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yandere--stuck · 3 months

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if you have any more thoughts on the Joker Junior extending the family take I'd love to hear them!! Would J be interested in having Nightwing with them? Or Alfred? I'm not sure how well either of them would take to the venom, but if they have Batman anything's possible

Less ideas and more of an actual fic, oopsie!

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Three weeks. Three long, agonizing weeks without Tim. Three weeks of hoping beyond all hope that he was somehow fine. That they'd all look back on this and laugh.

But, no. Eventually, Bruce was able to get word that The Joker and Harley had holed themselves up in the abandoned Arkham Asylum, and something in his gut that made him sick knew there was some correlation.

Part of him hadn't wanted Barbara to come along, but he also knew he wouldn't be able to stop her even if he tried. So, the two of them traversed through the crumbling asylum together and followed the echoing sound of Harley's voice singing a lullaby.

“Hush, little baby, don't say a word,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird,

And if that mockingbird don't sing,

Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring….”

Closer, closer. It took both of them every bit of will they had not to sprint through the halls as fast as their legs could carry them. As Harley’s voice grew even louder, Barbara split up to find another way in while Bruce took the lead. His heart nearly leapt from his chest with anticipation as he closed in on her location.

“And if that diamond ring is brass,

Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass,

And if that looking glass gets broke-”

The moment Harley saw him burst through the double doors, she perked up, greeting Bruce with a smile. She was cradling a flower vase in her arms, which she set down onto a covered table. Craning her neck, she shouted over her shoulder. “Puddin’, Hubby's home!”

Bruce’s eyes followed Harley’s gaze, spotting Joker on the second floor where he rested on a recliner. With a flourish, The Clown rose to his feet, turning away from his rabbit-eared television set and popping a pipe from his mouth, tossing it aside.

“Well, hello, dear!” Joker strolled down the stairs, stopping just shy of Batman. He wrapped an arm around Harley, the two of them smiling sweetly at their bat. “Welcome home.”

Bruce all but snarled in their faces, leaning close and baring his teeth. “Where's Robin?”

Both clowns shared a quizzical look.

“Robin?” Joker repeated with a quirk of his head. “There's no Robin here!”

“Maybe he means our little J,” Harley offered.

The Clown Prince of Crime snapped his fingers. “Of course! That's it.”

Meeting the Bat's eyes, smiling back at his scowl, Joker gestured to the other side of the room. To whatever was being concealed behind the large blue curtain. And Bruce couldn't help his rage, shoving the couple aside roughly as he moved to cross the room.

The Joker stumbled back, recovering with the shake of his head and click of his tongue. “He must be so stressed out from work.”

“I hate it when he gets like this. He never knows when ta relax,” Harley shook her head and reached underneath the table, pulling out a bazooka from beneath the tablecloth. She fired, and a band of ribbons erupted from the muzzle, knocking Batman to the floor with a hard thud and wrapping him up like a gift - bow and all.

“Good thing he has us. Hmm, now what say we bring this little gift of ours back to the bedroom to unwrap?”

Joker's grin stretched just a little wider as he noticed the movement of Batman's hand - holding it up just so as if to signal someone, just out of eyesight, to stand down. Joker's eyes crinkled. Perfect. He wondered, was it the eldest birdboy? Or maybe they'd be getting two bats with one stone?

“Y'know, Bat's, we've been doing this little run around for years,” Joker spoke again, approaching his prone enemy. “It's been loads of laughs! But the sad fact is - none of us are getting any younger.”

Harley joined his side, patting her stomach. “That ol’ clock's a tickin’!”

“Quite right, Pooh! So, Harley and I were thinking it's about time the three of us finally settled down together.”

“But rather than experiencing the joys of pregnancy, we decided the best way would be to just marry into the family.”

Hand-in-hand, the clowns walked over their Bat's prone form to each rest a hand on the curtain in front of them.

“But no matter how happy we are to join you, we were a bit disappointed that we didn't really have the chance to nurture them, too,” Joker lamented. “And after all, what better way to officially join the family than to impart a little bit of our personalities to the kiddos? He needed a bit of molding, of course, but-”

The couple yanked on each side of the curtain, the blue cloth sliding and billowing out as it parted - revealing a child strapped to a medical examination table.

“... What kid doesn't?” Joker finished with a grin, drinking in the Dark Knight's reaction.

Bruce couldn't help the exhale of ‘no’ that left him. Couldn't even blink, too horrified to look away from what had been done to Tim. The horror set in all at once, like freezing water flooding through every nerve in his system.

Joker brought Tim forward with the click of a button, the table rolling forward and bringing the boy into the light.

Tim...

His face an acid-washed white. His hair an unearthly green. His Robin costume now replaced with an exact recreation of Joker's own suit. And his face… Contorted in a pained smile and his eyes wide and afraid, unblinking.

“Say hello to Dada, JJ,” Joker cooed.

Tim's eyes, seeming to glow red in the light, shifted from Joker to Batman. He leaned further into the light, locking eyes with Bruce, and laughed. He laughed in a way Bruce had never, ever heard before. He unbound himself from the table, leaping to the floor on scrawny legs - God, how much weight had he lost in such a short amount of time. What had they done to his boy?

All at once, the cold shock and dawning horror inside Bruce shifted - and his whole body was alight with rage, like a fire inside threatening to escape through every orifice as he ripped through his bonds. The shout he made was near inhuman, launching a batarang he had cut the ribbons with directly at Joker's head, only for the Clown to dodge it with ease.

Harsh giggles flooded from Joker's throat, wiggling a finger in a ‘come hither’ motion before jumping onto the now vacant medical table, rocketing off with the click of a button, causing Bruce to almost stumble and reorient himself to take off after him - and leaving Barbara to deal with Harley.

—

Giggles bubbled from Tim JJ's throat as he stared unblinkingly down at his father, body crumpled on the floor, cape draped almost protectively over his prone body. And with giddy glee, The Joker Papa J hopped down from the giant building blocks he was perched upon, where he had sliced at Batman and sent him tumbling down only seconds ago.

It was all a blur for Bruce. The chase. The horrific videos of Tim… Tim's torture. Three weeks. Three weeks of that Hell. Electrocution. Beatings. Torment. Starvation. And it was all his fault. He'd failed him. The rage that had filled him nearly completely, made him seen red, had all been snuffed out.

First Jason. Now Tim. And Bruce still couldn't bring him to end this. His vision swam, and he could barely even focus. Not on Tim. Not on the man who tortured him. But… Wait. Where was-?

With a final hop, Joker landed in front of Batman in a crouch, hovering over him with a sly grin.

“You've lost, Bruce,” He rasped, and just hearing the name on the clown's lips made JJ seize up, his forever-smile momentarily twitching and a flood of nervous giggles escaping him. The clown continued, voice low. “Robin is mine… And now, so are you.”

And with a hearty heft, Joker lifted Bruce up by the scruff of his cowl and cape, as if presenting him. The grin of his face, the look in his eyes, as he looked down on his enemy. So proud of himself, so smug.

And Bruce. He looked in a daze, lost and beaten. Blood dripped from his lips.

This isn't what Papa promised. He said everything would be okay now. That he'd see Dad and Dick and Babs and Alfred again and he wouldn't be mean or hurt him again, because Papa knew he would be good now…

But when Joker met his eyes, something in them changed - his smile warping to somehow become comforting, happier. The darkness in his eyes dissipated, replaced with an excited shine. And with a free hand, The Clown grabbed for a large gun that looked more like a toy than anything.

“Here ya go, sonny-boy!” He said, tossing the weapon.

JJ scrambled forward to catch it. He couldn't help but notice how light the gun felt as he cradled it in his shaking, gloved hands. For a moment, he couldn't look away.

“Make him one of us,” The Joker urged, voice like a hiss.

It wasn't a conscious decision to aim the gun. It just happened. Like one minute, JJ was there and gone and back again. His hands shook so hard that he could hardly keep the weapon straight. Could barely even look at him. At the mask. At the man behind it.

“Tim…” Batman breathed. JJ had never heard his voice sound so small.

JJ would swear he couldn't breathe if it weren't for the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the wheezing, giggling exhales that escaped him as he struggled to calm down. Tears threatened to pool from his eyes.

This wasn't right. But, Papa knows best. He said everything would be okay afterward. He said he wouldn't be punished again. But, he couldn't. But, he couldn't run, either - too scared. Too weak. He wanted to be home. He wanted his family. He wanted to stop crying, to be able to breathe, to run into his fathers’ arms-

“It's alright now, JJ,” The Joker soothed, recapturing the boy's attention. “Just pull the trigger, and everything will be okay.”

JJ wanted his Papa to be telling the truth. He just wanted everything to be okay. He just wanted it all to stop. Bruce, please forgive him.

His finger squeezed around the trigger-

Joker's laugh filled the room, just as a green mist began flooding from the gun’s opening. It spread through the air and quickly covered both men. Joker laughed long and loud as he clung to Batman. He pulled his Bat into an embrace, a smile so bright and wide it made the corners of his mouth rip, as Bruce began to choke and hack.

