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midnightfallings · 1 year ago

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"Position sixteen."

Matti scrambles up from his knees, yanking his hands behind his back as he does.

"Tch. Feet shoulder width apart, trainee."

He can't help the flinch. It's as ingrained now, uncountable hours in, as the positions themselves. It doesn't save him the shock, spread over bare, trembling skin by the wet cloth wrapped around the head of the cattle prod. He screams, a hoarse rasp scraped across his too-dry throat, and crumples to hands and knees, twitching uncontrollably. It feels like the shocks are getting worse over time, but he can't decide if it's just that his body is oversensitized from prior shocks or if the prod really is being dialed up.

"Again," Handler Day says from somewhere behind him. She sounds just as bored as she did when he was first hustled into the too-white room and stripped down to a pair of trainee shorts.

Matti forces himself up. His body shudders under him, swaying lightly, but he masters it. Feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back, chin down.

Silence stretches. A shiver runs down his back. Water and sweat roll across his skin in tiny itching trails.

"Position five," comes tonelessly from one side. This one was good enough.

He drops to hands and knees. Back straight, head down but not hanging.

The shock rips across his shoulders and down his back. Matti throws himself away from it, blind to any thought but animal need to escape the pain. White flashes on white, white walls and white ceiling and white-hot pain chasing him across the white floor.

“You were not given permission to break position, trainee!” Handler Day’s voice bounces off the walls and floor and cannonballs against his ears. Her boot follows the cattle prod’s flare, digging into his ribs and hefting him onto his back. Matti cowers away from her, curling his arms over his head and sobbing openly.

He thought he wouldn’t have to come back to this. He’d stopped having nightmares about this place, mostly. His days were calm and quiet and predictable, and Mx. Verano loved him. He knows they did, no matter what Miss Marisol said.

Handler Day’s fingers weave through his hair, and he jerks under her touch, but she only turns his head towards her, unrelenting but not ungentle. After the prod and her whip-cracking voice, the contrast is jarring enough to make him lean into the unexpected reprieve, desperate to do anything to get her to stay in this mood even a moment longer.

She strokes a thumb across his temple, wiping sweat and tears away. “Where’s the good boy I met, hm? I know you want to be good.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I– want to be good, I do, ‘m sorry–”

“Shhh. I know you do. And I know you want to be good for your new owners too. They’re going to expect WRU perfection, even though you’ve been away from your training for so long, and you don’t want to let them down.”

“I do, I do, I promise.” Matti heaves in shuddering breaths, willing his tears to stop falling. He’s never been as good as he should be at keeping his emotions in check.

“See? We’re working on the same thing here. You know that you could avoid the correction if you worked hard enough. So I’m going to give you a minute in position two – a whole minute, sixty seconds – to get yourself focused and ready to work. Ready?”

“Yes, thank you Handler, thank you–” Matti scrambles up to his knees and rests on his heels, palms flat on his thighs, back straight, head tilted just slightly down.

Handler Day stands up with an approving hum. “Good job, trainee. There’s that good boy again. Focus on your positions while you rest.”

Matti nods. His body trembles as he runs through the positions mentally. He knows them all, he knows he does, but the thought of getting up and moving between them has cold sweat starting up and down his back. He’s tired. He hurts everywhere. He knows he’s moving slower than he was at the start of this.

His throat tightens as more tears spring up behind his eyelids. It’s not fair.

“Position fourteen, trainee,” Handler Day says gently.

Matti stops trying to hold back the tears. Even as he moves, he knows he’ll be too slow for her.

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midnightfallings · 1 year ago

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The house is so quiet.

Matti picks up and dusts, and he can almost pretend that Mx. Estrella has just gone to bed. He fills the dishwasher and gets started on the stemware as it churns contentedly next to him. The night drags on. His cheek throbs hotly, but even that eventually fades to the quiet of a dull ache. Once he's finished the dishes he goes out to fold up the long tables in the backyard and put them in the shed. Then he takes the key from its hook beside the front door and locks up. The lights flick off one by one downstairs, and then he climbs up towards his room. He pauses by instinct at the door to their room, but the memory of the smooth top of their casket returns with a sharp twist.

