#( electroshock cw )

[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!”’

[pricegouge]

Access Road 46

part two of my horrtober collection | on ao3 | taglist

Synopsis: Reader gets lost on a snowshoeing trip. Eldritch!Gaz tries to help

Cw: dubcon masturbation. monsterfucking but make it no contact. (reader kinda gets like electroshocked rhythmically until it does something for them). reader has a pussy but no genered language is used. READER DEATH. drowning. depression and suicidal ideation. please let me know if i've missed anything. MDNI

A/N at nearly 11k, this one is a monster to be posting all at once. if it's easier for you, i have broken it down into five parts over on AO3

Divider by @/cafekitsune

The cabin is a dingy, desolate place but for how cold and lost and helpless you'd been, it may as well be the Waldorf.

When you'd first spotted the low slump of its roof rising above the snowdrifts around it, you'd thought you were hallucinating, some perverse inverse of a mirage brought on here by exhaustion and borderline hypothermia. You didn't believe it until your gangly snowshoes were tripping up the stoop steps, the cheap, peeling door solid under your fist. You could tell even at a glance that no one was home, likely hadn't been for some time, but the instinct to be polite and civil even in the face of what would certainly be your death wouldn't be ignored. The last thing you needed right now was some pissed off hillbilly hunting you down for trespassing, after all. It's locked up for the season - for its slow death, maybe - but your ski pole crashes through a bedroom window easily enough. You take your jacket off and lay it over the broken glass in the sill, shivering and shuddering as your cramped muscles pull you up and through. Your snowshoes catch in the frame (stupid, should've taken them off) and your hand catches your weight before you can roll onto the glass, a small shard sticking into your palm. You hiss as you reach back and unclasp your boot, let it take your weight so you can relieve your hand and get your other foot sorted. When the snowshoe thunks into the drift outside, you collect your coat and give it a good shake, clearing it of glass before putting it back on, grimacing when the exposed windbreaker material brushes against you. 

You're the coldest you've ever been in your life but it won't do you any good to huddle up if the window's left open so you force yourself into motion again, tearing the sheets of the bed and hanging them in the curtain rod. You tie them off there and then push the bed to trap the bottom against the wall, hopefully preventing it from billowing in the wind that is slowly picking up outside. You stumble through the cabin in search of duct tape, or nails and shut the door behind you. Without power, you stumble through dark corners and cabinets aimlessly, unwilling to give yourself enough time to assess the small kernel of fear building in your stomach each time you open a door and find shadows lurking in every corner. Thankfully the kitchen junk drawer yields a flashlight, dull and cheap but serviceable, and after that supplies come quickly to hand.

It takes about an hour to get the window good and insulated, a pile of trash bags taped to the frame to keep the worst of the winds out followed by two layers of heavy blankets for insulation. It's not good enough to keep the room warm but you're unwilling to sacrifice more blankets and with the door to the room kept closed, you're hoping you won't need to anyway.

The living room houses a wood stove which you determine is safe enough to use after shining your flashlight up the flue. A dining room chair and a cheap paperback is sacrificed for fuel and tinder, the long ignition matches thankfully kept right next to the stove. The chair lights quickly but burns cold and despite the exhaustion that weighs heavily upon you, you know better than to sit and warm yourself just yet, peeking through every window until you find a dilapidated woodshed not too far from the back door. You miss your snowshoes, but with the sun rapidly setting you're not about to waste time going to find them, instead beelining it to the she and wading through drifts which climb to your hips. It's cold enough to radiate through your layers but you don't stop until you're at the door, groaning in frustration when you find it padlocked. You'd cry, but know your tears would only freeze to your face. Instead you channel your frustrations out by kicking through the cheap, boarded door, ripping panels out until you can squeeze through. 

Inside, frost clings to cloudy windows like the dust that settles within. Your eyes move quickly over tools and supplies, settling first on a tarp which you lay outside and weigh down with the planks you'd ripped from the door. As suspected, the tarp was keeping a wood pile dry and you collect as many split logs as you can manage, cringing when you find them cold even through your glove. They'll have to work, though you're not sure how.

You drag your makeshift sleigh back to the cabin weighed down with wood and a shovel, a small maul you're not sure you'll even be able to wield but feel stupid leaving. It's too heavy in the snow, sinks to the ground and plows a wake behind you, gets you grunting and sweating by the time you reach the porch. Panting, you turn to inspect your handiwork and ready it for the haul up the steps and stop, breathless, when you catch sight of the broad, black sheet of glass beyond the treeline.

Past the far side of the lawn, down a small ravine, a lake glints under the moonlight. It is black as coal and striped with snow drifts that slither and slide, pick up their skirts and tip toe across the frozen surface in delicate little leaps as if it is too cold even for their frigid toes. The south shore creeps in across the way, its boundaries blurred by the dark. You scan the long line of it for any trace of human activity but if there are more cabins over there, you sigh in defeat when you realize they must be vacant for the winter.

A sharp wind cuts through the snow drifts on the lake. You watch as they morph into something solid, a wall of cold, before it cuts up harshly and heads north. The snow stings sharply when the current reaches you and you get the message, bundling up your loot and heaving it up the steps.

***

"Your destination is on the left."

You startled out of your reverie and stopped the truck, assessing. On your left, a swamp sprawled out about 300 feet; same as it did 100 feet back, same as it did 100 feet forward. It made for a pretty sight, dotted as it was with little islands, peat moss hanging down onto the frozen water from under the blankets of snow that covered them. A pretty sight, yes, but a serviceable nature trail it was not. You'd been driving four hours into increasingly desolate back woods and at least twice now you'd wondered why you were even bothering when you didn't particularly even want to be doing this. But your mom had made you promise you'd try to get out more, kick the winter blues, and she'd even gone to all the trouble of finding local trails you could explore, gushing the whole time about how you used to love to snowshoe.

There were a lot of things you used to love to do.

Sighing, you fumbled with your phone as you tried to find the pinned location in relation to your current one. It chirped about having arrived at your destination and you scrubbed a hand down your face, frustration mounting. On screen, your notifications revealed a missed text from your sister and two calls from your mother. You swiped them both away and huff when the GPS had the audacity to ask how you would rate your trip. You had no service. You considered driving into the icy marsh and calling it a day.

