#internalized victim blaming

[3-2-whump]

(Re)Living a Nightmare, part 2

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You're still here? Okay, it's not gonna get any better for our poor boy. Do read and heed the tags/CW.

Basic Summary if You Decide to Skip

Also please skim this chapter and this chapter if you haven't already, because they will be referenced heavily in the story coming up

TW/CW: rape/noncon, bound and gagged and blindfolded whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, knife play, neither safe nor sane nor consensual, blood (lots of blood), victim blaming, internalized victim blaming, whumpee and whumper unknowingly triggering each other, blunt force trauma to the head (face), panic

NOTE: The inner thoughts and opinions expressed within do not align with those of the author, who themself has never and would never condone such thoughts and opinions in real life. Reader Discretion is advised.

All Thomas asked of him was to change into clothes he wouldn’t mind replacing, which usually meant that whatever Khaled wore would be torn/burned/ stained so irreparably that it’d just be thrown away after. Already based on that request, Khaled could guess he was in for a rough night. He had no idea how much worse it could get until he was blindfolded, bound, gagged, and carried out the apartment and down to the cold garage, where the hard foot-well of the back seat waited for him. The car revved to life, and his restrained body lurched forward as Thomas pulled out of the garage and drove them to fuck knows where.

Eventually they came to a stop, Thomas exchanged some words with the night-shift guard at the old house, and then they kept going until they parked. Khaled slowly started to put the pieces together. They were back at the old house, which probably meant Thomas wanted to take him downstairs, which meant whatever he wanted to do to him would be too messy or too specialized to do back at the apartment. What is he planning? Khaled wondered. He’s asked me to wear my most expendable clothes, he’s tied me up like I used to be when I was recaptured, he’s thrown me into the back like when I was recaptured-

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the car door opening. He blindly tilted his head toward the chill of the night and the distant sound of frogs singing. A pair of calloused hands hauled him up from the foot-well of the back seat and slung him over a broad shoulder. “Thought you could escape me this time, did you?” his master’s voice purred in his ear.

A pit of dread competed with the chill of the early spring night in his bones as Khaled realized what all this preparation had meant. Master wants to roleplay my escape attempts. He began shivering, though not just because of the cold. A warm hand rested on his buttocks to steady him as he felt himself being carried inside, through the hallway, and to the front of a very familiar door. Reliving his failed escape attempts but with an added sexual element was one of Khaled’s recurring nightmares. What cruel irony was this, that he had begged so enthusiastically no more than half an hour ago for this man to make his nightmare come true?

The familiar creak of a door opening preceded the dusty, dried-blood smell coming from the stairs leading down into the cellar. Khaled pleaded through the rag stuffed in his mouth and the tape sealed over his lips as they descended the stairs step by concrete step. He tugged at the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles, but all that did was dig the hard plastic further into his flesh.

The cellar in the basement was the only room in Luciano Antonio Costa’s old house that didn’t get renovated when they converted the rest of it into an office space. Mainly because its purpose as a room for torture and interrogation never went obsolete. Khaled didn’t have to see it; he’d been down in the T&I cellar enough times to have the layout committed to memory. Dusty, red bricked walls arched into a curved ceiling where two overhead lamps hung by thick chains, illuminating the large expanse below. A fireplace and all its accompanying iron tools sat to the left, and a rack lined with various instruments of torture was positioned to the right. In the middle was one large table with scratch marks furrowed into its edges, and many other types of equipment were either shoved in a corner or hanging from the ceiling, suspended by heavy chains and hooks like morbid chandeliers. Partitioning a back portion of the room was a large iron gate leading to a small offshoot of the basement, much like a door to a prison cell. Not much lay beyond the iron gate besides a hard-worn bench and several opaque plastic storage tubs full of mysterious items.

Khaled squirmed as he was lowered onto his stomach on top of the familiar table. “What were you thinking,” scolded the nightmare looming above him. A faint swish of a pocket knife and cold steel next to his skin made Khaled pause his struggles as his master cut away the zip ties. “Escaping in this cold weather without so much as a scrap of clothing on you –did you even have a plan?” he taunted. “I don’t know what your plan was, or even if you had a plan, but was it really worth freezing yourself to death?”

Khaled enjoyed the freedom of his unbound limbs for only a moment until his wrists were snatched into a tight grip and gathered in front of him. A coarse and scratchy material –rope, most likely –began entangling around and in between his wrists as his master continued talking. “We have a tracking chip installed inside of you, remember? You can never escape me; I will always find you.” With a forceful tug, Khaled’s hands were pulled in front of him, then he couldn’t move his hands at all. The other end of the rope must have been tied off to the ring attachment at the edge of the table.

His ankles remained free, if only to make it easier to take his pants off.

There were some light shuffling noises before the wooden table groaned under a newfound weight. Khaled felt the body heat of another person leaning over him. The cologne Thomas wore quickly overpowered his senses as the man hovered close. Khaled could feel his master’s breath on his ear and something hard and stiff against his backside. “The last time you tried to run away, a friend of mine advised me to cut your tendons,” Thomas sultrily whispered.

Oh god no. By now, Khaled knew which escape attempt they were reenacting, and, coincidentally, it was the one he had nightmares about the most.

“I don’t want to permanently cripple you though,” Thomas sighed, “mostly because it would be even more of a hassle to care for you, but I will cripple you temporarily, at the very least...”

He could already hear the hiss of the iron.

His panicked cries took on a new pitch of desperation. Without warning, his master’s fingers pinched at the edge of the duct tape on Khaled’s mouth and pulled, making him scream in pain. The rag was quickly removed, only for his tormentor to shove his index and middle fingers past the boy’s teeth to depress his tongue. “Suck,” he growled, “because this is the only lube you’re going to get.”

“Please, no, not this one, please, please no, not this, not this,” Khaled begged around the fingers in his mouth.

