#to be fair it is red headed jason so i think that’s a punishable offense tbh

[goatsghost]

i still think it’s insanely funny that bruce comes back from the time stream and decides they’re gonna have a family movie night, while FULLY AWARE that jason is currently in arkham

like bruce i think your favoritism is showing just a lil bit here lmao

(batman and robin 2009)

[thesandsofelsweyr]

HOLLOWED OUT

《 READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

When Jason saw that photo of Batman and his new Robin, the thin cord of hope holding him together had snapped and he had broken into a million pieces. No one was coming for him. Not one single person on the planet cared whether he lived or died, or how much he suffered, or how loud he screamed. No one except the Clown. He was Joker’s now, and he would say or do anything to get a reprieve from the torment and the pain, even if it meant letting himself be reduced to something less than human.

《RATING》 🔞 Mature 《WORDS》 15,609 《CHAPTERS》 6/6

《CHARACTERS》 Jason Todd/Robin, Joker, Original Male Character(s), Bruce Wayne (mentioned), Dick Grayson (mentioned), Alfred Pennyworth (mentioned), Catherine Todd (mentioned), Willis Todd (mentioned)

《TROPES》 Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Whump, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

《WARNINGS》 Dehumanization, Bathing/Washing, Master/Pet, Collars, Ownership, Brainwashing, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Touching, Torture, Mindfuck, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Loathing, Past Child Abuse, Daddy Issues, Forced Nudity, Swearing

《SERIES》 Part 4 of My Arkhamverse, Part 4 of Ruined

《NOTES》

This fic is my pride & joy! It was the first thing I published after a 5+ year hiatus, and the longest story I've ever written by far!

This fic is also dark so be aware of the tags (especially the DD:DNE tag)

My Arkhamverse canon is a mix of game canon and Arkham Knight: Genesis canon. I pick and choose what I like best 😉

If you enjoy the read please consider kudosing, commenting, and reblogging ❤️

《 READ ON AO3 》 (excerpt below the cut)

Jason let his heavy head sag between his shoulders as he was dragged down the long hallway. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. The strain on his upper body reignited dull pain in his shoulders, pain that still lingered from the last time he was strung up like a slab of raw meat. The usual two orderlies, who Joker called “Left” and “Right” to amuse himself and confuse the hell out of everyone else, each grasped a bone-thin arm, showing no more concern for him than they would have for a sack of dirt. He didn’t have the strength to fight the men even if he wanted to, which he did not. Fighting was a punishable offense—he’d learned that long ago—and he would do anything to avoid a punishment. Yeah, the Clown still abused him whenever he felt like it, but punishment was a different experience entirely, the kind that lasted for hours and left him wishing for death. Just the thought of the word alone made him want to curl up and die.

We passed the torture chamber already, he reassured himself, trying not to let the fear take over and start pleading for mercy like the coward he was. They’re taking me somewhere else, someplace new. 

For Jason it was a torture chamber, but really it was another abandoned office in this buried wing of Arkham Asylum where Joker kept all the toys he used to make him squeal. He was almost always punished in that room: tied to a chair, dangling from a meat hook, or, especially when guests paid him a visit, left free to crawl into a corner and contemplate how helpless he was even without any restraints. 

He only punishes me when I’m bad…

He wracked his weary mind for anything he might have done to piss the Clown off lately. Not that the Clown needed to be pissed off to make him regret ever putting on that red suit. Whacking him with a crowbar was probably part of the psycho’s self-care routine. But a punishable offense? He couldn’t think of anything. Joker was usually fair when it came to punishing him. He only hurts me like that when I deserve it, and he had been on his very best behavior. At least he hoped he had. He was so exhausted it was hard to keep track of what he had or hadn’t done.

It seemed as if a lot of time had passed since his last punishment, but he had no real concept of time in this pit. Well, not since the first six months of his imprisonment, back when he thought someone might actually give a damn that he was missing. He’d tried to keep track of the days then, but after Joker showed him that photo he decided there was no point anymore.

