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i-didnt-do-1t · 1 month ago

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Day 8 of @ailesswhumptober

rope burns/ gags- "You look so much prettier this way."

cw. child abuse, violence, allusions to self harm, blood.

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Snyder's office was gorgeous, dark green walls and a large, heavy, mahogany desk sat in front of the window at the end room that overlooked the court yard. It was almost cosy, lit dimly with yellow lamps, and a thick red woven rug covering most of the floor; the walls were lined with pictures too, various art pieces interspersed with portraits of the men that used to run the Refuge. Alex Snyder's father, Nigel, and his father before him.

It was a family name he took pride in, even if he hated the men themselves, so old and so behind and so awful at understanding how boys today worked, the firm hand you had to direct them with.

Snyder never considered himself a cruel man; he was young and smart, a businessman. That's what his father never understood when he ran this institution. Snyder knew that to keep the Refuge in business, and to make sure the boys listened, you had to be willing to do what it took. He knew that to turn out a genuine, real, rehabilitated young man, sometimes it took violence. It was hardly like Snyder shifted the world to be this way, he just understood how it worked. The world spun, and masters hit their charges and the government sent money his way for every upstanding young citizen he sent back out into society.

Snyder had a firm hand, but he never considered himself unfair. There were just some boys who refused to behave, who just refused to listen, Who had several notches next to their name and Snyder couldn't allow it, couldn't allow this behaviour and the ruin it would bring to his reputation if he wasn’t able to discipline them while they were in his care at the very least.

Kelly was one, a deliberate and consistent problem child who Snyder was sure existed to make his life and his job difficult. So strong in spirit and backbone that Snyder had yet to completely break down but he was sure he was slowly getting there in some capacity if the lack of yelling from down in solitary had anything to say about it.

The other problem developed with the Delanceys. When he had taken up the post he had assumed that given how long they'd been here they'd be able to understand how to take an order, but it was a nigh impossible task to tell them anything.

It had only been this past Monday that the Older Delancey and Jack Kelly had made his blood boil, with an unfamiliar fury; and Snyder would never consider himself an angry man by nature.

It had been an insepction they knew was approaching for weeks, that he had sharply told the boys about the night before, cane resting on the wooden dorm room floor as he instructed them to be on their best behaviour as he showed the inspector around.

But as they'd walked into the dorm the Delancey boy was hunched over with Kelly on the ground and a hand viciously wrapped around his throat, nose dripping blood onto the boy writhing viciously beneath him. It wasn't the first time Snyder had seen a fight between the two of them. But it was the first time he'd lost marks in an inspection, had watched the man frown and lean his head down to write something in his notebook that Snyder couldn't quite read from over his shoulder. The anger was all consuming, he almost felt calm with it, relaxed into this state of fury.

He'd pulled the boys apart of course, had hissed in their ears that they would regret this and had been somewhat satisfied with the sheen of fear in both their eyes at the promise of punishment.

Kelly had been dealt with now, dragged into his office in the early hours of the morning and sent away close to, Snyder checked his watch, an hour ago now. Snyder had sat back at his desk, ignored the splatters of blood on his floor and eaten his lunch, a glass of red on the side. Dry and not his favourite but it's what his father had kept in the cool basement.

He had asked for the Delancey boys to be brought in just after two, Oscar had been the only one fighting, but his brother frequently followed in his footsteps. Snyder had been watching them, the last few months since he had taken over, and he had come to a conclusion he finally had time to test.

As of yet, he hadn't been able to force an apology out of Oscar, despite the beatings and the days in solitary and all the things that usually got Jack to spit the words at least. But two thirds of the fights Oscar got in, the food he stole from the pantry, almost all of it was on behalf of his younger brother. If Oscar could hold his tongue at his own beatings, he wondered if it would be the same if his younger brother was the one under the belt.

The door clicked open and Snyder didn't bother to stand from his chair as the two boys were shoved in. Oscar looked old, like a man, if maybe a little underweight. He was 17 now Snyder knew, and he'd be aging out of the Refuge next year. Snyder wasn't about to let a dangerous miscreant out of his institution without at least teaching him a few lessons first.

They looked nervous, despite the similar glares they sent his way. It was almost sweet how their expressions matched given how different they looked, Morris was gaunt and dainty, with a sharp nose and sharp jaw; Oscar was a little firmer in features, a strong nose and strong cheekbones, deep-set eyes that were blue to Morris's brown.

If he didnt know they were siblings Snyder didn't think he would ever guess it.

