#i hope i can write again soon

[robiinurheart33]

Haha wouldn’t it be so weird if when soap was taken and brainwashed he was constantly being compared to this soldier named “ghost” haha

Anyways explicit descriptions of psychological torture and violent intrusive thoughts under the cut

He would be beaten and berated constantly. why wasn’t he stronger than ghost, why wasn’t he faster, more skilled, better, stealthier, healthier.

Ghost could’ve done better in worse conditions.

Ghost has done better in worse conditions.

Why was soap not better even after all this?

It drove him up the wall, the way he would wonder who he was, seething and bleeding by the lip. After all that he’s gone though, all that he’s endured, everything.

Why wasn’t be better? Why can he never, ever be better?

They drove his sanity to the ground, spat and kicked at it until there was nothing but a shell of who he once was, and rebuilt it to fit their ideals. Soap couldn’t remember who he was before this, before the experiments. He couldn’t think, do, say anything without being ordered to do so by someone else.

Some days, soap would pull on the thin stripe down his scalp, eager to find some semblance of control over himself, even if it were pain. He would always get punished.

“It was the only thing he can and will recognise him by.”

“Ghost likes that on you.”

It made him hate the Mohawk even more.

He hates Ghost. He was sick of it. He was done waiting. He was done being compared to. He was done with being second to him. He wanted to pull him apart limb from limb, feel the hot blood spill over his teeth and he rips his throat apart, hear the sickening crunch of his neck being twisted, feel the smooth muscle of his skin ripple and tremble in fear of the one that he was supposedly supposed to be stronger than. Soap will never, ever get anything else in his life but the pure, white-hot rage of revenge. He maybe thinks this had lingered on since he was younger, before everything. It felt like an old friend, more so than his other emotions.

His first mission.

He will be better. He will be better. He will be the best. He will be good. This might be his only shot. This is. He will be the best. He will succeed. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail.

He runs into ghost.

At first, he didn’t know who he was. Soap was in a room with a few others, guns up and masks drawn, ready to shoot anyone who tries to come into the room. They had been infiltrated, and soap wasn’t told more than that. He didn’t really need to know more. Shoot the hostiles, keep people safe. Suddenly, bullets start to rain from outside the door, and soon enough, more and more bodies start hitting the floor. Soap does not panic. He hides behind a bookshelf, waiting.

A big ass motherfucker in a skull mask walks into the room and it looks like the shadows are warping to his presence. Soap does not panic. He reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh, flicking it up and holding it ready. He waits patiently until he stalks near the bookshelf, tightening his grip on the knife. They make eye contact, and through the skull mask stained with blood, he can see jet black eyes staring at him in shock. Death incarnate. Soap does not panic.

“Joh-”

Soap quickly slips out of his hiding spot, wrapping a forearm over his neck and attempting to jab the knife right into his socket. He feels a hand grip tightly onto his forearm, and he goes weightless. All the air escapes his lungs as his back slams against the floor, his head spinning. He screams at himself to get up, fight, be better, before he hears the familiar crackle of a radio.

“Ghost, how copy?”

Ghost.

This is Ghost.

Ghost just fucking flipped him.

Soap does not panic. He does not panic but he feels a chill go down his spine as he sees red, scrambling back up onto his feet. The adrenaline starts to kick in now, and he lunges at him, ripping the radio off his vest and slamming it on the floor. He’s not completely sure why he did that, but in all fairness soap feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind, if his captors haven’t done so already. He punches Ghost, wincing slightly as his knuckle hit the cheekbone corner of his stupid skull mask. Soap starts to reach for his gun before Ghost punches back, hitting the mask clean off his face, pushing his back to the floor, one hand on his wrists. Soap starts to get really agitated now. After everything that he’s gone through, he’s still not good enough to beat ghost. He still hasn’t improved. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He makes eye contact with Ghost and is slightly taken aback when he is reflected with an equally crazed stare.

“Johnny.”

What the fuck?

Soap doesn’t say anything. Ghost’s eyes are brown, not black. Why hasn’t be killed him yet? Why isn’t Soap struggling? Ghost has blonde eyelashes.

“Where have you been?” To soap’s absolute horror, those brown eyes start to become glossy. He flinches back as if he’s been hit, and grits his teeth. No shit, he’s been here the whole time, where else is he supposed to be?

