/delusions of sexual assault, death of a dog (it was brutal, huge warning), mentions/descriptions of suicide and attempted murder

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: This is chock-full of psych and medical whump, it all takes place in a psychiatric hospital (I've actually been to the one in the film! -Not as a patient) CW: huge amounts of abuse from staff, doctors, nurses, there's also a scene where SA is implied on a patient, the MC is there after being convicted of SA'ing a minor and he's pretty unremorseful (the MC is a dick though anyways), racism, ableism

OG Works (not mine):

Redwood Psychiatric Insitute: Forced institutionalization, great read and it has just about every trope I look for in fics all packed into one series. Please give it a read, it's fantastic. Source - https://www.tumblr.com/only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are/706656298337435648/redwood-psychiatric-institute-masterlist?source=share by @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

Fanfiction:

Into Your Arms: This is a Star Trek fanfic that follows a girl who has a severe eating disorder and mental illness. It's not the normal kind of sickfic or psych whump I go for but the aftercare in this is topnotch. Source - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15185897 by moose-misses-sweets on ao3 CW: suicide attempt, severe eating disorder, abusive partner, cutting/self harm

Summarized List

Movies: 1. A Cure For Wellness TV Shows: 1. Moon Knight 2. Gute Zeiten, schlechte Zeiten 3. Perception Books: 1. House of Leaves 2. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest OG Works (not mine): 1. Redwood Psychiatric Institute Fanfics: 1. Into Your Arms

Note: If something you made is on this list and you want me to remove it, please message me and I will. I don't check messages very often but it doesn't mean I'm ignoring you, I just forget I have a tumblr sometimes.) *Extra note: this was originally posted on my side blog @ennead-of-whump but I'm slowly integrating that blog into this one. I'm now only going to be using my main blog @caspers-delusions which means I'm only going to update this masterlist post from now on.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

T$$ Dystopia AU: Part Two

previous ///// T$$ Masterlist

cw: aftermath of whipping/beating, referenced public torture, institutionalized violence, adult language

× × ×

Joy didn't often bother with the floggings or the stocks or the other punishments inflicted by the police state. As shitty as it was, they happened too frequently for her to expend the resources to help every victim. Better to focus her efforts elsewhere and try to stop it altogether.

This was different though.

One of her scouts reported a whipping, and whatever, it was practically a daily occurrence at this point, but then they'd added that the kid on the post had already looked beaten half to death before the first crack even came down. That was just a little too cruel for her to ignore. She figured she'd at least check up on him, make sure he knew where the unsanctioned medic huts were and that he had the means to reach one. The rest of her guys were busy with other taskings, so Joy decided she'd pay him a visit herself.

Only when she arrived at the square, what must've been an hour at least since the flogging had ended, the poor guy was still on the post.

Security was posted around the perimeter, watching their prisoner with a body language like they'd shoot down anyone who tried to help.

If they were going to all these lengths… who was this guy? Just a victim they'd decided to be especially cruel to? Or was he something more?

Knowing the police corp as well as Joy did, she knew either option was equally as viable. Either way, she was gonna rescue the kid, and either way, she'd need some backup.

And fast. Fuck knew how long the poor guy would be able to hold out for.

It took less than a sentence of explanation to get Jericho on board, along with enough guys to distract the cops and give them an opening for the rescue.

It took longer than she would've liked to get everyone in place, but they wouldn't be any help to the beaten kid if they got arrested en route to him. It was another hour before the group was at the square’s edge, poised to act.

The rear guard gave the signal, and Joy darted forward, Jericho and a pair bolt cutters at her side. 

Up close, the sight of the kid’s back was far more gruesome; layered blacks and reds gouging every inch of it. Torn to shreds. How many had they fucking given him? What had he even done to deserve this in the force's eyes?

The whipping alone should've been enough to kill him, let alone the dark bruises covering his ribcage, let alone being left like this for hours. But this kid was a fighter. Though shallow and wheezing, he was still breathing.

“I got him, Jer. Cut him down.”

Her friend cut through the chains linking the guy’s handcuffs together, and he collapsed onto Joy. She winced when she saw his face, half of it basically one big bruise. It would be hell on his wounds to carry him out of here, but they needed to get back underground fast, or there would be no saving him.

Jericho slid the cutters into his belt, reaching to take the unconscious man from her, but as the bigger man started to lift him, his hand closed around Joy’s arm.

“Stars…” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Th-they lead to you.”

Fuck, he was delirious too. Not that she was surprised by that. Joy nodded, not knowing how else to respond.

“Yeah. Yeah, they do.”

Behind her came the shout of her men, and she knew they needed to get moving now. Joy gently removed his fingers, allowing Jericho to sling the leaner man over his shoulder. She kept a few paces behind her friend to watch his back, her pistol drawn in case any of the cops saw them and moved to close in from the rear.

Somehow, the whole group made it back to the clear zone without pursuit. Joy sent a few guys on to fetch a medic, and accompanied Jericho to one of the safe havens. The havens were usually occupied by those who'd been wrongly accused of criminal intent, and needed somewhere to hide for a while, as well as people who had nowhere else to go. As far as she knew, their rescue checked both of those boxes, but she wouldn't know for sure until he regained consciousness.

…if he regained consciousness.

Jericho carried him to one of the empty rooms downstairs, carefully depositing him stomach-down on a bed.

“Thanks, Jer,” she said, cutting away the tattered remains of his shirt and gently removing them.

“Happy to help.” He sighed. “Never thought they would take things this far. Not in public. I mean, an execution is one thing, but this…”

“I know.”

“Do you think they would've let him down at all?”

Joy shook her head, letting her gaze fall to the unconscious man on the bed. “Cops've been doubling down lately. Wouldn't be surprised if they just wanted to make an example of him.” Her medical knowledge was limited, but she figured she should try her hand at cleaning him up. Who knew how long the medic would be?

“There's a silver lining then. They know the resistance is a threat,” Jericho said.

“How is that a silver lining? It'll only make them strike harder, do shit like this.”

“It means we stand a chance against them, and they know it," Jericho said. "Why else would they be lashing out?”

Joy pressed her lips together. “You're right.” She tore herself away from the bedside, checking one of the room’s cabinets for supplies, and coming away with a small stack of gauze and a bottle of water. “But fuck, man, we need to get the upper hand before there's a death on the whipping post.”

“We will,” Jericho said. “We have to.”

Joy sure fucking hoped so.

She wet one of the thicker gauze pads and started dabbing at the wounds on the man's back, trying not to let it get to her when the muscles there spasmed in pain and the guy let out a weak whimper.

“Easy does it.”

She hadn't covered much ground before the real medic arrived, patching up his ragged torso and giving him a morphine injection. Their stock of drugs and antibiotics was getting scarily low, but if anyone needed it, this kid did. 

They'd have to set up another raid on the upper-ring hospital soon. Dangerous for sure, but necessary to keep people alive.

“Will he live?” she asked as the medic started to leave. They answered with an apologetic shrug.

“He's made it this far. Keep a close eye on him, but… I wouldn't set my hopes too high.”

Joy nodded, clenching her jaw. “Thank you.”

As the medic left, she turned back to the bed. The man there looked marginally better, his thin form wrapped in heavy bandages that masked the worst of his injuries. He'd live. He had to. The cops couldn't win this one.

“I'll take the first watch,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Jericho asked. “How long have you been awake?”

“Few more hours won't kill me. I'll send for someone else soon, I promise.” She dragged a chair to the foot of the bed, and planted herself there, fidgeting with a paperclip she’d found in her pocket, bending it into different shapes until piece by piece it broke into nothing.

Sometime around midnight, the kid began to stir; little shifts and twitches and groans. Joy grabbed another water bottle. They didn't have the supplies for an IV line right now. As much as she hated to drag him out of his rest, if he was gonna live, he'd have to take liquids by mouth.

“Hey,” she said, giving him a light shake on his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

“Ffff-fuck off,” came the shaky reply, and Joy nearly cracked a smile.

“You need to try and drink something,” she said, unscrewing the cap and sliding a plastic straw inside. “Can you turn your face towards me?”

After a moment he did, bruised eye and cheek pointing in her direction. She set the straw against his lips, careful to avoid the spots that were cut up, and waited.

It seemed to take a lot of effort, but he managed to swallow down some of the liquid.

“Cool,” she murmured, then hastily added, “good, I meant, that's good.” One step forward.

“You can drink more if you want,” she said. “If not, I'll let you sleep.”

He spat out the straw. It was enough of an answer for Joy.

“Got a name?”

“Hu-Hunter,” he muttered.

Behind the bruises and blood and swollen lips, she swore she saw him grin.

“Joy,” she replied. “Welcome to the resistance.”

× × ×

tag list:

@theonewithallthefixations

[whumped-by-glitter]

The Morning Dasa's Life Began to Change

CW: institutionalized slavery, captivity, bondage

here is a very whumpy excerpt from chapter 2, it takes place the morning of Annika's birthday. I am working on edits still, so aspects may change slightly by the time I post the entire chapter.

word count: 2,066

The slave, who was only called dog, stood spread eagle in his master’s front yard, his arms and legs held taut, and outstretched between two pillars, bound by a force pulling at the bands on his wrists and ankles. two bars were slid through brackets, on both pillars, one at his throat, one at the back of his neck to deter any forward or backward slumping. His well-defined muscles were far past the point of screaming from lack of movement, His black, medium length hair was matted with days of sweat and grime. He'd lost count of how long he’d been out there, 3 days maybe? His master would show up three times a day to beat him and force him to eat. He was never starved for punishment, like the other slaves, because he was being trained to resist, properly identify, and neutralize poisons. Missing meals would mean missing doses, which could screw up any resistance he’d built up, which had taken almost 20 years to establish. He was only being held here, this time because a younger slave, referred to as boy, was stealing food. Dog had taken the blame, to protect the starving kid, who was banned from food because their master’s lazy son Balor was not pleased with how long it had taken Boy to buy more snacks.

