#cw medical abuse

[absolutechaosss]

Something I've been thinking about a lot lately is how elves are shown to handle grief and trauma and how that relates to Mithruns character.

The Canaries care for Mithrun is mostly well intentioned. They legitimately like him! But it is also kind of terrible at times? Most of their care is focused on the Bare Minimum that keeps him alive and his care and comfort isn't really considered because well...to them, he's not capable of understanding it anymore.

We know this because Kabru is assigned as his care taker and Lycion comments that his hair is shinier. This means even in the stressful survival situation of the dungeon with Kabrus terrible cooking and scavenged meals, he is physically healthier than he was with the canaries.

I think it's relevant Kabru was the one to care for Mithrun this way and the one eventually realize he can be capable of new desire because Kabru is intimately familiar with how elves treat trauma. Not only was he a traumatized child but I think the most important parallel here is actually Rin.

If you haven't read her section in the Adventurers Bible, Rin is also a sole survivor of a tragic event and was taken into elven custody. She is catatonic and deeply deeply traumatized. And the elves handle it *terribly*. She's treated as goods or as an animal and she's shown to be unresponsive and not able to speak. Her recovery is directly linked to her meeting Kabru when he's brought in to help her.

Rin and Mithrun are opposites in elven society. Rin is barely a person, Mithrun isn't only an elf, but a prestigious and wealthy one. But both are survivors of horrific circumstances that hurt their ability to care for themselves and perform daily activities. And for both, it's pretty clear that it was assumed that this would become their fixed state, one where care and gentleness was pointless, because they had lost the faculties to process it.

Anyway I guess I wonder if years later when Kabru hears Mithruns story and how his condition is incurable and thus denies him personhood he thought of his. I wonder how much more quickly Mithrun may have been able to adapt to his circumstances if he wasn't told he was "broken". To me at least, Mithrun was always able to react to new things and adapt, but if everyone in the world is acting like you're basically dead and unable to ever do anything than be a weapon again yeah why wouldn't you assume that. No, I don't think Mithrun will ever be back to his former self and have all his desires back but he is able to carve out space for himself so quickly with Kabru, compared to his extensive and leas effective initial recovery with the elves. Perhaps this too is an area where their lifespans hinder them as they assume 20 years is a totally normal recovery period so why would they need to try more.

[rottenpumpkin13]

I feel like being angsty. And since you mentioned crate training earlier, how do you think that went with Sephiroth when he was growing up before Rhadore? I'd imagine that Hojo did a number on him back when he was still young and vulnerable. But would Hojo risk the health and safety of what is essentially the most endangered species on Gaia just to be THAT much of an abusive asshole? There's only so much abject misery a small child can physically take. Was Hojo capable of showing mercy?

Hojo once said "Better to scar the mind than mar the flesh" when talking about Aerith, and that perfectly encapsulates how he treats the specimens he finds physically valuable, but wants to bend into submission. There's no way he didn't test Sephiroth's physical limits when he was still very young, learning exactly how far he could push him and to what extent.

This is what involved the significant experimentation and pain, which is where the medical abuse came in (if square makes this canon I'll combust).

I think Hojo tested Sephiroth's endurance and inflicted pain to conduct further tests, but never aimed for physical abuse that would "scar the flesh" because he viewed Sephiroth as something precious that he couldn't risk harming too much. But it's in the way a scientist views his most prized, successful experiment—one he owns, not in a fatherly way. What makes it tragic is how closely these two povs intertwine 🫠 ANYWAY.

I think he used of a form of psychological conditioning (abuse, in this case) similar to crate training, keeping everything within the boundaries of what Sephiroth could endure. He controlled aspects of Sephiroth's life, like how long he could go without food or water to test his limits. By confining Sephiroth and regulating every aspect of his existence—food, water, bathroom breaks, sleep, etc—Hojo could've easily bent Sephiroth into submission.

Food Control: Restricting access to food would lead to hunger, making him more compliant out of desperation. The tragic part is that Sephiroth's Jenova cells give him an incredible capacity to go without food, water, and sleep (see: Nibelheim). Just imagine how long that poor child must've gone without food/ water at a time.

Sleep Deprivation: Limiting sleep would cause fatigue, confusion, weaken his will and ability to resist, which would effectively make him easier to influence.

Isolation: Confining him to a small room deprived him of human interaction and likely exacerbated feelings of loneliness that were already there. This would cause him to become more helpless and eventually dependant on Hojo. DEPENDANT ON HOJO.

Bathroom Restrictions: I don't even want to touch this one, you get the picture. Think losing further control of his own body.

Positive reinforcement: I think I mentioned this in the other post, but in crate training, they give dogs a reward, something to encourage the behavior the trainer wants and to make compliance easy. This would work well on Sephiroth given how it's clear he deprived him of comfort, but I think what Hojo "rewarded" Sephiroth was the locket with Lucrecia's photo. Although now that I think about it, if this is the case, it's really unlikely he gave it to him out of nowhere. Sephiroth would have had to work for it.

