#markman

[dcbinges]

Solo #10 (2006) by Damion Scott & Rob Markman

[belayadeath-goner]

STARTER CALL ft. CLINT BARTON @markmans

SHOULDER BLADE PRESSED AGAINST DOOR FRAME, A SLIGHT LEAN TO SUPPORT HERSELF THERE. it's been a long night, evidently so for the both of them. “  you look like shit.  ” not exactly the most casual ice breaker, but anything less would be out of character for her.

[telecuckoo]

"   we'd   suggest   putting   it   in   the   cards   for   you.   "   the   cuckoo's   speak   in   unison   as   they   nod   together   [   ...   ]   always   together   :   never   apart   !   their   thoughts   psychically   bonded   since   as   early   as   their   creation.   she   often   wondered   what   it   would   be   like   to   have   silence   but   that   means   entrapment   in   her   own   mind.   to   be   left   alone   with   her   own   thoughts.   that   sounded   like   its   own   death   trap   that   celeste   would   never   be   prepared   for.   "   you're   old   and   decrepit.   basically   one   foot   in   the   grave.   ever   think   of   retirement?   "

@markmans 💎 this was never in the cards for me.

[throwsdiamonds]

CLINT BARTON: you’re lucky you got away with only a scratch. @markmans

“  SEE, YOU MAY CALL IT LUCK, BUT I CALL IT SKILL. IT WAS COMPLETELY CALCULATED.  ” ever the one to attempt to diffuse tension with humor and sarcasm. she knows it hadn't exactly been a one - and - done deal, and she did cut it quite close at some point; but what's life without a little risk? with a hand still pressed to the cut on her shoulder and the torn up the fabric of her suit, diamond shrugged lightly on the un-injured one. “  easy peasy lemon squeezy !  ” though it seemed like clint wasn't all too enthused about her carelessness. “  um, yea, on a more serious note ... if yer' have any bandaids or maybe some gauze, i'd appreciate it.  ”

[quotesfrommyreading]

The plague swept Europe 700 years ago, killing a third of the population. It was called the Black Death, possibly for dark patches caused by bleeding under the skin.

It killed millions in China and Hong Kong in the late 1800s before scientists began associating the illness with rats and eliminating rodent populations.

The plague comes in three forms. If a person gets bitten by an infected flea, they'd most likely develop bubonic plague, named for the painful lumps, or "buboes," where the bacteria multiply. The bacteria can also get into the bloodstream, causing septicemic (or blood poisoning) plague, and can also spread to the lungs, causing pneumonic plague. The World Health Organization considers this variant to be one of the deadliest infectious diseases because it is highly contagious – spread by coughing — and the fatality rate is 100 percent if untreated.

Early symptoms of the plague can mimic the flu — including lethargy and swelling or stiffness in joints and lymph nodes. If someone begins exhibiting these symptoms after coming into contact with rodents or with pets in regions where the plague exists among animal populations, they should seek medical care immediately, Markman says.

  —  Bubonic Plague Strikes In Mongolia: Why Is It Still A Threat?

[graphicpolicy]

NYCC 2024: Charlamagne Tha God Presents AWA Graphic Novel, ILLuminati

NYCC 2024: Charlamagne Tha God Presents AWA Graphic Novel, ILLuminati #nycc #nycc2024 #nycc24

Join hip-hop legend Charlamagne Tha God at New York Comic Con on Friday, October 18 at the Javits Center (Room 1C03), as he presents, ILLuminati, a story written by acclaimed writer Bryan Edward Hill that tackles head-on the enduring urban legend of The Black Illuminati. Moderated by music executive and journalist Rob Markman, Charlamagne, artist Denys Cowan, and AWA Chief Creative Officer Axel…

[mjwatsun]

"   OH   TIGER,   YOU   BETTER   UNCOMPLICATE   IT   THEN.   "   you   were   persistent   and   one   who   often   refused   to   take   no   for   an   answer.   life   with   peter,   although   never   regrettable,   a   fault   that   damaged   them   was   the   secrecy.   believing   that   red   couldn't   handle   the   day   -   to   -   day   life   of   the   superhero   business   and   was   too   precious   to   face   the   challenges   it   brought.   [   ...   ]   what   a   joke!   since   the   age   of   infancy,   you'd   been   looking   after   yourself.   last   thing   that   was   needed   in   this   world   was   people   acting   as   if   mary   jane   was   some   weakling.

a   bottle   of   800   mg   ibuprofen   was   placed   in   front   of   him   :   [   this   wasn't   her   first   rodeo!   ]   fingers   run   through   cherry   red   hair,   sighing   in   both   relief   and   annoyance.   this   was   a   pretty   awful   predicament   she   found   herself   in   but,   nevertheless;   here   they   were.   "   ARE   YOU   OKAY   AT   LEAST?   I   MEAN,   ALL   THINGS   CONSIDERING   SINCE   THAT'S   YOUR   NATURAL   FACE.   "

@markmans 🎲 it was all really complicated. i'll tell you all about it someday.

