#Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil.

[somepsychopomp]

contemplating a particularly evil AU where, after Odysseus escapes from Poseidon the first time, our favorite problematic god decides to set his sights upon Ithaca in order to get his revenge.

He doesn't raise the tides to drown all the inhabitants or cause earthquakes to break the island apart, no. Poseidon directly seeks out sweet little 10 y/old Telemachus...

and befriends him.

(Ody really shouldn't have doxxed himself with this one)

It starts with Poseidon disguising himself as a mortal man and infiltrating the palace, knowing that Odysseus was blown across the sea and is still struggling to get home. He claims to be a wise man taught in Athens, and is willing to offer his tutelage to Ithaca's prince. Though it irks him a bit to pose as a scholar from the city he lost to his niece, Poseidon convinces Penelope to let him take over the position of her son's tutor in all necessary subjects: reading, oratory, history (which will be easy, seeing as Poseidon lived through all of it himself), etc.

Telemachus is shy at first, but warms up to his new tutor quite quickly. [insert Poseidon's fake name] is not like the stuffy old men that Penelope first assigned to Telemachus' education. He's patient, doesn't reprimand the young prince when he falters, and rewards him for doing well with sweet treats and fantastical stories about faraway lands and monsters.

After earning the lad's trust, Poseidon approaches Penelope and says it's not right that such a bright boy like Telemachus isn't also taught in other aspects of manhood. He asks to take Telemachus out for his first hunt, to which she reluctantly agrees. (Penelope knows that her husband slew an adult boar when he was Telemachus' age so yeah)

Telemachus is both excited and nervous to be outside the palace without any guards or his mother. He asks how Poseidon knows to hunt and he laughs, saying that just because he's a scholar, doesn't mean he isn't also an athlete and a warrior.

Telemachus takes the bait, asking what competitions Poseidon won, who he beat, etc. He's regaled with entirely false tales of wrestling matches, chariot races, and spear throwing contests, as well as stories of successful hunts for bears and wolves.

It's truly the perfect opportunity to strike. The two of them are alone in the woods with no one else around, no one who would hear the prince scream as he was torn asunder. No one to find his bones...

"Do it," Poseidon says quickly, "Strike now."

At the behest of his teacher, Telemachus draws his bow and fires at the young deer upwind from them. The arrow hits the creature in the flank and it darts into the foliage. No time to praise the prince for his aim, Poseidon leads him uphill, showing the boy how to track injured prey. He's armed with a bow he never intended on using and a spear designed for hunting, as similar of a weapon to his trident as he can get.

Poseidon catches a glimpse of movement through the trees and throws his spear. It strikes the deer in the neck, felling it instantly. That night under the stars, the two of them feast on roasted venison over a roaring campfire. Poseidon insists that he couldn't have done it without his pupil, that Telemachus injuring the deer was what brought about its downfall.

Telemachus is beaming with joy, so excited to have gotten his first kill, when he suddenly turns withdrawn and shy. Poseidon asks what's wrong.

"It's just that... I always hoped I would go on my first hunt with my father..."

Poseidon pulls the boy against his side as Telemachus sniffles and tries to suppress his tears. Poseidon hushes him and says that while he can't speak for the king, he's certainly proud of his pupil!

"But do you think he'll be back soon?" Telemachus asks. Poseidon smiles and says only the gods would know. But for now, Telemachus should be proud of himself.

Penelope is pleased to find her son in one piece when he returns. He shows her the pelt from his first hunt and she assures him she's very impressed. What really matters to her is that Telemachus is safe and growing as a boy should- learning the useful skills he'll need as a man and a future king.

From then on, Poseidon has much more leeway with how he spends his time with the prince. They go to the beach so Telemachus learns how to swim, fish, and sail. He learns how to tame a horse and gain its trust, etc.

It's a nice way to pass the time, waiting.

Eventually, news turns up that every fleet from Troy arrived home, except for Odysseus'. No other king knows where he and his 600-person army vanished to. No one knows where he is, or when he'll return.

Penelope is saddened by this revelation, but knows her husband well and refuses to believe that Odysseus of Ithaca perished in something as simple as a rogue storm. Telemachus is heartbroken, though. He's just a boy and after having heard that nearby kingdoms received their men after ten long years, he got all his hopes up that he'd finally get to meet his father.

His mother tries to console him, to tell Telemachus not to give up hope. Odysseus is out there, somewhere. But her son is inconsolable until Poseidon gently asks Penelope if he can speak to him.

Poseidon tells Telemachus that sometimes things happen for a reason. Was this the will of some god, perhaps?

Telemachus doesn't know how to respond, but sniffles and asks if he did something wrong. If it's his fault his father isn't home. Poseidon hugs him tight and says it's not his fault at all! No, if anything, perhaps Odysseus' silver tongue got him in trouble, or that this delay in his' return is only a temporary misfortune. Perhaps it'll lead to greater things down the line. Telemachus doesn't really understand, but he begins to calm down after hearing both his mother & tutor tell him that things will be alright.

In the meantime, Telemachus wants to become someone that his father would be proud of. He asks Poseidon to train him even harder and help him grow into a great warrior.

Poseidon accepts and the two of them grow even closer.

Not long after, the first of the suitors arrive. They're the sons of local noblemen or other prominent families in Ithaca. For a while, the queen offers them hospitality without suspecting much, thinking that the gifts the men offer are condolences for her husband's late arrival. Then they start trying to woo her.

The suitors start harassing Telemachus, too. They see him as an obvious threat to the power they could steal for themselves. Odysseus was crowned the king at the age of 13 and the same could happen to Telemachus if Penelope declines to remarry. All of a sudden as more and more suitors invade his palace, Telemachus finds himself unwelcome in his own home. The suitors do not let him eat near them- they'll go as far as to snatch his food. They leer at him, call him small, and taunt him by saying he'll never be king.