The fingers quickly withdrew before Khaled’s head was yanked back by the hair and then smashed onto the table. Stars danced across his blindfold, and a faint trickle of something warm and wet escaped from his nose.

“Let’s try this again.” Thomas shoved his fingers back into the boy’s mouth, burying them to the knuckle and making the boy gag. “Suck.”

Khaled shakily worked his head up and down the length of the fingers as his tongue lapped at each digit. He started to cry. As soon as the fingers withdrew, his pleas picked up again in earnest. “Please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me-”

“Would you relax?! I’m not going to burn you!” Thomas shouted above him. “What about any of this looks like I’m gonna burn you?!” Khaled heard a frustrated huff above him as his master yanked down his pants and underwear, exposing his bare ass and legs to the cold. The shed clothing was discarded, landing with a soft whump somewhere behind them. The two digits that were in his mouth forcefully entered him below, all pretense of play forgotten as they began roughly working him open. “Besides which, weren’t you the one who wanted to do this? You asked for this, you wanted this! You said you would be good for me!”

And he was right, he did say he wanted this. He asked for this to happen. So, with a defeated sniffle, Khaled went quiet and limp.

“So, are you going to be good for me now?”

Khaled’s bruised forehead scraped against the table as he nodded.

“Thank fuck,” Thomas grumbled.

I asked for this, Khaled told himself. The darkness around his eyes became damp as the blindfold caught his tears. I asked for this, I wanted this. He repeated it like a mantra as the man on top of him replaced his fingers with his cock and steadily screwed him against the table. I asked for this, I wanted this. Something tore down there as an unmistakable thin, warm, and sticky fluid trickled past the cock pummeling his hole. I wanted this. I wanted this…

I didn’t want this.

I never wanted this. Any of this.

I don’t want this. Slowly, the new mantra gained strength, and he let the words slip between his lips with every shuddering breath. “I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this-”

“Tough shit,” his master grunted.

Khaled pulled against the rope restraining his hands as he struggled against the body pressing into his. “I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I-” Again, Khaled’s face was smashed against the table. He heard a faint crunch as a new river of blood flowed out of his nose.

“You can scream all you want, nobody’s going to hear you,” Thomas growled, “but for fucks sakes, can you please scream something less annoying?!”

Khaled kept repeating it between every sniffle, like a sad broken record. “I don’t want this,” he sobbed. “I don’t want this… I don’t want this…”

His begging finally outwore Thomas’ need to finish. “Fuck,” his master huffed, unsticking his sweaty torso from Khaled’s clothed back as he pulled out of him. Khaled collected his heaving breaths. It would be too naïve of him to believe his bitchy whining finally got through, but he would appreciate this moment while he could.

He suppressed his sobs and tilted his head to follow the footsteps and shuffling sounds Thomas was making as he tried to guess what would happen to him next. Khaled heard the faint schwing of a different knife being unsheathed. It cut through the flimsy fabric of his t-shirt as his master finally completely undressed him, tearing away the scraps of cotton the knife didn’t excise from his body. “You said you would be good for me, but you have been anything but!” A twisted strip of cloth was wedged between his teeth and hastily tied off at the back of his head. His master’s hand pinned him down by the back of the neck, crushing him against the table with the weight behind it. “You said you missed me, but you’ve only fought against me this whole time!” Khaled screamed into the gag as the tip of the knife sank in between his shoulder blades. Its blade dragged tortuously and deliberately through his skin as his tormentor continued griping above him. “You’re a fucking liar, you know that?” The knife mercifully lifted from the trough it had carved, only to be plunged into a new area of Khaled’s back. “Do you know what I do to liars, boy? I make them pay!” The raw wounds on his back wept with blood as the knife kept slicing, spilling over his sides and pooling underneath his stomach and the table below. It was hard to cry with a gag in his mouth and a broken nose full of blood. He gasped for breaths between sobs, never quite getting a satisfying breath before the pain of the knife would make him scream again. His tears slipped past the saturated blindfold and tracked down his cheeks to join the pinkish smear of saliva, snot, and blood he could feel covering the lower half of his face. “This is for Callahan!” The knife drove down and sliced another line through his skin for each name the monster dropped. “This is for Trémeaux! And Robinson, and Martinez, and Kruger, and Kościelsky, and this-” The knife dug deeper this time. Khaled bit into the gag as his nerves screamed in agony, the steel scraping something hard as it dragged against his back. “-this is for my brother; he is never coming back! Tony is never coming back, and it’s all because of you!” the monster above him roared.

It was in that moment, between the terror and the pain, that Khaled realized with a fascinated horror that his master was reliving a nightmare, too. I need to snap him out of it if I’m getting out of this cellar alive, he realized. So, he set his own trauma and pain aside and began doing what got him into this mess in the first place. The twisted cloth had loosened just enough. He pushed it out of his mouth with his tongue and started begging as if his life depended on it, because this time, it really did.

“I didn’t kill him!” he cried.  “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him!” Khaled screamed well past the point his throat hurt. “Master, please, I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill any of them! I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill him, Master, I didn’t kill him…” If the knife had stopped cutting into him and the rope around his wrists had been untied, Khaled was too far gone in his panic induced catatonia to notice. “I didn’t kill him… I didn’t kill him…” he rasped through a throat torn raw from screaming.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood

[morverenmaybewrites]

Domestic Arkham!Jason Todd Headcanons

Y’all ever think about the inherent tragedy of Arkham!Jason craving something as simple as domesticity? 

How he craves the comfort of home-cooked meals, but can’t actually eat anything he hasn’t prepared himself. Because during his time in Joker’s captivity, almost everything he was served was either poisoned or rotten, and now every time he eats, it’s like he’s expecting the burn of poison or the flavor of something sour and rotten flooding his mouth.