[dcbinges]

Solo #10 (2006) by Damion Scott & Rob Markman

[romanovdova]

it   was   like   you   were   a   walking   screaming   mimi;   the   nightmares   of   the   past   still   haunting   her   very   existence.   could   you   live   with   this?   to   put   it   simply   :   no.   [   ...   ]   but   you   must.   all   the   actions,   decisions   and   choices   you've   made   led   to   this   moment.   it   was   not   an   easy   journey,   in   fact,   most   would   consider   it   rather   terrorizing.   if   given   the   opportunity,   would   you   change   it   all   even   just   a   little   bit?   a   question   natalya   often   dwelled   on   but   tried   to   consistently   push   to   the   back   of   her   mind.   why   reflect   on   something   that   was   incapable   of   happening?

"   I   KNOW!   "   at   one   point   in   life   it   was   mission   over   the   people.   self-preservation   came   second   just   to   serving   mother   russia.   those   days   were   long   gone   though   as   she   focused   on   doing   some   good   in   the   world.   strange   how   the   times   have   changed.   [   ...   ]   you   barely   recognize   the   girl   you   once   were.   scary   enough?   you   hardly   recognize   the   woman   you   became   and   are   becoming.   "   I'LL   THINK   OF   SOMETHING.   "   russian   curse   words   slew   through   the   memory   bank.   they've   been   in   worse   predicaments   and   this   would   not   be   the   last.   "   WE   ALWAYS   SURVIVE,   DON'T   WE?   "

@markmans ⧖ listen! we've got to do something!

[frekcles]

there is a light breeze that surrounds them from a stygian manhattan skyline. the booming voices of guests and the audible clink of champagne glasses a vibrant backdrop in an otherwise intimate space. it was one of tony’s soirees with the earth’s mightiest heroes, as they were so affectionately called. with each having a dedicated floor for their exclusive use in the mansion. once in a while, or every so often for the case of the iron-clad hero, a party would be thrown after a long, grueling mission. they were all just human, after all. save for the god who could summon thunder from his hammer.

pepper had been leaning on the edge of their balcony. the crisp autumn breeze a gentle wisp to her fiery red locks, curled to perfection for the night’s events. she had on a satin emerald evening dress, tony’s favourite. " why don't you wear this everyday? " he would say. she stared at the horizon with a soft repose. needing a little downtime from the celebration indoors. 

@markmans: life doesn't tend to turn out like you think it will.

rufescent locks cascade on the crevices of her shoulders as she turns her head, having now realized that she wasn’t alone, and was now joined by the archer. she gives him a gentle smile. welcoming, acknowledging, the very same smile that had brought the corporate world to its knees. " oh, hi clint. how is it in there? did you need a breather too? " at the marksman’s remark, pepper exhaled. her thoughts having seemed to be reflected on her face, for him to so easily read them. " right.. do you ever— " she hesitates. shifting her weight from one foot to another before speaking again. " do you ever think about.. i don't know, seven year old you? do you think they’d be proud of who you've become? "

[alphapsi]

mutantkind   is   not   one   to   be   underestimated.   they   are   considered   homo-superior,   whether   they   like   to   acknowledge   it   or   not.   feared   by   the   public   and   often   targets   of   hate   crime.   they   are   sought   to   be   killed.   destroyed.   evolution   of   the   x-gene   refuses   to   allow   that.   they   are   inescapable.   just   as   jean   is   the   phoenix   of   fire   and   life,   inevitable.

"   good   because   if   the   avengers   threaten   my   students   again,   "   she   did   not   take   so   kindly   to   the   thread   of   the   government   intervening   on   their   school.   it   was   not   their   first   attack.   most   likely   not   their   last.   she   often   tried   to   be   a   pacifist   but   the   protection   of   her   students   was   the   utmost   importance.   their   lives   were   in   the   hands   of   her   and   she'd   do   anything   to   make   sure   they   had   a   future!   "   you'll   deal   with   me   instead   of   the   children.   "

@markmans 🔥 oh, i learned my lesson.

[mitjalovse]

Why does John Cale produce the musicians he chose to work with? I mean, some of his choices don't make much sense. For instance, why did he collaborate in that function on a few tunes on Pop model by Lio. This sounds weird for Mr. Cale. Then again, isn't weird up to par for him? Let's remember – he got fired from The Velvet Underground for being way out there for them, especially for, gasp, Lou Reed. Thus Mr. Cale follows the beat of his own drum. Moreover, listen to one of Lio's songs he helmed – check the link – and ask yourself, if Cale told her to listen to his Paris 1919? I have a strange hunch he gave us a glimpse into a possible 80's remake of the LP with him helming some pieces from the record we discussed.

[xxdark-obsessionxx]

I’m a big sucker for Psych Au fics. Reader is a cis female doctor who treats Tord with kindness. He becomes obsessed with her. Refuses to talk to any other doctor.

Tord is always on his best behavior for her which leads her to let her guard down.

BIG MISTAKE

I was supposed to be asleep five hours ago but I couldn’t until I finished this. Just know that in my heart, this takes place in Arkham. Also I'm super rusty so I apologize if anything feels off/wonky.