Telemachus thinks there's nothing he can do to fight back, but then Poseidon steps in and tells the suitors to cease their unruly behavior. They gang up on Poseidon, who they perceive as an unimpressive middle aged man, before getting their asses handed to them by a middled aged man who knows how to wield a spear as though he was born for it.

Telemachus has never seen something so amazing before. His teacher defeated a dozen men alone! How is that even possible?

Poseidon doesn't answer him directly, only saying he's gotten into his own fair share of fights before. When news of the brawl reaches Penelope, she decides that Poseidon should be promoted to Telemachus' guardian until Odysseus returns, fulling both the role of tutor & protector. She won't have her only child be bullied and menaced by grown men, not in her halls.

It is at this point that Poseidon pulls out his greatest trick yet. And that is to tell the truth. For months now, he's been posing as a kindly old teacher. But in secret, he reveals himself to Telemachus as the god of the sea!

Poseidon claims he heard the boy pray for his father's return and came to him in disguise. (Poseidon didn't even know who Telemachus was until Ody pissed him off, but he was willing to bet that such a naive child would certainly pray for his absent daddy to return. And he was right.)

Poseidon warns that Odysseus is not who Telemachus thinks he is. He might have been a kind and gentle man before, but he turned into a merciless, vain monster who allowed over 500 of his men to perish because he was arrogant enough to think he could lead them through a terrible storm.

Telemachus can hardly believe it- he doesn't want to. He won't! His mother always told him that his father was the most clever man of all, trained by Athena herself.

"Ah," Poseidon says, his voice full of sympathy, "And what does Athena know of love? Of mercy? No, no, my poor boy. You've been misled. Your father is not the man you think he is, for he blinded my own son just so he could steal some livestock!"

Telemachus’ mind is racing. He doesn’t know what to think. Who is his father, really?

Trembling from head to toe in fear, he asks if Poseidon will punish him as vengeance for his own son.

And the earthshaker will smile at him, oh so softly.

“My poor child, why would I do that? You father has flung himself to the farthest reaches of the sea, but I am here for you. I’ve come to answer your prayers, to set things right between your house and mine.”

Poseidon cups Telemachus’ face and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the boy’s head. “And should your father ever arrive on this isle, I will keep you safe from him.”

(And so Telemachus will grow up unsure of the man his father really is, all while struggling to see Poseidon as anything but)

[ttotbs]

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil

🙈🙉🙊

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 3

Masterlist

Chapter 2 // Next (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, nonsexual and sexual nudity, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan stared down, transfixed on the boy kneeling at his feet. The starkness of it all washed through his blood like ice. His eyes swept over the pale, naked skin, a canvas covered in scars that spanned hues from pale white to deep red. Fresh bruises overlaid the scars, a similar patchwork of purples and blues that belied the shape of handprints and bludgeoning tools. As he drank in the carnage, it dawned on Rowan that the boy was even scrawnier than he’d suspected when peering through the bars of the cage on the sales floor. Now, in the bright lights of his condo, he could see frail that ribs showed through the taut skin of the boy's back.  

Then, Rowan’s eyes locked on the thick, standard-issue leather collar, the only item resembling clothes this boy had been afforded for transit. It was tight around his neck, a small padlock affixed in the back. Rowan knew that the key had been secured somewhere in the box, likely in a packet along with the rest of the paperwork. The paperwork, of course, that was affixed to the lid of the empty box just a few feet away.

“Hey there,” Rowan said, using the same voice he would if he were speaking to an injured child. What else could he do? He was in a position of undeniable power and influence, and the least he could do was try to reduce the threat of his very presence. “My name is Rowan Bailey, but uh, you can just call me Rowan. Welcome home. Well, it doesn’t have to be your home forever, but uh, for now, yeah? Oh, man, I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m already talking too much, I know, I’m sorry. I just want you to know that you’re safe now. That’s the most important part. You’re safe now, and you’re going to live here for a little while, and I’m going to help you. You’re safe, I promise”

The boy didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t lift his head. Rowan bit down on his lower lip, still tender from where he’d worried it raw overnight. Part of him wondered if even a single word of what he’d just said had gotten through, stirred any understanding, instilled any comfort. How could it, when Rowan didn’t even believe in himself?   

---

The pet strained to make out what Master was saying. There was a warm buzz of words above its head, but it couldn’t discern a single one. Master had certainly said a lot, and the pet could only hope that there hadn’t been any important instructions. Its first impression with its new master was important, it knew that. Its old master had discarded it for this same insolence, this same tendency to ignore his words and to exist only between the ringing of its own ears.

So the pet strained further, titled its chin up just a little bit, hoping that it could steal a glance upwards and to Master’s lips. Then, only then, it might be able to discern the commands from the other rambling words. And if it failed to do so now, it would certainly feel the sting of its disobedience in short order.

---

The boy didn’t move, much to Rowan’s disappointment. He felt almost certain that he’d said something wrong, or otherwise not said something that he should have to get his attention. It’s not like he could ask the boy’s name – he knew that the so-called pets were expected to respond to their ID numbers, but there were no proper names given – and it’s not like they could speak as equals until some serious deprogramming had taken place. As far as the boy was concerned, Rowan owned him body, mind, and soul. There was no conversation to be had.

Rowan took another breath to muse over his current situation. He wrung his hands together to hide the fact that his fingers were shaking, body buzzing with adrenaline. All he’d done so far was talk, rambling and tripping over his words, a directionless prattling of platitudes. Since he hadn’t issued an explicit command, perhaps, it was possible the boy wasn’t going to move or respond until Rowan gave him something more to work with.

