#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

[faintresponse]

"a purpose that starts & ends with pleasing my killer // truly, how could i ask for more?"

i wonder if she ever cares about my existence beyond usage. i cannot fight back, i cannot say a word to accuse her, she lives a full life because i cannot say no... still, i wonder if she knows what my favorite color is.

[error-core-animations]

I continue to be normal about giving Mikey my trauma: the fic. Tw for CSA and grooming, internalized victim blaming, and general angst

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51698293

[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!

[paingoes]

Rubies - Trial II

hiiii. i have such a headache omg. help meeeee

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past child abuse, conditioning, dehumanization, electrocution, physical abuse, verbal abuse, bruises, broken bones, institutionalized child abuse, institutionalized slavery, (internalized) victim blaming, self hatred, retraumatization, whump aftermath)

He had still felt the chill of the ocean when they had first brought him back to base. They’d had to recast his arm for the final time. They’d spotted the broken ribs that had barely had time to heal, not helped at all with the impact he’d made into the water. The fever dreams crept all around the corners of his eyes. 

After Levon had left, the nurses had made a request of him.

He did not have to stand for it, luckily. He sat up on the bed and let them undo the jacket, folding it back against his waist to reveal his bare torso.

He was so covered in bruises then that it almost looked natural on him.

The marks themselves were not the shape of anything in nature, though. Not unless you counted the handprints. Instead, they showed the imprints of rulers and rings. Whip marks. Chains.

They really tried to be respectful as they aimed the camera at him.

~

Two and a half months later, in the new and sterile room, all the bruises had faded. It was the longest he’d ever gone without them. There was still a tenderness in his ribs, but it felt more like a phantom pain than anything real. The cast had finally come off of his wrist — and he appreciated the new dexterity it afforded him. 

He sat on the white floor and watched Kitty hesitate for a long while with her rook.

He was not allowed outside of his room, but he could have her inside of it. He’d had Apollo there too, but from what he understood, the medic had immediately been thrown back into clinical rotations. Kitty’s role in IT afforded her much more free time. She’d spent most of her absence working too, so there was no real change in their schedule.

She put the rook down indecisively, but seemed to tire of the game. She glanced back at the door, furrowing her eyebrows at the lock placed upon it. She folded her fingers up beneath her chin.

“This whole thing is a waste of time.”

The anger in her voice caught him off guard.

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing his hand closer into his lap. 

She looked up in surprise, a bit of guilt seeping into her expression. 

“I’m not mad at you,” she clarified, “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the thing. Levon knows you’re innocent. You shouldn’t have to go through all this.”

He didn’t really feel like he had been through anything, but he didn’t argue with her. He processed the words slowly, trying to work around the irritation in them. It still made him antsy.

“Hey,” she spoke gently, trying to draw his attention back, “I’m not mad at you. You’re not in trouble.”

“Okay,” he conceded, “Sorry.”

He moved his bishop to put her in check. She sacrificed the knight in the king’s stead. Before he could capture it, a voice sounded through the buzzer, directly on the other side of the door.

“Maryam Pike. Can I come in?” It crackled through the static.

Kitty gave Delta a concerned look. He blinked, unsure what she was waiting for. 

“Do you want her to? You don’t have to let her into your space,” Kitty said.

He shrugged. She was just doing her job. There was nothing he could really do to avoid questioning, anyway.

Kitty stood up from her spot on the floor, stalking over to the entryway. She opened it up.

“Does it have to be here?” She asked Maryam, “It’s his room.”

The older woman shrugged just the same.

“His choice. I have the office too, if you want to take the hike.” She glanced over Kitty’s shoulder, addressing Delta. “You want to get out for a little bit?”

He did, actually.

~

They were back around the table. Apollo was absent this time, but everyone from the council was still in attendance. Levon leaned against the back wall casually, sorting through the folder he’d been given. His expression was unreadable.

They knew how impossible it was to get Delta to speak in front of people. He had his gaze all the way down even as he sat at the table. It was too difficult to try and have him give testimony. They’d had to resort to other ways.

Maryam slid the cassette player into the center of the table. She looked at Delta, giving him a final chance to amend it. He had nothing to add.

He still cringed to hear his own voice play over the tape.

[

Q: What is your earliest memory?