I'm now even more depressed, thanks Alto 😂

Honestly even if Hojo was able of showing mercy to other people, children, his own child, he didn't see Sephiroth like that. He wasn't a son. He wasn't a person. He ingrained it into Sephiroth's head that he was nothing more than a weapon for Shinra, a lap dog as Genesis would later put it. And where do you put dogs? Right here:

[velvetvexations]

I’m not saying that perisex trans people get anything but assigned but holy shit I’m sorry we were not SURGICALLY OPERATED ON AS NEWBORNS. Hey at the risk of sounding absurd fucking apparently yeah I do think there should be a separate term for that kind of shit. How the fuck does that commenter (that woman, so I’m not degendering) not think so

I continue to believe that transradfems have zero knowledge of what being intersex even is

[doomspaniels]

Folks

Gwyn's at the specialist

Tristan's Fetch and Tug Buddy carted her out of town so we could get her in sooner, try to figure this intermittent pain out, try to see why her bloodwork is Not Quite Right

and the specialist

thinks it's BEHAVIORAL.

🎉Behavioral🎉

Behavioral fake pain. Because it "shouldn't come and go."

She's a DOG.

This is her pain (the video I took as I was trying to determine where exactly it hurts, the pain is at her right side, last few ribs). Sound on.

[8-rae-rae-8]

City of Ashes - (1/1)

Summary:

SilverV weekend, prompt: Separation / Weakness

They made it. Both of them. Fifty feet apart in two hospital beds. Johnny can't recognize himself, but he can recognize the voice that calls for him.

[AO3] - 2.6k words

Read Below :)

They're a room apart.

It shouldn't be possible, everything said it shouldn't. Lines of code, declining health, and the goddamn relic he was packed into. They shouldn't be a room apart, let alone breathing, in separate bodies, fifty feet apart.

Is it selfish to want to go back to the way it had been….?

Cold, shaking hands hold onto the fabric of the thin, shitty blanket he had been provided in this horribly sleek hospital room. The sterile, white surroundings burn his eyes, every blink he's forcing away tears as he wakes. All he knows are the chills that wrack through him like he was nothing but a useless body on a shelf. Maybe he had been.

Out here, unprotected and painfully real, he can feel every bit of cold, every hit of pain that comes and goes. There's no IV drip by him, nothing hooked up to him for any sort of relief. No, there's nothing to soothe the ache and burn that seems to radiate throughout his entire body. Though, he guesses, he's not supposed to be comfortable here.

His head throbs as he barely barely manages to lift his head off the horrendous mattress. Splotches of red and black paint his vision the more he forces himself up. Maybe it's the haziness, but as each mark in his vision fades and is replaced elsewhere, he can just slightly see the state he's in. Rather, the body.

Cool metal leaves it's mark on his wrist. The wrist of the hand that's supposed to be metal. Through and through, it was supposed to be metal. Wiring here and there, something linking up his mind to the chrome. That's not his hand.

Over the pounding in his head, his thoughts run a mile a minute. And first conclusion he comes to, is that it didn't work. Of course that's the first thought. There's not even a monitor linked up to him to track the way his heart starts to beat out of his chest. It's wrong, everything screams that this reaction is wrong, but that doesn't stop the panic that spreads.

Where is V?

God, if this didn't work, if V was gone- Fuck, fuck, shut up.

If there was one thing his head was good at, it was screaming. Whether it be into a mic, at the people around him, or just at himself, it was always loud. Here, there were no drugs to take to shut it up, either.

When he and V got here, they both knew the chances of failure, and what would happen if they couldn't get the relic out… But, as much as he distrusted this goddamn corporation and it's rats, V trusted it, and Johnny trusted V. How fucked up is that? He followed where V went, like he was the one who wasn't shouting orders just a week ago. He trusted V more than himself, and that fucking said something, even if he'd never admit it. He doesn't succumb to weakness, nor guilt. That's not something Johnny Silverhand does—he can't.

In front of a court of law, he wouldn't let those words fall from his lips. He pleads not guilty to every charge, with a self-centered reason why something happened like that instead. The trail of bodies that followed him are just casualties, people who agreed to fight and die by his side. He can't be held accountable for it when every party signed away their right to breathe by entering Night City's grasp. The city claims souls, from men hopeful to get up the corporate ladder, to people just trying to find a dry place for the night.

He and V aren't so different from that, not when they scrounged for eddies and safety among each other. Two men who just wanted to be something, go out with a bang and never be forgotten, or live in the stars. People written into history books, feared or beloved among the masses. That's all they ever wanted. Insignificance wasn't an option.

Together, somehow, they were going to make it. Johnny thought they were going to make it. Hand in hand, minds intertwined in every way. But they're here, both further and closer than Johnny's mind can grasp.

Fear runs on loop in his mind, several trains running too close to each other and nearly missing each time one sped past on their tracks. It blurs his vision, like a mean high each time his head throbbed again. He doesn't get anxious, he swore by that for the longest time, but the more he sits here, and the colder he feels the metal digging into his wrist, the more it starts to ramp up. There's not another person to share the burden, no one to take it off his shoulders.

It's like ice against his skin, that metal he tugs over and over again. Each movement coming with a sharp ache he so desperately wants to ignore, just like the red splotches throughout his vision. It fucks up his vision beyond the tears threatening to fill his eyes. He can't make out the shining silver in the mess, but he can bend his hand just enough to feel exactly what is is. That takes but a second before he's bruising himself to get out.