CW: Noncon

Dark themes ahead, please read at your own discretion and keep yourself safe. This is a work of fiction and I do not condone or support scenarios like this in real life

_____________________________________________

“You dropped this.” 

The man stares at you wide eyed as you hand him his lighter. He stands, rigid. You give him a gentle smile and press it into his palm, your other hand curling around the back of his hand. 

“I know there’s no fluid in it, so you don’t have to worry about me taking it,” you say to him. You pat his hand and step away.

The man turns fully towards you and you’re able to read the name sewed onto his shirt. 

“I-” the man- Tord- swallows hard. He quickly pockets the lighter. “Thank you.” 

You give him another smile and walk past him. He had seemed to be going the same way as you but he never caught up. Nor did you hear footsteps behind you. Once you reach the director’s office, he leaves your thoughts. You were absolutely determined to make a good first impression on your first day of the job. 

The man you met earlier had turned out to be your first patient. And oh boy, what a patient he was. Like you had promised yourself you weren’t going to judge any of these people but god damn. His file was thick. At least twenty papers were inside the manilla folder you had received from the head director’s office. Maybe even more. 

You’d never know if you kept standing outside the director’s office gawking at it. You take a deep breath. Going through it sitting down was probably a good idea. As you make your way to the breakroom, your grip on the folder is tight, trying your best to make sure you don’t drop it and reveal your patient's file. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t take you long to get to the breakroom. A few people were there but they paid you no mind. They sit, hunched over lunch or their own files. You sit and start to read. 

Løvik Tord

3 7 2 5 9

DOB: 1995

Age: 28

Hair: Dark brown with lighter brown roots

Eye: Silver

You end up skimming through this until you get to the bottom of the page. It wasn’t… pretty. 

CASE INFORMATION: 

Tord is a violent man. He is aggressive, manipulative, and has a short temper. Many doctors have tried working with him to no avail. He does not respond kindly to Dr.Casey (see page 5), Dr.Bonnie (see page 8), Dr.Roxy (see page 12), or Dr.Harley (see page 15). 

He is extremely aggressive towards Dr. Bruce (see page 20). 

You stop reading there, your chest feeling tight. You flip to page twenty. It’s not the last page like you had hoped. There were still…. Quite a bit in the file. 

Dr.Bruce has tried everything he can to help Tord. He has tried finding common ground with the patient. Has tried being lax and strict with Tord’s schedule. Has tried working with Tord and letting him sit outside. Tord had found every loophole and burned every bridge until Dr.Bruce stopped lenient treatments. Tord stabbed Dr.Bruce fifteen times before guards made their way into the room. 

It is unknown how and where he had gotten his hands on a sharp long blade. Tord was seen licking the blood of-

“Don’t worry if you can’t fix him. At this point, Doctor Markman hands his case off to fresh blood to showcase this place. No one expects you to be able to tame him.” 

You startle at the voice, goosebumps raised on your arms. “I’m sorry?” you ask with a polite smile. Anger clouded your fear. What the hell was this person talking about?

The doctor, Alice, her name tag reads, smiles at you. 

“Nearly everyone has tried working with him at this point,” she continues. “No one expects him to ever get better. He's here for murder, after all.” 

You give her a tight smile in return. “I’ll just have to see for myself.” 

Before she can keep going, you straighten up the papers and close the folder. 

“I appreciate the advice, but I must be going now,” you lie through your teeth. What bullshit! What kind of doctors run this place? 

You actually hadn’t needed to be anywhere for another thirty minutes but if this conversation continued you wouldn’t be able to hold your tongue. Everyone can be saved. With compassion and kindness and help, no one was beyond redemption. Or too far gone for help. 

You storm out of the breakroom and wander. 

“I was hoping I’d see you again.” 

Tord grins at you as he’s escorted in. His hands are cuffed and before he can sit down, the guard pats him down. 

It makes your stomach churn but you keep your face kind. 

“It’s nice to see you too,” you greet. You watch cautiously as he sits down in the plush chair. The guard leaves the room. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It’s silent enough to hear the clock as the two of you study each other. He seems to drink you in, eyes wandering up and down, seeming to take in everything. You’d do the same if you weren’t a professional. 

“You used to dye your hair?” 

Tord raises an eyebrow. He tilts his head a little, eyes focused solely on you. It unnerves you almost as much as his file had. No patient of yours had ever stared at you so intensely in the past….

After a moment, he answers. “Yes. I fancied black quite a bit.” He gestures towards his roots. “It’s been a while since Bruce got me more dye. No one else will.” 

“I could look into it,” you clasp your hands, jumping into this opportunity. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to Doctor Marksman.” 

“And what do you want from me in return?”

“I’m sorry?” 

His gaze hardens. “What. do. You. want.” He grinds out, his body rigid in the chair. His hands were clenched.

Without thinking, puzzlement falls across your face. What did he mean? What did you want? For him to get better, obviously. 