Can you imagine the frustration he must feel at his inability to share a simple meal with you? 

The sudden clench in his gut when he realizes that he wasn’t there to watch you prepare the food, and despite the fact that he trusts you, he can’t help that familiar dread rising in the back of his throat. 

Jason tries, for you, he tries. 

But there are times, more often than not, when he feels the phantom burn of poison or the flavor of something sour and rotten flooding his mouth–and his body reacts before his mind does. 

And suddenly he’s hunched over the sink or the toilet, vomiting out half-digested food, and it’s almost like he never left Arkham Asylum.

Can you imagine the absolute burning jealousy he feels whenever his family interacts with you with an ease he can only dream of? 

Maybe it’s a movie night, during one of those rare times when Gotham City didn’t need saving, and there’s Tim and Dick and Barbara piled on the couch. And you fit so well with them–a tangle of limbs and careless laughter at a dumb joke Dick made–that it’s Jason who feels like an outsider. 

Jason sits apart from all of you, the only person to pick an armchair instead of the couch, because every time he tries to sit close to someone, all he can think is whether they’re close enough to see his scars.

The table is piled high with snacks, more than the five of you can realistically eat in an evening. There’s popcorn and pizza, mozzarella sticks and pretzels, several bars of chocolate that can only be found in Bludhaven, the air is thick with the smell of grease and cheese dust. 

And it’s almost like being a teenager again. Before that night and the Joker and everything else that followed. 

It’s almost like being a teenager again, dizzy with the good fortune of being adopted by Bruce fucking Wayne, watching some dumb flick with his siblings when he was supposed to be training. Ordering takeout food and laughing along with Dick at Alfred’s visible disappointment as they stuff their faces. 

It’s almost like being a teenager again, but not quite. 

Jason watches the four of you pass around a bowl of popcorn, arguing about which genre of movie to start with. But when Barbara tries to hand it to him, he feels a sudden clot of heat in his chest, and he’s already shaking his head before he even knows why. 

And he realizes, he’s afraid. 

He doesn’t know who made the food or what restaurant it was ordered from, and he is sure if he asks, no one would be able to give him all of the names of people who handled it. 

The burn of poison and the taste of something sour and rotten flooding his mouth.

Poisoned cake and rotting rats. The writhing of pale white maggots against bone and glistening meat and gristle.

He doesn’t touch anything for the rest of the evening.

Can you imagine how scared he is? 

Jason is so acutely, painfully aware of how exhausting it is to be with him. To be with someone you can’t even share a simple meal with. 

And he wonders how long it will be before you get tired of him.

Bruce, after all, had left after he had seen the twisted thing Jason had become. 

And if his own father couldn’t even stomach his presence–

And suddenly he’s hunched over again, over the sink or against the toilet, vomiting out half-digested food. 

And it really is like he never left Arkham Asylum after all.

This is what he thinks, when he finally collapses on the tiles of your bathroom floor, cold sweat pouring down his face. Your presence hovering over him like a ghost, a thousand apologies pouring from your throat. 

But it’s not you that’s the problem, it’s him. 

It’s this awful thing in the back of his head, always expecting the next threat, the next injury, the next sick game the Joker has come up with. 

It’s the fact that his days with the Joker had left him so twisted and strange that he can no longer fit into a normal life, even when he wants to. 

And this is what he thinks, when you catch the way he is not watching the movie at all. But instead he is looking at his family’s faces, his chest pulsing with a jealousy so fierce it might as well have been his heartbeat.

Jason wishes–oh, how he wishes–it was that easy, that simple for him. 

You disentangle yourself from his siblings–Dick had already fallen asleep, head lolling heavily on your shoulder, to pad your way to him. You sink down onto the armchair to share it with him, practically on top of him, and he marvels at the way your heat dispels the chill that has crept over him. 

Your hands are small compared to his, but they are just big enough that when you lay them atop of his, he does not have to think about whether you can see the scars. 

This is what he thinks, on days like these. It is something he always thinks, a small voice in the back of his head that is never silenced.  

He doesn't deserve you. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks to @red--pirate for the idea!

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

I really do think I'm too sensitive to live. I was diagnosed with autism in the late 90s (I'm 32 now) and family members treat me lesser because of it. It's never been a source of strength for me. The things my father and sister say and do to this day have negatively affected my ability to function and I cannot speak up against them without extreme emotional violence. I know for a fact that they would be happier if I weren't around but I don't make enough disability income to leave. If I had a thicker skin or a real backbone it wouldn't hurt so much and we could have a real relationship, but I think that time has long passed. I cannot be the sister or the daughter that they wanted and I've never stopped mourning that.

You're not "too sensitive to live" because you can't thrive in an abusive environment. None of us really can. And the real problem here is your abusive family mistreating you, not you not being good or normal enough. I'm so sorry they convinced you otherwise.

[llycaons]

thought about dante again and his deal is just so. ouhhhhhhhgh

[lena-kelley-oiar]

After all the injuries I've suffered, I never thought this one would affect me...the way it has. I've been reading up on the effects losing vision in one eye can cause. It all seems rather dramatic, but I can no longer deny that this is...happening. This is actually happening, and I cannot see anything from my left eye, and it's very likely that I never will again.

A part of me just wants to...give in. I have to admit that I am no longer capable of things I used to be capable of. I don't want to become useless, but I have to...recover. I think I'll stay inside, in someone else's apartment, for weeks, just laying still and praying to a God I no longer believe in, like some sort of pathetic, self-pitying victim.

God, she was right about me. She was always right about everything.

