1. I will always find it weird for an adult to think a child is being "manipulative" because a child quite literally doesn't have the brain development to understand what manipulation is or why they shouldn't be manipulative.
2. Yes, Disabled adults *can* be manipulative, as any adult can be. However, I think it's important to realize that Disabled people are somewhat set up to be strategic in order to get needs met. This can essentially train us to lean into manipulative behaviors. Direct and clear communication is often not only inconsistent, but we are also at high risk if it fails. This means that we can be placed in a similar state of vulnerability as children, where we simply have to be strategic to survive (or at least that is the instinct).
Whumper calming Whumpee down when they're having a panic attack? Anyone? 🦋
Loosening their restraints and holding their hands.
Pulling the gag away from their mouth so they can drag in a proper breath because they're sobbing/hiccuping/hyperventilating.
Brutal hands that inflict so much pain turning soft - a hand carded through their hair, warm palm placed on Whumpee's heaving chest as they're asked to mimic Whumper's breathing. Wiping the tears away.
Offering a sip of water. Offering them praise like; "It's okay, deep breaths," "Not long now, whumpee", "You're being so good for me."
a captive who is kept dehydrated, but given sips of cool water in tender moments. their chin is tipped up, eye contact made, a usually violent hand turned gentle. their torturer is like a shining beacon of life itself in these moments. the captive might even start to wish for more contact, for a chance to earn this!
Obsessed with Whumpees who are clever but also very very stupid.
Like congrats, your convoluted escape plan worked and you're finally out of Whumper's house. Well guess what, dumbass, he lives in the middle of nowhere, he has no neighbors, it's the middle of winter and you're gonna freeze to death. Great job.
Warning: kidnap, houselessness, allusions to abuse/trauma, isolation, noncon/dubcon….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Leon S(exy) Kennedy
Note: I don't usually write for video games but here we go.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
'Wake up.'
The blocky digit letters burn into your retinas. You can still see them on your eyelids as you say away. You roll onto your back and blink away the glare.
The ceiling is barren and white. Your head lolls to one side and you take in the walls. Strange. Sheets are hung across them, firmly tacked across the top so not a ripple creases the fabric.
You sit up as your heart lurches. There's always a different crack in the plaster, or dent in the bed post, or glint from a window to wake up to. Every shelter is the same but different. Bland food, some face wipes, and a scratchy blanket on a rigid bunk.
This isn't a shelter. That's the thing about living off the system. You're always surrounded by people. Like you or judging you. You're the ones that failed in the world, it's never that the world failed you.
You look at the clock next to the bed. It doesn't show the time. The display flashes. The letters blink off and a new message takes it place; ‘Good Morning.’
You turn your legs over the edge of the bed. That's another hint that this isn't where you should be. The mattress is thick, soft even. The blankets are nice too. Plush, all cotton, no polyester.
There's not much to the place. The bed, the table with the clock thing, a sink, a toilet, a metal thing that looks like a safe, and a chest of drawers that look like lockers.
Click. One of the doors on the chest pops open. You wince and stare. The display flashes but the message stays the same.
You look around. Where the hell are you? There was no room at the shelter so you went the the 24/7 laundromat. You tucked yourself in behind the row of dryers but... You can't remember anything else.
You stand and shiver. You’re in the same sweatshirt, dingy with your own sweat, a tattered tanktop beneath, jeans with tears and stains, and the sneakers with scuffed rubber soles and deflated tongues. You scratch your head then spread your hand across your hair as you try to steady yourself.
You’re sluggish. You approach the chest. Inside, there’s a plastic pouch. You slide it out and examine the transparent package. There’s a small plastic snap on the flap.
You turn as the display flashes. Just a smiley face. This is weird. You keep the pouch in one hand. You near the wall. The clock, or display, whatever it is, blares with an alarm. You stop and cover your ears. It doesn’t stop until you back up.
Got it. Don’t go near the walls. You retreat back to the bed and sit. The display changes. ‘Stay Safe.’ It goes black again.
You look down and open the pouch. A tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, comb, face wipes, moisturiser, and the like. It’s like one of the care kits they hand out at the shelter but the products aren’t generic.
‘Care.’ The display blinks.
You stand up and go to the sink. One thing at a time. Your teeth are gritty and your tongue stale. You brush your teeth for what must be forever. Until your gums are tender and your tongue is raw.
You go through each thing. You feel almost human. Or would if you weren’t in this cage.
You put it all away in the pouch. You glance around then place it back in the chest and close the door. The one below it opens. You hesitate.
You reach inside. It’s a book. Some novel. You haven’t heard of it. Well, there’s not much else going on here. And you’d rather do anything but try to figure out what’s going on.
You sit on the bed and open the cover. You drink in each word. You don’t often get to just read. To be anywhere else but where you’re stuck.
You almost finish the first chapter when the display flashes again. ‘Eat’.
The safe thing buzzes and the door slides up and open. Steam escapes it and clears away. The smell of cinnamon tickles your nose. How long has it been since you forgot you were hungry? All at once, that deep knot ties in your gut.
You drop the book without marking the page. You go to grab the tray from inside the safe. You peek inside, trying to see out the other side; if there is one. Just metal.
You slide out the food. Tea, a plate of pancakes with melting pats of butter and glistening syrup, and a small bowl of oats and berries. You put it on the floor and sit. You eat without thinking. It’s so delicious. Better than the bland soup cooked in old pots and the donated stale cereal.
You’re halfway through the pancakes when the display chimes. You look up. ‘Slow.’
You swallow and stare. Your stomach drops. That thing is right. You’re going to make yourself sick.
You take smaller bites. You savour them, ration them. You clear the plate and the bowl. You sip the tea until it’s cold.
The display lights up again. ‘Good.’
You move the tray back into the safe. You pull down the door. You get up and drop down on the bed. You rub your full stomach. You look around. Just hanging sheets. Just you.
You look at the display and squint. “Thank you?”
You stare. It remains unlit. You frown. Right as you’re about to look away, it flickers. Another smiley face.
You clasp your hands together and hunch over your lap. You exhale. You should be more afraid than you are. Waking up in a strange place. Taking orders from a clock. Well, it’s not the clock, it’s whoever’s watching you. And they are watching you.