There was a gas station a ways back, you recalled, retracing your route back through the convoluted network of rambling back roads you'd taken to get this far. You thought it was only three - maybe four - turn offs since the last time you'd seen another car, but you couldn't quite remember if the station was before or after the main drag. It would probably take you a half hour or so to make it back, just to be told you'd been in the right area the whole time. Or more likely, to have the minimum wage employee behind the counter not know how to help you find Access Road #47.

Your eyes hurt, weary from the long drive and the snow blindness which had been plaguing you in flashes between pine groves ever since the sun had started its lazy ascent an hour ago.You opened the GPS and pulled the trip you'd just 'successfully' completed back up, trying to remember if the road it says your on is even the road you'd actually pulled onto. But street names became less important on back roads like this where 'take the next left' meant 'take the only left' and you definitely weren't paying close enough attention.

Still, the odds of you having made a wrong turn were pretty much nil when the grid was so wide and rambling and you decided to press on for now, hoping for the best. Flicking on your blinker, you checked your mirrors out of habit before crawling back onto the road. Of course, no headlights followed this far out.

It had worked out in the end, the sign for Access Road #4 - hanging limp and broken off a tree at the next turn off. You'd driven until you'd found the snowmobile crossing, just as the reviews had said you would, and then parked as close to the ditch as you dared, complaining the whole while about the road having not been plowed recently. In retrospect, this really should've been the first sign that something was amiss, but you'd plowed up the trail stubbornly, desperate to get your trip over with so you could call your mother and tell her you'd done as she'd asked and gotten out of the house.But what had started off as a necessary outing quickly turned pleasant, the mid winter sun shining pale and tepid on the unblemished path which unfolded before you. It was a clear day, a rare occurrence for January, and by noon the sun was warm enough to have you sweating lightly under your layers. You'd taken off your coat and wrapped it around your waist, luxuriating in the freedom of being able to walk outside in nothing but your base layer for the first time in months. Winters were long this far north and by January, you're usually convinced the sun was just some mass psychogenic hallucination humanity had cooked up once to give themselves hope, so you have to begrudgingly admit that indeed you had needed this. 

When the clouds began rolling in, you hadn't thought much about it beyond a general disappointment that they'd taken away your paltry warmth. But it was still a relatively nice day and you were having fun so instead of turning around, you carried on, trudging along in search of the switchback you'd been led to believe would eventually fold you back onto the start of the path and grinned in satisfaction when you found the fork in the road, the one path veering wildly backward on your left. 

You're not sure how long you'd walked it, but by the time you'd realized the path had leveled out and you were indeed walking perpendicular to your original course, the sun had already passed its zenith. Panic wormed its way into your belly, a slow simmer at first which you refused to assess too closely as you turned to follow your scraping prints back up the path. You sought your phone out, upset but not entirely surprised to find you had no service. It wasn't the end of the world, though - you knew exactly which access road you were on and your tracks were easy to follow, so if needed, you could call emergency services and be picked up within an hour. But it was early yet and you didn't want to upset your mom by needing to be extracted from an excursion she'd encouraged you to go on, so you ignored the slowly building pit in your stomach and carried on, only beginning to panic in truth when the wind and the clouds picked up so bad you knew you were about to get dumped on. Swallowing your pride, you took your phone out of your pocket again and cursed a blue streak when you found the cold had drained your battery.

Fear made you stupid, made you branch off from the path you're on in an attempt to cut the corner and stumble back onto your original path sooner. You could feel that you weren't maintaining a straight enough line, but you consoled yourself to know that, so long as you didn't manage to turn completely around and follow parallel to the path you'd just abandoned, you would have to intersect with either the access road or the snowmobile trail eventually, hemmed in on either side as you were.

But you must have turned completely around, and as the sun began to disappear behind the western ridge, it began to get cold.

***

You end up sacrificing more chairs before you can get the logs thawed out enough they'll catch, drying out at a glacial pace from their perch on the stove top. Sleep calls for you in yawning rolls every time your adrenaline cycles low, but each time you stand and ready yourself or the house in another way because you can't fall asleep with only kindling burning you will die.

Instead, you busy yourself by blocking off the large archway into the kitchen and shoving the bookcase in front of the hallway. It lessens the space needing to be warmed, stems the sap of heat - but it also makes you more claustrophobic, sitting as you are in a stranger's home. You've no doubt they won't return until spring, but that doesn't stop the irrational fear in you, jumping every time the wind knocks a branch against the siding. You've no idea what you'll do if anyone comes knocking now, no way to guarantee they won't shoot first and ask questions later. Briefly, you consider finding the gun cabinet you're sure is here somewhere, but even if it was unlocked, being an armed intruder would only make you more threatening. So you wander meekly, mapping the house and jumping at shadows. It's filled with the chintzy old furniture typical of hunting camps, a pea green recliner and a mismatched blue couch in the living room.They sit across from the woodstove and a CRT TV respectively, a cute little circle you struggled to picture a group of grown men sitting around, decked out in camo and gear. Behind the couch was the bookshelf, before you'd moved it, full of second hand hunting books and Tom Clancy novels for spice. There are trinkets and found treasures dotting the shelves: robin's eggshells, scraps of velvet sheddings. You silently promise the owners you won't use them for kindling. Overhead, a loft saps your heat but there's not much you can do to stem it. The living room opens to the kitchen, a small thing with a cramped island and an attached nook, a stacked washing machine/dryer combo, a rickety table and a single remaining chair under a window that looks out toward the lake. 

Before blocking the hallway, you followed it back to find the bathroom and the bedroom you'd broken in through, raiding all the blankets and pillows and towels you could find. It's a decent haul - an old woven hospital thermal, a wool blanket, and one of those funky-colored afghan throws everyone’s grannies were crocheting back in the 80’s - but you were still happy to find the linen closet after and nab some flannel sheets, too.

