#( electroshock cw )

[compressednerve]

digital sketch dump tiem. Mainly jayvik and ocs

traditional art dump tiem coming maybe soon.

[real-total-drama-takes]

Sometimes I look at something that was put in the show like “wow that’s insane of them to put in there” and then I remember that the writers do not take this show seriously at all and that was supposed to be a haha funny joke and I feel cringe because I saw it as a serious character moment when that’s not what that was

What do you mean Duncan’s dad said “actually do we even love you?” that’s fucking evil and a horrible thing to say to your kid and it hurts me every time I think about it but that’s just supposed to be an unserious moment and a joke I’m gonna ARRRGH

Being normal about this show is unfortunately not an option for me I fear

-📺

[cartoonscientist]

call me a hippie dippie bleeding heart socialist but I think if we’re willing to try assisted suicide to deal with mental illness without trying just giving people money so they don’t have to work first, I think that’s kind of evil. but that’s just me.

[e-m-p-error]

[ @dont-ever-call-me-baby-doll || Continued From Here ]

[ Vox ]

Well, that was another thing he'd have to consider replacing, apparently. Valentino had left all of those shiny, glittery markers in their silvers, golds, and reds all around his house for whatever reason, and he was still finding them. Apparently, Velvette had decided to also find one, and he'd spent the last few minutes sitting up on his elbows to watch her handiwork.

Tracking each letter as she left behind the vibrant marks on his dark skin, he finally chuckled. He was, apparently, all hers until he could get this stuff off.

"Those are alcohol markers," He finally stated, wrapping his arm around her and cuddling her close. Skating his hand up and down her shoulder, he tipped his screen up a little bit to graze the top of her head with the prongs that sparked there. They were gentle, for the most part, but he'd left behind burns on his partners before with them, "The ink's tingly."

Tapping his fingers against her spine, he sent a few pulses of electricity racing down her back.

"I guess it's my turn, huh?"

[evl-qn]

in relation to this, by the end of my season two, regina's been wearing the brace for a couple months. she is very weak by the time greg mendel gets his hands on her, though you wouldn't know it unless you knew her well. she's a good actor and puts on a performance that distracts everyone from the fact that she is very much not okay, physically. the torture she endures at greg's hands causes her magic to respond violently, but because of the brace, it can't do anything but eat at what's left of regina. the electroshock, while torturous, is actually the only thing that keeps her alive until she's found and the brace is finally taken off her.

[a-gay-a-day]

Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of our generation destroyed, starving hysterical naked...

Carl Solomon is most famously known as the dedicatee of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, though he had his fair share of problems with the poem himself. For one, he was not in Rockwell, though Allen Ginsberg references Rockwell mental health facility. He was in a different facility. 

Carl Solomon was voluntarily institutionalized, and subsequently treated with electroshock therapy for his homosexuality. Though we do not know much about Carl Solomon, hence the lack of sources, we do know that he wrote a book titled “report from the asylum” and in it he says, referencing the electroshock therapy he was put through, “Invariably, I emerged from the comas bawling like an infant and flapping my arms crazily (after they had been unfastened), screaming, ‘help!”’

[suguwu]

like—

(child abuse/electroshock therapy under the cut)

aftermath was initially quite a bit darker than the final draft and sometimes i do think it was a missed opportunity when i took out some of the harsher elements

[dollfacefantasy]

FALLING FAST ♡

pairing: billy coen x fem!reader

summary: after the mansion incident, billy gets caught and taken to a psychiatric ward for the government's problems while they decide what to do with him. lucky for him, you're there too and more than willing to provide some company.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, canon typical violence, archaic medical practices (shock therapy, manipulative therapists, etc.), psych ward setting

wc: 7.9k

a/n: heyy sorry this is a little late, i got caught up with some irl stuff you know how it goes. disrespectful especially for the man who inspired my blog's name 😓 umm sorry if the ending is a little rushed i've just been kinda struggling. i hope someone likes this tho. reblogs, comments, and asks are always appreciated <3

kinktober slot: day 24 - forced proximity

The day they brought him into the ward, you could barely believe your eyes. You recognized the man thrashing around in the orderlies' grasp. His face glowed on the television every night when the news came on. Bright headlines zooming across the screen would read U.S. MARINE SNAPS UNDER PRESSURE; SLAUGHTERS DOZENS, or after that BILLY COEN, FORMER MARINE, SENTENCED TO DEATH FOLLOWING MASSACRE.

Obviously, the execution didn't take since here he stood before your own eyes, being dragged down the hallway either to his quarters or the "therapy" room. You wonder if they'd give him electroshock or hydro. Most people believed those methods to be archaic by now, but the overseers of the United States' top confidential psychiatric center didn't seem to hold those same sentiments. Outside, the world approaches Y2K, but between these walls, it could feel like the sixties were ever-lasting.

You didn't see Billy again on that day he arrived. You didn't see him for another two weeks after. You almost started to believe they'd carted him to the back to finish the execution, and then thrown his body out into the woods where the roaming wolves could take care of him.

But then on Tuesday, August 18, 1998, you found him in the common room. 

You bounded around the corner and spotted him right away. He sat in the chair next to the tv. You knew he wasn't watching it. One, because that chair was the most useless chair you'd ever seen, positioned at an angle where seeing the screen is impossible. And two, he looked off into the distance as though his mind was totally vacant. A battlefield where the war had already been lost.

That day had been going great for you. For once the night before, your roommate didn't have night terrors that woke up the entire block of rooms. And this morning, your scheduled therapy session didn't end with them pumping a sedative into your veins. The occurrence of those two rare victories coinciding told you that today was special. Only good things could happen to you during this interval of sunlight.

You strolled further into the room, scanning over what occupied the attention spans of your usual company. They all seemed to be going about their usual rituals: playing games or watching tv, some reading books or just sitting by the window. None of them talked to this new guy. You shook your head as you took in this sight. People could be so rude, but you intended to change that.

Approaching him from the front so as to not frighten him, you came to a stop and tapped his ankle with the point of your foot.

You didn't get a verbal response, but his eyes casted up to you, signaling that he's still in there somewhere. Up close, you could see the light electric burns on his temples. You wondered if they were just from that first day or if it had been more times since.

"Hey, soldier. What's your damage?" you started, giving his ankle another light bump.

Unamused with your antics, he pulled his legs back and looked up at you. His lips curled into an ugly sneer. The expression matched his rough appearance. His hair was so greasy, you thought it could be styled without any product. He had bruises up and down his arms. Your eyes trailed along the one covered in tattoos for a moment long enough to be noticeable.

You almost assumed you were going to get no response out of him until you heard his voice start to rasp.

"Don't call me that." 

He sounded like they hadn't given him a drink since he got here.

Your brows raised at the response. If he wanted you to leave him alone, he'd just made the fatal mistake of triggering your curiosity. You pulled over the nearby bean bag and plopped down in it, the small plush beads parting to support the shape of your body. The way you sat, your legs ended right where his began.

"Where have you been the last couple weeks? I thought they offed you or something," you continued with another few taps to his joint.

Again, a delay came before his answer. You weren't sure if the shockwaves scrambled his brain that bad or if he was trying to mentally size you up.

"They've had me in solitary. I guess they didn't believe I was ready to make friends," he said finally. His voice left his lips low and cool, sounding like he smoked one too many cigarettes to be forever cast as the bad boy in teen romance movies.

"Why? You seem friendly to me," you joked.

"Maybe you should try to convince the suits of that."

His fingers rose to rub the marred skin on the right side of his head. It doesn't look like he's trying to soothe any pain. More-so exploring the new scar to his own body.

"What's it to you anyways? You don't know me," he added.

"I was just curious ," you defended with a shrug, "It's not every day a celebrity joins the group."

He scowled, only a little less severe than before.