[lesbianutena]

seeing people go on about how naive and foolish and blind and stupid utena is and i’m just sitting here like. she’s 14! i disagree strongly with the idea that utena is willfully or maliciously ignorant. like yes, while i think she does often fail to fully comprehend whats happening (especially in the last arc) she’s also finding herself in increasingly horrifying and new situations with no point of reference for how abnormal it all is?? she is doing her very best to make sense of things as a 14 year old child who has no parental figures or guardians, no friends who aren’t also somehow in on the manipulation happening to her, nowhere to go outside of ohtori. and that is on top of trying to navigate her experiences and identity as a queer and gnc person!!!! i feel like folks are wildly overestimating the comprehension the average closeted teenage lesbian has of systematic heteropatriarchiarcal cycles of abuse! she’s literally 14!!! save the scorn for the willfully ignorant for akio

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives Part 35: I Need to Be With You

~1870 words

CW: internalized victim blaming

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

~~~

Simon gave up on trying to communicate after that.

He blinked yes and no to his doctors, but didn’t respond to Matthew except to stare sadly. Matthew stayed by his side every moment he was allowed to, bringing him food once he could eat on his own, reading books to him, and encouraging him constantly with gentle words.

I love you. You’re worth it. You can do this. I love you.

When he was kicked out for Simon’s physical therapy, speech therapy, or tests, he spent the rest of his time with Gina. While with her Matthew made calls to lawyers about Simon’s conservatorship. Eventually he heard back from one.

“I pulled the records from the courthouse,” she informed him, “Simon McKenna’s conservatorship was temporary. It lasted 90 days, and ended early March.”

Matthew thanked her and hung up the phone in a daze. Yet another thing Isles had lied to Simon about. Had lied to everyone about, to keep Simon under his control. It made Matthew feel sick - especially combined with the previous news from Amber. The broken vase in Simon’s room had been analyzed. Blood on the shards matched Isles, and a head wound they found on him. Fingerprints on the vase matched Simon. The VIU’s current theory: Simon had a mental break and attacked Isles. The vampire took advantage of the confusion.

“Is that what you think?” Matthew had asked her.

“...No.” she admitted. “But there’s no official proof of their previous relationship, they never self-reported to HR. It’s hard to suggest… other theories. At the very least, there’s not enough evidence to charge him with anything.”

Matthew thought back to Simon’s letter, as he often did.

I keep… Tempting people.

I didn’t mean to give him the wrong idea.

“Thanks, Amber.”

Gina was outraged by all of it, and shared several choice words about Isles before demanding to see Simon herself. With her doctor’s permission, she wincingly got out of bed and into a wheelchair, and Matthew pushed her one-handedly to Simon’s room.

Simon refused to look at her. Gina silently cried.

Refusing to waste her time out of bed, Gina asked Matthew to take her outdoors. On their way out they passed the handful of armed VIU agents that lingered outside of Simon’s room at all times. The VIU was taking Simon’s safety very seriously. It put Simon’s future on Matthew’s mind - where would he go after this? Where would he be safe?

Gina was having similar thoughts, as she spoke up soon after Matthew had parked her next to a bench outside the hospital and sat down.

“Do you think the VIU will take Simon back?”

Matthew sighed.

“I don’t know. I think his reputation there has been destroyed - Amber told me Isles would take Simon into work with him and wouldn’t let him talk at all.”

“Do we know how many are left on his list?”

“Yeah. Ten, Amber says. But without Isles pushing for them to be taken down first, they’re unlikely to be caught anytime soon.”

“And Amber’s not interim Captain anymore, so she can’t do anything,” Gina huffed. “Listen… I did some research of my own, and there are mental health facilities on the west coast that claim to be impervious to vampires.”

“No,” Matthew shook his head immediately, “I’m not putting him back in a facility. Even if it’s a nice one, even if it’s a perfect one, I can’t do that to him.”

“Yeah, no, I get that. I just thought I’d throw it out there.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey,” she reached out and took his hand, “We’ll figure something out.”

“I actually…” Matthew hesitated, “I actually have another idea, but… it’s kind of crazy.”

Gina smiled.

“Tell me.”

~~~

After returning Gina to her room, Matthew went back to Simon’s and sat. Simon had his face turned away from him, looking out the window.

“Isles lied about your conservatorship,” he said, deciding not to beat around the bush, “It was temporary. It ended back in March. You can do whatever you want now.”

Simon slowly turned his head to look at Matthew. Matthew couldn’t read his expression. 

“Really?”

Matthew almost jumped out of his skin. Simon’s voice was a small, hoarse whisper.

“You can talk?” Matthew asked excitedly, a smile spreading over his face.

Simon glanced away, slightly embarrassed.

“I got the green light today. Only for a little while, though.”

“That’s great, I…” Matthew shook his head in near-disbelief. “Why didn’t you say anything to Gina?”

“She helped put me in Summerwhite,” Simon said defensively.

“No, she didn’t!” Matthew shook his head, “She was the first to argue against the conservatorship, and Isles fired her for it.”

“Oh… Oh no.” Simon closed his eyes, cringing.

“You didn’t know,” Matthew realized, “Of course you didn’t, why would Isles let you know you had another ally.”

“I need to apologize to her.”

“I’ll bring her back, I will. But first, I… need to run an idea by you.”

“Okay?” Simon glanced at him, apprehensive.

“It’s just an idea,” said Matthew, “And it might be way too much for you, I don’t know how you’re feeling about me right now. And I want you to really think about it, because it’s a huge decision. But… all of the vampires still after you are here in the states. It would be difficult for them to get out, and even more difficult for them to get into a more vigilant country. So,” Matthew sat up straighter, “I’ve been looking into claiming my Italian citizenship.”

Matthew let that sit for a moment before continuing.

“I have a claim to it. My mother would help me. And if I became an Italian citizen,” his words came out in a rush, “You could marry me and we could move there.”

Simon stared at him for a long moment in disbelief.

“You want me to marry you?” he rasped.

“I really, really, do.” Matthew reached out and stroked Simon’s hair. “I know this is out of the blue, but I want to take care of you forever. I don’t care if you’ll always need my help. You’re worth it, and I will keep telling you that until you believe it.”

