#abuse of authority tw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

headspace-hotel · 8 months

Text

"New (old) perspectives on self-injurious and aggressive biting" published in Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis / Nine Inch Nails- The Hand that Feeds

I was troubled to see a trend of claiming that Autistic people who do not support Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) are a group of "low-support-needs" autistics who are monopolizing the conversation and taking resources away from autistics with higher support needs—I think it is misunderstanding.

Individual positive or negative experiences with ABA are irrelevant here—the fundamental core of the therapy is behaviorism, the idea that an autistic person can be "treated" by rewarding "desirable" behaviors and punishing "undesirable" behaviors, and that an increase in desirable behaviors and decrease in undesirable behaviors constitutes successful treatment

In researching I found that ABA practitioners have published statements condemning conversion therapy. They refer to an unfortunate historical association between ABA and conversion therapy, but it is not association—ABA literally is conversion therapy; the creator of it used it to try to "cure" little boys that were too feminine.

ABA is considered "medically necessary" treatment for autism and the only "proven" treatment, in that it is proven to create decrease in "undesirable" behaviors and increase in "desirable" behaviors.

Undesirable behaviors for an autistic person might include things like stimming and talking about their interests, desirable behaviors might include eye contact, using verbal speech, playing with toys in the "right" way.

The BCBA behavior analyst code of ethics does not prohibit "aversive" methods (e.g. electric shock) to punish undesirable behaviors

The code of ethics only discusses the consent of the "client," not the person receiving the treatment

Many people will say "my child's ABA therapist would never make them repress harmless stims, give up their interests, use electric shocks...They understand the value of neurodiversity and emphasize the consent of the child..."

But consider...if nothing binds or requires an ABA therapist to treat stimming as important, nor restrains them from using abusive techniques, nor requires them to consider the consent of a person being treated, what protects vulnerable people other than luck? The ABA therapist still has an innately unethical level of power over a child being "treated."

Furthermore, consider: can a therapy built on the goal of controlling the behavior of a person who cannot meaningfully consent to it, especially without hard limits or protections on the kinds of behavior that can be coerced or controlled, ever be ethical?

I found many articles that discuss teaching "compliance" in autistic children, treating "compliance" as a reasonable goal to strive for without qualification...

The abstract of the above article struck me with a spark of inspiration. Biting is an undesirable behavior to be controlled, understandably so, since most would feel that violence should not be allowed. But I was suddenly reminded of the song "The Hand that Feeds" by Nine Inch Nails, which is a play on the saying "Don't bite the hand that feeds you," meaning don't lash out against someone that is kind to you.

But doesn't "the hand that feeds you" implicitly have power over you through being able to give or withhold food? In this case, kindness can be a form of coercion. Thus "biting the hand that feeds" is used in the song as a metaphor for autonomy and resisting coercive power. The speaker asks the audience if they have the courage to test the benevolence of their oppressors, or if they will remain compliant and unquestioning even though they know deep down that it isn't right.

Likewise the article blunders into something unintentionally poetic when it recognizes that biting is an innately possible behavior in response to "aversive" stimuli or the "removal of reinforcers." Reinforcers and aversives in ABA are discussed as tools used by the therapist—the presentation of a preferred food would be a reinforcer, for instance (and is often used as such in ABA).

The journal article considers biting as a behavioral problem, even though the possibility that someone may bite can never be eliminated. Contrastingly, "The Hand that Feeds" highlights the coercive power behind the ability to control your behavior, even when that control appears benevolent and positive, and argues that "biting the hand that feeds you" is not only a possibility but a moral imperative.

Consider: In what circumstances would you bite someone? To defend your own body? To defend your life? Are there circumstances in which biting would be the reasonable and the right action to take?

What authority decides which behaviors are desirable or undesirable, and rewards or punishes compliance or resistance? Who is an authority—your therapist? Your teacher? Your caregiver? Any adult? Any person with the power to reward or punish?

In what circumstances might compliance be demanded of you? In what circumstances would it be justifiable not to comply? What authority decides which circumstances are justifiable?

Can you imagine a circumstance where it might be important for a child to not comply with the demands of an adult? For a citizen to not comply with the demands of a government? Which authorities demand compliance in a right and just manner, and which demand compliance to things that are evil and wrong? Which authority has the power to differentiate the two? Should you trust them? Will you bite the hand that feeds you?/Will you stay down on your knees?

#analysis #power #authority #aba #applied behavior analysis #aba tw #abuse tw #nine inch nails #music #psychology #autism #actually autistic #psych critical

1K notes · View notes

seakicker · 2 years

Note

hello i have returned w priest childe food

as ofc the reader is a naive nun, they had no idea what to do with this growing situation between their legs. in fact, reader believes that this was some sort of force was trying to tempt them away from their duties. considering how well they trust childe as he was the one who took them in, they go to him for help. little would they know, reader would end up bent over the podium, taking his massive cock over and over and over again while reciting a prayer of salvation that he deemed necessary for this ritual

yes yes yes, this indeed... it's easy to feed you lies when it comes to sex and intimacy when he's starting with a total blank slate. he doesn't have to go through the process of reversing or overriding what you already know when you don't know anything... he very well could convince you that children are made when two people who love each other hold hands lmfao

cw: afab + gn reader, reader is a nun and childe is the head priest. religious themes/talk, emotional manipulation, reader is Desperate for approval, dubious consent (reader consents but because of the idea of "i need to do this" rather than active sexual desire), abuse of power/authority, no foreplay/childe pushes into you when you're kinda dry

also crossposted to ao3 if you prefer to read content there.

It is not within a nun’s line of duty to indulge.

Your tiny little monastery bedroom is noticeably devoid of any furniture or decorations beyond your bed, desk, dresser, and bedside book compiling all of the church’s values and teachings in their service to the Tsaritsa. You get by with only what you must; you don’t waste your money on frivolous, unnecessary items to enhance your appearance or show off any sort of social standing. You sustain yourself with simple, basic foods like potato soup and bread; any food item more fanciful would be better either gifted to the homeless or to the Tsaritsa Herself as an offering.

If you have the money to throw at purchases of expensive clothing, fine dining, or fancy interior decorations, then you have the money to donate to the church or otherwise put to better use than downright wasting it on yourself.

Just as it is not their duty to indulge in the more tangible pleasures of mankind, a nun needn’t concern themselves with relationships outside of that of the one between them and the Tsaritsa. Needless to say, romantic and sexual relationships are explicitly forbidden— such depraved encounters only serve as distractions from your one true duty: your service to the Tsaritsa.

Save for the Archon Herself, no figure has been more vital to the development and enhancement of your faith in the Tsaritsa and Her kindness, loyalty to the Greater Cathedral of Snezhnaya as a gesture of gratitude for all the kindness it has blessed you with, and insistence on always being the best representation of Her you can be than the monastery’s head priest Tartaglia.

It’s hard to remember anything of note from your life prior to joining the Church— Tartaglia took you in about two years ago out of the goodness of his own heart as a member of the clergy; he mentioned that he is but a vessel for the Tsaritsa’s divine kindness and that it is his duty as a direct representative of her to pay that kindness forward. Turning his back on a destitute, helpless being, someone created in the Tsaritsa’s own image at that— you’re just as much a creation of Her as he is—like yourself at the time would have gone against everything the Church stands for.

A whispered promise to deliver you from the vices and horrors of man and into the warm, loving embrace of the Tsaritsa was all it took for you to accept Tartaglia’s invitation to the Church. You would have accepted any offer of food and shelter at that time— whether or not it was simply luck or divine fate that it was Tartaglia who found you, cold and ill and alone, is beyond your comprehension. As far as you’re concerned, it’s both— who alive could show you more kindness than Tartaglia has throughout the past two years?

In addition to his otherworldly kindness, Tartaglia has shown you no shortage of patience since he took you in and insisted to personally teach you in the gospel of the Tsaritsa and personally train you in all the duties of a good, faithful nun. His affectionate nickname of “little lamb” has stuck with you ever since he first called you a lost one: a wayward, helpless, lost little lamb in dire need of the Tsaritsa’s— and his— guiding hand. He dressed you in the warm, soft dress and robes customary of all nuns, a massive upgrade from the tattered, worn clothes he found you in. When he had asked you if they fit your body comfortably, you didn’t tell him that they felt a little tight around your bust or your hips— beggars can’t be choosers, and all of his teachings of gratitude and thankfulness would go to waste were you to have the audacity to complain about a brand-new, clean, fresh outfit, wouldn’t they? Who on Tsaritsa’s green planet would even dream of complaining about anything when they previously had nothing?

You know better. Even if you didn’t know better before, you certainly do now— Tartaglia’s gentle guidance has taught you at least that much.

“Little lamb,” Tartaglia calls, resting a hand over yours as you go to flip a page in the Scripture book you’re holding. A chronicle of the Tsaritsa’s historical feats and accomplishments in addition to her dream for all of Snezhnaya, rather all of Teyvat, serves as the basis for the Church’s teachings, and Tartaglia personally ensures that you don’t fall behind on your readings by meeting with you every Monday evening. The desolate silence of the Cathedral after hours serves as the location for these studies— it allows you to immerse yourself in the grandiosity and significance of the Cathedral while you read.