The man seized up and shook in Joker's arms. Slow at first, but soon trembling and writhing in agony, barely restrained and pained chuckles escaping him. So much hurt flooding through every nerve and system that almost faculties left him. His lungs burned, his face ached, he couldn't feel his extremities and wouldn't have been able to hold himself up without Joker's hold on him. Bruce wasn't sure if he could speak or even breathe anymore, but somehow his body found it in itself to betray him, forcing laughter from gritted teeth.

Joker took a knee, gently laying Batman to the ground. The bat spasmed and jerked. Tears began to fall from behind his mask, shining on his cheeks in the light. Gloved hands caressed the sides of Bruce's face. Green eyes glinted in the light as they watched each movement of the other man - every sputter, every gasp, every choked out laugh, every pained, slowly blooming smile that wobbled onto his face.

“You must be so scared, aren't you, sweetheart?” Joker cooed. “You've been scared this whole time, haven't you? Ever since that night in the alleyway...”

Batman didn't reply - couldn't. His eyes crinkled as his smile grew involuntarily. All he could do was return the man's gaze with a manic smile that wasn't his own.

Joker stroked the top of his cowl lovingly. “But it's okay now, Bruce. You don't have to be scared anymore. You don't have to be strong. Don't have to hold yourself back. Me and Harl will build you back up to what you were meant to be. We'll be brave for you now. And do you know why?”

Bruce couldn't respond. For one, the agony of whatever this was, whatever Joker had planned for him, blotted out almost all thoughts in his mind completely. Could only tremble and writhe and cry and laugh. Laugh. Laugh. The laughing made it hurt just a little less. But he could still barely even register what the other man was saying. What he could register, though, was the image of Joker slowly leaning down to press his lips to Bruce's cloaked forehead.

“Because we love you.” Joker finished.

—

“Ohhhh, Harley!” Joker's voice rang through the cavernous halls of the abandoned asylum. “Barbie's turn!”

Barbara's stomach sunk to her feet and her heart skipped a beat. Barbie? No. No, there was no way, he could have known her name. Oh God, what happened to Bruce-?

In the middle of her ruminations, Harley caught her by surprise. A jab to the face, the pull of her leg to trip her up leaving her scrambling to correct her fall- only for her to feel hand grasp tightly at the nape of her neck, coiling painfully at the root of her hair. She was shoved onto her stomach, face-to-face with the dirty, cracked tiles of the former asylum’s floor.

“You know what that means! C'mon, Barbie,” Harley grunted, fingers twisting in the roots of her hair. She lunged forward, slamming her face to the floor with a sick crunch. “Let's go party!”

And everything went dark.

… Barbara awoke with a groan. The smell of pennies flooded her nostrils. Her vision was bleary and swam as she struggled to open her eyes.

A dark figure entered her vision from her periphery, and it loomed over a figure clad in purple. And for a moment, just one moment, she allowed herself to hope.

But, that hope crumbled just as quickly as Joker's voice entered her ears.

“You're okay, Bruce, you're okay, sweetie. You're gonna play nice now, right?”

Barbara couldn't help but shudder at the sound of Bruce's laugh in reply.

Hands found their way to Barbara's hair again, this time much softer. Not grabbing, just brushing and stroking almost soothingly.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs ‘n bakey,” Harley sang as she carded her hands through the younger woman's hair. “Y'know, I've always wanted a daughter. A little girl of my own. You think you'd ever want Mama to braid your hair for you? It's so pretty!”

“Ah, welcome back to the land of the living, Barbie,” Joker greeted. “Your Dad and I were just talking about you. A real chip off the ol’ block. Now all we need is to make it official.”

Barbara watched as Tim approached Bruce, pushing a gun of some kind into his hands. The Batman held it in his hands, smiling down at the weapon - but seemed almost hesitant. Unsure. Like he knew this was wrong. Like the weapon would somehow come alive and bite him.

“Batman, listen to me,” Batgirl pleaded. “Don't do this. Whatever they've done to you, this isn't you.”

“Oh, but it is! And soon it'll be you, too,” Harley corrected, walking back to give herself some distance.

“I know you're torn, Batsy, but I promise this is for the best,” Joker rubbed circles into the other man's back. “We'll all finally be together. Once we get Barbie here, then we'll get Dick and Al. And we'll be a family! They'll never be hurt again. You'll never be hurt again, sweetheart. I won't let anything bad happen anymore. You'll get your happily ever after. You won't be afraid ever again, I promise.”

Tears stung at Barbara's cheeks as she begged. “Batman, please!”

And for a moment, she thought she somehow got through to him. They locked eyes and Bruce smiled at her with a smile that isn't his own. But, she thought she could see understanding or recognition or something in his eyes, and was sure he'd toss the gun away and start kicking Joker's ass.

But, she was wrong.

With a hiss, green toxin flooded all around her. Even over her screams, the sounds of Joker, Tim, Harley, and Bruce's laughter smothered her completely. And soon after, so did her own.

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crumbleclub · 10 months

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ficlet about conditioning and psychological torture.

canon to blips.

"Say it, Michael."

Tears covered his face, burning and uncomfortable. His eyes didn't leave the ground.

"But–"

He silenced as a hand came to rest on his shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise, before it relaxed. A warning.

"Say it."

The stuttered inhale that rattled from his lungs was pathetic. He was pathetic.

"...I w-wanted to kill him."

A hand on his cheek. This touch was meant to be comforting; Father never went for the face, at least not on purpose.

It kind of was. The feeling of his own shoulders relaxing made Michael feel sick.

"And?"

"I'm... glad he's dead?" This was a question. He couldn't remember what William had asked for; the last few hours were a haze. Hours? Had it been that long?

Maybe he was misremembering.

Father smiled, so he must have done something right. It was a sick, sadistic grin that made Michael's skin crawl.

Right now, though, it was a promise of safety, at least for a moment.

"Look in the mirror, Michael."

Michael's chin rose. His eyes were red, his face blotchy. The blood on his lip started to scab where he'd bitten it, and he had to sniff to stop his nose from running.

Disgusting.

"What do you see?"

"A murderer."

William's smile finally reached his eyes. "Good."

He pushed Michael's hair back over his ears, and the boy fought the urge to squirm. He looked a lot more like his father with his hair out of the way.

"Look at me."

Michael did. A lifeless grey bore into him, the sparkle of amusement displaying the most joy he'd seen from his father in months.

Michael's eyes were blue. William said that they would fade, in time.

"Did you like to make your brother cry?"

"Yes."

A mantra, recited. The words were automatic.

Father's smile softened. This wasn't taunting; it was genuine happiness. This was William's only affection.

He paused before the next question. It was as if he was savoring the moment.

William's voice was quieter when he spoke again.

"Do you like to hurt people, Michael?"

Hesitation.

He couldn't wait too long, or he would be punished. Michael didn't need long, though; it was fine. He would just need to pretend he was answering something else.

"...Yes."

The arms that wrapped around Michael made him feel sick, as his father leaned down for a hug. He smelled like cigarettes and scotch and burnt metal. Michael thought he heard his father say good, but he wasn't sure. His head was swimming.

Michael's eyes flicked back to his reflection. He stared at himself from over his father's shoulder.

He was tall for his age, but William's figure dwarfed him. He looked small and fragile; a twisted creature made of paper and glass.

The only child he'd ever wanted to kill was the one who lived inside that mirror.

#this is one of those things michael doesn't remember #you could spell the scene out to him and he wouldn't recognize it at all #he'd feel sick though. he might start crying #but if you asked him?#he doesn't remember at all #fnaf #michael afton #william afton #cw abuse #tw abuse #child death mention #cw torture #tw torture #mike's actual writing #except it's not really edited to perfection this time so i'm sorry lmao #fnaf ficlet #fnaf fic #blips

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3ntity56 · 3 months

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I'm... disgusted. Honestly. Up until now, I thought psychiatric hospitals weren't nearly as scary as rumored. I thought it was just horror stories told by ableist people. But... today I listened to a friend of mine talk about their experiences in multiple different psychiatric hospitals, all of which essentially forced them and their parents to PAY for them to be kidnapped and tortured. I'm thoroughly disgusted with the world right now. I feel so terrible for them, and for anybody else who has gone through the system and come out the other end worse than they were when they went in. My goals as a future psychologist are not to abuse and neglect my patients, but to research and help them to publish my findings and make mental health aid a better world. The friend in question is currently trying to sue the hospitals and I'm standing behind them in every way possible. I'm just... appalled.

