peachy-panic

[peachy-panic]

Belleview Chapter Two (Part B): Felix

Notes: mostly low-level med whump

Belleview: Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (Part A)

TW: Institutionalized slavery, Med Whump, Med Exam, References to Noncon, Noncon touch, Dubcon Medical Care, References to Human Experimentation

✥ ✥ ✥

They expected him to die soon. Lincoln knows this, without prejudice, as well as he knows anything else about this place. Even if the handler had not introduced Felix with the caveat that they had recently ceased all medical intervention, Lincoln could put the pieces together by looking for twenty seconds at the handlers’ notes from the last few days.

According to the available records, during Felix’s first several months at Belleview, he went no longer than three days between ‘projects,' often with multiple projects stacked on top of each other. Lincoln has not yet researched every experimental tool or drug or procedure that Felix was a part of, partly because some of them were classified and the DOH had yet to access the details, and partly because, in the cases where Lincoln was able to identify the critical components of the trials, his stomach had bottomed out early and he had wound up six hours deep in case files trying to sort out exactly how this had happened.

After Felix's first nine months, they had slowed down with him. There was a three week break wherein Felix was not assigned to any long-term trial before he was pulled again, for what would have been the final time. It was a medical test for a hallucinogenic training drug that lasted nearly two months before abruptly terminating two weeks prior, when, to Lincoln’s best guess, the site had received guidance to stop any majorly illegal activities.

Felix appeared to have been neglected since then. According to the handlers’ notes, he had accessed only two meals a day, a few glasses of water, and, if someone took pity on him, was afforded some assistance in showering and using the toilet. If he didn’t, or couldn’t, eat what was given to him, he would go without eating. “That was part of the gag,” the handler said. “We couldn’t… well, we couldn't actively aid in their... uh, it was technically not allowed. But there came a time when we were asked to let them ride out the end. If they didn't eat, they didn't eat.”

There will come a time, Lincoln thinks now, that Felix will be asked to testify to what happened at this site. There will come a time where some semblance of justice will be served, at least to those who partook in the darkest corners of the system. He will see to it that Felix is afforded that chance.

He takes a breath and enters the small cell, which will need to be repurposed into a bedroom over the next day or so. Felix lays on the floor on his side, curled up as tightly as his frail body will allow. He doesn’t open his eyes at their approach.

“We call him Felix because he’s always smiling,” the handler said. He doesn’t smile now. Even in sleep, he looks scared. He’s covered in bruises, with dried blood smeared across his legs and torso. Lincoln had not caught that earlier, but it couldn’t be new. He’s pale. He swallows, and his body tenses for a moment before he settles back into sleep.

“He’s not actually happy, though,” the handler continued. “He flirts with everyone he sees, just trying to find someone to take him home, we think. He’ll do anything you ask him to, as long as he can understand it. The last couple weeks he’s been up and down, though.”

He’s shaking, and it’s not the light tremble of a scared boy who’s seen too much, but a deep, uncontrollable movement that possibly points to deeper issues.

Lincoln thinks through the side effects of the drug trials. The head of that project, Dr. Michael Gletzer, Ph.D, was a leading researcher in the country, highly sought after by pharmaceutical companies and the former Dean of Medicine at the University of Florida. He is available to speak at length regarding his research. He is not currently under arrest, and, to Lincoln’s understanding, has been cooperative with questioning. He will have to speak to the doctor, and he dreads it.

Lincoln watches Felix sleep for a moment, and the reality of what these men have gone through crashes over him. It’s a crushing weight, and he lets himself feel it for only a moment before he shuts it down and takes a breath, then makes a cautious approach.

“Grab him a blanket?” Lincoln asks quietly. From behind him, Philip moves to the cabinet and begins rummaging through its drawers. Lincoln kneels down next to Felix, his hand hovering over his body. He hesitates to make contact.

“Felix,” Lincoln says. He’s gentle when he finally allows his fingers to graze Felix’s shoulder. Felix’s eyes flutter open, although they are slow to seek out Lincoln. His features are uniformly lined with exhaustion, and Lincoln, for a moment, regrets waking him.  “Hi,” Lincoln whispers.

Felix blinks slowly and tries to sit, but even in that movement, it is clear that his body is failing. He struggles to get his hands under himself, and when offered support, he accepts it without any clear indication that he is aware he’s been touched at all. Still, he looks down at himself and takes an almost unnoticeable inventory of his condition. Philip approaches and drapes a blanket over his lap, and Felix offers a tiny smile in return.

“My name is Lincoln Prescott,” Lincoln says. “Do you remember me? From earlier?”

Felix watches his mouth, his expression tight.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Lincoln continues. “I’m a doctor, I’ve been assigned to Belleview by the Department of Health.” There is little evidence that Felix hears him at all, but he continues the well-rehearsed speech. “As of 9:00 this morning, the contracted worker system is no longer active in the United States,” he continues.

“I don’t think he’s following,” Philip says from next to him. Lincoln nods.

He’s right, of course. “We are working on finding all of the residents of Belleview stable homes to stay in while the infrastructure is built for you to live independently,” he says anyway. “In the meantime, we’re going to stay here as a group and get you all some help, alright?”

Felix nods. 

“Can you tell me your name?”

There is no response, although Felix’s eyes search Lincoln’s, studying him intently.

Lincoln asks Felix how he feels, if he’s hungry, when he ate, how old he is. Felix doesn’t respond. The question hovers just out of reach, whether Felix can and doesn’t speak, or whether he cannot at all. According to the handler, he hasn’t spoken since returning from the most recent drug trial. Prior to that, though, there were no notable concerns with his speech, hearing, or comprehension. Best case scenario, it’s a trauma response and can be worked through down the line. Worst case is that there is irreversible damage to either his brain (most likely), or individual elements of communication (highly unlikely). Both are worth exploring.

Layered upon this, there are the issues of his physical responses. He startles easily but does not pull away. He blinks slowly. His hands are slow to find the blanket and hold onto it. His eyes are red, his skin has a kind of translucent hue. He expected Felix to require more substantial diagnostic testing than they’re able to offer, and it is clear to him that a trip to the hospital for scans is unavoidable.

As Philip sets up the admission forms on the tablet, Lincoln pulls a pair of blue latex gloves on. Felix almost instantly responds, which is ultimately a good sign, as hard as it is to address in the moment. The tremors that run through his body have taken a sort of panicked edge.

“It’s alright,” Lincoln says. “I’m just gonna look at you, okay? We’re here to help.”

Felix is cooperative as Lincoln takes one of his hands. He squeezes it once then turns it over, examining the bruising and scarring from months of drug use. He runs his thumb across one of the most prominent, likely the site of a long-term IV port.

“Let’s get this off you,” Lincoln says. He is cautious as he presses his fingers under the front of the collar, his touch light as he seeks the release mechanism. When he finds it, and the collar clicks free and falls into his hands, he is both relieved that it was simple enough, and horrified by what he sees. Dark bruises form where the clip sat, with deeper gashes toward the back of his neck where the plasticky-metal dug in during, what had to be, violent altercations. Lincoln runs his fingers along the lines there, but Felix does not react.

He takes his vitals, he does as thorough an exam as he can. There’s a very tender spot on the side of his head, and with the other potential signs of concussion, it shouldn’t be ruled out. Felix is especially jumpy when Lincoln runs his hand down his spine and over his ribs. Some are broken. Felix holds his left arm more gingerly, so Lincoln is careful as he looks checks it. Still, as Lincoln turns it over, Felix cries out, his whole body tense for only a second before he forcibly relaxes. 

“I’m sorry,” Lincoln whispers. Somewhere along the line, tears have formed in Felix’s eyes, and they now threaten to spill. Lincoln isn’t sure exactly how much willpower it takes him to keep them in, only that he does. As soon as his arm is released, Felix cradles it to his chest. 

“Can I look at your back?” Lincoln asks, gentle but assertive in repositioning him.

He’s extremely underweight, with too many vertebrae and too much rib instantly visible. A thick scar runs across one side of his abdomen and circles around his side. There are other scars, less visible ones that almost would be missed by the naked eye, but they’re there.��

Felix doesn’t make a sound when Lincoln examines lower. He watches the wall with a sort of sad detachment as Lincoln runs his fingers gingerly over some swelling in his lower back, then guides him onto his side.

“Almost done,” Lincoln says. “Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” 

There is no answer, which Lincoln does not mistake for permission, but accepts at face value. He monitors Felix’s breathing, the cadence of the tremors that roll through him, his posture. Philip kneels in front of him, holding his hand and watching his face for signs of extreme duress. It’s the best they can do.

Here, the damage is obvious. Lincoln notes both bruising and tearing, with a slew of fluids, presumably belonging to both Felix and the handlers, dried onto his skin. Lincoln’s stomach turns over as he cleans him up, muttering whatever words of encouragement he can come up with.

The further into this they go, the more Lincoln questions the plan. The likelihood that even in a full service hospital, he would be equipped to manage this, is slim. He pulls off the gloves and helps Felix to sit, then drapes the blanket around his shoulders. 

“You okay?” Lincoln asks. Felix looks very, very far from okay, but the worst is over.

Felix brings his hand up to rest on Lincoln’s arm and squeezes it. It isn’t exactly confirmation of understanding, nor is it a show of okayness. Lincoln would be doing him a disservice by writing the action off as either. But it’s something close to it, he thinks. Lincoln smiles and covers his hand with his own and squeezes it again.

“We’ll get you better, okay?” he says. “Philip’s going to help you get cleaned up, get some food and water in you, set you up with an IV and some medicine to make you feel better.” There’s no recognition in his eyes, but Lincoln continues. “While you get showered, we’ll get you a bed and a TV, or some books, or anything you need.”

Extricating himself from Felix’s grip is a little harder than it was getting into it, but once he’s free, he stands, and Felix’s eyes track his movements. 

“N… n…” Felix reaches after him as he steps toward the door, and Lincoln pauses, turning. There is true panic, for the first time, in his expression. He wants to show you he can still be of use, the handler said. He wants you to pull him.

“Felix,” Lincoln whispers. “I’ll be back for you, alright? I promise you, I will come back." He takes a step toward the door, and the tears that threatened to spill earlier come back in full force. “I need to go check on your friend,” Lincoln says, although there is almost no chance at this point that Felix understands. He kneels down and tries to smile, but he thinks it probably doesn't land. “Philip will stay with you and get you cleaned up.”

He mutters instructions to Philip, and seconds later, he is in the hallway, his forehead pressed into the wall while he takes that whole interaction and locks it into a very, very tight box in the back of his mind. 

He is in good hands. He will be okay. He is not alone, and he is not going to be left to die, and Lincoln will spend the next four weeks making sure that he knows it.

✥ ✥ ✥

Belleview Taglist:

@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @pirefyrelight @i-eat-worlds

@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@handsinmotion @whumps-and-bumps

[peachy-panic]

Felix, what do you think this Lincoln guy really wants from you?

from this ask game

Felix focuses, listening as closely as he can, and swallows, then smiles a small, sad smile.

"They said they don't think he's processing what people are saying to him," Ethan says from the opposite end of the sofa.

Felix's gaze is slow to shift, but he finds Ethan's eyes eventually and holds his gaze.

"But the answer, I think, is probably that he doesn't know and really doesn't care," Ethan continues. "He's getting stronger," Ethan says. "And maybe soon he'll be better, and he'll be able to understand, and then he can tell you that it doesn't matter to him what Lincoln wants with him, as long as he leaves River alone."