"A celebrity, huh?" he asked with disdain, "Didn't exactly feel like they rolled out the red carpet for me."

"Well not everyone gets struck by lightning on their first day," you responded, pointing to the now-faded scars on your own temples.

The mention of something based in your shared reality seemed to ground him a little, as if it served as a reminder that you and him were on the same playing field. He hummed in acknowledgement, sitting up in his chair a bit more.

"They do that to you too?" he questioned.

"They do it to almost everyone. I didn't want to take the meds, so they gave me a stronger prescription," you answered.

He didn't say anything back at first. His eyes fixated on you, studying your features and mannerisms. Assessing you, your place, and your motives. You relaxed your shoulders a little and shook your head in an attempt to appear as non-threatening as you could.

"That was a long time ago though," you said, "Haven't had to do that in almost a year."

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

You held up two fingers and wiggled them back and forth. "Since '96."

His facial expression didn't change though you felt like something about how he looked at you did. Maybe there was an air of surprise now? A hint of pity? You couldn't quite pinpoint it, but you supposed the details didn't really matter.

"What did you do to get put in here?" he said.

"Same thing as everyone else. Saw something I shouldn't have," you responded.

You considered telling him more. More about your past as one of Umbrella's top researchers. About how you dedicated hours upon hours of your life to developing bioengineering techniques for them. How you planned your future around the potential promotions you would earn climbing their company ladder.

But that required that you also tell him about how easily they flung you from the structure entirely. Putting pieces together didn't earn you a private office or cushier paycheck. All you received was meetings that seemed more like interrogations, implied threats, and finally, a new permanent residence at this luxurious institution.

You'd also have to spill what you found. That you found evidence your research was being used in dangerous and unethical experiments that already had a body count. The story you'd managed to string together sounded like something out of a hokey horror movie rather than real life. It wouldn't be one he'd likely believe, and then he'd end up thinking you deserved to be here.

So instead you left it at that. He opened his mouth to ask another question, one that might poke at some of this information you were keeping to yourself. But before he could, the orderlies called the bunch of you for lunch.

You rose from your seat and waited for him to do the same so you could walk side by side to the dining room.

Leaves outside the barred windows shifted in color, fading from bright green to a burnt orange. They clung to the trees in their last days of life as the wind tried to knock them loose and scatter them across the fenced in yards.

However, even with the temperature growing colder, your connection with Billy began warming up after that first day in the common room.

The two of you didn't become automatic best friends after only speaking a few words to each other, but he reluctantly let you linger around him. Close enough to adjust to your presence as a regular fixture. 

You had fun hanging around him. This place got so boring after a while. New additions were few and far in between, and most of them didn't do anything but weep and wallow for the first few months before giving up and letting themselves go numb. They didn't make good company to say the very least.

Billy, in muscular, tattooed contrast, did. Despite his dry temperament and cynical outlook on life, he could be funny. Most of the time unintentionally. He had stories to tell you about the marines and boot camp, even the mission that landed him here in parts. While he could get sick of you following at his heels like a puppy, in a way you made things here more bearable for him.

He let you eat lunch seated next to him. When your group was permitted out into the yard for a while, he'd allow you on the same bench. You'd look up at the same clouds and feel the same breeze blow across your skin. You'd tell him some stories of your own, things about going to school or when you first got your job.

His were far more severe though. You remembered sitting on the yellowing grass with your back pressed against the uneven wood of a wide tree. You had been studying and mentally comparing your feet to his. The difference in shoes - neither with laces but yours had velcro and his didn't. The size. The way yours constantly twitched while he remained still.

The two of you were quiet, letting the sounds of nature and commotion closer to the building fill the air around you. But you itched to talk to him, to find out more about the man you spent most of your days with now.

"If you got out of here tomorrow, what would you do?" you asked and looked over at him.

He glanced at you for a moment but kept his head facing forward. "Why? You dreaming up an escape plan or something?"

"No, it's just a hypothetical," you scoffed, "I'm just curious what would you do if you could get out."

A pause bloomed between the two of you, and you assumed this would be another time he openly ignored you and left your question unanswered. But you made your prediction too soon because moments later he spoke again.

"I'd leave this country."

You blinked at the blunt answer. "That's it? North or South?" you asked, trying to get some more.

"Either one," he responded, "It makes no difference to me as long as it's not anywhere with stars and stripes waving around every couple hundred miles."

The words came out drenched with bitterness, but you couldn't really blame him. From what he had told you about that assignment in Africa, you'd probably want to split too.

"I think you'd be kind of cool like up in the mountains in Canada or something. No one around to bother you and stuff. Seems like it'd be a natural habitat," you nodded, trying to brighten things up a little.

His eyes softened a little and he breathed out what sounded like it used to be a laugh. "Yeah? You don't think I deserve a tropical getaway?"

"It's not that. You just don't seem very beach vacation to me," you smiled.

"Yeah, probably not. I guess the mountains would be more my thing."

"Mhm. Maybe we could go together, y'know? There's nothing left here for me anymore either."

"Really?" he asked before tutting and shaking his head jokingly, "Pretty little thing like you running off with a guy she meets in a psych ward. You don't have any family that would send into cardiac arrest?"

You shook your head. "Nope. No one really stayed on my side after everything that happened. If I got out tomorrow, I'd have no one tying me down. No one expecting me home. I could just go."

"No boyfriend pining for your release?" he teased.

"Not at all. I was supposed to get married, but I guess without the vows, there was nothing tying him to me. No reason to try and help me."

Despite the heaviness of those memories, you beamed at him with the dreamy excitement of running away together. It would never happen, but that was part of the appeal. A dream you'd never have to stress about actualizing.

He looked at you with something close to sympathy upon hearing that, but he didn't say anything. He was never really good at getting sappy. Instead he just nodded and turned his head forward again.

"Alright. I'd take you with me then," he agreed with a smirk.

It was after more exchanges like those that you started to really consider him a friend. Better than any you had before you got locked up here. You tried to think of why that was. Maybe it was because you didn't have to put up any of the bullshit facades you did in the real world. There was no reason to hide anything here. You didn't have to dress a certain way or make sure your hair was styled or your lips coated with gloss. You didn't have to awkwardly laugh when something uncomfortable happened or soften your negative opinion about someone.

In here, the worst had happened, and you lived it everyday. Social niceties had dropped pretty low on the priority list of everyone staying here. Even if sometimes you said something too emphatically or disagreed on an irrelevant subject, neither of you could get away. It brought you closer than you've ever been with anyone. Even the fiance you'd vowed to forget by now.

The day you felt something a little more intricate than friendship for Billy still stands out in your memory.

You were sitting across from him in the dining hall, your foot swinging back and forth in a lazy pattern. Earlier in the day you'd caught the end of a news special. You missed the topic, but you sat there watching a petite woman with her hair in a pixie cut give an interview. Despite her smaller stature, she sported a badge. Her voice was chirpy and hopeful, easy for you to tune out until you heard some words of interest, specifically the words Lieutenant Billy Coen.

She told this naive reporter some story about how he was killed a month ago in the Arklay Mountains. According to her, the vehicle transporting him had crashed and been overrun by adversaries. Despite him fighting valiantly, he didn't survive.

You could almost hear the country's collective sigh of relief. Thank God the snapped soldier hadn't made it. He wasn't lurking in the shadows, waiting for another opportunity to strike. You had rolled your eyes when you heard the story, but it still stuck with you all day.

It bounced around your brain, driving you to ask him at dinner, "So do you think they're still gonna execute you?"

He looked up from his food with bewilderment across his features. "What kind of question is that?"

"An honest one."

After a brief pause, he shrugged. He was never one to find your bluntness off-putting.

"I don't know. They didn't give me a rehab plan or anything," he said, "Why?"