For all his time and effort invested into the PLF and its mission to liberate people from oppression, Rowan had never spent much time with victims in active rehabilitation, and certainly none in the early stages of rescue like this. He was trained to blend into the crowds of buyers, of skeptics, of men poisoned by lechery, lust, and power. His mission was to capture the horrors, the abuses, to steel his stomach against the cogs of the system and the bodies it crushed as they turned. And with the coolness of an undercover operative, he’d sit at this desk into the early hours of the morning, stitching together the footage and audio that he’d spent his weekends capturing. It was the niche in which he’d thrived, and it was one that he’d never had an interest in moving beyond.

Facing the victims that had been pulled out of hell was a different skillset altogether. Rowan believed it wasn’t just a different skillset, but an entirely different personality type, that was required to do such important work. To try and heal the victims, to see them clawing their way to personhood from brokenness, had always put a deep discomfort in his bones.

But now, his own discomfort would have to be secondary. He’d made the decision to bring this boy into his home, and now it was his solemn duty and obligation to bring the boy from where he knelt now and into a future of freedom. Rowan knew that it would take the heart of a man much stronger and braver than himself in the moment, but for now, he was all the boy had.  

“Alright,” he said out loud, hoping his voice sounded steady despite his nerves. “I’m going to head over to the box you got here in, yeah? I’m going to grab the papers there and find the key to undo your collar. Once I get that off, I’ll show you your room and some of the clothes I got for you. I think- well, I know that the papers lied about your weight, so I’m sorry if the clothes are a bit big. You can get dressed and then I’ll make us lunch. I’m sure you’re hungry – have they fed you? Oh, that’s a stupid question, of course they haven’t, they never give food or water before transport. Right. That’ll be our second order of business, then. Collar off, bedroom and clothes, then food and water. That sounds like a plan, yeah?”

Rowan thought he could see the boy’s head perk up just slightly, almost imperceptibly, eyes peeking up between thick black eyelashes and unkempt hair. But as soon as Rowan peered down at the boy’s face, that same gaze darted back down.

“Oh, it’s okay, you can look at me,” Rowan continued to ramble as he fished the key to the collar’s padlock out of the black bag that included another standard-issue collar, an ID tag with Rowan’s contact information and the boy’s WRU number, and a referral card to WRU-sponsored electric collars. Once the collar was off the boy’s neck, this whole bag would be disposed of, Rowan was sure of that. He’d never have to wear such a cruel device again, not so long as Rowan was breathing.

Despite his attempt at reassurance, the boy kept his eyes glued to the floor. If they were going to make any progress, Rowan knew he couldn’t let it bother him, and he certainly couldn’t take that behavior personally. They had to take this at the boy’s pace, not his own. However slow that would be, Rowan had to be okay with it.

“I’m going to touch your neck now,” he said as he leaned down towards the collar. “You can let me know if I need to stop. I’m just going to unlock this collar, and then I’m going take it off.” Just as the rehabilitation materials had encouraged, Rowan walked through every step of what he was going to do, using plain words and reassurances.

He also knew that he’d receive no protest. Resistance and the concept of refusal were trained out of victims of the system, so he just had to hope that he was doing right by the boy in removing the collar right from the start. Part of him wondered if this action was for his own comfort rather than his new guest’s comfort, but he couldn’t stomach such a blatant sign of the system binding this victim. There was no way he could hope to begin rehabilitation with a mark of ownership sitting heavy on the victim’s neck.

The padlock came undone with just a slight twist of the key, and the collar came unbuckled just as easily. Rowan eased the collar off and stuffed it in the bag, tossed the key in after it, and cinched it shut. It would go in the bin just as soon as the boy was settled in.

“There, how’s that feel? It must feel nice to let that skin breathe a bit. I’ll take care of that – I promise you’ll never have to see that collar again.”

---

The pet felt more naked without its collar than it actually felt from its true nakedness. The collar from its old master had been exchanged for a standard-issue collar once it had been processed through the facility, but it seemed that Master had no intention of fitting it for a new one at the moment. That was okay with the pet, of course it was, because its job was to abide by its new master’s preferences. If that meant that it would go without a collar, so be it. Perhaps Master had a different mark of ownership that he preferred.

Master was talking still, going on and on, a soft hum of sound that wrapped through the hall. He��d stepped to the side, so the pet couldn’t try to read his lips even if it dared to look up. Given that there was no shouting, or no blows against its body, it figured that there hadn’t been a command yet. It strained its senses for the sharp bark of a command, a change in tone that would indicate the pet’s attention was needed, but none came.

Instead, Master began to walk down the hall, spilling words into empty air. After a moment Master’s footsteps stopped, and turned back towards the pet.

Oh, the pet realized with a jolt of fear up its spine, Master wanted it to follow.

So, follow it did. It did so on its hands and knees, as was expected unless given the command to stand and walk, and it followed Master down the hallways of its new quarters. Something inside its chest tightened, a sensation of both fear and excitement. What awaited it down this hall? What would its first few hours here with Master bring? Its skin puckered with the lingering chill of transport, and its body ached with the final bruises and scars of the latest refurbishment cycle, but it could bear whatever lessons Master was going to imbue. After all, it wanted nothing more than to serve Master with all of its being. It wanted to be good.

---

“You, ah, can walk if you’d prefer. Upright, that is, on your feet. Or, uhm, if that’s more comfortable for you right now, that’s fine too.” Rowan felt like he was tripping over his words as he looked back at the boy crawling behind him. It was enough to make him feel like he was going to be sick.

This isn’t about you, he reminded himself again. This isn’t about you and your comfort level. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

The second bedroom was the first door past the kitchen, a door which Rowan had left ajar. He’d purchased a two-bedroom condo with the intention to use the second bedroom as his office, which it had been for the last three years. That was, of course, until the early hours of the morning as he’d prepared for the boy’s arrival.