The sun began to rise, and the people of the Fief had begun to move about. Some of the passers- by would look at him with pity. Others would poke fun at his predicament, or giggle. Some of the Arcturian children would throw stones or mud, from the gutters, at him. Dog was insensible and numb to all of this by now. For the Drar, such treatment was commonplace. He was an enslaved people.  The position Dog now found himself in was his master, Corvius’s, favorite punishment for him.

The Drar were a race that had incredible physical strength, and heightened senses, like wild animals. They were actually the only race of Balthia that did not possess any magic, in fact they were more sensitive to it being used on them, but their senses and strength more than made up for it. Even their eyes looked animalistic, amber yellow with slit pupils. They also boasted incredibly fast healing, however, dog unfortunately did not, likely due to the poisons he had to drink every day. Dog was also not as strong as other Drar probably for the same reason. He was stronger than the Istrians and definitely stronger than Arcturians though.

As the sun rose higher dog started to grow concerned. Master Atheris should have been outside by now. Did Corvius forget about him? Did Corvius decide to just leave him out here, and to start fresh, with one of the younger slaves? Doubts whirled through his head, which was bound to happen when he had nothing to do but think. It was like torture, to suddenly change a routine when he was in such a vulnerable position.

Finally, after hours, Boy appeared. Relief spread through Dog, followed immediately by confusion. Then Boy started to slide the bars out of their slots, which confused Dog and caused more than a little bit of panic to arise in him. “Wh-what are you doing?” dog asked, in hushed tones, his voice cracking a little, which betrayed concern for the younger slave.

“don’t worry, I’m on orders to get you cleaned up, I’m not helping you escape” Boy replied. He showed Dog Balor’s ring. Boy gave a wry smile when Dog sighed in relief. Boy released Dog's ankles. Then he released Dog’s wrists, first his right, causing dog’s body to slump back, onto Boy’s waiting shoulders. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Boy asked, “you would almost never be punished, if you weren’t constantly defending the rest of us” he said, releasing his other wrist, causing dog’s entire body to crumple and boy had to help him to the ground so he could recover for a moment. It was a relief to allow blood to start flowing back to his arms.

Dog shrugged in response “because, I know how much these suck, and it hurts me a lot worse than the actual treatment ever could to see someone else go through it.” He replied pensively, revealing what might be his biggest weakness, “besides, someone’s gotta look out for all of you. now shhh, you know we aren’t supposed to talk to each other”, talking, between slaves, was strongly discouraged not just by Corvius, but across the board.

Boy gave another wry smile as dog flexed, trying to restore blood flow to his stiff limbs, his muscles aching from prolonged disuse. Boy doubted their master had even realized how fitting the name “Dog” was. Dog was loyal to a fault, almost to the point of being stupid. As the oldest slave in the household, he always took it upon himself to look out for everyone else and protect them from Corvius and his lazy son Balor. The other slaves would sometimes jokingly call him Maso, short for masochist.

Once dog could at least stand, boy half dragged him into the bathhouse, to begin getting him cleaned up. Dog was dreading the cold water, when he realized it was warm. He had never once had a warm or even lukewarm bath. He closed his eyes and melted into it. It felt amazing on his still stiffened and somewhat atrophied muscles. Boy had to help him with his hair, as he still could barely lift his arms. To Dog’s surprise, Boy used real shampoo. This really started to concern dog, as normally, on the rare occasions they were allowed to bathe, it was cold water and only a bar of soap.

After he was cleaned up, Boy handed him a towel and brought in some clean clothes. He then carefully bandaged his still bleeding and thoroughly battered body. When dog started to dress, his concern grew, ‘what was going on?’ he thought. The fabric was soft and clean. The garments were new and had no holes at all. It was a simple black tunic and breeches, with red edging. Dog dressed quickly, not wanting to dawdle too long and get Boy in trouble.

A few minutes later Corvius waltzed in, followed by his portly son, who came waddling in after his father. Dog immediately knelt and bowed his head to the floor, a gesture of humble submission and obedience. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite lawn ornament” the old man sneered.

“And snack retriever!” Balor added dumbly, trying, and failing dismally, to parrot Corvius’s sneer.

Corvius walked around dog, assessing him, “that’ll have to do” he muttered before wrapping a blindfold over Dog’s eyes. Corvius was strictly averse to his slaves making eye contact, even by accident, with any free person.  It wasn’t uncommon for him to just blindfold them, when they were going to be around nobles. In fact, he had trained them, for a couple hours each evening, to function and even serve as usual, while blindfolded. It wasn’t unusual for slaves to wear lace coverings over their eyes, as the nobles found the Drar’s yellow, slit pupiled eyes, quite unsettling, however, Corvius took it to an extreme. “Get up, come with me dog” he ordered sharply, and dog rose, as gracefully as he could and followed obediently, sensing Boy’s eyes watching him intently, as he left the room.

He followed Corvius’s menacing tapping, as he’d put metal plates on the bottoms of his shoes to make himself more imposing. Dog wouldn’t need them to follow his master though, as the Drar have extremely good senses and their sense of smell is was keener than most wild animals. The same was true with hearing and sight, and Dog’s were even more developed from years of training. He could operate the same way, blindfolded or not.

The three of them got into a carriage. Once inside, dog took a spot on the floor, as he was not allowed to sit on the seats, as they were reserved for free persons. to Dog’s shock and surprise, Corvius, whose presence he could detect by scent alone, began to remove his bands one by one. The surprise must have registered on Dog's face, which was another taboo for slaves, because he received a painful prod from Balor with his ring, who sniggered wickedly. Dog dropped his face and resumed his usual void, neutral expression, once more. He fingered the skin around his neck, bands were put on the Drar from birth, so it always felt foreign not having one. ‘It isn’t time for resizing my bands, what is going on?’ He wished Master would tell him.

Then, one by one, they were replaced. However, these bands smelled different. They were of a different metal, gold. He began piecing together, bit by bit, what was going on at that point. Gold bands were strictly for slaves belonging to Royalty.

“hand” Corvius ordered coldly.

Dog obeyed and held out his hand, readying himself for the finger stick. It always made him jump a little for some reason, and attuning the stones was a little painful.

Corvius stabbed his finger hard with a needle. He then roughly squeezed out a drop of blood and pressed it to one ring until Dog let out a hiss, then repeated the process for a second ring.

These bands controlled the Drar’s whole lives. They were linked magically to a ring or rings their owners wore. The rings were simple with a small red stone on it. The stone was linked directly to a specific slave. The bands would cause immense pain if the slave even thought about disobeying, same with touching their own ring, and being too far away from their master. Any ring, the same status or higher could make the bands bind or unbind. This was to protect against rebellion. So, anyone with a gold ring had pseudo control over any slave. The Nobles, with their silver rings, had some command over silver and brass banded slaves. The commoners, with brass rings, only had control over brass banded slaves.

Although the bands only forced them to obey their master, they were still expected to obey everyone or face punishment. The only exception to this being if a command from someone else interfered with their master’s orders. It was a tough line to walk. Dog especially felt bad for brass bands, sometimes poorer communities would share slaves, to do work in the fields. The thought of having maybe a dozen owners made him shiver. However, he had often heard that they weren’t treated as badly, so maybe it wasn’t as awful. Dog had been a silver band. Silver and gold had to be always on point and were often used for entertainment, which often exposed them to more wanton cruelty. He himself had been used in a number of blood sports, which were referred to as “games”.

When the carriage stopped, Dog was ordered to exit. Before leaving, he was stopped by Balor, who placed gold irons on his wrists connected, behind his back, by a chain just long enough for him to reach about 6 inches in front of him, the same was done with his upper arms, but this chain was shorter, which kept his Upper arms at his sides. The two sets were connected vertically to prevent him from stepping over the chains and bringing his arms to the front, not that he would attempt it anyway. Dog was obedient to a self destructive degree.

Dog was led into what seemed to be a ballroom, based on the number of people and the amount of echoing that reverberated off the chamber’s walls. “Kneel, dog” Corvius growled, as he positioned him near the back of the room so that Corvius could go mingle with the rest of the nobility and elites. Dog obeyed, and gracefully took his place. He remained so still, that several women thought he was a manikin at first. That was another pet peeve of Corvius’s, excess fidgeting and swaying, even Dog's breathing had to be measured.

The sounds in the room suddenly changed, some kind of ceremony was beginning. Dasa’s chest tightened, he still didn’t fully understand what was going on and desperately hoped he wasn’t about to be entered in game, his body was still too stiff and sore.

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Masterlist

[quietly-by-myself]

A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 14

Masterlist

I found it in me to write this. Going through a rough time and Akakios is my comfort character, so enjoy the penultimate chapter.

CW: medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, institutionalized slavery, angels and demons, transformation whump, vague allusion to noncon, brief suicidal ideation

===

“You’re changing, my love.”

Asimi ran their hand over one of the nubs of horn protruding from Akakios’ head. Akakios, of course, was crying. There were few nights spent with Asimi that didn’t involve tears. It was a miracle, to Akakios, that Asimi wasn’t sick of him.

“There’s nothing that can be done?” Aka asked tearfully. The reality of it all was sinking in. He was becoming a dangerous creature. Before, he wasn’t human by virtue of being a mage of the dark arts. Now, he would be a monster. He’d be killed.