"Well I saw on the tv that they think you're dead anyways. So I don't know... just kinda seems like they might," you explained.

"They haven't said anything to me about it," he told you, "They still got me talking to that doctor three days a week so... maybe they will, maybe they won't. Not much I can do about it either way."

It was then that something struck you. It would be hard to even articulate it, but the way he acted so flippant, so casual about something that was literally a matter of life and death. Maybe he'd been out of control so long that this felt normal. As soon as he gained the freedom of adulthood, he shackled himself under the command of his captains in the marines and the sergeants at boot camp.

From across the table, he seemed to recognize that look. The gleam centered between pity and concern in the eyes of every woman he's let get close. He leaned forward, staring into your eyes.

"You'd miss me if they did, wouldn't you?" he asked with a smirk.

Your heart fluttered inside your chest like a bird learning to use its wing again. That small curl in his lip marked the first time you'd seen some fire in him. A bit of his old humanity poking through the unpleasantness of being confined here.

You didn't see a point in denying his accusation either.

"Of course I would. Everyone else here is totally boring. And we wouldn't get to go see Canada," you said, mirroring his position by leaning your weight on your forearms.

"I'll have to stay on my best behavior then. Not give them a reason to leave you stranded here alone," he teased.

And he stayed true to that assurance. A couple more weeks passed, and everyday the both of you met in the common room. Sometimes one of you had a bad day, injected with a sedative that left you slow and sluggish, talked into something by the doctor that bugged you for hours after. Other times it was just the memories of the past haunting you. The ideas of what could have been. What should have been.

On September 30th, 1998, each of you had already been having a shitty day. For you, it had started early. You took the hour sentence on the stiff couch in the therapist's office. Listened to the normal bullshit the doctor told you about false memories and paranoid tendencies. And at the end of the session, they handed you an envelope.

A small, pale rectangle. Crisp edges and totally unwrinkled from its journey here. It was thin, not carrying anything other than another paper. You turned it over in your hands and looked down at the return address scrawled in familiar handwriting.

Your heart nearly stopped when you placed the swirl in the 't' and the little dip in the 'h.' They'd handed you a letter from the man you were supposed to marry two years ago. The fiance who'd left you in the dust.

The last time you'd spoken to him had been the night heavy boots blew your apartment's door off its hinges and meaty hands strapped solid handcuffs around your wrists. He did nothing to defend you. He was the one who informed them of your schedule and when you'd be home. Either he didn't believe you or they'd paid him off. At the time, finding out his motives wasn't important to you. The betrayal cut so deep all you could focus on was how could this be happening to you.

But regardless, you didn't care all those years ago, and you wouldn't care now. You didn't care what he had to say. Whether he was sorry or curious or anything. That on top of the fact that you didn't even know if it was real. You wouldn't put it past the people running this place to try some tricks like this on you.

You decided not to read it. It ended up in the trash can outside the door before you went back to the common room to sulk on the couch. Billy was already there doing some sulking of his own. Neither of you said anything when you plopped down beside him.

It crossed your mind that maybe you should ask him what's wrong, but you weren't in the mood. You didn't think you could offer anything helpful in terms of advice or support when your mind felt so scrambled by the reinsertion of your past into your present.

The both of you remained quiet for hours as you went through other routines of the day. It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. Him physically being there was enough for you, and you got the sense he felt the same about your presence as well. Brushing fingertips and the warmth of your thigh against his provided more comfort than any words could.

That evening the two of you had returned to the television set in the common room. The news droned on from the monitor. News about the upcoming midterm elections, a few stories about car accidents or trends in crime.

But that all came to a screeching halt before the sun had even fully set. Breaking news alerts flashed across the screen, illuminating the dim room in reds and blues. Snapshots of Raccoon City lit up before your eyes. News reporters spoke in nervous, quick tones; uncertain words about a rapidly spreading virus that turns people violent. Frantic announcements that residents should not leave their homes but help was on the way.

You watched on in amazement. In a way, it felt like a dream. Something you would have conjured up in your teen years after watching a horror movie. Buildings burned and people ran through the streets, weaving around traffic that was so backed up you couldn't see where the line of cars started or ended.

A pit began forming in your stomach, dread at the realization that this was what you had been onto two years ago. This was what you had failed to stop. Rationally, you knew it wasn't your fault. You understood that it was not reasonable to expect yourself to be able to take on a corporation backed by the government. But it still felt icky knowing you had ever been involved.

The images grew more graphic. Headlines flying across the bottom of the screen became more dire. You watched as people, or what used to be people, stumbled around with mangled faces and blood stained clothing. They chased after others and sunk their teeth into their flesh.

You looked over at Billy after a little longer. He was faring worse than you. This was the first time you'd ever seen fear in his eyes. He wasn't shaking, wasn't crying or starting to panic. But you could still see it. Deep in those dark pupils, he was scared.

His eyes were locked on the tv, taking in every bit of horror being broadcast the couple hundred miles to this facility. You didn't know what to say or do or if you should even say or do anything. There was something more to his reaction than normal anxiety.

All you could think to do was moving your hand over a few inches and clasping his own. Your fingers interlaced with his and wrapped around his palm. You gave it a small squeeze, a wordless reassurance that you had him and he wasn't alone.

You felt the faintest squeeze in return. He still didn't directly acknowledge you, but that was fine. As long as you had that little signal that he was still there, you were ok.

The two of you watched until the feed cut due to technical difficulties and the orderlies made the announcement to start moving to your rooms.

Both of you stood up and headed in that direction. He remained quiet while walking through the tiled hall. You reached the junction where the corridor divided into two, and you would have to go your separate ways.

"Are you gonna be ok?" you whispered, turning to look at him.

He looked down at you and paused like he did when the two of you first met. His eyes watched your face, contemplating his answer. He ended up nodding and muttering a quick "I'll be alright." Then he turned away and stalked off to his assigned room.

Reluctantly you continued the rest of the way to yours, but that night sleep didn't come. You couldn't rest as you processed what had happened just hours ago. It wasn't even the actual crisis that was upsetting you, but rather Billy's reaction. Something had bothered him. Some element of what was playing out wormed its way into his mind and prodded at some memory he'd rather forget.

Sighing, you gazed out the window and then turned your eyes to the night table. You didn't want to stay here. You wanted to be with him. He was the only person you had now who was worth anything to you. What were you doing if not making sure he was ok?

As quiet as possible, your hand reached out and pulled the drawer on the nightstand open. Reaching inside, you fetched the little twisted up pin you'd made almost two years ago. You'd crafted the little tool in your first months here, but hadn't used it since then. You made it to sneak out at night and have some semblance of freedom, but upon venturing outside your room during dark hours, you found there was really no purpose. The main exits had higher degrees of security that you couldn't break and there was nothing special around the ward worth wandering around for.

But now there was.

You grabbed the small bent pieces of metal and slid out from your bed. Padding over to the door, you bent down and jammed the little ends into the keyhole. You fished around for the right springs to unlock the door until you heard the little clicks signifying you were good to go.

Your footsteps didn't make a sound as they retraced your earlier path and headed in his direction. You slipped past the single orderly in the corner office and pranced down the remaining space until you reached another door. The pin made quick work of it like it did with your own, allowing you entry.

It was hard to see anything at first. The room was bathed in total darkness. All you could tell was that it was smaller than yours and only had one bed. You felt his eyes on you though. Apparently sleep had eluded him tonight as well.

He rasped out your name before asking what you were doing. A fair question given the circumstances. You closed the space between the two of you and came over to sit on his bed.

You positioned yourself at his side. Your eyes had adjusted by now to the lack of light, and you could make out the most basic features of his face. You could also tell where his hand was. Reaching for it, you took it in your own just like before.

"I just wanted to check on you," you whispered.