In many ways it was still more of an office than a bedroom. A few hours had only given Rowan so much time to redo the space in preparation for his guest’s arrival. There were some things – including way too many boxes of old AV equipment piled in the far corner – that wouldn’t have a place in the condo otherwise. But Rowan had still managed to take out the desk and his main workstation so the futon would fit comfortably. He’d also filled the filing cabinet drawers with the clothes he’d purchased for the boy, a temporary fix that would have to be sufficient until he got a proper dresser set up. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It was certainly more than the boy would have been afforded in the training facility.  

“Here we are,” Rowan said as he swung the door fully open and turned on the light, “this is your room. I know it’s really messy right now, and that there’s a lot of junk in here, but I’ll have that moved out in no time. But, yeah, the futon is yours, your bed I mean. All of those blankets are yours too, but you don’t have to use them all, just however many you want. I didn’t have more than one extra pillow, but I have another one on order. I’ll get around to ordering you a proper bed this week, you know, a mattress and all, plus some new sheets. Those sheets there are clean, I promise, but I didn’t have time to patch the holes or deal with the fraying. I mean, okay, I didn’t have time to do even half of what I wanted before you got here. But this was kind of a last minute thing. I know that doesn’t make it right. But, I mean, those clothes are yours, feel free to put them on. If you don’t like those, there are some more in the filing cabinet over there, some different options for pants and shirts and stuff, maybe you’ll want to layer up. I bet it’s a little cold in here for you, yeah? I can turn up the heat. Or if you’re fine, I won’t. It’s your call, yeah.”

Rowan wished he had the ability to shut up. He was usually more composed, more succinct in his words, concise and direct. Silence and attentiveness was his trade. Now, with the world shifting beneath his feet - the feet at which a young man knelt - he felt like he was coming undone. Words came freely from an otherwise tightly-sealed mouth. But the boy crawled into the room with fluid determination, clearly indicative he’d retained something from Rowan’s rambling.

Instead of going to the bed, and instead of proceeding towards the filing cabinet with the clothes, the boy crawled to the center of the floorspace that Rowan had cleared and resumed his kneeling position there. Motionless.

---

The pet tried to glimpse what it could of the room as it moved forward, head bowed, eyes supposed to be on the floor. There was something resembling a bed to its left, and piles of boxes to its right. There was some furniture further into the room it couldn’t quite get a good look at, not from this angle. Still, it could sense the room was small, furnished as though it were an afterthought.

Master was much chattier than its old master, a continuous hum of noise that should be words, but words that the pet couldn’t quite hear. It was still all too distant through the ringing in its ears. Fear replaced frustration, it always did now, ever since the last of its hearing had started to fade. Its attempt to obey any commands, even at the training facility, were usually its best guesses. Only when its old master or its trainers would raise their voices, bringing their yells to a fever pitch, could it reliably decipher what they wanted.

Of course, it couldn’t raise the issue with them. For as much as hearing had been taken from it, speaking had been taken from it as well. A pet was seen, and not heard. Its old master had commanded complete and utter silence, and since the pet had failed to obey that simple principle, it had paid in its hearing.

Silence. And so now, as it knelt and prostrated before Master, it ensured its breath was level. No errant wheezing, no sobs choked up in the back of its throat, no whining or whimpering. Silence, beautiful silence, and listening as best it could for whatever command might follow.

---

“You go ahead and get dressed, yeah? I’m going to head to the kitchen get us both something to eat. I’m not really sure I have the stomach for it – hell, I’m not sure you do either – but it’ll be easier to tackle the day with some food in our systems. I’ll make sure to get you some water too, you’re probably parched. I’ll shut the door so you have some privacy, and I should be back in just a little.”

Rowan still wasn’t sure whether any of his words were getting through, but he knew he had to try. A few steps back and he shut the door, giving the boy enough time to cover himself in private. In the meantime, Rowan turned his attention to making something resembling a meal. He had picked up a smattering of ingredients from the supermarket last night, as much as he could grab in the fifteen minutes before it had closed. That haphazard grocery haul had included a few varieties of jams and breads. Rowan had no idea if the boy had any personal preferences for his sandwiches, and he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to learn any time soon.

“Can’t go wrong with a PB&J, right?” He muttered to himself as he opened the fridge to grab the bright purple grape jelly. “That’s a solid meal, shouldn’t upset the stomach, palatable by most people’s standards. Yeah, some peanut butter and grape jelly for me and him, that’s the plan.”

The sandwiches came together quickly, although Rowan paused to put an extra spoonful of peanut butter on the boy’s sandwich, and then another. It looked like he was at least thirty pounds lighter than had been marked in his WRU papers, and likely at least twenty pounds lighter than he should be for his size. Although Rowan wouldn’t be able to tell for certain until he convinced the boy to stand, it seemed that there would be a lot of dense and calorie-rich meals in the boy’s future. But as with everything else, healing from starvation would require time and the intervention of professionals much better equipped than Rowan. A sandwich would have to be a good enough start.

Rowan fished his phone out of his back pocket and glanced at it. The screen was blank – no missed calls, no missed texts. It seemed that the rehabilitator hadn’t called him yet. After double-checking to make sure that his ringer was on so he wouldn’t miss the call when it came, he grabbed the plate with the boy’s sandwich, as well as a fresh glass of water, and took it back to the bedroom.

A knock on the bedroom door elicited no reaction, not even a creak of the floorboards. Rowan hadn’t exactly expected an answer, but he still paused an extra moment before pushing the door open.