Not that it was such a bad fate, to be dead.

“No, Aka, my love. There’s nothing that can be done.” For once, the ever-steady Asimi seemed shaken. “I’ll be forced out of you, Aka. I fear for what that means for both of us.” Asimi took a breath. “Aka, we, as devils, are created by powerful emotions. The stronger the emotions throughout a lifetime, the stronger the devil. You will be powerful, my love. Able to defend yourself without me.”

“Asimi, you can’t leave me.” Akakios began to sob. “You’ve always been there. What am I going to do without you?”

Asimi looked away, casting Akakios into shame.

God, even Asimi would hate him now.

“Aka, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I hope we can escape. I hope we can overwhelm their forces and escape. But I don’t think that will happen. Young devils are out of control, Aka. They’re strong and unable to control themselves. With this happening now- look, I’m not a fortune teller. I just don’t know.”

It was the first time that Asimi hadn’t known.

That scared Akakios, more than Constantine ever could.

—

The rain pattered awkwardly on the windshield of Vasiliki’s car. When was the last time that Akakios had heard rain? He didn’t know. Of course, Akakios was out of control of his life once again, but he was, at least, outside the Facility.

Vasiliki, as he brought Akakios out of the car and into the apartment building, leading him with a firm hand on his shoulder, seemed nervous. Why was Vasiliki nervous? He’d never seemed this nervous before. 

Once Vasiliki opened the lock to his apartment - Akakios felt like he recognized the number, 504 - and practically shoved Akakios in, he took a deep breath. It sounded part like relief and part like anguish. Akakios fidgeted nervously with his hands, a little unsure of what to do. The apartment was a one-bedroom ordeal - not exactly what Akakios had been expecting out of the doctor.

“I,” Vasiliki took another deep breath. “I know that this is my apartment. I know what that means for you, Akakios. So, I wanted to say my intentions plainly.”

Vasiliki took a look around his apartment, as though he was looking for something hidden. Once he was satisfied, Vasiliki turned to Akakios.

“I have a friend who’s a revolutionary- one who wants to save the dark mages. He- he knows some devils. Some who could help you. I’m calling him to help us. To have us taken to a safehouse. To have you, most of all, taken to a safehouse. You won’t have to talk to me anymore - or anyone from the Facility. You’ll have other people. You won’t be a slave anymore.”

Akakios stood in shocked silence. It felt like a trap. It couldn’t possibly be true. Him? Free? Meeting devils? Being taken care of? The thought was foreign to him.

“Now, just- just sit quietly and let me call him.”

And so, that was what Akakios did. He found a quiet corner in the apartment, a little bit out of sight, while Vasiliki paced around the kitchen on his cellphone. There wasn’t much time before the Facility sent patrols looking for them.

Even if Vasiliki owned him. Even if he was here under the guise of Vasiliki fucking him-

“They’re on their way.”

God, it was actually happening. Someone was coming. Akakios could only hope that this would turn out well for him.

More quiet pacing from Vasiliki. More quiet corner-hiding for Akakios. 

Eventually, there was a rap on the door. Vasiliki jumped. Akakios curled up further in the corner.

As the people entered, Akakios curled up more in the corner, the prongs of the shock collar he bore around his neck digging in. He felt himself losing his grip. He couldn’t have panic be his first reaction to these people. Akakios needed to behave, not make Vasiliki look bad.

There were quiet whispers. One had golden eyes, goat-shaped pupils. Goat horns adorned his head. A devil. A devil in the flesh. A very powerful one at that. The other was a kind-looking man around Vasiliki’s age. He had brown skin, brown hair, and brown eyes, with glasses and a beard of stubble.

As the devil approached, Akakios pushed himself further into the corner, whimpering.

“Akakios, right?” The devil, the powerful devil, sat down across from Akakios, giving him plenty of space. “I won’t come any closer.”

When Akakios looked up at the devil, the room wasn’t Vasiliki’s anymore. The space was dark, pitch-black, yet Akakios could see the devil in front of him. Instead of that humanoid creature, though, Akakios could see a wolverine creature with goat’s hooves, eyes, and horns, sitting there, in front of him.

“They can’t see us here.”

Akakios pushed himself up, whimpering, but falling on his broken ankle. “I- Vasiliki is my master. You can’t take me away from him.”

The creature in front of him considered him for a moment before he spoke. “Akakios, I’m not taking you away from him, not unless you want me to.”

“What I want isn’t important. I’m a slave. I don’t have any wants.”

A pensive sigh. A flicker of eyes away from his face. For once, after having said that, Akakios wasn’t sure he’d said the right thing.

“Akakios.” The creature took a breath, before lifting a hooved foreleg. “I don’t care what anyone has told you before this. You are Akakios. Not a slave. Not to me.” The creature paused. “I want you to understand something, Akakios. You belong to yourself. Vasiliki, he’s done some right, but I’d argue he’s done more wrong than he has right. The greatest thing he’s done, though, was tell Stergios that he’s giving you up to freedom.”

“What?” 

Akakios’ voice came out as a weak croak. He was overwhelmed. Panicked. Tired. Confused. Why was this all happening?

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Because if it was, what had that year of torture been for?

“Akakios, as of today, you’re free.”

“Not legally. I'll never be free.”

The devil scoffed. “Mortal men think that they can make laws to control the universe. They’d make laws to control the Sun if they could. Akakios, the world is not in control of mortal men, not even ones as powerful as Vasiliki. Not of will, not of their laws. So, forget that a law ever told you that you were lesser. That you were a slave. Mortal men are foolish, Akakios, and soon, you won’t be one of them.”

It was as if the Sun and Moon collided. Everything went dark inside Akakios’ mind. He couldn’t think. Everything had shattered in a matter of minutes.

Elias, the devil, was right. He would not be mortal for much longer. A week if he was lucky.

Or a moment.

Something grew out of Akakios’ shoulders. Suddenly, he was standing on four legs. Spines protruded from his back. His mouth was full of fangs. Worst of all, horns laid on his head.

A piece of him had broken, that last hold out. That fear of becoming immortal. He was a monster, beyond the lives of  mortal men. There was no other way to be. As a dark mage and as a devil, Akakios would never be anything other than a beast.

“Aka, my love,”

Akakios’ golden eyes turned to Asimi, that silvery, draconic form, standing in the flesh, before him.

Tears formed in Akakios’ eyes.

“I- I’m sorry, Asimi.”

Asimi smiled as much as they could in that scaly form. “For what, my darling? This is who you are. And you don’t have to be with Vasiliki any longer. I know Elias, darling. He’s going to protect you.”

Akakios hesitated. “But what about you, Asimi?”

Asimi smiled a little. “I’ve retired from the cause. I love you too much to fight anymore, Aka. I want to be by your side. I’ll be with you, Akakios, but you need to recover. I can help, but Elias, he’s a professional. He’s been helping devils recover for hundreds of years. I was only ever a fighter.”

“But Asimi-”

“Aka, I’m not leaving.” There was finality in Asimi’s voice. “I’m staying with you. But I can’t always be with you anymore. You need to take care of yourself. Just, focus on that, okay?”

A sigh, this time from Akakios, as tears stained his fur. “I can’t do this.”

“You can, Aka. I know you can.”

“Akakios.” Elias spoke his name almost as though it were a command. “I want you to make a decision. You can come with me and leave Vasiliki. Nobody will hurt you for it. Or, you can stay with him, and we’ll do our best to help you recover in his presence.”

Akakios looked at Elias, panicked, chest heaving. “I-I, how could I just leave him?”

“Akakios. Vasiliki is part of a horrible system. Was. Was part of a horrible system. He enabled your abuse. He even abused you a bit himself. You can leave someone who enabled what has hurt you so deeply. You can leave anyone behind. That is your right. You are you and you make the decisions that help you the most. It’s not selfish to take care of yourself, Akakios. In my experience, you need to leave this type of thing entirely behind to move on.”

Moving on.

Could Akakios ever move on?

“I’m not worth it,” Akakios eventually mumbled.

Asimi walked over and put their talons on Akakios’ shoulders. “Aka, there’s so much you can’t see. All these wonderful things. I’ve lived a long time and- and I couldn't be happier to be your lifelong platonic partner. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. You are worth it. So, make your choice. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not now. Not ever.”

Looking into Asimi’s silvery eyes, Akakios felt something that resembled a gut feeling.

“I’ll leave. I’ll-I’ll leave Vasiliki.”

With that, Asimi smiled. “You make a beautiful mountain lion, dear.”

===

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Sunless Lives: Arc 3

Here begins the third arc! In a world with vampires and a government agency that hunts and studies them, a cure has been found. Ex-vampire Matthew wakes up as a human and finds Simon by his side - but their reunion doesn’t go as expected.

Once again, this arc is a shade darker than the previous two. Watch out for doctor whumpers, forced institutionalization, conservatorships, explicit onscreen noncon, and suicide (SEE THIS SPOILERY NOTE if suicide is a trigger/squick for you).

Let me know if you want on/off the taglist!