Simon’s eyes shone with tears.

“Promise?” he whispered.

“Promise,” said Matthew firmly.

Simon slowly smiled, his chin wobbling.

“We haven’t even kissed, since… everything.”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Matthew assured him.

“I… I do want to,” Simon said, “I want to do all of it, I want it back.”

“I do, too,” Matthew grinned.

“Okay,” Simon whispered, tears finally escaping over his smiling cheeks, “Yeah, I’ll marry you.”

“Wait, wait!” Matthew backtracked, “This is like, three life-changing decisions in one, I really want you to think about it first -”

“I don’t need to,” Simon shook his head, “I don’t need to think about it. Please, kiss me?”

Matthew nearly leaped out of the chair but slowed as he leaned over the bed, lowering his lips carefully and softly onto Simon’s. As soon as they touched Simon craned his neck up to kiss Matthew as hard as he could. The kiss tasted like salty tears. They stayed like that for a long moment, before Simon’s shoulders started to twinge and he dropped back onto the pillow. Matthew sat back down, resting a hand on Simon’s head - but he froze when he saw Simon’s expression was sorrowful again.

“What’s wrong?” Matthew asked urgently.

“I just.. I’m sorry,” Simon croaked.

“What for?”

The shame bubbled up uncontrollably.

“You shouldn’t… You shouldn’t be asking to marry me, I should be begging you to stay after everything I did.” His already small voice shrank into a thin wheeze. “I did all these things, and now you…”

Matthew shook his head.

“No. I know you haven’t told me about everything that happened, but I have an idea, and I don’t think you did anything wrong. I don’t know what you’re thinking about yourself - but you know what? I can guess. And I don’t think that you’re broken, or stupid, or ruined, or anything like that. I think you’re incredible.” He brushed his fingers through Simon’s hair. “I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

Simon managed a half-smile.

“Did you watch a training video for that?”

Matthew laughed a little.

“Actually, I’ve been reading your books. Gina and my dad put all our stuff in a storage locker, and now I have some of it at his place. I kind of… needed some of your books about trauma.”

Simon frowned at him, worried.

“You said they never hurt you at the rehab.”

Matthew shook his head.

“They didn’t, but,” he shifted uncomfortably, “I was traumatized by the vampire I was, too. I have to live with all these memories of hurting you, and sometimes I have flashbacks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Simon demanded, his voice wheezing.

“I didn’t want you to think you were hurting me.”

“No. You have to tell me when I’m hurting you.”

Matthew blinked, finding his old appeal turned around on him.

“Okay,” he agreed easily, “I promise. I’ll tell you.”

~~~

Six months later, Simon watched Matthew hug his father goodbye in the Dulles International Airport, clinging and sniffling and then dragging himself away. Simon felt the pangs in his own heart. Anything Matthew felt, Simon found himself feeling a fraction of - that’s love, he thought. That’s what that means.

Matthew thinks I’m worth it.

He knew Matthew could sense his anxiety, too, as they made their way through the crowded airport. Simon could walk with a cane, but canes weren’t allowed past security, so Matthew pushed Simon in an airline wheelchair.

Matthew doesn't think I’m ruined.

He hoped Matthew could feel his joy as well, when they took off. Simon had never flown before, and Matthew had snagged him a window seat. Simon stayed glued to the porthole, watching the sea pass below them until they were overtaken by the night.

Matthew thinks I deserve good things.

The Frankfurt International Airport was a hectic stampede of people that Matthew pushed Simon through with admirable stoicism, onto their final flight. They disembarked in Catania, Italy in a dream-like stupor, dragging their feet towards the baggage claim. They waited for their luggage at the carousel, Matthew swaying as he stood next to Simon’s chair.

Matthew thinks I’m worth it.

Finally they spotted their bags and after retrieving them Matthew dug out Simon’s collapsible cane. Just as Simon was standing they heard a voice cut through the crowd.

“Matty!”

Matthew turned and waved.

“Mamma!”

Ginevra, Matthew’s mother, hurried through the crowd towards them, all coppery curls and flowing calicos. She embraced Matthew tightly, then held her arms out towards Simon.

“Let me see my son-in-law!”

Simon let her hug him. It felt nice. He greeted her in his new, permanently husky voice. 

Matthew thinks I deserve good things.

In the car, Simon watched through the window as Matthew and Ginevra chatted to each other in alternating Italian and English. He made a silent vow to himself.

All the things that Matthew believes about me?

I will believe them too.

I will believe them someday.

Because Matthew is always right.

Because Matthew is the only one.

~~~

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Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper, @pirefyrelight, @thecyrulik

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

"wow how pathetic it is of a man who isn't much of a fighter to be afraid and want to live in the middle of aggressors invading his lands"

WHY WON'T U JUST GIVE UP AND STOP DEFENDING YOUR LANDS THAT WE'RE INVADING AND ATTACKING ON TOP OF YOU LITERALLY DOING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO US

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

five's character suddenly makes a lot more sense when you look at it as a metaphor for a kid indoctrinated into an abusive evangelical church, who has been convinced that hell is real.