In the kitchen, you take inventory of the cupboards, relieved to find about a year's worth of canned veggies and soups, and you shovel a cold can of beef ravioli into your mouth like an animal at the sink, the pangs in your stomach having gone unnoticed before that moment. Even when you're done you keep scraping the cheap sauce from the can in a subconscious effort to get more while you think about your predicament, spoon pulling across the grooved tin with a sound like a güiro. It's obnoxious, but it keeps you awake and alert while you weigh options and mull over just exactly how fucked you are, fluctuating wildly between hopelessness and determination as you consider the snow collecting on the windowpane and the fact that your mom will definitely be worried by now. It's strange to know you're probably fairly well set until spring here, stranger still to think about whether it's safer to stay than to try navigating the trails where your tracks have most assuredly been covered. You're resolute when you tell yourself it won't come to either, your mom likely having already called in your missing status because sometimes it pays to be paranoid. In the morning, mounties will come trekking out to the trails and they'll find your truck exactly where it was supposed to be and they'll canvas for you, even if your tracks have been covered. You're not too far from the trail, all told, and you can't be too far from civilization if there's a lake within a stone's throw - humans have always huddled around waterways and now you're no different, clinging to it like a lifeline while you wait out the storm and search and rescue alike. Maybe, if they don't find you tomorrow, you can go down to the lake and write an S.O.S. on the ice, provided it's thick enough. Any helicopters out searching for signs would see that easily enough. Sighing, you toss your empty can and dirty fork in the sink though you know the main is either shut off or frozen. You'll melt snow in the morning, be a proper little houseguest and clean up after yourself.

Feeling better about your predicament, you return to the living room and refashion the tarp over the archway. Finding the logs dry enough to burn, you throw one in and replace it with the next soggy block on the stove. In the dim light from the port, you begin assembling your nest, happy now that your belly is full and you're slowly warming enough you can risk taking your coat and bibs off. You'd removed your boots a while back, replaced by a thick pair of wool socks you'd found in the dresser of the bedroom. They're thawing out next to the couch now, on a mud mat you'd found by the door. There's nowhere to hang your outerwear by the stove though, so you drape them from the curtain rods, telling yourself it's just one more layer of insulation between you and the thin window pane. If it also serves the purpose of hiding the mounting drifts from you, you don't mind.

***

You wear silt like gossamer, fine and thin and dancing over your skin in a gentle sway. It's not enough to be a proper current, no source for one either. The ground simply shifts beneath you - heavy, steady, even - and takes everything with it, a low roll of debris pulling over you before returning on the exhale. Detritus catches in your hair, twigs and leaves scraping your skin gently. You feel soft and water-logged and when you open your eyes, your skin is pallid and bloated. 

It is cold here, too cold. Something at the back of your mind tugs at that, worried, but you can't bother to be troubled when you feel so at peace, studying the way pale moonlight refracts through the thin sheet of ice which covers you. You feel like a faerie tale - ophelia, or the slumbering princess awaiting her kiss. You are quieted, there is no pain, so you're understandably upset when your hand raises from its watery bed of its own accord and reaches up, eclipsing the moon, and delicately taps on the sheet above you, the thin coat breaking apart easily as spun sugar. Water floods the branching cracks, overwhelming the delicate shelf. Your hand spreads beneath the surface, trying to catch a piece of it in your palm, but suddenly the moon is changing, pale light turning thin and gold. Life teems in your basin, the slow breaths of the depths bubbling to the surface where algae blooms, feasting on the rot of winter. Minnows hatch and grow, their smooth scales glinting faintly under a sun which grows warmer with each second. They nip at your pruney skin irritatingly, get you swatting and rolling, kicking up debris from the bed. It clouds the surface, vague dark shapes which close around you from either side.

Your breath heaves when you sit up, hair plastered to your skin as murky water slips down the valleys of your body in lines which leave dirt caked to your skin. It stinks, gaseous byproduct and stagnant water. You sit in the filth a moment longer, trying to make sense of your situation and your nakedness though everything beyond the sun above escapes you. Foliage filters the light now, fresh green buds and growing stalks of ferns. Somewhere high in a sentinel, a whippoorwill trills but nearer still, a bullfrog's call silences the static of crickets. You blink, turn toward it -

And find yourself in the warm glow of the wood stove, eyes trained on the tarp which blocks off the kitchen. 

Thoughts sleep addled and thick, it takes you a moment to realize you're sitting up, skin painted in the golden hues of the stove. It's warm, enough so that you've kicked off most of your nest in sleep, though you blessedly haven't broken a sweat yet. You rub your eyes in confusion, trying to ascertain how long you've been out, though you know it can't be too long if the fire hadn't died down much. Restless from your dream, you climb out of your nest and creep to the window, huffing in fear and frustration when you move your coat and find the drifts have climbed halfway up the woodshed's siding. It's still cloudy, wind still whipping. It shows no sign of stopping but you're grateful it's no longer a white out at least. You stand there a while longer, trying to decipher the skyline enough to figure out the hour but it's hopeless in this overcast and you return to the couch, defeated, staring into the screened coals as you try to walk yourself back from the general anxiety of your dream and your position. 

Hopelessness has always clung to you, a shawl you've worn around your shoulders since you were a kid. Dour, reserved. It leaves you ill-equipped now, spiraling in the dead of night into a depression you know will kill you if you let yourself succumb to it. Out here, hopelessness is just as deadly as the elements and you can't give into it, no matter how much you want to tighten the valve, bank the coals, slip back under that frozen mire. So you sigh, try to steer your thoughts to something more proactive. You need sleep, but your head's clearer now than it was earlier so you peer around looking for anything that might need tending. There's still nothing to be done for the loft, but the logs which had been drying on the stove shouldn't stay there all night, and now that they're dry you can swap them for a new set. Your knees creak when you pull yourself up, blanket swishing around you. You pull the coffee table closer, place the first block off to the side, and then jump a foot when you reach for the other one and nearly burn your hand on the empty stove pan. 