Handcuffs secure one wrist to the bed, with the other cuff connected to a post on the railing of the bed. Every pull on the metal makes his skin burn, splitting the sensitive skin where his silver arm is supposed to be. Why? Why? He can pull as much as he wants, the amount of bruising doesn't matter. He's held there for a reason, whatever that may be… At the very least, that has to mean V's somewhere else. Is Johnny a danger to him? Is that why?

As his vision clears of the red and black marks, and his body struggles to do any more push and pull, Johnny lets his head fall back against the mattress. It's a painful kind of weak, restless with a screaming mind and he can do nothing but stare and hope, somewhere in his head that it's okay. He has to hope that V's okay.

It's all flushed away in an instant, however, when V's sharp voice is all that floods his ears. Loud, aggressive, scared. A jumble of words bounce off the walls, and through the wall separating the two of them. Each thing more clear than the last as V grows louder and louder. Incoherent words turn into threats, then simply yelling.

Yelling Johnny's name.

His stomach twists unbearably, bile burning at the walls of his throat the more he hears screaming. V is all he can hear. It's all his ears tune into. Not the shouting by anyone else, not the people attempting to shut V up. It's just V. It's always V.

"Johnny! You fuckin' hear me?!"

He does.

He hears him even if the sounds pelt his brain like hail, even if it hurts like hellfire. V's voice cracks on the harsh words, on Johnny's name, repeated over and over, and over again… If he lets his eyes close, he can imagine he's right there, wiping the tears from V's face—he doesn't have to think to know that his previous host is choking on his own cries. As much as V hid it before, he knows exactly the way his voice conveys everything his face doesn't. Flat and monotone to everyone else, but not to Johnny, never to Johnny. Just a few days in his head taught him every little thing V did.

Is it wrong to wish he was back in there, rather than here?

The shouts would quiet and they'd both be safe wrapped in each other's arms, not so very far. They're alive, goddammit, but Johnny would rather be anywhere else. It's cold here, everything with a terrifying sheen of unfamiliar. Had he told V no, if they turned back around, he wouldn't hearing pleading—begging—for him. It would be okay if they hadn't done all this… Johnny would be safely tucked in V's head, surrounded by warmth, not in this freezing cold, sterile room.

It's cruel. He's cuffed to the bed as if he's some kind of animal, a creature to be frightened by. Maybe he would be if his body would work, if he could just pick himself up or get out a single sound, he'd call for V's name the same way he did for Johnny. The most he can do is pull in strangled breaths that only send more pain throughout his weak frame.

Does V even know he's alive?

Does he know Johnny wants to shout for him too?

Instead, he'd stuck in this bed. Bound with chains and creeping agony. There's nowhere to go, all he can do is listen to sobs for him. Over and over… V doesn't let up, he pushes and pushes like he should. V fights because he's strong, his brain damaged beyond repair and yet he's the one fighting to get to Johnny. It should be the other way around. It should be Johnny screaming until his voice broke, like he did on stage.

If he made a sound, that meant he was alive. Every time he shouted into a microphone, it showed that he was alive. There was blood in his veins and his heart was pulsing in his ears. The crowds were always just as loud as him, filling whatever venue they managed to snag for the night with liveliness, with heat and passion. They were alive.

He doesn't feel that so much now. In the cold, with only V's voice to tell him there's someone there, waiting for him. His skin is cold to the touch, each time his fist tightens with a wave of pain, there's no warmth to the grip. Any passion he had turns into the simple need to get out. Thinking is useless when all of his thoughts revolve around the same few things they had for the last week… V, and finally being out. He has to run somewhere different now, but no amount of tugging at the cuffs release his hand and he's too weak to keep trying.

Johnny Silverhand, reduced to a weak, frail body without so much as a glass of water at his bedside. No one to accompany him when he had woken up, he wasn't there for V, either. These cuffs have to be punishment for something.

The shouting voices go from the room next to his, to the hallway by them. Never once does V falter—Johnny would applaud him for it if he could bring himself to pick up his other hand; all it does is send sharp waves of pain through his muscles—not beyond his voice cracking and the desperate gasps Johnny knows are the cause of the moments V goes silent.

The seal to the door breaks with a hiss of air and a sigh of relief sits at the back of his throat, for just a minute. He uses what of his strength that he has to push himself against the head of the bed and lift himself up, eyes scanning to see who would walk in.

It's not V. Of course not…

Though, he can see the outline of his shoulders—hands grabbing harshly onto him, pulling him back. Everything he can see of V's body says fear, while the slightest view of his face shows anger. Relief was so close, V is right there.

A man in a white medical outfit walked in instead of V, his V. His head spins the more he stays in this upright position, but he grits his teeth and stares out to the person—doctor?—coming to his bedside. Words are quietly muttered to him, but don't make it to Johnny's ears over the yelling. V yells for him. Why can't he just see him? He's ten feet away, why can't V come in?