#tw ableism #tw abuse #abuse mention #torture mention #torture tw #torture cw #rant #psychology #psychiatry

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angorwhosebabyisthis · 3 months

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so i've been writing up a lot of sdmi meta lately, sometimes pretty scathingly and sometimes with a lot of praise, and man it is a real whiplash to go from 'sdmi did a fantastic job showing how a marginalized person--a villain, even--being body-shamed even one time is Fucked, and a major signal that the person who does it is abusive and about to do him serious harm,' to

'so people in the show constantly make unnecessary, derogatory, degrading comments about the abuser's body. he is an extremely marginalized person who has been dehumanized from birth for having that body, up to and including being considered legal property; he has been tortured in a pressure cooker of abuse targeted at his minority status for a quarter of his life. this is Quirky and Witty and Whimsical, no one has a problem with it, and we are going to just skate right on by that without ever even acknowledging that he's oppressed. moving along now'

like, in pericky's case it's interesting to explore how ricky does say some genuinely extremely shitty, bigoted things to pericles that are presumably part of why he snaps and hits him, but he's doing that in the context of being abused, and pericles is reacting to it in the context of abusing him. ricky's not a great person and does not spend his time around great people, but he's trying to stand up for himself with the verbal and emotional vocabulary he has available. the person he's trying to draw on for the strength and the beliefs to do that with--the language to do that with--is his only real example of someone in pericles' life who has never, ever bowed to him.

......aaaaaaaand she's super fucking racist. and is the one who makes the bulk of the body-shaming comments about pericles in the show. so no wonder ricky turned around and incorporated that into trying to imitate her.

but see, she also has a reason to be racist/ableist to pericles: he preyed on and traumatized her and the people she loved, and ruined all their lives (and tbh, my personal read is that he was probably pretty emotionally abusive to her when she was a teenager). like, sure, that's a lot less of an immediate reason not to take someone to task over being shitty about their abuser than Currently Being Abused the way ricky is. cassidy's a grown adult who's had two decades of distance from him to heal, and has had plenty of opportunity in the meantime to unpack that hey! your abuser was one (1) shitty person from this extremely vulnerable demographic of people who have otherwise never done jack shit to you! maybe don't do things like call them 'it' and threaten to put them down because you're mad at that one guy! just a thought.

but still, she had a reason, right? right.

and when marcie uses the fact that he's much smaller and weaker than her to grab him and threaten to break his neck; tortures him in a way that can only be done to him because of the kind of body that he has; and intentionally calls him the wrong species to compare him to a nonsapient animal, with the connotation of preparing him to be cooked and eaten ('one wrong move and i pluck this ugly little chicken').... well shit, dude, you can't exactly hold that against her under the circumstances, can you? just, like, gestures at EVERYTHING that's happened, including the fact that he'd just spent god knows how long torturing her by keeping her trapped in a box, and she's a teenage girl who's doing this to hold the line with the knowledge that she's about to die violently. which she does. at pericles' orders. like, jesus, that's not exactly a situation to lecture someone about Problematic Language.

after all: she had a reason. right?

right.

this is something i see over and over, especially in sci-fi/fantasy settings where it's easy for the writers to make up their own social contexts, exaggerate Bad Things to the extreme, or both.

on the one side of this equation you have the hatebait: a minority character who's written to be Super Evil and Monstrous and Hateable, who says slurs and kicks babies into traffic and often as not is a sexual predator--the worst of the worst, and you'd never defend someone like that, would you? they deserve any bad thing that happens to them, don't they? anything they say they don't like about their situation (god forbid want to change) must just be an excuse, a sob story, maybe outright hypocritical given how they treat other people, right?

awesome, glad we've got that out of the way. now we can move on to the part where you cheer for brutal violence targeted at that minority, or at least go 'well, that's rough i guess, but they're a Really Bad Guy, so....'

(one of my least favorite examples of this ever is the trope where the villain in their True Form(tm) is physically small, weak, disabled, and/or Really Really Old, and when they're defeated they're stripped down to that state to hurt/humiliate/imprison/kill them. and/or watch horrific things happen to their body as a direct result of being removed from the source of their size/youth/power/basic fucking life support. it is DEEPLY distressing and i hate it so much.)

it is really fucking upsetting how well this works. i tend to get really invested in characters like this.

so we have our object of 'justified' bigotry, hatred, and violence. but then you have the other half of the equation:

the person who Always Has a Reason.

there's been a lot said about the appeal of bodice-ripper fantasies: they're popular in large part because in a sex-negative society women are shamed for their sexuality and for wanting sex, and there's catharsis for some people in stories about being Allowed to cut loose and enjoy it because you had no choice in the matter. nobody can blame you for that, right?

(in real life they can and will, because society is shit about survivors and hates us. but that's real life; this is the safety of your own fantasy to work things through, with no voices spouting bullshit at you except the ones you're allowing to talk for the express purpose of telling them to shut up.)

so there's that. and somewhere there is an excellent post about SPN, and similarly full-of-whump shows marketed to the same demographic of men, being maybe the same thing for those men in a different way: if Every Possible Terrible Gutwrenching Devastating Loss and Trauma and Torture happens to you, then surely it won't make you any less of a man if you cry and break down, show weakness and pain. nobody can blame you for that, right?

(i don't know where that post went. if anyone has the link to pass on i'll add it here, because it is a Really Good Post and worth reading.)

all well and good so far. understandable.

and then you get to the person who Always Has a Reason. and what they Always Have a Reason for is bigotry, hatred, and violence toward minorities. or representations of real-life minorities with a hasty oppression-swap fantasy AU slapped on.

they oppressed the character's people. they tortured them. they murdered their family. they genocided their planet. they're abusing them. they raped them. they ruined their life. maybe the character is a kid who's young and in over their head and going through enough shit already, and can't really be held up to the standards of an adult who's not currently experiencing War Crimes.

you wouldn't begrudge them defending themself, right? you wouldn't begrudge them hating their tormentors and lashing out at them when they get the chance, and savoring it when they land a blow (no matter how low)? you wouldn't expect them to be a hundred percent progressive and politically correct and careful of their language in the face of that?

nobody could blame them for that, right? right.

right.

(funnily enough: it doesn't go the other way. the minority hatebait is always a hundred percent responsible for any shitty thing they do in retaliation for what they're subjected to, or attempt they make to stop it. often as not, their actions mean that whatever injustice they were yammering about should be dismissed for everyone suffering under it, because this guy used it as an Excuse and that's why you can't have nice things (basic rights).)

anyway, yeah, this is. a Thing and i see it a Lot. and it does really chap me how extreme and totally unaddressed it is in sdmi, because if you don't let the framing get away with hatebait and Always Having a Reason, then pericles makes for a really really complex and compelling exploration of someone who's been dealt a shit hand and suffered terribly also happening to be the miserable, hateful old cunt who wrecked generations of your family because they desperately needed help and didn't get it.

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langernameohnebedeutung · 10 months

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"The old McDonough family estate. So many childhood memories. After you would beat me, or humiliate me, or psychologically torture Mom, I'd visit this well - I'd toss a penny inside and wish you'd drop dead."

#I'm finally writing my big well-symbolism essay that I've been threatening to write for like year or so #and I swear I'm getting more annoying by the word #izombie #blaine debeers #cw abuse mention #fandom #one thing I changed my stance on is the 'psychological torture Mom' part bc I always thought he specifically meant emotional abuse #but he very specifically named that when talking about his own experienced '(humiliate me) - so the fact that he uses this term for what #Angus did to his mother actually make think whether other factors were at play on top of that (like gaslighting)#bc if Angus drove her insane deliberately...I feel like that adds some undertones the whole story #(especially bc every single person in that family ends up losing their mind)

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guess-that-ship · 10 months

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Guess That Ship Tournament: S4 Round 1

Tortured

cw: torture, child abuse, kidnapping

Character A was sixteen years old when she was kidnapped and tortured illegally in the name of science. As a part of the psycological horror, she was dressed up and meant to pose as her abuser's daughter at a party, where she met a Character B, the daughter of a Russian investor. The two fell in love, and Character B proceeded to save Character A. They are now married, share a house and have two kids.

steal your heart

Master thief finds himself fooling a detective to get away with his treasure, falls in love. Detective doesn't know how to trust and is too depressed to get away on a whim. Somehow, they end up in a life-or-death situation, learn to trust each other, confess their love and... part ways in the middle of the night, one left alone behind by the other after a promise of a future together.

#s4 #tournament poll #torture mention #cw child abuse #cw kidnapping

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badguysgalore · 7 months

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My Two Cents on the Joker: My Love/Hate relationship with the Clown Prince of Crime

I think something we tend to forget in fandom is that you can like or dislike a character without liking or disliking everything about them. Before anything else said, I want to make this clear as crystal. This is my opinion. I am not saying it is right or that you have to agree. No one has to agree with me. All I ask is that you hear me out, acknowledge my opinion, and if you don't like it, agree to disagree. I fully respect the opinions of those who dislike/hate this character. Okay, let's talk about this frikkin' clown.

It is absolutely no surprise, to me or to anyone, that a lot of people LOATHE the Joker. And with good reason. He is a monster. In nearly every continuity he's in, he's done terrible things. He killed Jason Todd, paralyzed Barbara Gordon, abused and manipulated Harley, tormented and experimented on Tim Drake, turned Superman into a dictator, the list goes on. I understand why people hate him. Their reasons are valid, especially if they relate to his victims.

I myself have a love/hate relationship with the Joker.

Here's what I love about the Joker:

I love that he's Batman's opposite, a bright, loud, colorful clown.