To his disappointment, but certainly not his surprise, the boy was kneeling in the exact same position he’d been left in almost ten minutes prior. The blankets hadn’t moved, the drawers hadn’t been opened, and the boy was still naked. He clearly hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Alright, you don’t have to get dressed, I guess,” Rowan tried. Again, he would certainly feel better if the boy got dressed, but he wasn’t going to push his luck. Not yet. Clothes would come in due time, and as long as he was meeting the boy’s needs, discomfort was survivable.

Instead of pressing the matter further he knelt and placed the plate and glass of water within his new guest’s reach. Even this didn’t elicit any movement. Maybe, just maybe, Rowan thought he saw the boy draw in a slightly deeper breath, skin shifting over his stark and visible ribs. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

Before Rowan could speak again, his phone rang.

Ah, shit. A quick glance at the screen confirmed that it was the call he’d been waiting for.

“I’m real sorry, I have to take this call,” Rowan said while scrambling to his feet. “I’ll be back soon – you can go ahead and eat and drink, yeah? That’s all yours.”

A few seconds later and he was out the door, phone up against his ear.

“Hello, this is Rowan Bailey.”

“Mr. Bailey, this is Angela Herrera, the PLF Rehabilitation Specialist assigned to your case. Mr. Greyson Valentine reached out to me personally to make sure you had immediate support for this unexpected intake.”

Again, just as with Grey’s call, Rowan felt an immediate sense of relief. He wasn’t in this alone. Not now, not ever. There were people that were going to fight for this victim with the same zeal and enthusiasm as they had for so many others. It didn’t matter that Rowan fucked up by taking this on so brazenly, not in the grand scheme of things. Help was on the way.

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice. And, please, Rowan is just fine. Did Grey – I mean Greyson – tell you the details of our situation here?”

“Rowan, got it. As for the details, well, I got the Clifnotes version via email. It seems that you brought a ward home from a liquidation event with no prior notice or planning. You’re currently lacking any advanced rehabilitation training, and no rehabilitation training with high support cases like this one. You’ve held a primarily investigative job with little to no interaction with victims in rehabilitation at all. And, if I can make a guess from your voice, I’d presume your new guest has already arrived?”

“Yeah,” Rowan said with a wry chuckle, “you’ve got the gist of it. And now I’ve got a naked man in my spare bedroom, and I’m trying to get him to eat a sandwich or get dressed without either of us crying. I’m in over my head here, if I’m being honest. I just wanted to do a good thing, but now all I can think about is how much I’ve fucked up.”  

“You did a good thing. I promise, no matter how ill-equipped you might feel right now, you still did a very, very good thing. Rescues aren’t always as clean and well-prepared as they seem in the rehabilitation materials and training modules. For every perfect rescue, the ones where the ward is painstakingly selected based on their best chances at successful rehabilitation and reintegration, there are scrappy, impulsive, and unexpected rescues from well-meaning individuals like yourself. And let me tell you upfront, most of those rescues get happy endings too. That’s where I come in. My job is to support you and make sure that this goes as smoothly as possible, and we can work together to get our new friend healthy and confident in their personhood.”

Her voice was level and soothing, as though she’d practiced these words dozens of times. Maybe she had. It was her job, after all, wasn’t it?

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said, and Rowan heard the faint shuffle of papers. “And I’m already getting materials prepared so I can come over and do an assessment and get you guys started on the path to recovery. What does your availability look like for a visit today or tomorrow?”

“I’m completely free until next Monday, which is when I have to go back to work. I took a few days of PTO to handle this whole… situation.”

“I can work with that. It looks like you’re not too far from me, so how about I head over in a few hours? I want to make sure I have all of my materials here in order for you first, but after that, I’m ready to get this case opened and some progress started for both of you.”

“Please,” he said, and he hoped after the words left his mouth that he hadn’t sounded as desperate as he felt. “Today is great. Any time, as soon as you’re ready, we’ll be here.”

“Sounds like a plan, then. I’ll finish getting my things together and then I’ll be on my way. Focus your energy on surviving the next few hours, get him as settled as you can, and then we can take it from there together. I’ll see you soon.”

Can’t be soon enough, Rowan thought, casting his gaze back to the closed bedroom door.

---

The pet stared at the food lingering just within its reach. Its stomach growled with a painful gnawing sensation, a hunger that it felt in its very soul. It couldn’t remember the last time it had eaten a full meal, even a proper serving of the standard issue nutrient shakes at the facility. The last time it had real food, proper food like this, had been with its old master. And even then, it had been many, many months. Maybe it had been years. Only good pets got proper meals, and its old master had been certain about one thing: the pet was not a good pet.

Even after Master had left the room, the pet knew better than to touch either the water or the food. It hadn’t been given permission to eat, not yet. No matter how thirsty, and no matter how hungry, it knew that if it were to survive under Master’s rule, it would have to be obedient. That meant that until it was explicitly allowed to touch this food, until it was given the order to eat and to drink, it would continue to wait patiently.

Hunger was a familiar companion by now. Food was denied as part of its training, often one of its first punishments, and its continued disobedience now showed in how frail the pet had become. It had watched as its ribs began to appear, first barely perceptible across its abdomen, and then so sharp that they caught shadows in the low light. Then came the dizziness, the shakes, the difficulty with its memory. The skin over its collarbones had been pulled tight, and it felt like coldness sat in the hollows between its shoulders and its neck. Its fingers had always been thin, but now they were skeletal, the tendons of its hands dancing like the strings of a marionette whenever it moved.

Those same hands rested patiently on its thighs now. The aesthetics of its body had never bothered the pet, and it knew that its hair and body were to be kept according to its masters preferences. Maybe Master would expect it to keep this particularly lithe form, which the pet wouldn’t mind. It only hoped, a hope that was brief and fleeting, that it would be permitted to eat enough that the incessant shaking and dizziness would finally cease.

