Hey Actually Where Is This Ben Cook Pic From I Need To Know

hey actually where is this ben cook pic from i need to know

I see a man (fictional), I am generally like "okay". I see the same man (fictional) being put in a situation, covered in dirt and blood, perhaps soaking wet, actively sobbing and shaking like a chihuahua, and I am saying "yay" and "yippee" and things of this nature

Day 8 of @ailesswhumptober

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yessir."

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

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

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

"What's that-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr Snyder-"

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

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

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

"Mr Snyder-"

"And that's three extra strikes."

"Shut up, Os."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Snyder-"

He flicked up the sharp end of the knife.

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

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

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

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

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

"Snyder-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i stumbled across these like oct 3 or something and i have been drooling over them ever since. like. highlight of my day. both of you are incredible

staring at the AI-less whumptober prompts absolutely terrified for what @noxexistant and @i-didnt-do-1t have in store for the rest of the month :D

ai-less whumptober; day thirteen

@ailesswhumptober 13 — using themself as bait, defiance, “Take me instead.” ↳ the refuge, 1896 word count; 1.3k

cw; mentions of death, panic attacks, dissociation

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

Oscar only finds out it's his birthday when Snyder tells him.

He's brought into Snyder's office by a guard with a hand tight on his bicep, and he's expecting any of the usual reasons. Most likely that he's in trouble for some reason or another, almost equally likely that Snyder's just a lonely bastard who wanted someone to smoke with and talk to again.

But instead, Snyder smiles. Tight and utterly false.

"Happy birthday, Oscar."

Oh.

Oscar doesn't know what day it is, and had only half-guessed at it being October. But apparently he'd been right.

Not that him knowing what day it is would've helped him much. He doesn't know what day his birthday is. And Snyder must know that, or see it in his face, because he says.

"October 28th. A mere three days before All Hallow's Eve. How fitting for your birth."

Perhaps that should be another sign for Oscar. The fact that Snyder just told him, rather than keeping another gleeful secret, yet another thing he knows that Oscar doesn't. But there must be another secret somewhere, because Snyder is just looking at him then, expectant.

Oscar doesn't know what's being expected. He takes a guess.

"Uh. Thank you, Sir."

Swing and a miss. Snyder looks irritated, as if Oscar is the one fucking with him. He turns his attention to his desk and flips through some papers, not even bothering to look at Oscar when he speaks next.

"Well, your uncle will be here to pick you up soon."

And Oscar's world grinds suddenly to a halt.

For a moment, he's sure he'd imagined the words, or utterly misinterpreted them somehow. Maybe Snyder is just fucking with him still, a part of whatever weird joke this is. Snyder's always had a backwards, sick sense of humour — a consistent reminder he's hardly older than Oscar, when it comes down to it.

Well, less older now.

"Uh," Oscar sort of croaks. "What?"

Snyder glances up from his papers. "Are you stupid?" he asks calmly.

Oscar swallows. Hesitates.

"Your uncle," Snyder repeats. "He'll be here to retrieve you. I would recommend getting yourself organised."

"My—uncle."

"Yes, your uncle. Do you know what an uncle is, Oscar?"

"I—Weasel? Wiesel? My—my da's brother?"

"Correct."

"Why. Why—"

"It's your eighteen birthday, Oscar."

Oh. Oh.

"In fact, he first contacted me weeks ago concerning your release, but I informed him he would incur a fee for your release at that point in time. Bail, to be curt."

Oscar's head is swimming.

"But. But I'm eighteen now," he says, hardly above a whisper.

"Eighteen indeed. Your sentence is over."

Oscar feels. Dazed. Feels like the world has been pulled out from under him and he's floating, falling, spinning. He has to fight down some insane urge to start laughing, almost the same feeling as when Ma died. A tangled mixture of terror and relief and utter overwhelm.

But just as quickly as it had all started, it grinds to a halt.

"What," he says, breathless, "What about Mo?"

And suddenly all of his worst fears are lighting up like a fire when Snyder doesn't respond.

"What about Mo?" he repeats, more urgently this time.

"Your brother isn't even sixteen yet," Snyder answers calmly, gaze on his papers again. "He has a while to go."

"No," Oscar says. His stomach is on the floor, cold terror washing over him even as his gut burns. "No, no, no—"

"Go and gather your things. Eight o' clock, Mr. Wiesel said. He'll be here any minute."