“I want you to be at ease with your mental health,” you answer, still looking puzzled. “I don’t want anything else from this job but that. I’m not dangling hair dye in front of you in exchange. I want you to feel comfortable in your skin and at home here, Mr.Løvik.” 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

“Is that really what you want?” Tord asks, an emotion you can’t quite place in his voice. “To help me get better?” 

Whatever it may be, you smile at him. 

“Of course. I want nothing but to see you succeed and be happy here.” 

Things were easier after that first session. You always started off kindly, asking Tord how his day was going. If his favorite show or movie had aired on the television today.If his favorite food had been served that morning or afternoon. If he slept fine through the dreadful storm. 

(“I know I wasn’t,” you had laughed. “I tossed and turned, jumping at each sound all night.”

“I’m sure your boyfriend was quite displeased.”

“Oh,” you chuckle. “Well, no. I have a cat but no boyfriend. I was too busy getting my decree to ever really mingle like that. Though, my poor little man was also distraught at all the thunder last night. He yowled at my door until I let him into my room and he curled up on my bed. I’ll bring pictures next time.”) 

Too well for you and only you. Tord refused to talk to anyone but you. He would sit in silence or insult other doctors during his sessions. In one instance, he broke a new doctor’s nose. The poor guy had quit on the spot, cussing Tord and the whole place out as he was escorted to the medical section. 

You were tense the next few sessions but that violent man was nowhere to be found. He kept his cuffed hands right in front where you can see them at all times. He never lunged from you. In fact, barely ever moved in his chair. 

Tord was easygoing. Polite, charming, even. He took any medications he needed obediently and put up no fuss when you’d have him describe in later sessions how he was feeling and if he was feeling any negative side effects. 

He asked about your cat. About how your favorite show was going. If the movie you were looking forward to has come out yet. If your favorite restaurant down the street from your apartment was still closed for renovations. 

Eventually, enough time had passed that you relaxed. You stopped keeping your eyes trained on his hands. You stopped worrying yourself sick about his body language. You focused on his treatments and his mental health. 

If he was going to hurt me he would have done so by now, you thought to yourself after your latest session with Tord. He was doing so much better than he had been doing six months ago. It seemed as if you were really making a difference, helping him improve. 

It had been three months since he last fought another patient. Two months since he assaulted another doctor. And five months since he refused treatment of any kind. 

You step outside the building and take a deep breath. A dopey smile sticks to your face as you walk to your car. Becoming a doctor was the best choice you’ve ever made. Nothing was more rewarding than helping people. Not even this cloudy weather could bring you down. 

In fact, nothing tried to drag your mood down. There was no traffic on the way home. Some asshole hadn’t parked in your assigned parking spot again in the parking lot of your apartment. And your sweet cat hadn’t knocked his little box over again. 

You happily reheat your leftovers and watch tv for a while before you get ready for bed. Unfortunately, your mood does come crashing down. 

In the middle of the night, thunder wakes you. You jolt up, scrambling for your phone. Your hands come up empty. Shit, you think. I left it charging in the kitchen. Ugh. Oh well, you don’t need to look at your phone to see it is late and storming. 

Another loud sound booms through your apartment. Only this time, it sounds like a crash. 

“It’s just thunder,” you tell yourself. “Nothing to be afraid of.” You lay back down. Your eyes shut and you’re just about drifting to sleep when your door creeks open. 

You bolt up, knowing damn well that your cat can’t open doors and you freeze. 

Your heart races as your mind tries to process just who was in front of you. 

“Tord?” you whimper, hands shaking. But that can’t be. That was impossible. He was supposed to be sleeping soundly in his room with the soundproof headphones you got him. He didn’t like storms. The thunder reminded him too much of gunshots and made him restless. 

Useless information floods your brain. 

“I’m home, sweetheart,” he rasps. His grin is soft in the moonlight. He reaches over to flick on your bedroom light. 

He’s gentle he’s kind he’s sweet he’s-

He’s covered in blood.

Tord steps forward and you’re frozen in bed. His eyes are wild as they drink you in. There’s blood on his hands. In his hair. Splatters on his face. 

“Oh honey how I’ve dreamed of this,” he croons at the foot of your bed. “Your apartment is just as cute as you described.” 

He grabs the edge of your blanket and pulls it off. His smile grows sappy. “You did go for the red pants like I suggested.” He giggles, staring between your legs. “I wonder if there’s a match beneath them.”

That snaps you out of your shocked stupor. You scramble off your bed, slamming your head hard against your nightstand as you try to avoid Tord’s lunging grasp. 

You lay fetal on the floor, tears in your eyes as you clutch your head. “Fuck,” you hiss.

Tord clicks his tongue. He slowly climbs off your bed, crouching next to you. “My poor clumsy sweetheart.” 

You feel his hands in your hair. 

“What do you want?” you gasp. Fear and pain mix as you start to cry into your carpet. 

His hands stroke your hair. 

“You.” 

With that, you’re powerless to stop him as he scoops you up into his arms. You thrash as he dumps you back onto your bed, pinning you down. 