Really, he should be tracking the man who stands painfully close to him, but all his eyes see is the way V's hands keep reaching to, and slipping from, the door frame. Barely coherent wails falling from the man's lips. What has Johnny done that's so wrong to keep V away like this? He's not dangerous. He can barely hold his head up.

"Johnny!"

God, he wishes he could make a sound. Wide eyes stare to at door, uncaring as a hand squeezes his bruising wrist. V is right there. Make a fucking sound for the love of god- He can't. At the most, his adam's apple bobs in his throat and he only whimpers loud enough for the man next to him to hear, not V.

"Your friend talks a lot…" He can barely make out the words over V's useless shouting. The doctor speaks in a low tone, one Johnny wants to shrink away from. It promises hurt. He knows that kind of gravelly voice well. "Do you know why you're here?" Is this some kind of checkup, or a threat without the gun to his head?

Johnny's eyes never leave the doorway where V keeps trying to push into the room. Adrenaline is a hell of a chemical, how's V even standing when Johnny can't do so much as lift himself up off the mattress the rest of the way. Nodding his head feels like it takes an entire weeks worth of energy.

"Then you know why you can't see him, yes?"

No.

With that, his gaze immediately comes to the man towering over his bedside. Why wouldn't he be able to? His chest tightens with every breath, staring harshly up at the doctor. What has he done this time? Existed? Survived? Their agreement was that he and V would be together when they woke up, if everything went smoothly. He can only imagine whats going through V's head.

"You're a terrorist, Silverhand… Fifty years in Mikoshi wasn't enough for you to forget, right?"

How does it boil down to that? He served his time, while getting his head fucked with and memories erased, even altered to the point of not knowing reality from what his head told him. When he was alive the first time, he had the excuse of The Hand, of cyberpsychosis, for everything he didn't remember. Now, he knows everything isn't the way he remembers at all, from Alt and Rogue. Hell, from Kerry too. Mikoshi isn't an excuse if he can't prove what he did, or didn't do.

He's too weak to fight, but a growl rumbles in his chest the closer the doctor began to lean down to him. His unbound hand pulls up closer to his chest, as if to prepare for a hit he knows could happen. It's clumsy, unsteady, but he holds onto the fabric of the shirt he's dressed in. The same white as everyone else's clothes in this god forsaken place, uncomfortable and borderline painful.

"You aren't leaving here, and you aren't seeing V again."

Johnny wants to slap the bastard's smug look off his face, but all he can do is stare with widened eyes. They can't take V away from him. They can't. After everything, they can't take them away from each other.

"Johnny, c'mon-! Johnny!!"

The sound of something hitting metal is the last thing he hears before silence falls over the room. Clothes shuffle just outside the room, and Johnny can just make out a figure grabbing V by the shirt to sling him over their shoulder. His stomach sinks, bile sits at the back of his mouth…

They're taking V away from him.

[januscorner]

Medical abuse and the historical treatment of disabled people is so funny!/sarc

But seriously fuck lobotomy jokes

[drac-kool-aid]

Seward going "oops, I've committed medical malpractice by taking my personal feelings out on my patients" is somehow more aware than some modern doctors. That isn't a glowing recommendation for either party tbh.

[immediatebreakfast]

The relationship between Dracula the novel, and its telling of ableism around the characters is a rather complex issue that stems from both the narrative itself, and the framing of said ableism when applied to a character.

The book has gone on lenght to describe, and establish the power dynamic, the tension, and the interactions between Seward and Renfield in way that is clearly uncomfortable.

The illusions of Seward clinging to Renfield's status as a patient to defend a treatment that clearly puts the old man in the category of test subject. Renfield's performative words and actions towards Seward (that he knows will work) are painted as unsettling not only thanks to the internal ableism of the novel, but also to put Seward in a spot of morality in his profession at the cost of Renfield's treatment as a human being.

Remember that regarding Renfield's motives for his actions, Seward is at best drawing the wrong conclusions from them, and at worst turning into an unrealiable narrator to fit the version of Renfield that he has in his head. This gets worse when you add Seward's problems with sleeping, and depression.

The difference is that Renfield, despite his plans and his manipulations, at the end of the day is a mentality ill old man who is vulnerable. Even if Seward's unethical treatment si something that Renfield has known from the beginning, and sadly knows the exact consequences of it. He is human, and there is a point where we can't take it anymore.

"Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it."

Narrative wise, it seems that Seward has dropped the pretense of convincing himself about how Renfield is a patient that he must treat, and instead Renfield is a test subject that he needs to observe.

Even if Jack said before how he wouldn't cross the line of feeding into Renfield's dellusions to study him, it was more to convince himself to not do it. That was also a time when Renfield was actively performing, and keeping afloat the power dynamic between to get a few pieces of freedom. So maybe Seward felt more comfortable in keeping that "line" when he perceived Renfield as a more (ugh) illogical madman that at least knew his "place" in their dynamic.

If Renfield now "sees" him as an equal, as a mere person entrusted with his care, then Seward has to admit to himself that his diagnosis, and theory about Renfield is wrong. That he observed, but did not process anything.

But now that Renfield has been "acting out" of the established dynamic, along with Seward's own depression taking a hold on his biases within the system of doctor-patient? If the constant use of restraining jackets, and a padded room says something, it's something that is not pretty.