[peachy-panic]

River, did you know Felix was dying when Belleview shut down? Was it your fault? Could’t you do anything to stop it?

from this ask game

"No," River says. "I didn't know. I knew they took him, a couple months before the shutdown, because Jake always made sure I knew, and I knew when he came back. I... they would sometimes talk about him, to each other. I knew it was bad. I knew he wasn't speaking, and that they were... that several of the handlers were worried about him.

"Jake gave me a couple of updates, in an effort to... I don't know, just to assert dominance, I guess. But at the same time, the handlers were also all panicking about whatever was coming. Some of them were worried about their jobs, some were worried about if they would be punished. Several quit, and the ones that stayed were on tighter leashes, the last week, Jake stopped seeing me almost entirely. I was locked in my cell for that entire period, so could only get bits and pieces of information, but... it wasn't clear to me he was dying until after the shutdown."

He shrugs, caving in on himself.

"I don't know if it was ultimately my fault," he says softly. "I don't know how they selected who to take, and when, and for how long. I would have traded places with him, though, if that's what you're asking. There was no chance they would let me do that. Once they had their sights on Felix, it was done."

[peachy-panic]

river how did felix break through your walls?

from this ask game

"Let's hear it, Rivvy," Jake says. "We are all dying to know."

River locks his jaw shut, shaking. It's a well known fact that he doesn't like talking about Felix, but sometimes, Jake likes to push his boundaries, if only a little. River's hands are fists, and sweat drips down his neck as he puts up one hell of a losing fight against the drugs.

"Sorry about him," Jake says. "He can be an obstinate little shit." And then, to River, he says, "This is fun, though. Want me to ask one instead?"

River struggles against the restraints in earnest now, but still does not offer a response.

"Fine, we'll do it your way." Jake stretches, considering his next words carefully, and increases the dose of the truth serum. He waits a moment, letting it take a stronger hold on River. He watches River carefully as he says, "Tell us about how it felt having him tied down while you f–"

"Stop," River grinds out through his teeth. "Stop," he says again.

Jakes eyes sparkle, and he inclines his head, waiting. "Then answer their question. Surely it's not that hard?"

"I don't know," River says, voice low. Jake opens his mouth to speak, but River forces the words out over him. "I don't– I don't know exactly what happened. I... maybe it was his relentless optimism," he whispers. He looks to Jake to see if it's enough, and Jake smiles, nodding at him to continue. "Maybe... maybe it was because he was the only... the only person who tried to help me, and he did, over and over and over. He put himself... at risk," he says between his teeth, forcing each word. "He made me feel like a... person," he grits out.

Jake waits a moment for more, then says, "He made you feel like a person," his voice mocking. "That's very sweet, River."

Jake stands then, stretching. "I think you can give us a little more, though." He approaches River and lowers himself to eye level. "Tell us about the first time you felt it... felt those walls coming down."

River, pained, whispers, "Please–"

"Or you can tell us about the other thing?"

River sucks in a breath. "It was af–" River stutters over his words. "After one of the drug trials. I was... I was sick, I– I got sick, and Felix was doing janitorial duties that week, and cleaned me up. He spent some time with me, in the bathroom, just... making sure I was okay. Something changed that night."

"Something did change that night, baby," Jake says. "You're lucky no one intervened." He stands then, and ruffles River's hair. "Good boy. That wasn't so hard." He walks out of the room and lets the door slam shut.

[peachy-panic]

🤢 Crying so hard they throw up

Prompt from this ask game, always open for Aiden/Harrison. This is a crackwhump prompt though so prepare yourself accordingly.

cw: medwhump, noncon drugging, emeto as per prompt, early early days Aiden and Harrison (:

Masterlist 

“Sir?”

Harrison sighs behind him. “Yes?” 

He swallows, wets his lips. 

“What? What is it?”

“I—I—”

He tenses when Harrison leans into view, making him pull against the restraints. He’s lying flat on his back today so it feels like he has even less nonexistent wiggle room than usual. 

“What? I don’t have all day and if you’re just going to whine about being bored or thirsty, I don’t want to hear it.” 

“I just—I wanted to ask what you’re doing today…” He loses confidence at the end, his voice falling almost to a whisper. Harrison told him to speak freely but he’s not allowed to complain about the restraints or his pain level, unless Harrison asks. Maybe this falls into the realm of forbidden topics too. 

“Oh, I thought I already told you.” Harrison rolls back out of view. “You’re going on the drip today.” 

For some reason, his mouth goes dry. “What is that, sir?” 

“Think of it as a reset to factory settings.” 

“Is that-is that why I don’t remember anything other than this?” The monitor beside him starts to beep faster before he even recognizes his pulse hammering inside his chest. “Is that why I forgot my name?” 

Harrison appears at his side with an IV bag of blue liquid. “And just when you were rediscovering deductive reasoning.” 

He swallows, pinching his eyes shut so he doesn’t see the needle. As the cold liquid burns its way into his arms, Harrison strips off his gloves. 

“Wait. You’re leaving?” 

He doesn’t get to hear his answer because the burning feeling reaches his neck, his heart, pulses up into his head. He grits his teeth, curling his fingers into fists. 

He’s breathless and panting by the time he acclimates to the attack on his body. And alone. 

His heart hammers irregularly in his chest as he waits for the effects. 

If he was on this drug before he was with Harrison, it was only a week or two ago. There are no windows down here but sometimes he gets a clear sign from Harrison to mark the time. A not-yet-fully-caffeinated look in the morning, an extra edge of impatience or his five-o-clock shadow at the end of a long day.

We’ll make a great team, Harrison said to him that first day. He could feel right away that they were working toward something but Harrison never told him exactly what. There were days of baseline tests, everything from his senses to fitness to fine motor skills. Tests with a shock collar around his neck that seemed to make it harder to breathe even when Harrison left the room. 

He’d take a hundred decontaminations, collared and hands bound over his head under freezing and then scalding water over… 

But Harrison has never done that to him. He doesn’t know where the idea came from but he can feel his weight hanging in his wrists so clearly, see the others in the back of the van.

His stomach fills with a cold, slippery dread and he doesn’t know why. Is this what the drug does? Makes him hallucinate? He doesn’t need help inventing nightmares, not with Harrison’s needles and scalpels. 

He tries to distract himself, focus on what’s real and right in front of him. The immovable restraints, holding him flat on the table at his ankles, hips, wrists and forehead. If he thrashes enough, he can get some movement in his torso at the expense of feeling like he’ll dislocate every joint from his wrist to his shoulders. He curls and uncurls his fingers into fists, the steel bands above the inner lining digs into the backs of his hands. His eyes trace the ceiling, forty-five tiles in rows of five. Three have discolored spots from water damage or something else. Eight fluorescent lights, the very edge of the surgical light at the edge of his vision, the top of the monitor. 

It’s not enough. The movie in his head becomes even more vivid. Colors brighter, sounds louder. If the decontamination and the van of other companions in collars was what brought him here, it was the only thing to come back easily. Everything else is cut together with no rhyme or reason. A box of photos thrown up in the air, his focus catching them at random. 

There’s a baby girl. She’s everywhere, she’s everything.

From a tiny, sleepy bundle to a wobbling toddler. But she looks nothing like him. That much he knows, Harrison had him do a skills test in the mirror. How could he feel like she belongs to him? Or does he belong to her? 

There’s a little boy too, clenching his fists at his sides as he asks permission to go to a friend’s birthday. His homework’s done, his room is clean, chores finished. He’ll buy the present with the money he made on his paper route. Yes, sir, he already set aside a third of his earnings for the church and the same amount to save. The gift will take the rest but all of his friends will be there and he wants so badly to be included.

He’s gangly and grown now, stomach full of butterflies as he watches from the back of the classroom as a new boy introduces himself. His heart almost stops when he walks right up to him and takes the empty seat at his table. 

He can smell her from where she lies in his arms, weight or the absence of it, heavy on the center of his chest. Tears are streaming down his face and he blinks at the fluorescent lights above but they can’t hold him here. 

He rocks her to sleep. They share a room and every night he falls asleep to the soft sound of her breathing. They gave him such a nice collar, more of a necklace really, shiny identification hanging in the hollow beneath his throat.

Like the one he brought home from a claw machine game, neon and stretchy. He liked the way it made his neck look long, made him feel pretty and something else he didn’t have a name for yet. The little boy’s father rips it from his neck, says ugly words he doesn’t understand. The back of his hand splits his lip. He fishes the necklace out of the kitchen garbage can in the middle of the night and buries it in the soft flower bed under his bedroom window. 

He takes the hit well, keeps his voice even as he apologizes. Even when he hits back. Even when he falls down the stairs. Even when his hands are bound and he’s kneeling on cold tiles. He keeps his voice even and apologizes like he’s meant to. 

There's no more pain with her. For the first few months he believes it. There’s another companion in the house, older and as well situated as he is. 

The other boy kisses him in the locker room but he runs away. 

He takes all his clothes off for him under the bleachers. 

They make him strip every day, under the harsh lights, in the cold air that seems to cut right through his skin. 

He has no idea what he’s doing, giggling nervously in a tangle of naked limbs on his twin bed. 

They tell him exactly what to do, down on his knees with a fist gripping into his hair. He doesn’t like that though. 

He pushes him face down onto the bed but he’s here for her. He’s here for her. 

He chokes on a sob, mouth thick with saliva. He didn’t realize he was crying so hard until he has trouble catching his breath. This is nothing like what Harrison described. 

“Sir?” He chokes out. He hopes Harrison is watching the cameras. He doesn’t even know where they are but that doesn’t mean much since he can’t see the back half of the room. Even now, flat on his back he can’t see his own toes, let alone inspect the walls. 

His stomach twists as he struggles to breathe. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen. He isn’t here for that. He’s here for her and what if— 

She’s crying, she’s calling his name. His name but he doesn’t even care. All he cares about is her. But he can’t move, he’s locked on Harrison’s table. Hands on the back of his neck and the small of his back pin him down. When he hears the beep that sounds when the back door opens. The one to the pool. 

Harrison must not be watching or he doesn’t care. 

“No, no, no.” 

But he’s already too late. Of course, he’s too late. That’s how he wound up here. He still tries, gives away all of his air and he can’t breathe, he can’t see. His throat is raw like he’s been strangled. He chokes on sobs, screams into the nothingness, the blank ceiling tiles above him, the emptiness in the center of his chest. 

He was there for her. He was there for her. There are other flashes, other names, a number, he doesn’t care. 

It aches and he cries. Pulls and thrashes against the restraints until he feels the trickle of blood. He keeps pulling, keeps fighting. If he can get the IV out of his arm— 

He stops, crying too hard to breathe. It won’t bring her back. Nothing will bring her back.

He hasn’t eaten once since being here but now his stomach turns over and he can’t stop sobbing to try to breathe past the nausea. The bile starts to rise up his throat. He’ll surely choke and die on this table. He can’t turn his head, not even a little. 

It’s everything he deserves but he still panics, a primal need to survive taking over. 

“Sir—please,” he gags. 

Oh god, he’s going to be sick. He retches and—

The door slams. “For the love of Christ.” 

Harrison walks across the room, sighing as he releases his head and opposite arm to pull him, twisting against the restraint at his hips just in time to vomit into a basin. His stomach heaves again and again, rocking his body between sobs. 

