#it probably doesn’t make sense

[storeecbrcod]

Whump Drabble/fic where Soap suffers realistic trauma from MWIII (though we’ll put a bandaid over his ultimate fate lol).

TW: explicit medical injuries and treatments, angst with a bittersweet ending, will likely be inaccurate in some way seeing as I’m not a medical professional nor a trauma doctor/nurse (I’m just a girl fr), Ghoap✨

Ghost had been wrangling with this worm of guilt that chewed at his heart, something that he thought he had grown accustom to over his life but was now back with a vengeance. When he wasn’t clawing his skin from his bone to try and find the fucker, he was with Johnny.

He had thought the hardest part of this would be overcoming that guilt, but he quickly realised the coma was much worse.

He’d followed soldiers after they’d suffered significant GSW trauma before, of course he had. He’d caused many himself, knew how to engineer one that would guarantee a kill, knew how impossible it seemed yet possible it was to survive a shot to the temple, nearly point blank. He knew what recovery entailed.

Yet, he didn’t know what recovery entailed when it made the soft birdsong in his life silent and still.

He was a sniper and a stealth operative, he was used to sitting in one place during recon, unmoving and hyperaware for hours on end, days or weeks or even months at a time.

Yet, he wasn’t used to searching for a heartbeat and willing it to keep going rather than aiming to stop it.

He’d never felt so restless in his life, cataloguing every detail of the man on the bed in front of him every day. He watched as bandages turned red, watched as the side of his head swelled and bruised and went so black it was like staring into space. He read the words ‘Pressure relief DO NOT TOUCH’ scribbled on the vacuum-sealed, open wound on the back of a window in his skull over and over and over until swelling bowed the dressing and the words didn’t make sense.

He watched air be pumped through tubes down his throat when his brain couldn’t do it for him, and saw urine pool in a bag next to the bed. He watched nurses exercise his body, watched the shut door as they cleaned him up with sponge baths. He’d watched the codes be called and watched from outside the room as ribs were broken in the frail, pale body that was a fifth of the size it used to be and void of the usual tan.

He watched it all. He watched everything.

Just watched.

He knew people in comas could often hear what’s going on around them, he’d learnt that when he rushed Tommy to the hospital after a particularly bad overdose. But it was like his lips were fused together, vocal cords totally lax and frozen. He couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak, scared of what would tumble from his tongue and leave in the open when Johnny couldn’t even respond.

Spontaneity was a common tactic on the field, as much as they tried to negate it. It wasn’t very often a plan went totally right. Damage control and problem solving were heavily exercised skills that Ghost possessed.

But he couldn’t solve this. He could wish death on Makarov as much as he did before, he could research the best trauma surgeons and doctors and nurses and therapists in the UK, he could monitor Johnny’s condition obsessively all he wants, but he can’t fix it. He can’t heal the snapped neurons, he can’t dig into Johnny’s veins and fish out the blood clots that continued to threaten his life or limbs. He couldn’t crawl into John’s skin and nest there in his warmth, protect him and feel protected. He couldn’t.

Helplessness wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time, but he’d much rather be clawing out of his own grave as ravens cawed again than have to put John in one, still and unable to dig to join Simon.

So when Soap eventually does wake, it felt like an endless tunnel came to an abrupt end with blinding lights and trees, waiting for birds to call their greeting.

He made his own greeting, his imposing yet solid presence next to the bed as tubes were removed and the body was propped up and assurances were given. He was eager, after 4 months of pure silence about to be filled with music again.

But it was off key.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, Johnny.”

A furrowed brow.

“Who th’ fuck ah you?”

Simon thought that the worst part of all this was the coma, the silence, but he was wrong. It was the recovery.

Simon had learnt that the temple was the perfect place to locate the parts of the brain responsible to speech, decision making and rationalisation, and memory. He’d learnt how irritating it could be re-explaining the same thing over and over every few minutes could be, he learnt of the shame that followed the irritation knowing that Soap couldn’t help it. He learnt how much it hurt to be escorted out of the room for routine check-ups because the once unrelenting trust between him and Johnny had relented to the shadow of unknown.

He had learnt that nothing is permanent.

His visits became less and less. Unsurprisingly, John (not Johnny; only his family calls him that) didn’t want a mountain of a man, full of angst and anger and sadness, haunting the corners of his hospital room. He only wanted his ma and pa, and as much as it hurt Ghost, he respected his wishes.

For months, Ghost isolated himself, got lost in his work. For months, John worked at recovery, regaining his smart mouth and witty remarks, slowly relearning his impulse control that wasn’t really as much control as it was pure will power to restrain himself.

For months, Ghost sought birdcall in the gurgles of his enemies’ throats, revelling in the garbled melodies that never matched the one he remembered, but breaking off just the same.

Beware the mockingbird, Johnny would say.

Yet here he was, searching for a blue jay’s song among the mouths of the unknown and wicked.

He got so used to the warped record that he often found himself forgetting what the original chords sounded like when they reverberated through his chest, right to his heart. Was it sweet, like the pull of a blade through supple skin? Was it explosive, like the crack of body armour in the gap between Kevlar plates? Was it deafening, like the rounds discharged that aimed for his heart?

Was it quiet, like an unmonitored heartbeat over nighttime?