“I know you're scared but it’s ok. I’ll be gentle, my love. So gentle.”

Your mind can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Tord isn’t supposed to be tying your wrists to your headboard. He isn’t supposed to be kissing your neck and grinding his hard arousal between your legs. He isn’t supposed to be in your home. 

“Such a good girl, staying still for me,” Tord says softly as he pulls back. He slides your pants down. Disappoint clouds his eyes when he sees your panties aren’t red but it’s deepened when he pulls those down and you’re barely wet.

“It’s ok sweets. I’ll figure out what gets you going. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in needing help.” 

Anger wells in your chest as Tord fishes for something in one of his pockets. How dare he. How dare he parrot your own advice back at you. As if this was a simple therapy session. As if you were the patient and he was the doctor wanting to help. 

“Get off me!” you snarl. “You know this isn’t right Tord. Y-you’re sick! You need help!” 

Tord stops what he’s doing to stare dead eyed at you. He plucks a clean rag off your nightstand and stuffs it into your mouth. 

“Enough of that,” he scolds. “You need this as much as I do. In fact, doctors orders.” 

He grins at his own twisted joke. He fishes through his pockets again and pulls out a small bottle of lube. “Yes, just what my love needs. A good thorough fuck.” 

You desperately try to spit the rag out but your mouth is too dry. You twist and tug your wrists but to no avail. This was happening. Your gentle, sweet patient was going to take your virginity. 

Tord carefully squirts lube onto his fingers, rubbing them together. He parts your folds, humming appreciatively as he rubs your clit. 

“That’s it, my good girl. Get nice and wet for me.” 

You feel sick. Against your will, his crooning and his touches stir up arousal inside you. You close your eyes as he gently fingers you as if he was searching for something. 

A minute later, your eyes fly open as he jabs something horrible. Your pussy grows slick from it, pleasure building in your lower stomach. 

“There it is.”

You shake your head violently. Not there, you try to plead with your eyes. Anywhere but there! 

But Tord merely smiles at you and ruthlessly abuses that spot. Over and over his fingers jab and curl,  rubbing it. You squeeze your eyes tight, small moans making their way out of your throat as pleasure jolts through you.. His thumb strokes your clit and you cum embarrassedly fast. You stare at the ceiling and wish you hadn’t wanted to cum at all. 

“Good girl,” Tord praises. He pulls his fingers out, eying them appreciatively. He sticks them in his mouth and sucks, moaning. “So sweet. But I’m too impatient to try it from the source. You’ll have to forgive me, my love.” 

Panic jolts up your spine as you feel his tip pressing against your entrance. You try to climb up your bed rest but you only achieve getting a little higher up on your pillows. Tord sighs and presses forward. 

“It’ll hurt for a moment but I promise this will feel good,” Tord tries to soothe. He picks up the lube and squeezes more into his palm and strokes himself. 

You hate him. You hate him with all your heart. 

He pushed forward and once again, you squeezed your eyes tight. His hand roughly grabs your throat. 

“Eyes on me,” he snaps. “I want to see how good I make you feel.” 

The fear overturns the pain and you quickly open your eyes. He pushes further in, reaching down to run your clit. 

Tord rocks his hips a little, eyes starstruck as he stares down at you. “You’re getting wetter,” he mumbles to himself. A grin spreads across his face. 

His hips snap forward, setting a firm pace. He stops rubbing your clit to grab under your thighs. He lifts them up and pushes until they’re almost touching your breasts. 

He thrusts harder and- 

You squeal, bucking your hips as he hits that horrible spot. You can’t stop bucking your hips, jolts of pleasure stabbing your stomach and stars in your eyes. 

Tord pressed closer to you, caging you in. He holds your gaze intensely, panting a little. His eyes dart between your face and your bouncing tits. 

Like earlier, you cum fast. This one hits you harder. And Tord doesn’t stop. 

You cum again and he pulls out. “Move and I’ll beat your ass with a belt,” he growls. He pulls out a switchblade and cuts the rope off your headboard. He’s quick to tie your wrists together. 

You find yourself on your stomach, ass up. Tord firmly holds your hips. He enters again, pressing down against you. Caging you against the mattress as he pounds into your pussy hard. By the time you’re cumming again, he finally cums with you. 

You’re crying by this point. Overstimulation has you cringing, your pussy tingling as he pulls out. Once again, you start to panic. Tord had come inside you. You thrash underneath him. 

“Stop that,” he hisses, slapping your ass hard. You cry harder as he does it another three times. And another, until you finally go still. 

You hear Tord sigh harshly. “I need to be patient with you,” he mumbles to himself. He gets off of you and you hear him leave the room. 

He’s back within minutes, holding a wet hand towel. You’re gently turned over onto your back and he softly cleans you up. You can’t look at him. 

“Mrrow.” 

Your heart jolts. Your cat jumps onto the bed, purring as Tord pets him with his clean hand. Traitor. 

“You rest while I pack,” Tord says softly. He leans down to press a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll grab everything you need and love for our new home.” 

