#dehumanization

[creature-wizard]

"The Law of Assumption isn't a cult!" Mmm, are you sure about that?

Let's take a look at some red flags it checks off...

☑ The founder's ideas are considered infallible, despite the founder's incredibly dubious behavior.

☑ Claims that its beliefs can be traced back through the ages and cites known holy texts, but examination of these texts reveals that they really have nothing to do with the ideas promoted by the founder.

☑ Claims that modern science supports its claims, but examination of actual current scientific knowledge shows that it does not actually back them up.

☑ The beliefs and practices can supposedly never fail the followers; followers can only fail the beliefs and practices.

☑ Followers are told to suppress their doubt and their critical thinking skills. People who ask critical questions are shamed and invalidated.

☑ Fabulous results are promised, such as curing serious illness or becoming wealthy in a short time. But there is no reliable evidence of these fabulous results, and people who ask for it are shamed.

☑ Alleged "evidence" that this is all absolutely true in exactly the way its founder/follows claim includes unverifiable anecdotes and events easily explained through psychology or random chance, and the kind of photos that are very easy to stage, fake, or steal.

☑ Dehumanization. Everyone Is You Pushed Out effectively claims that other people lack true agency and interiority, and are essentially mere puppets you can control however you please.

☑ Followers are "free to leave," but there is still a powerful sense of shame, failure, and general wrongness attached to actually leaving.

☑ Ex-followers report being disrespected, abused, and suffering lasting harm from the way they were treated and from the beliefs they internalized.

☑ Ex-followers who talk about their negative experiences get invalidated and demonized, and are accused of harboring bitterness, anger, or jealousy.

☑ Questioning followers are told to completely ignore critics and ex-members.

It's not accurate to say that the Law of Assumption and its community isn't a cult because it doesn't line up 1:1 with something like Jonestown or NXIVM. Cults come in all forms, and the Law of Assumption and its community have more than enough to qualify. Don't believe me? Then don't take my word for it; start researching modern cults for yourself. The information's out there.

For anyone reading this: If you are leaving or questioning the Law of Assumption and need help, please see this post.

[odinsblog]

“I had a Zionist grandmother who grew up, she grew up in Poland, she was supposed to go to Israel to study. Her father had paid for her for the first year of tuition. And then in 1939, when she was in her last year of high school, Germany and the Soviet Union invaded Poland.

She ended up for a couple of years in the Soviet-occupied part of Poland, which was how she ended up in Moscow. And by the time Germany occupied all of Poland. So then she spent the rest of her life living in Moscow.

And 45 years after the end of the war, dreaming of being able to go to Israel, but not being able to because she was now stuck in the Soviet Union. And so I think I was very infected by, infected in a non-derogatory sense, by my grandmother's dream of Israel. And I had my own dream of Israel growing up as a, as a Jewish kid who was bullied and beaten up and teased.

I just wanted to live in a country that, that was majority Jewish. I could not understand why my parents would want to go to the United States and live in another country where Jews are in the minority. My parents on the other hand just didn't want to be Jewish.

Like their only experience of being Jewish was being systematically discriminated against. They were both born during the Second World War, so they were second generation, utterly non-religious and separated from any Jewish tradition, except the tradition of being a targeted minority. So they just, they just wanted to go somewhere where they wouldn't be Jewish.

And so when I was 15, a year after we moved to the United States, I actually went to Israel planning to stay there and didn't. For a variety of reasons, but one of them was being confronted with, with what I found at the age of 15, a shockingly racist society.

So the first time I went to Israel was when I was 15, it was 1982. And then there was like an 18, 17 or 18 year gap.

And I started traveling to Israel regularly from 1999, 2000. And the first time I went back was to actually complete the research on the book about my grandmother's. So it's been a good 25 years that I've been coming back.

And I think Israel has undergone a lot of changes in that time. But no, I don't think that like the kind of Ashkenazi Sephardic racism that shocked me in 1982 has found subtler expressions. But politics of settlement have only been exacerbated.

And I still find them extremely painful to observe, especially because some of my beloved relatives are settlers.

I did visit them this last time I was in Israel, because I really wanted to see what it looked like for them.

I was compelled to go visit them because of a Facebook post that my cousin made. And just to give you an idea, I really hold these people very, very dear. But for years, I would go to Israel, Palestine and not tell them that I was there, because I kind of couldn't face them.