He clears his throat and repeats himself. “Little lamb, stay focused.”

You smile sheepishly like a child caught sneaking a treat. “I’m sorry,” you offer, glancing over at Tartaglia’s gloved hand resting on your bare one.

He hums. “Something on your mind?”

Ah. He’s always been able to see right through you— whereas someone else may have just concluded that you were growing bored of reading after having done so for three hours straight, Tartaglia deduces that your mind is elsewhere. He deduces not that you’re bored of the Tsartisa’s divine accomplishments because you’re a good, dutiful, dignified nun who would never, ever tire of hearing of Her feats. He can confidently assert that you’re everything a nun representing the Tsaritsa should be because he personally taught you everything you know.

Your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Allowing your mind to wander when you should be focusing on Her teachings is mortifying enough, but being caught daydreaming by Tartaglia is leagues more humiliating. “It’s nothing, I promise. Surely nothing more deserving of my attention than our studies.”

Tartaglia hums again as if he’s in thought then moves to close your book, resting his hand on the front cover. “Well, if it’s important enough to distract you from our readings, then it has to be worth hearing out, right?”

You didn’t think of it that way. Finally forcing yourself to make eye contact with him, you take a deep breath to steady yourself and begin speaking. “It’s embarrassing, really,” you force a shaky laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood… or maybe it’s to distract you from the fact that the useless, wasteful wandering of your mind just caused Tartaglia to end your lessons early.

“It’s just that I…” Your voice grows quieter and quieter the more you attempt to speak.

Tartaglia leans in closer, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can say it, little lamb.”

“It’s humiliating, truly,” you finally continue. “But recently I… I’ve been having thoughts in need of purging, sir. M-More frequently than usual— they’ve only grown in frequency and intensity since our last cleansing.”

Thoughts in need of purging or, in other words, sexual thoughts that you’ve been taught to never, ever indulge because nuns do not indulge in lust. At first, the thoughts were infrequent enough to the point where you could effortlessly ignore them— even just the slightest distraction buried these thoughts completely. You could opt to sweep the Cathedral or tidy up your quarters and the thoughts would be gone just like that.

The timeline gets fuzzier the more you attempt to recall it, but you guess that those thoughts first appeared about three months or so following when Tartaglia first took you in. You didn’t actually confess them until about six months into your mentorship under him, and he was quick to offer you a method to truly purge— not just suppress— your mind and heart of these lustful thoughts.

However, those thoughts have yet to be truly purged. You must be broken— the thoughts have only increased exponentially following each and every cleansing session; whenever you and Tartaglia finish, your thoughts only grow more intense than before and you find yourself caught between the shame of confessing your moral degradation and the guilt of living silently with your thoughts. The idea of confessing that despite all Tartaglia’s patience and kindness with you and the cleansing rituals, your thoughts have only grown lewder and darker and nastier… how would that make you look? How could you ever look him in the eye and tell him that you fear you’re getting worse despite all his attempts to help you get better?

Despite your internal conflict, you always, always confessed— you’ve probably had about seven of your private cleansing sessions with Tartaglia now. He taught you to never keep sins a secret, whether you actually acted on them or not.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment— the minute of silence feels like thirty years and you begin to brace yourself for the firm scolding you deserve rather than the warm understanding he continues to undeservingly spoil you with. You wouldn’t be upset if he were to reprimand you or punish you for your incessant sinning— it’s what you deserve more than you deserve even an ounce of his kindness.

That scolding never comes, however, and once those metaphorical thirty years have passed, he clears his throat, removes his hand from yours, and leans back in his seat. “I understand, little lamb. I’m glad you’re being honest about it.”

“Hey, look at me,” he coaxes. You didn’t even really notice that your gaze fell down to your lap rather than looking up at him until this request; surely it would have been more polite and sincere of you to look him in the eye while confessing the depths of your sins.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp, hesitantly (and finally) looking him in the eye per his request. “I’m so sorry, sir. You’ve been doing so much to help me curb these thoughts and they still… I still…”

He shushes you with a soft shh, taking your hand in his once more and smoothing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Sweetheart, it’s my job to help you and guide you. You know that. If I were the type to give up on you for failing once or twice or even a hundred times, what kind of mentor would I be? Little lamb, our cleansing sessions are important to me because I can see that you’re improving.”

His kindness knows no bounds. Whereas he could have chosen to curse you or damn you for your incessant lustful thoughts, he instead expressed patience and understanding.

Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man.

“I guess that means another session is in order, huh, little lamb?” Tartaglia prompts you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “We’ll continue our readings tomorrow once you’re… less distracted.”

You laugh hesitantly, having been reminded of the utter humiliation of interrupting your weekly readings before you finished them by being too busy having lustful thoughts instead. You slowly rise to your feet and make your way over to the center podium where Tartaglia conducts all of his sermons— your cleansing rituals always take place right here because it’s, in his words, the holiest place in the entire monastery.

You’re mortified. Humiliated. Here you are, a stupid wench of a nun who can’t seem to learn how to properly behave despite all of Tartaglia’s attempts at helping you. How long will you continue to test his patience, reverse his efforts, and take advantage of his kindness? When will you ever, ever learn?

The sound of Tartaglia’s chair sliding against the cool marble floor alerts you that he’s ready to begin as well. He makes his way over to you and stands just behind you, a strong hand settling reassuringly on your hip through the thin cotton of your floor-length standard dress.

He chuckles in a manner you’ve never heard from him before. There’s an unsettling sort of darkness in the way he laughs, his right hand gripping your hip and the left seizing hold of your chin to turn your head slightly towards him. Were you in the position to even dream of questioning him, you would probably find yourself unnerved by the sound— but you are in no position to doubt the man who’s shown you nothing but kindness since the day he met you. When you’re a lowly, sinful, wasteful little nun, you don’t have the right to doubt a man leagues more powerful, wiser, and well-versed in the Tsaritsa’s teachings than you are.

These are not the depraved cackles of a man outside of the Church’s influence staking claim on a pliant, unwitting toy. Tartaglia would never steer you wrong, he would never do anything outside of your best interests as an aspiring member of the Church, he would never hurt you.

Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man.

He caresses your chin and hums a hymn you recognize from his sermons. “I must admit,” he whispers, gazing at you with an expression you couldn’t begin to decipher— it’s some mix of rueful bitterness, anticipation, and sadism. “I’ve been guiding you for two years now, and to see progress this slow… it does make me wonder if you’ll ever learn,” Tartaglia breathes against your lips, grinning salaciously in a way wholly unbefitting of a priest. “It’d be wrong of me to deem one of the Tsaritsa’s subjects a lost cause, but…”

Chuckling again, he releases your chin from his grip and traces a thumb up the swell of your cheek. Is he checking for tears? “But you?” He finally continues. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re even able to be redeemed. If it’s gotten to the point where you can’t even focus on your usual readings… maybe you’re just not cut out for this sort of thing, huh?”

Practically immediately following the last syllable that leaves Tartaglia’s mouth, a pained gasp escapes you and your eyes go wide with a sort of frantic horror. “No! Please, no, I’ll do— I’ll do anything!” Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you beg him, plead him, implore him to help you— you really, truly would do anything to remain in the Tsaritsa’s— no, in his— good graces.

He says nothing when you drop to your knees before him in a desperate display of submission, clumsily knocking one of your feet against the base of the podium. A tear falls from your eye and you don’t stop your body from throwing itself at his feet, clinging to the sweeping skirts of his robes like a lifeline. “Please, sir,” you wail pathetically, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing as if your filthy, self-victimizing tears will wash away the grime of your sins.

While not undeserved even in the slightest nor totally unexpected, his sudden cruelty has you feeling more terrified than anything you’ve ever experienced in your life. Has he finally run out of patience? Has the dutiful, kind, intelligent Tartaglia who took you in when you didn’t have even a single mora to your name grown fed up with your stagnating progress? Have you gone backwards despite all the sessions you’ve gone through with him? Is he beginning to view his decision to take you in as a mistake? Is he going to brand your salvation a fruitless endeavor, forsake you, and throw you back out onto the streets of which he first plucked you from?

No. You won’t let that happen. He’s given you so much and you won’t let all of his time and efforts go to waste— you will improve. You will not simply indulge in his kindness while keeping it from changing your heart; you will take his teachings and allow yourself to be born anew as the spitting image of a follow of the Tsartisa.

“Please forgive me,” you wail weakly, throat already feeling hoarse. With your mind gone and your desperation controlling your body’s autopilot feature, you bury your face in the fabric of his robe and continue to cry and cry and cry.

Unbeknownst to you, Tartaglia smiles.

“I forgive you,” he notes simply. “But you’re not trying to earn my forgiveness, are you? You’ll need to work for Her forgiveness if you’d like to really show me what a sweet, dutiful nun you can be.