The sight of feet reappearing pulled the pet from its wandering thoughts and ever-present hunger.

---

Much to Rowan’s disappointment, both the sandwich and the water remained untouched. Again, just as the first time he left the room, it appeared that the boy hadn’t moved at all.

This second instance of inaction gave Rowan immediate pause. This behavior was exactly what the paperwork had said about the boy, hadn’t it? He’d been sent to the liquidation floor because of apparent selective disobedience to commands.  

But Rowan hadn’t given a command, not in the sense that most people did when they spoke to their pets. His suggestions had been conversational at best, his best attempt to emphasize the importance of the boy’s autonomy from the very beginning. The rehabilitation handbook had said this method worked for some individuals who were eager to grasp that first bit of freedom.

Others, however, would sometimes require the familiarity of commands and hierarchical structures before they were comfortable enough to come out of their shells. It seemed that maybe this boy would be a part of the latter group.

Rowan had hoped that he would go his entire life without feeding into the depravity of the system, that he would never issue a command to another human being, that he would treat all persons as equals to himself. But his own choices, his own rash decisions that brought the boy here in the first place, meant that this philosophy would have to change.

It wouldn’t hurt to try gentle persuasion one more time, though, would it? For his own sake, Rowan knew would have to try.

“Hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft despite the lump in his throat, “I need to make sure you’re eating and drinking, okay? I don’t know when they fed you last, or if you’re even feeling okay right now, but can you at least drink that glass of water and eat that food? Please?”

Nothing. Not so much as a blink or a twitch that showed any recognition of what Rowan was asking. The boy hadn’t even acknowledged Rowan’s presence besides following him to the bedroom.

Fuck, he groaned internally. There was no use in putting it off any longer. He’d gotten himself into this mess, and now he was going to have to get them both out. It was time to grow a spine.

“You need to eat and drink,” Rowan said, raising his voice ever so slightly. He winced in spite of himself. “You’re going to drink that full glass of water, and eat all of the food on that plate. Now.”

To his horror and surprise, it worked.

---

Master’s voice split from its warm murmuring to a tone that was sharp and commanding. It was the cue the pet had been waiting for.

Cautiously, ever-so-carefully, the pet raised its eyes to meet Master’s lips. It peered through the web of its greasy-thick hair and tried to make out exactly what Master wanted it to do. Lips moved, sharp words cut, and the pet thought it understood.

Drink the water, eat the food.

There would be no second chance to get this right. The pet was incredulous that those were truly the words that Master had uttered. But that increase in vocal pitch, paired with the movement of Master’s lips, was all that the pet could abide.

Even if it was wrong, and even if it had mistaken the precise command Master had issued, it was hopeful that it would at least get a mouthful of water to soothe its parched tongue before the punishment came.

The pet slowly moved its hand from its lap and towards the glass of water. It braced itself for a kick to the ribs, or perhaps another blow to the head, but none came. Hand trembling, both from the fear it couldn’t mask and exhaustion of the last few days, it grabbed the glass. Just as methodically, still waiting for a correction, it raised the glass to its lips. A final pause. No correction came.

It drank. It drank with a ravenous thirst, one that one single glass wouldn’t quench. It could have easily drunk another glass, no, three or four more glasses. The taste of the cool water over its tongue was heavenly bliss. The relief and release of the drink was enough, just for a moment, to dissolve the fear of being in a new place with its new master.

Fear returned as it reached out to grab the sandwich. Eating this would be more challenging, requiring just enough grace so that not even a single crumb spilled from the corners of its lips, but still demonstrating the swiftness and efficiency that was expected of a good pet. Wasting food was a sign of disrespect, and the pet was absolutely grateful for a meal like this. It had no intention to disrespect Master and his generous offerings.

As carefully and daintily as it could, the pet tore its teeth through the bread and the thick spread of peanut butter and grape. It was so hungry that it didn’t pause to appreciate the flavors or textures. Instead, it focused on devouring as neatly as was possible in a near animal state. Without its training it might not have accomplished such a feat, but somehow, it managed to eat the entire offering without a crumb dropping to the floor.

A rumble came from Master’s lips, that same warmness that he’d been using since the pet first emerged from its box. Although some part of it expected some punishment for eating, it didn’t come. Instead, all the pet could feel was some queasiness: it had been so long since it had eaten a meal of that size, and its stomach was soured by the heaviness and a lingering hunger from the recesses of its mind. The signals in its body were conflicting between hunger and nourishment, and the pet could only hope it would keep the meal down long enough for it to make a difference in its foggy mind.

Maybe the meal had been the punishment in and of itself? Maybe, just maybe, keeping itself together after the meal was its first test?

Then another command, a sharp voice, and Master’s feet turned towards the door. The pet hadn’t had the opportunity to look up at his lips, but the options were to either stay or to follow. It paused to think, a moment in time to decide its fate. Master had left the room before, but hadn’t issued a command, and the pet had done right by staying. Now, Master was leaving, but had clearly spoken a command. It paused a moment, but could intuit that the command had been to follow, rather than to stay.

And so it followed.

---

“Follow me to the bathroom, let’s get you cleaned up,” Rowan barked out. He still tried to speak gently, but it seemed that a sharper, more commanding tone was the only thing that was going to work for now. It felt too much like shouting for comfort, and the act of issuing commands itself was disconcerting, but the boy didn’t seem bothered. Still on his hands and knees, the scarred houseguest followed Rowan’s every step.

It was a short walk across the hall to the bathroom. The smell of bleach still lingered in the air, but at least Rowan had been able to mask the stench of mildew and weeks of neglect. For now, though the white tiles didn’t gleam, it was serviceable for a shower.