Soap surges forward and headbutts him in hopes of him letting go. He doesn’t, and it makes soap all the more dizzier, more frustrated. Why isn’t he fucking dead already? He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his mind right.

“Johnny. Johnny.” Can he just shut the fuck up? It’s getting increasingly hard to concentrate for some reason. Shit. He feels overly exposed without the mask, feeling his body temperature rising steadily.

“Stop calling me that!” he growls out, twisting out of his grip and punching his across the face. The twisted skull mask looks almost comical out of place, but he can still see those eyes. Ghost’s hand comes to cup his cheek, and soap flinches back. His eyes look like Soap just mauled his puppy right in front of him. It makes him freeze in place, head awkwardly hovering between the floor and Ghost.

Images of blood spilling and needles, dirt and coffins fill his head, the sound of a neck snapping, gagging, screams and whimpers. Hands on him, eyes on him, never letting go. Stay. Soap snaps back into place, grabbing the mask and twisting it up, covering Ghost’s eyes. He quickly gets his other hand free and pushes ghost off him, sprinting out of the room.

“Wait-!” Is all he hears before flying down the corridor, back to safety, back to where it’s familiar, where he always is, where he always will be.

Loyalty has always been Soap’s best trait.

[nunyverse-scribe]

Winter/Christmas Writing Prompts

🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄

In class, Person A is assigned Person B for Secret Santa, but they don’t really know B like that. So they try to get to know B while not making it too obvious that they’re B’s secret Santa, & in the process they end up developing a strong bond (platonic or romantic).

Person A is a naturally cold person while Person B is a more naturally warmer person so as the colder months come near, B will always warm A’s hands in their own.

More goofy dynamic based off the previous, Person A tends to attack Person B with their cold hands, going for B’s neck cus that’s a body part that emits a lotta heat. B tends to be startled and scream every time.

Person A has a passion for knitting/sewing/crocheting/etc. making sure to make new sweaters and jackets and socks for their loved ones. (Bonus Points if A decides to make matching sweaters for their friend group).

Sibling characters or any family characters upholding family winter traditions after their parents/caretakers have died as a means of letting their spirit live on.

Opposite of that, a group of friends or maybe the youngest generation in an family developing new traditions as a means to be representative of breaking the cycle of abuse that the adult figures in their lives provided them.

Characters that don’t celebrate Christmas or any other winter holiday kind of just banding together to have wintery fun outside of a cultural or religious holiday context, and treating it as a normal time of the year.

Person A being a parent from a middle class or lower class income but always sure to drive past the rich neighborhoods with dazzling lights so that their kid can look at it in awe and point out all the pretty houses with glee.

Characters turning off all the lights and lighting up candles to huddle around in a circle and tell/make up winter-themed scary stories.

Person A and Person B watching the Holiday special contests of a cooking show (I like to imagine this as a parent and kid mainly cus I remember my mom watching those holiday specials all the time)

❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️

[sliceofhotsoda]

“Even if we never become pro volleyball players, I think we’ll find what we’re looking for.”

Shoyou leaned sideways into Tobio’s back, laying his head down on his shoulder. He wished he could see his face.

“What’s the point in doing all this if we can’t play volleyball in the end?”

Tobio’s voice seemed to rattle inside of Shoyou. Good question, he thought feebly.

“There’s a point,” Shoyou insisted, firm. But in his head, he said to him, there’s a good chance you’d be all alone in that house right now if we’d never met.

No way would Shoyou let that happen.

They stared at their feet in a shared sad silence. Kageyama glanced down at him at the same time that Shoyou risked a look at Kageyama, then both gazes flitted away.

“There’s a point,” Shoyou repeated. Heaviness sunk inside his gut, profound. “Maybe volleyball isn’t the point at all. Would there even have been a reason to keep playing if we didn’t have the team we have now? I mean, if you were on Seijoh instead of Karasuno and we never learned our special quick, or if you were never there to push me further, maybe volleyball wouldn’t be worth all our attention anymore.”

Shoyou swallowed hard, awaiting Kageyama’s response. He wasn’t even sure why this felt so important, but he had a feeling it had something to do with how much Kageyama meant to him.

Kageyama’s brows furrowed. He seemed deep in thought, his eyes growing wide as if he’d remembered something very necessary.

