#Mentions of PTSD

[staytrueblue]

Part 1: not all who wander are lost

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x Reader. tags: amnesia. established relationship. memory loss. happy ending (I promise) wc: 1019

Christmas music, the crinkling of wrapping paper, and the scent of musky perfume consumed Kyles’ senses as he waited for the salesperson in front of him to complete their work.

He prides himself on his patience; the ability to lay and watch through a sniper scope for days was arguably unmatched. But as the older woman carefully folded the edges of the sparkling paper around the box, pressing in each corner gently he felt like he was being tested.

Feeling himself start to fade he watches her work with glazed eyes. Now a measuring tape was being pulled out to adjust the length of the sparkly white ribbon that soon began to twist and wrap around the small box. Rushing white noise enveloped him.

“...Garrick?..Mr. Garrick? Sir?”

Kyle blinks, and the woman in front of him slowly comes into focus. Her forehead tense with concern, further creasing her already lined face. Barbara, her name tag helpfully stated, was holding out the pristinely wrapped present to him.

“Thanks love.” His mouth helpfully supplies as he slips the package into his inner jacket pocket, pulling his wallet from his jeans.

Barbara smiles, tilting her head in confusion as he pulls out his card, “You’ve…it’s already been paid for sir.

He blinks at her, fighting to pull the memory of the purchase forward. The season is busy, amongst everything not remembering an already paid purchase is the last of his concerns.

“Happy Christmas.” He murmurs, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. Bing Crosby croons through the overhead speakers as he makes his way through the maze of shoppers to escape into the outside. Finally breathing in the scent of pine and mulled wine he blew into his hands, willing them to warm against the winter chill.

“Kyle!”

He twists toward it, your familiar voice above the noise of the crowd and the distant jingle of bells, finding him. It wasn’t hard for him to seek you out among the people.

With a big grin on your face, cheeks rosy and bright you jumped on your toes waving at him. Kyle couldn’t help but smile as the red thick scarf burying you to your chin bounced along with your movement.

He shoulders by shoppers and tourists, meeting you halfway. He loops your arm through his as you begin to pull in the direction of some paddocks. “Look at them!” Your excited chirp emphasized your motion toward reindeer, brought in for an authentic Christmas experience.

Smiling he felt the small package pressing into his side as you clung to him. “Let’s see if they let you pet them love.” Smiling at your squeals of delight he presses a kiss on top of your head and pulls you closer to him, feeling his heart bursting full of adoration.

Traumatic Brain Injuries were weekly if not daily in the special forces, yet the entirety of the military has elected that an intervention or supportive medical assistance was not considered a priority for their soldiers, veterans, or otherwise. Leaving loved ones, law enforcement, and homeless shelters to deal with the cleanup.

It’s only been six months since Kyle was medically discharged and diagnosed with a TBI. He considered himself the luckiest man in the world to have you; you have been so understanding, so sweet, and yet firm when he needed you to be. Through brain-strengthening tests, games, and physical therapy you have been a steady presence in his healing.

It’s always felt natural with you. At this point, you had been together for three years, and Kyle couldn’t imagine himself with anyone else.

Heart thudding in his chest he felt the weight of the small package in his pocket. If he could wait this long he could wait a little bit more.

—

It is going to be perfect, he has timed it perfectly. The hike had been long and draining, but as you both made it to the last hill he could see the bright red sunrise peeking over the top.

Calls from morning birds and chirps from hidden forest creatures filled the silence as you set down your bag on the flat rock of the mountain. Kyle set his own next to yours as you approach the edge of the rocks, oo, and ahhing at the view of the mountain and sunrise.

Kyle pulls out the small box he had purchased months ago. He hopes you can forgive him for dragging you up the mountain so early, pulling you from your warm bed. He had thought a lot about where he would want to propose but realized all he really wanted was just to be with you.

You turn, eyes bright and cheeks glowing from the exertion and morning air, mouth opening to likely urge him to come closer when you see him.

Kyle kneels on one knee, willing his voice not to crack as he sees the realization on your face. Your hand covers your mouth slowly, not even looking at the ring he was offering but into his eyes as yours sparkle with unshed tears.

The box cupped in his hand trembled as he held back his own, willing his voice to be strong. “You have been my strength and my love since the moment I met you. There is nothing more I want in this world but to spend forever with you. Will you do me the greatest honor in marrying me?”

“Yes. Oh, Kyle yes of course!”

There was no hesitation as you accept his proposal. He slips the ring on your finger, hands shaking, the sunrise casting you both in a reddish hue.