They're not sleeping, and Matti is alone.

He continues into his room. The sweater they gave him just a month ago is folded neatly at the top of his shirts drawer. He pulls it on, tugging the sleeves down over his hands and bringing the soft wool up to his face to breathe in the faint traces of their perfume.

They'll never wear this scent again. He won't ever help them put it on, or catch a trace of it in the air and know it's theirs.

The salt of his tears threatens to drown its delicate scent. He yanks his hands away and curls up in bed, watching the night pass through his window. He doesn't manage to sleep by the time it fades into dawn.

He's careful to wash his face and tidy his hair before Miss Marisol and her husband arrive. She hadn't liked seeing him cry yesterday. He changes into a fresh pair of slacks and a light button-down, then dons the sweater again.

She doesn't pay him much attention when she arrives, which he doesn't mind. She and the husband move through the house, shifting items here and there before the sale, and Matti busies himself setting out pitchers of iced lemon water. The sale attendees start trickling in shortly before nine. It's a quiet, respectful affair, for which he's grateful; Mx. Estrella always kept a calm house, and the wake yesterday had already been quite a bit more noise and company than he's used to. The guests move through the house, writing bids on little pads he hands out at the door and slipping them, folded, into the small boxes carefully labeled with each item for sale.

Once the flow of arrivals has dried up, Matti heads to the kitchen and makes sure that the pitchers are topped off. As he's turning away from the fridge, he nearly bumps into a guest, and backsteps hastily.

"My apologies, sir–"

"Oh, no worries, I was behind the door." The man smiles, and Matti thinks, in an odd rush, that the crinkles around his eyes as he does look very nice. It's a warm smile, a bit like Mx. Estrella's. He swallows and readjusts his grip on the pitcher.

"Can I help you find anything? The kitchen items for sale are out on the patio, if you're looking for those."

"No, but thank you. I was interested in you, actually. How long were you with Mx. Verano?"

"Uhh." Matti blinks. The pitcher sweats in his grip, clinking gently with his breath. "Six years, sir."

"And they were your first owner?"

"Yes sir. I– did you want to speak with Miss Marisol, sir?"

The man only smiles again. He steps closer, and Matti's instinctive retreat bumps him against the counter. The man takes the pitcher from him and sets it down, leaning even closer to reach the counter past Matti.

"Sir–"

"Shh. You took care of Mx. Verano, didn't you? What was your designation?"

"Combination Platonic and Domestic, medical specialty," Matti rattles off. His mouth is dry, but at least these answers don't require thought.

"Platonic, hm? A shame."

Matti doesn't understand. There's a rushing in his ears. His heart is beating fast, and somewhere, something in him feels like a cornered animal. He almost thinks he remembers feeling like this before, but– he shuts his eyes against the stabbing headache.

"René, leave him alone."

Matti has never been so grateful to hear Miss Marisol's stern tones. He slumps a little against the counter as the man steps away, shifting that magnetic focus to Miss Marisol. She doesn't even blink.

"You know where the bid box is. Please leave all items alone until the sale has ended."

René inclines his head. "Of course, Marisol. Please forgive my… inspection."

She extends a hand towards the patio. "Why don't you go take a look outside. See if you'd like to bid on anything else."

She watches him step outside, then turns to Matti. He swallows, feeling suddenly sure he's done something wrong.

"You can take that into the music room," she says, already turning back to circle through another part of the house.

"Wait, Miss–"

She looks back over her shoulder, one perfect eyebrow arched. If not for the black of her hair and the smoothness of her skin, she could be Mx. Estrella themself. Except Mx. Estrella would have smiled. They would have seen his distress immediately and known just what to say to ease him. She only stares, impatient. He scrambles for the words rattling inside his skull.

"Am I… staying? With you?"

She stares at him. Unlike the man's gaze, hers looks through him without ever touching. "Whatever for? I don't need a medical caretaker."