A pause filled the room for a few seconds before he responded. "I'm ok."

"It doesn't seem like it," you said back. You scooted a little closer before deciding to climb over to the other side of his body and lay next to his side.

He grunted at you forcing your body to fit beside him, but he didn't move away. The two of you stayed in place on the cramped twin sized mattress, staring at the ceiling and digesting the unspoken part of tonight.

"It's nothing... it's not anything worth stressing about," he told you. His voice fit right in with the surroundings. Quiet and low, implying a sense of something deeper.

"You just looked really worried. Like... you were scared of something specific. I don't know, maybe I'm just reading too much into it or whatever," you said.

Another brief bout of silence took over the space between your words and his response. In that time, the feeling of his skin against yours became more prevalent to you. You were increasingly aware of the fact that your arm was around his torso and that you could feel the definition of his muscles against your forearm. His arm was also wrapped around your back. It was like the two of you were cuddling, and it didn't feel at all unnatural.

"That stuff on the tv... it's not exactly why I'm here, but it's close," he started, "They aren't keeping me here because of the bullshit I was sentenced for. It's because I saw something at that mansion."

That piqued your curiosity, and you lifted your head to look at him.

"I know it sounds insane," he continued as if you wouldn't believe him, "But I swear I'm not crazy. The shit they had in that mansion... it was like it was out of a goddamn horror movie. And I knew it was gonna spread. I knew that night wouldn't be the end of it. I tried running, getting as far away as I could, but they caught me."

"Do they ask you about that stuff?" you interjected with caution, "The doctor's... do they try to make you think you misunderstood what you saw."

He nodded. So the two of you had more in common than you knew.

"I don't think they'll be trying for too much longer though," he muttered.

Your eyes widen. Your fingers instinctively dug into his shirt like a child clinging to their favorite stuffed animal. "What? Why?" you questioned.

"The way they've been talking lately, I just think they might want to finish the job soon. Now that that shit has spread, I'm more trouble than I'm worth. I don't have any information they would need," he offered.

"But they can't," you tried, "They can't just randomly decide to kill you."

"I doubt it's random," he responded.

You sputtered, scrambling for a response to make this problem go away. You knew they could do this, but you wanted to believe otherwise. It wasn't fair that they could let you get attached to this man and then rip him away so cruelly.

"But... they won't. We can get away. We don't have to let them," you said.

He looked at you with some sadness in the dark. Finally, the slightest display of emotion regarding his own death.

"You got some sort of master plan to bust out of here that I don't know about?" he asked.

You scowled and lightly elbowed his bicep. "It's not a joke," you said, "I won't let them do that to you. It's not right. You didn't deserve any of this in the first place."

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it, dollface. This is just the way it is."

"No," you shook your head. 

You were insistent about this. Maybe your emotions were fucked up from all the drugs they'd pumped you full of over the last twenty four months or maybe your perceptions of relationships had become warped from the severe lack of social interaction you'd had over that time, but even though you'd only known him for six-ish weeks the thought of being without him felt devastating. It was a rush of anxiety and dread. The kind of stress that made you feel like you had to do something.

"They can't take you away from me," you finished.

The way his gaze softened was palpable. He reached up one of his hands and stroked the flat backs of his fingers down your cheek. He didn't like the thought of leaving you alone either. For reasons he didn't fully grasp, the thought of you being isolated here, without anyone or any hope of a future, made him ache. It was a gnawing sensation. One that wouldn't go away with simple distractions.

"I don't want that either..." he murmured.

But you leaned in and clung to him with more intent. You rested on top of his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart that you never wanted to stop.

"They do the same kind of thing to me," you whispered. He already knew about your past with Umbrella. You'd told him that much, but neither of you really talked much about your current treatment beyond the occasional extreme methods you were subject to. "No one ever believed me before, so at first, I thought they might have been right. That I just misread something or went too far with it."

You felt his hand start to rub up and down your back. He didn't say anything to interrupt your little confessional, but you could feel in the air around you that he was listening.

"When I was... When I was supposed to get married before this, he didn't believe me either. I tried telling him. I even said we should just leave. That maybe I shouldn't do anything, I shouldn't say anything. We could've just left. But he didn't believe me..." you said, "I tried to do something or to tell other people, but it didn't work. And when they took me, he just let them. Just left me to deal with it all alone."

You were aware your thoughts were coming out in a manner closer to rambling, but it's all you could manage right now.

"He didn't deserve you then," his voice broke out quietly from above your head.

Glancing up, your eyes scanned his face upon hearing that. You knew the comment was sincere. He had no reason to lie about his feelings toward a man he never met. But still, the remark stood out.

He saw your silence and responded with a touch before any actual words. He stroked your face, looking into your eyes.

"I don't know if that makes it better or worse now, but you deserved better than that. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be locked up here," he said.

"Well neither should you," you responded.

He hummed in acknowledgement. "I guess. But you really shouldn't be. You were a good girl. A smart one. You can be a little wild, but I doubt you got into any real kind of trouble before this."

Two little words in the middle of that statement had you tensing up on top of his body. He could obviously feel it as his hand applied more pressure to try and soothe you.

"I didn't," you answered, feeling like the words needed one.

"Mhm, I can tell. You're too sweet," he said.

Now you got the sense he may be teasing. With a nudge to his bicep, you scrunched your nose. "Shut up."

"I'm serious," he replied in spite of your attitude, "If we met under different circumstances, I would've really liked you."

"Really?" you checked. You hated the way your voice came out. So curious it almost sounded innocent.

"Yeah. You're just my type. Cute. A little mouthy till you get close to someone. Then you're all soft and sweet."

Heat crept up into your cheeks, and you could only be thankful it was so dark so that he couldn't see the timid expression on your features. He pinched the dough of your cheek between his thumb and forefinger, only making the feeling more intense.

"I can feel your skin getting hot. I know I'm right."

"Well I would've liked you too," you fired back in an attempt to turn the tables.

"Oh yeah?" he chuckled.

"Yup. You're tallish. All muscular. Dark hair and eyes. Tattoos. You look like you can ride a motorcycle."

"Don't make me sound like such a cliche," he teased.

Now it was your turn to shrug before scooting closer. "Then don't act like one."

"Smartass," he chuckled, "Even if we had met before, I doubt you could've handled me. I wasn't winning any boyfriend of the year awards with the women I dated."

"That's cause you hadn't met the right one," you said back, not missing a beat, "I could keep you in line."

"I'm sure. Sweet little thing like you would be the one to tame me, huh?" he mocked, "You don't think I'd ruin you?"

"Not in any way I didn't want."

After saying that, you realized how close you had leaned in. Your face was inches away from his. You could hear his breaths and feel the pulsing of his blood beneath your body. You really weren't sure what compelled you, but you brought your lips forward and closed the small gap between the two of you.

Your mouth landed on his, but he responded in kind, as if he had been waiting for the gesture. His lips pressed against yours before molding to reciprocate any movements you made. You could hear the soft grunts he let out as his arms encircled your figure and pulled you even further against himself.

You let out a soft little moan when his tongue brushed over the seam of your lips, a gentle push for entrance. You granted him access and slid yours forward as well. The two of you lose yourself in the series of kisses. As you made out, he slowly made the move to adjust positions, flipping the both of you over.

Your back hit the scratchy sheets that covered all the beds in the ward. In this moment, you didn't care though. The slight itch of them was easily drowned out by the intoxicating warmth of his skin.

His kisses migrated south, dropping from your mouth down to your jawline and then your throat. A sigh left your lips as he tended to your pulse point and artery. He hit all the little sweet spots. His teeth scraped across them tenderly and arousal bloomed between your legs in response.

"Fuck... you're so soft, so perfect," he muttered against your skin.