Harrison releases him to flop onto his back, walking to the other side of the table to refasten his wrist. “We’ll have to clean and dress those later. I don’t want to risk an infection.”

Mercifully, Harrison raises the head of the table. It’s already easier to breathe. He swallows the next sob. All of him aches but there is still liquid in the bag.

He focuses on Harrison, an anchor to keep him from getting lost in the tornado inside his head. “You heard me?” 

“As soon as I stepped out of the elevator.” Harrison shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised you were down here screaming your head off?”

He balks. “You weren’t watching me?” 

“I was upstairs,” Harrison says slowly, like he’s confused. 

“Yeah but the cameras—”

“There are no cameras.”

“What?” 

Harrison blinks at him. “What?” 

“So you can’t—you don’t—”

“Check on you while I’m gone? No.”

“You’re lying,” he accuses before he can think better of it.

Harrison sighs long sufferingly. “Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know…” He wants to squirm away, turn his head. “So I relax and think I’m not being watched and maybe try something.”

Harrison snorts a laugh. “Maybe you have a sense of humor after all.” 

He glares at him. 

“Alright, I’ll bite.” Harrison puts his hands on his hips. “What are you going to try bolted to the table at six points?” 

He grinds his teeth. 

“I thought so. Unlike you, I have a life outside this room.” 

“You could have fooled me,” he spits. “Seems more like you’re married to your mad scientist side-hustle.” He has no idea where—or maybe who is more accurate—the defiance comes from but every version of himself holds their breath, waiting for the fallout. 

Harrison just laughs. “Blue really is your color.”

Amongst all of the feelings raging inside him, he singles out a little pride, as he bites back a smile.

Masterlist 

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

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

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

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

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

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

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

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

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

[peachy-panic]

BITCH I—

Truth serum for Rivulet:

Tell us something about one of your “holiday bonus” stays with handler Jake 👀

from this ask game

River’s expression is acidic, and it takes several long, tense seconds before the truth serum kicks in. Even then, there’s a clear battle raging inside of him. He looks around the room, just to be certain that no one else is in earshot, before he finally lets himself release the breath he holds, swallowing audibly.

“It happened two times,” he says, his tone matching his expression. “He did everything you would expect him to do, knowing what you know about him at this point.” He’s trying to hold back; he blinks, hard. “The first one was easier. He…” he shakes his head. “He had dinner delivered, he b–" He sucks in a breath, training his gaze on the floor. “He bathed me. I don’t remember everything. It wasn’t really worse than it was at Belleview,” he says, more easily, as the serum takes a stronger hold. “He tried to be… hospitable, almost. He showed me around, he introduced me to his pet ferret. He was… gentle, I guess. For him at least. Afterward, he made me watch videos he thought were funny on his phone, until I passed out. I woke up back at Belleview.”

[peachy-panic]

"Tell me you didn't."

from this ask game , follows this piece

tw: institutionalized slavery

✥ ✥ ✥

“Please,” Felix says softly, setting his tray, and its meager contents, on the table opposite River. River doesn’t look up, but he hesitates, just for a second, mid-bite.

“River,” Felix urges, careful to keep his voice low. He glances at the handler at his station, deeply involved with his phone. “Tell me you didn't–”

River sets his fork down and takes a slow breath, but keeps his eyes down.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. “If they catch–”

“Handler Garcia doesn’t care,” Felix replies. It’s true, though. If Handler Ward, or Handler Miller, or someone else sees them, it would be bad, but–

“Jake cares,” River says softly, his voice charged. “And wherever I am...” River picks his fork up and takes another bite, slowly, and refuses to look up from the table. "You know he keeps an eye on me."

Felix picks at his bread, nodding. “I know,” he says, finally. “Just don’t..." He wraps his arms around his stomach. Rage bubbles inside of him, and he wants to scream. Or to cry. Or to fight. To do something. To help him. “I didn’t need the medicine,” he whispers. “It wasn’t worth it. Whatever you did for it, please don’t… don’t do anything like that again.”

[peachy-panic]

the burns have faded to almost nothing, and so, Ben worries, has River.

Belleview: Burned

Notes: Pre-Belleview/Shutdown.

Belleview: Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (Part A), Chapter 2 (Part B), Chapter 2 (Part C)

TW: Institutionalized slavery, Med Whump, Noncon Medical Care, Human Experimentation, Burns TW, Restraints TW, Noncon drugging TW

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nice to meet you.” Katherine Blackwell sits languidly behind a large desk, usually reserved for the site director. From the doorway, a handler levels a warning glance upon the worker – a young, angry-looking male – who has been… challenging, to say the least, up to this point. He stares back at her, his features clear of any emotion at all. Whether this is a side effect of drugs or exhaustion or simply a deficient personality is anyone’s guess. It’s inconsequential to her, and more importantly, to her team. “My name is Katherine, I’m one of the head researchers at Hutton Medical.” No response. “Over in Deerfield?” she adds, narrowing her eyes. No response. “We often work with the team here to acquire participants for medical research… drug trials, experimental treatments, things like that.” She cocks her head to the side. “Not important, I suppose.”

No response. 

“What’s your name?” she asks. 

The boy, unsurprisingly, does not offer a response, although his posture shifts, which is, in itself, something. Kate places one finger on the file in front of her and draws it closer, peeking at the first page.

“River,” she says. His shoulders tighten, almost imperceptibly. “That’s a very sweet name.”

His focus shifts to the far wall.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, River,” she starts, cautious with her tone and her words and her expectations.

He shifts his eyes just enough to glare at her, and the handler issues a soft, but firm, “Take it easy, Riv.”

Kate offers a tight smile toward the handler then turns her attention back to River.

“Assuming that you pass a couple of preliminary tests,” she says, “we’ll be pulling you for an offsite trial at our main branch.” She’s not unaware of the fact that the handler is on edge, and she keeps her attention split between the boy in front of her and the handler’s hands, one gripping a remote, and the other resting anxiously on one of the tools on his belt.

“Do you have any interest in the details of the trial?” she asks him, and the muscles in his jaw tighten. She takes a breath, gives him a moment to speak, then eventually continues, “I know this must be a difficult position to be in. I want to assure you that our aim is not to harm you. As you might be aware, you’re uniquely positioned to make a really meaningful impact in the future of medical care.”

“Ma’am,” the handler says, tense, at the same time that River repositions himself. If he lunges, there will be more than enough time for the handler to intervene. Kate suspects that they are all well aware of this fact, and fails to understand the shared anxiety between River and the handler.

She holds up a hand. “You have the opportunity to support us in making tens of thousands of peoples’ lives better,” she continues in spite of the protests from the corner. “Hutton has made impressive strides over the past several years in burn treatm–”

“I don’t want to hear this,” River says softly, sucking in a deep breath. “And I do not consent to whatever you intend to do to me.”

Kate nods. “Of course,” she replies. “Nonetheless, our company does not require nor expect your consent. Your site director has signed off on your participation, and at this point, we simply want to provide you with some information about what the next few weeks will look like for you and extend to you the opportunity to ask any questions that you have.”

River glances quickly toward his handler but then falters, his gaze instead landing somewhere toward his feet.

“River,” Kate says. She tries to be supportive where she can, but ultimately, this decision is made. “I want to share some of the details of the trial with you, if you will allow me to? We have found that participants cope a little bit better when they understand the expectations, and the limits of, their participation.” 

“Ma’am, just say what you gotta say,” the handler interjects.

She clears her throat. “Right.” And then, decisively, she explains, “It will be a short trial. You’ll spend two weeks in our facility in Deerfield. You’ll be treated well, although we expect that the trial itself will be challenging for you. Today, one of our doctors will examine you to ensure that you qualify for the trial. Your cooperation will be appreciated and ultimately, rewarded.”

River’s grip on the chair tightens, his knuckles white. 

“After the doctor clears you, we will medicate you for transit. When you wake up, you will be at the facility, and from there, we will begin the trial. I will be present through it all and will support you as needed. From here,” she continues, “I believe things will move fairly quickly. I understand that you sometimes struggle with being handled, so I expect that, once we get started, you may have some difficulty voicing your questions or needs.”

He looks afraid, under the bravado, she thinks. It would be impossible not to be afraid. “So I’ll ask one more time, River: do you have any questions?”

He turns away from her, his expression just as empty as it has been, but his muscles tight.

“Okay,” she says, decisively. “You’re welcome to voice your questions as they arise,” and then, to the handler, she says, “No sedatives, the doctor needs him alert and oriented.” She scoops up the files in front of her and places them into her bag, then stands.

As three men from her team file into the office, Kate side-steps them and exits swiftly. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees River spring from his seat, and although she narrowly avoids seeing the fight, she can’t get away quickly enough to escape the sounds that come from the office.

✥ ✥ ✥

The first thing River becomes aware of, as the darkness fades back into reality, is the taste. There is a sweetness on his tongue, almost sickeningly so, and River instinctively moves to spit it out but, just as quickly, realizes that something has been placed behind his teeth and is preventing him from doing so.

He presses with his tongue all around the edges of the item, but it doesn’t budge. His limbs feel heavy, and although he knows he should be afraid, he’s mostly just… confused.

He blinks hard against the harsh lights of this room, and moves to push himself up from the awkward position he’s awoken in. His limbs are heavy, though, and instantly, memories piece themselves together and awareness takes a cold, distinct hold on him. He stops struggling.

“Welcome back,” a man says from somewhere above him. The voice sends a frigid shiver of dread all down River’s body. “I’ll help you up, if you’re ready to be calm,” he says. 

He moves around the table and kneels down to River’s eye level. “While I can appreciate a clean upper cut,” he continues, “it won’t be tolerated here. You’re not in a position to do any real harm, but if you want to wear yourself out trying, we can do this all day.” 

River isn’t positive how long they have been doing this, but judging by the pounding headache and soreness of his shoulders, wrists, neck, back, and everywhere else, he suspects he might have lost significant time somewhere. He blinks, he tests his jaw, which aches with the resistance of the gag, and he forcibly relaxes.

“I’m Doctor Hank Anderson,” the man says. “I’ll be assisting in getting you ready for the procedure this morning.”

The man helps River sit up, then lifts each of his hands individually and places them in his lap. His arms are covered in bruises, he notices. He wrists, welts. The memories are fragmented, but they continue to fall into place.

“You’ve been gagged because you haven’t shown any ability to censor yourself.” Anderson releases his grip on River’s wrists but places a hand on his back, keeping him balanced. “You’ve been medicated, because–” He makes a vague gesture, as if to say River’s entire existence provides all the rationale in the world.

“After the procedure, the gag will be removed. Should you continue with the vocal outbursts, we will respond accordingly.” And then, a flat, “Do you understand?”

River wonders briefly if he has enough agency over his limbs to flip the man off. He watches his fingers as they try with a kind of detached fascination. Whatever this is is going to happen. Whatever they want to do to him they will do to him. He does not need to help them feel better about it.

The door opens, and River slowly lifts his head to see who has entered. “You remember my colleague, Dr. Blackwell?”

She keeps a healthy distance from him but the condescending smile is plastered on her lips. His stomach roils. 

“Hi, River,” she says. “It’s good to see you’re awake.”

The gag is a heavy weight in his mouth, digging uncomfortably into his cheeks, and the woman says, “Can we remove it now?”