It's funny how quickly the sense of not right can cut through the miasma of depression and tiredness. You know you replaced the last log you used. You remember it intimately, the cold, wet lumber nearly squishing under your thumb. You inspect your hands for evidence, brows drawing tight when you find them clammy and dirty. Exasperated, you open the vent and inspect the coals, shaking your head and sitting back on your heels when you find evidence of an old log smothering under a fresh, popping belt of cedar. Closing the door, you try to collect yourself rationally, reasoning that you'd been sitting up when you came to and therefore it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibilities that you'd grown cold in the night and decided to feed the fire, too exhausted to wake up properly as you did so. It made a sort of sense, explaining parts of your dream at least. No doubt the sensations of opening the hatch and feeding the fire, basking in the warmth of it had informed your vision, your hand on the sheet of ice and the way the season had changed around you. It's small comfort, knowing you'd played with fire in your sleep, but at least it makes sense. Means you're not going crazy.

In the kitchen, a bullfrog sings its agreement.

Despite the crackling of the fire, ice creeps through your veins worse than when you'd been stuck out before the storm. You'd like to say you whip around, seek out the source of the sound confidently and casually. You'd like to say the call of a bullfrog - or something - didn't scare you. But when you turn toward the kitchen, your head swivels about slowly, eyes taking in every inch of the room on their way. You sit frozen in place, shaking like a leaf when the tarp rustles in a draft, breaths coming quick and shallow. You're unsure how long you sit like that, locked in place by fear, entire body wound so tight the next pop of cellulose has you flinching, but it's long enough for the draft to dissipate, the tarp folding back in on itself as it settles to the floor. Long enough for you to understand that whatever's made that noise also informed your dream, that you were already looking for it when you woke up.

Your feet are silent on the threadbare carpet when you slink to the wall and grab the maul, eyes and ears peeled as you advance to the shroud that separates you from the kitchen. There's no silent way to get past the tarp, but if you sit next to the doorway long enough, you just might be able to peek inside the next time a draft kicks it up. So you try, tears burning your lash line because you don't trust yourself to even blink when you catch a series of little croaks emanating from the other room. It's not a frog. It can't be a frog, it's below freezing out there.

So what the fuck is croaking in the kitchen?

Cold air bites through your borrowed socks. The tarp rustles and raises, the edge of it pulling away from the wall enough you can peer through the crack in bits and pieces, brain stitching the image together until it makes a whole: empty, glowing pale in the moon glow. You rip the tarp away and storm through, maul raised against a threat you can't see. You tear through cabinets in your terror, even checking the washing machine before accepting you're alone. Your breath heaves as you glance around, desperate to make sense of the croaking noise that had awoken you from a sleep so deep you'd managed to work a wood stove without waking. But it doesn't make sense, the kitchen just as abandoned as the rest of the house, counters picked clean but for your empty tin of ravioli and the -.

The maul falls to the ground with a heavy thunk as you step closer, retracing your steps from earlier in the night much as you had when you couldn't make sense of the fire having been fed. You'd put the mess in the sink, told yourself you'd clean it when you melted snow in the morning. Why would you put dirty utensils on the counter when you'd just have to clean that up, too? Confused and doubting your very sanity, you reach out to touch the fork as if in confirmation and gasp when you find it hot to the touch, condensation clinging to it as it rapidly cools in the frigid air.

You think you mumble something about 'no fucking way,' but you're unsure, fingers scrambling for the tap quicker than you can register. It groans at first, protests. You go to slam the tap shut before the pipes can burst but just as your hand connects with the knob, the flow spurts to life like an artery, long pulses which grow in steadiness until it fills the sink, steam billowing like smoke. It's not possible. You'd checked - hadn't you? Perhaps not, maybe you'd just assumed the main would be off in a winterized home… you rack your brain, trying to remember but come up short. Unlike everything else tonight, you can't pinpoint the exact moment you'd checked the taps and it makes you groan in frustration with yourself, momentarily distracted enough you forget about the strange croaking noise, or the way the dishes had been washed. You even try the switch above the sink just to be sure, but you're unsurprised to find it does nothing, the display on the oven behind you still blank. 

So you sag in relief anyway, distracted and happy to have running water. Until you lean forward to shut the water off and your chest brushes the tin before you, knocks it just enough it totters a moment before tipping into the sink as well. As it falls, the corrugated side scrapes the edge and you freeze, a bullfrog call echoing throughout the kitchen. 

***

You don't sleep much after that, rest eluding you as you toss and turn on the couch, waiting for the storm to blow over. Time slips by inconsistently when you've no phone to check but you keep yourself grounded in the long pre-dawn hours by cataloging the texture of the couch underneath you and the quiet drip of the faucet in the other room.

It had seemed a waste to let the taps freeze just because you were scared.

After last night you'd searched the house high and low again, even wandering up to the loft to check closets and beds. You were alone, as expected, but you can't shake the feeling that something is with you. 

You've never been very superstitious but you can feel it in your bones, in the framework of the house. You imagine if you were to step outside you'd feel it peering at you from the treeline with owl eyes. Barely a thought spared for how quickly you'd accepted it as true, how you'd never once questioned your own sanity. You should, all things considered - no one could fault you for turning a little batty under these circumstances.

But you know it's real, whatever it is.

You suppose most delusions feel like that.

The storm overstays its welcome, rolls out just as languidly as it had passed over. All told you'd bet the snow had fallen for a solid ten hours and the accumulation certainly seems to reflect that. You're not overly familiar with the yards surrounding the cabin, but there are post caps patterned evenly in the fresh blanket outside the front windows, beyond them vaguely spherical mounds and a sudden drop into a more shallow plain. If you'd had to guess, that would be a front porch and the bannister was completely swallowed. 

Snowed in, if you happened to care about such things as property damage.

You try to wait out the overcast, hoping for better daylight and some reassurance the skies won't open up on you again, but a full hour passes unchanged, and the only thing obscuring your view of the lake from the kitchen is your own breath clouding the window pane. You're burning daylight, and there's not very much of it to begin with.

The room you'd broken in through houses two windows. You choose it as your exit point because the drifts outside look shallowest here and because you know you'll be leaving your entrance open all day. It's no use freezing the den you'd worked so hard to warm, so you pull the bookcase back into place behind you and head down the hall, fully dressed. You throw the undamaged window open after inspecting your patch job for weak spots or damages, oddly proud to find it up to par. The broom you'd pulled from the kitchen stands chin height when you lean on it, but the drift outside the window still swallows over half of it when you test the depth by pushing the handle through it. If the snows too powdery you'll fall through it and your snowshoes will be more hindrance than help, but you don't relish plowing through hip deep snow all the way to the lake so you risk it, clipping into your shoes as you sit on the sill and branching out into the world like a little fledgling after shutting the window as much as you dared, awkward and gangly on feet that sink a good four inches into the fresh powder before catching properly. It's not perfect, but it will have to do.