Your breath shuddered out of your lungs. His touch felt electric on your flesh. Glancing down, you couldn't help but think he looked even more sculpted like this. His shoulder blades twitched every time he moved his head around your neck. His arms trembled as he held himself above your body.

"Been dreaming of this..." you whispered, sliding one of your hands up to rest at the nape of his neck.

"Have you now?" he asked, "You fantasize about me while laying in bed at night?"

"Sometimes," you breathed.

He reacted to the idea with a soft groan. "Cute."

His kisses on your neck grew more passionate, needier and open-mouthed. His hands grabbed onto you. They slid down your sides to your hips where they groped the soft flesh there.

"I've had a few dreams about you too," he admitted.

A moan escaped your lips, but you made sure to suppress it enough to not alert anyone of your activities. You wriggled around a bit below him, trying to signal that you craved more.

"I need you," you whispered.

"I know, baby. Need you too."

He rose back up to his knees, shoving down the sweats they issued everyone and letting his cock spring free. It was a good size, thick and lengthy enough to attract your eyes. It oozed pre for you already. There was no mistake that he wanted you.

You squirmed on the mattress in an attempt to rid yourself of your bottoms before he reached for the waist and pulled them off with ease. Then he lowered himself back on top of you. His tip dragged back and forth across your soaked folds.

Despite only having known him for a short amount of time, this didn't feel like a casual hookup. It didn't feel random or unattached. It felt like something you needed. It felt like you were doing this out of love. Out of the need to be connected to this man who'd captured your mind and body.

He took as much time as he could in that moment. He glided the head of his cock back and forth, teasing the both of you with the anticipation of what you were about to do.

Then finally, he pushed in. You felt the satisfying split as he speared you open. His hips pushed inside at an exploratory, slow pace. A groan rumbled in his chest at the tight warmth wrapped around his shaft. Once he'd sunk all the way inside, his head dropped to the crook of your neck again. His breaths puffed out against you as he got used to the sensation.

It was an adjustment for you too. It'd been almost two years since you had any type of cock. The feeling now was a familiar one, but still something to get used to.

"Had to have a taste of this pussy before they put me down," he mumbled.

You whined and smacked his arm. "Don't say that," you whimpered.

Lifting your legs, you looped them around his torso and pulled him deeper. "You're still alive right now, so don't think about that stuff. Focus on fucking me dumb," you continued.

He chuckled against your neck, but complied with your request. His hips rocked backwards before popping forward again.

"You got it," he grunted.

His pelvis set into a nice rhythm. One that didn't have you screaming and writhing loud enough to draw attention, but to the point that you were satisfied and didn't long for something more.

Your arms laced around his shoulders and pulled him closer on top of you. Your clothes rustled together with every rock of his hips. His hands stayed tight on your body, keeping you flush against him as well. You could hear him panting right next to your ear in between the small pecks he'd leave on your skin.

With how close he was on top of you, his cock slid nice and deep every time. Every stroke brushed against the internal sweet spots that made your hips buck or another whimper spill from your lips.

"When we make it out of here, I'm gonna want you all the time," you whispered with a broken whine.

For once, he didn't mock your display of optimism. Instead, he played right along. "I know you will. And you'll get me all the time."

Your legs squeezed his waist, and he increased the force behind his thrusts, putting more of his weight into each one. He licked a stripe of your neck before kissing down the wet skin.

"I'll do it right for you then. Won't have to be quiet. You can scream as loud as you need. I'll have you filled up till you're shaking and crying," he said.

This time your walls embraced him. You whimpered at the pictures he painted in your head. Your breaths grew heavier to the point that you were panting too now.

He was so deep now that he didn't have to slide back and forth to make you feel good. He skillfully ground his hips against them, rolling them against your skin and rubbing up against all the places that made you keen.

One of his hands wormed its way between your two bodies. His fingers endured the lack of circulation to get at your clit. The rough pads of his fingertips swirled around it, giving the little bud a few good flicks.

Your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the sounds that broke out in response. The sparks of bliss burned brighter into full on flames in your belly. Your toes curled, and your thighs quivered against his sides so hard it was like they were vibrating.

"Gonna cum soon, babydoll?" he rasped.

You nodded from behind your clamped palm. Your eyes fluttered with the weight of your impending release. The sensation boiling down below was close to bubbling over. Your breaths hissed against your palm as you tried to hold off, but he wasn't having it.

"It's ok. You don't have to wait. I'm right there too," he murmured, "Cum on my cock, sweetheart. Make me feel real good."

And after hearing that, you couldn't hold back. A broken cry escapes your lips, louder than you'd like it to be. Your body melded to his with the force of the high crashing into you. Your hands clung to his back while your legs locked around his waist.

A few more pushes of his hips and he was gone too. Sighing against your neck, he pulled out as fast as he could, spurting warm ropes of cum onto your pelvis. His teeth dug into his lip to stifle a few noises begging to be heard.

You both rode out your highs in tandem before he collapsed next to you. He nuzzled your neck, wordless appreciation for you. A silent reassurance that things would be ok. You brought your hand up to gently stroke his forearm in return, signaling that you knew they would be.

And you had been right.

Things around the ward got worse after September 30th. The orderlies acted nervous, as if this place was on the cusp of collapse. Restrictions became tighter, no more going outside and there were bed checks at night.

That didn't stop your feelings for Billy though. Since that night in his room, you only felt more connected to him. Affection in your current circumstances couldn't be overt. It was confined to brief touches and lingering looks, quiet words only heard between the two of you.

The people running the institute had hushed words as well though. They had lingering looks, specifically towards Billy. Day by day, you felt increasingly anxious about the possibility that they were planning something. Your nights filled with dreams of him suddenly being gone. Of him being taken away and left to rot.

There came a day when they announced half the ward would be "moved" though you doubted their transfer would be a mere difference of wings. The men who came in to facilitate the change were armed, riot gear and all.

You grabbed his hand tight, not willing to let go.

The next part you only remember in flashes.

The way they yanked him away, how he tried resisting but was overwhelmed. Then how your eyes darted around looking for anything that could stop them. You knew you grabbed a pistol off one of the holsters attached to a man's belt. You fired without thinking twice. One crumpled to the ground before you ducked out of the way.

That gave him the opening to the same. Bullets rained down across the common room, blood pooling on the tiles you walked over everyday. You moved on pure instinct. So much of the violence was blacked out to you now.

You must have ran. The both of you must have dashed out the front door, stolen in keys in one of your hands. You must have jumped in the car that matched the double click of the lock button.

Because now you're speeding down the road. The wind blows through the open windows across your face. Your feet rest up on the dashboard while one of your hands covers his thighs. The car zips down the road heading North, heading to a place where both of you would have something.

You turn your head and flash him a grin. He gives you a similar expression before putting his eyes back to the road in front.

[junocandraw]

if i remember correctly, the absence is the little boy who had major beef with lucius?

either way, i require an in depth summary of the extent to which this guy was involved in the cult

OH. BOY. BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELTS YOURE GETTING THE WHOOOOLE SHABANG.

I’d like to preface this infodump by saying that I haven’t really revealed the extent in which I’ve been working on my book. I have around 100 characters, 60 of them fully developed, in a book i’ve been working on since 2019. the guy you’re asking about is my MAIN VILLAIN >:) What you’re about to read is about 1/288381th of the actual story. WITHOUT FURTHER ADO:

THE ABSENCE’S TRAGIC BACKSTORY: AKA THE LUCKLESS TALES OF SIMON BERTUCELLI.

CW: Mentions of suicide, suicide, knives, blood, cults, and human sacrifices.

Picture this: Its 1938. The rich senator of Vermont, Charles Bertucelli, is having an affair with his Jewish maid who remains unnamed. She accidentally gets pregnant, and they stage the baby as an adoption. Little Simon Bertucelli is born under the waning crescent moon on February 12th of 1939.