You cling together in celebration and love, the sun rising in the distance casts the red away making the sky above brighter and brighter and brighter until Kyle forces his eyes shut against the light.

White noise rushes through his ears, filling his thoughts, and overwhelming his hearing.

His muscles lose strength, you slip from his arms.

He trips through light and sound as he reaches for you.

Distantly he hears your voice calling out to him, he stretches further, grasping at air until…..

Silence.

Part 2

[jaded-but-softening]

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 5 of the Danny is a clone/reincarnation in DC au. Tw: discussions of sa and child sa

[Part 4 here]

Danny is not sure how he got talked into this. Sure, he's been steadily getting better at "normal" interactions over the last 2 and a half years, and he's met or is family with everyone here, but it's still a lot. It's Dick, Wally, Kori, Raven, Jon, Damian, Kon, Bernard, Tim, Jason, Roy, and him all camped out in the second largest family room for a sleepover. Sort of. As overwhelmed as he feels, it's still rather fun.

They have movies playing in the background while they all play different games. At first, different groups split off to play board games or card games, but Dick decided they should play something all together. It was hard to find something that accommodated so many players, so they decided to play never have I ever.

Danny could even play honestly because everyone here knows about his "second set" of memories. So there's no questions if he puts a finger down to something he hasn't technically done from their perspective. But it does mean they hone in when he hesitates.

"Never have I ever lost my virginity." Damian said it because he knew Tim, Jason, and Dick would put their fingers down, but his eyes widen when Danny debates if he should. "Seriously?"

"I'm not sure it counts.." Danny shifts uncomfortably.

"Oh-ho! You lose it to someone Before?" Jason teases, "Who was it? A girlfriend? A boyfriend?"

"Jason.." Dick scolds while staring hard at Danny. He's clearly pieced it together. There's this look on his face that isn't sympathy, but empathy. Danny feels sick knowing his eldest brother knows exactly what he means because he's also been through something similar.

"I've actually never made it past kissing with a romantic interest." Danny can see the exact moment his very specific wording clicks. He starts trembling as a bunch of ugly emotions make themselves known.

"Shit."

"Danny-"

"I don't think it counts." Dick cuts everyone off, his sunshine smile nowhere to be seen. "No more than my assaults should be considered cheating."

The way Kori flinches leads Danny to believe that's exactly what she accused him of at some point. He knows they're exs, but didn't know the details. The guilt written all over her over this topic is reassuring, though.

"Sometimes things happen outside of our control." Dick gives a small sad smile. "Which means we can't blame ourselves. We just figure out how to live in the aftermath."

The fact Dick has been sexually assaulted seems to be news to everyone, but Wally and Kori. The anger on both of their behalves is heartwarming, but Danny just feels the need to scrub his skin raw. The images of the pedophiles pretending to be scientists flashing before his eye and their phantom touches making him feel dirty.

"I'm never going to escape what that lab did to me.."

"You already are." Kon pipes up. "Look around you, kid. Even just a year ago, you wouldn't have agreed to be part of this hangout. Sure, the scars will never go away, you'll have moments where you feel like nothing but an experiment or a tool, instead of the kind and bright person you are, but that's okay-"

"Whenever you forget. The people who care about you will just have to remind you!" Jon's bright grin has sadness mixed in it.

"Danny?" Tim shuffles closer. "Can I hug you?"

Danny doesn't verbally answer, just nods and crawls into Tim's lap. Danny curls up tightly and whispers. "I think I'm done playing for now."

"Alright.." Tim hugs him close, rubbing soothing circles on his back. A glance towards Dick reveals Wally and Kori have him sandwiched between them, giving him comfort.

"How..." Jason starts slowly, clearly still recovering from the information that his eldest and youngest brothers have both been assaulted. "How about we play Uno? We have 3 packs worth, so there should be enough."

Danny knows this won't be the last time the topic of their assaults are brought up, but it's a weird sort of painful healing to even just acknowledge it happened. It'll probably also stop them from trying to push him into relationships like they do with Damian. He can't stomach the thought of dating currently. He's happy just sticking to platonic affection for now.

[morganbritton132]

I made this post earlier today where teeny tiny Steve mentioned that his Grandpa Otis taught him ninja moves over spring break.

I’m just imaging that this man who fought in Iwo Jima (according to Steve’s college essay) was enjoying his day when his grandson gets dropped off holding a movie about ninja that is completely in Japanese like that wouldn’t potentially trigger his PTSD.

And you know, Otis watches the movie and he mimics some of the moves when he ‘teaches’ them to Steve. He even names the moves after the few Japanese words he’d picked up during the war.