Shovel in one hand and ski pole in the other, you make your way to the lake slowly and carefully. It's impossible to pick out the features of the unfamiliar terrain under so much snow and you worry with every step that you're about to put too much weight on a thicket of brambles, or have your foot go crashing through felled trees. You imagine breaking your ankle here and half your speed yet again, putting all your weight on your ski pole as you test each next step. The shoreline is the most harrowing as you've no clue if a dock lies dormant under foot, if your next step will have you plummeting off a shelf of dense snow and crashing through the ice.

But you make it, and the ice withstands all the beatings you lay on it with broom and shovel and unearthed rocks, and much as it scares you to take the first step onto the thin ice of the shoreline, it holds fast and you set off toward deeper water with a grim determination, steadfastly refusing to think of how stupid you're being. 

You take note of the surrounding cabins as you walk, checking diligently for signs of life. But the windows stare blankly back, indifferent to your plight. The wind whistles through the basin the further out you go, drifts shifting like waves across the top layer of snowfall. It gives you pause, anxiety building as you wonder if your bravery will go unrecognized when the dunes shift and bury your message, but the deeper layers of snow remain hard packed and you won't gain anything by doing nothing so you try anyway, shovel digging a trench deep and wide enough for you to fall in to, abandoning your snowshoes before you do lest the grip claws scratch the ice. 

It wouldn't do anything to harm its integrity, but it makes you feel better anyway, especially when the ice creaks underfoot some hours later, shelves settling more firmly against each other. It's a natural process but it leaves you weak in the knees momentarily, breath panting with more than just your strenuous labor.

Scale is a hard thing to grasp when you feel no bigger than a speck in a giant's eye. You work so hard you break into a sweat, your bibs folded down at the waist to keep you regulated. It's a dangerous game you're playing but you don't want to soak your layers lest you get stuck in them on the return trip when your sweat cools and your temperature plummets and you're not willing to bet money the hot water at the cabin will still work when you return. But despite your effort, when you crawl out of the ditch to inspect your handiwork you're underwhelmed, your message seeming small enough to barely be visible from the cabin let alone the sky. 

Which stares apathetically back at you, unblemished by chopper or cloud break. You inspect it back, check for signs of the hours passing. The only indication you receive is a general darkening on the eastern horizon.

You sigh, tugging your snowshoes back on. You're not sure which is worse, the prospect of a longer day and therefore more time to work yourself to the bone on a message which may never pan out, or the idea of lugging yourself all the way back up the shore. You scan the coastline apprehensively, plotting out your return trip now that you can get a better lay of the land -.

Hang on.

Fear claws its way up your throat, sudden and damning. None of it looks familiar because of course it doesn't, and the harsh winds have covered your tracks just like they'd done when you'd strayed off course and found yourself in an abandoned cabin. God, you'd been so stupid - how could you not have learned from your mistake the first time?

Unbidden, tears burn the chapped skin of your cheeks as you scan the horizon, noting the smattering of empty structures with a growing sense of dread. You know your cabin sat further back, barely visible from the shore, but beyond that you've no clue where to go, no visual bearing to follow. You should have propped that broom up somehow, or piled a wall of snow on the shore which might have been visible from some distance.

Your eyes trail overhead instead, hoping to remember which side the sun had been on when you'd trekked out, but with the dense cloud coverage it had been impossible to know, even the vague time of day having eluded you. Breath steams from your lips, clouds your vision when you inspect the treeline, trying to discern how much daylight you have left. Already the sky darkens, night creeping in from the east with greedy fingers, reaching over the horizon to greet a snow squall on the southern shore. You bite your lip, a flake of dead skin catching and ripping between your teeth. The small storm hangs ominously close, a dark smudge of gray underlit by -.

You blink. Blink again. 

"Fuck!" you hiss, running as best you can in your unwieldy shoes.

The flue - were you sure it was opened? Had you properly banked the coals to a low simmer? Had the logs you'd been drying been removed from the stove top before you'd left?

You felt just as crazy as you had the night before, confusion clouding your every memory from that morning. Had you really been that exhausted? Could you have set your one safe haven on fire?

Smoke hangs in the clouds like a bad omen, billowing wider across the clearing as if laying stagnant, unaffected by the thin winter winds which bobbed the pines. It acts as a beacon, calls you to it with unquestioning feet. In retrospect, you won't be sure why you even follow, why you don't break into a neighboring cabin and start all over again. Perhaps you thought it was a hell of a way to call any potential search and rescue to you. More likely, you'd been unable to look away from it, like a bad train wreck, the morbid curiosity overriding all your better instincts.

But the cabin still stands when you round the corner of the treeline, windows just as shrouded as all the others that lined the lake. The smokestack glows like a cherry, but the house still stands and you've no control over yourself when you're rounding to the back room window again, ducking your head through the opening to take a good whiff, surprised when it doesn't spark a coughing fit. So you heave yourself through the window again, muscles protesting loudly.

You ignore them in favor of tearing down the hall in clattering snowshoes, pushing the bookcase right over in your haste to assess the damage.

But there is none. The wood stove barely even glows, its belly cold when you hover a hand over it.

Tears spring unbidden again, exhaustion and confusion weighing heavily on you as you try to make sense of what's happened, figure out what freak combination of events could have led to this. Exhaustion, mostly. Delusions brought on by stress. Deep down you know there will be no good explanation. 

***

You were wrong about the hot water situation. You were wrong about a lot of things.

The shower matches the rest of the cabin, old and dingy but blessedly providing. Steam builds thick enough to carve in the frigid air but you don't let it bother you, luxuriating under the stream for far too long in an attempt to wash off even the most stubborn of anxieties knotting your back. You stand on washcloths to avoid fungal infections and make due with a bar of Unilever and a mostly-empty bottle of Dove three-in-one which leaves your hair dry as hell. You're no longer sure if it will even matter soon.