“Not yet,” Anderson replies. River’s stomach is still threatening to revolt, his vision still swims, and he has no control over his body. He becomes aware that the man’s hand is still on his back keeping him balanced, and he tries to pull away.

He focuses on memorizing their faces. Their voices.

“This will be done in two phases,” the man is saying. River blinks himself back to the moment. “Phase one will take place today, within the next couple of minutes. Once they’re ready for you, a team will come in. The first phase will be fast but will be uncomfortable. Phase two will begin in a couple days, but you don’t need to concern yourself with the details.”

River is concerned with the details, but isn’t sure that alerting them to that fact serves any real purpose.

“If you do well, you’ll be treated well,” the woman says. She smiles again and takes a tentative step toward him and River, against his will, pulls back.

“We don’t mean to scare you,” she continues. “There is not an option for you to do poorly. We aren’t interested in subjecting you to torture for torture’s sake. You’ll do well, because that’s the only possible outcome, and you will be treated well during your recovery.”

Recovery, River thinks. Over the last six months, he’s been subjected to every kind of pain imaginable. He has survived them all, and he will survive this, but the way these people look at him puts him on edge. 

There’s no way for him to prepare. So he builds up a wall, a strong and as high and as impenetrable as he can build it, to protect whatever fragments of himself that he can.

 ✥ ✥ ✥

He knows, at the point where he is laid down on his stomach, his wrists and ankles affixed tightly to a thinly padded table, that he is right to have a healthy fear of whatever awaits him. He knew when the handler at Belleview had exacted a look of pity on him with a promise of a “special treat” when he returned, he knew when the ‘doctors’ did a stress test, and he knows now, as his head is gently lifted and the pillow is removed from under it. He presses his temple into the same thin, blue pad that lies beneath the rest of him and closes his eyes. 

They don’t speak to him as they prepare, but occasionally one will run an absent hand through his hair, or pat him on the back, as if to say, we give a shit about you. It’s the thing, he thinks, that allows some of them to sleep at night. It makes his skin crawl, but that, too, he has learned to ignore.

“River?” the man from earlier says, as a cold swab is rubbed across the top of his neck. “We’re going to give you something to help keep you still.”

He feels the moment the pressure on his head shifts from a caress to a restraint and braces himself against the sharp sting of a needle in his neck.

“‘Atta boy,” the man says, and the gag is removed a moment later. “You’re doing great.” To someone out of River’s sight line he says, “he’s easier to be around when he can’t speak,” and it’s followed by a small round of soft laughter.

A tear runs down River’s cheek, and River hopes no one notices, but almost immediately the woman wipes a cool, damp cloth against his face and puts her hand on the back of his neck.

“It’ll be twenty minutes, tops,” she says. Someone else puts an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, puts a few patches on his arms and hands, and somewhere distantly, he can hear the beeping of monitors coming to life. “You can close your eyes, if you’d like.”

They speak to each other as something cool is rubbed across his back, and River can both feel and hear his heart rate rising, neither of which do anything to ease the anxiety of what he expects is going to be bad.

“Alright, River,” someone behind him says. “We’re going to expose you to a series of burns, ranging in severity.” River can feel the warmth and there is a moment of clarity where he thinks, maybe, if he could speak, this would be where he would ask them to knock him out. Where he might ask them why, if they do not seek to torture him, he is to remain conscious through this.

He can’t speak though, and he can’t move. He can only suffer. He closes his eyes, drowning out the words of those who surround him, and prepares himself to do just that.

 ✥ ✥ ✥

At the moment that the first scalding iron is pressed against the worker’s lower back, she expects a flinch. She expects, perhaps, a blood-curdling scream. She expects, maybe, the choice words that this worker seems to reserve specifically for her, but she is met with nothing but the smell of burning flesh, and the quickly increasing beeps of the monitors attached to him.

“Release it,” Anderson says, and the iron is removed, leaving a horrifying patch of burned skin in its wake. They all look at the information feed about River’s internal state, but Kate, instead, makes the mistake of looking at his face. His eyes are shut, and sweat beads down his forehead. Otherwise, he is still.

“Beautiful,” someone says. 

Several more times, the iron is pressed into this worker’s, this boy’s, flesh. It isn’t until the third time that tears begin falling from his eyes onto the padding beneath his head, and it isn’t until the fifth, when he is gasping for each breath, that he makes any sound at all. The noise that comes out of him is a hoarse, choked off sob, that he immediately locks up, his eyes squeezing tighter.

“He’s crying,” one of the nurses says evenly. “Wasn’t the pain exposure meant to be minimal?”

Kate takes the rag from the tray of supplies, dampens it, and brushes it across River’s forehead, then his cheeks, wiping away the moisture, then his neck, which is steadily reddening. The tears continue to flow freely. 

“It’s likely just a reflex,” Anderson says calmly, but Kate believes they all know this is a lie. “One more,” he says then. She isn’t certain who he’s speaking to.

In the last spot, the iron is pressed and held, longer than any of the others. River’s heart rate is through the roof, his body temperature dangerously high. “Good, River,”Anderson says, and then finally, the iron is released. Six rectangular burns line 80% of his back. They take photographs, and they prod at him like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing.

There’s a casual dissonance between the way they speak and the crisis unfolding on the table. Anderson explains the treatment process into a recording device while River vomits. The nurse reads his vitals out loud while blood trickles from his nose. His wrists are released from the restraints and as he struggles futilely to get his hands under himself, to, what, stand? To hide? Does he even know what he attempts to accomplish? Every movement has to be agonizing. His muscles spasm and he drops his weight, then tries again. He doesn’t make a sound, he doesn’t open his eyes. He swallows, he vomits again, he pulls his arms under himself again.

“Temp’s still climbing,” one of the nurses says, but Kate remains at River’s head, petting through his hair, encouraging him to hold still. She doesn’t attend to what the others are saying or doing.

“Be still, River,” she whispers. This is the hardest part of the job, but she tells herself that she’s part of something bigger. That the world will be better. That this will help so many people, and that River has done something to deserve this treatment, regardless. He’s hurt people, and now he will help them. She tells herself it makes it easier, but this part never is. “Easy,” she says, as his weight drops again. He gasps, he chokes. His jaw, locked tight, trembles. He doesn’t hear her. She’s almost positive of that.

His heart rate keeps climbing.

“Alright,” Anderson says, approaching the table with a vial full of liquid and an empty syringe. “Keep him still.”

Something snaps inside of him as the needle contacts his skin, and Kate wants to help him understand, to tell him it’s for the pain, to tell him it’ll help, but it’s all instantaneous, and without warning, River begins panicking, and then River is forcefully rolling to his side, and he screams out at the movement, and something inside of him is breaking, his fingers tangle tightly into his own hair and he buries his face under his arm, and somewhere, the tray is kicked over as he arches and twists against the pain that all the movement certainly ignites–

“Easy t– what’s his name?” Anderson says to Kate, a gloved hand prying River’s fingers out of his hair, then forcefully, but casually, returning his hand to his side. The movement is met with a choked-off sob and his eyes open, meeting hers, as tears soak his flushed skin.

“River,” she says, although she isn’t sure if she’s speaking to him or Anderson. She looks away, down to the ground, to anywhere other than his eyes. She’s going to be sick, she thinks, the feeling so sudden that she doesn’t know what to do with it. “Excuse me,” she whispers then.

“Just try to focus on breathing, River,” she hears distantly.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he tries to pull away, and is this time met with a sharp command to restrain him, followed by twelve gloved hands forcing him back to his stomach. The last thing Kate hears as she makes for the exit is his piercing wail, before finally, mercifully, he goes still.

✥ ✥ ✥

All said, what was initially predicted to be a two-week stay was extended, and extended again, and extended again, until Ben Harris, promoted to head researcher midway through this trial, lost track of the days. 

The sick pattern that’s developed seems to be, mostly, a comfort in its predictability to the worker, River. 

Pills are forced down his throat. Then water. They remove the bandages, they treat the wounds with the fancy new machine that promises to revolutionize burn treatment (for those who can afford it). He screams. Sometimes, he begs them to stop. Sometimes the pain is too much and he passes out. 

Every morning, they count how many ounces of the puree he can make himself swallow, and the rest is supplemented with a tube. 

And every evening, after he’s given them some approximation of a description of what it feels like, after he's told them to eat shit, after he’s eventually caved, his body totally spent, he turns into calm, easy River, and Ben wipes down his body and puts his head in his lap and tells him about how many people he's helping. It is only at this point, when River’s eyes are so heavy and the bags are so dark and his lips are so dry and his voice is so hoarse that he doesn't tell Ben to eat shit, and instead eases his way into a fitful sleep, where Ben can start to see the other side of his ward, just barely an adult, who tenses at every sound, who whimpers when he's scared. 

This side of River changes Ben; it urges him to spend more of his energy trying to comfort the otherwise inconsolable boy. Usually, River can only handle it on the bad days, the ones where he is soaked in sweat and shaking and cannot open his eyes. On those days, Ben takes a seat in the armchair next to River and reads to him, or tells him stories, or watches TV with him. On others, when he’s more feisty, Ben settles for checking in on him briefly, which is usually met with open hostility.  

He handles himself as well as anyone can expect him to, but every day, things get easier, physically, at least. With each phase of the treatment, River grows stronger, but retreats further into himself. Long gone are the days where he fights back, swearing and spitting and clawing through his restraints. He’s replaced by a withdrawn, quiet River, who by week six, refuses to speak at all. Ben starts a countdown for him, greeting him each morning with an update on his progress, and a promise of an end to this. The harsh reality, though, is that it never ends for River. If not this, it will be something else. If not Ben, someone else. He wonders idly, sometimes, how River landed here, and if he deserves to be here, after all.

By the end of the eight-week trial, far longer than anyone anticipated or could ethically justify, the burns have faded to almost nothing, and so, Ben worries, has River.

When they pack him up and put him in the van, he curls his arms around his stomach and keeps his eyes straight ahead. Ben feels an immediate stab of loss. His first time overseeing a patient, he thinks proudly. His name will be in the research archives for his work on this study, and he might even be issued an award. River’s might, too, and he has the thought that maybe someone should show him, if it comes to be.

He waves River off with something akin to pride, and he hopes, somewhere deep down, River feels it, too.

✥ ✥ ✥

“You miss us, baby?” Jake says, one hand locking tightly around River’s arm as he hoists him out of the transport vehicle. He’s noticeably thinner, which irrationally upsets Jake but he doesn’t dwell on it. What he does dwell on are the bruises, the bags under River’s eyes, the welts around his wrists. “You look like shit, Riv,” he says, saluting the driver and turning them both on their heels. 

River doesn’t respond.

“Wanna take the long way in?” Jake asks suddenly, and River pauses. 

He takes one of those deep breaths and looks at the sun, then offers a nearly invisible, single nod of his head, which is more than Jake gets on his best day.

The long way is just around the back, which winds through the courtyard and then leads into the maintenance entrance. Sometimes, if one of his boys is on their best behavior, Jake will take them out for some fresh air. 

River has tried to make a run for it a couple times, so the director put him on lockdown four months earlier, but since he’s already outside, it probably doesn’t matter.

Still, Jake keeps his fingers locked around River’s arm, but makes no hurry to get him inside.

“The doctor wants to look at you before you crash,” Jake says, as they near the door. River’s expression goes darker, his jaw locking. “But between you and me, everyone’s really proud of you.”