Rowan patted the new towels he had folded and placed on the toilet tank. Although he wasn’t issuing a command, because the boy hadn’t looked up, Rowan raised his voice slightly nonetheless. It was the only thing that seemed to get through to him.

“These towels and washcloths are yours, so use as many as you need. Soap, shampoo, conditioner, it’s all in the shower. Go ahead and clean yourself up, yeah? Take as long as you want, use hot water, use whatever is in there. It’s not much, but I’m going to pick up some more things that are just for you later this week.”

He stepped towards the door, lingering for just a moment to see if they boy would respond. Instead of verbal recognition, the boy’s frail frame clambered over the lip of the bathtub and into the newly-cleaned porcelain. Hands started to reach for the knobs to turn on the water, head still bowed, so Rowan took his leave.

---

The pet tried not to wrinkle its nose at the heavy stench of powdered bleach lingering in the air. It could already feel the burns that would form on the skin of its palms as it scrubbed the bathroom clean with the caustic chemicals. It knew it shouldn’t have preferences, but it did anyway. They couldn’t beat the preference out of it, no matter how hard they tried. There were so many cleaning products that were easier to work with, that didn’t burn its lungs and throat, that didn’t make its hands raw and red with pain the way that powdered bleach did.

But the bathroom wasn’t the thing that Master had asked it to clean, at least not yet. There was no use dreading an uncertain future. Instead, Master had asked it to clean itself, make itself presentable.

There was no surprise there. The fear and discomfort had served it well, and would continue to serve it well as it learned what Master expected of it. It had shown restraint in waiting to eat until a command was issued, and it had showed obedience in following Master’s commands to follow and to shower. But now, the pet was being asked to read between the lines. A good pet was not only responsive, but could anticipate its master’s needs with effortless grace.

There were few things that a new master would want to explore with their pet on their first day, and the pet was well-acquainted with what likely came next. It certainly wasn’t as clean as its old master would have required before such activities, having only received a quick hose-down before it was loaded into its box. There was still some dried blood stuck to its skin, and its scalp was thick with grease and dandruff that it hadn’t been able to wash out since it began its refurbishment those many weeks ago. Its nose was blind to it by now, but the pet was certain that it smelled faintly like the fear and sweat that clung to the training facility walls.

If it had any hope of pleasing its new master, it would have to spend the time and effort to clean itself up a bit more. First impressions, particularly first impressions of its primary skillsets, were of the utmost importance.

After a few moments of scrutinizing the silver knobs on the wall, it eased the showerhead on. It flinched as the cold water hit its skin, it always did, but then it relaxed into the gentle stream. This was better than any of the rough hose-downs it had received while at the facility, and better than the showers provided for its old master’s pets. The privacy felt like an unearned privilege, and the pet was determined to enjoy the luxury while it still could.

Nerves made it hard to hold steady as it climbed to its feet. Without Master present, it didn’t have to kneel, and standing would make it easier to clean itself. Its head swam with a familiar blackness and ringing in its ears, and it leaned on the tiled wall until the dizziness passed. The food that it had just eaten would help, even if it would take some time to feel the effects of the nourishment. And maybe, just maybe, it would steal some water from the tap now, drink a few mouthfuls as the cold water ran down its face…

No, it reminded itself with a sharp correction, balling its fists up as though Handler Green had shoved the cattle prod into its ribs. This was its first day with Master, its first chance to prove its worth, and it was already thinking of disobedience. Master had already given it something to drink, and it should be grateful. There was no need to steal even a single mouthful now, not even from the freely flowing showerhead, not even in the privacy of solitude.

It banished the thought from its mind and got busy with scrubbing itself clean. First came its hair, so much longer now than when it had entered the refurbishment program, the curls heavy with water and shampoo. The shampoo was light, faintly floral, and the pet relished in the sensation of soap pulling the grime and blood away from its scalp. When it glanced down at the floor of the bathtub it saw that the water was rust-colored as it flowed down the drain.

Once its hair was clean, shampooed twice and rinsed thrice, it took to scrubbing its body down with determined and practiced vigor. Every inch of skin was worked over, even the skin that was heavily bruised and covered in scabs. It allowed itself the grace to wince as it pressed down on the bruises and still-healing wounds, but it still scrubbed away at them with the same determination.

Mostly, it tried not to think about how much its ribs had begun to stick through its skin, and how easily they would break under the slightest application of force. It was fragile now, filthy and covered in the marks of its disobedience. Its insolence was captured by the permanent paint of scars from head to toe.

It scrubbed, and rinsed, and then scrubbed again, until the water turned from copper, to pale pink, to clear. Its arms had begun to pucker with goosebumps under the steady flow of cold water. But finally, with a final rotation and a check that the water was indeed flowing clearly now, it shut the water off.

The towels waiting for it were warmer and fluffier than anything it could remember being given at either the training facility or by its old master. As it wrapped itself in the terrycloth it sighed a small sigh of relief, an exhalation it was sure made no sound. Even if it couldn’t hear such quiet breaths itself, it had learned when others could from its old master’s many corrections. A sigh, by itself and behind a closed door, would likely go unnoticed.

After it had dried itself it carefully folded the towel and placed it on the floor. It would have to figure out where Master kept his dirty clothes and towels sooner or later, especially since it would be responsible for the laundry. There would be time for that soon. But now, since it was clean, it was time to get to work.

The pet settled back down onto its knees, carefully selecting the tiles of the floor to kneel on rather than the rug in front of the sink. It wasn’t going to seek out small pleasures and privileges that it had not yet earned, not on this first day. Everything it did would show that it was good, that it was obedient.

The tiles were better than cold cement it was accustomed to, anyway.