So it's been a number of years since I last saw them, a number of years since I went to that settlement. But my cousin had posted something on Facebook. It was a picture of her son playing the violin.

And she wrote, in one of the houses where they stayed in Gaza, there was a violin. He played for his soldiers and then put the violin back. And I found that post-heart-rending and eye-opening, the picture of him playing the violin was not from Gaza.

It was from earlier, but he had apparently told her about playing the violin in Gaza. And obviously she was worried about her son serving in Gaza and so she's posting about it. And she wants to assert that he is a good boy.

But also, entirely missing from that post and from her world view is that somebody lived in that house in Gaza. That violin belonged to somebody. Like, it was such an extraordinary example of the blindness that we were talking about a little bit earlier that I wanted to go visit them and kind of engage with that blindness more.

And I got a really good dose of blindness to the point where, and we had this incredible moment when we went walking around the settlement after Shabbat lunch. And we sort of got to this hilltop where there's a swing and there's a little free library.

And we're looking out on a Palestinian village. And I said, what are we looking at, to my cousin? And she was trying to get her bearings.

And she said, where are we looking? And she named another settlement, which was kind of, which was not on our line of sight. It was like this literal example of looking at an actual Palestinian village that she drives past every day.

And before the village was sealed off after October 7th, she used to get gas there. And she knows it exists. But somehow she, also it also doesn't enter her geography.

It is nameless.���

—Masha Gessen, the descendant of Holocaust survivors, discusses the dehumanization of Palestinians (part 2 of 3)

[taviamoth]

@gazamedicvoices:

"They move us like animals, like a video game.

This literally feels like a video game. Do they think they are in a video game? They hit our tents.

They run over the 'I love Gaza' sign. They are not fighting, they are playing. Instead of playing 'Counterstrike', they are authorized to do it on real humans.

Where is the world? They say they are 'warning against a Rafah invasion'. Why are they manipulating the conversation? The ground operation in Rafah has been underway for a long time. They've forced 80,000 people to move. There aren't enough tents for them.

They aren't killing an army or fighters. There is no army in front of them. They are killing us. They are killing civilians. They are displacing civilians.

They are taking their revenge on civilians."

- DOCTOR, GAZA, 09/05/24

[newnitz]

I hate how Jews here feel the need to give the "I'm pro-Palestine, pro-peace and donate to Palestinian aid" disclaimer before daring to call out 1930s grade antisemitism.

I have my disagreements with anti-Zionist Jews(NOT synonymous with the Jews Idiscussed above), but if they'll have me(BIG big if), I will not hesitate to jump to their side when it comes to calling out Protocols of the Elders of Zion tropes with swapped words.

I know why they do it - because that's the only way they have a faint chance of being taken seriously when they talk about receiving death threats, being doxxed and dismissed on the spot as "being hysterical".

Why is Jewish humanity conditional on centering everyone but ourselves?

Why can't Jews as a whole be seen and believed when we say "we experience antisemitism"?

Why do some Jewish opinions(ones that don't involve centering goyim, Palestinian or otherwise) make your stance on antisemitism invalid?

[acepumpkinpatrick]

It took a white man burning himself, for the media to tell the truth.

It took 7 white people to be killed for the UNHRC to pass a resolution to ban selling arms to Israel.

The level, to which this world has dehumanized us, is incomprehensible to me.

[voxhypno]

I've been considering redecorating recently, and an idea that's really got my interest is the concept of populating my house with furniture made out of hypnotized playthings.

A toy who's convinced that all she's ever been is a soft tits-shaped pillow for me to rest my head upon. No thoughts in its mind, no will, nothing but the same fuzzy fluff that it's been told its tits are filled with. All it has to do, all it wants to do, is be a good pillow and sit happily on the couch, waiting to be used or squeezed. No greater satisfaction exists to it.

A good boy whose singular memory is being a strong wooden table for me to eat off of. Never been a human, never had a mind at all. It sees its body as wood, its arms and legs as sturdy table legs, and inside its empty head the word "Table" just repeats, over and over, its cock eagerly straining against its boxers as it serves its purpose.

A deeply brainwashed little thing who doesn't see itself as anything but a room fan. Sitting dormant in the bedroom until it's activated, and it springs to life, mindlessly and mechanically fanning me to keep me cool throughout the night.

All lovingly maintained, brainwashing touched up when necessary, kept in perfect working condition with lots of use and lots of hypnotic tinkering.

Any volunteers?