I forgive you, he said. You suck in a shaky breath and do your best to quiet your body-wracking sobs into tiny, pitiful hiccups and coughs instead. Tartaglia looks down at you with all the empathy of a stranger passing a wounded animal on the street and you buckle against him, your arms wrapping around his legs.

“Let’s not waste any more time, alright?” Tartaglia says with a grin, prompting you to bashfully apologize again and clumsily rise to your feet. He doesn’t need to ask you to bend yourself over the podium because you know the process plenty well by now— the cleansing ritual involves partaking in behavior nuns are typically required to swear off, so if that fact alone doesn’t inform you of the desperation of the whole situation, nothing will. If Tartaglia deems it fit to break your vow of celibacy— and you would never even dream of questioning the logic behind this— in order to purge you of your sins, then you’ll accept no matter what.

He hums in approval at your obedience. You catch on quickly… it’s a shame that you don’t truly internalize his teachings and learn quickly.

“It’s okay, little lamb,” he reassures you, gently clutching your dress and lifting the fabric slowly until he’s exposed your ass to the cool Cathedral air. “You’ll do well tonight— just as you always do, right?”

You will. You’ll do so well tonight. You’ll behave and perform better than you ever have because you need to— it’s one thing to mess up your first time and a whole different thing to mess up your eighth time. You won’t let Tartaglia’s guidance go to waste, you won’t allow yourself to go to waste so long as he sees potential in you, and you won’t give up as long as Tartaglia continues to view you worthy of molding, changing, and shaping into the ideal nun.

It’ll be okay.

Slowly working your white panties down your thighs, Tartaglia gently parts your legs wider by knocking his foot against your ankles, all but kicking you open to give him some room to work with. You don’t feel as wet this time as you have in past sessions… does that mean your body’s ridding itself of all your sin and lust? He taught you that wetness is a sign of your body’s cravings, and if you’re no longer growing wet… that’s a good thing, right? The thought alone fills you with hope that you are not, in fact, a lost cause.

The initial push of Tartaglia’s cock into your entrance hurts. You don’t deduce that it’s because you’re not all that wet this time— no, you decide that it’s because your sins are finally leaving your body and because nothing worth having ever comes easily. The pain is a sign that the ritual’s working as far as you’re concerned… and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief amidst your whimpers of pain as he continues to push inch after inch of himself into you.

“Thank you,” you wheeze as your body attempts to relax around him. “Thank you for taking pity on me and… guiding me.” Just as you bent over his podium without being asked, you clasp your hands together in prayer before Tartaglia can ask you to— if you want to show him how obedient and receptive to his teachings you can be, it’s now or never.

It hurts, but you don’t complain. Why would you ever complain when he’s trying to help you? Why would you complain when this is surely your body’s way of notifying you that your sins are leaving it?

“There you go,” Tartaglia grunts, cursing under his breath because you’re so fucking tight— he’ll have to remind himself that you’re not really one he can skip foreplay with, especially not when you’re this much of a wreck. “I knew you could do it, little lamb. I’ve always believed in you, you know. I’ve always thought that you’re special.”

You barely have the mental capacity or rationality to compare these praises to his prior comments about you potentially being a lost cause.

Your body adapts quickly enough— the stress of the somewhat dry entrance causes your body to quickly overcompensate, producing enough juices as possible in a limited timeframe in order to allow Tartaglia a relatively comfortable slide in and out of your pussy. He figures that nerves are to blame (or thank, in his case?) for your sudden insane tightness, your pussy squeezing up so tight he can barely manage to pull out. Oh sweet Tsaritsa, he thinks with a sleazy grin. This sort of nun is the best there is.

“Your prayers, little lamb,” Tartaglia reminds you, grinning when you gasp out another apology for being so pitifully forgetful. It’s a prayer he himself wrote just for this occasion; just for you— that should prove the depths of his love and concern for you enough, right?

Nodding your head in understanding, you bow your head down to hang between your arms. “My Royal Highness, the divine Tsaritsa,” you begin quietly, crying out for Tartaglia when he blesses you with a thrust so deep you feel it all the way in your belly. “I plead for Your forgiveness. Forgive my transgressions and pardon my sins. Though I—”

A moan of Tartaglia’s name falls from your lips and cuts your prayer short. Your priest seizes hold of your hips and all but jackhammers into you from behind, slaps resounding throughout the empty Cathedral as you pitifully attempt to complete your prayer amidst the sinful, sinful pleasure Tartaglia’s drowning you in.

“Though I,” you repeat yourself, starting the sentence from the top. “Though I may be imperfect, and though I may act in ways unbefitting of a pupil of Yours, I beg for Your forgiveness.”

Another hard thrust has you faltering, and you fight off your instinct to unclasp your hands from their prayer position and grab at the podium for stability. Tartaglia’s hands grip your hips harder and harder to the point where you swear you can feel his fingernails through the fabric of his gloves.

“I vow to always act in a way befitting of Your image.” You squeeze your hands together so hard they begin to shake, your breath coming to you only in staccato gasps and strained whimpers. “Amen.”

As you finish your prayer, Tartaglia hums in approval from behind you and rubs his hand over your ass in a soothing gesture. “There you go,” he praises. “You did such a wonderful job. I told you that you grow better and better the more sessions we have… perhaps we should make these part of our weekly routine rather than sticking to a case-by-case basis, hm?”

Whatever it takes to reach salvation and prove yourself to him. He’s such a busy, busy man and him taking time out of his schedule to read Scripture with you is already more than you deserve, and here he is, offering to cleanse you of your sins weekly and keep you at your absolute purest.

Would it be sacrilegious to claim that Tartaglia’s kindness surpasses that of even the Tsaritsa Herself?

2K notes · View notes

mirdance · 2 years

Text

Hysteria

Dottore x f!Patient

Kinktober: Medical play, overstim, toys

TW: medical malpractice, chronic pain, vibes of self harm

The metal creaked as I carefully lifted myself onto the chill medical table. I rubbed my arms and held my elbows. My hairs stood at alert.

The pictures on the wall were always the same grassy hills I’d never had the pleasure of visiting. I stared at one as if meditating on a single blade of grass would push away the ache in my joints.

Salad and Biryani for lunch. Fish with cream sauce and a potato boat for dinner. I’d been too tired to remember the menu each day even though our nutrition regimen remained stable, so I kept a food calendar on my desk. I ran the list over and over in my head like a memory game. Sometimes I remembered to update it at the end of the week. Years ago I could remember things like my best childhood friend or what I went into a room to grab. Now I do good to crawl out of bed, bones popping with each step. The doctor always states that the most important thing is rest, but my knees stayed restless through sleep.

As if I could stay asleep with the amount of appointments and noise, anyway.

I could walk. That was good. Many lost the ability to use their legs. For me, it was just my arms. Just my arms. I could still go and see and take myself to the bathroom. Yet what was I supposed to do once anywhere? Books fell from my grasp, spoons unsteady. I held them, anyway, in exchange for the swelling throbs that squeezed the life out of every nerve within my upper limbs.

I could live. The catch was living in pain. So what was the point of living at all?

One of the scabs on my arms oozed between my fingertips. I stopped the anxious rubbing and cursed.

Two knocks on the door. I sat straighter.

“Good day. Sorry to keep you waiting. How are you today?” The depth of his voice rang through the metal table.

“Fine.” The small talk ropes pulled my voice box. Get through the appointment. Get through the appointment.

Except Doctor Dottore wasn’t a fan of weather talk.

“Well, you wouldn’t be here if you were fine,” he deadpanned. For some medical staff, it could count for a joke. With Dottore, I was never sure. “Now, you know how I dislike pattering and conversation with no sustenance,” he went on as he took a seat. “I can’t help you when you do that. How are you? How is your pain?”

I shrugged, which upon doing the action I realized how childish that sort of response would look. The man made me feel as if I were a scarab. “It has been better but it has been worse.”

“I see. Your temperature has been stable the past week.” He flipped a page in his journal. “But it seems your food intake has gone down. Any reason for that?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” Every day felt like slogging through the mud. How was I supposed to count every crumb? “I guess I just feel full faster.”

His pen clunked. “Any stomach pains? Bloating? Constipation?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“Have you had anxious thoughts? Getting along with everyone at home?”

My eyes jumped to his for the first time. They held not a hint of mirth. “I mean, I get along just fine. I’m sure you see me around.”

“I do.” He pointed his pen my way. “But I’m asking you.”

“I do get along with everyone.” My feet swung and tapped the table. Showing any sort of mental breakdown could result in an even busier day or worse, therapy. No, they didn’t put one in solitary confinement unless there was harm to another person. But they’d certainly be keeping a greater eye out. And I liked taking a shit in private. “I’m just more tired than usual.”

“Are the pains keeping you up at night?”

I took a deep breath. “A bit. Sometimes.” There was no use lying about it, he’d probably see the scabs, anyway.