Why did he do this? Because he loves his grandson and his grandson is obsessed with ninjas.

Richard Harrington would never.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hello, Congratulations on the 5k follows!!

I discovered this fandom a few months ago and have been living for your writing ever since.

I was thinking as a drabble of the taskforce gentlemen coming home at the crack of dawn from a long mission and seeing their spouse's hand, limp on the ground peeking out from the side of the couch. All the panic and worry going thru their heads, so much bubbling up, horrible scenarios. They rush over and find you sleeping on the floor. The power had gone out last night and the hardwood floor was the coolest place to be (you didn't want to open the window because you know how they worry), so you were watching stuff on your phone and drifted off. Crisis averted!

Thank you for your time 💜

—Wide-Eyed Panic

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Why were you behind the couch?] ❞

I’ll start by saying all of them would be concerned and immediately go into panic mode—why were you behind the couch? Why was your hand sticking out? Why, in God's name, were you not moving? Cue the horrible thoughts and flashes of what went on in their work lives.

John Price ➺

John entered the house with a sigh, slipping off his boots as the door was closed and deftly locked behind him. Grunting under his breath, the man rubs over his face, the lights off as he calls out with a tired grumble to his voice. 

“I’m back,” his voice echoes, the tone moving through the darkness far louder than it should have. There’s no answer. “Love…?” Pausing, John blinks slowly at the wall, ear twitching to the utter silence of the home. No water in the pipes. No buzzing of electricity. No you. Eyes rising, they dart around quickly as his finger moves out to the light switch. A small push elicits nothing, just as he thought. The power was out. 

Dread slowly creeps into John’s chest.

Hand reaching behind his back, the man’s fingers inch over the smooth metal of a pistol, grasping the weapon before he begins walking forward. He keeps silent, feet moving to where he knows the wood won't creak. 

His mind runs. 

Why was the power off? Where were you? Why didn’t you respond—were you hurt? John’s mind goes to blood and bullets, his jaw clenching tightly as the pistol comes out to rest in front of him; hands shifting the grip as he takes a soothing breath. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone, but it would be pointless to lie about how his heart hammers. 

“Fuck,” he growls, eyes going tight. 

That’s when he sees it. Blue eyes widen sharply. 

“Love!” John shouts, all other concerns about intruders meaningless to him. Your hand was sticking out from behind the couch, a dark shadow in the low light. He rushes over as you jerk, yelling in alarm as he rushes to grab you, pulling you up into his arms and pulling you away into the closet across the room.

“John!” You blink rapidly as you’re set back against the wall. 

“Shush now,” he grunts, eyes panicked. “Keep awake, let me look.” A hand moves all over your body, searching and pulling at clothes to touch the skin for any wounds. “Tell me where it hurts, then. Quickly. We have to move—”

“John, what the hell,” you push at him, moving him back. Your eyes try to adjust to being so rudely awakened at such an hour. “What are you doing?!”

You weren’t hurt. 

The Captain’s face pulls in with confusion, back against the closet door and now in more darkness than ever before. He can barely make out your face before you sigh and put your hands against his arms. 

Things begin to calm down as his hand rests at your hip, nearly tight enough to bruise. In his other is the gun just before you put your hand to it and softly peel the item away from him—putting it on the shelf that you know is to your left. 

Hands find John’s cheeks as he pants.

“John,” you say his name again. “...what happened.”

“Why were you on the ground?” He forces out firmly, voice a low grunt. “Why were the lights not—”

“The power went out for everyone, okay?” You speak slowly, rubbing your thumbs over his beard. “It was on the news. I didn’t open a window because I knew you would worry about that—the floor was cool and it was getting too hot in here.” 

Your mind tells you to explain quickly and fluently. You move forward and press your forehead into John’s as he sags with a great exhalation of breath—his arms circling you tightly until your spine might crack. 

He doesn’t speak for a long while, just holding you.

“Scared me,” he mutters, missing you deeply on the forehead, speaking into your skin. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

He keeps you to his chest, eyes fluttering shut and his spine hunching over you, fingers splayed over your back. You run your hands through his hair and calm the swelling of your heart.

You can feel his pulse mirroring your own.

Simon Riley ➺

When he sees your hand, he freezes. 

Simon wasn’t a stranger to the lights being off in the home—you opted for lamps and low light more often than not; this wasn’t new. He had only quirked a brow when he came home to the pitch-blackness, off from his recent deployment and eager for a warm bed to fall into. He admits he’d let himself calm down on the car ride home—your home was where he could relax and release tension until it became as unimportant as an ant on the pavement. 