Jake taps his key card against the lock box at the door and pulls it open, ushering River inside. He stalls, just long enough for Jake to think that maybe he’s going to bolt, but then he changes his mind and steps inside. He looks like he’s been thoroughly run through, in a way that gives Jake pause.

“The director said I can bring you some Taco Bell tonight,” Jake says, as they make their way through the wing. River keeps his eyes on the floor. He’s holding in some big emotions, Jake thinks, which is not actually all that common for him. He’s seen River cry only a small handful of times, and usually it’s only because the pain has gotten unmanageable and River’s body physically can’t keep it locked down anymore. Now, though, Jake can see tears welling in his eyes and quite frankly? It freaks him out a little bit. 

“Hey,” Jake says as they approach the door to River’s room. River freezes but does not look up. “Don’t be like that.” He pushes open River’s door and steps aside for River to pass him. “Whatever it was, it’s over now,” he continues. “And miracle of all miracles, they said you did good.” 

River sinks down to the floor in the corner of his room and puts his head between his legs. O-kay then, Jake thinks.

“I’ll be back in a little bit,” he says. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

✥ ✥ ✥

When he returns, no more than an hour later, River is in one of the sterile rooms, curled up on his side, with an IV in his arm. He’s snowed, his eyes open but barely, his hair matted with sweat.

“The fuck happened here?” Jake asks one of the handlers who stands outside the door. He is still writing notes into the tablet. 

“Uhh,” the handler says, his focus split between what he’s typing and answering Jake’s question. “He’s been sedated, he had a massive meltdown when the team pulled him. Guess it was too much excitement for one day,” he says. 

“Damn.” Jake approaches River, or, the shell of him, and turns him a little bit so he can see his back. “Gnarly.” It isn’t really, though. It actually doesn’t look like much of anything at all.

“Besides being traumatized to all hell, they think he’ll be fine.”

Jake sets the bag of Taco Bell on the counter and turns back River, running a light hand down his cheek. “You hear that, buddy?” Jake whispers, as the other handler makes his exit. “You’re gonna be just fine.”

✥ ✥ ✥

Belleview Taglist:

@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @light-me-on-pyre @i-eat-worlds

@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@handsinmotion @whumps-and-bumps @pumpkin-spice-whump @alexmundaythrufriday @itsawhumpsideblog

@hellodecisionparalysis @scoundrelwithboba @technicallydeliciousdeer

[peachy-panic]

Nail Gun

I always had it in my head that one day, something bad would happen to Aiden at one of the construction sites. (Okay, so actually many bad things. He's brand new at this and uncoordinated, there are bound to be accidents.) This one is just mean though (:

cw: vandalism, alcohol use, beating, blood, nail gun used on a person (mostly just intimidation, nothing crazy), alcohol on wound courtesy of @deluxewhump. (alright so it gets a tiny bit unhinged at the end but go unhinged or go home, right?)

Previous — Masterlist — Next

“Aiden?” 

He jumps and spins to find Jesse right behind him.

“I swear I’ll come quietly,” he jokes, raising his hands in response to the nail gun being turned on him. 

Aiden huffs a laugh. Leo’s business partner is always trying to get a smile out of him. Even so, he puts the nail gun down on a nearby sawhorse. 

“I just got a call from the flooring company and they’re almost at the Weston house so I have to go meet them.” Jesse pulls his phone out, its black case powdered with drywall dust, and checks the time. “The rest of the guys just went to pick up subs but Leo should be back any minute.”

“Okay.” 

“Door trim’s looking great, kiddo,” Jesse says, bumping him on the shoulder with the side of his fist. 

His face heats at the compliment. “Thanks.” 

Even when Jesse leaves, the house isn't quiet. The radio is always on at the jobs. First one at the site in the morning switches it on, last to leave turns it off. Even when the sounds of their work drown it out, the radio plays. Aiden’s grown to appreciate the background noise, even if the music is sometimes terrible. The pop station’s playlist forever feels finite with certain songs seeming to repeat once an hour. At home, he keeps the habit, putting something on when he’s alone but he always picks it himself, scrolling through the colorful playlist and album covers, tapping past any songs he doesn’t like. It doesn’t seem possible that no one on site has their own music but listening to the same radio station all day every day seems like some unspoken rule. 

Aiden lines up the final board for the door he’s framing and fires the nails in place with the nail gun. Two more doors in the back bedroom and then the whole upstairs will be ready to paint. He pauses for a drink of water and then starts moving everything he’ll need to the other side of the house. As he makes his way through the rooms, a little part of him finds it satisfying to walk under the fruits of his labor.

He’s on the last door when there’s a crash downstairs. The radio cuts out and Aiden freezes, listening. It’s probably just someone unplugging it because they can’t find another extension cord.

“See?” An unfamiliar voice breaks the silence. “That guy was the last one, I told you no one was here.” 

His stomach drops as he fumbles to find his phone in his pockets. Jesse would have set the alarm, even if he only thought Aiden would be here for a few minutes.

“Dude, they gutted this place,” another voice says, echoing through the empty house. “I barely recognize it.”

“The new owners must be loaded.” A third voice? Aiden’s chest tightens. “All new windows, custom cabinets.” 

“Motherfuckers,” the first one spits. “This is my house.” Something glass shatters, one of the guys laughs. 

His hands shake as he checks his pockets a third time even though it won’t change the fact that his phone is on the other side of the house. Right next to his water bottle. Leo will be back any minute. All he has to do is stay quiet in the meantime. 

An even louder crash makes him flinch, the heel of his work boot hitting the level he left leaning against the wall. He doesn’t manage to catch it before it slaps to the ground. 

“What was that?” 

“It came from upstairs.” 

Aiden looks around desperately as they cross the house. Footsteps thunder up the stairs. There’s nowhere to hide. In another lifetime he might have been able to jump out the window but not after Harrison. 

It’s all he can do not to drop to his knees and cower when they spot him. He clears his throat. “What—”

One of them grabs him by the front of his sweatshirt and pushes him into the wall. “Check him for a phone.” It’s the one who used to live here from the sounds of it. He has a smattering of freckles across his nose, brassy blond hair and eyes the color of oxidized iron. “You here by yourself?”

He flinches as the one patting him down, slaps over his spine. 

“No phone.” Buzzcut reports, straightening. Three passes him the fifth of vodka he’s been swinging at the end of his arm. They look like they're younger than him, barely out of high school, if that.

“The guys will be back…any mmm’minute.” Shit.

Freckles smirks and looks over his shoulder at his minions to make sure they’re all on the same page.

Aiden’s heart drops. Working with Leo for for a few months has done a lot for his physical strength but he’s still a far cry from the strong athlete he was in high school. Even then he’s not sure he could have bested three-to-one odds. Maybe if they were a bit drunker but that only serves to worsen his chances today.

“I don’t w—” He swallows, takes a breath before he stutters. “I don’t…want…any trouble.” 

“What is this an old Western?” Three taunts, laughing harder than the other two at his own joke. 

“Doesn’t look like there’s anyone around to stop us,” Buzzcut says, spreading his arms and crossing the room. He kicks one of the metal toolboxes closed and picks it up. He stands in front of the window, swinging his arm back to gain momentum. 

“Don’t,” Aiden blurts.

Buzzcut keeps his grip on the handle so his arms swings back, all the tools rattling as they hit the bottom again at the end of the arc. Aiden knows better than to feel relieved. The second time, he lets go so the box crashes through the window. They wait in silence until it hits the ground. Three slaps him on the back and they start laughing. 

Aiden’s heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest. They’re going to trash the house. Thousands of dollars of materials, not to mention days of labor and a setback on the timeline. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

He feels a surge of anger at his own helplessness. It sparks memories of all the other times he was powerless. With his father, with the handlers, with Harrison. His molars creak in the back of his jaw, his fingers curl themselves into shaking fists. 

Crack. 

Freckles stumbles back, clutching his nose. “Ow, fuck!” 

Aiden looks down at his hand. He can’t remember the last time he hit someone. 

Buzzcut grabs his arm and Aiden swings at him but the other boy easily dodges, expecting it. “Scott, do something!” 

He actually lands a few more hits until Scott finally drops the vodka and grabs his other arm. Panicking, he twists in their grip but they hold him fast. His heart sprints in his chest, adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

“You good, Tyler?” 

Tyler picks up the vodka and takes slug, swiping the back of his hand across his face. With his temper quickly fizzling, the streak of blood there doesn’t seem worth whatever he has coming. Tyler doesn’t waste any time getting his revenge. He hits Aiden right in the stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. The other two let him double over which he quickly realizes is just so they can get their swings in. 

He’s about to just crumple to the ground when he thinks of Leo again. Imagines him coming in to find the house destroyed. The very first he and Jesse bought to renovate and sell themselves. Of course Leo wouldn’t expect Aiden to stop it, regardless of how much Aiden wishes he were in a position to be so heroic. 

But he can’t just roll over either. So he fights back, landing one hit for every three that he takes. It’s hopeless but they’ll have less energy left for destroying the house the longer this drags on. The wall at his back does a lot of the heavy lifting of keeping him on his feet. His body taking the beating and his fists making contact, first aching from every impact and then slowly numbing, reignites the rage in his bones. He’s sure that’s what keeps him going, not-quite holding his own but doggedly holding his ground. 

He almost doesn’t notice when they stop swinging. 

But it’s far from over. 

Tyler picks up the nail gun and his cronies laugh, egging him on.

“Wait—” Aiden gasps breathlessly. There’s a safety on the nail gun. It won’t fire a nail unless the guide is pressed against something solid but he lifts his hands in surrender anyway, wincing at the pain in his side.

Tyler smirks. “Not so tough now, are you?” 

“Please—” 

“Shut up. Turn around.” 

Dread runs through his core. He shakes his head. “Please, I’ll—” 

Tyler jabs the nail gun against his sternum. Aiden can’t remember if it’s loaded with 1 1/4 or 2 1/4 inch nails. He’s not sure if he’s more afraid of the potential range in nail length or the brightness he sees in Tyler’s eyes. Either way, he obeys, shuffling in a tight circle until he’s nose to nose with the wall. 

“Get on your knees.” 

He swallows and lowers himself, catching himself with his hand on the wall when he can’t manage to stay balanced. This can’t be good but if Tyler wanted to put nails through his vertebrae he probably wouldn’t crouch to do it. 

“Lamar, get his arm.” 

“No, please—” Aiden pulls both arms in front of his chest but Tyler pokes the back of his head with the nail gun. His heart sprints so fast and loud in his ears, he can barely hear the directions that result in his arm being stretched out from his body, Lamar holding his wrist against the wall tightly. 

“Please, please—” He tries to turn to see Tyler but Scott joins to grab the back of his head, pressing his cheek against the wall so he’s facing the opposite direction. 

The threat of the unknown is worse than when Tyler held the nail gun against the back of his head. He starts to struggle. “Please, no—” 

One of them kneels across his shins to pin him further and he cries out. 

The first nail is like a gunshot, right next to his ear. 

Aiden holds his breath, but no pain ever comes. 

The boys laugh behind him. 

Another nail. 

He jumps and pulls against their hands. 

They’re putting the nails through his sweatshirt, right above his shoulder. He feels no relief at this realization because it’s only a matter of time before this isn’t entertaining enough. 

As if on cue, Tyler abandons precision in favor of speed. The next six nails come in quick succession, some grazing his skin so that he hisses through his teeth. 