Sunless Lives Part 21: I Will Get Better

~2310 words

CW: description of underweight person, forced institutionalization, medical setting, emotional whump

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

~~~

A hand in his.

Hold it. Grab at it.

I need it.

“I’m here, Matthew.”

A voice. That voice.

His limbs were leaden. He needed air. He sucked it in and his lungs felt like they were fully inflating for the first time. They ached; his whole body ached. He cracked his eyes open and they were stung by the bright lights above him.

“Hey there, I’m here.”

Matthew Beck turned his head towards the voice, his neck protesting. The person next to him was blurry, but familiar.

“You’ve been in and out for a while, are you really awake this time?” He sounded hopeful. Excited. He reached out a hand and stroked Matthew’s face.

Matthew blinked, and his bedside attendant slowly came into focus.

He recoiled.

Simon McKenna looked awful. His cheeks and eyes were sunken into his face, nested in dark shadows. His hands, one clutching Matthew’s and the other hovering uncertainly outstretched, were near skeletal. His previously warm light brown skin now looked cold, gray and lifeless. His hair hung in dull curls. He wore a tight black turtleneck that accentuated his bony shoulders and arms. Even his eyebrows looked thinner than they used to as they pinched with worry at Matthew’s reaction.

“Matthew?” He dropped his hand onto Matthew’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?

Matthew could only stare at Simon as the memories came flooding back. The capture. The trade. The sacrifice. Matthew had turned himself into a vampire to save Simon, he’d gotten him all the way home, he’d been safe, he was with Gina and Isles, and then -

And then -

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Matthew whispered.

His words froze Simon in place.

“Huh?” was the only sound Simon could make.

“You… You stayed with me?” It came out as a croak. Matthew’s lungs heaved as he breathed too fast too soon. A blue tag rose and fell on his chest. The walls of the clinic room felt tight and oppressive. “You chose to stay with a vampire?”

“I - I told you, I couldn’t go back to the VIU, back - back to the basement,” Simon stammered, “and I helped you, you needed help, you wouldn’t have known what to do without me,” he gripped Matthew’s hand with renewed vigor, “And I kept you from hurting anyone, you never drank from or killed a human, you never hurt anyone, so -”

“I hurt you!” Matthew raised his voice, as best as he was able, “You let me hurt you!”

“No,” Simon shook his head sharply, “No, that’s different, I knew what I was doing -”

“You promised!” Matthew’s voice was beginning to fill out, and he forced himself upright and knocked Simon’s hands away from him. “You promised you wouldn’t let me hurt you!”

“This was different,” Simon’s voice grew in volume too, and he hugged his arms around himself. “I needed to keep you from hurting innocent people, I couldn’t let you -”

“I did hurt an innocent person!” Matthew yelled, “I hurt you, you fucking idiot!”

“I knew what I was doing!” Simon insisted, his voice wavering, “And I had just lost you, Matthew, I thought you had just died!”

“So you fucked my dead body?!” Matthew bellowed.

His words petrified Simon once more. He sat there for a moment, his chest heaving and his eyes brimming with tears.

“I didn’t… I didn’t think it mattered anymore, I thought…”

“If you thought I was killing myself for you,” Matthew spat, “The least you could do was stay with Isles where it was safe.”

Simon shook his head, suddenly angry.

“I didn’t ask you to rescue me!”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to rescue me!”

“That was different, that was for the team -”

“Oh, everything’s ‘different’ there’s always something -”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Simon shouted, jumping to his feet, “I’m not fucking stupid! I know what I’m doing! Every decision I made was one I thought was for the best! I was trying! Matthew, I was trying so fucking hard -” His words broke down into sobs and he pressed his hands to his face.

Seeing Simon cry did something terrible to Matthew’s insides. Anger fell away from him in sheets and was replaced by crippling guilt that sank its claws deep into his stomach.

“Simon, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean it, please stop crying!” The desperation in his voice caught them both off guard.

Simon’s hands slid down his face, revealing his eyes, red and wet. They bored into Matthew for a moment before he spun on his heel and went to the little counter on the corner, where he snatched up a tissue from a tissue box. He blotted his eyes and blew his nose, keeping his back to Matthew.

“Simon, I’m just..” Matthew searched for the right words, but all he could settle on was his initial pain. “You let me hurt you. I hate that I hurt you.”

Simon gradually turned around, fidgeting with the tissue in his hands, not looking up.

“It wasn’t really you, Matthew,” he said, taking shuddering breaths.

“I know, but,” Matthew choked on his words, “I remember it.”

Simon looked at him sharply.

“You remember everything?”

Matthew nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

“Everything I told you?” Simon whispered. He looked scared, suddenly.

“Yeah,” Matthew managed to choke out, “Everything.”

Simon ran a hand through his hair, looking away, his mouth twisted. Matthew hated his hair long like that - it looked wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said eventually, “You shouldn’t have to carry all of that.”

“Neither should you.”

Simon grabbed the whole tissue box and returned to the chair. He offered the box to Matthew, who gratefully took a tissue and pressed it to his own eyes.

“I still love you,” Simon said gently.

“I love you too, Simon, I really do.” The words poured out before Matthew could stop them.

The doctor said the preybonding has lasting effects. What if…

I can’t say that to Simon. Not now.

Simon’s shoulders sagged with relief and he laid his head down on the bed. Matthew reclined back on the pillows, settling a hand on Simon’s curls. As soon as he did so he was assaulted with memories of grabbing Simon’s hair, pulling it, dragging him around. His hand flinched back and came to rest on his chest, fiddling with the blue tag there. If Simon thought the brief touch was odd, he didn’t react.

“What happens now?” Matthew asked.

“They’ll examine you, then transfer you to rehab.”

“No, I mean with us.”

Simon lifted his head to look at him, his eyes big.

“I won’t be able to see you for a while. I asked, they don’t allow visitors where you’re going.”

Matthew felt sick at the thought.

“Do they know how long this rehabilitation will take yet?”

“No.”

“But what about you, don’t you need… help?”

Simon waved the question away, forcing on a smile.

“I’ll be fine.”

There was a light tap at the door. They exchanged a glance, and a nod, then Simon called out.

“Come in!”

Isles entered the room first. Simon cried out with joy, leaping up to hug the captain. Jealousy flared in Matthew’s chest, but he tamped it down.

Preybonding, it’s just the preybonding.

Isles was closely followed by Amber, who Simon hugged in turn. The Captain and Amber both wore blue tags around their necks. Isles leaned over Matthew, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Back from beyond!” he laughed, a bit forced, “How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty shit,” Matthew admitted, and the Captain chuckled a little more easily this time.

“Where’s Gina, and Devon? Matthew’s dad?” Simon asked eagerly.

“I’m sorry, kid, they couldn’t make it,” Isles said, taking a seat in one of the chairs, “It was all we could do to get ourselves here in time.”

Simon returned to the other chair, eyebrows pinched.

“But this is their only chance to see him, we don’t know how long Matthew will be gone.”

“They’ll be right there when he gets out,” Isles said reassuringly, “I promise.”

Simon didn’t look satisfied, but Isles moved on.

“I actually need to talk to Matthew about how all of that’s going to work, and Simon, Amber needs to talk to you as well. Do you want to go out in the hall?” It didn’t sound like a suggestion.

Simon looked at Amber, then to Matthew, his brows still drawn. It took Matthew a second to realize he was waiting for his permission.

“It’s okay,” he reached out to touch Simon’s emaciated shoulder, “You can go.”

“Okay.” Simon stood, giving Matthew’s hand a quick squeeze goodbye. He and Amber filed out into the hall. Matthew watched them go. It felt terrible to have just a door between them, he couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be separated for weeks - maybe months. He shook his head - he couldn’t believe how possessive he was being. Simon needed to get away from him. He couldn’t even have a conversation with a friend without Matthew’s say-so.

“I really fucked him up, didn’t I?” he murmured, tears welling up in his eyes again.

“Yeah, you did,” Isles said grimly.

Matthew turned his head to look at the captain.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“He’ll be well looked after, I promise. And so will you. I’m making sure you’re going to one of the best facilities the VIU has.”

Matthew frowned.

“Really? Why?”

“Because you’re one of my best agents!” Isles scoffed. “What, you think I don’t like you or something?”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

The tears returned and overflowed.

“Cap, I ruined him,” Matthew whispered.

“No,” Isles pressed a hand to Matthew’s shoulder, “No, Matthew, he was already -”

“Matthew!” The door was flung open, and Simon rushed to Matthew’s side. “Matthew, they want to send me to a psych ward, I don’t want to go, Matthew, tell them -”

“Slow down,” Matthew said, and Simon was immediately silenced. “What’s happening?” He sat up, holding Simon’s hand, his own tears forgotten. Whatever was wrong, he had to fix it.

“We want Simon to recover safely, at the best psychiatric care facility we could find,” Amber said, “He’ll have the best, but it is inpatient.”

“No,” Simon shook his head vigorously, “I’ll see a doctor, whatever you want, but I don’t want to be locked up again.”

“Simon,” Isles stood up, his voice firm, “Many of the vampires on your list are still out there. We’ve taken down some of them, now that we have the cure, but it will be a while before you can safely live alone. Fort Summerwhite is literally a fortress, you’ll be completely safe -”

“I don’t care! I’m not living in a prison again!”

“Simon, please -” Amber started.

Matthew had heard enough. He pulled Simon down to sit on the bed behind him, and slammed his feet down on the linoleum floor, standing up and putting himself between Simon and Amber.

“I think Simon has made himself clear, don’t you?” he snapped, the volume of his voice surprising even himself. Amber’s hand flew to the back of her belt, and Matthew realized she was reaching for her gun. So did Simon, and he stood and grabbed at Matthew’s arm.

“Matthew, stop, please don’t, I’ll go, it’s okay!” he pleaded.

Matthew was suddenly hit with another wave of memories, of Simon begging him to stop, to calm down, to get off of him. Nausea bubbled up in his stomach and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

“It’s settled then,” Isles said quickly, not letting the moment go to waste. “Simon, you’ll go to Summerwhite. There’s a car out front, ready to take you.”

“Right now?” Simon looked between Amber and Isles, clinging to Matthew’s arm tightly.

“Right now,” Isles confirmed, “Wynn will walk you out.”

“Can we at least have a minute to say goodbye?” Matthew demanded, as his nausea abated.

Isles nodded.

“Wynn and I will wait in the hall.” He ushered Amber out. She didn’t look so sure, her hand moving away from her gun very reluctantly as they walked out.

Once they were alone Matthew turned around and pressed his forehead against Simon’s. His possessiveness had gotten the better of him, but he knew what needed to be done.

“You have to go,” he said softly, “They’re right, I can’t keep you safe from other vampires anymore. And… I want you to get better. Simon, you can’t see yourself right now. It’s bad, you need help.”

Simon sniffled.

“You’re right, I know you’re always right, I just don’t want to be locked up again.”

“You heard what Isles said, they’re actually taking down some of those vampires they couldn’t before.” Matthew knew many of their names now, and what they had done - he suppressed a shudder. “You can do this, it’ll only be for a little while,” he encouraged. He had to be strong, for Simon.

“Only a little while,” Simon echoed.

“Yeah,” Matthew said, and against his better judgment, he tilted his head and kissed Simon. Simon kissed back desperately, lapping at Matthew's lips and cupping his face. Matthew felt his hands sliding over Simon’s hips, and he broke away. He couldn’t let himself go any further, not with Isles and Amber waiting just outside. Simon seemed to understand this, and stroked a thumb across Matthew’s cheek, gazing up at him.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you get out.”

“And I’ll come get you if I get out first,” Matthew replied. “It’ll be okay.”

“Promise?” Simon searched his eyes.

“Promise.”

Simon gave him a quick peck on the lips, scooped up his coat, and darted to the door, as if he left too slowly he wouldn’t be able to. He glanced back once, then slipped out. Matthew watched the door close behind him, sinking back onto the bed. A part of him already regretted letting Simon leave his sight. It was a hungry, gnawing part of him that wanted to run out into the hallway, grab Simon tightly and… do something. Not feed. Not fuck. But something.

It scared him.