I love that when written right, he can be scary AND funny.

I love his overall classic design. Purple suit, bow-tie, green hair, red lips, etc.

I love that he's deadly, as any Batman villain ought to be.

I love his genius-level intellect. Though, arguably, all the great Batman villains have that.

I love his weapons. Joker venom, acid-squirting flowers, ninja-star playing cards, etc.

I love the whole "Joker card as a calling card" shtick. To me, that never gets old.

I love how ruthless he is. Some of the best villains are ruthless.

I love his whole "agent of chaos" shtick.

I love the idea that he's a deadly maniac hiding behind the humorous image of a clown.

I love the fact that he's anti-nazi. Good to see he has some sort of standards, at least in one or two continuities.

I love his obsession with Batman and their rivalry.

Now here's what I hate about the Joker.

I hate that he has zero respect for anyone other than himself, or even if he does respect them, it's only as a means to an end. At the very least, he ought to have more respect for his allies.

I hate how he serves as a bad representation of mental health. I will not sugarcoat it or give it a pass. I have my own share of mental illnesses, so him serving as an example of the mentally ill? Terrible.

I hate the whole "Life's a Joke and only I know the punchline" shtick.

I hate the way he treated Harley. It was wrong then and it's wrong now. There's no hiding it, or excusing it.

I hate the growing amount of "edginess" the character has been given. He's a clown villain. At least half of his crimes should be nonsensical fun.

I hate how he treats the younger members of the Bat-Family. I know they're his enemies, but still.

I will never condone the Joker's actions, nor the actions of any villain. And again, I fully understand and acknowledge that my enjoyment of the Joker as a villain is unpopular. But I feel like I should be honest. At the end of the day, the Joker is one of my favorite villains. Do I like everything about him? No. But I don't have to.

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craycraybluejay · 9 months

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When You Go To The Child Torturer's House

Do not be surprised when there is child torture. Do not show alarm.

Instead, do assure The Child Torturer that you are its friend. Feed it some milk teeth from your work or family, but never from yourself. If you feed it your own milk teeth there will be consequences.

Do not attempt to remove the children or call for help. In fact, best not to interact with them, I promise you it knows. It knows what you are doing. It watches and listens. In fact, it does so through the collected children.

How? You may ask. To clarify, you may ask me, do not ask The Child Torturer where its abilities come from, how they work, anything about it. The Child Torturer takes off parts of its parasitic body (if you could call it a body) and gives them to the children, usually as food when the child grows so hungry they will eat anything. Oftentimes, The Child Torturer's body appears as a grotesque amalgamation of the deepest fears of its children. It decorates itself at will, not unlike making yourself into a Christmas tree. But when it gives a piece of itself for the child to consume, it appears as a black gravelly sludge, with a sheen of blue-green. When the victim consumes this, it changes inside them.

The strange substance The Child Torturer is made from turns so fluid that it can penetrate flesh, bone, and sinew. It worms its way inside in short bursts over a period anywhere from one to three weeks. It squirms under the skin, dances within organs, rushes in one's veins and arteries. It turns the children pale and sickly, malnourished. At first. After the initial infection is complete, The Child Torturer uses its many abilities to draw on its life source-- youthful imagination and wonder, juvenile hope and compassion. It poisons imagination with ugliness, wonder with fear, hope with abysmally hopeless conditions, and compassion by stoking hatred. That's the thing-- too. The transition into adulthood is by no means a linear one in humans, but for The Child Torturer it is even less so. To one of these creatures, it determines its victims not by how many times they have gone around the sun but by how pure their will is. Not pure in any regular sense; untouched by violence, or sex, or ugliness. But pure in the sense that one gets much easier creative breakthroughs as a child. Pure in the sense that one sees cruelty and suppression and laughs in its face. Pure in the sense of an unbroken hope regardless of what has gone on in the human's lifespan. Life force itself. Loud emotions, good recovery, bravery, wanderlust.

You are not suited to meet The Child Torturer if you retain too much of this life force. He may just add you to his collection. Anyway. What goes on after the initial infection, after the diminishing of life force?

The child begins to grow or shrink strangely, coming to look monstrous themselves. Their senses optimize, oft becoming so powerful that it is painful to exist. The little piece of The Child Torturer they have eaten grows larger, like a particularly parasitic embryo. Most notably, they begin to lose certain faculties past a certain point. First to go is the ability to speak, the vocal cords being clogged and slowly replaced with impenetrable, elastic blackness. They squirm around in ones throat quite uncomfortably if they try to speak, eventually the victim gives up on this impossible endeavor. Next goes the ability to make choices or understand complex concepts. After that, once the life source on that particular child has run dry, they lose access to all off their senses, touch included. They are now by all means a vessel, unable to do much of anything but feel complete dread and horror. Their mind is too compromised to even grasp what is going on or form a coherent thought. It is just pain, fear, and hopelessness. Not even rage is a mercy granted to these poor souls. Not even the purity of rage. The Child Torturer now crawls inside every crevice, and this is the only sensation the fully transformed victim is able to feel. Parasitism is a scary thing, no?

But what can you, dear reader, do about this wretched being? Can it be killed? Can it be imprisoned? Thus far, no one has succeeded in either. And believe you me, many have tried. Even I have run into it way back when. Tried to do the whole hero thing. Almost became lunch. I still have a little piece of it inside me, too far outside its radius of influence to grow or change. I feel it moving sometimes, keeping me awake at night many years later. Especially when I'm having a nice moment. It loves those. I reckon the only way it can die is to starve it for long enough. But how to keep people from playing hero? How to keep curious humans from following the strange and alluring energy they noticed on a wet Tuesday morning? It's hard to resist, the pull to adventure. No less difficult with little life force than with much. Although with the state of the world nowadays I watch with bated breath, both dread for humanity and anxious to see the end of this creature, as less and less humans are drawn to help or to explore. As both quietly and loudly the state of affairs drives us to impure apathy, hopelessness, turns us into wretched beasts, monuments to nothing. Fear presses in from all sides, monsters both in the office buildings and deep in the woods, siphoning from you, sipping on you like a good old fashioned juice box. Your will to live will kill you, and so will your lack of it. How to kill both us AND them, when we know "us" is quite the same and on a much larger scale. How to eliminate poison from our diet when it's in all the food and water. How to erase the parasite when it is sitting behind your pupil, watching as you write this foreboding tale.

Maybe, possibly, if you could map out The Child Torturer's common hangouts. If you could put up signs of toxic waste or radiation in those areas. Maybe then it could starve without us needing to be drained. Maybe if we work together. Maybe. But for now, as with any disaster, no coordinated effort is being made to prevent or reverse it. And so, as with any disaster, more will fall victim. But hey, I'm sure high-tech battle-weapons and suppressing the newest minority of the year and making sure people can't access information will come to be useful sometime, right? Right?? I'm sure it's more important than monsters, storms, and suicides. I'm sure it's more important.

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lackablazeical · 2 years

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What type of experiments does Donnie do in the Adams AU? I’m assuming some are performed on his brothers as well

Lots of different types!

He's fascinated by both anatomy and medicine, so he does a lot of helping as well as hurting!

For his favorite, he likes dissection, pain tolerance (aka basically torture but he acts all smart abt it), testing of different toxic solutions, working on improving his own prosthetics (like his hearing aids and cybernetic knee), mystic magic studies, and gathering data about different yokai types! (Atomical and DNA structure, behavior, samples of fur/scales, skin, bone, blood, etc).

He also works in medicine! He's reattached Mikeys arm before, and repaired his teeth (all of the molars on Mikeys right jaw are gold, they got ripped out after a dare went wrong). And, with a separate character named Ishida, who is Usagis older brother, he has actually helped Ishida rehabilitate with his chronic illnesses and be able to improve and be much more independent!

That isn't to say he's all helpful. He has removed Mikeys innards before, at Mikeys request (wanted to be 'skinnier' to fit into a corset), he's tried to figure out a way to help Leo's extreme insomnia, to no avail. Tranqs, anesthesia, and chamomile tea don't seem to work on him :(

He will also experiment on any of his brothers if given the chance, he has no compassion for really anyone but his family, and even (if the opportunity arises) may take stray animals or pets left unattended to use in his projects! He likes em awake and conscious for it too :)

Donnie does a bit of everything! A jack of all trades of chemistry, engineering and welding, physics, dentistry, general surgery, etc etc!

#addams! tmnt au #cw dissection #mention of lots of injuries lol #torture mention #cw animal abuse #rottmnt au

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konoa-t · 7 months

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As anticipated, here's some random tidbits about Ackley and Oron, the two silliest and goodest boys in my fan OC arsenal :D The info here isn't in any particular order (°▽°)/

There's gonna be a bit of text, so I'm putting it behind a cut. Enjoy! And thank you again to everyone who showed interest in these two!

[TW: SENSITIVE CONTENT (see tags)]

Ackley:

Ackley is the cool-headed mercenary of the colony, hired to fight alongside them or run recon and gather intel. He joined their ranks not because of pay, but because both he and the other knights he works with share the same goal: to get rid of those annoying little dark essence creatures.