You're so exhausted it's difficult to even stand, feet dragging as you pat yourself off and wrap your wet head in a towel. The hallway is freezing when you exit the bathroom, wind rattling the panes of the bedroom whose door will no longer stay shut. The window you'd left cracked earlier had been wide open when you'd returned, something you'd only noticed when you'd gone back to close up shop after ascertaining there was no real threat. 

It doesn't do you much good to dwell on it so you don't, just make sure the windows are closed and locked still before closing the door again. You hear it creak back open as you lift the bookcase back into place but you don't dwell on that either. 

The eggshells and velvet sheddings you'd promised not to break are ruined, irreplaceable curios shattered on the floor. It's strange how apathetic you feel about it now, picking up the pieces you can. Mostly, you're too tired to care anymore, and relief floods you when you lay out on the couch after feeding the stove. You've only three logs left inside. You tell yourself you won't need to grab any more.

***

You were wrong about the electricity too, it seems, the soft popping of the CRT turning on blending seamlessly with the quiet sounds of the fire. You don't wake until the screen warms, electric fuzz reflected in the static on screen. You blink awake in the blinding white light, lay deadly still as you scan the deep shadows of the room for any signs of an intruder, your first instincts centering around your dishwashing friend from the night before. Another miracle - just what you need.

"Luvie."

Something with too many legs and too many teeth makes a home in your left ventricle, tickling and tearing as it spins a web in your aorta tight enough to seal it shut. Your eyes slide up - up, up - following a wood panel to the peak of the ceiling, crawl across the banister of the loft and land directly above. There's someone up there, shape barely discernible in the erratic light of the TV. They're tall, built like a man. They do not speak with a human's voice.

"You're all alone out here?" Water drips onto the chapped skin of your face, frigid and shocking.

The lighting morphs, a soft click heralding the changing of the channel. On screen, the snow cuts short, replaced by the overprocessed blue glow of channel two. You do not look away from your visitor even when the VCR chunks, the FBI warning wavering to life on screen.

"You need help, luv," the voice warns, cold and distant and possibly completely in your head. "You're cold."

"'M'not," you gripe - or at least you try to, your voice so weak and garbled you're unsure he's heard you. You try again, realization dawning on you when your voice remains thin and reedy. You're sleeping. This is all a dream. Relief floods over you like a physical thing, muscles relaxing with a sigh. Above you, your visitor hums, a bass noise which seems to rattle the panes. It's the wind, you tell yourself, more external stimuli altering your dreams. You're unsure how you can reason so clearly. 

"I can help," the voice suggests anyway, and the tension returns tenfold, entire body locking up so tight you briefly worry you're having a seizure. You shiver like that a moment, fist wrapped around an electric fence, and then your body relaxes, breath ragged and panting as you try to make sense of what just happened.

It happens again, and again. Sweat drips from your temples, pleas and pants fall from your lips. A steady drip of water rains on you, cooling your overheated skin as your body continues to seize up on you. From above (from within), the voice alternates between apologizing for the unconventional tactics, and telling you you should be thankful it's deigned to help you at all. You can't catch your breath enough to tell it off.

The episode ends in rolling waves, each cycle dimming in intensity, but lasting longer. You focus on breathing, try to move your hands. It's no good - somehow you're still asleep.

And somehow, your clit is very much on board with the rhythmic clenching and the pseudo-breathplay.

It's almost enough to make you laugh, an exasperated huff curling your lips into a grin which tenses and grits with the next wave, a bitten off groan hissing through your teeth when your cunt tightens around nothing, your hips rocking against the plush tops of your own thighs. You flinch when another water droplet falls on you, splashing against the back of your exposed fist, but it's like the paralysis that's bound you washes away with it, your fingers immediately finding the hem of your waistband. It's solace you seek, eyes squinted shut. Even out here amidst this frozen hell you need reprieve and you're not going to deny yourself relief when it comes so easily, skin slick and pulsing with the after-shocks of whatever episode had woken you up. You cum when the voice says so, when the droning of the CRT builds to a crescendo, the image on screen distorting technicolored static before the whole thing gives a violent pop, sizzling out with enough static make your hand stand up even from your position on the couch. With it, your body locks up so tight you can't move again, clit pulsing against your fingers hard enough to finish you off. 

After, gasping for breath, too tired to even clean yourself properly, you scan the loft for any trace of your apparition and sigh to yourself when you find none, already trying to convince yourself the whole thing - the TV, the dripping water, the man - was a very vivid dream. It's something you might have convinced yourself of, if given enough time, but you fall asleep summarily after, whole body wrung dry.

***

There's dirt dried on your face, some on your hand. A series of perfectly circular stains, one or two carving harsh lines down the slopes of your cheeks. As if someone had dripped dirty water on you and let the water evaporate. The only thing that keeps you from panicking about it is the steady leak you'd found dripping from the roof to the loft, overflowing onto the couch. The kind of leak that only comes with heavy melt off.

Outside, the snow is slushy, caves under your shoes. Melt off flows steadily as rainwater from every surface, the weighted boughs of the pines springing to life when their heavy burdens give up the ghost and drop unceremoniously to the earth, glistening under the pale yellow light of a spring sun.

It is January.

'You're cold. I can help.'

This isn't real. None of it. Tears stream down your face as insistently as the melt off; you feel just as out of place as the sun overhead. You're exhausted, sick of fighting so hard to maintain - to pretend it's all going to be okay. You want to sleep. You want to die.

Down on the lake, the ice emits a series of knocks, adjusting to this new development just as poorly as you are. Your eyes scan the surface almost absently, noting the crystalline shelf with some level of wonder until it registers.

"Shit," you hiss, bolting for the shoreline as fast as you can through the slush and snow.

An entire day wasted, all your work melted away with the mother of all unseasonable warm fronts. A good two inches of water now lays over the ice, all the snow you'd plowed through to leave your SOS having melted under the bright morning sun and the balmy southerly wind. You could have tried to trek back, left bootprints carved all over the trail. Maybe they could've found you then.