[spider-xan]

(Mem., under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap.

The Latin and abbreviations Seward uses in the May 25 update may be difficult to understand, so I'm going to try and explain them:

Mem. - Memorandum, a note of a record for future reference.

Omnia Romæ venalia sunt - This would literally translate as 'All things of Rome are venal' or a little less literally as 'Everything in Rome is for sale', in the sense of everyone having a price they are willing to pay for corruption (ie. bribery), and the phrase comes from the Roman historian Sallust writing on the decline of the Roman Republic in the 1st century BCE; what Seward is asking here is what price would he be willing to pay to keep a patient to the point of madness, which he knows is cruel and not something he should or would usually do.

verb. sap. - Verbum sapienti (sat est), literally 'A word to the wise (is sufficient)', a notation meaning that an intelligent person would grasp the meaning of the previous words without further explanation.

[velvetvexations]

Honestly, that does seem like a lot of fun.

I mean if we can call non-binary people slurs to test their allyship surely trans women should have to prove they can handle being called baeddels without going all TIRF about it

If that's what you wish anon, but I love you and I'm here for you if doubt or insecurity is ever sneaking up your back again. <3

It's truly remarkable how little is expected of them, and how they fail to even clear that bar.

I'm sorry anon, what you went through is just as valid as any other pain and the damage cis women can do deserves to be recognized.

Lashing out is how some people cope with a world that hates and fears them. Unfortunately, like school bullies, the anger they take from how they're treated is often misdirected at anyone they're capable of harming rather than the actual source of their problems, which are often beyond their power to confront in a cathartic way.

It can happen IRL, but much less, thankfully.

Transradfems who claim to be more empathetic after transitioning have chugged more Kool-Aid than I ever thought possible.

[deconstructed-paradise]

Why are you back here. Aren’t you an anesthesiologist?

I get paid double to deal with you, and there’s a skirt I’ve had my eye on for a while.

A skirt? Seriously?

It has pockets. Look, I’m not trained for… whatever you have going on, but they decided that I’m good for your mental health.

Tch. I don’t know why anyone would want to deal with me.

Is that why you’re not allowing visitors?

…I had a fight with my daughter. It’s probably best if it’s the last fight.

You’ve had fights with her before, though?

She brought her girlfriend this time.

Not a fan of that?

No! I— stop giving me that look, I’m not homophobic, her taste in girls is awful. I’ve told her not to let that girl in, and she just— ignored me.

So, that was a deal breaker for you?

…I know. I don’t deserve to set rules, my kids are growing up, whatever. I just don’t have much left to me. I thought, if I set rules and everyone could follow them, we’d be okay. She can come visit me on my good days, and if I get… snippy, with her, she can leave. But now everything’s out of balance. And I know, I know I should be better at this, I should stop being so controlling, but I can’t do it. I tried to make her leave, so that— she’s dating the bitch who gave me a black eye. That girl said to my face that she thinks I’m hopeless. Why should I feel safe around her?

You can’t just say, hey, please don’t allow this weirdly threatening child into my hospital room while I’m vulnerable? Between you and me, ma’am, that’s half of your face that’s bruised. And weirdly threatening kids aren't a joke.

I tried! She— they managed to get through the barricade anyways.

Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you not to make a barricade again. That’s a fire hazard, and a safety hazard.

I don’t have a lock on my door. I don’t have any control over who comes, and who goes. If I have to crawl on my hands and knees to shove furniture around—

Okay, okay, so this is a security hazard that makes you feel unsafe. And if you had control over who entered, if you could turn away visitors at the door, you wouldn’t do this kind of risky behavior?

Wh— I mean, no, I wouldn’t. But why would I ask for that, I’ve caused everyone enough trouble already.

You are the patient. Your job is to cause trouble. My job is to sit here and take it, until I can go home and be a hedonist.

Sounds like a shitty job.

Someone’s gotta do it. I take pride in my work, and that pays for a damn good life off the clock.

Well, I’m sure you’d rather be doing your actual job than talking to me.

My actual job entails being fingers deep in someone’s intestines because there’s a clamp shortage, actually. And there’s a chair in your room, with back support. So I’m okay with this, actually. I’m probably not good at it— there’s a reason I’m not in psych—

What do you. Think of me? Be honest.

Your ankles are consistent with someone who’s worn heels far more than is healthy, and your bone density is something you should be working on. I don’t care about anti-aging skincare, you need better bones to prepare you for the future. Two kids did a number on you.

I meant my personality.

Well, I think you’re insecure if you’re asking me. 

Tch.

Hey, I told you I wasn’t good at this.

I get it. You don’t want to be near me because I’m a hateful little cunt.

Are you kidding— you’re not kidding. That's even worse. Gods, do you know the horrid things I’ve had patients try to fling at me? Do you know the unspeakable fluids I have had to wash off my scrubs? You’re mildly bitchy at worst. I was reluctant to come here because like I said, I take pride in my work. When you were in your coma, I was the one who monitored your vitals, your brainwaves, your oxygen intake. I was good at that. Right now… I’m floundering. 

You don’t seem like it.