~~~

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper

[ennead-of-whump]

Psych Whump Masterlist

💉💉💉

This is going to be my go-to list every time I find something with medical or psych whump in it that I want to remember. I'll reblog it frequently and try to keep it updated but it's going to start small because good psych whump is so hard to find. (This in no way endorses medical abuse, I'm a mentally ill individual but I love consuming psych whump in media. Just about everything in these movies, books, etc are at the very least morally gray so consume at your own risk. Also, I only enjoy these things in fiction. Irl it makes me sick to my stomach, I know bc I've experienced some of this.) I'll try to add trigger warnings for each one but I might miss some so I apologize in advance. If you have any recommendations please message me! I'm scouring the internet for good psych whump but medical/sickfic whump is also wanted.

Movies:

A Cure For Wellness: Guy gets tricked into becoming a patient at a "resort" that's really a mental hospital in disguise that uses its patients for nefarious means. CW: incest, medical abuse, teeth falling out, sexual assault, some weird eel shit ^^There's probably more but I haven't watched the film in a while.

TV Shows:

Moon Knight: Whole season of psych whump, the main character has DID and loads of past trauma. Has a huge ancient Egypt theme and the MC gets (kind of) forced to accept psychiatric care. CW: lots of ableism, mental break, psychotic episodes, forced institutionalisation, child abuse, restraints

Books:

House of Leaves: This book is a fever trip but the MC (kind of?? The book has multiple authors, it's honestly very confusing but it's great) suffers from declining mental health and spirals hard. CW: child abuse, lots of sexual content, mentions of a caretaker beating a child, mentions/delusions of sexual assault, death of a dog (it was brutal, huge warning), mentions/descriptions of suicide and attempted murder

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: This is chock-full of psych and medical whump, it all takes place in a psychiatric hospital (I've actually been to the one in the film! -Not as a patient) CW: huge amounts of abuse from staff, doctors, nurses, there's also a scene where SA is implied on a patient, the MC is there after being convicted of SA'ing a minor and he's pretty unremorseful (the MC is a dick though anyways), racism, ableism

OG Works (not mine):

Redwood Psychiatric Insitute: Forced institutionalization, great read and it has just about every trope I look for in fics all packed into one series. Please give it a read, it's fantastic. Source - https://www.tumblr.com/only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are/706656298337435648/redwood-psychiatric-institute-masterlist?source=share by @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

Fanfiction:

Into Your Arms: This is a Star Trek fanfic that follows a girl who has a severe eating disorder and mental illness. It's not the normal kind of sickfic or psych whump I go for but the aftercare in this is topnotch. Source - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15185897 by moose-misses-sweets on ao3 CW: suicide attempt, severe eating disorder, abusive partner, cutting/self harm

Note: If something you made is on this list and you want me to remove it, please message me and I will. I don't check messages very often but it doesn't mean I'm ignoring you, I just forget I have a tumblr sometimes.)

This has now been moved to @caspers-delusions which is my main blog. I'll be updating the post from there

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

[cws: drugging, SA and SA apologia, fantasy racism/ableism, forced institutionalization.]

-

i know i never shut up about it but god i am still just. So Salty about how the show handles the dynamic between mayor jones and pericles for many reasons, and one of the biggest is that there are really strong overtones here of sexual assault.

a character who already brings to mind the Slimy, Shady Cis White Guy with Buried Allegations archetype:

takes advantage of the trust of someone who's doing something with him in secret--

(which will get that person in a disproportionate amount of trouble compared to him, if they're discovered)

--to catch him off guard so he can grab him, drug him, and do violent things to his body while he's unconscious; scars him for life in a way that is disabling and should cause a lot of ongoing suffering, which, like many other things that should have a strong negative impact on him physically or psychologically, the writers ignore; and dumps him there alone to discover what's been done to him when he wakes up.

specifically, he does this to someone from a marginalized group that's highly unlikely to be believed if they tell anyone what he did--and going by the fact that mayor jones never got in any trouble until present day, he wasn't.

goes out of the way to ruin the life of the victim and discredit him as thoroughly as possible, because he's a loose end and he needs to shut him up.

flees the scene and gets away scot free with this for twenty years, has a successful privileged career and is considered a pillar of the community in the meantime.

when his dirty secret, which he's been paranoid about finally facing consequences for after the victim has recently become a risk again, is discovered, it's a huge career-ending scandal.

is redeemed by the end, while his victim goes on to be the Monstrous Irredeemable Pure Evil Main Villain and also sexually abuse someone himself, which is played as horrific and traumatizing (as it should be).

more specifically, is portrayed as showing redeeming, heroic anti-villain qualities by backhanding the victim into a wall as hard as he can in present day.

me: hm. yeah fuck this

[shywhumpauthor]

Villain Rehabilitation

Based loosely on a dream—I have no recollection of writing this

Cw: medical malpractice, institutionalized abuse, mentioned “therapeutic” torture, mentioned drowning/water torture, burns, there’s just a general upset, creepy vibes here, mentioned electrical torture, accidental self inflicted burns (Villain has fire powers.. it makes sense in the piece)

The floor was cold to match the air, villain could feel the chill seeping up from the tiles, through their thin socks. It was freezing in their small room, of course it was. It was always freezing. The thin blankets on their cot did absolutely nothing to protect them from that cold. It didn’t bother them like the way it used to, but on particular bad days it still caused old scars to ache, healed wounds to throb as if new.

It was Thursday. They knew that much. They had no clue what the date was, nor the month. In their little cell, there was no windows, only their bed and a dresser, and a little bathroom through an open doorway. And the camera in the corner, which they did their best to ignore. Their last attempt at escape had lost them the shred of privacy they had left, two of the staff members coming in during the night to remove the curtain that blocked the bathroom from the main space. Whatever. They tried to act as if that didn’t bother them. One of the few luxuries they had left, gone.

They knew it was Thursday, though, because no one had come in. No staff to deliver their meal, no guards to drag them off to another therapy session. They were alone and cold and hungry, which meant only one thing.

It was Thursday, and that meant Hero was coming.

They honestly would have preferred therapy. They would have preferred to be submerged into the depths of the ice cold tub, or the burning hot steam, to scream and thrash as the water seared their skin, leaving welts and burns similar to that flames would cause. But the staff had tried that, dozens of times. Sparks from a lighter, or whatever humane name they chose to give it to cover the fact they were intentionally trying to burn them did not bother Villain the way they would others. Fire didn’t harm Villain unless it was of their own creation.

Those flames were snuffed out the moment they crackled to life.

The so called criminal cast a bitter glance towards the ceiling, the four sprinklers connected to the main water tank, just waiting for the activation button to be pressed. Either from the security office where they knew a guard was watching them now, just waiting for the first flicker of light to turn on the water, or from the outside of their room where any traveling worker could press it if they saw fit through the little glass window on the door.

It was more annoying than anything. With the cold, it would take much more energy for them to produce even a spark, energy they did not have to spare from the nutritional meals they were given. What a load of crap. The sludge served on the tray could barely be considered food, only enough to keep them alive, not doing anything for the hunger.

If there was one thing they had to look forwards to in Thursdays, though, it was lunch. Hero always brought them lunch, from wherever they could spare the time and expenses beforehand. Usually it was fast food, something quick and greasy that would leave Villain sick for a bit afterwards, but other days it was true meals from expensive restaurants, multiple rich courses with drinks and desert to go along. Though Villain usually ended up full before that, their appetite not what it used to be after their strict, forced diet, they could appreciate the thought, and Hero would never comment when they slipped an extra roll or handful of fries into the pocket of their jumper, to stash away in the corner of their room for whenever the next bout of hunger would strike.