A: …I was playing with a baby pool, filled up with all these little fish. The staff were asking me if I could move them around, but without using my hands. It took hours, but eventually I could focus enough to push them around just by thinking about it. I made them swim upside down. 

Q: Where did this take place?

A: One of the lower levels of the Institute. It was one of their wet labs.

Q: What were your parents like?

A: I never knew my parents, ma’am.

Q: How did you feel about other children your age?

A: …Indifferent.

Q: What is the primary emotion you associate with your childhood?

A: …I don’t know, ma’am.

Q: What were the rules at the institute you grew up in?

A: No running. No fighting. No talking back. Be respectful when addressing a superior. Wait for explicit permission before using your powers. Take your medicine as prescribed.

Q: When you were a child, did you ever make any attempt to escape or to disobey your handlers?

A: Never to escape. And I never, um. Never intentionally disobeyed. But by accident sometimes, yeah.

Q: By accident? What did you do?

A: …I was getting fussy one day after drills. There are these kind of growing pains you get if you move up a new level — and I was getting them really badly that day, and I guess I was lashing out too much. I wasn’t really listening.

Q: And what happened?

A: Got some warning shocks. When that didn’t work, they. Um. Increased the voltage until I was ready to listen. 

Q: To clarify, are you saying they electrocuted you?

A: Yes, ma’am.

Q: Did this happen with any frequency?

A: Not to me.

Q: Not to you? What does that mean?

A: Not to me, ma’am. It happened to the other students a lot more. I didn’t need as much correction, ma’am.

Q: And you witnessed this “correction” personally?

A: Yes, ma’am.

Q: How frequently did this happen?

A: In the first years, it was multiple times a day. It didn’t happen as often later on. A lot of the problem students had already been eliminated from the program at that point.

Q: I see. And you never once attempted escape?

A: No, ma’am.

Q: Why not?

A: 

Q: What was that?

A: I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

]

The tape clicked off. Delta folded his hands in his lap.

“We also have testimony from other alumni of the Beldam Institute,” Maryam declared, though Delta disagreed. You couldn’t be an alumnus if you didn’t actually graduate. She’d gotten testimony from the drop-outs. It’d been edited into a neat and digestible format, though to him it seemed a bit hokey.

Levon pulled it up onto the projector, his expression still unreadable.

The woman in the video was in her mid-20s, which meant she hadn’t been there from inception, and that she hadn’t stayed long. She said as much in the video. She was a kind of lightworker - lasers, burns, flash bombs. She’d been transferred to the Institute out of foster care.

“-would’ve been unethical to have adults working those hours. 16 hour days — and there were younger kids there than I was, ones that needed like ten hours of sleep, and they never got it. I don’t think I had a single moment of free time while I was there. The amount of-“

“-and of course they hit the kids. Where I went, at every house I’d been to, they hit the kids. That was nothing new to me. But they had the kids hurting each other. And these were untrained psychics who were still learning to use their powers, they didn’t know their own strength. And they were learning to use it on whoever was lower in the hierarchy than they were. Some of them would get messed up bad. One time-“

“-said pack your shit, get out. I didn’t have any more value to them anymore. I had been fucking gifted. And they just burnt me out like I was nothing. Glad they did, though. The only way kids ever left that school was burnt out or in a body bag. I still haven’t-“

There was no footage of the Institute. No cameras had been allowed inside except by licensed professionals. What they did have were the scans of the old photo books. Delta recognized the backgrounds so clearly, even though it’d been years since he had stepped inside. He felt only some dull recognition for the children in the photos — there’d been too many to keep track of. He’d never cared for them much anyway.

He felt the air in the room stiffen as the pictures got progressively gorier. Training accidents. Wrong dosages. The stripes they’d whipped into the backs of the worst kids. He wondered how much of his survival had been pure luck. He hadn’t known just how mismanaged it’d been at the time. Though he did have inklings.

“It’s clear the defendant was raised in an environment in which his every move was controlled under threat of severe physical punishment or death. His surroundings instilled a sense of learned helplessness within him. From an earlier age, he has been made to feel he has no option but to obey. Due to that conditioning, we can reasonably say that any exhibit of his powers has been under duress. It’s absurd that he should be held legally or morally responsible for his actions.” Maryam had a practiced cadence, especially on such short notice. She looked at nobody and nothing in particular when she did it. Levon watched her like a hawk.