[theminecraftbee]

The thing in her cargo hold is looking at her again.

Really, Gem should have sold it by now. If the fishmonger had refused to take it--and really, it seems unlikely, Gem thinks, that the fishmonger would refuse to take it; he has taken and carved up and made meals of far stranger fish than one with a human face and hands and torso--she could have easily sold it to the man on the train, who takes exotic catches for his zoo. She could have even taken it to Grian; it's not a mending book, but it's the sort of thing he'd like to make fun of her for catching, instead of anything she's after.

Really, she should have. The longer she keeps the thing in her cargo hold, the more it starts to look properly human to her. She should know better. She has caught far stranger fish, and none of them have been human. It's another trick these seas have been playing on her, she thinks.

Long nights alone do that to a woman.

She ignores it. Instead, she opens the lid of the tank and starts depositing salmon. "It's a really weird request, that I keep them alive the whole time. You won't eat them, right?" Gem says, knowing the thing in her cargo hold can't answer. "Because if you eat them, this time, I really am going to sell you to the fishmonger. Or maybe I can figure out how to get fillets from you on my own? I've certainly eaten weirder fish..."

The thing in the cargo hold continues to stare. It has eyes that look like little moons, and brown hair, and it is smiling for some reason. Gem huffs.

"Don't give me that look! You are a fish. I am a fisherman. If mere human faces stopped me from doing my job, I would have gone mad a long time ago."

The thing in the cargo hold smiles wider. The lights flicker. Gem rolls her eyes and finishes putting salmon in the tank. As though to spite her, the thing in the cargo hold immediately lashes out, grabbing one in the claws on her otherwise-human hands and then tearing it apart with razor-sharp teeth. Blood rises on the water. Gem sighs.

"I have a harpoon in here somewhere, or at least a very sharp knife," she says to herself. She doesn't really want to use her nice knife, the one she always keeps on her belt, but she ought to have another knife around with which she can finish the job, right?

The lights flicker and go out. When she looks across at the tank, there are two silvery-moon eyes looking at her.

Gem pulls a wire. Gem turns the lights back on. She takes a deep breath.

"I really should have sold you by now, really. If the fishmonger won't take you, then the zookeeper would love you," Gem says.

The radio crackles. Gem startles. Very, very few people ever contact her on the shipboard radio, but if she's getting a signal, that's more important than a grudge match with a fish. She heads over to answer the call.

An amalgamation of voices responds:

YOU ARE FUNNY. I HAVE A MESSAGE. A DELIVERY. YOU'VE TRAPPED ME THOUGH.

Slowly, Gem turns around to the thing in the cargo hold.

"This won't stop me from treating you like a fish," she says. "If messages from the ocean stopped me--"

A terrible, crackling laugh sounds from the radio.

I AM THE MOON'S PEARL. YOU WILL NOT HOLD ME FOREVER. WE WILL SEE WHO EATS WHO.

Gem wags her finger. "We'll see, for sure, as long as you don't eat my salmon. That man in the fish-scaled suit was VERY insistent, you know."

TELL ME MORE.

"You're tying up my radio. What if there's another ship? What if there's something important?"

OH GEM. YOU KNOW THERE WON'T BE.

Gem swallows.

The thing in the cargo hold is staring at her.

"I need to sleep. I need to go to shore," she says.

YOU WON'T, the radio says.

She won't.

[oliversrarebooks]

a good grade in being brainwashed: wants and needs

Masterlist > Next

tw: pet whump, bbu-adjacent, dehumanization, conditioning, references to drugging, references to dubcon

He was getting a good grade in being brainwashed, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve.

"He seems a little clingy, though."

B211's heart sank into his knees. He knew that was one of the absolute worst things a prospective owner could say about him, the very thing his handlers had spent so much time trying to train out of him. Don't cling. Don't be needy. Be affectionate, but only when your owner desires it. Be silent and still and obedient otherwise.

Don't be needy. Don't need. Don't want. Wants are for people. Your only wish is to please your owner.

He didn't miss the nasty glare that the salesman shot him before putting his customer service smile back on his face. "Yes, this one is very affectionate, which isn't to everyone's taste. Perhaps you'd be more interested in this Romantic…"

B211 fought down the whine in his throat as the customer removed her hand from his chin and walked over to one of the other Romantics, A797. He watched as A797 flawlessly executed each position, all with a smile that was just loving enough without seeming desperate. Just the way they'd all been taught.