That almost made up for the distress the rest of their visits would cause.

As if on a cue, Villain looked up just in time to hear the heavy lock of their door slide out of place. They were backing up even before the guards stepped in, knowing the procedure by heart now.

“Against the wall.”

The room wasn’t small, but it wasn’t very big either. Eight steps across was all it took for the distance between them to be closed. Villain bit the inside of their cheek, more annoyed than anything as they raised their hands, holding them out to either side as the pair of guards stepped forwards, one holding the dreaded pair of gloves, the other with his prod already flicked on, electricity buzzing the end, prepared for any outbursts.

Fire might not have hurt them, but electricity sure did.

They didn’t fight as the first guard grabbed them by the arms. They knew better than that. The scars they held from the first and only time they tried to fight back still stood out starkly against their skin.

When Hero had given them the choice between prison or the Villainous Rehabilitation Center, the choice had seemed obvious. Life bound in chains behind bars, isolated in a cell under constant watch, or a brochure with a lovely castle like campus, smiling faces and gentle therapeutic programs to reteach criminals the way of society and introduce them back into the community, it was obvious which one they were going to pick. They weren’t a criminal, they had at first tried to protest. It had been an accident, a mistake. They hadn’t meant to hurt anyone.

Now they wish they had chosen prison.

The gloves fit snug and warm over their hands, borderline burning as the guard then fastened the familiar cuffs around their wrists. The fabric stretched nearly to their elbows, thick like the ones a person would wear when tending a fire. Villain was sure that’s where the inspiration for the design had come from. In some weird, twisted opposite way, they were designed to rather keep the flames contained. So the only thing they would burn if Villain slipped up was themself.

The marred burns that covered every inch of skin from their forearms down proved that they were effective.

The guard grabbed their arm, and they were walking out of the room. Down the hall, through the compound. Villain knew there was a nicer side to the center, somewhere towards the outside where all of the minor patients were kept. The ones with chances of recovery, one of the doctors had told them as Villain caught a glimpse through a cracked door. They had looked like the ones in the brochure, happy and smiley and hopeful. They did puzzles, and ate at buffets, and watched movies and played piano and went to normal therapy sessions where they talked about their feelings and their pasts and were only there for a few months before they were let out. But anyone who had the misfortune of being deemed “too sick to help”, anyone like them, were all locked away, behind doors that required keycards and cold cells and torture disguised as treatment. Villain knew there were others, they could hear the screams and sobs in the middle of the night if they pressed their ear to the crack in the door, or listened through the vents.

They were brought to a familiar room. The soft lights and cushioned chairs gave it the illusion of safety, of comfort, but Villain knew better. The shackles were connected to a short chain fastened to the table, and Villain was pushed down to sit in one of the chairs.

“Hero will be here shortly.”

Of course they would. It never took them more than five minutes after Villain was brought to arrive. They were sure that was purposeful, Hero was likely just sitting in another room, waiting to be given the go-ahead. There was some procedure, Villain was sure, but they didn’t care enough to risk asking. With nothing to do but count the seconds, Villain shifted in their seat and waited.

True to their history, Hero didn’t take long. The door opened and Villain looked up, a sour taste budding on their tongue.

“Hey.”

They sounded tired. Villain didn’t respond as Hero closed the door behind them. They held a bag in their hand, the smell of freshly cooked food making Villain’s stomach flip as they walked over and set it down on the same table villain was chained to before taking the seat opposite.

They waited, but Hero didn’t make any move to take the food out, so after a moment they leaned back. They would have crossed their arms, but the chains wouldn’t allow that so they settled for crossing their legs instead.

“Villain, the doctors said you have stopped putting effort towards recovery.” Hero’s voice was soft, their hands folding on the table. They didn’t meet Villain’s eyes. “They have suggested a new treatment plan, and after a long consideration, the agency has approved.”

Villain’s entire body went cold when Hero looked up. There were tears in their eyes.

“After today, I am no longer permitted to visit. The sessions will become more frequent and intense. Your rules and schedule will become more strict. Until further notice, all items of luxury or comfort will be revoked.”

Revoked? Villain felt nauseous. They weren’t entirely sure what counted as an item of luxury, but they had a really bad feeling.

“The faculty has issued a formal appeal to request your entry to a clinical trial, which after long thought the committee decided to pass. I’m sorry, Villain. We have all been trying, but you can’t get better unless you try, but since you’re not willing to put in the effort by choice, dire measures must be taken.”

“I… I don’t understand,” Villain murmured after a long moment, their voice coming out a quiet rasp. They didn’t do much talking anymore, only using their voice to scream or beg in sessions. Speaking felt weird, wrong.

“I tried to suggest alternatives, Villain, I did. I couldn’t change their minds.” A single tear rolled down the hero’s cheek, and they quickly scrubbed it away. “I really hope you get better soon. I don’t want you to turn out like the others.”

Not another word was spoken after that. Villain sunk back in their seat. They weren’t sure they wanted to know what that meant.

When it came time for Hero to leave, the food sat still on the table, untouched and cold. They glanced back over their shoulder, but villain didn’t look up.

The door shut behind them without so much as a “Goodbye.”

[itsawhumpsideblog]

The Safehouse, pt. 15

CW: for institutionalized slavery, mentions of abuse, treatment of people as things, description of injuries

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement

During the rescuee's first days and weeks in a Safehouse, much of the staff's time will be spent helping them with the most basic aspects of their new lives. Rescuees will need to become accustomed to new schedules, the layout of a home, and emerging group norms around eating, chores, how to spend free time, and interpersonal interaction. As they become accustomed to schedules and more comfortable in the presence of other members of the household, rescuees will begin to need additional things to occupy their time. Safehouse staff members are encouraged to find methods of enrichment and entertainment that can help rescuees develop necessary skills, ideally without causing rescuees to feel that they have been given an assignment or are unwelcome to exercise their own will.*

*In the event that rescuees express a desire for more formal education, your BBLM contacts can assist.

After that first busy week, Angie and Tim realized that they would need to find something to do to keep everyone occupied. Nathan was all but confined to bed or the couch, since standing for long and using crutches could be tiring. Francis remained feverish and bore his considerable pain with a sort of quiet dignity, but they reasoned that he must be bored. Worst of all, poor Mikey was still waiting for their contacts to call with a date and time for his medical treatment.

It had been almost two weeks and Tim and Angie were debating the merits of calling their contacts to make a fuss. Without the surgery he needed, Mikey had very limited use of his hands and arms and difficulty doing things for himself. He couldn't eat, dress, or bathe without assistance and it was hard for him to stand up or to kneel (he still would not consent to sit on the furniture, something Francis seemed to be getting accustomed to since learning that they were free.)

Even worse, Nathan reported that Mikey slept fitfully and sometimes had night terrors; this was also how Angie and Tim learned that Francis got out of bed to care for him. It was sweet, they agreed, but they worried that the interrupted rest was harmful to all three of the rescuees, to say nothing of the damage Francis might be doing by standing and walking.

On good days, Mikey held his head up and looked around the room at whatever was going on, smiled, and could look Francis or Nathan in the eye, though he was still shy around Tim and Angie. He even helped with small tasks when he could, like moving pillows to straighten up the living room, or bringing Angie the loaf of bread when she made sandwiches for lunch.

On bad days, however, Mikey dropped to his knees on his pillow, next to Nathan's spot on the couch, and stared at the floor. They could see dark circles under his eyes and he cradled his arms to his chest, holding them protectively. On those days, he could barely eat and they didn't try to force him, beyond making sure that he had enough in his stomach to safely take painkillers. He simply withdrew into himself and rocked back and forth for hours on end, in terrible pain that they were powerless to ease. Sometimes, they could tell that he was crying, noiselessly and without moving, but leaving small wet spots on the front of his shirt.

Angie had her bright idea on a good day, when the painkillers seemed to be helping a little and Mikey knelt on his pillow listening while Francis and Nathan talked quietly. They were discussing the show that was on television- it was the Great British Bake-Off, which Tim and Angie liked to put on to encourage the rescuees to begin having opinions.

It was scary, they had realized, for Francis to tell them what he wanted to eat for breakfast, or for Mikey to pick out his own clothes. But when they put on Bake-Off, it was almost impossible- even for former Pets- not to have an opinion on the bakes. Angie and Tim had gone into the other room to high-five each other the day Francis had observed, very quietly, "Francis doesn't think that Paul Hollywood is going to like that," and then added, very quietly, almost under his breath, "And Francis doesn't like it, either."

Not surprisingly, Nathan was perfectly comfortable being vocal about his opinion on things that didn't really matter and weren't being done by anyone in the house, especially since the bakers would never hear him. Though he also struggled with expressing that he needed something from Tim or Angie specifically, he was happy to share his thoughts on baking and this encouraged the other rescuees. So, Bake-Off became a regular fixture in their routine.

It was during an episode of Bake-Off that Angie noticed Mikey sit up a little straighter and peer curiously at the screen. He turned to Nathan and raised an eyebrow, looking back and forth from the screen to his friend. He cocked his head slightly, the signal that he had a question.

"What are they doing with their hands?" Nathan asked. Mikey nodded.

"That's sign language," he explained. "She's deaf, so that guy is interpreting for her- telling her what everyone else is saying while they say it."

Mikey still looked intrigued. His eyes widened and his eyebrows lifted.

"Yeah, presumably everything," Nathan said. "Are they allowed to leave stuff out?"

"I don't think so," Angie said, without thinking about it. "I think a good interpreter is, like, legally required to interpret everything that's said."