A while back, Ackley had a bit of a violent run-in with a man named Metus. He was travelling through a planet when he got captured by Metus' subordinates and brought to his lair. Metus had known of Ackley's exploits and how much of an effective warrior he was, especially with the help of those interesting wings of his... He gave Ackley an ultimatum: either join him (which would most likely require him to kill off his own kind), or suffer the consequences. Ackley wasn't interested. And so, off goes the ends of his wings (sawn off roughly at the wrist joint). The whole ordeal made his wings go mostly numb from nerve damage, as well as giving him occasional phantom pains. Injured and on the verge of passing out, Ackley manages to escape and bumps into the colony. They patch him up and help him recover from his injuries, giving him medicine for the pain. Though he was too exhausted to speak, Ackley thanked them from the bottom of his heart, and vowed to crush Metus for what he had done to him. When he was offered a job with the colony, he accepted it almost immediately. Not only would this help him pay back his debt to them (/m), but it would also help offer him a straight line to Metus.

Whether its to cope with the trauma of his past or for some other reason, Ackley will occasionally light a cigarette to take the edge off. (I did make him smoke cuz I thought that it would be funny, but now I'm trying to fit it in with the plot). He doesn't like the taste of plain tobacco though, so he usually buys flavored ones.

He will often (jokingly) flirt with people he knows well (the vibes of it are kinda sorta like the whole "kiss the homies goodnight" thing).

Ackley has a habit of not taking things very seriously. He often treats battle as some sort of game and make jokes of things, even if its serious. (Though, if its serious enough [like murder], he wont be as likely to make light of it).

He had once looked at a portrait of Oron. He thought that he looked handsome. (the portrait had somehow come up in a conversation he was having with one of the colony's members. The colony member took him to Oron's memorial where the portrait was being kept.)

A pastime of his is stargazing!

Oron:

Oron is the chivalrous and kind-hearted elite knight who served directly under Empress Vita alongside Yumi (they were, in some aspects, like retainers). Many knights often looked up to him, sometimes referring to him as a "fairytale knight*" due to his strict following to the guidelines of chivalry and exemplary behavior both on and off of the battlefield. Civilian women within the colony also took quite a liking to Oron due to this fact, often sending him gifts or flowers (mostly as platonic tokens of appreciation, though some women would send him gifts to try and woo him).

He had died during the events of The Great Raid, and now his soul roams the Azure Plane**.

To elaborate on the previous point, he had perished while he was defending the Empress from the corrupt invaders storming the palace. One of the creatures had gotten a pretty good hit on him, leaving a large gash in his side. He ultimately died of blood loss. (Fortunately his death wasn't in vain! The Empress was saved and unhurt thanks to his efforts!)

A small statue of Oron (that serves as a monument) lies on Draconis, the planet the colony currently lives on.

Oron has golden retriever energy! He is a very happy and pleasant person in general. He also gets easily excited about things. Many people have noted him as having some kind of "sunshiny aura."

When Oron talks or writes, he almost never uses contractions. There isn't any real known reason for this; it just seems to be a little quirk of his.

He often roams around the Azure Plane aimlessly, looking for opportunities to keep his sword skills sharp (he often practices on trees) or for other things to do to pass the time. Occasionally, an entity known as Mors will appear and speak with him for a while; he always enjoys her company!

One time, Oron was allowed to peek into the living world. He was surprised to see that the landscape had changed drastically. When he asked Mors about it, she stated that his home planet had been destroyed, and that the planet he was now looking at was Draconis. After that, Oron went silent for several days, almost as if he were in a state of mourning.

*Historically, knights did not always follow all the tenets of chivalry, often assaulting peasant women and rich widows as well as abusing their status and power as a knight. That being said, Oron is referred to by this name due to his almost unrealistically ideal nature as a warrior. In other words, he acts just like how a "proper" knight would act, or how knights in fairy tales or other fictional stories/legends would behave.

**The Azure Plane is a place that I can only describe as limbo. It is a hazy, plains-like environment that is devoid of any (intact) structures. Souls who still have unfinished business or unfulfilled wishes are normally transported here. Until their problems are dealt with, they remain in this desolate area, sometimes being driven mad by the isolation.

BONUS INFO!! :DD

Many people in the colony have mixed feelings on Ackley's smoking habit. They're glad that he doesn't do it very often (it takes him like a week to finish a pack; dontcha wish all smokers could be like that? /hj), but they are still very much concerned for his health. Ackley insists that he is fine, but they have their doubts...

Although beings sent to the Azure Plane are often isolated, this isn't to say there isn't ANYONE else around. The Plane is vast; spirits sent here are normally scattered about. It may take a while, but you could potentially run into other souls there.

Time does not pass in the Azure Plane. It is always midday.

Oron has no idea who Ackley is, but I think he would like him :D

Both Ackley and Oron have recurring nightmares about their respective traumatic incidents. :((

#TW: Historical abuse and SA #TW: Violence death and torture #TW: Implied PTSD #TW: Mentions of afterlife #CW: Overall just kinda edgy #CW: flirting stuff #No I still do not have a name for the colony :pensive:#Knights of the colony #I initially wanted to make little comics about these guys #but with the wonky schedule of my life I don't think anything of that scale would be doable #Sooo for now I'll just write!#Ik that ppl probably already know that knights werent the best ppl historically #but i still wanted to talk about it to bring context #I kept hitting writing blocks on this so I'm glad to FINALLY have this done #Also sorry if there's any typos #If you have any questions don't hesitate to ask!

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schattenhonig · 29 days

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I have trust issues?! Nah, mate, I learned a lesson back then, a lesson taught so thoroughly and often that it would be downright dangerous to forget.

Why would I forget that lesson if the danger is still there? If people are still assholes? If they still hurt other people out of misunderstanding or boredom or obliviousness?

If I get hurt every time I try to show my vulnerable self, to stand up for myself, do you really think I have a problem? Do you really think in a world where all of this happens *gestures vaguely around* I am the problem?

Nah, mate. I don't have trust issues, and I'm not the problem. I have learned to protect myself from a world full of assholes that tortured me when I was a kid and that grew up into adults that let me feel how different I am.

#masking #trust issues #cw anger #cw torture mention #cw vent #cw past abuse implied #internal monologue #personal rant

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icannotgetoverbirds · 1 month

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Severe fucking content warning

Content warning for literal fucking torture and abuse. everything else should be tagged. If I miss any content warnings please for the love of all that is holy tell me so I can fix it.

Psychological torture. Those are the words bouncing around my head this morning.

Did you know that sleep deprivation and social isolation are often considered to be tied for the worst tortures known to humankind?

Let me give you some more context. When I left mormonism, I lost everything in regards to my social safety net. Mormonism and my mormon friends and family were all I had.

It's by design, too; how is someone supposed to leave if their only safety net disappears when they do? Why would they even consider leaving if that safety net holds them perfectly because they can conform?

But when you can't conform, you fall through the cracks. As I did.

I didn't just lose everything, though. I didn't stop there. I also gained a neighborhood full of watchdogs who I was sure would herd me back to the cult at the first opportunity.

Going outside on foot was no longer an option - if any of my many mormon neighbors saw me, they would have Questions. If I gave any worrying answers, there was bound to be Visits. I wasn't strong enough to handle that.

Besides, I lived in suburban hell. Fifteen minutes just to get out of the neighborhood on foot, another fifteen to get to the nearest gas station. My depressed, broke self wasn't about to spend an hour walking for a round trip to the fucking gas station when I could barely handle doing my own laundry.

So I was trapped inside the house unless my parents or someone else with a car deigned to bring me with them on a trip. But it was fine at first, because I had an internet connection and multiple online friends; plus, I'd managed to forge one irl friendship with someone between deconverting and graduating high school.

My parents weren't happy about this for some reason (I have a working theory as to why and I'll get to it later). Their justification was that it was just generally bad for me to be spending as much time online as I was.

Of course, I wasn't doing great mentally, but they refused to believe that they could be at fault for that with their "mild" transphobia. Surely refusing to accept my newfangled, sinful identity on the basis of a false moral high ground couldn't possibly be the most significant source of my suffering; surely deadnaming and misgendering me couldn't be doing that much damage.

Surely refusing to assist the transitioning process in any way shape or form couldn't be a good enough reason for suicidal ideation. Surely I was just an undermedicated psycho for considering lighting myself on fire just to get them to understand my pain enough to... help me with the process of buying a binder with my own money.

Surely I just needed to get my act together and get over myself.

So, ever since that psych ward visit that treated me better than they did, they decided that I could only have internet access if I did enough of my chores around the house.

Doesn't sound too unreasonable until you remember that 99% of my friends were online. I tried telling them this, and their response was to encourage me to get back in touch with my old ward member friends. You know, from the cult I had just escaped. That, granted, my parents were still very much a part of.

(Remember that theory I was telling you about? That little tidbit is an important piece of evidence.)