God, B211 hated him.

B211 knew he could be the best Romantic in this whole damn showroom, if only he could be given a chance. He'd worked so hard at his training and conditioning, absorbing everything thrown at him, always striving to be the best in the room. He knew his quality -- he was eager to please any sort of master in any way they wished, ready and willing to become whatever they wanted him to be. Their lover, their fantasy, their toy, their shoulder to cry on. He was confident he could do it all.

And yet, here he was, left in the lurch yet another day. If things didn't look up, he'd spend another night in his cold bunk. Another night where his training headphones whispered to him about how much he craved touch and affection. Another day where he had to fight down his cravings so he didn't scare off potential owners. Another failure, another denial.

It was enough to make him want to pull his hair out, if that wouldn't absolutely ruin his appeal.

"I think I'm going to talk to your handler about another course of conditioning. I don't know how it's possible, but you've still got too much willfulness in that head of yours."

B211 scrambled down into a kneel, touching his head to the floor, as soon as he realized that the salesman was addressing him. "My sincere apologies, sir. I will endeavor to do better," he said, reciting one of his hundreds of programmed phrases.

"I can tell when a pet's more concerned with his own needs instead of the customer's," said the salesman disdainfully. "Honestly, you could probably do with another round on the Drip, wash that right out of your head. I think that's what I'm gonna recommend."

"Yes, sir," said B211, his inner elbow twinging with the feel of a phantom needle. He knew very well that he should accept whatever medication, training, or punishment he was given, as it was all to make him a better pet. But he hated the way the Drip made him feel, the way his mind was so slow and dim now, compared to --

No, that wasn't right. His mind had always been slow and dim. That's why he was well suited to being a pet. That's what they'd told him, why he'd signed up. He was slow, and dim, and unable to cope with life, unable to pretend to be a person. So he'd done the right thing and signed up. Instead of an endless cycle of pain and disappointment, he'd receive unconditional love and affection from an owner who truly wanted him. All he had to do was follow his training. Simple instructions. Practice these poses. Recite these mantras. Speak politely. Let go of your wants. Let go of your needs. Be perfect.

That was all he had to do.

He didn't actually remember signing up, of course, because the Drip had erased his memories (how many times). It was best for a pet to not remember (what didn't they want him to remember) so he could be blank and empty for his owner to fill with love (what was he before he was blank).

(was he ever loved)

He shouldn't be thinking those thoughts. That's why he wasn't getting bought. Stupid, stupid.

"Well, B211? Do you have a problem with that?" the salesman demanded, pulling him back to reality.

"No, sir."

"Oh, I think you do. I can tell you have something to say. Out with it."

It was a trap. It was always a trap. He'd fallen into it before, he thought, although his memories of those times were hazy and tinged with pain. "I think whatever you and my handler decide for me would be best, sir."

He was being hauled upwards by his shirt, the salesman glaring down at him. "That's your problem. You shouldn't think. You should just get it right."

B211's mind searched for a better answer. Slow, too slow. "I want whatever training I'm given, sir. I want to be the best possible pet for my owner. I trust in my handlers to make me the best pet I can be."

"Better," he sneered.

The ring of a bell indicated another customer had arrived, sparing B211 the salesman's wrath for now. This particular salesman always liked to take it out on the pets when they weren't selling like he thought they should be.

All he wanted was to be touched and loved. Wasn't that what he had signed up for? He couldn't remember, of course, but that's the only thing it could have been. Why didn't anyone see that? Why didn't anyone pick him?

Maybe the salesman was right. Maybe he should go back on the Drip. He was thinking too much. Of course he was right -- his handlers always knew what was best for him.

"Oh, I'm not sure a Romantic is what I'm looking for, exactly," said a voice that was so strangely familiar. "I don't need -- I mean, I don't really have those kinds of needs."

B211 strained to hear the conversation in the other room, beyond the curtain separating the Romantic showroom from the rest of the pet store. That voice. He didn't know why, but wanted to hear more of that voice.

"There are a lot of unfortunate misconceptions about Romantics, and I'd say that the primary one is that they're only for sex," said the salesman. "That's absolutely not the case -- maybe ten years ago, but modern Romantics are so much more. They actually have much of the same programming as our platonic Companions, and even some Domestic capabilities. They're the perfect choice for a busy man who wants a little love in his life."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to take a look at them…"

The customer pushed aside the curtain leading to the Romantic showroom, and B211's heart stopped.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark skin and darker curls, and large, sparkling eyes that he could get lost in. He was handsome, very much so, but that wasn't what caused B211's breath to catch in his throat -- he saw many handsome customers. No, there was something about this one that ran deeper than his looks. B211 was seized with an inexplicable, undeniable desire -- this man absolutely had to buy him. This man should be his owner.