Someone calls for her from the living room, and she steps away. Matti wraps his arms around himself, cold despite the soft weight of his sweater. On the patio, he sees René glance through the glass, and, seeing him alone once more, smile slow and satisfied.

The pitcher clinks gently in his hands as he whisks it off of the counter and flees towards the music room.

He lurks after that, edging around corners and sticking to perimeters. He sees René once more, and backs hastily out of the room he had been about to enter. The other man sees him, but doesn't attempt to follow, only watches him go with that slow smile again. Matti thinks he'll dream that smile tonight, and it will wake him with a cold grip around his throat.

He tries to slip upstairs, but Miss Marisol sees him and sits him down in the living room to help sort the bid boxes and accept cash and checks. She stays with him, at least, reading off the winning bid on each item and handing it over to the guest with a polite smile.

"And lastly, the highest bid on item 374 was $73,600, from Felisa and David Ruiz. Congratulations."

René, leaning against the wall at the back of the room, clicks his tongue and leaves.

Matti looks for the bid box, but doesn't find one. He checks under the table, but there are no more.

"Uh, Miss Marisol–"

She lifts a finger towards him, and his mouth snaps shut.

"The item will be held in WRU custody until funds clear; I will give you the pickup information at that time. Thank you, Felisa; I'm sure you will be very pleased with your purchase."

Oh.

Matti drops his hands into his lap to conceal their sudden tremor. He's just been sold.

The guests depart in twos and threes, leaving Mx. Estrella's house emptier by the moment. Sounds start to take on an odd echo as movers load furniture out and the art, rugs and decor which softened the walls and floor are carried away. Matti stands discarded in one corner, fighting back the growing lump in his throat.

A pair of handlers slip through the front door in between groups of movers. Matti recognizes the uniforms and gait immediately, and his knees buckle into Position Two. Neither of them glance at the muted thud, but he knows it will have been noted. He hasn't had to worry about his Positions in so long; he's gotten sloppy.

The shorter of the two is the Primary, he can tell. She nods to Miss Marisol. "Good afternoon, Ms. Verrano. I'm Handler Day, from the WRU Transfers department. I believe we spoke on the phone a few days ago regarding your upcoming property transfer."

"Yes. It's right there, and I have the paperwork here."

Handler Day takes the file and flips through it, nodding and making affirmative noises as she glances over each document.

"Everything looks in order. You wouldn't believe how many people misplace their pets' paperwork. I understand the buyers will be transferring funds through our escrow company?"

"That's right. Do I need to sign anything to authorize you to release it once the funds clear?"

"Yes, my colleague Handler Shen has those forms ready for you. If you'd like to take a look over them, he'll be happy to go over them with you while I secure the pet."

"Yes, thank you. Right this way, Handler Shen. We've sold the tables, but there's still a kitchen island through here…" Miss Marisol's voice fades as she steps through into the kitchen.

Handler Day unfurls a leather leash from its spool on her belt as she approaches Matti.

"Chin up, 977385."

Matti's chin jerks upwards.

"A little slow. We won't have long to sharpen you up before you go home to your new owners. So you'll need to work very hard to get back up to our standards, do you understand?"

"Yes, Handler."

She crooks a finger under the soft velvet ribbon around his neck and clicks her tongue.

"Some owners," she mutters, more to herself than him. Her other hand moves below his line of sight, and then a cold line of metal presses briefly against his throat before his collar falls away. Matti gasps, jerking away, but there is only wall behind him, and the Handler's grip latches firmly onto his neck.

"Be still," she snaps. She buckles a new collar on, stiff leather with a cold buckle that sits heavy and too thick against his throat. The leash clips on with another metallic clink, and then she steps back, leash in hand.

"Up, 977385. Follow."

Matti scrambles to his feet, earning himself another disappointed click of her teeth at his lack of grace. He swallows fiercely, but the tears that have been building all day spill too thick and fast to will away at the sight of the discarded ribbon on the floor.

Handler Day softens slightly, just for a moment. "It's alright, 385. We know you were a good pet for your owner. We're going to help you succeed with your new family just like we did with your old one."