[longpost, talk of religious abuse--mainly the evangelical christian variety--after the cut.]

he's convinced that everyone who doesn't comply with the church's rules will go there; that leaving won't save you, because hell will be waiting for you in the end; and that everyone who claims to believe differently is lying and knows better, they're just pretending they don't because they don't like the idea of acknowledging authority in the time they have before hell catches up to them. and as much as he's been taught to be self-righteous and unsympathetic about people who '''choose''' hell, in practice he's the kid who goes around trying to have the 'so have you accepted jesus into your heart' speech with everyone he even remotely cares about, and won't back off about it even though it goes over Absolutely Fucking Terribly and he's being an asshole, because if he doesn't get them to convert when (he thinks) there's any chance they might have done so they will go to hell and it will be his fault.

and like, this adds a lot of layers to his hatred of nine and what he thinks (and in some ways is correct 🙃) that he stands for. but one of the big ones is that as far as he's concerned, nine can and will snipe people to send them to hell out of spite for converting to save themselves. one of the things that made him hate him so much--decide he Needs and Deserves to Die--is that he was told sandor made the decision to comply with the mogs because it was the Smart Thing to Do... and that nine punished him for it by murdering him brutally. and that given half the chance nine would do it to him.

for all he's been indoctrinated to value Having Power Over Other People and Deserving It Because You're Special, at heart five has major just world fallacy going on because he desperately wants to believe that everyone can be safe, and happy, and understand each other. that all that needs to happen for them to have that is to make the right choice. he doesn't actually believe the mogs are inherently Superior; he thinks they have the same fair shot as everyone else and that the only difference is that they will take that shot, and are honest that they're doing so.

whereas what is one of the other big things he hates nine for? the one that fills him with so much rage he has to stop reading about him? the idea that nine is inherently superior to him and the others, and deserves a better life, regardless of any choice they ever could have made.

he's told that the elders saved nine for last because he was strongest, and that the earlier numbers were cannon fodder because they were weak. he's told that he and the lower numbers were forced into hiding, made to suffer, to buy nine a little more time. and he's told that in the event he managed to survive that far, he would be nine's inferior--his servant--because he's a lower number.

five talks about how he's superior and deserves to rule everyone else because he has 'potential,' but it's not about how powerful he is because of his legacies; it's that he thinks he's willing to make the right choice. he thinks the idea of treating someone like they don't have a right to that choice because they're inherently worth less than others is absolutely fucking repugnant. and where the mogs get him is by twisting his idea of what constitutes Everyone Being Happy so far that they convince him their cause, which is doing exactly what he hates most, is the one that's fair.

add onto that that he's terrified of the idea that you can in fact just be completely fucked no matter what choices you make, and just gets more and more invested in coping via denial the clearer it becomes that he is the one who is utterly royally fucked no matter what he does, and... well, you get some real unfortunate end results to say the least. but like, that's where he's coming from.

so to wrap this back around to the evangelism metaphor: if you believe what five believes, the idea of someone being willing and able to do what nine does by sending someone to hell regardless of their own choice would be Existentially Horrifying to begin with! but it also goes against one of five's deepest core beliefs, both reasonable and Unfortunate Coping with Trauma. and when you pile that on top of the immense suffering he's gone through over it, the result is going to be visceral burning hatred.

anyway this post is already Long and i've got a lot more thoughts in me about it, but suffice it to say five absolutely is a metaphor for evangelical trauma, and how victims get weaponized into extensions of their church's abuse. and it's an evangelical survivor's nightmare, because the version of hell he's been taught to base his entire worldview around fearing is objectively real. 🥲

(the real smoking gun here? not only is the Great Book a really obvious analogy for the bible, but the name is a retcon. what was it called before that, while he's evangelizing about it no less?)

(the Good Book.)

(welp.)

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives Part 34: I Need to Apologize

~1730 words

CW: internalized victim blaming, aftermath of whump, medical setting, restraints, negative self-talk, derogatory language

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~~~

Dear Matthew,

I’m sorry. Everything is my fault. You were right. I should have done what you wanted. Instead I keep inviting people to hurt me. Tempting people. I’ve realized that I’m just not very smart. I never finished highschool. I’ve been hit in the head too many times. I will always make bad decisions that put myself and the people around me in danger.

I’ve decided to leave. I don’t want you to look for me. I’m not killing myself. I don’t want to die. I never wanted to die. I don’t know what happened but I never tried to kill myself, I know that. So please don’t worry about me. I’m not worth it. You made the right decision, leaving me. You should have done that sooner.

I’m not loyal. I’m not a good person. I think I can only survive when someone else is telling me what to do. But I don’t want to burden you with that anymore. You deserve better and I know you don’t want it.

Please tell Christian I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to give him the wrong idea.