But when he’d closed the door silently behind him and walked the few steps it would take to enter the living room, where he was sure you were still up either reading or watching something on your phone under a blanket, his body had stiffened immediately. 

Your hand sticking out from behind the couch. Limp. 

Lifeless.  

He’d been staring at it for only a few seconds before the memories came back—the ones of gore splattered to the walls and ceiling of an old flat back in Manchester. 

Simon’s thoughts had hit him like a bullet.

Not again.

Rushing forward like a bear, the man slips along the hardwood as his knees go down, shaking the home at the force at which he grabs at your body and flips you from your side to your back. 

You gasp awake and instinctually throw out a fist, connecting with a stone chest as you hiss and blink in panic. 

Fingers ruthlessly dig into your shoulders, wide brown eyes open, and…and afraid. 

“Simon?” You mutter softly, all fear in your heart is squished in an instant. 

The man breathes through wheezes, balaclava fabric moving from the force of his breaths. His fingers are shaking, blinking as his head jerks to look your lying form up and down swiftly. 

You hesitantly put a hand on his cheek and he flinches before nuzzling into it. 

“Don’t…” he takes a quivering breath into his lungs, and after, loosens his grip on your skin. Simon’s hands go to your waist, dragging you up and stapling you to his chest. “Don’t do that again.”

His voice is low. Vulnerable. 

You blink, hands holding him back on the floor. 

“...The power went out,” you try to explain only half of it softly, muffled by his neck. 

He only holds you harder, eyes open and blankly staring at the floor a foot away.

Johnny MacTavish ➺

Johnny hums a song under his breath, hanging his keys on the hook near the door.

“Dearie!” He calls to you loudly, itching at the side of his head and chuckling. “Don’t run too fast to me now, I’m all yours for two w—”

The light switch is moved by his finger, but no light illuminates his path to the living room. Pausing in the entrance, the man’s brows furrow tightly, speech cutting off like scissors to paper. 

“...eeks?” Johnny ends his sentence, turning back around to look at the switch in confusion. “The hell’s going on with that?” He mutters to himself, a frown growing on his face before he refocuses on his mission to find you—now with the added task of figuring out why the power was out in the house. 

“Swear,” the man grumbles, huffing while he runs a hand over his face, “if those kids down the street did something I’ll be livid. Little devils, I swear.” 

Johnny steps farther into the living room, glancing around. 

“Dearie?” He pauses, listening before calling out your name. “Where’s she off to?”

He sighs softly, wanting to hold you now that he’s home to do so—squeeze you in his arms and take in your scent again; he’d missed you immensely while he was away.

Johnny came across your hand sticking out from behind the couch by accident, moving to make his way into your bedroom thinking that you were sleeping. He sees an odd shape in the blackness and pauses, feet slowing to a stop. 

When he notices that it’s a hand—your hand, he doesn’t even realize that he’s completely gripped the side of the couch and wrenched it back until the scratch of the wood floors screams in his ears. 

You wake up to hands on your cheeks, sharp yelling, and your head being shaken up and down until you’re conscious. 

“Dearie, hey! What the fuck,” the last sentence is growled on fast lips. “What the fuck.”

Your hands slap to Johnny’s wrists, nails digging in. 

He breathes out quickly, looking into your eyes to look for dilation as the darkness forces him closer. “There we are, tell me where you’re hurting, now, yeah? Did you hit your head? Let me take a look. It’s okay, I’ll get you all fixed up, there’s no need to worry.”

“Hey!” Your hands push at his, trying to shove the brick wall away from you. “Quit it! Johnny! I’m fine! ”

The man pauses at your animated movements, blinking rapidly before his grip loosens. 

When it’s obvious that you’re perfectly fine, he moves back and groans, thumb and forefinger digging into his nose bridge. 

“Hell’s bells, Hen.” You glare, panting on the floor before you push yourself up. 

“‘Hell’s bells’, me?” Johnny’s head plops to your shoulder. “You just shook me like a fucking rabbit!” 

“Scared the shite out of me, you terror.” The man huffs. “Need to put a heart monitor on you.”

“Piss off,” you sigh, putting a hand to your chest to feel the pace of your pulse and the blood that runs furiously.

Johnny, moments later as he’s still resting on your shoulder, starts…laughing. Low at first, then gaining noise the more it goes unchecked—a deep rumble into chest-jerking amusement. You look down at him, the couch tilted and long scratches over the floor. Pausing, you blink at his shaking shadow before your lungs start quivering. The two of you bend over one another with shared, house-shaking laughter. 