“I think you got him,” someone says. Aiden can’t tell if the tone is one of excitement or trepidation. 

“Please,” Aiden tries, realizing that he won’t have the leverage to tear himself off the wall. His eyes fill with tears at the thought of Leo and the others finding him like this. Even worse than letting them destroy the house is being strung up and tortured like the pet he is. 

Tyler moves onto his other arm, meeting his gaze. He slides the nail gun fully onto his arm and Aiden’s breath catches in his throat with a whimper. Tyler lets his finger dance over the trigger, making sure he’s watching as he drags the nail gun closer to the edge of his arm. 

The seconds stretch into minutes as Aiden waits for the nail and he starts shaking. 

When Tyler finally pulls the trigger, Aiden jumps even though he saw him pull it. Tyler doesn’t pause and Aiden yelps when the second one pierces the underside of his arm, close to his armpit. It’s definitely deeper than the glancing blows on the other side. He can feel blood slowly soaking into his shirt. He bites his lips together but there’s nothing he can do about the tears falling down his cheeks.

The others want a turn. They’re even less concerned with their aim, laughing when they “accidentally” get a whimper or whine out of him. Aiden tries to remember when he last reloaded the nail gun but it’s useless since he hasn’t been counting. They want to make sure he really can’t move so they do his sides next. He can barely breathe, knowing how little it would take for one of them to decide to move inward.

Once they don’t have to hold him in place, they pass around the bottle, snickering. One of them suggests something that makes his heart stop altogether but the other two don’t share his inclination. In his panic, he almost misses someone commenting on the time. 

Aiden squeezes his eyes shut as the butt of the nail gun swings toward his face but it just crashes through the wall. “Wait, don’t—”

They thunder out of the room. He wishes they had knocked him out so he wouldn’t have to hear them destroying everything they can. More windows, the glass for the showers. The pitch changes and he thinks one of them must have found a hammer to use on the countertops and floor. 

When they finally stop, his ears ring.

Their voices carry from downstairs so he jumps when Scott appears beside him silently and pulls the nail gun out of the wall.

“Wh-what are you doing?” 

Scott taps the head of the nail gun against Aiden’s lips. “Shh.” His eyes are half-lidded and glazed like he’s twice as drunk as before. He takes a swig from the almost-empty bottle, eyes fixed on Aiden. “You want some?” 

He shakes his head as much as he can. 

Scott shrugs and takes another drink. He bends at the waist to set it down, swaying as he straightens again. Aiden tenses when he lays a heavy hand on his shoulder but it’s only for balance as he lowers himself to kneel. He uses one knee to push Aiden’s knees wider. 

Even the inch of movement makes him feel all of the nicks and punctures again. He whimpers as Scott puts both of his knees between his, pressing his hips against Aiden’s. 

“Shh.” His breath is hot against his ear. Scott snakes his right hand between Aiden’s head and the wall, pulling his head back just far enough that he can wrap his hand over his mouth. 

Aiden pants through his nose. He couldn’t get away if he tried but he struggles anyway even though it makes all of the pain stronger. Whatever this is, it’s going to be worse. 

He freezes when Scott lifts the nail gun into his line of vision. 

There’s only one reason he’d be covering his mouth for this. 

“Nnnnn—nnnngghh—” He tries to move his hand away but the end of his sleeve has nails on both sides. It reminds him of the wrist restraints on Harrison’s table and his panic doubles.

“Shhh, I ain’t even done it yet.” 

“Nnnnn—” He tries to shake his head. 

“Open your hand.” 

He tightens his fist. 

Scott clicks his tongue, making him think even more of Harrison. “I don’t want to hit any bones, open your hand.” 

Something about the logic makes him obey even though he has no reason to trust this stranger like he did Harrison. No matter what he does, it’s going to hurt and it will probably get worse. It always does. He’s sobbing into Scott’s hand on his mouth. 

His fingers shake even as he presses them against the wall. 

Scott lines up the nail gun with the meat between his thumb and the back of his hand. He wastes no time pulling the trigger. 

Aiden screams into his hand, instinctively trying to pull his whole arm away which only makes the pain worse. 

“Shh, shh.” Scott’s lips brush against his ear and he thinks he actually could vomit. He doesn’t want to think about how this will escalate, despite the evidence behind him. His heart hammers in his ribcage, pressed between the wall and Scott’s chest. Scott shushes him until he stops crying. “Bet you wish you’d taken that pull from the bottle now?” He lifts it now and leans back to take a drink, keeping his grip on Aiden’s face. 

Where is the nail gun?

“Your turn.” Scott still doesn’t take his hand off his mouth. 

Aiden shakes his head as much as he can. He screams when the alcohol hits the hole in his hand, panting frantically as the pain only builds and builds. He’s ready to pull off the nail just to get away from the stream when Scott rights the bottle, laughing so that Aiden feels it through his back more than hears it. 

Scott takes a last sip and sets the vodka down, picking up the nail gun again. “What do you think, should we make you even like Jesus?” 

He sobs. “Nnnnn—”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tyler asks from somewhere behind them. 

Aiden gasps when Scott jerks away, leaving him held by the nails in his sweatshirt again. 

“Didn’t you hear us calling? Brian said a van just turned onto the street.” 

“Oh fuck.” The nail gun hits the floor and they barrel out of the house. 

Aiden’s pulse never settles. 

Part of him doesn’t believe they’re really gone. The other can’t summon anything like relief at what comes next. He tries to wipe his nose on his shoulder but only manages to bring more tears streaming from his eyes when it causes his hand to shift. 

The worst part of him wishes it were Harrison coming to clean and bandage his wounds. 

He hates himself even more for it. 

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

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

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

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

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

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

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

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

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

[peachy-panic]

Involuntary – Haircut day

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Wow, it has been a *hot* minute for this kid. Thanks to Pinterest (pic at the end), this idea has been burning a hole in my brain for a few months now. Summary: Touch-starved boy gets quickly overwhelmed by having his haircut and is then even more overwhelmed by the comfort/caretaking (:

cw: Insitutionalized slavery, past noncon, touch starvation, touch sensitivity (arguably also rooted in trauma), dehumanization, mention of aversion therapy.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Baz asks again. “You don’t have to.” 

He looks in the mirror without really seeing his reflection. Half an hour ago when they first asked he wanted to but now he’s not so sure. His palms are sweating and his heart stutters anxiously in his chest. 

Marco comes up behind him and wraps an arm across his collarbone. “He already said he wanted to. Leave him alone.” The contact makes him feel even less certain, like he’s floating inside the shell of his body, anchored only by the touch. He can feel the other boy’s hips against his and his reflection turns pink but Marco is too busy fixing his hair to notice. 

“He can change his mind at any time—even if it’s halfway through,” Vinny says, ducking into his line of sight. “Right?”

“Of course he knows that,” Marco says, rocking him to one side so he has to step to catch himself. 

He bites his lip and nods. 

“Dio, let him speak for himself,” Gio snaps from his perch on the edge of the tub. Gio meets his gaze in the mirror and he wants to wilt under the intensity. “Are we doing this or not?” 

“Yes.” He tries to sound resolute, even though it sounds anything but when he has to swallow the reflexive sir at the end. 

Marco squeezes his shoulders and releases him. He tries not to think about how crowded the tiny bathroom is, holding the four of them. Five counting Baz, hanging back in the doorway, watching him like he can’t decide if he needs encouragement or saving. It makes him even more anxious because he doesn’t know either. 

As he shrugs off his shirt, his mind conjures the image of Padrone out of habit, watching him undress with his usual disinterest. Conditioned anticipation rushes over his skin and he half expects to see him standing there when he pulls the fabric over his head. Of course he doesn’t and the absence only tightens the knot of uncertainty in his chest. 

No one comments on the way his hands shake as he pushes down his pants, stepping out of them unsteadily to stand in his boxers. At least the clothes are his own and not borrowed. Even if it felt more than wrong to spend some of the tips they insisted he take since he isn’t on payroll. He’s been slowly returning the rest, one bill at a time, tucked alongside any other cash he finds in each of their rooms.

Just like the others, he climbs into the empty bathtub, sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest. 

“I can’t reach you there,” Gio sighs. 

He swallows the apology that rises to his lips and slides back an inch, glancing over his shoulder. 

“A bit more back.” 

He does as he’s told until his shoulder blades almost meet the other boy’s legs.  

Vinny passes him a mirror. He has to press his wrists against his knees to keep it from shaking. 

Gio meets his gaze in the reflection. “So?” 

He swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Uhm. Sh-shorter on the sides like…Marco’s.” Heat creeps up his neck. He hopes it doesn’t seem like he’s just copying him but he’s too chicken to look over and see how Marco’s interpreting it. “But, uhm, not as short on the top. More like-like…Baz.” Baz definitely won’t read into it. 

“Okay.” Gio draws out the last syllable. He can’t tell if it’s just his accent or if he thinks it’s a bad idea but Gio starts spritzing his hair with a little bottle. “Can I touch you?” 

His heart stutters in his chest. Gio holds his gaze in the round mirror, blue plastic rim chipped on one side. “Mhm.” When Gio still waits, he clears his throat and forces himself to speak. “Yes, it’s okay.” 

Gio nods in acknowledgment and he can’t help but feel it like a gesture of approval. It simultaneously eases some of his tension and sets his pulse beating faster in reckless, hopeful anticipation of more. 

“Stay like this—” Gio’s fingers find his chin and the crown of his head, positioning him at a better angle.

It reminds him of the Handlers, poking and prodding for the perfect posture. Touches that turned groping and grabbing when it wasn’t about standing up straight anymore. He blinks hard to force himself back to the present. 

“So, it’s here?” Gio lifts a lock of hair from the top of his head and closes his fingers around it like scissors to demonstrate the length. 

“Yeah.” 

Gio nods again and starts, combing his hair into his fingers and snipping it away. The gentle tension and not-quite touch makes him feel warm all over. He doesn’t know when it will turn from nice to too much and the thought of getting overwhelmed halfway through something so simple makes him all the more anxious. 

He can’t remember the last time he had a haircut. Padrone didn’t seem to care about his hair, let alone anything else. Once, a barber came to the house and asked him what he wanted. He panicked, thinking it was a test, and told the man to do whatever he thought was best. The style wasn’t what he’d choose but it certainly wasn’t worse than having his head shaved at intake. Another time, he wandered into town and requested just that. Paying with a twenty euro bill one of the henchmen had flicked at him after a particularly throttling blowjob. Maybe he did it to see if it reminded Padrone of when he first arrived or maybe it was just so no one could grab him by a fistful of hair. 

He’d been so nervous when Padrone finally returned a week later that he had vomited at the sight of his car pulling into the driveway. But of course Padrone didn’t comment. Only asked him for a drink that he wound up sipping once and casting aside, quickly distracted by a rousing game of cards among his ranks. He left the next morning with a half wave tossed to where he’d been standing by the bar all night waiting for a dismissal or a command. Padrone never cared what he did. No matter how painstakingly obedient or brazenly rebellious. 

Just like Padrone doesn’t care that he’s across the continent, all but free as far as he knows, and in need of a haircut for how long he’s been here. 

Tears well in his eyes and he quickly blinks them away, hoping no one noticed. The boys are being uncharacteristically quiet but he tells himself it’s just because they’re all on their phones. He keeps his gaze fixed on the chip in the mirror frame and wonders how it took the damage without the glass breaking. 