I’m very good at pretending when I’m on the clock. I’m serious about the bone density, though. Aging gracefully isn’t about looking young forever, it’s about preparing your body for the future.

What if I don’t think I have a future?

Then maybe you need to stop lying on your psych evals.

Oh, fuck off.

Is that it? You’re lying and pushing people away because you don’t have a lot of power right here and now, so you have to defend yourself any way you can.

You said you were no good at psychology!

I’m not. I had a shitty ex who did that, actually.

Great. I get to be the substitute for someone’s toxic ex.

You know. We’ve been getting some data for your brain scans, and it’s pretty damn close to bipolar depression. We need a little more time, but if you can get some progress, eat consistently, we’re going to see if we can’t get a psychiatrist in to put you on something for it. Mood stabilizers, maybe antidepressants. But we can’t do that if you’re so inconsistent about recovery. 

I know a bribe when I see one. Look. If it gets me back to normal, if I can… think clearly. Then fine.

We’re thinking of treating it in the same way as we would fibromyalgia. Since it’s a neurological issue that’s causing joint pain, after all. There are a couple antidepressants that are used for this, we just need to get you cleared for treatment while we wait for genetic testing to come back and tell us what the safest drugs are to try. 

And if they're not safe, if I don't cooperate, I expect I won't have a choice in the matter. I'd probably just get drugged and tied to the bed so I can't hurt myself.

We wouldn’t do that. It makes us look terrible and gets us in trouble with human rights organizations.

Seriously? That's your reasoning?

Would you believe me if I said I found it morally reprehensible?

No, no, carry on.

You're still a person. With human rights. Look, if there is a single thing I can do for you to make you more comfortable, what would it be?

I don't deserve that.

Ma'am, we are trying to work with you so that you don't do things like crawl around shoving furniture against the door. What happened to you was shitty. You were physically weak, and someone violated a boundary you'd set despite your best efforts to maintain it. And that sucks. So, I put in an application to have someone guarding your door. So please, just work with us.

...I was hoping to watch a show that isn't on the hospital network. You don't have streaming, do you? Or a DVD?

[bricky-brikson]

I’ve decided to do a Bad Things Happen Bingo!

My goal is to get at least one (1) bingo, but honestly I just want to write some suffering

How this is going to work:

Send me an ask with one (1) prompt + the character(s)/media.

I’ll mark that prompt as “claimed” on this post by editing (so check the original post before you ask).

When the writing is done (and published), I’ll shade the prompt in completely.

Prompts that are shaded in or claimed cannot be asked for! So if there’s something here you like, grab it quick!

Things I’m willing to write:

My original characters. See my #dear cassedy tag.

Drabbles of characters created solely for the situation/prompt. In this case, the asker has to propose the characters themselves. Please don't use this as a roundabout way to get writings of your OCs.

Psychonauts

Sky: Children Of The Light (Elders and Spirits, I’m not big on writing skykids)

Hollow Knight

Gravity Falls

Things might get a little homoerotic (especially with the cannibalism prompt), but I won't do straight-up NSFW. Gore though? That's fine.

As always, I retain the right to refuse a prompt if it squicks me or it's just not something I'm interested in writing, in which case I'll respond to the ask privately stating as much.

Prompts are listed in the alt text for those with screen-readers. Below divider by @/cafekitsune. I don't remember where I got the snake dividers, sorry :(

[sixty-silver-wishes]

okay so you know what's REALLY fucked up about caligari lol

so I was looking up some quick info on sleepwalking for a fic, and according to an article I read, even today, it's a relatively under-researched disorder. so comparatively, whenever "caligari" takes place (likely anywhere between the 1890s-1920s), what's already something modern researchers don't know as much as they'd like to about would be even more of an unknown back then (as would be any scientific phenomenon lol). so you have caligari, who is not only a psychologist, but specializes in somnambulism, and how many other doctors around in that universe would have had that knowledge? meaning if cesare was admitted to the asylum to treat his somnambulism, he wouldn't really have had any other choice than caligari. I assumed he was originally from holstenwall because he's brought into the asylum during the flashback sequence, but that might not even be the case. the holstenwall asylum may have very well been the only place around for miles with someone with the qualifications to treat his condition. and it's fucking caligari.

another thing is like. it's so so fucked how they initially started out with the relationship of a doctor and patient. so not only is that power imbalance there that would obviously deepen, but the longer you think about it, the worse it gets. so from cesare's perspective, he has a sleep disorder that's apparently severe enough to lead to him being institutionalized, but good news; there's a doctor who not only specializes in his condition (which likely wouldn't have had a lot of specialists in the day), but is also really eager to treat him. but once he's left behind in this institution, this doctor clearly isn't interested in actually treating him; in fact, he wants the opposite. but he's an expert, so it makes sense to trust him, right? who else would have this kind of knowledge? if cesare was ever conscious at any point in the asylum, he wouldn't have had any contact with anyone from outside. but he's in good hands, with a specialist, so there's no reason to worry; the doctor knows what he's doing. hell, for all his loved ones know- if he has any- he's receiving the best treatment he could hope for, so why should they be concerned, even when he doesn't come back for days? weeks? months? perhaps the demands get more and more severe- after all, it's likely his real name isn't even "cesare," meaning he was once someone completely different that we never get to see- but why question caligari? and what's the point? even if he ever got suspicious, it's not like he can escape anyway.