“What the fuck were you doin’ behind the damn couch?” Johnny grabs you close, kissing along your neck as he picks you up, dragging you to your feet. 

“The power went out!” You giggle, chest hurting from the fast gasps of breath as more kisses are spread over your skin. “It was colder down there and I didn’t want to open one of the windows because I knew you’d throw a pouting match about it.”

“Christ, Dearie.” Lips meet your own. “I had half the mind to think you had a heart attack. Nearly gave me one.”

Kyle Garrick ➺

Kyle sighs as he rubs at his jaw, itching the skin and slipping out of his jacket. 

“I’m home, Love!” He says, his voice echoing over the flat. “Want me to start on supper or have you eaten yet?” The man smiles, taking off his cap and putting it on the coat rack, sighing softly. 

It was good to be back. 

Bending down to unlace his boots, he pulls at them until they’re loose enough to slip out of, thumping to their sides on the rug until he reaches out and fixes them. 

“What’s that, then?” He calls into the darkness, not hearing your answer as he quickly checks the time on his phone. “Fuck, it’s late,” Kyle utters to himself. 

Walking into the kitchen, he touches the light switch only to be met with nothing. Pausing, the man’s face pulls in—fingers twitching at his sides as he glances at the window and the moonlight that seeps in to glare along the floor. 

A deep frown takes hold of him, and he looks around once more before backing up.

“...Love?” Kyle wasn’t too concerned—the building wasn’t always the best, and power outages weren’t unheard of. But, damn, if the high of getting off of a deployment didn’t put him in a negative head-space when it came to a change in routine involving you. 

Why weren’t you answering him?

Walking slightly faster into the living room, his hand nearly reaches into his pocket to call your phone if you didn’t end up in any of the rooms—pulse beginning to be infected with a steady injection of adrenaline. 

Brown eyes find your hand behind the couch when they’re about to shift to the open door of your bedroom. A sharp gasp is inhaled instantaneously. 

Kyle races over, grappling to it and pressing his fingers to your neck for a pulse. You softly breathe, none the wiser as you lightly shift and sigh in your sleep; a delicate hum moving out as familiar fingers dig into you. 

It’s through his panic that a thought quickly cuts through the man’s mind. You’d mentioned this before. 

Kyle pauses, just about to loudly wake you. 

‘It gets hot when the power goes out, Kyle, I swear one of these days I’m going to just fall asleep on the floor. At least it’s cool down there.’

Well, the power was out, and, it seemed, you really had fallen asleep on the floor. Now that he thought about it, the flat was running hot—and he also knew that you knew he had gotten nervous of late when you left the windows open at night. 

“Bloody hell,” the man releases a long breath, free hand moving to grip the back of his head. A few seconds later, Kyle chuckles to himself, shaking his head with a small smile. “You are losing it, Mate. Losing it.” 

Without another word, he grips you, and with a grunt, picks you up and takes you to bed, setting you down on the pillows and making sure to leave the sheets off of you so you don’t grow uncomfortable.

A kiss is pressed to your forehead, and you hum in slumber, smiling unconsciously.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Love.” 

He leaves to go make a quick supper of cereal and milk.

[rosquinn]

im seeing a lot of holden haters on the catcher in the rye tag again so id like to tap the sign

[bowtiepasta]

indulging: gn!reader, implied ptsd, brief gun, reverse comfort, established relationship, soft and retired si, possibly ooc since this is my first cod piece in a minute. be nice please

you light an old candle in the kitchen, one saved from new years, and call his name, but he’s already moving—boots by the door, checking windows. old habits really never die, do they?

“it’s just a fuse, si.”

he doesn’t answer. instead of a switch box, you hear the click of a gun you didn’t know was loaded.

“simon.” you say, softer this time, stepping into the shadow of his silhouette. “it’s okay.”

when you see his shoulders sag, you usher him into the living room, careful to mind all the trinkets and memories now decorating your home despite not being able to see them without squinting.

with his head in your lap he tells you, in that voice like gravel and apology, that he’s been anxious for days.

you shift beneath him to reach the blanket draped over the back of the couch—navy, soft and frayed from too many washes, the one he pretends not to favor but always ends up loafed under anyway.

you tug it down and drape it over his back, fixing it when it catches on his shoulder, smoothing over the edge by the curve of his neck where his dog tags leave faint, irritated lines. they aren’t there tonight. he hasn’t worn them in the house for months now.

the wind rattles weakly against the kitchen window. the kind of sound that used to make him check all the locks again—three times over, sometimes four. he doesn’t move. that’s a win in your book.

you yawn. “did you eat today?”

he hums, which isn’t a yes.

the candle’s almost halfway gone now. it burns faintly of pine and smoke, same as the scarf you wrapped around him back in january when he came in from shoveling the walk and couldn’t feel his fingers.