Gio sets the scissors down. “We can now check it.”

He nods and straightens the mirror so it’s centered on his reflection. Gio combs through his hair with his hands, parting it one way and then the other. When his fingertips graze over his scalp, he shudders and drops the mirror, goosebumps racing up his sides. 

“Sorry—I’m sorry.” He fumbles to pick it up with his shaking hands and winds up dropping it all over again. The clatter makes him jump. “Sorry, s—”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Gio says at the same time Vinny says, “You’re good.” 

“Sorry.” It slips out before he can catch himself. He avoids Gio’s gaze in the trembling reflection, face heating. 

“Now we do the sides?”

“Okay.”

Gio threads his fingers into his hair, fingertips sweeping over his temples. It feels even more sensitive than the top of his head. He wants to whimper and curl up small but ask for more. 

“I will start with a longer guide and then work shorter.” 

He nods. 

Gio’s finger grazes the top of his ear as he pulls his hands away. His heart stutters in his chest and he grips the mirror tightly, knuckles turning white.

“Breathe,” Gio says softly behind him. 

He releases the breath he was holding and with it a few tears he didn’t know were there. He rushes to swipe them away with the back of his hand. “Sorry—” He shakes his head. “I mean, uhm—” More tears fall and his voice starts to waver. 

“It’s okay,” Vinny says, crouching beside him and putting a hand on his bare shoulder. The contact pulls his focus. He wants to lean into it, he wants to shy away. 

“Do you want to have a break?” Baz hovers behind Vinny, expression full of concern. 

He shakes his head quickly, trying to wipe away the traitorous tears that keep falling. “I—uhm—I’m—”

“A glass of water?” Vinny offers. 

All he can think about is Vinny’s hand rubbing circles on his shoulder. 

Marco slides into the other end of the bathtub and wraps his hand around his bent leg. “You got this, right?”

The second point of contact brings its own pressure and warmth and pull. Two competing ripples, radiating over the surface of his skin, his nerves. Reverberating back at each other until he can hardly tell where the point of origin is, only that he’s consumed. 

He shakes his head, doesn’t know what to say since they don’t want him to apologize and isn’t sure he could speak coherently anyway. There’s no room to curl up smaller or pull away. He must have dropped the mirror again so he covers his face with both hands. 

“He doesn’t look alright…” 

“He just needs a minute.” Marco pats his bare thigh. 

Somehow Vinny finds space to rub his back. He can’t breathe. “You’re good, don’t worry. Take all the time you need. You’re—” 

“Cazzo,” Gio snaps, making him flinch. “Go. Get away.” 

“What?” 

“Gio—” 

“Forza!” Gio shouts over them. “Basta così. Tutti fuori!” 

He can’t tune it out when he’s already so overwhelmed. His nerves might as well be on the outside of his skin. 

“Ma lui è…”

“Ho detto ‘fuori’."

He claps his hands over his ears and buries his head between his knees but it gets right in, burrowing into the spot behind his eyes. His stomach churns.

“E chiudi quella fottuta porta!” 

After a few seconds of only hearing his own pulse shuddering in his ears, he lifts his head. The others are gone, it’s just him and Gio. He tries to focus on calming his ragged breathing. 

Gio climbs out from behind him, brushing off his shorts. 

His chest tightens. “Don’t go,” he blurts. Heat rushes to his face when he hears how desperate he sounds, breathless and pleading. 

“I stay but over here,” Gio says, sitting on the lid of the toilet across from him. 

He nods, swallowing around the lump that rises in his throat. 

Gio lets out a long exhale and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, looking down to study his hands. Giving him a third thing he couldn’t have asked for. 

He shifts so his back rests against the end of the tub, pulling his legs to his chest. 

It doesn’t take long for his pulse to settle. For his nerves to knit themselves back together and slip below the surface where they belong. He lets his eyes trace the grout between the tiles, the tub surrounding him like a shield of porcelain. He spent more than a few nights in the bathtub in Padrone’s house, hiding from the men or just the emptiness of the house. 

Gio saves him from falling too far down the rabbit hole by clearing his throat. “I am sorry for yelling. It wasn’t at you.”

He shakes his head quickly. “It’s okay. Thank you for…” He tilts his head toward the door. 

Gio nods, stretching his arms out and rolling his shoulders. The edge of a tattoo on his back is briefly visible before he straightens. 

“It wasn’t the yelling,” he hears himself explaining. “It’s the Italian.” 

Gio tits his head, expression sharpening to one that almost makes him want to stop talking altogether. 

“They-they did aversion therapy so I couldn’t ever learn it. So I’d never understand… uhm… uhm—” His throat tightens and he can’t bring himself to say his name out loud. 

“Padrone,” Gio finishes for him. 

He nods, wondering if he’ll tell the others. They knew from day one that he didn’t speak any Italian but he’d hate for them to avoid their mother tongue just for him. 

“It only makes my head hurt if I try to listen or can’t tune it out,” he clarifies, face heating from sharing so much but Gio only nods thoughtfully. 

They sit in silence for another beat. 

“So, what do you think? I can finish it before work tomorrow. If you prefer it.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m okay. We can do it now.” His eyes drift to the door. 

“I keep them out,” Gio says, coming to sit behind him again. “Only us.” 

He slides forward to make space. “They mean well,” he defends, feeling guilty.  

“Yes, but they are idiots.” Gio passes him the mirror again and he’s relieved to see lightness in his expression. “Ready?” 

The mirror is much steadier in his hands. “Yeah.”

 He almost asks Gio how he understands so well but thinks better of it. This is more than Gio’s spoken to him in his entire time here combined. 

Gio is noticeably more careful in his movements as he navigates the sides of his head with the clippers. He also asks before he gently folds the top of his ear out of the way to follow the arc of his hairline. 

The clippers stop and Gio checks his work, adjusting the cord so he can reach the other side of his head. He pauses before he turns it back on. 

“You were alone a lot.” 

A statement, not a question. He couldn’t reply even if he wanted to or knew what to say. Being seen so clearly, as if he were transparent, fills him with a hollow ache. 

He risks a glance in the mirror but Gio just starts on the other side of his head, focused on his task. He watches the movement of Gio’s eyes, showing flecks of green when they catch the light. There’s a scar on the underside of his chin, running back to one corner of his jaw. 

He suppresses a jump when Gio meets his eyes in the mirror. 

“Now the back of your neck.” 

He nods. 

“Look down,” Gio says when he doesn’t move.  

“Oh.” He does as he’s told, glad he can hide his reddening face. 

Gio makes quick work of the back of his neck, only pausing once to check on him when goosebumps race down his back from a particular brush of the clippers. 

“Done. What do you think?” 

He lifts his head. “It’s good, thank you.” He meets Gio’s gaze in the mirror. “Sorry about it taking so long on your day off.” 

“It will get easier.” 

He breaks away out of habit, used to deference. When he lifts his eyes a heartbeat later, Gio’s still there. Gio holds his gaze for one moment longer before starting to collect all the guides back into their case. 

As they head back downstairs, he tries to brace himself for an onslaught of attention. It takes considerable focus to lock his feet in place as Marco and Vinny take turns rustling his new hair. His heart thuds heavily in his chest and he lifts a hand to his cheek to try to hide some of his blushing. 

Gio watches from the doorway, the corner of his mouth lifting. 

He laughs nervously when Baz jokes that he’ll get the highest tips now. Vinny asks about dinner. Marco says they should go out so he can show off his haircut. 

When he looks back again, Gio is gone. 

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Pinterest link won't load the photo but here's the specific inspiration (which has a watermark anyway):

@painsandconfusion @dont-touch-my-soup @maracujatangerine @deluxewhump

[peachy-panic]

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? LOOK AT THESE GUYS. THEY'RE SMILING! THEY'RE HAPPY! THEY'RE IN LOVE!

The incredible, legendary Léa Charbonnier (c_leadraw) has brought Liam & Jonah to life in the most perfect way.

I'm so excited to share this scene (and others) with you in Liam & Jonah's sequel novella Aug 1 <3

[peachy-panic]

🤝 for Leo!

this is a response to this ask thing

tw: aftermath of assault, aftermath of sexual assault, medication mention, hospitalization mention.

notes: approximately 4 years in, following scenes that do not yet exist, so let's call it a prologue of sorts

✥  ✥  ✥ 

Leo’s eyes are filled with unshed tears, but his expression is, at this point, more exhausted than anything else. He sits on the closed toilet seat, the cup of water in his hand shaking as he brings it to his lips. Luke, minutes earlier, collapsed to his knees in front of him, and now watches his chest rise and fall with every breath. He can’t be sick, because Leo is sitting on the toilet, but, god, he needs to be.

After a mostly failed attempt to drink, Leo sets the cup on the counter and lets his hands fall onto his thighs. Everything moves in slow motion; the car ride home, the hospital, the phone call before that. Nothing feels right. Until Luke covers Leo’s hands with his.

“I thought I lost you.”

The words tumble out of him, and Leo, expression tight, nods once, swallowing. His eyes close as he fights to keep control of himself. He nods again, as Luke lifts himself, pressing his lips to Leo’s forehead.

“I can smell him,” Leo whispers, shaking. “His c–” Luke can feel Leo’s hands clutching at the back of his shirt. Can feel every tremor that runs through him. “His cologne,” Leo says. “His…” He starts shaking in earnest. “His s-s-sweat,” he continues.

Luke nods. 

The drugs will wear off in a few hours, the nurse had said, as Luke signed his name over and over and over again. He may be disoriented, nauseous. He’ll be exhausted for the next few days at least. Make sure he rests. 

“Did they say if I’m a-allowed to sh-shower?” Leo asks, as Luke pulls back enough to see his face. 

Luke nods, his words catching in his throat. Letting Leo out of his sight right now, for even the time it would take for him to run the water, is unfathomable. 

He takes a breath. “We just need to be careful,” he says softly. As Leo breaks contact to pull off the oversized t-shirt, Luke urges, “Your shoulder–”

He was found tied to a pipe in one of the vacant buildings downtown. We estimate he’d been there for two or three days, but he doesn’t have a good grasp on how long it was. We’ll know more once we review the security footage.

The image that the officer showed him is burned into Luke’s memory. It will live there for as long as Luke lives, a suspended moment in time that he will never be able to undo.

At the same time, Leo winces, his opposite hand clutching the damaged muscle in his shoulder.

Luke is quite sure that he’s seconds away from the edge, and grabs the cup to distract himself. If he falls apart here, Leo will be on his own. He takes a breath and gulps down Leo’s water, then refills it from the sink. 

“Just take it slow, okay?” he says, each word as casual as he can make them, his tone at odds with the war inside of him. He offers Leo some approximation of a smile and helps pull the sleeves out so that Leo can slide his arms through them. He lifts Leo’s shirt gently over his head, careful of his back, where the injuries lie deep below his skin, his shoulder, the joint pulverized by the position that he was kept, his neck, covered in finger-shaped bruises. He tries not to look too closely, but instead, focuses on Leo’s eyes. I thought I lost you, he thinks, over and over.

“Can you stand?” Luke asks, drowning out the noise inside his head as much as he can. Leo tries. He clutches Luke’s outstretched hand weakly while the other works to loosen, and eventually lower, his pants. There’s blood on them, too, and a wave of rage rolls through Luke, as violent as the moment the police had called him.