“Hm. And you were practically scab free one week ago.” His eyes scanned the notes in his lap during an uncomfortable lingering silence.

Doctor Dottore did not care for decorum. He would ramble or stay silent for as exactly long as he needed. While the rambling was much to keep up with, at least I could pick out a few words rather than having to pick his brain.

He stood and straightened the cuffs on his lab coat. “Hold out your arms, please.”

I did so, and the scabs shined and cooled in the air.

“You must stop picking them,” he muttered as he held one arm in his grasp and had me do a few hand exercises. His hands were fucking freezing. He struck my elbow with his irritating hammer.

I jumped.

“Your face contorted in pain just now,” he commented, feeling and pressing and squeezing my muscles and joints. “Noticeable inflammation. Do you feel this?”

He lightly tapped each of my fingers. I nodded each time. He repeated doing so up and down both arms.

“How about your legs?” He struck my knees one at a time, causing each to kick forward. “Any cysts?”

“Just a scab behind my knee.” I pointed. “It kinda numbs the leg at night.”

He lifted my calf and studied the scab. “Have you had them on your leg before?”

“Rarely. They usually heal up quickly.”

“Fascinating.”

Fascinating?

“When do you usually break out on your legs?”

“My, uh, my period.” He was a doctor so discussing such anatomical diversities was normal, but with him holding my leg in the air, I didn’t really know whether to laugh or feel gross.

“Perhaps hormones play a role in your stability.” He continued analyzing the scab a moment before setting my leg down. “Do you mind if I take a closer look?”

I consented. He pulled on a pair of gloves and knelt. His head leaned mere inches from the table. Had his hair always been so blue? Maybe the man was greying after spending time in the desert.

He pulled out a stirrup. I put my foot in and let him pull and tug around the scab. His fingers were merciless yet gentle enough not to break the skin. Why would he check the leg scab first? When there were enough arm ones to frighten a military?

“I won’t remove it since it should heal as your cycle moves forward, but if you have any trouble with it, come back to the office.”

He helped me settle my leg back down and immediately dabbed my arm with wipes. It stung a slight bit, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Kind of like scratching a place I couldn’t reach.

“Your shoulders are extremely tense.” He squeezed one to prove the point. “You know this doesn’t help your condition.”

“Probably just the stress,” I mumbled. “Just a little more than usual. It happens.”

For the first time, a look of concern robbed his brows. Or maybe it was irritation at hindering his research on the disease. Mental health was not as easy to control as inflammation or diet. And when inflammation was caused by mental health, it created more layers. I was frustrated with it at least.

“Stress often doesn’t just happen.” He sighed and let go of my shoulder. “Have you tried your meditation techniques? Stretches? Walks?”

He went on with the interrogation. I answered each truthfully. Despite the pain, I went through most days doing my duties. What else could I do?

“Maybe it’s time you spent on something…more leisurely, like a hobby.” He crossed his arms. “You do have those, don’t you?”

When was I going to have time to figure out my fucking hobbies? “I enjoy reading.”

“Well, we’ve plenty of books. Do you need more?”

“Maybe.” I didn’t know. I just wanted the pain to stop.

“I will order you some more.” He reached into one of the cabinets. “For now, I suggest you massage your shoulders nightly to loosen those muscles. You might try it on your leg as well if it is disrupting your sleep.”

How would I massage myself if I couldn’t even use my hands most days? Laughable.

Buzzing. Whatever mechanism Dottore held whirred to life. He held what seemed to be a handle and pointed the flat end towards me.

“Use this so that you do not tire your hands. Though I suggest having a friend help."

As he set the device in my hand, the skin on my palms tingled. I stared blankly at him. Was I supposed to just put it on my shoulder? I awkwardly set it against my shoulder. My skull reverberated. I quickly dropped the thing, causing it to clatter to the floor and shake violently.

The doctor tsked and knelt to pick it up. Though his brows furrowed, he held the glint of a smile, almost a fondness for whatever the thing was. “This must be the first time you’ve ever encountered such a contraption. The medical community has been using such devices for generations now, though their origins are…a tad deviant.”

I had no desire to place anything deviant upon my body. While many patients had it worse being subject to the Good Doctor, I remained satisfied with flying just under his radar.

“Nothing that will harm, I assure you.” He clicked one of the buttons. The massager slowed. “Allow me to show you.”

He placed it against my shoulder and applied a small amount of weight. The muscle ached but in such a way that it loosened. I leaned my neck to the side and closed my eyes with a sigh.

“That good?” Dottore questioned.

“Yes,” I breathed.

He moved to the other shoulder. Before long we tested it directly on the scabs, but the vibrations only caused pain. The surrounding muscles carried the most pain relief. Not that it took away the pain, but anything was better than nothing.

I stretched my arms out as he moved on to do my calf. Everything felt light. He lifted my leg and let the vibrations take over. A groan slipped from my lips. I quickly apologized.

“No need.” Dottore stood and mechanically worked on my thigh. “Such things are also part of my job as a doctor. I’ve seen and heard it all.”

My eardrums rang. The core of my stomach turned inside out and settled hot in my abdomen. The movements shook the entirety of my thigh…I clenched my jaw to bear with the straight fire that coursed through my groin and averted my gaze.

“Is this painful,” he asked. He pulled it off the leg a tad.

“Nope,” I quickly barked. “Just fine.”

Gods, my cheeks boiled.

He cocked a brow. “Hm. I see.”

He continued his assault. I did my best to remain calm.

“Did you know.” He moved the massager higher up my inner thigh. “That vibrators were invented by doctors to treat female hysteria?”

I lightly shook my head, but the doctor seemed so lost in his own mind anyway. His free hand gestured wildly as he spewed names and dates I could not recognize.

“Physicians would often administer pelvic massages involving clitoral stimulation. Studies show that staff never considered it something erotic. At the time, only penetrative copulation was seen as the way to provide sexual arousal. Spas all across the world began adapting the vibrator into their treatments. Water therapy was also used but was hardly as efficient. Patients would flush and grow hot, so why wouldn’t they think that perhaps one were sweating off a fever? Of course, now we know about clitoral orgasms.”

The vibrator hovered over the exact area he spoke of. I held my breath.

“Which,” he continued. “If you were to use the device for such actions, it would most likely greatly impact your mental health, and no one here would reprimand you for it.”

I exhaled shakily. How long had it been since I’d touched myself? Occasionally I’d attempt, but sharp pains would stab throughout my fingers and joints as if a fork were dragged across every nerve.

I would definitely use this in the privacy of my own room, I decided.

“I don’t suggest holding it for too long.” He applied the barest amount of pressure. “Though theses were created to rest the exhausted hands of doctors, I am afraid if you grip something too long in your condition, the repetitive motion might trigger more pain.”

While I wasn’t born yesterday, the stoic calmness that Dottore’s demeanor held starkly contrasted with the teasing push of his hands. Was he waiting for me to make the next move? The doctor never cared before for ethics, so why did he pause just before administrating the rest?

His knuckles brushed my inner thigh as he repositioned. Every muscle I’d tensed fell to pieces; my thighs quivered. “I’d never known that history. But it makes sense. I suppose there’s multiple…uses for these.”

“Indeed.” Another press. “Would you like for me to continue helping you figure them out?”

While not touching the skin directly, the vibrations settled over my clothes and guided the seam against my slit. It stung. It burned. It throbbed. I needed more.

I guided my hand around the doctor’s and pressed the vibrator flush with my cunt.

That was all he needed to flash a pearly white fang and a low chuckle. “This is also my duty as a doctor, so I do not mind. Tell me if you experience any pain or release of pain or anything out of the ordinary.”

I shrieked. Whatever setting the man had turned it to whizzed and rang around the room and doubled my entire body over. My forehead crashed into the doctor, and the flood of fire that shot through my vulva multiplied as he kept the head firmly pressed. It engulfed and seized the entire lower half of my body with pulses that squeezed the life out of my clit.

I came? I came. That was an orgasm. My hands trembled and held onto his collar. My head felt as if I had drank three glasses of wine one after the other.

Another round of fire bubbled within my nerves.

I gripped his shoulders. “Do..doctor please, fuck, gods, I can’t, it’s a lot, shit.”

His lips calmly shushed me. “Good girl. Thank you for telling me how you feel. But I believe you can do more, yes?”

Could I?

“Okay,” I whined. My head thudded against his chest. Hot tears threatened the corners of my eyes.

“How is this?”

The buzzing grew louder.

I screamed.

The screaming did not stop until my second high settled into a wet throb. I sobbed into his coat as snot dribbled down my chin. He lowered the vibrations. The change of speed made my legs kick forward, and they clutched around his waist instinctively. The action pressed him and the device harder into me. I groaned and bit the lapel of his coat as I grinded. I needed more I didn’t need more I needed it I needed it

“How is your pain,” Dottore asked in a whisper that lingered in my ear.

Pain?

Oh.

For a few seconds, I’d completely forgotten.