“there’s leftover stew in the fridge,” you add. “with the carrots cut how you like. plus, i found the crackers that don’t go soggy in five seconds.”

his shoulders twitch in a small, grateful laugh.

“you spoil me.”

“i keep you alive, baby.”

his lids open, closing again when you lean down to press your lips to them. “so spoiled.”

your thumb moves along his temple, grazing the spots where his hair grows in uneven. he’d tried trimming it himself last month, stubborn over the bathroom sink with dull scissors and curses under his breath. you’d happily taken over, guided his chin with your fingers, smiled through the steam despite the way he never quite met your eyes in the mirror. now that same temple twitches under your touch, a small tell.

power’s still out. the hum of the fridge is slowly dying down, the candle sputters and spits when the draft rolls in. you think about the leftovers on the stove, simmering in the pot because you always forget to put it away until you’re both already in bed.

you nose at the crown of his head. “i refilled the tea tins,” you yawn again, and he follows suit. “moved them to the left side of the cabinet so you’ll stop knocking over the sugar in the morning.”

“i’m sorry i scared you,” he shifts on your lap, nuzzling your thigh while his head’s elsewhere.

“you didn’t.”

“i clicked the bloody gun.”

“we’re both still here aren’t we?” you’re quick, and he scratches another notch in his metaphorical bedpost, for all the times he thought you wouldn’t have anything to say back but did. he’s starting to believe you were made for him, in every sense of the phrase.

outside, the wind pushes against the window like it wants in, but here—here, the room glows faintly gold. the fuse is still blown, hallway still dark, kettle as good as dead. even so your home is warm with old blankets and old habits, and a man who doesn’t quite know how to rest, but tries anyway, in your lap.

idk idk idk idk i missed him and spat this out think whatever you want i feel too sleepy and soggy to proofread

consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed. thank you for reading ! ♥︎ do not copy, edit, or repost, any of my content on any platforms.

[sleepyvib-es]

This is so devastating.

Looking for new recruits to fight in a war from fourth grade through high school.

[cluelessatthispoint]

Dragon's Hoard: ch 11

(inspired by Blugiragi and Docdudo)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sensed him long before you saw him.

Ghost didn’t breathe the way the others did. Didn’t move, didn’t sigh, but he was there. Just at the edge of your vision. A shift in the shadows. A second weight in the silence.

He clung to the shadows and wore it like a second skin. Still and soundless, the kind of stillness that made your bones itch. Something primal in you knew not to look directly at him. But you did.

You turned. And instead of vanishing like a bad thought, he stood at the mouth of one of the side tunnels—half-consumed by flickering dark, half-revealed in the pulse of firelight. Watching.

When you turned, you expected him to vanish. Instead, he stood at the mouth of one of the side tunnels, cloaked in the flickering dark. Watching.

He said nothing.

As if he knew what happened yesterday with Soap still bothered you. It lingered in your mind like a never-ending nightmare. Shuddering at the memory, your eyes meet Ghost's for only the briefest moments. His silence spoke volumes. It screamed. You knew he knew. Knew about what had happened with Soap the day before. Knew how the memory still festered beneath your skin like an old bruise that wouldn’t fade.

Your breath caught. A single glance into the hollows of his mask, and it was like staring into an empty grave. A grave he very well might have crawled out of.

With your back to the cave wall, the feeling of solid rock against your spine almost burns from how cold it is. Your thin arms wrapped around your knees for warmth. The fire in the center crackled quietly, a low murmur of warmth and light against the cooler draft from deeper in the den. You didn’t look at him long. You’d grown used to the others filling every silence with noise, but Ghost never seemed to need sound. And strangely, that made him less unbearable to be around. Almost tolerable.

At least he wasn’t trying to touch you. Or talk. Or pretend to understand.

But that didn’t mean it was easy, either.

It wasn’t long before the quiet of the new day was broken, by Soap. the werewolf came bounding into the room. You heard him before you saw him— always did. His impressive claws clicking on stone, the slap of something soft, maybe a pelt being dragged across the floor.