Matti nods rapidly, trying to stem his tears. "I'm– sorry, Handler. I'll stop, I–"

"Shh. Let's go, you don't want to upset anyone. You can have a tissue in the car."

"Thank you, Handler."

"Good boy. You'll work hard for me, I can already tell."

She leads him outside as she talks, past the last few movers and to a small cargo van. She opens the back door and gestures Matti inside. He ducks his head, wiping his eyes to get a better view. The interior of the van is walled off from the front seats, creating an empty rectangle which has been padded on all sides with a thin layer of plasticky fabric reminiscent of the sleeping mats in training, with discreet loops of steel protruding from the walls, ceiling, and floor.

"Position Two," Handler Day prods.

Matti folds to his knees in the middle of the floor. The ceiling is just high enough for him to kneel upright. Handler Day leans in and threads his leash through a loop in the ceiling, pulling it until it's just shy of taut and securing it with a padlock.

"Good boy."

With that, she shuts the doors behind him and the van is plunged into darkness. Matti's breath catches.

She forgot his tissue.

He waits, chest tight with grief and growing anxiety, but the box – the van, it's not a box, he's not in a box – is silent. It's a loud silence, full of the sound of his own blood in his ears, full of his hitching, shaky breaths, full of the sound of snot when he sniffs, trying vainly to clear his nose. It's a loud silence, full of every sound of the disappointment he was to the Handler, and it weighs him down with every passing moment. Has it been a minute? More? Less?

He didn't get to say goodbye. Miss Marisol walked away without a second look. She won't want to say goodbye. She hated him. But he didn't get to say goodbye to the house, to Mx. Estrella, to his room, any of his things– he should have known this was coming, should have prepared better.

It's warm. Sweat trickles across his skin, but he's trapped by the leash and collar and couldn't get the sweater off if he tried. He doesn't want it off. It's the last piece of Mx. Estrella he has.

How long has it been? His knees are starting to ache.

He sounds like a dog, panting lightly in the stifling black. The collar feels too tight against his throat. He realizes he'd slumped slightly. It takes effort to straighten, but the relief on his throat is immediate.

It's hot. His throat hurts. His head hurts. His heart hurts. His knees hurt. His back hurts.

The van shakes. Dimly, he hears the front doors close, and then the engine rumbles to life. They're taking him back to WRU.

He can't breathe. It's too dark, too hot, too tight. "Please," he croaks. "Please, help? Please, I'll be good, please…"

The van starts to move. It backs up, then down the bump of a curb and turns forwards. They're driving away from his home.

Matti sobs, clawing futilely at the collar. His fingernails scratch at his skin, leaving stinging lines immediately irritated by the sweat trickling down his neck. It's locked on, just like the leash. He's going back. Mx. Estrella is dead, and he's going back.

"Please!" he screams, throwing himself forward until the leash clanks taut again and again. The darkness doesn't waver. The van speeds onwards. "Please! Let me out, please! I have to say goodbye! Please!"

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midnightfallings · 1 year ago

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opinion that shouldn't be controversial: a student shouldn't need a doctor's note to have access to free screen readers, audio copies of class content, physical copies of class content, accurate subtitles, unlimited doctor's appointments, their sensory needs met, etc etc. student's shouldn't have a medical barrier, which goes hand in hand with sexism, racism, classism, and ableism in general, to basic education.

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midnightfallings · 1 year ago

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an ever-growing collection of all my writing tip posts

sick characters (word bank)

characters with prosthetics or mobility aids

injured characters

injured characters (word bank)

writing angst

creating atmosphere in your writing

writing characters with emetophobia

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midnightfallings · 1 year ago

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This is a reminder to leave your whumpee absolutely ruined.

Leave them shaking like a leaf, hardly able to draw a breath.

Leave them covered in so many bruises they can barely move without wincing.

Leave them absolutely blanketed in scars that will never fade.

Leave them rocking back and forth, tears streaming down their face in the midst of a panic attack.

Leave them unable to be near another person without eyeing them warily and flinching every time they move.