The pull of Dottore’s lips that morphed to a grin heated against my earlobe. “It seems the experiment was a success. Please, do use the treatment wisely. If it is ever too strenuous on you, come see me, and I will treat you very well.”

#dottore smut #genshin impact #mir writes #genshin smut #kinktober 2022 #mir kinktober 2022 #yandere genshin impact #il dottore #genshin harbingers #dottore x reader #yandere dottore x reader #tw: abuse of authority #tw: dark themes #tw: medical malpractice #tw: overstimulation

1K notes · View notes

mecharose · 1 year

Text

genuinely "oppositional defiance" as a disorder is like female hysteria to me. its literally just trauma symptoms pathologized as a disorder -___-

#WOAG ur kid doesn't listen to u?? r u perhaps beating the shit out of them behind closed doors #and that is why they don't respect ur authority?? :OOOO #fight flight or freeze has FIGHT. btw #ugh #liv shouts into the void #odd #oppositional defiant disorder #abuse tw

227 notes · View notes

mj-iza-writer · 6 days

Text

Tw: drug abuse mentions.

Whumpee shyly walked into the pharmacy and wandered around a little before they got brave enough to go to the counter.

"HI, uhm, I'm here to pick up my script", Whumpee tried to hide their shaking. Why couldn't the normal pharmacist be here, the one that knew them. Not this new person.

"Name?", the pharmacist grunted.

"Whumpee", they were quick to answer.

"Ah yes, you have a flag on your account for drug abuse. I'm not able to give these to you", they looked up.

"But I have a text they are ready. I need those", Whumpee pleaded, "please, I-I have someone who keeps me on track, and my Doctor checks on me regularly. I'm getting better."

"No", came the reply, "I'm not given these out to you."

"Okay", Whumpee whispered, they looked down to hide their quivering lip.

Whumpee left the pharmacy and waited outside for a few minutes wondering what they should do.

They only had one more pill left for tomorrow. Caretaker was out of town for today and wouldn't be back until way after the pharmacy closed.

"Should I call Doctor", they looked at their phone.

"I don't know what else to do."

Whumpee dialed the office number.

"Hello this is Triage, how can I help you?", someone answered.

"HI, uhm I'm Whumpee. I really need to talk to Doctor. I'm having a problem", Whumpee's lip quivered again.

"Yep, they're right here, give me one second", the Triage person heard Whumpee's voice break.

"Whumpee?", a concerned voice came on a few seconds later, "are you okay? What's going on?"

Whumpee started to cry, and talk really fast, "I'm at the pharmacist... it's a new person.... they won't let me g-get my script bec-because of my past w-with drug abuse. And I told them I needed it.... I only have one more."

"Okay Whumpee take a deep breath for me" Doctor requested, "it's okay, where is Caretaker at?"

"They are out of town for a meeting", Whumpee mumbled, "please help me, I only have one more pill left", Whumpee's voice broke again, "I don't want the voices to come back. Please help me."

"Okay", Doctor sighed, "it's okay, I'm annoyed at the pharmacy not at you. Are you okay if I put you on hold and call them to straighten this out."

"Yes", Whumpee shook, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I'll get this all straightened out for you, just stay on the line for me okay", Doctor waited for Whumpee to agree, then put them on hold.

"These freaken pharmacist", Doctor grumbled as they looked through Whumpee's chart to find the phone number, "always getting in my way, and messing with my patient's care."

"Hello, Pharmacy, how can I help you today", someone answered.

"Hello, this is Doctor. I just received a call from one of my patients. Are you withholding their medication?", Doctor frowned, "I would hope not, they do in fact need that medication to stay on track with their mental health. It is also highly illegal to withhold medication without cause."

"I believe you are speaking of Whumpee, they were just in here. They have a flag on their account for drug abuse. This script is a fairly addictive controlled substance", the pharmacist explained.

"Yes, it's a controlled substance.... that's why I control it. They get a certain amount for a certain amount of time, and then they get a refill. They come in and see me every few weeks for a follow-up. They also have someone who monitors their medication for them."

"You are not helping them at all right now withholding their medication. They are terrified right now that they won't get it, and they will regress again. They literally called me crying", Doctor continued, "I am reporting you for harassment as well. That alert isn't there for you to play drug monitor, unless they are trying to get extra pills or showing signs of active addiction. I am going to send Whumpee back in, and I will remain on the line with them during their transaction. If you still withhold that script, you will have serious problems with me and law enforcement. Am I clear?"

"Yes", the pharmacist gulped, then heard the click of the phone being hung up.

"Whumpee?", Doctor came back on.

"I just spoke with the pharmacist. Everything should be straightened out for you. Please keep me on the line, though, so I can listen in. I don't want you to get hassled by them", Doctor's voice had gone back to their nice patient care voice.

"Yes Doctor, thankyou so much", Whumpee cautiously went inside and to the counter.

"Pi-pick up for Whumpee please", Whumpee was too scared to look at the person again.

The pharmacist gruffly handed over the script and took the payment.

Whumpee thanked them, then quickly left.

"They didn't seem friendly", Whumpee whispered to Doctor.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, hopefully next time the normal person will be there so you won't have any issues", Doctor stated.

"Thankyou for helping me Doctor, I'm sorry that I bothered you though", Whumpee sighed.

"Don't worry about it", Doctor smiled, "I'm here to take care of you...even if that means keeping the pharmacist in line. What are you up to now? Do you feel okay mentally, or should I call a police officer to come get you and bring you here?"

"No Doctor, I'm okay, I'm just going to walk home right now. I may stop and get some food though", Whumpee started to walk. They hid the medicine in a bag.

"Okay that sounds good", Doctor grinned, "let us know if you need anything else, I've got a few patients to see. I'll see you next week."

"Okay thankyou so much", Whumpee quickly thanked them before they hung up with each other.

A bit later Whumpee heard Caretaker come into the house.

"I'm home Whumpee", Caretaker called, "I heard you had a problem at the pharmacy today."

Whumpee peaked out from the kitchen and frowned.

"I did. It was embarrassing, demeaning, and unfair", Whumpee's lip started to quiver again, "and... and.. and... I didn't ask for these problems", Whumpee looked at Caretaker when tears started to fall, "I-I just want to be okay", they pleaded, "why do I have to beg to be okay?"

"I know Whumpee, I'm sorry", Caretaker held their arms out, "would a hug help, or would you prefer not to be touched?"

"I would like hug please", Whumpee nodded.

Caretaker smiled as they walked over and wrapped Whumpee in their arms.

"It's okay, I know it's hard right now, but their will come a time when you will be okay. Your drug abuse will be left far in the past. You may have to take the medication still, and that is perfectly fine, but it won't seem as big of a deal as it is right now. You may be able to live on your own even, but if not, I am always here. I will happily take care of you, I promise."

"But what if you get tired of me?", Whumpee rested their head on Caretaker's chest, "what then?"

"Tired of you? I don't think that's possible Whumpee", Caretaker chuckled.

"It is", Whumpee sighed.

"Nah! Not me at least", Caretaker squeezed a little tighter, "how about I get your medicine put away, then we can get started on dinner."

Whumpee nodded, "just a minute more on this hug please."

"Of course Whumpee anything for you", Caretaker chuckled.

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all. @villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived @sacredwrath @porschethemermaid @monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz @bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13 @notpeppermint @cyborg0109 @idontreallyexistyet @thebejeweledwatercat @painfulplots @whumpbump @everythingsscary @skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr @theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee @candleshopmenace @whumpanthems @lavndvrr @ivymyers @starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

#whump community #whumplr #whumblr #whump stuff #whump writing #whump author #whump writer #whump ideas #whump scenario #tw: drug abuse #whump #whumpee #whumper #caretaking #caretaker #caretaker and whumpee #oc

51 notes · View notes

beevean · 1 month

Text

I think I can finally pinpoint what bothers me so much about the Lenector ship - not even how it was treated in the show, but the very idea of making it "nuanced".

Long story short, I found an author that promised to flesh out the Lenector storyline in the show, including getting a better insight into Lenore's thought process and rewriting some of the dialogue (I appreciated that they fixed the "interrogation" in S3 to make Hector specify that he never cared about a reward, it made him look less stupid)

Author never rewrote the rape scene, which disappointed me but oh well, but they did write Hector and Lenore finally talking about the ring, a discussion sorely missing in S4. It was more or less what I would have written: Lenore swearing that she had no choice and it was for his own good and protection, and Hector lamenting that she still tricked him and made him into a pet and she could have been honest because he would have agreed to work with them.

... but he's still in love with her. He kisses her gladly. And his "conflict", his anger at the betrayal, is framed as something in the way of his love, an obstacle that he'd have to get over it.

And there it is.

Even with the acknowledgement that what Lenore did was horrible, there is the assumption that Hector, after a good talk, is bound to forgive her. That it still makes sense that he'd be attracted to her. That it's okay, because she meant well. That it's okay, because she didn't technically lie, only twisted the truth to wear down his mental defenses (already worn down by imprisonment and abuse)! Oh, I guess I must have dreamed Lenore saying that she wanted to run away with him before kissing him :) to be fair, it was a terrible piece of writing. Good thing it wasn't real, apparently!