He climbs off the bed and leaves the room again. He comes back with duffel bags. Your cat paddles up to you and curls up next to you. He purrs hard as you sob your eyes out.

[dcbinges]

Solo #10 (2006) by Damion Scott & Rob Markman

[obsessivelyloved]

This was requested on one of my nsfw blogs but I went insane and made it 3,000 words long. So I can post most of it here lol. Just know that in my heart, this takes place in Arkham. Also I'm super rusty so I apologize if anything feels off/wonky. The ending is abrupt here bc the rest of it/the ending is nsfw. I was up til 5am writing this and I'm not writing a sfw ending for this blog until after i get more sleep.

Anon asks: I’m a big sucker for Psych Au fics. Reader is a cis female doctor who treats Tord with kindness. He becomes obsessed with her. Refuses to talk to any other doctor. Tord is always on his best behavior for her which leads her to let her guard down. BIG MISTAKE

___________________________________________________________

“You dropped this.” 

The man stares at you wide eyed as you hand him his lighter. He stands, rigid. You give him a gentle smile and press it into his palm, your other hand curling around the back of his hand. 

“I know there’s no fluid in it, so you don’t have to worry about me taking it,” you say to him. You pat his hand and step away.

The man turns fully towards you and you’re able to read the name sewed onto his shirt. 

“I-” the man- Tord- swallows hard. He quickly pockets the lighter. “Thank you.” 

You give him another smile and walk past him. He seemed to be going the same way as you but he never caught up. Nor did you hear footsteps behind you. Once you reach the director’s office, he leaves your thoughts. You were determined to make a good first impression on your first day of the job. 

The man you met earlier had turned out to be your first patient. And oh boy, what a patient he was. Like you had promised yourself you weren’t going to judge any of these people but god damn. His file was thick. At least twenty papers were inside the manilla folder you had received from the head director’s office. Maybe even more. 

You’d never know if you kept standing outside the director’s office gawking at it. You take a deep breath. Going through it sitting down was probably a good idea. As you make your way to the breakroom, your grip on the folder is tight, trying your best to make sure you don’t drop it and reveal your patient's file. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t take you long to get to the breakroom. A few people were there but they paid you no mind. They sit, hunched over lunch or their own files. You sit and start to read. 

Løvik Tord

3 7 2 5 9

DOB: 1995

Age: 28

Hair: Dark brown with lighter brown roots

Eye: Silver

You end up skimming through this until you get to the bottom of the page. It wasn’t… pretty. 

CASE INFORMATION: 

Tord is a violent man. He is aggressive, manipulative, and has a short temper. Many doctors have tried working with him to no avail. He does not respond kindly to Dr.Casey (see page 5), Dr.Bonnie (see page 8), Dr.Roxy (see page 12), or Dr.Harley (see page 15). 

He is extremely aggressive towards Dr. Bruce (see page 20). 

You stop reading there, your chest feeling tight. You flip to page twenty. It’s not the last page like you had hoped. There were still…. Quite a bit in the file. 

Dr.Bruce has tried everything he can to help Tord. He has tried finding common ground with the patient. Has tried being lax and strict with Tord’s schedule. Has tried working with Tord and letting him sit outside. Tord had found every loophole and burned every bridge until Dr.Bruce stopped lenient treatments. Tord stabbed Dr.Bruce fifteen times before guards made their way into the room. 

It is unknown how and where he had gotten his hands on a sharp long blade. Tord was seen licking the blood of-

“Don’t worry if you can’t fix him. At this point, Doctor Markman hands his case off to fresh blood to showcase this place. No one expects you to be able to tame him.” 

You startle at the voice, goosebumps raised on your arms. “I’m sorry?” you ask with a polite smile. Anger clouded your fear. What the hell was this person talking about?

The doctor, Alice, her name tag reads, smiles at you. 

“Nearly everyone has tried working with him at this point,” she continues. “No one expects him to ever get better. He's here for murder, after all.” 

You give her a tight smile in return. “I’ll just have to see for myself.” 

Before she can keep going, you straighten up the papers and close the folder. 

“I appreciate the advice, but I must be going now,” you lie through your teeth. What bullshit! What kind of doctors run this place? 

You actually hadn’t needed to be anywhere for another thirty minutes but if this conversation continued you wouldn’t be able to hold your tongue. Everyone can be saved. With compassion and kindness and help, no one was beyond redemption. Or too far gone for help. 

You storm out of the breakroom and wander. 

“I was hoping I’d see you again.” 

Tord grins at you as he’s escorted in. His hands are cuffed and before he can sit down, the guard pats him down. 

It makes your stomach churn but you keep your face kind. 

“It’s nice to see you too,” you greet. You watch cautiously as he sits down in the plush chair. The guard leaves the room. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It’s silent enough to hear the clock as the two of you study each other. He seems to drink you in, eyes wandering up and down, seeming to take in everything. You’d do the same if you weren’t a professional. 

“You used to dye your hair?” 

Tord raises an eyebrow. He tilts his head a little, eyes focused solely on you. It unnerves you almost as much as his file had. No patient of yours had ever stared at you so intensely in the past….