Leave them so out of it they can’t see, can’t hear, can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think.

Leave them stumbling and tripping over their own feet, scrambling to get back up each time as they try to escape.

Leave them struggling against the encroaching darkness as they bleed out.

Leave them half-drowned, soaked to the bone, clothes clinging to them as they sputter and gasp on the floor.

Leave them shivering, teeth chattering, trying to rub warmth back into their body.

Leave them delirious with fever, head lolling, eyes unfocused, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Leave them begging for mercy, promising to do anything just to make it stop.

Leave them exhausted, barely able to keep their eyes open let alone put one foot in front of the other.

Leave them so broken they can’t bring themself to care about anyone or anything.

Leave them a blubbering mess, stumbling over their words trying to say the right thing to please whumper.

Leave them so mortified by everything that’s happened to them that they don’t even want to be found anymore because they don’t want people to know.

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midnightfallings · 1 year ago

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Some of My Favorite Ways to Describe a Character Who’s Sick

pressing their forehead into something cool or comfortable (this could be an array of things. the table, the floor, someones leather jacket, their water bottle, the countertop)

warm to the touch, or heat radiating from them (could be noticed if someone’s gauging their temperature with their hands, hugging them, or just generally touching them)

leaning into people’s touch, or just spontaneously leaning on them (like pressing into their hand when someone’s checking their temp, or just, like, literally walking up and laying their head on them from fatigue. bonus points if the character is usually feral and the other is scared to engage™︎)

falling asleep all over the place (at the dinner table, on their homework, in the car, in the bathroom — just being so exhausted from doing literally nothing)

being overly emotional (crying over things that don’t usually bother them, like their siblings arguing, or their homework, or literally just nothing)

stumbling/careening/staggering into things (the wall, furniture, other people. there is no coordination in feverish brains. running into chairs, hitting the door, falling over the couch, anything and everything)

slurring their words (could be from fatigue or pain. connecting words that shouldn’t be connected, murdering all of their conversations with the excessive use of ‘mm’ and ‘nn’ in place of words) (this is my favorite thing ever)

being overly touchy (basically like a sick kid — just hold them, please. do that thing where you brush their hair back out of their face, or rub circles on their back, or snuggle them. they won’t care. bonus points if this is also the feral character and they refuse to believe it afterwards)

being extremely resistant to touch (flinching away when they usually don’t so someone can’t feel the fever, not letting themselves be touched because they’re so tired they just know they’ll be putty in their hands if they do)

growing aggressive or being extremely rude (it’s a defense mechanism — they feel vulnerable and are afraid of being manipulated or deceived while they’re ill)

whimpering/whining/groaning (this was in my “characters in pain” post but it’s so good that i’m putting it here too. this shite is gold, especially if it’s just an involuntary reaction to their symptoms)

having nightmares caused by a fever and/or delirium (crying and murmuring in their sleep, or being awake but completely out of it and convinced they’re somewhere else)

making themselves as small as possible (curling up into a ball everywhere they lay, hunching over slightly when standing, wrapping their arms around themselves)

TW for vomiting below cut !!

sleeping in the bathroom floor because they keep getting sick over and over (bonus if someone finds them all weak and pitiful. bonus bonus if they find them there in the morning only to learn they’ve been there all night)

using their hands/other body parts to clamp over their mouth so nothing can come out (like pulling their knees up to their chest and using that, or like, their arm, y’know) (~maccreadysbaby who has emetophobia suddenly gets very awkward about this post~) (~yes i have a phobia of puke and still write this happening to my characters, shut up~) (~it’s about the hurt/comfort okay~)

sympathy pukers (people who aren’t the sick ones but get nauseous/vomit when they see someone else throw up) (~aka me~) (~okay I’m done now~)

dry heaving (it’s gross, but good for making your characters absolutely freaking miserable)

rolling/churning/spinning/cramping/ lurching and all those awesome words that describe what stomachs do when sick (i hate these words with a deep, fiery passion. but they’re good for writing or whatever)

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midnightfallings · 1 year ago

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Whumptober Day One

@ailesswhumptober

Drugging / sick / poisoned

CW & TW

Implied: Red Rooms, human trafficking, starvation, torture

Drugging, blood, swearing, use of gendered phrases

•

Toby had dreaded this day, curled up on the barely there mattress in Kyle's room. Old room he has to remind himself. And it really didn't belong to him in a traditional sense either; the only furnishings were the bed itself, a clear plastic Tupperware that his few clothes were tossed into, and the small bathroom that only had a toilet and a sink, no door.