(But pets weren't supposed to have desires.)

The customer was staring at B211, too, but not in the way he would prefer. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that one," said the salesman. "He's a bit more high maintenance than our other Romantics, and you're looking for a pet that's very independent, right? I'm sure a lawyer doesn't have that much time to spend entertaining a pet, which is why I'm going to recommend this model…"

The customer, the lawyer, let himself be pulled away from B211's case, and B211 was filled with bubbling rage towards the salesman. Something flashed in his mind, a memory, perhaps, of fighting, of kicking and screaming, of having to be held down by four people as the IV was inserted into his arm --

No, that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. He couldn't hate the salesman, or the handlers, who only wanted the best for him. If the lawyer wasn't a good fit…

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Why was this so important? He'd been passed up by so many people, what was one more to him?

B211 couldn't help but watch the lawyer out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he seemed bored with the other models the salesman was showing him. Distracted. He glanced back at B211, who quickly lowered his eyes to the floor.

"I think I have just the right fit for you!" said a bubbly saleswoman, emerging from the front of the store. She was leading along a man in a slouchy t-shirt and jeans, who was looking around the Romantics showroom in awe, as though he'd never seen so many pets. The saleswoman stopped in front of B211's case. "He's a refurb, so he's available at a discount! He's very affectionate and quite intelligent for a pet."

"Well, he's not bad looking," said this new customer. "Pet, introduce yourself."

B211 snapped to practiced attention. "Hello, sir, my designation is B211, and I'm a Romantic designation with additional Companion training. I enjoy cooking, old movies, and cuddling, and I'm always open to new adventures!"

"Hmm, I'm not sure. He's not really my type. I was hoping for something a little more… demure, do you have anything like that?"

"Certainly, sir, right this way!"

Normally, B211 would be devastated at losing another prospective buyer, but this time, all he could think about was the lawyer. The lawyer who was currently standing in front of the showroom's most expensive pet, being given the hard sell.

"…and he can do anything you want, sir. He'll be there for you when you need companionship, and quiet and out of the way when you need space. He's fully automated and intelligent enough to serve as a personal assistant or run a household. And when it comes to his Romantic skillset… he's very easy to please, and very eager and capable of pleasing others. If this pet is within your budget, I think he'd be the best suited to your needs, sir."

His needs. What were the lawyer's needs? Pets didn't have needs, couldn't have needs. B211 knew he could do whatever that so-called premium model could. But the lawyer probably had more than enough money to go premium, and why would he buy a discounted refurb when he could buy a brand-new luxury model?

"He does seem like an ideal fit…" said the lawyer.

"Would you like to spend a little time with him? I'm sure once you do, you won't be leaving this showroom alone."

"Well… maybe… but I'm still interested in that one. The one I saw when I first came in."

And the lawyer looked straight at B211.

It was impossible, wasn't it? Why would he be interested in B211 when a premium model was an option? Did he actually recognize B211's value? Was that why he'd been so drawn to this man as an owner?

The lawyer walked his way. B211 tried his hardest to read the expression on his face -- an essential skill for Romantics, to be able to read their master's smallest emotions -- but came up short. He couldn't tell what this man was thinking at all.

But his eyes looked kind. And B211 felt…

It was a feeling he couldn't place. It wasn't happy, or aroused, or quiet, or agreeable. B211 suspected it was one of those feelings he wasn't supposed to be having, one that the Drip was supposed to wash out of him.

"Are you sure, sir?" said the salesman, trailing after him. "This one is a refurb, you know. That's why he's on a discount."

"A refurb? Do you know why he was returned?" The lawyer's eyes never left B211.

"Ah, his original owner simply found a new relationship, and was displeased with the amount of attention this Romantic required. He's been wiped of those memories, and we've done our best to train out his unfortunate need for attention, of course, but he'd be a risk compared to our premium models, which can all be customized just for you for only a small additional fee…"

The lawyer wasn't paying attention to the salesman at all as he continued his pitch. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

And B211 finally placed what that strange feeling was. Safe. The lawyer made him feel safe. It wasn't something he had felt in training. It was something much older, something he shouldn't remember.