[dr-jonathan-fanshawe]

May this find you well, and forgive my lack of preamble.

A man of your profession taking such patronage is, frankly, an understandable leap. I have seen many a man with a queer look in his eyes as he makes his first incision, rending flesh. I have always wondered how our shared profession would attract the Dread Powers.

Would it be at all possible to pick your mind on the matter? I presume that fear being a driving factor would overtake the human want to help, fix, and eradicate that drove you toward medicine. Forgive my brazenness, but I can only conclude that one would become selfish and careless if it meant producing your sustenance. I do not intend to insult, Doctor, nor to assume much of your character as a perfect stranger. I must admit I simply cannot help the spirit of inquiry.

...What a question. A difficult one, but I have many thoughts on this topic as my... Becoming, I've heard it's called, had a big impact on my life and, yes, profession.

However, I have to correct your assumption that my inclination towards this Power comes from being a doctor – from my perspective, there is a quality that existed for as long as I can remember myself, and that quality gave a beginning both to my profession and my eventual pick of the Flesh. It is some sort of morbid curiosity about all living things, but especially about my own kind; and I've felt it from my very childhood. At that point it mostly manifested in spending my days in the nearest body of water, trying to catch a frog to crudely cut open with a kitchen knife; I think I tried to find a proof that humans are not as distinct from animals as my religious parents tried to convince me. They weren't very happy with me, of course.

So it was no surprise that I wished to become a doctor. It would be incorrect to say that my curiosity was the only thing that impacted my choice – despite having little interest in interpersonal relationships, I adored humanity at large, and wanted to be useful. Though that particular view of a medical professional shattered very quickly, even before I got a glimpse of anything unnatural, before I met Jonah.

It is no surprise that this quality would make me the perfect prey for the Flesh, either.

I've been serving it for the past 5 years or so, and yes, it was difficult to combine the... violent way in which I harmed people with a profession that, supposedly, strives to save them. I tried to combine the two; use my new powers to fix human bodies, but, well... If you know anything about Dread Powers, you can pretty accurately guess what happened with that ambition. After that idea failed, I found myself buried in constant work to make up for everything I've done and everything I shall do in order to sustain myself. So, in a sense, It only made me a better doctor as a way to redeem myself.

It might be obvious from some of the things that I've said before, but I do not believe that a doctor can do that much good in the world. A doctor of my time, at least. I kept doing what I could, of course, but what there was to do? All we've had was incorrect theories, superstitions and, as a result, complete powerlessness to the face of natural forces. Knowing what I know now, I probably caused only more harm to my patients; they got better despite my interventions, not because of them. It still upsets me deeply because I did want to help; there was just almost no way to.

When I lost all hope of helping anyone, it was my curiosity that kept me in the field. For all its issues and failures, human body is fascinating. Even the ways in which it destroys itself are a wonder on their own, a secret that I desperately wanted to know.

It is ironic that serving the Flesh made that hope return; first because I tried to use my powers for good, then due to the shame from my actions. It faded away again after some time, but it was... interesting.

I apologize that my answer is so unstructured; it is more of a stream of consciousness than anything else. I hope it was a satisfying – or interesting, at least, – read. If not, you can always send more questions my way.

[almostfini]

My disability story pt 1/?

Check out the CWs in the tags

I was born with problems. Some of it comes down to genetics. It probably didn't help that my mother's only prenatal care was from an untrained midwife. I had problems with my lungs when I was born but my parents waited 3 days to take me to a doctor.

I always say I was one of those sickly Dickensian children. I caught certain respiratory viruses easily and older than most children. When I was 4 I was hospitalized for dehydration following a stomach bug. I have a clear memory of being rushed into my pediatrician's office while vomiting over my father’s shoulder, seeing my sippy cup fall to the pavement as my grip became too weak. My mother told me years later that they catheterized me in the hospital and I screamed in pain.

A few months later I started having agonizing pains in my legs. I remember repeated visits to the children's hospital for testing. I was so small they had a hard time finding a vein for the dye for my bone scan, leading to multiple sessions of sobbing while a nurse jammed a butterfly needle into my wrist. Then I had to lie still in a machine by myself for an eternity. Or at least long enough to watch most of the Monsters Inc tape we brought each time and played on a tiny box TV in the corner.

In the end they concluded it was just growing pains. I gained a ton of medical trauma and my parents decided this was proof I was just overdramatic. They would bring it up the rest of my life with them as a reason to deny me medical care or as evidence I was too fragile to do something (like attend school). My asthma, which was beginning to show symptoms, wouldn't be diagnosed until I was 13 because my parents believed I was faking for attention.

Sometime that same year when I was 4 (probably after all the tests) I broke my collarbone falling off a bouncy horse onto concrete. My mother didn't believe I was truly injured until the next morning when I refused to lift my arm to get dressed. She only took it seriously after she forced my arm up and I screamed.

[dragongirlteeth]

Apotheosis

or, why Thorne has the prosthesis she does.