“There you are!” he chirped, too loudly. His grin was sheepish, his ears pinned back like a dog that knew it had done something wrong but wasn’t sure what. And sure enough, there was a pelt being dragged by his side. But in his arms, he held something, almost tenderly. He was holding something—a little doll, maybe. Squinting, it takes a moment to makes sense of what he's holding. Rather than a doll, it looks more like a bundle of dried grass tied with bits of twine, knotted in places to suggest the shape of limbs and a head. “Made this for you. Look—see, it's even got a wee face on it.”

He crouched, holding the thing out like a peace offering. The smile on his face faltered as you just stared. The longer you stared, the more the hairs of his mohawk started to spike.

You didn’t want the doll. Not because it was ugly (though it was), or because it came from claws that had once curled too tight around your arms. But because it was too late. The damage was done. He didn’t understand what he’d done to upset you, not really. And that made the apology feel wrong. Like a not so well practiced performance.

Soap’s ears flicked nervously. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” you said softly, indignation curling in your stomach.

Soap blinked. You could see the sting in his cerulean eyes even as he tried to laugh it off. “Right. Of course. Just... thought it might help.”

You didn’t answer.

The silence thickened—until Price’s voice cut clean through it.

“Hatchling,” came the gravel-deep rumble, and Price emerged from the far tunnel, his one wing half-spread for balance as he ducked under a low arch of stone. His eyes were narrowed, not in anger, but in that assessing way dragons often looked at things they considered theirs. “Soap love, out of the way.”

Soap hesitated, then stepped aside with a huff, tail flicking. He muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch.

Price settled in front of you with slow, heavy movements, like a mountain deciding to sit. His golden eyes studied you with practiced patience.

“You’ve been quiet.”

You said nothing.

“Can’t blame you,” he said. “What happened yesterday... shouldn’t have. Not like that.”

You stiffened. His tone was calm, but it curled uncomfortably in your gut. You didn’t want to talk about it. You especially didn’t want to understand him.

“I told Soap not to roughhouse with you. He doesn’t know his own strength. Thinks humans are made of bark and bone like he is.”

glaring, you send a steely gaze up at the dragon hybrid. Your expression a little sharper than intended.

Price’s brow lifted. “Fair enough.”

He shifted, then reached out, slow and deliberate, as if you were a skittish animal. His clawed hand didn’t touch you—but hovered just close enough to make your skin prickle.

“Let me show you something,” he said.

You didn’t move, but your silence was enough.

Price nodded once, then turned, gesturing for you to follow. Reluctantly, you did. Brushing off your knees with both hands as you rise to standing.

He led you to the edge of where the mouth of the cave just about opened to the world outside. Ghost lingered behind, silent as breath with Soap who could be heard whining in his thick accent.

“This,” Price said as he stopped beside a stone shelf tucked beneath a low overhang, “is where we teach.”

“Teach?” you echoed.

“Yes, to teach other. How to live in the same den without tearing each other’s throats out. Just far enough into the cave, and shallow enough to take advantage of the outside if needed." The walls etched with tooth marks, talon scratches and burnt marks.

“Ghost, Soap and Gaz, they learned how to deal with me. I learned how not to torch them when I’m pissed,” he said with a dry smile. “Now we’re going to learn how to live with you.”

You stared at the stones. They didn’t mean anything. Not to you. Not yet.

“I’m not part of your pack,” you said, voice low. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” Price agreed, surprisingly gently. “But you’re still here. That makes you part of it—whether or not you think so.”

His words were meant to comfort. Instead, they curled around your ribs like vines, squeezing.

“You can’t just decide that.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “The others did. All of us did.”

He stepped back, giving you space, but his presence lingered like smoke in the lungs.

"I'm your Papa. We're your papa's now."

Then he said it.

The thing you didn’t want to hear. The thing you couldn’t un-hear.

Behind you, Soap shifted again, claws scraping softly on stone. Still holding the grass doll like a promise already broken. And Ghost—

Ghost hadn’t moved at all.

But the white of his mask burned like frost in the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

here is chapter 11!!!!!!!!!!! I hope that you all enjoy it! With the requests now closed. I'll be getting to work and hopefully posting more regularly.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Hello, can you do butterflies with Jason Todd and reader girlfriend?

nsfw prompt list - butterflies. our muses doing something new in bed.

-------------------------🦇----------------------------

Jason was sick in the head.

He knew that for a long time about himself. Maybe even before the Pit, but especially after. He’d come back wrong. Or at least not quite right in the head after what happened.

Why else would a man who died burning, then brought back by being submerged in boiling supernatural goo, ask to be burned?