"No! No, no, I don't wanna go, I wanna stay. I want—You can't make me leave Mo—"

Oscar has to be dragged out of Snyder's office. By the same guard who'd dragged him in, hold considerably more brutal now as Oscar kicks and fights and pleads. He can't stomach it. He doesn't want to go, he can't go — but as much as Snyder won't let anyone go if he can help it, he won't let anyone stay once he's no longer being paid to keep them. Oscar is worthless to him now. And won't be kept.

He feels the attention of the bunk room shift to him as he's tossed in, lands on the floor in a brutal skid that has his arm and hip grazed to shit by the filthy floors. He's still shouting.

"Os," Morris says immediately, running to him. Taking his hand. "Os, what happened?"

Oscar's eyes are burning. His chest is tight, lungs won't expand. He can't bring himself to look at his brother, but a larger part of him desperately wants to look at him, to stare at him, to commit every inch of his face to memory lest it be forgotten in two years.

Two years.

Oscar chokes a sob.

He knows everyone is staring. He knows he's much too old to cry. He's eighteen. He's eighteen now.

"Os," Morris repeats, real gentle. "Hey. Hey, it's okay."

"Get your shit," the guard at the door barks.

Morris looks up at him, and without his eyes on Oscar, Oscar finally dares to look at him. Sees the earnest confusion in his little brother's face, the crease in his brow, not understanding what's going on. Even when he does turn to Oscar then, that familiar dependency on his older brother for explanations. Oscar doesn't know how to explain this.

He chokes out another empty, breathless sound.

"Os, you ain't breathin'," Mo tells him quietly. "You gotta breathe. C'mon. Breathe—breathe."

"You don't get your shit, you're leavin' without it," the guard spits, and Morris. Pauses.

"Leavin'," he echoes. "Who's leavin'?"

Oscar wants to die. His stomach is rolling, throat so tight he can't breathe at all anymore. He squeezes Morris' hand so desperately he can feel every bone and tendon, will surely leave bruises behind — but then there's a distant shout and then the guard is moving, coming for him again. Heaves him up with that familiar grasp on his upper arms.

"We ain't got time for this," the guard grits out. "Got your new boss waitin' for you."

"No," Morris protests immediately, rising up to his feet as if to chase his brother as he's dragged away. He doesn't even know what's happening, and it makes Oscar feel sicker to know that it's Morris' instinct to protect him regardless. "No. No! Os ain't do nothin', let him go. Let him go!"

But if Oscar's protests had been utterly ignored, it goes without saying that Morris' will be too. He doesn't cut much of an imposing figure, even as he rises on bare tiptoes in a desperate bid to seem bigger. He trails the guard to the door, shouting all the while, and when the guard only keeps going, Morris starts to hit him. Insubordination that would usually always earn attention, earn the ire being turned to him.

But this time, it doesn't work.

"No!" Morris screams. "No, this ain't fair, where are you sendin' him? He ain't done nothin'! Take me instead! Take me!"

Oscar doesn't see the hit. He just hears the deafening crack and then the familiar thud of his little brother's body hitting the ground. Hears his screaming go quiet as the door is slammed and locked behind them. And Oscar is just forced to keep walking, coughing and retching, down the hall and the stairs to the entrance hall where his uncle is waiting for him.

He's largely unrecognisable. A bigger man than Oscar remembers. Better dressed. He's got a cigar in his mouth and a rough look on his face, one that almost twists to pity when he sees Oscar.

"Lord above," Wiesel mutters. "What they been doin' to you?"

Oscar doesn't speak. Can't. Feels utterly numb, the voices and sensations all washing over him as Snyder speaks to his uncle. Papers are signed. And then he's being exchanged, the hands of the guard swapping for the bigger, careless hands of his father's younger brother, taking that same grip of his upper arm to lead him once again.

"Right. C'mon."

Oscar doesn't have a choice. He never has.

He goes.

Alex Snyder you will always be famous

giggling

what happened to the fender of your car? people are talking about it even over here in california. of course, i've heard rumors, but you know how news travels, and from across the country, i couldn't be sure of its credibility.

anyway, i wanted to hear it from you. it's nothing so horrific as the rumors say, correct?

correct?

POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. AUG 1922

Dear Old Sport,

Oh, California! My favorite sliver of the middle west. You know, I’m from San Francisco. Purportedly.

That being said, my car is just fine. Fender and all. I hit something on the road but—well, as I said, it’s fixed now. Everything is back to spick and span. And you can tell anyone who asks. Show them this letter, if you have to, as it bears the authentic signature:

Sincerely and emphatically,

Jay Gatsby