“Without you, I might have given up volleyball,” Kageyama said, hushed.

[renslo161605]

ISAAC MORGAN

In rdr2 style

I did this before and it looked poopi so hopefully this one is better. I was struggling with the quote but i feel like that one's short snd sweet snd tells you enough about him. He's a sad little emo teenager maybe ill make another one of his adult version. But yeah i tried hope you like :))

I have a comic abt this on my blog hehe if he lives n all

[deoidesign]

Allowing myself to work on this comic. A LITTLE. Please....... I'm making comics all day every day please let me chase my bliss a little........... With a different comic...........

[coollyinterferes]

The unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching begins to fill the air. Whoever is coming seems to have brought some company along…

They are getting closer… and closer… and closer…

…and closer…

……until..................

"Goooooood evenin'!!" Comes the loud greeting from a certain blond man. A big smile on his face and all.

"We beg your pardon for our prolonged absence. It was completely beyond our control..." Then adds the gentleman standing by his side, apologizing on behalf of both, offering a genuine smile along with the apology.

"...BUT! We're back!" And hopefully for good this time…

[iknowshocker]

happy new year - who ordered gemini twin angst? 'cause chapter 25 of Hits Different is here to deliver <3

As far as Jo’s concerned, this is the third time she's watched her twin die.

When they were fourteen, she'd seen the light leave his eyes after a particularly nasty training session with Joshua, and she'd known in her gut that something was changing inside him.

At twenty-two, she'd been forced to witness him unravel entirely, nearly taking everyone else down with him.

Now, her gaze moves slowly over the desiccated veins in his neck, tracing the creeping path of death across his grayed out skin, hardly able to draw in a proper breath.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56457517/chapters/158547550

[astarab1aze]

just checking in-- sorry about my accidental hiatus! i've still got my hands full with family stuff for the moment, but i'll be free and clear after the weekend. all the birthdays came at me fast, some drama, some health issues, some Other things that came up... r.i.p. hope everyone's been having a good time writing!

[redeemed-wren]

There's something weirdly bitter sweet about realising half way through the day it's the first of November and I haven't even thought about Nano

[afaroffsong]

Unpacking day is apparently even more exhausting than moving day. And we’re not done yet.

BUT I can feel my brain coming back to life. I’ve been thinking about reading and writing and actually feeling… excited? Hopeful? And it’s been months since I felt that. So maybe all of this craziness is good for me. XD

[avirael]

FFxivWrite 2024

Day 29 - Keepsake

They attacked at night. When everyone was asleep, when no one expected it. The women and children they could have easily subdued as soon as they were out of side of the settlement. But the men? The men may have been naive and tired but they also were angry from all the years they spent on the run and then in the hellhole of a town that had been Little Ala Mhigo.

They were afraid the men would give them trouble, so of course - like the cowards they were - they attacked them when they least expected it. In their sleep with spears pointed at their faces or blades at their throats. Torn from their dreams of a better future in the blink of an eye. The motivation and promises - it had all been a devious game of lies from the very beginning.

A’viloh was awoken by a sharp scream. And so was Laqa who had slept close beside him, arms wrapped around each other to keep one another warm in this cold winter night. Startled by the horrible scream A‘viloh had tried to sit up but Laqa had instinctively held him back and pulled him closer, trying to protect him.

„Shhh…“, he had whispered almost silently and signaled for A‘viloh to stay still. Laqa did not move but his eyes and ears scanned their environment. With one hand he steadied himself on the ground while the other reached for the dagger at his belt. Then as one of the armed men stepped closer, still thinking them asleep, Laqa leapt up like a snake that had waited for the right moment to strike.

A‘viloh, still with no clue what was happening at all, turned around to get a better look at the small makeshift camp they had set up for the night. Shocked he pressed a hand to his mouth, to keep himself from screaming as he saw the chaos unfolding in front of him.

He did not immediately recognise the people attacking them as the same ones who had promised to bring them into the city and give them work there, so they wouldn’t have to live in one of the slums outside of Ul‘dah’s gates. But he recognised the people that were pressed to the ground crying and screaming, while armed men tied them up. He recognised an ala mhigan man that had reached for his sword and tried to fight the attackers off, only to be hopelessly outnumbered. He was too proud to give up and threw all he had at his opponents, only to be struck down by a sword striking him from behind.