A few moments later the door pushed open. Master was back, here to fetch it, take it back to the room it had just come from. That soft murmuring of Master’s voice came again, the conversational tone like water lapping on a white-sand shore, not the hot knife of a command. The pet still tried its best to listen attentively through the ringing of its ears.

Then, the command came, cutting sharp through the susurrus. Follow. And so the pet did.

As it expected, it was led back to the same room it had just come from. Its heart fluttered in its chest. It remembered where the low-lying bed had been pushed against the wall, and how far it was off the ground. Climbing up on the bed from the ground would pose little difficulty, a single fluid motion enough to situate it comfortably atop the flat surface.

Master walked towards the bed with broad strides, and with a rush of adrenaline, the pet climbed up onto the bed beside the towering pile of blankets. Fabric and plush bedding were soft beneath its knees, and it gave a small sigh of relief that the bed was so comfortable.

There was no time to relish in the comfort, however. The instinct of its training and prior service took over. There were multiple options for it to begin, to entice Master’s senses, but one came to the forefront of its mind. That one, it decided, would show off both grace and the care it put into its servitude.

It placed its hands evenly apart, symmetrical and in line with its knees, forming carefully orchestrated lines throughout its body. Once it found its balance it arched its back, pushed its hips firmly into the air, and lowered its chest towards the bed. Weight shifted forward, onto its forearms now, and it felt confident it would be steady despite its latest wave dizziness and nausea. Although it couldn’t quite see itself from this angle – there was no mirror here like there was in the training facility – it was confident that its posture was perfect.

There were many things the pet had failed at during its training, and during its time with its old master, but this had never been one of them. Of its many tasks and duties, the pet was certain that it was able to pleasure its masters. And despite its fear, it was certain it could do the same for Master now. This was its chance to prove itself, make a good first impression, show Master that it was more than its inability to hear his commands.

All that remained was to slowly, carefully, turn its head to the side, look up at Master and push its lower lip out ever so slightly- And as soon as its eyes met Master’s, Master shouted with a roar of what the pet knew was fury.

A/N: And in this chapter, we spend 8,000 words to eat a sandwich, make a phone call, and take a shower. I wonder what happens next!

Taglist

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

@maenr @whump-enthousiast

[strryhaze]

an essay titled “justice” written by jack kennedy (at age 16) speaks of the importance of family and upbringing which dictates a person’s success and triumph in life. his eloquent understanding and compassion for those less fortunate is evident:

“We read in the newspaper, periodicals and in most of the other products of the printing press, we hear from the pulpits, soap-boxes, and the other numerous locations that orators choose; about the word justice. Justice is pictured as a lady holding scales in her hand on which is weighed right and wrong. Always is the word linked with God until it has come to have an almost synonymous meaning. But should this be so? To quote Webster, Justice means ‘The rendering to everyone his just due.’ But does God render to everyone his just due?

A boy is born in a rich family, brought up in a clean environment with an excellent education and good companions, inherits a fool-proof business from his father, is married and then eventually dies a just and honest man. Take the other extreme. A boy is born in the slums, of a poor family, has evil companions, no education; becomes a loafer, as that is all there is to do, turns into a drunken bum, and dies, worthless. Was it because of the rich boys ability that he landed in the lap of luxury, or was it that poor boys fault that he was born in squalor? The answer will often come back ‘the poor boy will get his reward in the life hereafter if he is good.’ While that is a dubious prospect to many of us, yet there’s something in it. But how much better chance has [the] boy born with a silver spoon in his mouth of being good than the boy who from birth is surrounded by rottenness and filth. This even to the most religious of us can hardly seem a ‘square deal.’ Thus we see that justice is not always received from ‘The Most Just’ so how can we poor mortals ever hope to attain it.”

[otiksimr]

Akarat siblings.

Shout out to siblings who look nothing alike.

[omdrawings]

see no evil; hear no evil; speak no evil; hide no evil

[maddiesharafian]

The Watcher, The Listener, The Drinker

My triptych is finally complete!

[litafan4ever]

Ariana Grande x Eternal Sunshine + See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

[mad-cosmos]

𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥, 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥

"The proverb and the image are often used to refer to a lack of moral ȑ̸̡̜̤̱́e̵͚̯͖͗̊̚͠ͅs̴̡̲̦̽̒͗͘͝ͅṕ̸̼͓͔͌͒̈̍ô̸͇͘n̷̻͝ͅs̴͎͔͚͛a̶̡͉͈͓̋̋b̸̢̝̄ị̶̧͙͑͜l̷͖̬̭̽́i̶̦͂̀̄̚t̵̹̝͌̔y̶̲͗ on the part of people who refuse to acknowledge impropriety, looking the other way or feigning ignorance."

Meaning behind these arts :) MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD!!

The blue hands represent Jimmy's hands and they are installed on places where the crew got hurt or places that killed them.

Daisuke got one of his eyes lacerated because of the axe, Curly got his ears torned off in the crash and Anya had blood under her mouth when she overdosed.

Plus the "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" represent how they couldn't see/talk about the assault on Anya.

She couldn't speak about it (hands on mouth), and when she did, Curly listened but didn't do anything, so in a way he refused to acknowledge/listen to it (hands on ears) and Daisuke couldn't see anything about it, he even didn't know (so hands on eyes).

[strawberryblondie-locks]

what if it was all a dream guys. no? ok...have these as a treat

[reality-detective]

[backstabber128]

------

How could you forget your roots?

[stealfocus]

ARTIST: Kimberley Dow

[shiftythrifting]

They were sadly gone the next day 

[knifefightandchill]

RESIDENT EVIL 4 (2023)

"His ability soon attracted the master's interest. And when he took him to the dungeon— No, I can't write anymore. I don't want to recall what happened down there. "

[itsdefinitely]

may we have a Blinkotep pls

does this count