Frustration weighs heavily, nearly compresses you when it tests your fatigued muscles. You don't want to plow through miles of slushy snow. You want them to see you - from your message or your smokestack or your wildly waving arms, you don't care - and come save you, bundle you up in a shock blanket and take you home. You want to sleep on the dock, absorb the pale sun rays and let it warm your bones, too. You're sick of fighting.

Indecision makes you lax. The sun slips in and out of thin clouds as it carves its way across the sky. It passes its zenith - low on the horizon, just another reminder that this weather should not be - before you move again, the low echo of brush breaking shaking you from your reverie. 

To your right, far along the shoreline, something big is moving.

Sound moves strangely across the bay, echoes first into the basin before making its way to you. It's hard to pinpoint its exact origin, harder still to discern its nature. You frown at its vague direction, ears perked for every little noise. A branch breaks; something sharp which might be a shout; laughter peals through the valley like church bells.

"HELP!" you shout, jumping to your feet. "OVER HERE! HELP!" Your voice thins as it echoes, each return quieter than the last. The other party falls silent, you imagine them trying to pinpoint your location much the same as you had theirs. When you call out again, they return with your name.

Search and rescue. Finally. But, what are they doing so far out? They call for you again, voices stretching the long miles. You'd say five by shoreline, three as the crow flies. It's not right, why are they so far off? You cast back through your memories of the day you'd arrived here, retracing steps. You'd been so diligent about remaining on the path right up until that last branch; you can't have gone that far off, so why -?

Unless it was before then, when your GPS had failed. You'd rerouted, adapted, but -. The sign, Access Road #4-, with the last digit cut off. You'd been wrong about so many things.

"HELP! I'M HERE!"

Three miles as the crow flies. You can manage that.

The ice doesn't protest much like you'd feared it would when you lower yourself down from your perch on the dock. It seems despite the sun's best efforts, the thin layer of water that covers it isn't enough to melt it just yet. Your shoes plap plap as you take off but you're too distracted to remove them just yet, caught up in the strange mix of fear, panic, and anger which knots your belly. Your shouts thin out, breath shuddering as you work to keep moving, each step a massive effort.

The search party calls back, but their voices are moving further away, perhaps confused by the way your voice carries up the lake. 

"Wait!" you wheeze, stumbling to a halt as you try to catch your breath. "I'm here!"

They don't even bother to answer this time, likely not having heard. You groan and fall to your knees, gloved fingers fumbling with the clasps of your snowshoes. In your panic, you botch it twice before taking a deep breath to collect yourself, eyes slipping shut as you try to remember you'll save time long term if you can just take a few extra moments now. You wait until your pulse calms a fraction of a beat per second, until your breath evens out. When you open your eyes, your gaze falls first to the ice beneath your feet and you nearly lose your Spaghettio breakfast.

You've never seen anything so clear. Under direct sunlight, the ice comes alive, rendered so transparent it may as well not exist at all. Vertigo sets in, your brain convinced there can't be anymore than an inch of ice beneath you and you have to focus on the thin cracks which run through the shelf to orient yourself. They web their way through the glass pane - thin and cloudy as gossamer - about twelve feet deep, the only indicators that there is anything solid underfoot at all. 

On your right, deep below, small dark shapes flit in and out of vision, return to a larger dark mass further out. You assume they are the brave excursionists of a school of perch, darting close to check out what is moving on the surface. 

It's not that which tests your nerves.

Further below them, at the very bottom of the viewable basin, vague tendrils slink down into the black depths. They twist gently towards the shore, lapped at by some underwater current you imagine you can hear in the beats between their swells and lulls. Seaweed, must be. The lake can't be too deep here. Shallow enough you can see the body, at least.

"Oh, my god," you breathe, situation momentarily forgotten as you watch him bob along in a strong undercurrent, dark skin striped by the fronds which caress him. He's achingly beautiful, bathed in the pale light which filters down to him and veined through with the shadows of the ice cracks. As you watch, the seaweed parts, reveals an expanse of naked flesh. He seems perfectly preserved in the cold water, so much so that you're not immediately certain he's dead. His skin lacks the waterlogged quality you'd expect, still tight and vibrant where it stretches across his envious musculature. He's beautiful, full lips parting gently as another rolling swell of current drags him along. You crawl along after him, helpless against his pull. 

He has to be dead - right?

So why do his eyelids seem to flutter when your fist thuds against the ice? Why does the current seem to pull him up even as it pushes the lakebed down?

Why do you keep following him along blindly, ignoring the calls of your rescue team? Even as the ice begins to creak beneath you, thinning out the closer he pulls you toward a brackish section of shore. He looks so peaceful, undisturbed. Your voice warbles as you emit your last call for help, barely more than a whisper. When your fist falls to the ice to try and wake him, thin veins of white web deep into the shelf in warning. 

He's much closer now - far too close, in fact. Barely more than arm's length. Finally, it registers how much danger you've gotten yourself in, but all you do is belly down, shimmying along the ice like a snake. You feel connected to the man beneath you like this, flush toe to tip if not for the glass that separates you. Water floods through the zipper of your coat, that fresh melt cold as sin where it soaks through your base layers and pebbles your nipples. It's cold, cold enough that it finally dawns on you exactly how dead this man is. You can't help stroking your hand over the ice sympathetically, grieving a man you never knew in his lonely grave. A chain around his neck catches your eye as you study him one last time, try to commit his image to memory. You follow it to where it floats somewhere above his head, a familiar metal plaque on a ball chain. Dog tags. 

You follow him along a little further, willing the necklace to spin just right that you may learn his name. If you can just reach the search party in time, make it home, you could bring his identity to the authorities, perhaps resolve another missing person's case alongside your own. Overhead, your name rings out, further than ever. You call back weakly, all you can manage from your belly. There is a part of you that notes the urgency of the situation - how desperately you need to get a move on to catch up with the party. You listen to it as if from underwater. Muffled, confused. Surely you don't want to leave this peaceful place?

The dog tag glints when it spins, a lure catching refracted light. Sgt. K. Garrick is pushed further in, heavy body thudding against the ice from below. More ice splinters, one fine crack running all the way up to the surface where it bleeds like a fresh wound, warm water flowing up through the shelf to web yet more threads.

Garrick doesn't flinch because he is dead, and you will be too if you do not help yourself.