“Ah fuck!” Jason hissed as the wax splattered on his skin. He twisted and writhed while hissing through his teeth, but then settled as his grimace turned into a wild, wide grin. “Not so close babe….”

“Why? Do you think it would hurt?” His girlfriend teased. Holding the candle and it’s flame way too close to his dick.

She knew he wanted it to hurt. Something was wrong with him now where the only time he could truly feel pleasure was with pain. Maybe it was because all he seemed to feel in his life was pain. Maybe something went wrong with his wires getting crossed when he came back. Maybe he should see a shrink.

Don’t get him wrong. Jason loved having regular sex with his girlfriend. It was amazing. She was amazing. But still there was a part of him that craved this from her. This being hurt.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do it.” She assured him as she moved the candle back from his cock. Jason could literally feel the temperature change around it. “If for nothing else, I need it later.” Jason grinned. A smart remark on his tongue about how she needed him, how she wanted him, but it was snuffed out as she dribbled new wax across his chest. “You’re a sick man Jason Todd.”

“Ah! I know!” His hands gripped the bars of their headboard. He might not be Superman, but he could certainly bend them fair enough even with his mortal man strength. “Fuck me up baby.”

“Fuck you up or fuck you?” Her grin made Jason groan. Even with how foggy his mind was right now, he had the sense to know she was being mean to him.

“Mmmm…both….” Jason lifted his hips up where she was straddling him to rub his hard cock against her inner thigh. “Come on baby. Fuck me up.”

[bits-and-beasts]

yet more bug au! (can you tell I'm having fun)

here we've got some history lessons about how empurata works in this au, (sorry whirl) a little illustration of how cyclonus and tailgate met before they found the autobots, and a bonus of whirl bothering rung because I felt bad for drawing him miserable.

(cyclonus and whirl both got taken in by MECH after they crashed on earth, tailgate- a very underpaid janitor, broke the two of them out with very little hesitation. both bugs would kill and die for tailgate. but don't trust the rest of humanity at all.

[cccat-in-a-meat-sack]

me, with both:...

[pastafossa]

DDBA SPOILER REALIZATION THOUGHT, SERIOUS ANGST

How we feeling about the realization I just had that Matt is probably drinking red wine in his apartment even though he prefers cheap beer because the smell of cheap beer is likely now tied irrevocably to his memory of Foggy's death?

They were at Josie's.

They were at Josie's: cheap beer, hops, bitterness. He knows that scent.

A scent now mingled forever in his mind with the taste of sour fear, of death in the air.

And of lingering copper, and the anguished, familiar tang of tears and Foggy's cologne.

[useless-moss]

Before Hiccup realized it was Stoick, how scared do we think he was in httyd 2 when he was found at Valka's Sanctuary?

All he knew for those few seconds was 'man, viking, making sure I can't scream.' He was probably terrified in that moment. Reliving the entirety of rtte and all the things he never told his father about because he wanted to be seen as strong and he didn't want Stoick to worry about him. Probably terrified, in that moment, that hunters had somehow followed him and he'd just endangered the entire sanctuary.

[staytrueblue]

Captain Price knew his height and build were intimidating, he used it to his advantage in missions. It wasn't hard to embrace being intimidating when you were hairy, muscular, and taller than the average man.

cw: insinuations of male anger and slight descriptions of ptsd

Like the rest of the men on his task force when he physically returned to base, it took him a little longer to get mentally grounded. Days later, he was still exhausted, snippy, and hyperaware.

Which led to where he is now. Standing over his desk in his office, you frozen in front of it, and he chastising himself for snapping at you moments before.

All you had done was ask if he fancied a brew.

He slowly sat down in his chair again, neck and shoulders bending in a rare attempt to become smaller, a movement reserved for civilians and his mum. Even if he was on base he had to remind himself that you weren't a soldier or even a rookie. Just a temp secretary he had met once or twice. And now he had gone and scared the hell out of you.

He saw how your eyes flicked from him to the floor, avoiding his face entirely as you visibly trembled, still stuck in front of him, back straight as a rod.

Price hated that he scared you. He hated that he knew what it meant when a man’s voice and large frame made a person freeze and tremble like a deer in headlights. He knew all too well from some of the rookies he worked with. Hell, even Simon on bad days.

You winced, eyes distant as he cleared his throat, forcefully softening his tone.

“Sorry love. It’s not you, bit touchy since coming back. A brew sounds lovely”

Price smiled hoping it was nonthreatening and genuine as you nodded, practically running out the door.

[nyazai-osameow]

a silly little comic of a convo i had with a friend one night