Simon

~~~

Simon drifted back into his body slowly, in a fuzz of dulled pain that settled deep into his bones. A machine beeped rhythmically next to him and someone huffed and sighed.

Matthew?

Simon’s eyes flew open, and were stung by a panel of light in the ceiling. He tried to lift a hand to shield himself from the glare, but found he couldn’t move his arms. He flicked his eyes downwards. His body was covered by a thin blanket, but something underneath compressed his arms and held them crossed over his chest like a corpse about to be buried. Carefully placed pillows immobilized his legs as well. Something ticked his face and nose.

He turned his head, just a little, and his heart leapt when he saw Matthew out of the corner of his eye. Matthew sat in a chair next to Simon’s bed, hunched over a laptop. His right arm was in a sling and cast, and his neck was swaddled in bandages.

Are you okay? Simon opened his mouth to ask, but all that came out was a wheeze of air as his throat painfully flexed, his vocal chords straining but achieving nothing.

The small sound made Matthew look up sharply, and relief and joy flooded his face.

“Simon!” He set aside the laptop and stood, leaning over the bed so that Simon could see him more easily. “Don’t talk, okay? Don’t talk, you…” His smile changed, and became a little pitying. “Your throat is pretty messed up. All of you, actually.”

How did - ?

The memories crashed over him. Bowers. The warehouse.

The pipe.

The beeping of the monitor sped up. Simon would have whimpered if he could have. Matthew’s smile vanished and was replaced with deep concern.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, we got to you in time, you’re going to be okay,” he said, his hand hovering over Simon’s chest, “Gina and I came after you, we tracked your friend Nora’s smartwatch right to you. We faced Bowers alone and… it didn’t go well, but then he bit me,” Matthew continued quickly as Simon’s eyes widened, “And because I’d taken the cure, my blood turned him. He’s dead now, and Amber arrived in time to get everyone to the hospital. Gina’s going to be okay too, she has a ruptured spleen and a bad concussion but she’ll be okay. We’re all going to be okay, Simon.” His voice grew wobbly towards the end, and he smiled at Simon with tears in his eyes.

Simon just stared at him, overwhelmed. Gratitude. Guilt. Relief. Shame.

Matthew doesn’t want to be with you anymore.

Matthew doesn’t want to be with you anymore, and he still put his life on the line for you. Nearly died for you.

(You’re not worth it.)

He found tears pricking his own eyes and his shoulders jerked with a suppressed sob.

“Hey hey, don’t move,” Matthew warned gently, “They immobilized your arms because both of your shoulders are all messed up. You shouldn’t try to move anything, actually, they - they had to do a lot of work, on your leg and your hips. They had to put in a whole bunch of pins and rods and things. And they’re bringing in a specialist to look at your throat. He’s supposed to be here later today. They’re not… They’re not sure, how… You’ve got a feeding tube, for now, down your nose. I hope it’s not bothering you.”

Simon forced shuddering breaths in and out. The straps around his arms felt like they were suffocating him. His eyes darted around the room wildly.

“Oh, I was thinking about how to do this…” Matthew left his side, and rolled a tray table over to the bed. He lifted his laptop onto it, and pulled up a morse code chart.

“Only if you're up for it,” Matthew looked at him, at the ready with a hospital-branded notepad on the table and a pen held awkwardly in his left hand.

Simon’s eyes flitted over the chart. 

He could ask about Christian.

He’s dead.

He could ask what Matthew was doing there.

He probably feels obligated.

He could ask why Gina and Amber had helped rescue him.

They probably felt guilty for putting me in Summerwhite.

Eventually he just shut his eyes, and turned his face back towards the ceiling. It was all useless. He had nothing to ask, and nothing to say. No words, especially not words spelled out letter by letter, could explain how he was feeling about Matthew right now. Grateful he was here. Terrified that he was going to tell Simon to his face that they were done. Angry that he hadn’t done that in the first place.

“Oh, that’s okay.” Matthew couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Simon listened as Matthew moved the chair closer to the bed and sat down. The silence stretched, and Simon could feel Matthew building up his nerve. He finally spoke.

“Simon, I need to tell you something.”

Simon’s eyes snapped open.

What now?

“Christian is dead. Bowers killed him.”

It was only confirmation of what Simon already knew. His face crumpled, and he turned away from Matthew as best he could. His shoulders shook painfully.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” Matthew said softly, “I’m so sorry.”

Matthew reached out and rested a hand on Simon’s short, fuzzy hair. The touch made Simon expel a gasp. It felt so good to finally be touched by Matthew again. He was scared for a moment that Matthew would misinterpret his reaction and pull away, but the hand stayed, heavy and comforting.

“I also… Simon, I read your letter.”

Simon screwed his eyes shut.

Oh no.

“I’m sorry you feel like I left you, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I love you.”

Simon was frozen for a moment, then twisted his head to gaze at Matthew with tearful disbelief.

No, Christian said…

Simon’s eyes found the morse code chart and he frantically started blinking.

“Woah, slow down!” Matthew leaned forward, grinning. His smile faded as he transferred Simon’s message onto the notepad, painfully slow with only the use of his non-dominant hand.

I. S. L. E. S. A. Y. U. L. E. F. T. M. E. 

Matthew muttered the message to himself a couple times before sitting bolt upright, outraged.

“That’s not what happened! I was with you, I helped him bring you to his home, I was going to stay and help, but he kicked me out and got a restraining order. Simon, I was doing everything I could to see you.”

Oh.

Christian lied.

The revelation of this new layer of betrayal sent the heart monitor racing again. Simon’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and he opened his mouth - he needed to speak, to curse, to scream. He could feel his throat tensing and flexing and trying and all he could make was a terribly painful rasp.

“Simon, Simon, it’s okay!” Matthew cast aside the pen and notepad and settled his hand back on Simon’s head. “Breathe slow, it’s okay, I’m here now. I’m here now. And I’m - I’m so sorry, Simon, I’m so sorry -”

Matthew abruptly burst into tears of his own.

“This is all my fault, not yours, Simon, I let them take you away from me and you were right, you should never have gone to Fort Summerwhite!”

Simon stared at him in shock. Matthew babbled on.

“I know they did something terrible to you there, and Isles too, because this?” Matthew stood, pulling the yellow paper out of his pocket and waving it at Simon. “This isn’t you! You’re smart, and you’re capable, and you didn’t ask for any of this. You don’t deserve any of this, and I’m so, so sorry for everything that I said to you, Simon, there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re not an idiot, and, and…” 

Simon couldn’t respond, couldn’t argue, as Matthew ranted.

“And you think you're not loyal? Simon, you’ve never betrayed me, not once! I know you think you did, I know something bad happened at Summerwhite, with an orderly, but if they were forcing you then that was abuse, not cheating!” The letter crumpled in Matthew’s grip, “And, and, you’re not a bad person! You sacrificed yourself to save me and the team from Peacock, and you stayed with me after I became a vampire so that I wouldn’t hurt innocent people! Simon, you…” Matthew sank back into the chair, searching Simon’s face. He looked exhausted. Scared.

“What happened that made you think about yourself like this?” he pleaded.

When did I realize I was stupid?

When they told me so.

Reeder. “Dumb fucking slut.” “Stupid whore.” “Stupid fucking bloodbag.” Every other day, for weeks.

Dr Deckard. “Your irrational tendencies stretch back far.” “Let’s work on making better decisions.” Twice a week, for months.

Christian. Not with his words, but his actions. He took over my life. He doesn’t believe I’m capable of anything except lying and hurting myself.

Didn’t. Didn’t believe.

And then…

“I hurt you, you fucking idiot!”

You only needed to say it once.

The tears overflowed and ran across Simon’s turned face and spilled onto the pillow. He needed to apologize for disappointing Matthew. For turning out like this. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk. He was useless.

Useless.

Useless.