So I was cut off from the world with significant regularity, having nothing but a flip phone to contact the one supportive friend whose phone number I had. That friend kept me alive and sane enough to stay that way for nearly a year as this hell dragged on.

At some point, my brother and his girlfriend moved back in with us. I guess they weren't a fan of all the sinning I was doing, because my parents had multiple talks with me about how I needed to give them more space (aka stop existing in the same room as them).

So, eventually, I was all but confined to my bedroom, since I could never sit them down to have a conversation about what times I was allowed to be downstairs and what times they would be occupying that space.

This all built up to the breaking point. I had just developed a new medical condition that left me basically bedbound in pain. I was forced out of bed anyways, because nobody was going to take care of me (probably due to the nature of the condition being considered 'sinful'). I did what I could as I could, as I always have.

There had been a misunderstanding about chores. My brother and his girlfriend were in charge of one bathroom, i was in charge of the other. Except I thought I was in charge of the wrong one. So while the downstairs bathroom stayed clean (despite me not doing much to maintain it), the upstairs bathroom became absolutely filthy.

It all came to a head when my brother yelled at me to take care of my responsibility. I finally figured out what had happened and explained to him why I hadn't been doing it, as well as why I wasn't about to start until I could actually, you know, stay standing for any significant amount of time. He yelled at me more and threatened to tell our mom.

I told him to go ahead, as any rational person would take one look at the situation and agree that I needed to rest. My only mistake was assuming that my mom retained any rationality for me.

So she called me and attempted to chew me out. mind you, i was ill and in debilitating pain already, so I put my foot down and asked her to save it for later. But I knew what was coming when she said we were going to "have a conversation" when she got home. She was going to take away my flip phone to force me to do as I was told.

My flip phone, 99% of the use for which was to call my one and only friend that i could access. My one and only friend who was the sole support in my life. The only person, the only thing keeping me sane.

That was going to be it for me. If she did that (and she'd done it before, so there was precedent), I was going to fucking kill myself.

So I locked her out of my room that night and tried to get a good night's rest in preparation for what would have to happen in order for me to survive.

At about 4 in the morning the next day, I packed up everything that i could carry and i walked out the door.

Every single thing I have been through since that day has been worth it to get out of that hell. I am still homeless over a year later and the only thing I wish I did different was to leave sooner and prepare better. Maybe get a nice duffel bag and do my laundry first instead of hauling all my dirty clothes in trash bags. I could've saved myself a lot of trouble by getting my documents together beforehand.

anyways. Befoer I came out as trans and not a mormon, my mother seemed fully supportive - or at least, like she was supporting me as much as she was capable of doing.

Afterwards? She never looked at me the same way again.

And so I have to wonder how two changes to my identity and lifestyle could wrench her away from kindness like that. How they could possibly cause such a significant change in how she treated me.

Here's the working theory.

Mormons prey on vulnerable people. Their missionaries are literally told to seek out the meek and weary and poor to "give them rest." This is also how they bring people back - they find out which inactive members are struggling without their safety net (which they often remove for the sin of inactivity/deconversion/etc) and those are the ones that they grasp at to try and bring back. Those are the ones that they reach out to, that they check in on.

So, how better to take advantage of someone's vulnerability than to make them vulnerable yourself? How better to make them vulnerable than to take away all of their safety nets? How better to tear them from their sin than to tear their sinful friends from them?

How better to break an apostate than to back them into a corner and bring in the walls? How better to turn someone towards your god than to give them no other choice except to be crushed?

And if they'd rather die than return to Jesus, well, then, at least you're sending them straight to the afterlife. Then they'll HAVE to see the truth. Then they'll HAVE to repent.

After all, all my mother needs to do to keep our family together forever is to keep me righteous. She already gave me a body. What loss is the rest of my life compared to the rest of eternity?

Better to die young than to live in sin. Better to be forced to come to Jesus than to choose to live free of him.

She wasn't a bumbling fool incapable of listening to me when I told her she was hurting me. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She abused me, TORTURED me, entirely on purpose. Entirely for the purpose of bringing me back to her god.

I have been tortured. I have experienced psychological torture. I probably have fucking brain damage from said psychological torture.

https://solitarywatch.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/SW-Fact-Sheet-5-Neurological-Effects-v230613.pdf

So, all that said, is it any wonder that I thought the streets would be better? Is it any wonder that I never want to see her again unless it's to use her grave as a gender neutral bathroom?

She nearly killed me. I think that was an acceptable outcome to her, too.

Certainly, the last thing she expected was for me to put my back to one wall and my feet to another and clamber out of that trap she made. Should've put a roof on it, I guess.

Anyways. If it seems like I've been less online/chipper than usual, it's because I've spent the past week coming to terms with this shit.

I love you all so, so much. Thanks for being there for me. Here's to staying alive; to escaping the trap; to finding our own families and leaving our abusers behind in the dust.

Here's to all of you. Y'all were worth the trouble of being homeless, easily.

#byrd chirps #byrd's business #cw abuse #cw torture #cw captivity #cw isolation #cw cults #cw cult abuse #cw religion #cw religious trauma #exmo #exmormon #byrd is an exmo #cw ableist language #cw self harm mention #cw suicidal ideation #cw psych ward #okay to rb #cw homelessness #oh and this isn't even mentioning that they pulled the money card after that psych ward visit #literally they were like #'okay sweetie we're gonna pay for it this time but Next Time this happens you need to Show Some Responsibility and pay for it yourself'#which was the tipping point for me realizing that me not making it out of there alive was a perfectly acceptable option to them #because i know them and they may be stupid #but they're not stupid enough to believe that forcing me to pay for my psych ward visits would keep me from needing the psych ward #mind you these people are affording rent on a very nice 4 bedroom suburban house #and they keep fucking guilting me about how much money i'm costing them?#anyways. it was fucked up.#the worst part is i honestly think the lack of acceptance was more painful than the social isolation #if they hadn't isolated me i still don't know if i would've been able to tolerate their transphobia

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enderlordisadumbusername · 2 months

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gexplodergirl (spinch hbomberguy): so it turns out that sparklecare hospital is a fucking torturehouse you're not allowed to leave. this whole time cuddles has been framed as this amazing doctor when he's actually fucking satan... what the fuck

#sparklecare #hbomberguy #shitpost #meme #god i did not get his mannerisms down in the slightest #cw torture #torture #mention of torture #medical abuse

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scratchandplaster · 8 months

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Stack The Deck - Fair-weather company

CW: corny behavior, suggestive language, PTSD, aftermath of torture and injury, medical whump, mention of self harm, hand whump

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The taste of cheap liquor still stuck to the roof of their mouths, and with the streetlights already guiding the way, they could stumble freely onto the driveway. Hardly trying to keep her laughter down, Amber unlocked the front gate of the massive family home and let the cold spring breeze follow them.

Her escort was close behind her when she stepped over the doorway, hands still clutching onto her bags. As always, they had swiped a lot more food from her friend's house party than intended, but that turned out to be his favorite part of the night.

"You good?" she slurred while turning around to meet him.

With a gentle push of his foot, Elliot let the door fall back into place: "Yup, I'm just gonna say hello real quick and get going. I got practice tomorrow morning."

This would be a terrible first impression, but better than bluntly running through a house he didn't belong in.

"My parents aren't home tonight," she disclosed, the news echoing through the foyer, "So no rush. The party doesn't have to stop."

Elliot knew that glance well enough, the one he got at family reunions. Or birthdays. Or funerals, for some tasteless reason.

"Oh come on, not when I'm half-shitfaced!" A tired huff was all he could muster as she grabbed him by his hands to lead.

"Please, baby..."

With that, he was dragged through the hall past the coat rack and over to an upright brown piano at the back of the living room. The simple white decorations didn't divert him from noticing how this room, apparently only existing for a couch and TV, was nearly big enough to fit his whole apartment.

"Still a no," he tried to mumble, only to be excitedly interrupted.

"Pleasepleaseplease!" sparkling eyes begged without ever losing contact, "You didn't want to do it at Rhys' place, it's just us now."

Amber hugged his waist tight, holding him close for a minute. Elliot knew what she wanted and also how it would end: with her winning, like she always did.

"Alright, alright," he pressed a quick kiss on top of her head. "But only one!"

Kicking his shoes off at the carpet's edge, Amber made him sit down on a dusty velvet stool to warm up to the old box. Elliot thought about playing some ethereal overture, an hour-long session that would only impress his conductor; or maybe the Faerie's Aire...

Let's hope I still got that ready on call.

Through his tipsy courage, he remembered a gift he prepared weeks ago, before their first big fight-

Why not, actually?!

Slender fingers pressed carefully down on the black and white keys, forcing the first notes of the evening out from the mahogany.

"I know you like this one. I had to secretly google the lyrics first, though," he admitted through a whisper.

A few wayward sounds proved what he had already worried about: that thing hadn't been tuned in forever. What a waste of art in this suburban ivory tower.

"But you know I can't sing for shit, so save your jokes for later. And if Sahra ever gets wind of this, she will not let me live it down," Elliot continued to sigh dramatically, "I mean, should I flop at the next auditions, maybe they can use me as a choir boy instead."