Yes, Hector's forgiveness should have taken time, but it should have happened. Because Lenore is not a bad person and they deserved to be together. Because what she did, which was deliberately push her prisoner in a delicate mental state into having sex with her so that she'd put an enslaving ring without his consent, was just an honest mistake and doesn't speak at all of her morality.

She's the best he got. She's nice to him, because she makes cute dick jokes and goes to whine to him. She's better than Dracula, who lied to him (Lenore never did), and better than Carmilla, who was violent with him (Lenore never was). This is not to be taken as a sign of how horribly this man has been treated in life, and how he'd be happy with the smallest of crumbs because he has been broken that badly. Lenore is the happiness he deserves. Ignore how "your life could be worse" is literal textbook abuser logic, it's true in his case.

The problem with S4 is not that it excused Lenore's rape by deception. It's that it rushed the forgiveness that was due and didn't allow them to be together. Lenore's suicide was Ellis hating this character that completely overtook Carmilla's already established role and was treated far more magnanimously than the similar Japanese not-twins, clearly!

And this is the impasse I cannot get over. Every time, every damn time, even when fans agree that S4 was a disaster, all arguments funnel to this one part: Lenore raping Hector for her plans is not a moral event horizon. Hector loving her makes perfect sense and it is a tragic, "nuanced" romance that should have ended with the two kissing in the sunset, finally having in their arms someone who truly respects them.

^ the face of someone who only wanted to protect and take care of the prisoner whom she tricked into sex. She should have been happy with him forever and ever, really 🥺

I'm not judging the shippers' morality, obviously, I don't know any of these people. But the arguments they use make me sick to my stomach, which is made even worse by the fact that the show itself pushes this narrative, just in a way that was so shitty that even the fans were like "bruh".

I won't bother rewriting this trash, because I can do better with the gameverse. But if I ever did, I'd only ask for Hector to at least be conflicted until her sunning (which is not as nonsensical as fans seem to think lol, it just needs to be worded better). Like he recognizes that she did improve his life, but she used unforgivable means for no good reason. You want a tragic romance between two kindred souls? Remove that despicable, cruel act. The Lenore of S3 and the Lenore of S4 are irreconcilable and trying to do so always degenerates in rape apologism whether you mean it or not.

#anti netflixvania #tw rape #the fics were good too #that's what tricked me #i appreciate the love that the author put into both characters #even recontextualizing the infamous beating down scene #but since the fics were tagged as “emotional abuse” i was expecting... well. emotional abuse #“oh she's so nuanced!” no she's three characters stitched into one that is not complexity that is shitty writing

29 notes · View notes

elysse-does-things · 2 months

Text

to put my thoughts on Shubble’s story and Wilbur’s apology as someone who was a fan of him:

He is a abuser. The apology didn’t take any accountability and the fact the his own friends have spoke up against him says a lot more than that self centered paragraph he wrote.

Even though I didn’t watch Shubble, I’m proud of her being able to feel safe enough to speak up and share her story.

I’ve unfollowed Wilbur on everything and stopped listening to Lovejoy of Spotify.

My only problem personally is that I have at least 3 major decorations in my room that are Lovejoy centered and I’m not sure what to do about them.

#wilbur soot #shubble #tw abuse #abuse recovery #fuck abusers #fuck Wilbur soot #dream smp #art #drawing #ao3 author #ao3 writer #writers on tumblr

29 notes · View notes

lowlifesymptoms · 7 months

Text

Data gets taken advantage of by a visiting Starfleet officer

#tw noncon #tw rape #tw forced #tw abuse of authority #data #star trek #st tng #the next generation #love to think of data not knowing what to think or how to process an assault #feeling like he shouldnt care because he cant be assaulted #how does one 'rape' a machine?#but also very genuinely feeling so violated by it that he has trouble functioning properly #out of left field i kno #but ive been on a tng binge so of course data has to suffer for it.

65 notes · View notes

aracnidaarmagedon · 29 days

Text

I hate the fact that a horrible man was responsible for one of the best pieces of toxic yaoi to ever exist.

Like, why could you not be a decent fucking person?

You literally could have had it all and ruined it by being a disgusting ass man

#yes this is about wilbur being an abuser #yes this is also about c!tntduo #c!tntduo changed my life on such a big level that it permanently affected how I navigate and percieve romance #Not kidding #/srs #tntduo #love the character #hate the author #fuck william gold #tw abuse #tw abuser mention #abuse tw #cw abuse

25 notes · View notes

compassionatereminders · 1 year

Note

It is that time of year! My mother is threatening to “clean” my room for me (aka throw away literally everything I own) because my PTSD caused depression means I have piles of clothes on my chairs and books in specific areas. I want to cry, because if I ask for help she will just toss everything and the writing I have (which she’ll also chuck in the trash) is the only way I can get out of this house because they’ve forbidden me from having a job due to them wanting me to do more social things

It is not "that time of year" - your moms behavior sounds abusive and I hope you know it's neither natural or okay for her to treat you and your things in this manner

#chat with kat #abuse tw #abuse of authority tw

22 notes · View notes

broke-art-girl · 2 months

Text

"Wait in the Truck." By Broke_Art_Girl

(TW: Abuse and Murder!!!)

Fandom: Bones and All (2022)

Summary: Lee finds you after your abusive boyfriend beats you pretty bad. He decides this is the last time.

Words: 1,638

Characters: Lee (Bones and All), Reader/ (Y/N),

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54134755

Lick it up! Lick it up!

The familiar tune turned your head. You checked your watch, ten minutes before your shift ends. You leaned a bit to your right behind the counter and looked out the door in the library lobby. Yep. Lee was in the parking lot. You smiled as you watched him playing the song on invisible drums. Dork. You thought. My Dork.

You got jittery. You just wanted to climb inside, be engulfed in kisses. Hear him call you beautiful. Breathe together as you intertwine your fingers with his.

Your boss walked quickly to the entrance door. He tapped the glass with a finger and chuckled.

"Who's that?” He asked.

“Hm?” You replied, packing your things for the day.

“That idiot blaring music.” He kept staring out at Lee's old pickup with a friendly smile.

“He's waiting for me.” You said as you gathered your stuff.

“You? He’s your boyfriend?”

“Mhm, we've been a thing for a while.”

“huh..” He turned to you, looked at you for a moment, cocked his head then sighed. “Yeah, I don't see it.”

“See what?” You stood for a moment, innocently confused.

“You.. and that guy.”

You laughed and threw your bag on your back. “Guess sometimes you find love in strange places.”

He nodded and held the door as you exited.

You made haste with the stairs, two stepping on your way down, almost tripping over a pinecone. You gripped the rusty truck handle and then-

“Hey girl~” Lee cooed, his hand turning down the blaring music.

“Hi,” You said with a smile and a giggle as you climbed in his blue truck. You kissed his cheek immediately. He leaned into it, gently taking your cheeks and kissed your lips. He tasted like minty smoke and you could feel the gum inside his mouth against your tongue. He sighed as the kiss broke and looked into your eyes for a moment.

“So pretty..” He whispered.

“I love you.” You whispered back.

“I love you, too.” He returned.

You couldn't take your eyes off his.

The air was romantically quiet for a moment but you started giggling again. You just couldn't be happier with him.

He smiled and kissed you once more. “Wanna go home?”

“Please.”

“‘kay.” He sighed still gazing into your eyes, drinking them in after your long shift away from him. Eventually he kissed you one more time, and released your face.

Lee shifted gears and headed in the direction of the apartment complex you had a lease on, you manually cranked the old rusty crank to get the window down. The wind on your skin in the humid weather was amazing. You giggled as you stole glances at him from time to time.

Your memory faded back to the day you and Lee met.

You were running with a limp, trying to read what you could make out of a tattered old map you saw in a ditch. It was hard to hold open with a broken hand. The rain pouring down over you and the thunder making you jump. Your nose was bleeding. The blood dripped down on your old shirt.

About halfway to town you came to the fork in the road where you got confused. Was it left or right? Or was it straight? Crap. You took the left path after a minute of thinking.

‘It’s your fault.. It’s all your fault…’ You thought. ‘If you hadn't said that to him it wouldn't have happened.’ Tears fell down your cheeks.

Suddenly a pair of headlights came down the hill. The old blue truck slowed when it saw you. You squinted and moved aside to not get run over.

“You okay? Your bleedin’” The man asked. He had a shaggy crimson colored mullet, green eyes, a pale, thin frame, and a shredded pair of jeans.

You shook your head in return.

“Climb in, you're soaked, sure it's June but it's still cold out in the rain.”

You nodded.

“I'm Lee.” He said while you buckled up in pain.

You rode silently for a while until he broke it with a question.

“If you don't mind me asking,”

You figured he was being nosey. You didn't wanna talk about it.