She took a deep breath.

“There’s evidence this coercion continued beyond Beldam Institute.”

She switched between files on the computer. A new screen filled the projector.

“Hold,” Levon held a hand up, “Delta, you don’t have to be here for this. You can take recess.”

She couldn’t get him to talk about Paris. It’d been a no-go. His chest tightened up whenever he tried. The questions made him dizzy.

She had other ways, though. She was surprised she’d managed to dig them up. There’d been so few photos or videos of Paris anywhere. By now, the videos of his time on-the-run far outnumbered any from his reign. He couldn’t imagine how much effort it must have taken her to find this one.

He shook his head. He didn’t see any reason to, did not want any reputation for sensitivity. Keyglades didn’t even stand out as one of the bad ones, anyway. 

“I’m okay, sir,” he said softly.

The video began to play.

It had sound.

Paris’s voice cut through the white noise. It was distant, grainy with analog. Still, Delta felt his ears perk up, immediately rapt. Unable to pry his attention away even if he had tried.

He could pick up on the irritation from the first syllable. The tape showed surveillance footage  a hallway within Keyglades’ city hall. It led away from the main conference area and twisted up into the further reaches of the government building. Delta had been pretty sure at the time it was restricted territory, that they shouldn’t have even went that far.

Paris’s speech had risen to the rapid-fire pace it always took when he was pissed. Delta swore he worked himself up just for sport sometimes. Paris didn’t want a solution, he just wanted to be mad. He should’ve known better than to interrupt.

On the tape, Delta’s voice was low enough that the exact words were indistinct. But the sound of the ringed hand coming down hard against his face had been picked up in crisp resolution.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?!”

It had caught him off-guard. It seemed to catch the others in the room off-guard now, some of them visibly flinching at the abruptness. In the tape, he had reeled, though he did not have long to do so. Paris’s hand caught on the loose fabric of his shirt collar and slammed him into the wall. His grip moved upwards, onto his neck. Tight and uncomfortable, but not actually choking. Just meant to hold him there. Make sure he couldn’t avoid it.

“It’s not about the fucking tax, it’s about the principle. That’s all it ever is with these people. Can you stop acting like you know better than me? There’s a reason nobody fucking asks you. Who the fuck even gave you permission to speak?”

Delta frowned, looking down as if he was getting scolded in that same instant. It had the same effect. He tucked his legs further beneath the chair, shielding them. In the tape, Paris pushed him to the floor — not a hard thing to do — and stomped down on his wrist. It was too mild for him to really consider a beating, but some blood had dripped from his mouth while he was on the floor, which is probably why she’d chosen it.

Maryam cleared her throat.

“Would you say there was anything exceptional about this event?” 

It took him too long to realize the question was directed at him. He knew they were all looking at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up from the floor.

“No, ma’am.” His hands balled up in his lap.

“And was this an atypical occurrence?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How often would you say you experienced this level of violence?”

That level, specifically? That much was hard to quantify. It depended on how quickly operations were moving, how much the plan was working, how badly he’d fucked up. He’d like to say he had a good track record when it came to his powers. He aimed to please. The worst of it came when he didn’t. He would have answered monthly if he’d been asked how frequently he was actually beaten. Those were the standout ones, the ones that left him sore for days afterward, the ones he most thought of as deserved. Well, justified. He deserved all of it.

But the tape hadn’t shown a severe beating. That kind of pettiness came much more frequently. Weekly, he guessed. Biweekly if things were going well. The other kind of biweekly if things were going poorly. If he counted the smaller things — the shoving, the hair-pulling, the grabbing — he would have said almost daily. But he didn’t count those.

“Weekly, ma’am.” He didn’t let his uncertainty show in his voice. He couldn’t pose it as a question; it wasn’t something they could answer. Weekly was a good enough approximation.

He saw Kitty’s eyes narrow dangerously. Her claws carved lines into the woods of the chair from gripping it so hard.

“This caused significant injury, as evidenced by the condition he was in when he first came to Galatea.”

The screen clicked abruptly to the photographs the nurse has taken just before she’d cast his arm. There were several of them, taken from different perspectives. The broken angle his wrist was held at. The thick, dark bruise against his ribs where they’d been kicked in. There was a whole litany of other bruises along his arms and neck. Handprints, implements. Nobody could argue they were obtained in combat. None of the photographs showed his face.