He waited for one of them to break the silence, settling into the uncomfortable quiet draped across the room like a blanket.

It was Oscar who spoke eventually, and Snyder's lip twitched. He knew it would be.

"Why the hell is Mo here? He ain't done nothing."

"I was hoping you would ask Oscar, I'm sure Morris here is curious himself, aren't you."

Morris glanced at Oscar, hesitantly, and then at Snyder, like he was checking for permission to speak.

"Yessir."

He knew at the very least their father had had them well trained.

"I'll be happy to explain as soon as I get a few things sorted." He took note of the way Oscar swallowed, and pulled open the heavy drawer of his desk, winding the length of rope casually around his wrist as he lifted it out and stood up, finally. "Oscar come here won't you, turn around."

Oscar's line of sight was fixed on the swath of thick rope. He didn't move, and Snyder felt that same anger he felt on Monday curl in his gut, like it had never faded in the first place.

"What's that-"

The backhand was swift and the crack reverberated around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the the way Morris flinched and the satisfaction at it fanned some of the flames back.

"I didn't tell you to ask ask questions, I told you to come here, and turn around."

Oscar's cheek was already blooming a splotchy red, and he glared, but he listened, took that final step closer to him and turned around.

He only resisted for a moment when Syder grabbed him none too gently by the wrist and twisted one arm behind his back, and then the other, securing his wrists together and ignoring the groan of pain through gritted teeth that Oscar breathed. He tied it just tight enough to be uncomfortable for his shoulders. Just tight enough that he couldn't writhe out.

Snyder shoved him forward and the boy stumbled over the deep red carpet that decorated the floor, the orante, woven designs working to hide so much of the brutality he was unfortunately forced to enact in here. He almost sighed.

"Stand in the corner, and turn to face me. Morris, heel."

"Mr Snyder-"

It was Oscar's voice from the other side of the room. Scared and trying so desperately not to be.

"He aint even done nothin'- fuckin'- tried to stop me from goin' at Kelly-"

"Stop talking, or you'll only make it worse for your brother."

"Mr Snyder-"

"And that's three extra strikes."

"Shut up, Os."

It was a hiss from Morris, now stood in front of him, and that was all the reminding Snyder needed before he grabbed a clean handkerchief from the bottom of the same drawer, neatly folded next to a quater drank bottle of whiskey.

"Open your mouth,” he directed, voice cold, and Morris listened.

It was a simple task to loop the fabric around the lower half of the boy's head and tie a firm knot at the back. It wasn't a perfect gag by any means, but it would work enough to keep any questions off his back, would prevent the screaming from getting too loud.

And instead of sending him away like he did Oscar, he spun Morris to face him. A hand on his jaw, holding him.

He could feel Oscar's eyes on them, from the corner of the room.

"You know why you're here, don't you?”

Snyder revelled in the fact there was no answer, just Oscar's terrified silence and Morris's terrfied gaze staring up at him, eyes wet with fear already.

"I got the report back from the inspection on Monday," he continued, and the pocket knife he reached for in the inside the breast pocket of his blazer was heavy and expensive. He pulled it out in one slow movement. "And it would've been the best score this institution had achieved if it weren't for one, discerning factor."

Their breathing matched too, Snyder realised with vague amusement, not just their glares; their panicked inhales, admittedly harder on Morris's part, were the same.

"Snyder-"

He flicked up the sharp end of the knife.

“Infighting in my Refuge. I have a reputation, you understand Oscar, and I can hardly have people believe that I don't have my wards under control. But you just refuse to listen."

He grabbed Morris's arm, grip far too tight.

"I like this think that maybe this will make you understand the consequences of ignoring me."

"What the fuck- Snyder he ain't do nothin'-"

The first slash was deep, Snyder had to admit, deeper than he intended, and it cut through several of the healed smaller scars that Morris had built a collection of over the years.

"Snyder-"

Oscar's voice was coated in panic and Morris's gasp of pain was nearly completely silenced by the gag as he tried to yank his arm away.

Snyder dug his fingers into his wrist so tight his nails nearly drew blood and added another.

It was hardly neat work, he'd blame that on the anger that consumed him every time he glanced at the report sat open on his desk-

"Oscar if you take one step closer I'll cut his tongue out do you understand me."

It wasn't an empty threat. And Morris barely spoke anyway. It would hardly be a loss. He was sure he could persuade Oscar to thank him for it if he tried hard enough, that he blessed him with not having to listen to his little brother's rambles about home and ma anymore.