“I've never been to this town. Where's a gas station?”

Huh, ok.. not nosey..

“There's one about a mile up ahead, at the fork in the road, go straight.” You wiped at your nose with your functional hand.

“Thank you.” He replied gently and headed that way. “You live around here?” He asked.

You didn't know what to say. You did but you didn't want to. Not with him.

“Uhm.. it's complicated.” You mumbled.

“You and your partner got into a fight?” He asked. “They kick you out?”

“.. he..” You stopped. “He was drunk- sometimes he hits me, but never like this...”

“Where is he?”

“What?” You asked, Simi shocked.

He looked you dead in the eye and asked. “Where. Is. He?”

You could tell Lee was very serious. This was your chance. You would never get away alive on your own..“Take a right at the fork.. it's the old trailer park on south main.” you said plainly so he could hear you.

‘Why is he being so nice?’ You thought as he drove towards your abuser's trailer. ‘He doesn't even know me.’

After a while you arrived, he parked the truck in a hidden spot in the woods on top of a hill that faced down at the trailer.

“Wait in the truck.” He mumbled as he pulled out a handgun from under his seat.

You didn't think he was gonna kill him?! Maybe beat him up a little but not kill him! “But-!”

“Just wait in the truck.” He ordered.

For some reason you couldn't bring yourself to disagree. You sighed and sat back in your seat. He pulled you forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then he was off, stalking down the driveway like Jason Voorhees.

You watched Lee walk down the hill of a driveway to the door. He pounded and pounded but the man didn't answer. Then Lee took a step back and rammed his foot into the door knocking it wide open. Then he raised his pistol and fired. The boom rang out and the light flashed. There was no screaming. No panic on Lees part.

That awful man never came back out the door, but Lee went inside. A lamp was on behind him, the curtains were drawn and the angle the car was sitting at was a perfect shadow theater for what you saw next.

Lee nudged the body with his foot. It didn't react that you could see. Then he bent down and with his fingers probed around in the bullet wound in your abuser's chest, right at the base of his heart. He pushed and pushed his fingers through, gently teasing the hole wider until he could reach the heart, then he tore it out the stretched hole. He placed it to the side and took out a pocket knife.

He carved bit by bit off the body and looked to be eating the flesh. He sliced and sliced away. Chewing and swallowing, wiping up blood and sucking it off his fingers. He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and guzzled it down until he was satisfied.

He grabbed the deceased's pack of cigarettes off the mantel and lit one up. He puffed on it then picked up the phone and dialed. He spoke only a few things and hung up.

He came back outside with the heart, still puffing on the cigarette. He was soaked head to toe in blood. Red, cold, blood. That man's blood.

He bent down and laid the heart on the blue painted deck. He stood back up, staring down at it for a moment. He took a step back, lifted his foot and then-!

Wham!!!!

He threw his foot down on top of it and it burst like a water balloon filled with blood.

You never thought your revenge would be so graphic, but it sufficed. You now felt safe somehow.

He walked back to a rocking chair on the deck and sat, you guessed he was tired. But that's when you heard it. The sirens. He had called the police earlier.

‘No!!’ You thought. The officers arrived and arrested him.

You testified for Lee.

“Do you believe that the defendant acted as your guardian angel that night?” The lawyer asked.

“I don't know if he's an angel, cause angels don't do what he did. But I knew right then, I'd never get hit again when he said to me, ‘Wait in the truck.’” You replied.

Lee was charged.

You went to see him from time to time until he was released. Nobody really minded that he only served five years on good behavior. Nobody liked your ex anyway. Lee did the world a solid by killing him. Maybe eating him wasn't planned. You assume killing someone would provoke an Eater's hunger.. but maybe you didn't mind.. oddly.

Your mind faded back as Lee rubbed your thigh at a stop light.

“Where'd you go?” He asked.

“Home.” you returned with a smile.

Lee pulled up to the complex you lived in together and you too went inside. Life was a little different for you two, especially since he was an Eater. Meal time was especially hard.

He noticed you got lonely without him and he didn't exactly want to bring you along, so he would sneak away in the middle of the night to eat.

Lee was a good man. He only ate when he found a girl walking along the road, black and blue, bloody. He would ask them if they were okay, then tell them, “Wait in the Truck.”

21 notes · View notes

queermentaldisaster · 3 months

Text

“There's a Revolution Coming”, part three of “The Devil Made Me Do It; But I Also Kinda Wanted To”.

First thing's first. If you read this on AO3, please, please, please pay attention to the tags. I will add sufficient warnings for each chapter here as well, but this is very much a Dead Dove fic. What you see is what you get. So please, proceed with caution when you see the tws/tags.

Tags: @forestshadow-wolf @axelaxolotl09 @im-here-and-im-confused @bringinsexybackk69 @rainerestored @8-rae-rae-8 (if you want to be added or removed from the taglist please inform me)

(Possible) tw: Children in captivity, mental breakdown, mentions of torture and mind control, discrimination towards demons, and implied child abuse. Proceed with caution.

Chapter 1 under the cut.

The helo landed, and Mirror grabbed Soap's bound wrists and began dragging him towards the military base. Soap's eyes trailed upwards, and his eyes narrowed. With the amount of security around this place, it reminded him of a castle. He looked back down, taking a deep breath. ‘Och, poor Si…he's probably terrified right now and masking it with anger…’ he thought. His thoughts were on Ghost, even as Mirror dragged him through the base. Then, he looked up, and saw just how many demons were here. More than a thousand. The rest must've come from all over the world, then. ‘How many demons did Meister break?’ Soap thought, as his mind drifted back to a conversation Ghost and him had while he was still recovering.

“You know, Meister tortured us to make us weak to mind control.” Ghost murmured. Soap's head snapped up from his sketchbook. “Mind control?” He asked. Ghost nodded. “Affirmative.” He brought his hand up to his neck. “He’d collar us, then attack us. He saw us as nothing more than tools.” Ghost's wings tightened around himself. Soap's eyes softened and he touched Ghost's hand. “Yer so much more than a tool to me, Simon. Yer as alive as the rest of us.” he murmured. Ghost looked back at Soap and his eyes spoke volumes. “Thanks, Johnny.”

A tear rolled down Soap's cheek. God, he hoped Ghost was looking for him. He was scared.

Mirror dragged him into a room, shoving him in and locking the door behind him. Soap fell to the floor, and knelt there, his hands clenched into fists. He let the tears begin rolling down his cheeks, as he tried not to sob. He was in the lion's den and all alone. Too weak to fight against demons and vampires and…whatever Shepard was. God, he'd never wished for anything, not even to be a monster…but now, he was cursing his human heritage. ‘Ah’m useless. Cannae even save maself, much less love Simon how he wants.’ He bit his tongue. ‘Ah’m pathetic. Fought tooth ‘n nail ta get where ah was, and now ah'm here. In an empty room, captured, unable to save maself.’ A sob escaped from the gag, and the dam broke. He curled up, sobbing.

•✧-----------------------------------✧•

He didn't know how long had passed, and he didn't care. He'd managed to get the gag out at some point, and he was now staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six-” He was interrupted by the door flying open. Graves was standing there, his eyes narrowed. “Do you ever shut up!?” He snapped. Soap sat up, placing his bound wrists on his knees. “Ya ken, Graves, ye have a really bad track record with kidnapping. Twice in two months. Ghost isnae goin’ tae be happy with this.”

Graves's eyes narrowed. “I do not care what that beast thinks. He's nothing more than an animal, a tool to use as we see fit. He doesn't have feelings, he can't.” Soap's eyes narrowed. “...” He lunged at Graves, only to be tackled by one of the other demon guards. Graves's eyes narrowed. “Take him to the little room.” The demon nodded and dragged Soap off as Soap screamed his head off at Graves, in pure rage.

The demon threw Soap in another room, this one with three beds, and paper strewn around the room. He hit the ground roughly, and he let out a groan. He felt hands grab his binds and he almost struck the person…until he looked ahead…and saw a child with pale tannish skin, her right eye being a purple color, her left eye being a pink color, blonde hair, and tiny red horns. “Evelyn! He could be a threat!” came a voice. He turned his head and saw a girl, no older than fourteen, shielding a smaller boy. The girl had light grayish pinkish-purple hair, her right eye being orange and her left eye being a dark grayish magenta color. She had a burn scar by her right eye, and she had horns of a dull gold color that curved like a ram's. Soap looked around, spotting two other kids. His heart sank.

23 notes · View notes

warrior-cats-rewritten · 4 days

Note

how are you going to handle ashfur in wcr? i’ve always loved him but also felt like he should have been more clearly written either as a sympathetic tragic character or a total asshole, instead of kind of both

Technically, both!

On one hand, his mother was brutally murdered when he was young. He and his 3 siblings relied heavily on each other, but when Ferncloud got together with Dustpelt, Tulipfur grows closer to the older cats of Thunderclan, and Elderleaf buried herself in her work to try and become Camp Keeper, he feels upset and left behind. He has a right to feel that way, but he keels feeling that way. Stuck in the past... And over time, he blames everyone around him for his troubles.