"I want to buy this one," said the lawyer abruptly, cutting off the salesman's patter.

The salesman couldn't hide his shock. "Are you sure, sir? There's no rush. We'd be happy to put a model on hold for you for a small deposit if you'd like more time to make up your mind."

"I've made up my mind. I want this one." The uncertainty on his face from a moment ago was gone, his voice firm. Firm enough that B211 dared to hope.

"If you're certain, then… I'll draw up the paperwork. But keep in mind that we don't accept returns on refurbished pets."

"I won't be returning him."

And the lawyer smiled at B211, actually smiled.

And someone had finally seen him. Someone wanted him. Someone was going to love him.

All he had to do was not screw it the fuck up.

Masterlist > Next

[whump-galaxy]

Thinking of some kind of lab/prison whump.

Every day blurring into the next for the whumpee(s).

Sterile white surfaces covered in blood or scribbles.

Stainless steel doors that lock automatically throughout the day and if you’re not inside, you’re punished.

The amount/kind of outside things they’re allowed dwindling over time because they’re used for violence.

Barely knowing the name of the subjects around you.

Or having one roommate that may or may not like the whumpee.

Giant lunchrooms giving insight into how many people may be kept here, but it’s always near empty when the whumpee is there.

Hard beds with thin, cheap sheets that are changed too often or too little.

Lights out always comes too early.

[whumperly]

"Litte [animal]" type pet names for whumpees will always drive me feral, especially if they're prey animals.

"Little mouse."

"Little rabbit."

"Little deer."

"Little bird."

Oh, man, little bird is my favorite, actually. It scratches a very particular itch and has a specific undertone of affection that the others don't. Whumpee is just a little bird in a cage for whumper, something for them to admire and play with until they get bored or whumpee stops singing for them (literally or figuratively!)

Prey animal pet names don't work for every whumper or whumpee, but they are sooooooooooo good when they do. I'd love to see them used more often.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Zionist settler terrorist brags about killing Palestinian kids in Ghazzah in the face of a Palestinian man. Video posted on March 5th 2024.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Ghada Sasa (@ghadasasa48)

Remember that there's another land theft sale event tomorrow in Toronto, and this dude will likely be there threatening more Palestinians. Be ready to mobilize against it.

Edit: there is a counterprotest.

[linecrosser]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 20 - Dehumanization

Not born into a certain class, maybe even belonging to another species, crossing paths with the wrong people... and just like that your autonomy gets taken away and you get treated like things, like goods to be bartered with, like property without free will.

[autumnslance]

If we don't acknowledge the crimes of our kin in all their painful truth, then we do a disservice to their victims living and dead. But if we let people paint them as monsters who did monstrous things─things we believe we would never do─then we perpetuate a different but no less dangerous lie.

-Arenvald Lentinus, Final Fantasy XIV: Endwalker, "Laying the Past to Rest" (Healer Role Quests), on dehumanizing those who collaborated with the enemy and the range of victimization and sins that entails.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“Yes.” | “Kneel.” | Best of Three | Correspondence | Appraisal | Collapse | Cupcake | Foggy | Cracking | Just Breathe | Urge | Trim | Stupid | Upkeep | Old Defeat | Watching | Simple Loyalty | Overreaction | Set Up for Failure | Burning | Healed Wrong | Haunted | Boxes Buried | Heavy Blow | Loneliness

Six guys in a row, on their knees, blindfolded and gagged. Major seethes, shifting his weight on throbbing knees. How much goddamn longer does he have to wait for something to happen? He caught a glimpse of the other sorry fucks kneeling beside him, as he was forced down to sit on his heels. He tried to buck up, and only got pistol whipped for it, so. He’ll just fucking wait.

“Are you going to behave?” Says someone vaguely in front of him, off to the left. Talking down at one of the kneeling guys. Major cocks his head to listen as a gag is pulled out of someone’s mouth.

“Fuck you.”

A small, mechanical click. Then something like thunder cracks. Major jerks, trying to throw himself to the floor, heart lodged in his throat. There was a flash of light, he thinks, as a fist cinches in his hair and forces him back upright. A gunshot. It was a gunshot. He doesn’t hear any groaning or screaming, just… that’s a body slumping to the ground. Heavy, dull, lifeless.

A shoe scuffing on the floor, and that voice again. “Are you going to behave?”