They fell silent again until, after a moment, the idea dawned on Angie like a new day. "Mikey," she exclaimed, forgetting for a moment the calm demeanor she was usually careful to wear in front of the rescuees, so as not to startle them. "You could do that!"

He looked up in her direction, the closest he had come to looking her in the eye.

As the first shock of realization wore off, Angie immediately began to worry that she was being pushy or asking too much, damaged as his own hands were. "I mean, you don't have to. But if we all learned some signs, you might be able to- well, not talk, but..."

Mikey still couldn't look at her, but his eyes were sparkling and there was a definite upward tilt to the corners of his mouth.

"What do you think?" Nathan asked, in case Mikey would be more comfortable having an opinion if it was Nathan he had to communicate with.

Mikey's eyes darted down to his hands, over to the television, and then up to Nathan, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah," Nathan replied. "Even with your hands. I mean, you could start learning and we'll know what it looks like when you sign something. And then when your hands are better maybe it'll be easier to sign and you'll already know how, a little bit." Mikey thought for a moment, then actually smiled and nodded and Angie could cheerfully have cried.

But she held herself together and they finished the episode- stopping in the middle seemed unkind, as entranced as they all were.

"Think you're ready to start learning?" Angie asked Mikey when the star baker had been announced and the credits had begun to roll. He looked shy and she knew she wasn't going to get a direct response. "Well... let's try it."

It was as simple as searching for a video and picking one that looked like it began at the very beginning. It took them a moment to remember that, of course, there didn't need to be sound in this video, though the enthusiastic young man on camera had provided subtitles for hearing audiences. For Francis' sake, Tim read them aloud while their teacher began the lesson.

By the end of the video, they had all practiced basic greetings and when the next video autoplayed, they let it go. By the time Tim stood up to cook, they had watched the first four videos in the series.

After dinner they didn't go right back to learning, but Mikey continued to practice, moving through his new vocabulary as best he could. When Angie fed him, he signed thank you and when they went upstairs he wished them all good night for the first time.

It was immediately clear that the ability to sign, even painfully and inaccurately, using only his right hand, was important to Mikey. He couldn't seem to get enough of learning and practiced vocabulary as best he could until he was visibly shaking with the effort and they had to turn the videos off to keep him from hurting himself. Even then, he insisted on signing thank you and This pet is grateful whenever anything was done for him.

Angie almost regretted that they had learned the sign "pet" at all, but even though he signed like Francis talked, Mikey almost shone with the pleasure of being able to communicate again. Angie couldn't bring herself to ask what had happened to his voice, knowing that it couldn't be good, and tried to be content instead with the joy that signing brought him.

Not all days were good days, however.

It was a week after they began learning to sign that Mikey tripped- over a spot in the rug, they decided later, nothing that they could have foreseen and fixed. He had simply stepped oddly and lost his balance and went down before Tim or Angie could have gotten across the room to catch him.

He caught himself primarily on his right arm, which was better than the alternative, but he hit the ground full-length and there was a long moment in which all four of his housemates stared at him in horrified shock as he lay stretched across the middle of the room.

Then Angie and Tim finally snapped back to themselves and leapt up to crouch on either side of him. Tim began examining his right arm for signs of additional damage, speaking softly in a voice that he was clearly working to control.

Nathan was almost writhing where he sat, desperate but unable to go to his friend; it was Francis who rose, a little more slowly than Tim and Angie had. His training as a Pet kicked in and he barely winced as he put weight on his feet and walked the few tentative steps to drop to his knees by Mikey's head.

Mikey's eyes were squeezed closed when Francis knelt and smoothed his hand over Mikey's furrowed forehead. Mikey looked like he wanted to cry out, but couldn't. He twisted his head from side to side, cradled in Francis' hands.

"I don't think there's any new damage," Tim said at last. His voice was thin and dry and he looked anxiously across at Angie.

"Good," she said, sounding no better. "But we have to call them. They have to do something."

"Yeah." Tim took a deep breath and turned back to his patient. "But let's get him comfortable. Then you can call and rip somebody a new one." He smiled very thinly at her, with no humor in his face at all.

Their first attempt to help Mikey up failed spectacularly. Tim and Angie slid their arms under his back and began to lift him, as gently as they knew how, but his eyes fluttered and closed and he sagged bonelessly in their arms as he fainted.

The second time, they managed to get him sitting up, propped forward with his legs splayed out in front of him. His eyes were unfocused as if he was very dizzy and he was trembling all over. He had his arms back in that protective position and when he began to rock in his usual self-soothing habit, Francis put a steadying arm around him to keep him from falling over again. Mikey's eyes fluttered as he struggled to stay conscious.

"Straight up to bed, I think," Tim said. "Just get it over with and then let him stay there as long as he needs. It'll be better that way."

On the third attempt, they at last got Mikey swaying to his feet and linked their arms around him to guide him to the stairs. He had his feet under him somewhat by then and although it felt like a longer climb than usual, he was able to support himself.

In the room, Tim and Angie helped Mikey stretch out in bed, propped up with pillows under his elbows to support his arms, which lay across his stomach. They took turns sitting by the bed; they couldn't leave him alone in case there was anything at all he needed. At dinner time, he was unable to eat and simply sat very still, staring blankly across the room. Angie had to make a real effort not to cry; Mikey had been doing so well, even getting a few words back, and now, for the moment, it was as if none of that progress had ever taken place.

She would call someone and make them schedule time for him in the hospital. She would do whatever it took- there had a to be a story they could tell, some lie that would explain why he had no ID and couldn't speak, and the awful injuries they would need to treat...

Later. She would deal with it when Mikey was asleep.

When Francis and Nathan came up to bed, they found Mikey sitting as he had all the rest of that day, looking horribly sick, pale and blank-faced from the suffering he had been trained to endure silently. Nathan limped over to the bed, shuffling as close as he could, and gently ruffled Mikey's hair.

"Sorry, buddy," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." Mikey's eyes flicked in his direction, but his expression did not change and his hands did not move.

Francis, too, was watching Mikey with such sorrow in his eyes that Tim, who was helping him to bed, carried Francis over. Wordlessly, Francis put a hand out and smoothed Mikey's hair, stroking it a few times before nodding to Tim. Tim laid him in bed and pulled the blanket up for him, but all four of them were still watching Mikey.

Once Tim and Angie had done all they could to make Mikey comfortable, he at last closed his eyes and they left the room, pulling the door quietly shut behind them.

"I'm going to make a phone call," Angie said, looking very determined. Tim nodded.

"It's time."

Next time: They finally get the call Mikey has been waiting for, possibly because Angie bullied someone.

Master List

Notes: @whumpsday was kind enough to let me know that a couple of the tags weren't working. Hopefully they're fixed now- at least, when I hover over them, I get the little drop-down that would take me to your blogs, so I'm optimistic? If not and you have any suggestions for what I might be doing wrong, let me know and I'll do my best to correct it!

As Mikey is not d/Deaf, nor is anyone in the Safehouse, he's not familiar with Deaf culture and is more using Signed English than an actual, grammatically correct sign language. His dialogue will be in italics to connote that it's signed, rather than spoken. Pursuant to a little research, this will change as he becomes more fluent and graduates to expressing himself in full sentences. Though cursory research doesn’t turn up total consensus on whether italics are rude, the d/Deaf authors whose advice I found in my google search seem in agreement that ordinary dialogue markers are always fine. To be safe, I’ll go with the option I can most guarantee is polite!

Also, forgetting that signed videos don't need sounds is 100% something that happened in my high school ASL class (not to me). Our teacher said there was someone every year who said they turned the volume all the way up but nothing happened!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

[highwaywhump]

Surgery, part 2

This is a series! Masterlist is here and the first part of the surgery arc is here

so i lied, i rewrote the second part and the whole thing is now closer to 4.5k. enjoy

TW/CW: former pet whumpee/extremely conditioned and dehumanized whumpee having a panic attack, being forcibly 'restrained' (by caretaker!) during said attack, and forcibly drugged with a needle/syringe. brief scar mention, blood mention, very brief description of a cut. discussion of professional misconduct i guess.

--

Aaron stops dead in his tracks in the doorway. At first, he can’t even see Joey - all he sees is Becca, the red-haired nurse who had helped them get Joey’s x-rays, handpicked by Dr. Perez. She’s clutching her arm, blood trickling out between her fingers. Next to her are two more nurses, both tall, broad men, unknown to Aaron. He can’t see Joey at first, all he can see are the three people, two too many, the red blood staining Becca’s scrubs, and a puddle of water and broken glass on the floor. 

And all he can hear is Joey’s desperate sobs and Becca’s voice, trying to communicate something to the two other nurses, who are focused on something behind the bed. 

Aaron doesn’t think, he just acts. In three steps he’s in front of the two nurses, blocking their path, and finally, there’s Joey. He’s all curled up and has tucked himself into the corner formed by the bed and the wall, his skinny arms wrapped around his head, his whole form shaking as he incoherently begs and pleads. Something about being good and behaving and please don’t drug him. 

“We’ve got it,” one of the male nurses says and attempts to move past Aaron, but he holds up a hand, blocking them. “No,” he says with determination, knowing that a pair of huge and institutionally dressed men is the least thing Joey needs right now. 

“No, I’ll take care of him. Help your colleague in the meantime,” he says, if only to stop the two of them closing in like predators. They’ve stances like rugby players, slightly bent at the knees and with their arms out to the side, ready to pounce. Even Aaron, who is perfectly healthy and capable of rational cognition right now, is a little intimidated by them. 