After a moment, he answers. “Yes. I fancied black quite a bit.” He gestures towards his roots. “It’s been a while since Bruce got me more dye. No one else will.” 

“I could look into it,” you clasp your hands, jumping into this opportunity. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to Doctor Marksman.” 

“And what do you want from me in return?”

“I’m sorry?” 

His gaze hardens. “What. do. You. want.” He grinds out, his body rigid in the chair. His hands were clenched.

Without thinking, puzzlement falls across your face. What did he mean? What did you want? For him to get better, obviously. 

“I want you to be at ease with your mental health,” you answer, still looking puzzled. “I don’t want anything else from this job but that. I’m not dangling hair dye in front of you in exchange. I want you to feel comfortable in your skin and at home here, Mr.Løvik.” 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

“Is that really what you want?” Tord asks, an emotion you can’t quite place in his voice. “To help me get better?” 

Whatever it may be, you smile at him. 

“Of course. I want nothing but to see you succeed and be happy here.” 

Things were easier after that first session. You always started off kindly, asking Tord how his day was going. If his favorite show or movie had aired on the television today.If his favorite food had been served that morning or afternoon. If he slept fine through the dreadful storm. 

(“I know I wasn’t,” you had laughed. “I tossed and turned, jumping at each sound all night.”

“I’m sure your boyfriend was quite displeased.”

“Oh,” you chuckle. “Well, no. I have a cat but no boyfriend. I was too busy getting my decree to ever really mingle like that. Though, my poor little man was also distraught at all the thunder last night. He yowled at my door until I let him into my room and he curled up on my bed. I’ll bring pictures next time.”) 

Too well for you and only you. Tord refused to talk to anyone but you. He would sit in silence or insult other doctors during his sessions. In one instance, he broke a new doctor’s nose. The poor guy had quit on the spot, cussing Tord and the whole place out as he was escorted to the medical section. 

You were tense the next few sessions but that violent man was nowhere to be found. He kept his cuffed hands right in front where you can see them at all times. He never lunged from you. In fact, barely ever moved in his chair. 

Tord was easygoing. Polite, charming, even. He took any medications he needed obediently and put up no fuss when you’d have him describe in later sessions how he was feeling and if he was feeling any negative side effects. 

He asked about your cat. About how your favorite show was going. If the movie you were looking forward to has come out yet. If your favorite restaurant down the street from your apartment was still closed for renovations. 

Eventually, enough time had passed that you relaxed. You stopped keeping your eyes trained on his hands. You stopped worrying yourself sick about his body language. You focused on his treatments and his mental health. 

If he was going to hurt me he would have done so by now, you thought to yourself after your latest session with Tord. He was doing so much better than he had been doing six months ago. It seemed as if you were really making a difference, helping him improve. 

It had been three months since he last fought another patient. Two months since he assaulted another doctor. And five months since he refused treatment of any kind. 

You step outside the building and take a deep breath. A dopey smile sticks to your face as you walk to your car. Becoming a doctor was the best choice you’ve ever made. Nothing was more rewarding than helping people. Not even this cloudy weather could bring you down. 

In fact, nothing tried to drag your mood down. There was no traffic on the way home. Some asshole hadn’t parked in your assigned parking spot again in the parking lot of your apartment. And your sweet cat hadn’t knocked his little box over again. 

You happily reheat your leftovers and watch tv for a while before you get ready for bed. Unfortunately, your mood does come crashing down. 

In the middle of the night, thunder wakes you. You jolt up, scrambling for your phone. Your hands come up empty. Shit, you think. I left it charging in the kitchen. Ugh. Oh well, you don’t need to look at your phone to see it is late and storming. 

Another loud sound booms through your apartment. Only this time, it sounds like a crash. 

“It’s just thunder,” you tell yourself. “Nothing to be afraid of.” You lay back down. Your eyes shut and you’re just about drifting to sleep when your door creeks open. 

You bolt up, knowing damn well that your cat can’t open doors and you freeze. 

Your heart races as your mind tries to process just who was in front of you. 

“Tord?” you whimper, hands shaking. But that can’t be. That was impossible. He was supposed to be sleeping soundly in his room with the soundproof headphones you got him. He didn’t like storms. The thunder reminded him too much of gunshots and made him restless. 

Useless information floods your brain. 

“I’m home, sweetheart,” he rasps. His grin is soft in the moonlight. He reaches over to flick on your bedroom light. 

He’s gentle he’s kind he’s sweet he’s-

He’s covered in blood.

Tord steps forward and you’re frozen in bed. His eyes are wild as they drink you in. There’s blood on his hands. In his hair. Splatters on his face. 

“Oh honey how I’ve dreamed of this,” he croons at the foot of your bed. “Your apartment is just as cute as you described.” 

[thekillingvote]

Tʜᴇ Kɪʟʟɪɴɢ Vᴏᴛᴇ

Thirty-five years ago, DC Comics opened a phone poll to kill Batman's child sidekick, Robin.