Oscar froze where he got halfway across the room. Arms still wrenched painfully behind his back, skin already going red with rope burn from his struggle in them. Eyes pink and jaw hard and utter hatred coursing through him.

"You're sick." It was spat, but he didn't step any closer, and Snyder found himself glancing back to Morris's arm, something like satisfaction curling in his stomach, and then to the thick carpet again under Morris's feet. Blood was streaming in rivulets from his wrist, still enclosed in Snyder's grasp so tight he knew it would leave bruises, cheeks wet with tears, both dripping onto the floor.

Snyder wasn't worried about the mess. The blood was already blending into the rug. He had always thought the deep red of it went with the dark green of the walls.

"Maybe. But don't you think the room is so much prettier this way?

#newsies #the delancey brothers #morris delancey #Oscar Delancey #Alex Snyder #young Snyder #ailesswhumptober2024

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noxexistant · 25 days ago

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ai-less whumptober; day eighteen

@ailesswhumptober 18 — mind control, possession, “Everybody will end up despising you.” ↳ the refuge, an alternate universe word count; 1.6k

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"You know," Snyder says conversationally. "Sometimes, I think you'd be well suited as my protégé."

It's early afternoon on a Sunday, and everybody else is in prayer. Oscar is supposed to be with them, but he'd been subtly redirected on the walk through the hallways, and sent to Snyder's office instead.

It's one of those days. The days where he's Snyder's friend for a few hours, as long as it must take to balm Snyder's loneliness. Oscar will sit with him, the luxurious leather-topped desk between them, and take an offered cigarette from Snyder's gold case. Sip at the glass of whiskey Snyder pours for him. And, for as long as he's wanted, he'll listen to Snyder talk. Provide answers, initially, only when it's clear they're wanted — but the amiable air and the whiskey in his system, always hitting harder with no food to be soothed by, always tend to make him loose-lipped.

"What's a—pro-duh-jay?" he asks, nose wrinkled, fancy word falling flat on his Southern drawl. Falls flat on the cigarette he's smoking too — he can never seem to make it look elegant and refined the way Snyder can.

Thankfully, Snyder only smiles, amused.

"A protégé," he says, "Is a pupil. One guarded and educated by a man with skill and influence in a specific field. Many politicians have protégés."

"Oh," Oscar says. Takes another drag of his cigarette. "…What would I be prodigyin' you in?"

"Protégé. Lord, you're as bad as your brother. And what do you think?"

Oscar meets Snyder's eye over the lip of the fancy carved glass as he takes a sip, and offers a shrug.

"Being a warden, Oscar."

"Oh." Oscar doesn't really process it for a second, still swallowing down the burn of whiskey. And then it sort of hits him. "What?"

"I was my father's protégé, you know." Snyder gestures to one of the portraits on the wall, and Oscar glances over to lock eyes with the grim, oil-painted face of Nigel Snyder, the man who had been warden when he and Morris first entered the Refuge. True to Snyder's word, he'd been a sort of assistant then, a tall, young-faced figure ever shadowing his father, always watching everything with sharp eyes. When Nigel Snyder had died, that same boy had stepped eagerly and instantly up to the plate, no time set aside to mourn for the father he'd lost.

Snyder always says he and Oscar are a lot alike. Oscar can't imagine caring much if his Da died either.

"So he was trainin' you? Ready to replace him."

Snyder smiles sharply, eyes dancing, as he takes a slow sip from his own glass.

"Well. I don't think replacement is quite what he had in mind. Not so soon, at least. It's a good thing I was such a quick learner, so prepared to take the reins when he passed." And then his eyes are on Oscar again, so sharp Oscar almost jolts. "But replacement certainly isn't what I have in mind for you." He takes another sip, thoughtful, and Oscar sees his lip quirk slightly against the fine rim of the glass, the way it does when he's amused himself.

"Are you familiar with the term sous chef, Oscar? If we're operating on a French theme today."

"Know a chef's a cook."

"Good. And a sous chef is an under-chef. Works under the head chef."

"Dunno if I wanna work under you."

Again, Snyder's smile only seems to grow. He sets down his glass and cigarette and stand leisurely, rounds the desk to Oscar's chair.

"Come."

Oscar hesitates for a moment, but goes, leaves his own cigarette and glass on the desktop too as Snyder guides him by a firm — too firm — hand on his shoulder.

"There will never," Snyder says, "Be a world in which you are not working under someone, Oscar. You are gutter trash. And in the world as it is, as you are, you would leave this institution and work under trash a mere rung of the ladder above yourself. Both of you in the dirt you were born in, unable to climb higher."