“You can’t soak,” Luke says gently, as he helps Leo lower himself into the tub. He runs the warm water over Leo’s hair, careful of the injuries that lie there, too. “But we will get him off of you.”

Leo nods. He’s the saddest version of Leo that Luke can remember seeing, even with the medicine tempering his reactions. “Okay,” Leo whispers, and lets his eyes close. 

Luke works in silence, starting first with Leo’s hair. They tried to clean him up at the hospital, but didn’t get far. Luke works his fingers through the slightly outgrown waves, gentle in his movements, and so completely, relentlessly aware of the faint tremors that steadily roll through Leo. 

With Leo’s back, Luke lightens his touch, just ghosting over the skin there with water and soap. At the first contact, Leo’s muscles tighten, his body jerking for a split second as he wraps his arms tighter around his knees. Luke watches all of this helplessly. He whispers a reminder for Leo to let him know if it hurts, but he knows Leo won’t. 

He cleans Leo everywhere he can reach, everywhere Leo will allow him to clean him, as Leo adjusts his positioning to give him access to his body. Luke aims for a sort of clinical detachment as he rinses days of filth off of him, but he fails miserably. Every flinch ignites a fire inside of him. Every whimper, every tear that eventually rolls down Leo’s cheeks. With the most gentle touch Luke is capable of, he cleans the final remnants of crusted blood, the sweat, and everything else from his boy, and the fire inside of him builds and builds and builds and builds.

When it’s done, or as done as it can be for the time being, Leo is half-lifted out of the tub, wrapped in a towel, and practically carried back to his bedroom. He takes the medicine that Luke hands him without a word. Then, in a broken, devastating moment, Leo whispers, “Did they catch him?”

Luke pulls the blanket up to his shoulders and sits on the edge of the bed. “Not yet,” he replies. But they will. It’s only a matter of time. Leo nods, his eyes red and fighting to stay open, fighting against the drugs that will soon pull him under. He rolls to his side, and, as Luke runs his hands through his drying hair, he finally lets his eyes slide shut. Exhaustion runs through every line of his body, but as the minutes pass, as his breathing evens out, as the tremors recede, the tension begins to loosen in Leo’s body.

Luke turns off the light and eases himself down next to Leo. “I’ve got you,” Luke whispers, and wraps his arms around Leo, the same as he’s done every single night, with the exception of the last three, for the past year. “I’ve got you,” he says again, as he closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t sleep that night, and instead, can think only of Leo, and his world fractured once more by Parker Destin.

FIGHTER TAG LIST: 

@whump-cravings @afabulousmrtake  @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing @thecyrulik @highwaywhump  @batfacedliar-yetagain @finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup @skyhawkwolf @suspicious-whumping-egg @also-finder-of-rings @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic @melancholy-in-the-morning @urban-dark  @nicolepascaline

@pigeonwhumps @whump-blog @seasaltandcopper @angstyaches  @i-msonotcreative 

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @anonintrovert @whump-world @squishablesunbeam @considerablecolors 

@whumpcereal @whumperfully @light-me-on-pyre @whumpsday @whumplr-reader 

@lonesome--hunter @darkthingshappen @alexmundaythrufriday @whumps-and-bumps @handsinmotion 

@hellodecisionparalysis @whatiswhump @technicallydeliciousdeer

[peachy-panic]

Loved the last drabble. Can we have one where River thinks he’s going to be punished for it?

follows this thing

tw: institutionalized slavery, light med whump

✥ ✥ ✥

Lincoln’s taps his knuckles softly against the door twice, under allusion that it will earn him a response; he hasn’t quite pinpointed how to navigate his least approachable resident. It doesn’t, it cannot, stop him from trying, he tells himself on repeat. 

“Hi River,” he says as he pushes the door open. River stands in the corner near the sink, the death-grip that threatens to leave indentations in the counter the only indication that he’s heard Lincoln approach.

Lincoln keeps his distance. Tension runs the length of River’s body, everything from his posture to his expression, only visible in his reflection, a clear-as-day warning that it’s not the time to work on his interpersonal skills.

Lincoln holds out an ice pack; a peace offering. “Listen,” he says, taking a tentative step forward to set the ice pack on the counter. The way River’s body coils is not lost on him, but he lets it go without comment. “I know you’re not in a good place right now,” he continues, retreating. And then, “I talked to James.” A beat passes before Lincoln says, “His nose is broken.”

River swallows and picks up the ice pack, regarding it carefully. Lincoln isn’t positive, but he thinks, maybe, that River’s fingers shake as he presses the ice to his hand. It’s uncharacteristic, and Lincoln writes it off to adrenaline. 

He’s about to speak again, but before he has worked out what he wants to say, River breaks the silence.

“Whatever you’re going to do to me,” he says quietly, meeting Lincoln’s eyes in the mirror. He doesn’t look away, and neither does Lincoln. They study each other for, what feels like, a small eternity. He knows that River is desperate to figure him out, and he is just as desperate to understand River. He’s scared, Lincoln thinks. He’s scared, and he’s angry, and he’s alone. And so far, Lincoln has been successful at alleviating none of those things. River is the first to break eye contact. His jaw locks for a moment as he sets the ice pack to the side and turns around. “Just do it. I won’t fight you.”

[peachy-panic]

WHY DID IT END? KEEP IT GOING

💳 💥 💳 💥 💳 💥

Loved the last drabble. Can we have one where River thinks he’s going to be punished for it?

follows this thing

tw: institutionalized slavery, light med whump

✥ ✥ ✥

Lincoln’s taps his knuckles softly against the door twice, under allusion that it will earn him a response; he hasn’t quite pinpointed how to navigate his least approachable resident. It doesn’t, it cannot, stop him from trying, he tells himself on repeat. 

“Hi River,” he says as he pushes the door open. River stands in the corner near the sink, the death-grip that threatens to leave indentations in the counter the only indication that he’s heard Lincoln approach.

Lincoln keeps his distance. Tension runs the length of River’s body, everything from his posture to his expression, only visible in his reflection, a clear-as-day warning that it’s not the time to work on his interpersonal skills.

Lincoln holds out an ice pack; a peace offering. “Listen,” he says, taking a tentative step forward to set the ice pack on the counter. The way River’s body coils is not lost on him, but he lets it go without comment. “I know you’re not in a good place right now,” he continues, retreating. And then, “I talked to James.” A beat passes before Lincoln says, “His nose is broken.”

River swallows and picks up the ice pack, regarding it carefully. Lincoln isn’t positive, but he thinks, maybe, that River’s fingers shake as he presses the ice to his hand. It’s uncharacteristic, and Lincoln writes it off to adrenaline. 

He’s about to speak again, but before he has worked out what he wants to say, River breaks the silence.

“Whatever you’re going to do to me,” he says quietly, meeting Lincoln’s eyes in the mirror. He doesn’t look away, and neither does Lincoln. They study each other for, what feels like, a small eternity. He knows that River is desperate to figure him out, and he is just as desperate to understand River. He’s scared, Lincoln thinks. He’s scared, and he’s angry, and he’s alone. And so far, Lincoln has been successful at alleviating none of those things. River is the first to break eye contact. His jaw locks for a moment as he sets the ice pack to the side and turns around. “Just do it. I won’t fight you.”

[peachy-panic]

For my boys Derek & Jack:

What were their first impressions of each other? How does that compare to their impressions of each other now?

Is one of them keeping secrets from the other? Why? How would they react if the secret was revealed?

from this ask game

What were you first impressions of him? How does that compare to your impressions of him now?

"I was obsessed with him," Jack said, a weak smile ghosting across his features. "We met senior year of high school– Derek and his brother had moved to town over the summer to live with his dad and step-mom, and it was a huge deal because he was he this moody, reserved, but super hot and super talented athlete who was going to save our basketball team in the fall. I met him at a party a few weeks before school started, and when I tell you it was love at first sight..." Jack trailed off, his smile growing both in size and enthusiasm. "For me, at least, I knew I had to have him. It took a little while for him to warm up to me, but it took him a while to warm up to anyone. I loved him, though. Instantly. I don't think anything has changed in that regard. Seeing him in Turkey that day... the feelings I had for him had never left me, but it was this moment of–" Jack shook his head. "I don't know, just... relief. That no matter what happened from that point forward, he was real. And he was there. And I was still obsessed with him."

Are one of you keeping secrets from the other? Why? How would you react if the secret was revealed?

"There are so many things that we don't know about each other now. We lost seven years. I wouldn't say I'm keeping things a secret, um... Well, there are things I haven't told him yet, so I guess... He doesn't know about the alcohol, or the men, or... I guess he doesn't know a lot of the darker stuff. And I don't think I've even scratched the surface of what he's been through. But I hope, one day, he feels comfortable enough to tell me. And that I can keep it cool, and be supportive, and not freak him out by... having a nervous breakdown on the floor when I'm supposed to be supporting him."

[peachy-panic]

“I can have that?”

from this ask game

tw: instituionalized slavery, light med whump

✥ ✥ ✥

“I can have that?” The boy swallows as his fingers wrap tightly around the fabric of the hospital gown, arms protectively wrapped around his middle. The bags under his eyes have deepened since the nurse last saw him, his lips are pale and cracked, his eyes are slower to focus.

She smiles, encouraging, and nods as she opens the bottle of aspirin. “It’s your lucky day, I suppose,” she says. She winces as she says it; it’s untrue, and cruel to pretend like it’s anything but that. 

The boy, who the handlers call Felix, but whose identity has otherwise been sealed and relegated to a number on a file, offers some approximation of a smile himself, but the rest of his expression remains… reserved, she supposes.

“Why?” he asks softly. Something in her expression puts him on edge. The reality is, she doesn’t know why. She’s only been at this site for a few weeks, but in that time, she’s learned immediately that this type of work, not within the system itself, but existing somewhere adjacent to the on-paper regulations and wholly outside of the public’s view, is not for the faint of heart. Why this boy would be given access to aspirin is a question she doesn’t allow herself to ponder. A few hours earlier, when one of the handlers pulled her aside and provided the directive, she only questioned if it was in his job description to make calls of that nature. 

She opens the bottle, she puts three pills into a little paper cup and holds it out. 

“I don’t know,” she responds. “Maybe you’ve made a friend out of the right handler?” He doesn’t take the cup. Instead, he shakes his head, backing away from her. Something in his expression shifts.

“I don’t want it,” he whispers. His fingers, still wrapped tightly into the fabric, shake. “T-tell the handler I don’t want it.” He curls up tighter and closes his eyes. “Please,” he says again. “Please tell him I don’t want it.”

[peachy-panic]

IT'S HERE! The cover & blurb for Liam & Jonah's sequel novella, Doors & Windows <3

In a new city, free from the circumstances that tried to keep them apart, Liam Cassidy and Jonah Prince finally have a chance to kindle the love that has blossomed between them—this time on even footing.

Liam has always dreamed of a bigger, brighter life. Now he has everything he needs to build one: new friends, a college in his dream city, and Jonah Prince only a subway ride away.

Out of the grasp of the people who hurt him, Jonah has been given a second chance at life—and love. He only wants to prove himself worthy of it. But scars don’t fade overnight, and some baggage can’t be dropped at the door.

Set between the final chapter & the epilogue of A Series of Rooms, this is the story of Liam & Jonah taking their first unsteady steps into a relationship they can call by name.

(art by @ouijacine)