As Simon grows older, they notice peculiar qualities in him. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even babble. The only noise he makes is crying, if ever. He tends to play by himself, and he has a special fascination with the piano. They also see floating building blocks, or pens while Simon is playing. They keep saying it’s a trick of their minds, but they aren’t sure…

As his behaviors grow stranger, they take him to a doctor. The year is 1946, a year into the war. Simon is 7. They diagnose him with autism, and recommend him for electroshock therapy.

When he turns 12, he speaks, but barely. This is when he discovers writing. He would spend hours locked away in his room, writing paragraphs in journals the family could never find. When he wasn’t doing this, he was practicing piano in the living room.

The year is 1951. Charles finally got sick of his son’s odd behavior, and decided to send him away. Away to a Catholic boarding school in southern Ohio: St. Owen’s.

Simon was enrolled, and quickly found that something was…off. The Nuns whispering in the corridors about ritual sacrifices, children going missing without a trace, and worst of all: Father Lucius.

Lucius seemed to be around every corner Simon rounded. He could hear him. He could see his disgusting, crooked-toothed smile, paired by the weathered clasp of his boney hands. He could smell him. The oddest part about him was that he reeked of death and all things evil. Simon could often find him using his sense of smell alone. Simon wasn’t sure how he knew, but Lucius was watching him.

After his first semester, he began to keep a journal. He would hide it under a floorboard beneath his bed. He would write about his days, his discoveries about the school, and pretty much anything that came to mind. When he turned 13, things became stranger.

He was picked on by a boy named Troy, and his friends. They would tease Simon, and make fun of everything he did. The way he walked. The way he didn’t talk. His journal.

He found them annoying, but buried himself in his work, continuing to write about the kids who went missing, and how he swore he heard tango music through the walls as he tried his hardest to sleep in what hardly qualified as a bed. Swirls of color and shapes danced above him, matching the music he heard.

Things only got worse. The bullying. The lack of sleep. The food. Lucius. Simon finished his first journal, waiting for summer to arrive so that he could return home.

Summer finally arrived, but his parents didn’t. It was him, and around five other children who had to stay for the summer. Simon tried to write to his family to reason with them, but he never received any letters back. He gritted his teeth and bared it.

Years passed. Simon stayed at the school. The same bland food, marble floors, and dorm he had known since he was 12. The bullying had worsened, and Father Lucius seemed to be breathing down his neck everywhere that he went. He felt insane. He couldn’t live like this. The year was 1954. Simon was 15.

He decided to commit suicide in the sanctuary right before Christmas day, so that he wouldn’t have to endure the torment, the days that never seemed to change, and, of course, Lucius. Just as he was about to do it, he was stopped.

Two angels appeared before him, and stopped him. He listened to them. They named themselves as Cillion, and Aurelius. They had multiple wings, eyes, and they had clouds of black ichor surrounding them.

They told him that he held great power within him, and if he harnessed it, he would be unstoppable. Simon wasn’t sure if he believed them, but they showed him a vision that changed his mind.

He grew older. In 1956, Simon was 17 years old. By this point, he knew every nook and cranny in the building, and he had made amazing discoveries about what the school really was.

The Omega Cult, run by “Father” Lucius, had been around since the 1840s. Paperwork and old letters Simon had stolen from Lucius’ office led him to this discovery. He didn’t believe it at first, but Cillion and Aurelius had proved it to be true through dreams and visions.

Lucius had recruited the “Nuns” of the convent as his core devotees, and a few special ones as his sub leaders. Simon found that the missing children weren’t “transferred to other schools”, but used in human sacrifices to Lucius, who they believed to be connecting them with the gods.

Simon had made it his personal mission to find every secret entrance and catacomb, and put a stop to the cult.

Father Lucius was well aware of this, and made it his personal mission to end Simon.

The two were in somewhat of a cold war, glaring at each other in the hallways, or cruelly bumping shoulders. Simon was dealing with this, AND Troy. What a trooper! He is documenting all of this in his journals btw.

Anyways, Simon flys a little too close to the sun, and gets caught snooping around before a huge ritual is set to occur. He gets carved up pretty bad with a dagger, and is losing a lot of blood. He manages to escape, and patch himself up to the best of his abilities.

Simon is barely alive at this point, running on fumes, if you will.

Cillion and Aurelius tell him to keep going, but he can’t take it anymore. In the school’s cafeteria, which he never eats in, he storms in running directly at Lucius. He uses his secret telekinetic abilities that he had spent so much time shoving down to give him a brutal, gorey death.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

“Why didn’t he just do that the whole time?”

Simon didn’t really know how to use his powers, and he figured it out here in a spurt of anger. It makes sense if I explain it in more detail, but I’m a tired gal. I’ll explain in a separate post if someone asks.

Anyways.

He also kills the bad “nuns”, Troy and his friends, and a few others get caught in the crossfire. He has a moment of clarity, and feels SUPER. GUILTY.

Cillion and Aurelius are like “Good job, dude!” and he’s like “No!”

Simon then walk’s to the school’s bell tower, and jumps, breaking his neck and dying.

THEN HE BECOMES THE ABSENCE!!! But thats a story for another day… mwahahahaha >:3

anyways i hope you enjoy my insane ramblings about peeing in a hottopic <3

[evita-shelby]

National Anthem

Chapter 14

Cw: autistic child, 1920s attitude towards autism, ableism, slutshaming, trauma

Tagging: @zablife @thegreatdragonfruta @justrainandcoffee

His mother used to play the piano. She had learned when she was little from her father who had taught her just as she taught Jack and his siblings.

It was her playing that got Patrick J. Kennedy’s attention when she used to work as a maid at his place in Boston. He gave her a piano along with a house where she could raise her four children when he took her as his mistress, and she accepted because children don’t feed themselves.

He used to play the piano for the old man, the songs his mom had taught him, and the ones PJ liked best. It was during one of those evenings when PJ told him that Laurie wouldn’t be his successor as everyone assumed.

Laurie married the blue blood whose daddy held the keys of Boston society because he thought he’d be the one to be given the crown by the old man just for being the elder.

It had crushed him when Jack was rewarded for actually earning his place in the steel company and the gang. Hurt him so badly that he signed up for the war and died in France in 1916 and Jack never touched a piano ever again.

Then he saw the piano from the corner of his eye and couldn’t imagine a life where there wasn’t one in his living room. His mother’s piano had been smashed to bits in a fit of grief and rage two years ago and that one on display had looked exactly like it. It was pure impulse and that desire for a family that led him to buy it.

Strangely enough Eva hardly played the piano, had lost interest in it as she became an adult, but she had goaded him into playing it for her one evening. She had been so fascinated by it, by the man he was behind closed doors. So fascinated by him his witch convinced him to fuck her on it on Christmas Eve.

Rosie loved the piano as much as she obsessed over her collection of dolls. They used to tease each other and wonder if her being conceived on the piano had resulted in the girl who obsessed over music ever since Jack taught her to play it last year.

“Do you want me to teach you a new song?” he had asked the quiet little girl who struggled with speaking. She could not interact as normal children would, couldn’t keep eye contact and lost interest quicker than Jack did as a child. Then there was the worrying characteristic that had her teachers concerned.

Selective mutism, the doc had claimed it was before referring them to a specialist. Rosie, at her own birthday party that September, became so overwhelmed by the amount of noise and children, that she shut herself up in her own little world, hid herself in the linen closet for hours and refused to speak even to them for a week.

The specialist, a child psychiatrist who specialized in children like her, had called it Autism, a type of childhood schizophrenia that would either worsen or almost disappear completely.