A bonus scene shows his trial shows that he is incredibly charming. He sways the jury by pleading to see his mother, being incredibly loving towards her, and asking about his passed on nieces, Larchkit and Hollykit.

He plays up the sympathy card, talking about how it was such a foolish thing to do, how he just loved Squirrelflight too much, and how he totally deserved what Hollyleaf did. He blames Brambleclaw in a roundabout way. See, he just looked do much like the cat who killed my mom :(

The jury is mostly split and the final vote falls to Yellowfang.

After she and Raggedstar split up, he became mates with Foxheart. He didn't love Foxheart, just used her feelings and affections to hurt Yelf. Yellowfang admitted that, though she knew what he was doing, it still hurt. She wanted to shout at him, hurt him, and even wanted to hurt Foxheart, who hadn't done anything wrong.

She votes in his favour, because she finds it a bit relatable. She fell for the act, many cats did. She is ashamed to admit it later on, but in that moment, she knew what that anger was like. She still disapproves of his treatment of Hollypaw, and his anger towards the Three, but his trial is about The Fire Scene specifically, and all of Starclan knows Squirrelflight is going to be on trial when she eventually passes away.

And, for a good chunk of his time in Starclan, he looks normal. He hangs out with his nieces, cheering when they get their Star names, Hollyfoot and Larchwhisker. He hangs out with Tulipfur when his brother dies during AVOS, defending him when his cross-clan relationship comes into question.

In Squirrelflight's eyes, he was strange, and controlling, he treated her like some precious thing that couldn't do too much or she would break, some kind of prize to be hoarded.

Many cats alive did not like him. His was an ass towards most cats in Thunderclan, and he wasn't popular.

TBC shows his true colours. Controlling, manipulative, holier-than-thou, vindictive, and entitled.

Squirrelflight is glad to finally put him down for good.

14 notes · View notes

the-andromeda-effect · 1 month

Text

TW - abuse mention, violence mention, injury mention, mental trauma, ptsd

Caliban had taken many women to his bed the first night he’d met them, and that was the only night they’d spent together. Some he’d dated for a while before becoming sexual. None of those had ever brought about the conflict that he currently felt with Adira as she returned to the bathroom to finish changing. It was not that there was not the physical desire for her, or that he knew that it would be far more than one night with her, but rather that the physical was so far less important at the moment than making sure that she felt safe and secure mentally and emotionally. The other could wait, and he would wait, because he knew how wounded she was in all ways. He did not want to add to that in any way; certainly not if there was a chance of losing the way she looked at him by rushing or pushing for anything. Whenever her eyes and his met, there was something that he could not describe within them, something that awoke a part of him that hadn’t been touched before, and he was finding he liked it.

When Adira was once more behind a closed door, she leaned against it, holding the PJ pants to her as her heart thudded within her chest. She had no idea what had made her so bold as to walk over to Caliban like that and just assume he would welcome her touch upon his bare skin and her help in disrobing. It hadn’t been until she had actually been in the act of doing it that her brain had kicked in. By then it had been too late and the only thing she felt she could do was continue, and now she was thankful that she had. Just his initial response of covering her forearms and hands with his own had almost made her knees give way in relief and also a warm and safe sensation that had flooded her whole body. She craved him in a way that she had never craved Mircea, in a way that she couldn’t even put into words. It wasn't blind lust, it was something deeper.

From the day that she had met Mircea, she had known that they would be married. It was why her father had introduced them. Also from that day, she had alway tried to garner his approval, to please him, to make him proud, to elicit praise. He had at least pretended in the beginning to be somewhat fond of her and that her efforts were more than enough. The lack of overt affection understandable due to theirs being an arranged marriage, but it was one he seemed to desire, something that still confused her with how things eventually went. However, the longer their relationship went, the more it was obvious that she was not who he wanted and that her efforts would never achieve the results that she hoped for. She had still tried, no matter how many times she failed to live up to standards he seemed to change on a whim. Up until the day she had been kidnapped, she had relentlessly tried.

Caliban was completely different from Mircea in every conceivable way. One could say that their marriage was no less arranged than hers with Mircea had been. It was not built on love, but an agreement to provide for her and keep her safe. The difference was that even in the beginning of her relationship with Mircea she had not felt as safe and secure with him, nor had she felt as accepted. Then there was something about the way that she felt when she was held in Caliban’s arms, the way just his voice calmed any fear or anxiety in her, the look in his eyes when he looked at her, his gentle and soothing touch when she was upset or hurting - it was all so new to her; at the same time, it was like what she had always been looking for in the past, but never found.

It was in wondering how he had not found a wife previously, with everything he had already shown her of who he was, that Adira came upon the thought that made her stomach turn: what if there were other women he was in a relationship with when he had saved her? Could she do that again? Could her heart take other women also being in a relationship from someone other than Mircea? If there were, could she even do a fake marriage? Her breath caught and her heart burned at the thought.

By the time that Adira finally opened the door again, Caliban had started to worry if things were okay with her. The room had been too quiet, and she had seemed to be in there too long. He had to keep reminding himself not to rush her. Patience was never one of his virtues, but he knew that if he wanted to unwrap the delicate gift that was the true nature of the woman he now called his wife, he was going to have to learn some. There was something about her that made him confident that whatever new skills he might have to learn or test he might feel like he was enduring, in the end, it would be worth it.

“Is everything alright?” He finally asked as she silently crossed over to the bed and began to place her jeans in the bag that he had brought up for her. She hadn’t looked at him when she came out of the bathroom, nor even when he spoke to her, and this concerned him. Before she’d gone back in, they’d once again been affectionate with one another and she’d seemed to be relaxing. Had she had another panic attack of sorts?

Still not looking at him, Adira’s voice came out soft and stuttered, “I hadn’t thought to ask before if…” She paused, gathering the courage to say what had come to her mind as she realized how much she was attracted to Caliban. It was as if the question was stuck in her throat, refusing to come out. There was a fear of hearing the answer once it did.

“If what, sweetheart?” Calban asked cautiously, as head cantered. He had heard the hesitation and nerves in her voice. He pushed off of the dresser he’d been leaning against to walk over to her. There was definitely something wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what could have changed in just a few minutes.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her head still bowed as if looking down into her bag. “If you had…someone you were with..you know, when you..we...” As she let her breath out, she steeled herself for the answer. Her hands had balled to fists around the clothing she was holding, as if that would somehow protect her from the answer hurting her. She had known many men who would be with multiple women simultaneously. It wasn’t like she was naive to the way the world of rich and powerful men who looked like him operated. Even those who were married often had more than one girlfriend on the side besides their wife. This was often the life wives of family heads led.

So that was the issue that had suddenly come to bother her. The tension Caliban had been feeling waiting to hear what had upset her faded instantly. He was glad her back was to him because he could not keep the devilish smirk off of his face. Not that he was laughing at her, far from it; no, he was delighted that the beauty was concerned that she might have competition for his affection. To him that meant that she too was starting to feel something for him in the same way he was for her. Otherwise she wouldn’t care if he was in a relationship with someone else while being fake married to her. Being fake married to Adira seemed to get better every time he turned around, and now he was going to have at least two weeks secluded with her in a mountain cabin. Who knew what could happen then?

“And it would bother you if I did?” The shaky inhale of breath after his question gave him his answer, just before his arms wrapped around her from behind. She couldn't hide the slight tremble in her body from him, a tremble that he hoped his next words would quell. Placing his chin on her shoulder, he let his warm breath fan across her neck with his next words, “my darling wife, if there had been, the moment I slipped that ring on your finger they no longer existed.” He gently kissed the crook of her neck and continued, “there is now, and from now on always will be, only you, unless it is you who wants things otherwise between us.” Caliban was never one to share a woman, nor did he expect a woman to share him.

As much as his words comforted her, she also felt like they were too good to be real. “Are you sure that you can be happy that way?” Adira was afraid to even hope, even if she prayed, to a god she had long since stopped believing in, that it was true. She was under no illusion that Mircea had ever been faithful in their marriage, even from the beginning. He’d always blamed her; of course it was her failure as a wife that led him to have to find others.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He kept his chin on her shoulder and laced his fingers with hers now that she’d covered his hands with her own. Every time he thought he’d figured out how much damage that Mircea had done, something more was revealed. There was no doubt the coming days and weeks would reveal more, and he would try his best never to repeat those wounds. If he could, he would instead heal them.

“Well,I…I don’t know. I just know that no matter what I tried, I was never enough for Mi-” Suddenly Caliban’s hand was over her mouth, cutting her off as she felt herself fully pulled back against him. Her eyes closed, her breathing stilled, and she waited for the pain. Pain always came after the wrong things were said. Hopefully Caliban would not be as brutal as Mircea had been. She still ached from being dragged by Kondrat and the abuse in that basement.

banners by: @cafekitsune

16 notes · View notes