The poll was open to paying callers in the U.S. and Canada for a window of 35 hours, starting on 15 September 1988 at 9AM EST. There were two premium-rate phone numbers—one for Robin's survival, and one for Robin's death. Each paying caller could call multiple times. The results were decided by a margin of 72 votes out of a total 10,614 votes—the difference was just under 0.68%.

Now you decide.

KILL ROBIN

Jerry Smith of Covington, Kentucky claims to have sold his Mercedes-Benz to pay for votes to kill Robin

"Who Killed Cock(y) Robin? I Killed Cock(y) Robin" article by Glen Weldon (2008)

"1-800-DEAD-ROBIN" autobiographical comic by Tony Wolf (2015)

"We killed Jason Todd" feature by Matt Markman (2021)

SAVE ROBIN

Senator Patrick Leahy (D-Vt.), a noted Bat-fan and scholar, denounced the episode as a "Roman gladiator-like readers vote."

"I loved him [...] I personally voted for him to live 100 times, and my mom flipped when she saw the phone bill," says magazine writer Savas Abadsidis.

MJG6 said: I was dead broke, working my way through college, but I voted. My first job was at a comic book store, making me an OG fan girl, I guess, and I encouraged people to vote to save him. [...] Because killing a teen, in a role kids are supposed to identify with, that was just sick.

Further Reading

"A Death in the Family, or: How DC Comics Let a Phone Vote Kill Robin" via r/HobbyDrama

"Living Dead Boy: Jason Todd vs. The Culture That Killed (and Resurrected) Him" on Women Write About Comics

"The Vote to Kill Robin" - trivia, misconceptions, opinions by comic-commentary

Some fan letter columns from Jason's later times as Robin

No Birds Allowed: Batman without Robin

"A lot like Robin if you close your eyes": Displacement of meaning in the Post-Modern Age by Mary Borsellino, an essay on dead Robins, sexism, and classism

🦞 The Tale of Larry the Lobster 🦞

Submitted arguments below:

Kill Robin

Anonymous propaganda IN FAVOR of killing the lobster the Robin!

I love Jason Todd. I love his post-crisis Robin days, I love his sense of justice and his adorable love of learning and his silly curly bangs! I say this to emphasize that I don't want him killed out of any dislike of the character.

I want him dead out of a love for storytelling that gets to stick to its guns and doesn't pull its punches. In context of the poll we readers have just seen Dick Grayson get kicked out of the role due to Bruce's fear of him getting hurt, then he turns around and gets a new Robin anyways because he misses him! I really like that Bruce is being messy and hypocritical! Let that have some real consequences please!

If there were no real consequences then Dick got shoved out of being Robin for what? Hairbrained overprotective worry? Why even change the way he graduated into being Nightwing so much then or heck why even kick him out in the first place?

One might argue that we haven't even given this Robin proper time to develop, that instead he might be taken in new and interesting directions as his own unique Robin shaping the mantle into a legacy rather than just something that was Dick's. I admit this is a very good point, and we are cutting off some possible interesting avenues. As I mentioned, I do like this character! But are we really going to get that?

If DC is already prepared to toss him out of this mortal coil and through the pearly gates after such a short while, do we really think we're going to get much more love and care applied to him?

I say let's roll the dice for something new! May the comics world and all these characters have to deal with the ramifications for many years to come!

Save Robin

robin’s death (and subsequent resurrection) is, frankly, an insult to robin fans of that era. to want to see this child get killed in a brutal manner for no apparent reason, to see jason essentially removed from the narrative so batman could go back to being gritty and depressed—this is awful to me. he hadn’t even been robin for very long!

but that’s not why he should’ve lived.

the resurrection of jason todd as the red hood was narratively interesting enough that it kept most fans of the original jason hooked, and it still does! he has become a prime example of a trauma survivor: his death changed him, and those who loved him have difficulty accepting that.

but there is no resolution to that story, nor was there a resolution to jason’s tenure as robin. dick chose to leave robin behind and take on a new mantle. tim, steph, both had robin taken away from them (and let’s forget about how tim is still robin, because that doesn’t matter right now). damian’s role as robin conflicts with his misconception of his role in the family. everyone else has had an ending, and jason’s death…well. after his resurrection, he has somehow remained stagnant and wildly inconsistent at the same time. this applies to under the red hood too.

at its core, utrh is a deeply classist retelling of jason’s life pre-death in the family. winick makes him a villain—albeit a sympathetic one—who fucks over or kills people that he would’ve thrown himself in front of to save as robin. in utrh, the implication is that jason had always been violent and angry (and morally compromised), and that he was destined to become worse.

it sometimes feels that jason’s transition into being the red hood (and all the characterization that comes with that) was a decision dc made for shock value. just from jason’s robin run, it’s difficult to imagine jason becoming the red hood. it doesn’t feel inevitable. it’s tragic.

ultimately, i believe that jason never should have died, and that his death was a stunt by dc for its shock value. jim starlin wanted jason dead because to him a child sidekick, in a medium that was originally made for children, was “sheer insanity”. he was fridged, plain and simple.