~~~

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Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper, @pirefyrelight

[boof-chamber]

this shit needs to be called out, it’s so absolutely sickening and pervasive among the so-called “disability justice” and “neurodiversity community” movements.

i am a victim of human trafficking. i have been ignored by every institution that is supposed to help me. my cries for help have been ignored and even mocked by the “online left” community. so much so, that my circumstances and my fear and desperation to escape them have been repeatedly exploited by predators who have only done me further harm for their personal gain.

i had emailed the Stimpunks Foundation to express my frustration with the isolation, apathy, and utter absence of community and solidarity that allowed the violence that was happening to me. i asked them what they meant by “community” - i described my circumstances and what my needs were, and said that i didn’t see anything on their website that indicated anything other than symbolic “community” - i said i was in need of genuine solidarity because that would have made all the difference.

this was their response.

this is not just isolated to the Stimpunks foundation though.

i had been attending groups with Fireweed Collective, and I had also been enrolled in the “transformative mental health curriculum” through IDHA. Both of those organizations also ignored my repeated cries for help.

I know that the toxic element in online leftist spaces is more than likely to bring aggressive and hostile responses to my observations and experiences - people will condemn me for being critical of organizations that are “trying to help.” i need y’all to understand that accountability is necessary for things to get better. criticism is not an “attack” - it should be viewed as an opportunity to reflect and grow, to continually improve. it’s not me destroying these movements, it’s the fear of accountability - theirs.

you CANNOT make a difference by defending this shit - if they were legitimately interested in walking their talk, they would not send a email like this to a community member who is currently in a human trafficking situation and who is begging for legitimate community care. this email only shows that they have no intention of offering legit community.

this is utterly disgusting behavior and it’s way past time that it was called out for what it is. in no world should this be seen as acceptable, and yet here we are. when you attack the messenger to defend this shit, you are part of problem. do you actually want to help? or do you just want credit for it?

[nyxelestia]

#also people make him out to be the Noble Poor archetype so damn much#girl if kinn offered him a motorcycle he wouldn't be protesting it like some blushing maiden#he'd be taking advantage of it like absolutely nothing else#if he had a rich boyfriend he'd be mlking that thing till the cows came home

OP these are too on point to leave in the tags because tbh this is the crux of a lot of how (mis)treat Porsche's character.

I think it's because he initially resisted Kinn's job offer. In a lot of people's minds, you're either Noble Poor or Selfish Bastard and there is no in-between. It's hard to internalize that he can fall in the middle, that he can be somewhat or even mostly selfish but also have limits that are harder for him to cross. (Besides all of this, the whole show is the arc of his corruption.)

the babygirlification of porsche is fucking insane btw. this is the guy that would've let kinn fucking die in an alleyway if the dude hadn't promised him money. he's got his priorities and at the top is always chay. like there's a lot of ruthlessness to be had in surviving to protect your only family

[arabian-batboy]

The pager terrorist attack Israel did on Lebanon was so fucking disgusting. There's no line these Zionist animals will not cross, there's any crime they will not commit, no form of privacy they will not preach and no type of violence that is too dirty for them.

They're already making jokes about all the innocent people that are dead or injured and justifying it by saying they're just targeting Hezbollah's "terrorists," because apparently Hezbollah is just the Lebanese version of Hamas to them.

A boogeyman they will blame all their crimes on.

It doesn't matter that Hamas is literally just the name of the government or that Hezbollah is just the name of a political party, so their members includes normal civilians just like any other government in the world and their assassination is against international law (not that Zio dogs care about international law), but even if we assumed that every single member of Hamas and Hezbollah are weapon-wielding combatant, which is completely unrealistic, it still wouldn't justify this sleazy cyber attack that injured and killed innocent bystanders, including children (not that Zio dogs care about murdered children) who were simply standing next to those Hezbollah's members, which again, included civilian members who were off duty and doing normal daily tasks in public places such as shops, hospitals and schools.

But since The West has racialized the word "terrorist" so much to the point where fascists just use it as a synonym for Middle Eastern people, these actual Zionist terrorists can get away with killing, torturing and raping any innocent civilian they want from our region by turning around and calling them the terrorists.

They can kill any Palestinian person they want and excuse it by calling them Hamas terrorists or being used as a human shield by them, they can kill any Lebanese person they want and excuse it by calling them Hezbollah terrorists or being used as a human shield by them, they can kill any Yemeni person they want and excuse it by calling them Houthi terrorists or being used as a human shield by them.

They can use all the money, weapons and impunity that is unconditionally given to them by the US + The West to terrorize as many people as possible and in the end of the day, their victims are the ones that get demonized and have their death justified by being accused of being terrorists while their killers, the actual terrorists here, continue to victimize themselves and claim self-defense.

Find a protest near you here: X, X, X, X & X

Donate or join Palestine action here: PALESTINE ACTION

[forgottenyear]

We were raised to believe we are “bad.”

Angela is good.

Angela was/is a covert part, protected from the world.

I remain convinced that I am not good enough.

--

We were raised to believe we are “stupid.”

We have consistently tested as “gifted.”

Giftedness is biological and cannot be limited to a single part within a system.

The unfused part is clearly gifted.

The unfused part is a covert part (covert is a strange word, at least in this case).

I remain convinced that I am average or below average in intelligence.

--

I am embarrassed that I have never recognized that all these statements are interconnected. Or, embarrassed that I have not remembered.

A term that is often used in sci-fi / fantasy is “perception block.” I would prefer these terms remain only in fiction, please.