Today is unusual. The administrators have awoken us earlier than usual. 0300 hours. They tell us nothing, but direct us down unfamiliar hallways, through sectors marked forbidden, towards some unknown destination.

It's funny, following orders from things one third your height. It grates on the sense of pride I've been silently nurturing. But they control the facility here, disobedience is futile, an exercise in pain.

So I will bear it.

Concrete hallways give way to an atrium, large enough for all of us, but with no comfort offered. "Wait here," the administrators tell us.

Minutes crawl by. Most take a seat against the walls or lay on the floor.

"Oh-Oh-One!" a voice barks from the end of the room. The silver-scaled figure of 001 stands tall. She marches with guided purpose towards the door, following the diminutive administrator out of the room.

Minutes later the screaming begins. Faint, it echoes down the empty hallways. It's not an unfamiliar sound, pain is a fact of life here. It makes us stronger.

All too soon, it stops.

"Oh-Oh-Two!"

The violet scales of 002 make their exit, with trepidation.

---

Minutes crawl into hours. Sometimes the screaming seems like it will never end. Sometimes it ends unsettlingly quickly.

"Oh-Three-One!"

Me.

I stand, and tread with grim purpose towards whatever fate awaits me. There is no disobeying an administrator.

I follow them into a smaller room off the main hallway. The scent of gore, ozone, and ash fill my nostrils. Lab equipment is lined against the walls of an operating theater, many of its once clean surfaces coated in ichorous blood. Ash dusts the floor, a patchwork of grey dust over once pristine white tiles.

And among it all lay the damning evidence. Scales in near every color of the rainbow. Pieces of those gone before me.

But the administrators are not to be disobeyed.

I lay on the operating table as restraints are placed over my arms. I wonder what death will be like. Painful, no doubt. I simply wonder why, after all the effort put into training us, that the administrators would throw us all away. Too dangerous? Not useful?

A gantry swings overhead, bearing with it a machine bristling with needles. It lowers towards my chest, and with a sudden motion, ten high strength titanium alloy needles sharpened to molecular points pierce through my scaly hide. The pain is bearable, I do not scream.

Fluid begins flowing. Something is suppressing my nerves. Something is making me nauseous. A cold liquid runs in my veins, but my paralyzed muscles are powerless to shiver it away.

A vial drops through the center of this contraption. It glows, but more than that, I can feel it in my soul. A powerful ontological aura surrounds it. The capsule bears the markings of a gene therapy injection, but the contents are like nothing else in the universe.

Dragon Essence.

This is a truth that makes itself known of its own accord. However I was created, some deep, abiding instinct realizes that even in the abstract, the concept of a dragon is an existential threat. A fear soul-deep.

An eleventh needle plunges deep into my chest, piercing my sternum.

Amber light glows as a white hot ember is forced into my body. An ember that will not be contained.

My vision whites out as every nerve in my body echoes a pain deeper than existence. I cannot help but scream. A deep, howling, roaring scream tears itself from my lungs as if the air itself must flee from the god in my chest.

I taste metal, copper and iron and everything beyond. Heat scorches my very bones as the touch of a god caresses my atoms. Blue light echoes around the chamber as energy screams against the boundaries of the universe itself.

I feel a tingling in my right arm. It starts in my claws, and I will myself to see through the pain to witness my fate. The scales of my arm begin to peel away as the atoms underneath are rent into their constituent parts. The flaying light crawls up my arm, all the way up to my shoulder, until my arm ceases its existence.

My chest is near bursting with energy, and I can feel as the radiant light beyond light rips from my back and scorches a part of my wing to ash, no, finer than ash.

BUT I AM NOT TO DIE HERE. I WILL NOT LET THEM UNMAKE ME.

To rival the gods. That is our purpose. The administrators value us because we are built to devour all who would oppose us. If I am to succeed, then I will make this baleful light a part of me. I will take it wholly into my body as mine and mine alone.

The spark of divinity is a delicious meal. My soul tears into it piece by piece, flaying each part from the core, and suckling on the ambrosia within. And with it, the light begins to subside.

No.

The light becomes a part of me. And as the last morsels dissolve away, I breathe again. Ragged, gasping breaths. Blood pours from the socket where my right arm once sat. My right wing is nearly cut off at the joint. All is pain, but no pain compares to that I have now known. Blue light flickers under my scales as I breathe in deep, and release a bellow of pure radiant energy, scorching the air itself into electric light.

Darkness claims my consciousness.

---

I awake to the feeling of an unfamiliar body. I feel powerful, but at the same time so incredibly weak. Sensation once again fills my right arm, but it is... strange. I glance over and see carbon fiber sinew and titanium alloys now comprise that section of my body. A quick flex of my wings reveals that the severed joints there have been similarly replaced.

And a heavy, warm sensation sits on, no, half-submerged in my chest. Inspection reveals some sort of metallic core, emanating otherworldly, yet familiar, heat.

I begin to sit up and see others like me sporting similar augmentations, in various states of consciousness. I can see 002 a few beds down, 026 across from me, a few others I could maybe name if pressed. 001 is not present. Nor are many others.

"Survivors. Congratulations." breaks the cold voice of an administrator.

"You are the first beings ever to successfully contain the power of a dragon."