He had received a full physical three days ago from what he assumed was an actual doctor, which was incredibly bizarre. He was too stunned to even ask questions. Even after the scene with the fire poker a year ago, he had only received burn cream and a bandage from Stephanie, and that was the extent of any care. But that. That was weird. Then, for his only meal later that same day was actual steak and potatoes, which he was told to eat slowly, as not to throw up on himself. Then, for the past two and a half days, he had received not only breakfast but lunch and dinner too.

But who was he to question extra, and hot, food being given to him? He had gotten so very tired of cold cut turkey or their leftover take out that was nearly going bad? But with every bite of the warmth soothing his aching gums and throat and stomach, he felt it like a tickle at the back of his skull.

"I got sold."

There was a commotion going on in front of the door to his room.

"I'm not doing this. This is bullshit. You should do it." Stephanie. Rough when she needed to be, which was most of the time, but had always come to clean his wounds and talk to him after a session. Especially if she was the one on the other side or directing. He knew she was just doing her job.

"You're so fucking soft. That's why it has to be you to teach you a fucking lesson and grow some balls." Devon. A prick and pain in the ass most of the time, but knew when to call it quits to protect the merchandise. Him. All of them.

The door was thrust open, a plastic brief case and Stephanie shoved in, and swiftly locked. Once she regained her balance on the bed frame, and a hissed, "dickhole," from her, she stared not at him but at the plaster a little above his head. "Hey Tobes."

He began to tremble. This was it. Even though the scenes and sessions were never predictable, at least he had routine here. Saw the door to the room and the red light above it and knew what he was in for. Now he would be in the hands of someone who he didn't know, and didn't know him.

The bed squeaked and the mattress sank down as she sat on it, the plastic case in her lap. She was fiddling with one of the clasps with a thumb.

"Listen, the both of us know exactly what's going on here. But just know that this wasn't easy for us. We had actually turned down offers for you in the past, did you know that?" He shook his head. "But we just couldn't say no to this one. One hundred thousand dollars. That's how much he paid, upfront with Harrison. Cash. So you understand that was an opportunity we couldn't exactly pass up, right?"

He felt like he was going to be sick, and there were no cameras around to capture it for one of the sites they worked with. He shook his head again. He understood. He understood, but his eyes filled with tears. He was always so emotional.

She patted the case softly with one hand. "And look! The guys even agreed to let me give you a little something to make the move a little easier. I'm glad to see you in the sweater I like. It's almost time to go, so you can then think of it as a parting gift if you want."

The sweater was a simple grey one, red roses printed into the soft fabric. He rolled one of the sleeves a little past the elbow and presented her with his arm. He knew from hearing the screams and the fights down the hall that it was much easier to comply. He didn't want to have to get handcuffed and dragged into the van, like Kyle did. There were still red stains from his blood in the wood floor. And he had survived this long by being perfectly pliable.

The needle was small and sucked up the drugs from the vial like it was hungry for it. He couldn't help the buzz of excitement that this small mercy was going to be afforded to him, that he would get to fly there, first class.

As the drugs were put into his veins, as she kissed him forcefully, her tongue wet in his mouth, her finally gave her what she wanted. A softly spoken, not horse from screaming or around a gag or swallowed up in his own blood: "Okay."

#ailesswhumptober2023 #Whump #AILWT DAY ONE DRUGGING #Toby #listen I have no idea where i am going with this but Toby must be protected at all costs #Also Stephanie is not a good guy!!!#OC writing #whumptober #whumptober 2023

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