With a sudden burst of panic A‘viloh‘s eyes searched for Laqa, finding him only a few yalms away, still fighting against one of the men. Swiftly he swung his dagger at his opponent but his range just wasn’t good enough, at least fighting against a much taller enemy with a sword. Defensively he leapt back a little as the sword swung down towards him, trying to block the hit with his dagger. It slowed down the blow but his opponent was a lot stronger than him and kept pushing. Ilm by ilm the blade moved closer to his face and A‘viloh felt too petrified to do anything but watch in horror.

Then with an angry growl Laqa brought up his other hand, and grabbed the sharp blade of the sword, pushing against it with both arms, to keep the man at a distance. For a moment this duel of strength almost seemed equal, if not for the blood dripping off of Laqa‘s hand and running down his opponent’s sword. Then suddenly another man stepped closer and used the pommel of his weapon to hit Laqa against the side of his head.

With a scared shriek A‘viloh rushed forward to the other Miqo’te, who had instantly collapsed to the ground and now lay there unconscious. Protectively A‘viloh threw his body over Laqa‘s and, lacking any other means of denfense, hissed at the attackers. But the two men simply laughed about such a weak attempt of resistance. Roughly one of them grabbed A‘viloh by his arms and pulled him away, and in no time both of them had their hands tied up just like all the other innocent people who had traveled with them.

By the time the attackers had secured all of them and checked everyone for hidden weapons the sun already began to rise. A‘viloh shivered, lying curled up by Laqa‘s side, as the other Miqo’te slowly regained his consciousness and groaned in pain.

„Laqa!“, A‘viloh exclaimed silently and helped him sit up as good as he could with both his own hands tied up too.

„Vi?…“, the other Miqo’te said dazed. „Are you alright?“

A‘viloh nodded and looked down at Laqa’s tied wrists with worry. „Better than you at least…“

With a quiet hiss of pain Laqa unfurled his hand and looked at the deep red cut inside his palm. Carefully he tried to move his fingers, which fortunately still worked, but at the same time the movement made the wound start bleeding again.

„Hold still!“, A’viloh demanded and with his tied up hands needed a moment to awkwardly peel a soft deep-green scarf from his own neck. „Let me bandage that up.“

But Laqa pulled back his palm, knowing fully well how important that piece of clothing was to A‘viloh - the only keepsake he had of his dead mother. „No! Not with this! It will only get dirty…“

With a sad smile A‘viloh nodded, took Laqa’s hand and pulled it closer again. „It will, but this is more important. The cut will only keep on bleeding otherwise and you shouldn’t get dust and sand into it. I can try to clean the scarf if we make it out of this alive, but I cannot heal your hand…“

„I am so sorry…“, Laqa murmured while A‘viloh bandaged his hand but it sounded like more than just an apology for ruining A’viloh’s precious scarf.

„It‘s not your fault…“, A’viloh insisted, wrapping the thin, light fabric around Laqa‘s hand a few times, before making a knot and wrapping the rest of it around his lower arm.

With a guilty expression Laqa looked to the ground and stayed silent. Still slightly shaking, A‘viloh shifted to sit closely beside him and rested his head on Laqa‘s shoulder. With a sigh the blonde Miqo’te tilted his head to rest on A’viloh’s. „I am sorry, Vi… You have to be so scared...“

„I am.“, A‘viloh admitted and closed his eyes. „But I was more scared about you…“

[ravenvsfox]

hiiii just wanted to say that once upon a time when you were posting your rock band au of aftg someone sent you an ask saying they imagined the sound of the band as nothing but thieves and since then i've been listening to them i see them live tomorrow! what a funny way to discover new music that i could never explain to anyone ever! anway i miss your writing and i hope you're having a good day!

man this is so extremely special, and also I'm wildly jealous!!