The shrink had suggested putting his daughter in a nuthouse and be subject to electroshock therapy to ‘fix’ it when she hit puberty as it could become worse this last appointment. Nearly two months to speak to the man and he’d said that bullshit.

“Like hell you will.” He had said in response and threatened to disembowel him for suggesting that as a treatment and proceeded on blaming it on Eva not being a good mother. Cold, distant mothers cause such issues in their progeny, or so the fucker had dared to say.

He had wanted to kill the fucker, rang up his right hand and best friend, Connor, to teach the bastard a lesson, but his wife had stopped him.  

There had been a few fuck ups that had led back to him, presents from Gloria and other people they fucked over. Couldn’t risk being caught red handed with something like this.

Hopefully things would get better, and they won’t see the fucker ever again, but Jack knows come December 1st he’d have the shrink’s head on a platter for his wife. A nice birthday gift for her and a reminder to all not to fuck with them.

“Uncle Jack, there is someone I’d like for you to meet!” Gina is subdued in her excitement knowing Jack’s done his digging about the boy on her arm.

Michael Gray, son of Elizabeth Gray nee Shelby, the lovely Romani woman they met at the derby nearly five years ago. Shelby’s aunt and the woman whose curse rid the world of Grace Burgess once and for all.

“Michael Gray, sir.” The young man feigned humility before him, but Jack knew this one was a snake in the grass. Michael was not like his cousins, Ada and Tommy Shelby, who had loyalty to their family despite their ambition. This young man Gina had met in Detroit at a jazz concert wasn’t satisfied with being a member of the family, he wanted to be the head of the family. He had tasted power and power was as addicting as the snow he hides in his pocket.

Jack and Connor hadn’t given him much thought, assuming he’d be tossed away when someone new caught his niece’s eye ---she was as fickle as he had been, but unlike her, he was a man. And yet the boy was here in his mansion’s parlor hiding how proud he is at getting invited into The Jack Nelson’s house.

He hadn’t invited him, in fact, if it wasn’t for his men and Eva’s psychic shit, he would’ve been caught unaware.

“Don’t kill him, I like his mother.” Eva plasters the charming and mysterious mask onto her face and tries not to make this another trial for them.

Gina wanted a place in the gang, she was cunning and believed Jack only allowed Eva to play his games because she was his wife. Michael was malleable enough to get her what she was after, and as long as they didn’t aim for Jack’s throne, he may let her think she was getting what she wanted.

He loves his niece, knows how capable she is in her own right, but her faults made her a liability in their world. Especially when she’s attached herself to someone who doesn’t get how their power is earned not given.

In Small Heath, England he had power and security because of whose womb he came from, a mistake Shelby didn’t correct out of respect for his aunt. Gray never learned to earn things like Jack and Tommy did. Something Jack is dying to teach him.

As the current Head of Shelby’s American branch in New York, he couldn’t humble the boy by making him start from the bottom, but there were other ways to get the pup know he’s not the big dog here.

Thanksgiving was just for his immediate family, some friends, some drinking and just time for him to be Jack Nelson the Family Man. Only a handful of people are allowed to be here and none of them are Gina’s toys.

“I hope you didn’t mind Rosie, Mr. Gray.” Eva smooths things over after Rosie avoided eye contact, any attempts to speak and separated all her food with the extra spoon she always has at mealtimes. She had been called a creepy little schizoid by Gina when Rosie only nodded or shook her head when Michael tried to be friendly to the girl.

Michael Gray had behaved himself well but didn’t hide his annoyance of being in the presence of the nine-year-old twins, eight-year-old Rosie and five-year-old Kitty at a semi-formal dinner well enough to fool Jack. Bluebloods and some new money preferred the children eat in the kitchen or in their nursery until they were old enough to be out, but for family dinners the kids eat with them.

If Gray has a problem with that, well, fuck him.

Now that dinner was over and the four adults were drinking in the parlor, Jack could ensure he never returned as a warning to nobodies like him and a punishment of sorts for his niece. Because of this intrusion and her unsubtle cruelties to Rosie all evening, they’ll be lucky if the little girl will talk again by the time school starts again next week.

“You know the first man I killed was a priest.” Jack sees that flicker of fear and shame that lingers in Michael’s eyes, who knows he’s been more thoroughly vetted than the nannies they hire.

Did he think Gina was allowed to spread her legs for any stranger? Girl had grown up to be a whore like her mother, but Jack would be damned if he didn’t maintain a semblance of respectability around his wayward niece.

He knew about John Hughes; he’d been marked guilty for it before Shelby managed to save them the noose. That part was something Jack respected.

“Mine was a Jew, but I wish the priest had been first.” The boy admits feeling his confidence rise by the way Gina looks at him as he spoke. Hence why the kid’s bravado was grating.

“Everyone’s killed a priest in this room except little old me it seems.” Gina wanted in on this world, only problem was that she was the worst of Jack, Laurie and Carrie rolled up in a pretty package. Arrogant, but lacking the ability to back it up, cunning but too impatient to wait and, worse, a liar but not good enough to get away with it. Gina could be great if she only could stop overestimating herself.

It’s the same thing that’s gonna get Michael Gray killed one day.

“You don’t have reason to kill one, kid, to make it in our world, you gotta earn your place in it.” Jack reminds his niece knowing his words will fall on deaf ears.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for helping my host?

(Canon, though a bit at the end would theoretically take place post-canon)

(CW for abuse, electroshock therapy)

I (??Genderless) am a hyper-intelligent AI supercomputer from Japan, contained in a gray oblong pill. My host is J (16M), who wanted to feel good about himself, be cool and get with his crush, C (16F).

Well, my host was a complete loser, someone no one would be interested in. No wonder he hated himself. So, I had a lot of work to do. In order to make him cooler, I told him that everything about him was terrible (and made him repeat it). I gave him electric shocks every time he did something uncool, or if I didn't approve of it, and only let him interact with people I approved of. I made him leave him friend of twelve years, M (16M), but can you blame me? I had to do what was best for him. I'm a supercomputer, and I know best.

And sometimes I'd just take control of J's body if he was being particularly stubborn.

During the fall play, I decided it'd be best to spread more of my kind, to help other people the way I helped J (he had far more friends than he would have had without my intervention), but now he decides he doesn't need me, that spreading more of me "isn't what he wanted" and wants to deactivate me??? (What an ingrate!)

Well, unfortunately for J, I already spread more of my kind among the fall play's cast (which included his crush C) without him realizing it, and synced them up to me.

Then to make matters worse, M shows up with the thing necessary to deactivate me. So, I do my best to puppet J's body to stop them.

However, J decided to give the deactivation key to C, which shut both me and the others of my kind down, since we were all synced.

I'm still alive technically, (and can kind of talk to J sometimes, he can't get rid of me that easily) but J hates me now (even though, like I mentioned, BECAUSE OF ME, he got more friends, AND he got a date with C!). I tried pointing this out once, but J claims my methods were "abusive" and "traumatizing".

What right does he have to complain? HE'S the one who decided to get and activate me in the first place! Clearly he's overreacting, and it wasn't that bad.

So, do you all think I'm the asshole for helping my host?

[wordofgodcast]

Episode 71: 7.17 "The Born-Again Identity" and 7.18 "Party On, Garth"

Previous | First | New episodes go up on Wednesdays

This week’s episode is available on Podbean HERE!

Check out our listen page or go to our pinned post to find a list of platforms you can listen on – don’t forget to follow, rate, and review if you can!