“He should be sedated,” one of them says. “We need to administer pre-op medications,” the other chimes in, pointing to an IV bag laying on the bed, and the pieces fall into place in Aaron’s head. The broken glass of water, Becca who was supposed to be the one administering the medications but who now was bleeding from what looks like a gash in her arm, one of the male nurses who’d dashed past him in the hallway. 

He could see it all playing out. Becca coming in with the IV bag, maybe saying something about medication, reaching for Joey’s arm with the needle in her hand. Joey, still holding his glass of water, already worked up and on edge, losing it at the sight of the needle. Defending himself, in his own hazy, red rimmed eyes. 

And now, having worked himself up, not thinking rationally. Not thinking at all. Panicking because he had defied orders, or hurt someone, or broken a glass. It wasn’t good to say.

“I’ll-” Aaron pauses and breathes out, taking a step backwards from the nurses, towards Joey. “I’ll calm him down, okay? He needs someone he knows. Not…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, only moves his gaze between the two men. 

They seem reluctant. They probably have a responsibility here, handling patients who act out. Only, Joey isn’t acting out. He is just scared, and a pet, and Aaron isn’t sure how much the men know about the situation. Or what they’re even thinking, taking all of Joey’s scars into consideration. It’s as if they’re peaking out everywhere now that he only wears the patient gown. 

“He really needs sedation, for his own safety,” one nurse states. Aaron discerns the unspoken for our safety in his voice. 

For a moment, he considers arguing. He doesn’t want to force anything on Joey that isn’t strictly necessary. Aaron is his advocate and breaching his trust like that while he’s in this state, forcing him to take a needle he clearly doesn’t want, would be traitorous. 

Then again… he weighs the other outcome. Whatever these two nurses think is going on, he can’t let it extend past the patient is unwilling to comply, into the patient isn’t supposed to be here, patient is a pet, patient needs police pick-up. As well as the fact that he could never make Joey come back here after today, even if he managed to reschedule the surgery. It would be like taking a victim back to a crime scene, making them relive the trauma all over again. 

Maybe sedation is for the best. 

“Let me hold him, at least,” Aaron tries. “He can’t handle… this, right now. Give us a minute. I’ll help you.”

They hesitate, but back off, one of them turning to help Becca while the other stands by, looking warily at Joey. Still, he keeps his distance. Aaron exhales and turns around, crouching down in front of Joey. In front of his ward, his responsibility. Christ, everything here is his responsibility. Becca’s injury, too. Does this clinic have a pediatric program or some other heartwrenching project? He’ll donate. 

“Joey?” he ventures, not sure if he can even hear him over his own cries. Okay. Deep breath. 

“Joey, it’s me. Hey, little one.” He goes from crouch to kneel when his knees start protesting, moving as close to the boy as he can. Gently, he reaches out and touches Joey’s shoulder. He flinches violently and his sobs intensify. “Please don’t, please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be still, please,” he whimpers, over and over again. Aaron hopes the nurses can’t make out the words.

He’s all curled up, tucked into himself as best as he can, trying to disappear. All the while, he’s sobbing and begging desperately, completely gone in his own head. Aaron realizes he can’t talk him down from this quickly enough tonight. They’re on a schedule, and the nurses are growing uneasy. 

He’ll just have to take the plunge. 

“It’s okay,” he mutters as he leans forward and envelops Joey’s bony frame and hugs him close, as tightly as he thinks he can handle. He is petrified, his whole body tight and stiff, and he lets out a scared and confused wail as he’s pulled into the tight embrace.  

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Aaron continues, both to himself and to Joey, as he finds the back of his head and tucks into the crook of his own neck, hoping to provide some semblance of warmth and safety for what he has to do next. 

With his other hand he finds Joey’s, squeezing his fingers to see if he gets a response, if they might be able to communicate nonverbally like that. A squeeze means I’m here, I’m listening, trust me. When Joey is too shaken up to speak to him, he’s usually able to at least squeeze back. 

Not now, though. Joey’s fingers are curled up into a hard little fist. Aaron sighs and hugs him tighter, mumbling apologies into his hair as he clasps his wrist and pulls it away from them, extending it towards the nurses. He watches through the corner of his eye as one of them removes a sterile cannula from its packet and takes hold of Joey’s hand.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Aaron mumbles as Joey whines when he feels the foreign touch. His face is still hidden in his sweater. He pushes even closer and Aaron can feel him trying to pull his hand back, out of his and the nurse’s grip. It catches him off guard - Joey has never, ever opposed anything Aaron has ever said or done. This is completely novel.

“Please don’t do it,” he sniffles into Aaron’s sweater. “Please don’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to, please,” he repeats, over and over, and it breaks Aaron’s heart, forcibly holding his hand away from his body like this, holding him still. 

A part of him lights up with the thought that he still has some semblance of volition. Everything wasn’t beaten out of him. At the same time, right now, Aaron has to disregard it. He has to hold him still and force him to endure it as the nurse feels around for a vein. “Small pinch, now,” he says, as he pushes the cannula through his skin. 

This is all Aaron’s fault. If he hadn’t left the room, if he had been there when Becca came in, they could’ve worked it out together, undramatically. This whole episode could’ve been avoided. Surely, all traces of trust between them must be gone by now. 

Joey moans, in pain or desperation or maybe both, as the nurse attaches the tubing and picks up the saline bag, hanging it on its stand. He collapses in Aaron’s arms. Still, Aaron doesn’t let go, keeping him close. “You’re okay, it’s okay,” he repeats, over and over again, hoping some of it reaches past the walls built up inside Joey’s mind. The nurse picks up a syringe and pushes its contents into the injection port of the IV tube. Then, he, Becca, and the other nurse leave the room. 

They sit like that for what feels like an eternity. Joey calms down after a while, now leaning heavily into Aaron. His shoulders flinch from time to time, but he’s stopped crying quite as audibly as he did. 

Aaron guesses this is the result of the sedation. It was normal, right? Giving a weak sedative before a surgery, just to calm any nerves? Had Becca brought in the sedatives as well as the IV bag or had the male nurses brought it when they heard the commotion? He wonders how much the two of them know. None of them were supposed to be here, he thinks. What did they think had happened? Who did they think Joey was? 

He glances to the side, where he still holds Joey’s wrist. Gently, he angles it - and there it is, the ugly barcode tattoo. His blood runs cold. He didn’t think that far when he took Joey’s wrist to hold it out for the nurses. Did they see it? If they did, had they cleaned up Becca’s sliced up arm and then gone to call the police after? 

He’s left no time to ponder or worry any longer as the door opens and Dr. Perez enters. She seems unfazed by the sight that meets her - blood and crushed glass that hadn’t been cleaned up yet, and the two of them sitting in a corner. Somebody must’ve informed her.  

“Are you okay?” She rounds the bed and crouches down in front of them. “Becca told me what happened.

“I think so,” Aaron answers, gently shifting Joey to get a look of his face. He’s drowsy and heavy in his arms, his eyes puffy and red rimmed as he blinks them open and tries to focus. Aaron smiles at him. “Hey, you,” he mutters softly, pushing his hair away from his face. 

“I hope he’s still up for the surgery,” Dr. Perez says, eyeing the IV bag to see how much of the liquid inside has been reduced. “What happened was… I won’t say normal, but it’s not unusual. We never know how they might react to what we do to them.”

Aaron nods. “Is Becca okay?” 

“She is. It looked worse than it was.” She looks over her shoulder, where the glass and blood still hasn’t been cleaned up. “Don’t worry. She knows that what she does for a living isn’t risk-free. And she knows that we don’t know what kind of trauma our patients carry with them. It’s nobody’s fault. Least of all his.” 

“I have to ask… do the other nurses know? The other two who were here.” 

She looks down. “They know about my situation, what I do. They don’t know about him, per say. They’ll probably make the connection, but I don’t think it will be a problem.”

Aaron’s eyebrows knit together, still not convinced. “How can you be sure?” 

She exhales in a puff, a slight chuckle, even. “Everyone in this industry knows somebody who knows somebody who does this sort of thing.” Illegal surgeries. The words are unspoken, but still clear as day. “I am far from the only one, believe me. If they didn’t like it, they would have quit and reported me a long time ago. And then they’d start working at the next hospital and have to do the same thing. There’s always someone.” She gives him a minute, knowing smile. “This country would run out of healthcare workers if they revoked every license from one who has treated a pet or ex-pet.”

Aaron doesn’t quite know what to say. He’s relieved “So… we’re good?” he asks eventually, for lack of better words. 

Dr. Perez nods. “We’re good. Now, let’s get going before the anaesthesiologist gets tired of waiting.” 

She helps him support Joey up to his feet and then to sit down on the bed. He’s swaying, gripping at the bedsheets to keep his balance, so Aaron gently guides him to lay down instead. He’s completely still, only breathing. His eyes are large and round as he finds Aaron hand, holding onto it with startling solidity. 

“Was… was I bad?” he whispers shakily. 

“No,” Aaron says immediately, not leaving it up for discussion. He doesn’t know what Joey knows, what he remembers of what had happened. Still, he won’t let Joey go around with doubts in his mind. 

His other hand finds Joey’s cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. He leans into it, still keeping that intense eye contact. “No, sweetheart,” Aaron says, softer. “You weren’t bad. You were just scared.” In his head he adds It was my fault, I’m sorry, thinking the statement might be too much for him to make sense of now, in his delirious, drugged state. 

Joey dips his head slightly in what might be a nod. Aaron tries to smile at him. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go get that leg fixed up.” 

-

tags <3

@simplygrimly @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @briars7 @hackles-up @doveotions @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @kixngiggles @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpthisway @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumping-snail @pumpkin-spice-whump @pigeonwhumps