I was just chatting with @heapstone (who may or may not be the original ask-sender) about how they associate Ausreißer with nbt, and how I've ALSO had that connection ringing in my ears for years now (I even write/edit listening to their albums), all because I read some books that inspired a fic that inspired an nbt fan to send me an ask—and now you fit into that chain as well!!

just really cool really silly stuff. the idea that I've somehow facilitated this art synthesis between a little clubhouse of nbt/aftg fans is so sincerely touching ❤️

have such a blast at the show, you'll have to think rockband au thoughts for me so I can be there in spirit 🙏🏻🤘🏻

[sainz100]

upcoming Carlos x chess content soon ❤️♟️✨

[taradactyls]

No chapter up this week, unfortunately. I've been doing well, especially given how little time I've had to write, so I've managed to get a few thousand words down, but I'm still a bit off uploading. Next Friday will either have a chapter or another update on my progress, probably 50/50 at this point, depends what I can do over the weekend. But rest assured I'm very dedicated to the fic and I hate the delays as much as you do, haha.

Until then, thank you so much to everyone who left supportive and understanding comments. I truly appreciate it so much!

[gothsuguru]

[the-desert-beast]

The adrenaline violently coursed through his veins.

Eyes fierce and wild, wounds bleeding, his gargantuan prey frenzied and frightened, he finally felt alive. The creature in front of him was bleeding badly, hamstrung, wounded, he and his companion had been toying with it. His taloned gauntlets dripping with his prey's blood, he aimed another precise, violent slash at it's neck.

It recoiled, a furious guttural sound leaving it's throat.

Snapping it's jaws at The Beast, Paola took the chance and lunged, biting as hard as she possibly could on it's wounded leg. The thing's serpentine neck squirmed before whipping around to grip Paola in it's deadly jaws, but she was already gone.

The Beast took the opportunity to deal the final blow; ripping it's throat open.

One last spasm, a death rattle, and the massive Hydra fell limp, bleeding out into the sands of the desert. He looked over the work of himself and his companion. (”Too easy.”) he thought to himself, more in empty dissatisfaction than in anything resembling “proud.“

The adrenaline subsided. The blood dried. He felt empty, again.

He crouched down in front of the creature's mouth, carefully removing two of it's most fearsome fangs. One, a personal trophy, the second, Paola's newest toy. And after skinning some of it's remaining usable hide and taking the more intact, and delicious cuts of meat, his mind began to wander on the walk back.

He thought of nothing particularly coherent.

His and his tiger's footfalls left prints behind in the soft warm sands.

He thought of when he used to feel something.

The warm sands gave way to harder sandstone, dirt and grasses.

He thought of how useless, meaningless, all this- being alive, felt.

Hours had passed.

Stuck in his head, his feet lead him down the rest of the path back home instinctively.

He thought of the ways he'd numb himself again.

Usually, he'd feel some amount of relief upon entering his lovingly cluttered home.

The amber light of his favorite lanterns hanging from the ceiling illuminated the red, orange, and gold colors of loved trinkets and fabrics strewn about the house.

He looked over his extravagant bed, cluttered with all manner of patterned throw pillows, a few larger deep red pillows he'd actually use. The black sheets were unmade- Had been that way, for two weeks now. It had been a long time since he cared to relax.

His trophy cabinet stocked full of fallen foe's fangs, horns, scales, furs, armor, jewelry- It all felt like nothing as of late.

His liquor cabinet, filled with his favorite, very expensive whiskeys, rums, and a few wines, was the most used thing in his house. This was always the case, but it was a hindrance during weeks like these.

No relief came.

He put everything from his hunt in it's rightful place, threw Paola her new toy- which she happily caught, wandering off to curl up in her favorite sun-tanning spot. His mind had turned against him the moment he had killed his latest hunt and the fight had ended.

Huffing a sigh, grabbing his medicinal supplies, he mended his wounds with the bare minimum. Disinfecting with his favorite alcohol, taking a swig, wrapping them in bandages that he'd remove sooner than he should. He could feel nothing. He washed, dried, and polished his custom-made gauntlets. Only danger felt like anything these days.

This sort of habit had become far too common as of late. He couldn't make himself care whether he lived or died. (”What would Zefiro think of me, if he caught me thinkin' like this- In this state.“) he thought to himself, pained at the thought of Zef worrying over him- Worse yet, scolding him.

Rolling his shoulders, a habit of his, he attempted to banish the worst of his thoughts from his mind. He sipped more of his favorite whiskey straight from the bottle.

Too tired to hunt anything else.

Not the kind of tired that allowed for sleep.

He could think of only one reprieve;

more alcohol, and sex.