It was his first time seeing the full mosaic. He’d avoided the mirror whenever he could while it was happening. He remembered how badly he did not want Simon to see them, to have the proof of his failures be written out so clearly on his body. It felt a million times worse for Levon to see him like that. He wanted to apologize. He’d promise to do better, if he was allowed to. His lip bled from how hard he was biting into it.

The bruises were bad. Each of his separate ideologies burned in his brain, building and fighting each other. He’d failed. He’d earned it. Paris was fucking crazy. He’d never be able to please him. He’d deserved it. He was supposed to be better than this. He deserved worse.

Kitty’s hand brushed against his. He flinched, but forced himself not to withdraw it. Too well trained to pull away. She seemed to pick up on this as she drew her own hand back.

“Where are you?” she whispered. He couldn’t answer.

When he looked up again, Levon was staring straight at him, not at the bruises on the screen. As soon as they made eye contact, Levon looked inconspicuously to his watch.

“Think we’re gonna call it for today,” he announced. 

~

He’d expected to return straight back to his room afterwards, but nobody escorted him. Kitty led him through the airy hallways instead. This section of the building was made mostly of glass and white tile. 

“I swear this is their best kept secret,” she said as she pushed open the outer doors.

They entered into the bio-pond. The algae green ambiance contrasted sharply with the tidiness of Galatea’s interior. Despite her claim, a few other people drifted around the edges, absorbed in their own work. They didn’t pay the pair of them any mind.

It was the first time he had stepped outside all week. The damp air was suddenly much easier for him to breathe. She sat him down by the edge of the pond. A row of turtles sat on a log in the center of the water. The grass was soft, slightly damp. It felt cool against his palms.

Kitty leaned forward over the water, pointing out the fish that lived inside of it. He saw her claws poke out like she wanted to snatch them straight from the water, but she held herself back. 

He didn’t speak. Subconsciously, he tried to shield his arms, covering up the bruises from her sight. Of course, they weren’t there anymore. And when they had been, she’d seen them already. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, but he saw the sky slowly fading to purple by the end of it. The mosquitos were starting to bite. 

“Why don’t you hit me?” He’d asked when he finally had to return to his room. She went in with him, just for a little while, until she had to go back to her own. His head had drooped a little when he asked in, in its exhausted state.

“Whyyy would I hit you?” She asked instead, hooking one finger around his. This time, he didn’t flinch, felt no urge to withdraw it.

Because he was difficult, more needy than he’d been in years. Because he was evil, because he deserved it. Because she could. Because everyone else always had.

He shrugged.

“Never,” she promised. She brought his hand up to her lips, kissing it gently. 

His chest ached.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

[hypervoxel]

I've seen a couple different people now complaining about the plethora of fics where Vox leaves an abusive Valentino and finds refuge and a healthy relationship in Alastor... Which just makes me want to write a story where Vox leaves an abusive relationship and Alastor takes in Vox but instead of rescuing him, he is instead just as abusive and manipulative albeit in different ways. Trading in sexual abuse for a different kind of toxic relationship.

[angel-dust-addict]

@radi0activesmile continued from here.

Alastor didn't understand. That didn't surprise Angel, really, but it did frustrate him. Alastor did not understand. He didn't understand how this worked, he didn't understand how Val worked, he didn't understand Angel's history with the other overlord. That wasn't surprising. But it was frustrating.

"Damnit, Al, that's not the point." The comment didn't come out sounding sharp or angry. Rather, there was just an unspeakable fatigue in Angel's voice. A sort of exhaustion that went clean to the bone. "I know what Val's like. I been wit' tha bastard fa' almost 50 years. Ya really think this's tha first time he's pulled this shit? Nah, babe. He's done this a few times. He gets pissed 'cause I'm gettin' too independent'r some shit, so he reminds me'a my place. I gotta go back, toe tha line a little, show 'im I've learned my lesson... He still ain't gonna be happy wit' me, but if I show 'im I rememba' who owns me, he'll leave me tha hell alone. Much as he eva' does, anyway."