In those early days—back when he was nothing but bad—he would fight back. He broke the wrist of one of the guest torturers, bit a guard’s ear off, even knocked a tooth out of the Clown’s stupid grin. He also tried to escape at least once a month. The guards or orderlies or the Clown himself (armed with that goddamned crowbar) would drag him back and beat him within an inch of his life. But as soon as he could stand up again he was running—or limping more likely—toward that salvation that was a concrete staircase leading up to a makeshift trap door leading out to freedom. Even then Joker made sure his ankle stayed broken, but he had way more tolerance for pain when he thought Batman was coming to beat the shit out of the Clown and his goons and take him home. Hope will do that to you.

He was a good boy now though, as docile as a whipped dog—relentless suffering for nearly a year of his life made certain of that. Joker taught him that it was easier to just submit, to obey; that life was better as a broken boy than it was as a bad boy. He no longer wished to escape. Where would he go? He had no home, no one waiting for him. At least here in this dungeon someone actually cared about him, in his sick, twisted, fucked-up sort of way. And then there was the warning of what would happen to him if he ever tried to run again. Oh God… Fear coiled like a snake around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter as he struggled to push the memory of that terrible threat away, to push back the panic that crept in. I learned my lesson, he reminded himself as he fought for a breath. That will only happen to me if I disobey…

His mind was mercifully wrenched back to the present when the orderlies suddenly turned, pulling his limp body into an unfamiliar room and dropping him to the cold tile floor. His heart started to slow as the pain in his shoulders receded and he took in his new surroundings. The small, musty room looked like it might have been a break room or a kitchen. There was a sink, a fridge, a microwave, an empty water cooler, some cabinets—all blanketed in a thin layer of dust. In the center of the room sat a square table with four metal chairs, and beside it stood the Clown. His heart sank. Joker was grinning at him as ever, his feverish green eyes glittering with excitement for whatever sadistic cruelties he was about to dish out. The sight of the man made him want to puke.

But he couldn’t puke right now, not when Joker expected him in position. With a soft groan he slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, ignoring the protests from cracked bones and torn muscles. His bruised knees ached from crawling on the hard floor for the past weeks (months? years??). Since he’d been stripped of his armor Joker only allowed him to crawl; never walk, never stand. He kept his head bowed low while he waited for a command to obey. 

The uneasy silence was soon filled by the sound of a metal chair scraping against the tile as it was pulled from beneath the table. He shivered as all-too-familiar dread and despair settled over him. It was about to start again.

“Come. Sit,” Joker said in a lilting voice that suggested this was a friendly request, but Jason knew better.

Without hesitation he crawled over to where Joker was standing with his hands resting on the chair back. He gripped the chair and used it as leverage to pull his trembling, broken body off the floor. Gingerly, he slid into the chair, and winced as his ass and thighs—still bruised from the wooden paddle—came in contact with the hard plastic seat. My body still hasn’t recovered from my last punishment, he thought miserably. It was hard for him to believe that this same body was running around Gotham, brawling with its colorful lineup of thugs only months ago. Now he could barely stand on his own, much less run. Even the slightest of movements awakened some awful pain from a previous beating. He was only 16 yet he felt like he was 60.

16… He was only weeks away from getting his license when he fell into this shithole. Two more years and he would’ve had his high school diploma, maybe even sooner. I wanted to go to college. I was gonna try for an Ivy. A ‘fuck you’ to Willis for giving him hell for opening a book more than once in his life. I’ll never read another book. That realization was a particularly brutal gut-punch. Books were always his escape, from his shitty home life when his sperm donor was still breathing, or when he was feeling like he, a corner boy from Crime Alley, had no business living in a billionaire’s mansion. He remembered when he first arrived at that billionaire’s mansion how excited he was when he saw the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves Alfred built for him in his new bedroom, and the hundreds of books that Bruce had already filled them with. He also remembered the pack of Marlboros he had stashed behind his (Bruce’s) first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice. This hell would be more bearable with a paperback and a cigarette. He would never experience either of those things again though. He would never see his bedroom again… or Alfred… or Bruce. He bit back tears. Willis was probably laughing his ass off in hell right now. He always said I was a loser, that I’d never amount to anything. Looks like the fuckhead was right in the end.

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