Oscar is steered to a sharp stop, and finds himself staring at himself in the tall mirror againt Snyder's office wall, Snyder himself stood behind him. Still a few good inches taller, but Oscar's been catching up — though, stood as they are, he can see every inch of disparity between their figures. The way Oscar's torn, stolen clothes hang from him, how he is emaciated and filthy in a way even his broadening shoulders can't remedy.

Snyder's shoulders are wider. Cut broad and sharp in his perfectly tailored suit, fine dark silk like Oscar has never so much as felt.

"Do you like my suit, Oscar? You're staring."

Oscar swallows. Nods.

"You always have had a good eye. Good tastes too — you even like my whiskey."

Oscar does.

"Someday, Oscar, how would you like to wear a suit like mine?"

Oscar stares at himself in the mirror, and, steadily, he can picture it. Snyder helps, reaching around him to pull his collar straight — pulls a comb, shining tortoise shell, from the inner pocket of his jacket, and carefully combs through Oscar's curls the way nobody has since his Mammy getting him ready for church.

It's a Sunday again. If he strains, he thinks he can hear the prayer services downstairs, all the boys in chorus. In his reflection, above him, he sees the dark wooden crucifix affixed to Snyder's wall.

"Oscar," Snyder prompts. "Look at yourself."

For a moment, it's his father staring back. And then Oscar blinks, and realises it's him.

He's taller and older suddenly, and clean and dressed. His face is mature and sharp, shaven but subtly stubbled. Hair combed back, curls smoothed. The suit he's wearing is all black, tailored like Snyder's are — all sharp lines and fine details, made for him — and moves with him as he shifts, gaze locked into the mirror in dazed disbelief. The handkerchief in his breast pocket is a pale, stormy blue, but as he focuses on it, trying to identify the colour as something familiar, it seems to change before his very eyes. It soaks on a deep redness from within itself like it's bleeding. Or something else is bleeding, and it's mopping it up without hands to move it.

He draws it sharply from the pocket, desperate to see, and the blood smears against his skin — it's soaking wet with it, the handkerchief heavy with it, slick enough it slips from his fingers. His gaze follows it as it falls, and for a moment as he glances down he sees his own feet, dirty and bruised and bare — but then a hand, his hand, is stretching out to pick it back up, and he meets his own eyes in the mirror again.

He looks different now. The black suit jacket has disappeared, and he's left in a collared waistcoat and a rumpled white shirt, tie — blood red — loosened around his neck. His sleeves are pushed up, and there's. Blood. More blood than had smeared from the soaked handkerchief, no, he's spattered with it, like after a fight. It's on his face too, tiny spots of it around a curl that had fallen in his face, as if from exertion. He's using the handkerchief to clean his hands, wiping his knuckles calmly.

For a single, dizzying second, Oscar is hit with a memory — a memory? — of caning a small boy. The exhileration of bringing the strip of rattan down against his back again and again, the rush of power each time the boy screams. The sprays of blood, warm against his skin. He can feel himself grinning. He can taste red wine on his tongue, he can taste rich meat and fish and sweet pastries, he can feel himself laying down in a plush bed of silk, he can feel his palms wrapping around a neck and squeezing, not letting go even when he tries, knows it's too far, he doesn't want to kill them—

He jolts back, heart pounding in his chest, stomach churning, but only meets the hard line of Snyder's body stood behind him, keeping him immobile. He clenches his eyes shut instead, desperate not to see any more, not until he can ground himself.

Snyder only moves a hand to grip him hard by the face.

"Don't you want this, Oscar?" he breathes, right against Oscar's ear, breath hot and sweet with whiskey. "I know you do. You're just a bit too much like me, aren't you? You can't resist the call of what you were made for. The violence and the finer things. You'd be so well-suited to it, you share my strengths, my beliefs in discipline, I could make you something great."

His hand grips impossibly tighter, and Oscar's eyes bulge open in an instinctive panic. He's helpless but to lock eyes with his reflection again, though finally the suit is gone. He sees only himself, skinny and filthy, dressed in clothes that have never been his.

"Everybody will end up despising you. But that'll happen regardless, won't it?" Snyder says. Squeezes Oscar's shoulder. "Better a snake than a rat."

Oscar doesn't know if it's real anymore. If his body is his again now.

But he sees himself nod.

#newsies #alex snyder #oscar delancey #ailesswhumptober2024 #my writing

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