Finally he looked up at Alastor. When he did, there was no anger in his expression. He just looked tired and stressed. "I don't want'cha involved. Not any more'n ya already are. I know ya ain't weak. That ain't tha point. I don't wanna be tha reason ya get hurt. I don't want'cha puttin' yerself in danger if ya don't gotta."

His miserable gaze dropped back to the bubbles. "'Sides, it's safa' fa' me, too. He'll just get pissed if I don't show. An' that'd basically be tellin' him I ain't learned a damn thing."

And that he might not survive. If Val thought he had lost control of Angel, the moth would kill him. It was that simple. He was much more valuable to Val alive, but not if Val couldn't control him.

"This ain't even tha worst thing he's eva' done." That comment was almost too quiet to hear. "'S betta' ta just keep 'im happy 'til we figuah out how ta get rid of him."

He didn't want to think about what else Val had done to him in order to maintain control. That was too much to think about, especially right now. He knew Alastor wouldn't like being told no. But it was safer to tell the stag no than to try to tell Val no.

So he would go back. He would go back and he would play his part and they would figure out how to kill the moth. But for now, he had to go back. Whether or not Alastor thought he should or not. This was not a fight he wanted to have, but it was also a risk he did not want to take.

[mumblingsage]

The nonfiction book I read most recently is Sohaila Abdulali's What We Talk About When We Talk About Rape, and the title is its own advisory. A valuable book, but a difficult one. (And because it's written so well, clearly, and powerfully, in razor-keen short chapters, it turned out easy--if that's the word--to read dozens of pages at a time, so I came out having taken a lot of really troubling, saddening, enraging information at one gulp.)

I think partially because of how much enraging and horrifying information she had to write about, Adbulali decided to quote at length the transcript of Taylor Swift's court testimony against a man who groped her at a meet and greet. The man's attorney attempted every trick in the book and Swift had none of it; it was such a wonderful change of pace from assholes getting away with things. Anyway call me a Taylor Swift fan now, I guess, because I love this song.

[no-pasaran-99]

oop. crazy how many people i have unfollowed/blocked today for the cyclical and asinine sentiment along the lines of "well leftists are you HAPPY now????"

girl we've done this 3 elections in a row. definition of insanity to still be blaming this on us especially when the numbers do not support your accusations. like we voted for the fucking war criminals and you STILL lost.

[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.

[perenlop]

jokes aside idk how you can say team star is just another poorly written anti bullying psa when it’s singlehandedly got the most empathetic and kind approach to bullying victims that doesnt try to downplay what they went through and just tries to advocate for them

[graveyarrdshift]

old people fucking die challenge

[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.

~~~

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

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

[spineless-lobster]

Oh my god okay so I just like made myself really sad about hera so uhm let me start from the beginning

So obviously we know that zeus is the worst and hera has to put up with all of his bullshit affairs right? But I always kinda wondered why. She’s the queen of the gods surely she should be allowed to divorce her husband or at least have other affairs like him

But she’s the goddess of marriage. It would be hypocritical or even against her nature to divorce her husband. She embodies the undying love and loyalty that’s meant to come with marriage

So no matter how much zeus is a lying, scheming, whoring bastard she’ll never be able to leave him and she’ll have to suffer heartbreak after heartbreak. The only way she can reconcile her rage is through taking it out on the innocent women zeus went after

And now I kinda get why women in ancient greece looked to her for protection, it wasn’t just because she’s the queen of the gods, it’s because she knows and understands their suffering. They lived in a very sexist society. Women had little rights (depending on where they lived) and were married off at 13 to some man who was old enough to be their father and they just had to put up with it. Perhaps out of love or perhaps not, but either way it was out of necessity

There’s a comfort in knowing that the queen of olympus goes through the same pain as you, and, like a mother, she will try to save you from it

[calltoamentor]

The Perfect Victim and Society's Fixation on Blaming Women

Guinevere Beck from the Netflix series You is as contentious in the fanbase as she is ordinary in the world of the show. The fact is, she is written to be an everywoman. And those same traits are so often used to say that she deserved to die.

Daily writing promptWhat is the last thing you learned?View all responses                 Society has a lot of opinions on how women should behave at any given moment, even leading up to their death. People these women have never even met or would care to meet in their fictional or oftentimes all too real lives develop all sorts of theories about how they deserve to die or be harmed, brutally,…