"You would get one of those pretty white robes, so think about it!" Amber too settled down on behind him, arms wrapped in sequin rested around his neck.

"You'll definitely need a safeword when this gets too sappy."

His hands practically danced from left to right now, filling the whole room with bone-deep warmth.

"How about something creative; like: Please, Elli, stop! My ears are bleeding!"

An amused scoff was everything she earned and unable to hide his smirk, Elliot cleared his throat one last time. As the familiar melody began to match the gentle hum in the back of her sweetheart's chest, Amber got more than she bargained for:

"True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree

A willow dancing on air before covering me

Under cotton and calicoes

Over canopy dapple long ago"

Elliot must've had a few more drinks than expected, she wondered, giving how calmly he let the words bubble from his lips; usually she had to press up against the bathroom door to catch a taste of it.

"Must be felled for to fight the cold

I fretted fire, but that was long ago"

With a sudden spark, the pace picked up intensity, fingertips now slamming out the melodies from inside the wooden frame.

"And it's not tonight

Where I'm set alight

And I blink in sight

Of your blinding light"

How lucky could a girl like her be?

"Oh, it's not tonight

Where you hold me tight

Light the fire bright

Oh, let it blaze, alright"

To meet someone like this?

"Oh, but you're good to me

Oh, you're good to me

Oh, but you're good to me, baby"

To wake up with hands around her shoulders, holding her close. Not on her chest, ass or in between her legs. No hard, needy pressure rubbing against her back.

"With each love I cut loose, I was never the same

Watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame

I was fixed on your hand of gold

Laying waste to my lovin' long ago"

No, he never used her like this - even when she asked him to.

"So in awe, there I stood as you licked off the grain

Though I've handled the wood, I still worship the flame

Long as amber of ember glows

All the would that I'd loved is long ago"

The drone of the strings still reverberated deep inside them, as the last echo died down somewhere between these walls.

Meanwhile, Elliot was grinning like an idiot because of the puns and if not for free video tutorials, he would've missed out on this inviting opportunity. He really overdid it with the shots this time, even made him miss some dazed notes, but he couldn't say no to a shot of Apple Pie.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the glimpse of a teared-up Amber. Her head rested on his shoulder, shaky hands petting his back.

"That terrible? Oh god," he whispered against her hairline with a small chuckle. She dyed it honey-yellow this week, very pretty, like always.

"Shut up." Amber kissed a line down his neck.

He hoped the embrace they were caught in would last forever. It did, for a moment, until they both noticed a shape leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.

"Cute," Chase nodded, munching on his midnight snack of dry high-protein cereal, "if that didn't make you wet, I don't know what will!"

Lovely like always.

"You're so fucking gross," Amber hollered with an earring in hand, ready to be thrown. "No wonder that Taylor didn't screw you without getting paid first. Piss off!"

Elliot decided not to get in between the twins when they were... mediating. God knows he never had to bother fighting any sibling off, but all they got was the dirty "Make me, bitch!" Chase made on his way upstairs anyway.

Public Amber was back, it seemed. Not that she wasn't herself when they had company, just... different. Elliot wondered when he would get used to it.

Walking back to him, she let the grained lid lower itself down onto the keys: "Should've eaten him in the womb, honestly."

Besides her irritated huffing, one question remained, though: "Can you stay? I don't want to be alone tonight."

Of course he did, but the only downside threatened to ruin this too.

"Practice?"

Amber melted into the hands that slowly stroked over her forearms: "I wake you up, promise!"

As if that ever worked before.

"Okay then," he blinked towards the full bags that still leaned against the door frame, "just need to get this into the fridge first."

If it meant he would always be like this for her, Amber could wait for him. And if she let herself be herself with him, Elliot could learn to love all her other sides too. Together.

Always.

---

"Mr. Ribera?"

"Mhh?"

"Are you still with me? Just this exercise and you're done for today."

"Yeah, sorry..."

The off-white walls of the hospital room had grown homelike during the weeks he spent in and out of feverish delirium. Fahim from OT, more than an angel in his turquoise scrubs, patiently let his pen rest on the clipboard. He had been here every day since the fog inside his head had lifted, but today, Elliot wasn't sure if he liked the company.

Sitting together at a small table, only a bit of equipment and a glass of water between them, this suddenly seemed too familiar in the worst way possible.

Yes, he needed the exercise, be it a walk around the corridors or a quick game of catch, but after all the training, he knew he was still where he started. And Fahim seemed to finally recognize this too.

Elliot had offered to be on a first-name basis, but even after agreeing to it, the OT was too polite for his own good. Elliot could try to read the annotations that waited to be shared with the doctors and nurses, long upside-down medical babble was all he could make out right now, ready to be filed.

Did he really want to know what it said?

The sudden beep of monitors around them reminded of the fact that he was still wired up like the Christmas tree in the foyer, just less joyous. The tube of a catheter snaked up to his left collarbone, making Elliot accessible for whatever they wanted to shoot him up with. Liquid relief, if only for a few hours. He didn't press the friendly red button at his bedside often enough, especially not before therapy, to not alienate the outcome, Fahim insisted.

And why not so? He already hit rock bottom.

"Let's go, then," Elliot said, and his voice cracked weakly.

"Okay!" Fahim quickly picked up and let his attention rest on the board between them; nine holes in it, waiting for the unlucky patient to fill them up.

"Now I’d like you to switch and use your left hand. You can use your other to stabilize the board. Ready?"

Only one at a time and neatly placed, surely. How thrilling my life is.

"Same order as last time?"

"Exactly. Whenever you're ready." With his thumb steady on the stopwatch, Fahim waited for Elliot's left to start moving. It was still wrapped up in tidy white gauze but left his fingers free to move. His first three ones, that was, the rest stayed tightly screwed together.

At the click of the watch, Elliot had already picked up a peg between his thumb and pointer finger to carefully maneuver upright into the first hole. With this one placed securely down, the second made his whole forearm shake so badly, it nearly slipped out of his grasp in the first few seconds. With the iron grip back, the always present burning decided to let itself surface from under the chemically induced numbness. Quicker than anticipated, the flare shot up from his hand all the way to his neck, meeting where the thin plastic tube had been shoved in.

His face was on fire now too, from pain or humiliation, he couldn't tell. The white-hot prickle gouged itself deeper and deeper into his flesh, dancing around the wires that held the bones in place, making Elliot feel them straining the tight stitches ever so horribly. A pressure that didn't belong inside him.

The wooden peg fell down onto the board, rolling back towards its box.

"Take your time."

He despised Fahim for these calming words and hated himself instantly for it. The poor man was doing his job, wasn't his fault that Elliot was as strong as a bundle of lettuce.

Despite all efforts, he couldn't get a grasp on that little stick again and with another click of the timer, this chance was officially over.

The therapist gave him a reassuring smile, just as empty as his words: "Great work, I think you can rest for today."

I performed Beethoven, you know?

Enjoying his prescribed rest, he watched Fahim move the pen on the paper, probably documenting every failure of the day. A peek could do non harm, Elliot supposed. He thought of how his music teacher made him play with the sheets turned upside-down, as a fun warm-up. What a cruel blessing this turned out to be.

Thumb opposition (✔, Kapandji 6)

Inferior+superior pincer grasp (✔)

Radial palmar grasp (✔)

Closure of fist (✗)

9HPT: r= trial 1 (16s), trial 2 (14s), l= trial 1 (✗ after 120s). Elliot could make out a big thunderbolt scribbled behind that, probably the first note he understood. Weakness, P unable to complete trial due to physical limitations.

Physical limitations. That sounded so nice; much more harmless than molten iron running down his arm and turning to ants under his fingertips.

"Let's try that again soon," Fahim finally looked back up to collect the arsenal of tools and elastic bands, "until then you need to take your walks and train your hand." His head bopped toward a small foam ball on his bedside table. Elliot had stomped on it a few times, to give it that well-used look the therapist needed to see.

"How long will it take?" he mumbled with a thin smirk on his lips.

"My colleague will be here tomorrow, so-"

"No, sorry. I mean...how long will it take?"

As he leaned back into his chair, Fahim was visibly trying to hold back a sigh, his ink-black beard rustling against the hospital's uniform. He let his view rest on Elliot for what felt like the longest five seconds of his life, warm and patient. Elliot hoped he wasn't a 10 on the annoying-patient-scale, but he just had to know-

"One day at a time."

Yeah, they were definitely on the same page now.

"Thanks for your time," Elliot tried to sound at least a little bit motivated as he walked with him as far as the tubes allowed, "See you on Monday."

--------

The first thing Elliot remembered was screaming at the doctors. How they had gotten him into the hospital was lost to the feverish heat of the first week, just as any questions or treatments he endured. Thank god he kept his stupid mouth shut, even though that didn't stop anyone from asking over and over again.

Elliot hadn't been lucid enough for a good enough excuse, so none ever made it across his lips, he didn't own that cheap lie to anyone. Any injury had to be self-inflicted then, more or less officially because nobody intended to get the police further involved. Too much paperwork, they had whispered.