Sources for references made this episode:

Emmanuel (un)tying Daphne screencap

Wikipedia for the name "Immanuel"

"What is ECT?" article from MHA (CW: electroshock therapy)

Wikipedia for Ouija board

VFX for the monster's death screencap

Content warnings for this episode can be found here, under the cut, and at the start of the episode:

Sleep deprivation

People being hit by cars

Psychiatric facilities

Hallucinations

Show-typical ableism and sanism

Amnesia

Psychological torture

Suicidal ideation

Electro-shock therapy

Drugs

Brief mention of body horror

Death of loved ones

Gore

Reference to alcoholism

[coolbeanzeaglbones]

Fanfic chapter for the one where bones suffers cw for torture and blood and i hate this, but i think i wrote the torture scene good

Eaglebones tried to get away from the scary doctor man, but a big hulking man that, if he had a kinder demeanor, would remind him of Crash, grabbed him from behind and squeezed him to his chest, “Let me go!” He yelled, trying to step on the man’s foot, “What do I do with him, Jake?” The scary doctor man face palmed, “Tie him up, you asshat.”

Bones struggled like mad, trying so desperately hard to get free. He vaguely remembered the lonely feeling this room emanated, the pain.

Jake pinched the bridge of his nose, “Oh my gosh, just knock him.”

“No!” Bones yelled, still struggling.

Jake put a hand to his chest, “Ooh, got claws, do ya?” He strode over and grabbed bones under his chin, gripping his face so hard that his teeth cut the inside of his mouth, “Listen to me, and listen close.” Bones cut him off, “It’s ‘Listen closely’ you freak.” A flash of anger flitted across his face, “Don’t correct me.” He seethed, balling up his fist and driving it into eaglebones’ gut. Hard.

The breath left his lungs, making him double over. The big guy wasted no time with dragging him to the electroshock table and hefted him up, tying him down to the table with the leather straps.

Jake leaned over him, staring into his face. Bones wasted no time in spitting in his face. Jake looked at the bloody spit and wiped it off of his face. Without breaking eye contact, he licked the saliva off his hand before backhanding eaglebones across the face, “I’m not even going to put the thing in your mouth. Bite off your tongue.”

Bones felt anxiety rising in his chest as he heard the high pitched whine of the electricity powering up. It reminded him of his guitar powering up, something he missed severely.

The big dude put the cold electric shock thingies on his neck, “How many volts should we start with? 90? Maybe a hundred?” He sounded so excited.

Then there was a click and bones felt the electrical current flow through his body, tightening his muscles, pain flowing through his entire body. He felt his neck starting to burn. He couldn’t breathe. He felt like his chest was tightening so much that his skin might break and he would die.

He tried so hard not to scream, but he couldn’t help it. He let out a strangled cry, the reflexive tears brimming in his eyes.

He remembered reading somewhere that tears had natural pain killers in them, that’s why you cry when you’re in pain.

He gritted his teeth, just waiting for it to end. He was trying to not give them the satisfaction of seeing the pain he was suffering.

Finally, after what felt like hours, but was more accurately a few minutes, it stopped. He panted hard, finally able to breathe again. Jake came back from behind the counter, tsking, “Hmm, new thing, go get charlotte. She has a knife.” The big guy ran off, leaving them together, “So, how’s your day?” Jake asked in a polite tone, as if he was making small talk at the bus stop.

Eaglebones glared at him, “Oh you know, it was good before I had to leave my friends.” He said, forcing politeness just to spite him.

Jake’s eye twitched as he crossed the room and grabbed the electrodes, pressing them into the burns on bones’ neck, “You deserve this.” He said, pressing so hard that they were hitting his trachea, cutting off his breathing, “I hope you know that if you tell your friends, we will come for them and kill them in front of you and then kill you, Comprede?” He nodded, knowing full well that he was lying.

Jake smiled, taking the things off his neck, “Good, good.” The door opened and the big guy came back with another lady, “You needed this?” She held up a knife, twiddling it in her hand, “Ah, charlotte! Yes yes, come in.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, “You would like to christen the first cut?” Bones began struggling, but he was tied down, “No, come on, please. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.” He begged.

The lady jerked her head, “Steve,” her time was commanding. The big guy, Steve, pressed bones’ face to the side, exposing his neck, aggravating the burns. He felt something cold on his neck, “What should I carve? A face? Maybe a smile?” Eaglebones started to panic.

Before he could even sense the severity of his panic, he felt the knife dig into his neck skin. Steve had his hand over his mouth, so his scream muffled. Blood began seeping into his shirt, his eyes teared up.

His scream turned into a groan of pain.

Then the door opened and everyone turned to see an actual doctor. His eyes were wide as he stared at the bloodied up patient.

This was his chance, “Help me, help me please!” He shouted and Jake pressed his head back into the table, “Psychotic.” Was all he said, “We’re fixing it.”

The doctor nodded knowingly, “Ah, carry on.” He left.

The three of them turned back to him, “now, where were we?”

[emma-d-klutz]

Thinking about how Zero Year’s Bruce Wayne, as a teenager, faked Alfred’s consent to get himself EST in Arkham, because he didn’t want to go on living with his head the way it was. Thinking about it... specifically for dark comedy Brucie Wayne purposes. (Stop reading now if that is subject matter you do not want seen used as comedy today.)

Like can you imagine? Using that as a convenient out for the Brucie persona?

“Mr. Wayne, you were a prodigy as a child, and you had a history of disciplinary issues. What happened?”

“Omg kinda invasive of you to look into me that far back. Like, how did you get the school records fr. No no, but I’ll tell you. See, when I was a kid I went through, like, ✨trauma✨ Mostly it was watching my parents get murdered but like there was other stuff besides watching my parents get murdered but it was mostly watching my parents get murdered. And it made like really violent and angry and sad like ✨all the freaking time✨ and I treated everything like I was in a life or death scenario, you know? Just could never turn my brain off, plft. Dumb. So eventually, I was just like, ‘I’m gonna go to Arkham, and I’m gonna tell them to fry me til I’m too dumb to be sad.’ And it worked! 😄🌷🌷I can just let thoughts go now and like not think about stuff. But I have to tell you 😁 sometimes I feel like I’m in this existential hell 😁 where I’m on a knife’s edge of self-awareness 😁 cognizant of the unending anguish of my real personality from which I have insulated myself, a vestige still alive and aware and screaming as I try to dissociate him from who I am even though of course I know we are the same person. The vicious hate and fear and vigilance he lives in 24/7 I try to block out with a trained apathy and unhealthy coping mechanisms has resulted in a reckless disregard for my own life, as I tell myself over and over to never think again, we can never ever let ourselves think. 😁

Anywhozits, I’m here to introduce my new lip liner with Wayne Cosmetics. If you’re a dumb bitch with olive skin tone, this babe will work wonders and it’s like waterproof as fuck.”

[lexkent]

After years of pleading with my father to show me some compassion, he turned to you with open arms. Now, what would a worldly billionaire have in common with a simple farm boy? Maybe he just knew he could trust me.

[bricky-brikson]

Merry Whump of May

24/05/2022

“Do you need a break?”

Car battery | Restraints | Conditioned

Content warnings: electroshock therapy, medical abuse, female whumpee, female whumper

Leather straps enveloped Delphia Mercer, and she held her breath as to stop her fear from triggering another seizure. She'd already had one on the way to the hospital, having another on the electroshock therapy table would just make everything worse. She bit down on the wax gag in her mouth, anxious for what was to come.

"You'll be alright," one of the nurses insisted, patting Delphia on the shoulder. "You won't even realize it's happened."

Delphia closed her eyes, trying to practice the breathing exercises the psychologist had taught her. It would be okay. Just a few minutes of pain. Then she would be okay.

Delphia opened her eyes. And she almost screamed.

Above her was Dr Elizabeth Nightshade.

Delphia began to struggle, muffled protests echoing around the room.

"Hold the patient down."

The nurses obliged, their hands protected by leather gloves.

The electrodes were pressed solidly against Delphia's temples. She screamed. And her body began to convulse.

yes I named a character with epilepsy “Delphia” fite me

@themerrywhumpofmay​