This time when you scream, your voice shakes snow from the shoreline pines. It thumps through the ice there ominously. The search party quiets again, a series of ice knocks reverberating in the silence that follows your call. One shouts back, the first echo coming from behind you now instead in front. They've turned around. 

You call out again, bellying backwards toward the thicker ice. Your shoes scrape ominously and you curse, pulling your soaked gloves off with your teeth so you can shimmy your legs up and take your snowshoes off. Your fingers are much more confident now, making little little work of it. You leave them with Garrick and try to turn from him, but the tide shifts with you and brings him back out, rolls him along until he follows you, his weathered knuckles tapping along the underside of the shelf. Your calls for help turn frightened, frantic. You think you babble about the man in the water, though you can't concentrate enough to be sure. 

Below you, the ice continues creaking and cracking, growing more and more damaged every time you shift your weight or Garrick's knuckles come rapping. They widen and flood, water rushing up to fill them. The surface layer bubbles with it, as if the lake is beginning to boil. The next rush of current which comes to pull Garrick along drags along the underside of the ice like a knife in your belly, a physical thing you can feel through the thin shelf as its relative warmth eats away at the last few layers. You feel it beneath your palm like placing your hand on an old, drafty window pane during a windstorm. 

When you call for help, you sound like you are being killed.

Your feet break through first, heavy boots trying to pull you under. The reaction is delayed, your whole body seeming to forget to register the sting of pain brought on by such extreme cold. Instead, you focus on pulling yourself out, palms heavy where they slip and slide across the slick surface. You heave yourself out by some miracle, breaths coming too harshly to respond when you hear the rescue party calling to you.

Above their calls - below their calls -, the voice from last night tells you you're cold again. You want to laugh; more moments of clarity coming to you in your last moments. There was nothing here with you besides your externalized desire to give up and give in.

"You need help," it says, everywhere and nowhere. Garrick's knuckles rap against the ice.

You don't want to die here, laying forever in a bed of silt. "Not from you," you hiss, and plant your fist to drag yourself on. 

But the ice breaks open under your hand, your palm crashing through to collide with Garrick's shoulder. It pushes him down, gives you distance. His own hand floats up in his wake, fingers brushing against the sleeve of your coat. Your fingers wrap around his bicep on instinct, the hard-earned drive of every human to keep eachother safe irrepressible. His eyelids flutter in the current. You slip forward after him, sparing a passing thought for how odd that is, odder still how warm his skin is against yours.

The scream you emit when his fingers wrap around your elbow and pull bubbles on the surface, frozen lake water seizing your lungs when it rushes into your mouth and chokes you, pouring down your throat into your belly. 

Garrick's eyes are black as the depths when he opens them fully.

[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.

[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?

[whumpndump]

CW: Surgery, medical whump, electrocution, body modification, bad writing.

Whumper is sick of whumpee's constant miserable attitude. Sure, they're obedient, but they make no effort to even pretend that they enjoy belonging to whumper.

And whumper is sick of it.

Whumpee woke up one day after what felt like an exceptionally long nights sleep, only to startle at a sudden ache in their face. As their eyes adjusted to the clinical lighting, they saw whumper stood over them, pulling off a pair of rubber gloves lightly spattered with blood. Piecing this together with the extra long sleep, they deduced whumper put had put them under anaesthesia for some time.

This confused whumpee... whumper had never felt the need to have them asleep for any sort of pain, so what changed?

"Ah, glad to see you're awake!" Whumper exclaimed with excitement, "You must be confused... well, to keep things simple, I had to make a few... adjustments to you." The enthusiasm in their voice at that word sent shivers down whumpee's spine.

"Don't worry about them yet, they might not even be necessary. In fact, how about you just give me a smile instead?"

Whumpee's face remained flat, tinged with worry but otherwise blank. They had learnt that reactions of any kind just encouraged whumper more, so avoided them whenever possible.

"Ah... how disappointing! Guess you will need to have the adjustments explained after all."

With the click of a button held in whumper's hand, whumpee was suddenly set alight with electrifying agony. The current soared from the base of their neck all around their body, like an invisible shock collar.

"While you were out, I did a little surgery, and installed some things into you. Miniscule sensors in the flesh and bone of your cheeks, able to sense if you're smiling or not based on their alignment. Those are handily connected to the new electroshock module in your neck. The voltage is low for now, but the longer you go without smiling, the higher it'll get. To top it all off, the only one who can turn this on and off is me!" They dangled the small remote in front of whumpee's contorted face, relishing in the tears forming in their shellshocked eyes.

"Now, I'll ask you one more time," They sauntered away from whumpee, turning to face them with the remote held firmly in their grasp,

"Smile for me, won't you?"

[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​

[aita-blorbos]

(CW for electroshock therapy and child death)

AITA for trying to send my wife to therapy?

Okay so this might be a long one. My (43M) wife (39F) and I have had two children together. Our son died as a toddler, and shortly afterward, we had our daughter. My wife suffered from severe postpartum depression after our daughter's birth and, while she got medicated for it, nothing seemed to work. Turns out this whole time she's been pretending our son is still alive! On top of that, she stopped taking all her medications cold turkey. Finally we (her doctor and I) agreed that it was time to try something new. So with some coaxing, she tried ECT, it went wrong, and she lost almost all memory of the last 19 years. So I figure, okay, might as well make the best of a shitty situation. She was depressed in the first place because of things that had gone wrong in our lives (e.g. our shotgun wedding , our son dying, our first house burning down, her public meltdowns getting published in our local paper, etc.), so I figured I just wouldn't mention any of these things when helping her regain her memory so she wouldn't be depressed again. Except her therapist mentioned our son in their last session, and now she's bugging me for details about him and I don't want to give them to her. I want her to go back and do more ECT so she doesn't start remembering him again and restarting this whole cycle, but now she, our daughter (16F), AND our son (18M, ghost, yes I could see him this whole time but let's not talk about that) are all saying I'm the asshole or something. AITA for just wanting my wife to be happy and wanting our family to be goddamn normal for once?

TL;DR wife suffered amnesia, regained traumatic memory, she wants to keep it but I want her to forget it again and move on the way I have