Now, everybody knew it was his fault; that's what they believed, and he didn't intend to convince anyone of the opposite.

Elliot's mother had told him about how terribly he lost it when they brought him in for the first surgery. Embarrassing, really, but he couldn't think of what he went on about or why he would ever be so aggressive.

They treated him to some extra medicine, making him stay quiet for even longer. He recognized that weirdly trusted feeling after a while: whatever had kept him down during his time in that crack house bathroom was also flowing into him with a press of a button, conveniently placed in reach.

He was behaving himself since, of course, after that aimless fury got out of his system. They gave him a splint and biweekly counseling and OT... as a treat, he supposed.

The man in the bed to his right went home after a day, "Just carpal tunnel," he said with an apologetic smile.

Elliot was alone again, only surrounded by an ocean of flowers with some cards swimming in between:

"Get well soon!"

"All the best! "

"Visit Fleming Beach!" Huh?

In the short time living on his own, he wasn't able to make many friends around town; his parents visited nearly every day, but that only made it harder. Between her shifts, Elliot's futility had practically forced his mom to pack up everything on her own: the ultimate offense to the woman who had nothing but helped him.

They were all safe now, but somehow the relief about dodging his worst fear didn't show itself. It was just pain now, every day for every minute.

Two more weeks in here, according to the latest prognosis, and then straight into the unknown. Ambulant rehabilitation maybe, workplace retraining - something like that.

Alone again, until another blood sample or change of dressing became necessary.

Couldn't it have been something else? Elliot would rather be living with his ankle smashed to pieces... or skull, he didn't use its contents anyway, right? Otherwise, he wouldn't be in that fucking bed with a piss bottle on its side.

How much healing to get his life back?

It would only get harder from here on out, that's for sure; although he didn't have to feel all of this right now, therapy was over. So Elliot pressed the big red button down, letting the rush of numbness take him away, if only for a moment.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername, @canislycaon24

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alex51324 · 2 years

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Dead dove, do not eat

Here’s an idea for an Izzy fic that I’m not writing, because it is super-fucked up and being in the headspace necessary to write it, for long enough to write, it would be Bad For Me, but have been thinking about a lot.

It’s season 2 (or post-season 2, whatever); Ed and Stede have made up and begun their happily ever after, and Ed goes to Izzy and is like, “You’re miserable on this ship, and we’re toxic for each other/have grown apart, so here, take the Queen Anne and the Blackbeard name and do your own thing. I wish you well, & if we bump into each other again we should have a drink, but parting ways is obviously best for both of us.”

It’s a beautiful, heartfelt speech, probably incorporating some material about how Ed understands how Izzy feels about him, and he appreciates it even though he doesn’t feel the same way, and yeah, maybe he sometimes played off of Izzy’s feelings to get him to do stuff, which was a dick move of him, but he does genuinely value Izzy’s devotion for him, however, Izzy will be a lot happier if he can find somebody to give all that to who actually feels it back.

And then Izzy is just, like, “No.”

Ed: “What?”

Izzy: “No. You promised that if I was loyal to you, I would be your First Mate forever, and forever ain’t up yet. I’m not going anywhere. Fuck the Queen Anne, fuck Blackbeard, fuck Bonnet; if you want me to leave your side, you’ll have to kill me.

Ed: Izzy, come on, man. You’re being weird.

Izzy: You fucking promised!

And then he pulls the receipts on exactly when Ed made this promise and what they said, and Ed is like, OK, yeah, I remember that interaction, but. Dude. Have you ever heard of hyperbole?

Izzy is losing his shit because Ed is saying that this solemn vow that he’s structured his entire life around didn’t mean anything, and he’s just yelling about how Ed promised and he (Izzy) swore an oath and Ed can’t just throw that away.

By now the whole crew has shown up to gawk, because Izzy is making a huge scene, and then someone (like 90% sure it’s Buttons) says, “Oh, Captain, I see what’s happened here. When a (mythological creature I’d have to research or make up) makes an oath of loyalty to a mortal man, they are bound forever, for the (creature) gains a human soul and will accompany the mortal to his eternal destination.”

(There’s a lot more behind the cut; please be aware that it gets much more fucked up. It’s theoretically possible that a story could go in a fluffy direction from here, but this is not that story.)

Ed: Izzy isn’t a (creature). (lengthy pause, turns to Izzy.) Are you?

Izzy: (says absolutely nothing)

Buttons: If ye spurn him, Captain, he’ll have no choice but to seek you for the rest of his days. He’s no life of his own, ye ken, now you’ve given him a soul.

Izzy: He’s right. If you leave me somewhere, I’ll come after you. If you beat me and abandon me, I’ll come after you as soon as I have the strength to stand. If you cut off my legs, I’ll crawl. If you cut off all of my limbs, I’ll drag myself along with my tongue.

Ed: Mate, do you hear how unhinged you sound?

Izzy: If you want to get rid of me, you’ll have to kill me. With your own hands.

Buttons: Aye, but Cap’n, if you do that, the soul you granted him will perish as well--and, some say, your own along with it.

Ed: Izzy, you are a human being. (he looks to Izzy for either conformation or contradiction, and gets neither) I hear you saying that you don’t want to leave, but you’ll be fine. Stop being--whatever this is. It’s honestly gross and kind of scary.

And Izzy is like, OK, fine, if you don’t want me here that badly, kill me. If you don’t kill me, I belong here. Those are the options that exist. Pick one.

There is a lengthy stalemate over this, lasting several chapters. In the somewhat-less-fucked-up version, they keep leaving Izzy places (ports, random islands, dinghies in the middle of the ocean, etc.) in various ways (drunk, drugged, tied up, arrested, etc.) and he keeps coming back. In the even-more-fucked-up version, Ed tries increasingly extreme measures to make “with him” a place that Izzy doesn’t want to be, ending up with outright torture.

The longer it goes on, the more of the crew become convinced that Buttons’s explanation for the situation has to be right, for Izzy not to have left. (In the more-fucked-up version, they aren’t fully aware of exactly what Ed’s doing, but they know it’s pretty bad.) Some of them are collecting lore about (whatever type of creature they’ve decided Izzy is), and keep offering Ed suggestions for how to manage him that is this increasingly obvious and frankly disgusting cruelty. The situation is obviously uncomfortable; no one want their ex hanging around being creepy while they’re setting up housekeeping with their new partner, but Ed was the one who made a soul-pact with a (whatever); and Izzy can’t help being one.

And here’s the really fucked up part: Eventually, it works. Izzy wins.

Ed un-chains him from the torture wall and treats his wounds and gives him something to eat and his clothes back, and once Izzy’s reasonably alert, he’s like, “Iz, I really, really, really need you to understand that none of this was a test; I genuinely and sincerely think that you could be happy if you just left and got over me, and I do not believe the soul-pact-thing, because it’s crazy. But. I can’t keep doing this. And I can’t kill you, so if there’s nothing I can do to persuade you to leave, the only option left is to keep you here and try to love you.”

And then he does. (I told you it was fucked up.) Ed puts as much effort into nursing Izzy back to health as he did to driving him away, and Izzy is slowly tamed from being a snarling, beaten, half-starved junkyard dog chained to the wall (which he always was, even before Ed actually chained him to the wall) into a cherished lap-dog. He eats out of Ed’s hands, and sleeps curled up at the foot of Ed’s side of the bed. He’s very clearly Ed’s, but he learns accept treats and pets from Stede, too. Gradually, he’s allowed to take back some of his old duties, and he’s happy.

The crew can see it: he’s calm, he’s pleasant to them, he’s goopily affectionate with Ed. Buttons and the others who have appointed themselves experts on (whatever they think Izzy is) point out that this is what you’d expect from a (whatever) that is being properly cared for, and pretty much proves that he’s a (whatever).

(Maybe one member of the crew has heard of Ye Olde Stockholm Syndrome, and tries to say so, but no one pays much attention.)

And--this is important--the story includes equal amounts of evidence that Izzy actually is a (whatever) versus that he is a human being with severe mental health problems. Is it a fairy tale with a happy ending for mythological!creature Izzy, who is finally getting what he needs, or a tragedy of two co-dependency gone metastatic, in which two people lock themselves into an ever-tightening spiral of mutual abuse, until they both, miraculously, crack in exactly the right way to decide they like it?

We never find out. We never get the mental closure of knowing whether what we just read was a gourmet meal or a bag of rotting trash from the dumpster. Is our enjoyment of the torture scenes retroactively sanitized by them being necessary-but-unpleasant steps on the path to redemption, or are we monsters for fapping to two men’s descent into madness? No one can say*.

(*Except, of course, for how it’s fictional either way, so there isn’t any genuine moral weight to enjoying it even if it is a thing that would be horrible-if-real.)

#izzy hands #fic I'm not writing #dead dove do not eat #cw: torture mention #cw: mutilation mention #cw: mindfuck #cw:#abusive relationship #the other reason I'm not writing it #is that I'm honestly not good enough #to pull it off #but mostly it's the headspace thing

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