A gag is pulled free, and a breathless, nervous voice answers. “Uh - yeah. Yeah, sure.” It’s right beside Major, this voice. He can all but feel the guy shivering beside him, inches away. He smells like sweat and stale clothes. Major chews on the cloth in his mouth, listening hard. A click, metal on metal.

Another deafening crack, and the flash of light is brighter this time. Major’s whole body tries to flee from the noise against his will. It’s only when he’s yanked back again, his scalp burning, that he registers the hot, sticky spray that hit his face a second ago. He doesn’t have to hear the body falling to know that there is now a dead body crumpled beside him.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Someone is pulling the gag out of his mouth. Normally he would be cursing up a storm, demanding answers, calling these creeps every twisted insult he could string together. But for once, Major holds still, and holds his tongue. Hot metal presses to his forehead, the point of pressure small and haunting.

“Are you going to behave?”

All thoughts leave his head. There is no decision to submit. He cannot see, isn’t allowed to move, and the gun to his head makes his response come out as instinctively as a breath. “Yes,” He answers, firm in the knowledge that it is the right answer, and hushed in mortal terror. He’ll behave, whatever that means. There’s no other choice.

The cooling metal disappears. Another footstep, off to his right now. The kneeling guy on that side is barely breathing, taking in tiny gasps that probably starve him of oxygen.

Major feels dizzy himself. He wasn’t planning on caving this fucking early. Planned to be a stubborn asshole, maybe get tortured for a few weeks, or make some daring escape and kill a few fuckers on his way out. But he can tell already, from the tension in the air. From how fast those guys’ mistakes got them wiped out. He’s gotta learn fast, here, or his last thought will be that he should’ve behaved better.

[all-the-gory-details]

Whump prompt: taken to market

Tw: pet whump, objectification, mentions of violence, dehumanization

Whumpee shivered as they trailed behind their owner, tugged along by a rope leash around their neck. The cold night air combined with the short sleeved shirt and boxers they were wearing made for a miserable walk.

And the knowledge of their destination made it so, so much worse.

Whumpee sniffled as they followed along. Begging and pleading for Whumper to change his mind had only gotten them slapped earlier, so they stayed silent.

It wasn't long before they reached the auction house.

Whumpee's heart started pounding at the sight, eyes scanning the sign above the door with a renewed sense of panic.

Pet Auctions held here! Fridays 8-12 pm, every week! Quality pets for sale at incredible prices! We buy used merchandise!

Whumpee froze in terror, tears welling up in their eyes once more. Whumper yanked them along, closer to that door, closer to that place-

They couldn't go back.

"P-please, Master, don't d-do this-"

Whumper pushed on, opening the heavy wooden door and pulling whumpee through. He walked up to the counter, smiling at the employee and exchanging pleasantries.

Whumpee sobbed quietly as the two moved on to buisness. Whumper gestured to them with a grin, and they flinched hard.

"I'm looking to sell my pet," he said easily, and whumpee hiccuped in response. "How much do you think I'll get for it?"

The employee looked them up and down, making a few calculations. "We'll have to conduct a more thorough examination, but for a rough estimate... somewhere between 15 and 20 hundred."

Whumper nodded, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Alright. I might go take a look at the merchandise while you appraise it, if that's alright?"

"Of course, sir. I can take it back right now. We'll call your name when we're done."

Whumper smiled and shook the employee's hand before handing the leash over and walking away.

Whumpee shook with the force of their sobs as they watched him leave. They had been sold.

The employee turned and pulled them towards a door leading deeper into the auction house, and they could do nothing but follow along.

[voxhypno]

I wonder how much better and happier you would be as nothing but decoration?

Standing stiffly in my living room, exposed in case anyone wanted to grope your ass, fondle your its tits, or slide a hand down to tease your its pussy or cock.

Your Its existence comprising entirely of posing provocatively in the center of my living room, naked and vulnerable for everyone to ogle and play with. Holding a tray of drinks at a party, dressed in a pretty little uniform that you it doesn't remember putting on, or ever being without.

Remaining as still as a statue, completely inanimate and deliciously blank, its mind empty of everything but servitude and devotion. A plastic smile on its face, so everyone knows that this doll loves to be a brainless centerpiece.

All while my friends and I chuckle and run our hands over it, sliding our cocks and fingers and tongues into its unthinking holes, admiring the craftsmanship that must have gone into this piece to make it appear so lifelike.