Was it gentle, like the lingering touches left on his waist that still burned his skin months later?

Was it still there?

“Simon.”

Ghost blinked, looking up to Price. He hadn’t realised that he’d let his gaze wander, his mind even further.

“You need to go see him.”

There’s a cry of a broken-winged dove in his ears, overshadowed by the croon of a raven. Stability and chaos, broken and mended in one.

It hurt his head.

“He asked me to leave,” Ghost reasoned.

“When he first woke up, yes,” Price conceded. “Back when you honoured your callsign very proficiently, mind you.”

A scoff erupted from Ghost’s chest, under his crossed arms.

“Look, Simon,” Price sighed, leaning back against his desk, blue eyes of cobalt melting the sulphurous gleam of Ghost’s brown ones. “He remembers, now. Remembered Gaz in a matter of moments, recognised me soon after.”

There was a pause, pregnant and heavy as Ghost kept his mouth shut, luring Price to continue. Daring him to try and push past the raven’s sharp talons to help the dove.

A hand reaches towards the nest.

“It might be time for you to try again.”

The raven hesitates.

“The hospital staff spoke to us about how helping Soap’s brain reconnect the broken neural pathways from the trauma could help him recover faster.”

The dove coos.

“Please, Simon.”

Outstretched fingers.

“Fuck, I can’t watch two of my men crumble at the same time.”

A flurry of feathers, the screeching of breath through gravel, rubber on road, nails on chalkboard. It’s overwhelming, sending his heart into overdrive and rationality to the wind.

“Fuck you, Price.”

Yeah, the recovery hurt the most.

Looking in the mirror during recovery, specifically, hurt like a bitch. Scars that pulled over once unmarred skin, hollow cheeks where laughter and smiles once grew, gnarled soul and memories where purity reigned. It was all thrown back at you, as insistent as a murder of crows at your doorstep.

He could see the way John, not Johnny, sifted through his memory like a locked filing cabinet while trying to place Ghost, desperately searching through the unlocked drawers over and over for the file he needed, all while the closed drawers taunted him with kept knowledge. It was all right there, yet he couldn’t access it.

“Ghost, aye?”

It’s met with a grunt. Silence stretches out, black feathers shielding the delicate white ones.

“And ye were my… lieutenant?”

He was going off of information fed to him, his brow furrowed in concentration, still trying to place Ghost. He couldn’t tell where the darkness around him ended and Ghost started, obscured by inky blackness.

He doesn’t sound right. It’s not the same teasing, playful lilt that danced in the air. It’s not pronounced the same, not said the same, it’s not the same.

It’s some… imposter. Something that looks the same and smells the same and tastes the fucking same, but it’s different.

A cuckoo’s egg in a nest.

“Price ‘nd Kyle were telling me some stories about ye,” John noted with a small smile. “You’re quite the stunner out field, ‘pparently.”

It’s an olive branch, a bridge built half way. An offering to meet in the middle, to talk and revere and remember.

But Ghost didn’t remember, and neither did John.

Recovery never ends, you know. It goes on and on and on, haunting your nerves and your wits for the rest of your life. You’ll always have some sort of ache or pain, a reminder of what happened to you.

John never ended up recovering fully. He was medically discharged, left to nurse a broken cage and a silent heart. He did well, considering; it wasn’t hard when you didn’t remember the song that beat with the rhythm of your heart.

He still joined the team on outings sometimes, staying in a local hotel when everyone was back at base. They’d have a meal, or go to a pub, catch up. Re-establish connections once lost.

Ghost rarely joined them, to save his own torment.

But of course, he had to honour the dove occasionally. Just as he was now, sitting across the table from the lively Scot and with his two other teammates, Gaz and Price. Beers had been served, a single glass of warm whiskey for cold hands. The table was lively, fun, rambunctious in all the best ways.

The cuckoo had hatched in earnest, Ghost found.

It was easy to see the progress John had made, loud and bright and cheeky like he used to be. Demanding of attention, hungry for every scrap of past he could swallow to try and heal old wounds. Listening to stories about himself and his old crew when they were all together, as if it was another version of him. The right version of him.

And by god, were the scraps from Simon the most nourishing of all.

John’s mouth felt desert dry, cactus dust caking his tongue as he bit desperately into every glimpse of Ghost’s bare face, lips wrapped around glass and breath smelling of potent, liquid gold with every word. It hurt, it tasted awful, and it was impossible to rid himself from. It hurt so good, feeling his heart pull and swell in ways he didn’t understand anymore.

He felt like glass, he felt like the air, he felt like expensive liquor, he felt like it was meant to be him in their places, held and touched and breathed and consumed. It was overwhelming, leaving him starstruck and staring, a flutter in his chest reawakened.

Ghost’s own nest was erupting with displaced wind, white wings desperate to spread and carry it away, escape the raven’s hold. Right now, meeting Johnny’s eyes, he realised that the time spent captive in the nest had only lent to the dove’s healing. It was stronger now, bigger and fiercer and so, so hopeful.

The cuckoo cackled, loud and leering. Mockingbirds whistled and cawed, off key and haunting. The raven keened, shaken and damning.

The white dove flew.

The blue jay sang above the bramble.

And the two nested together, among the dappled branches of a birchwood tree, cool and calm and surrounded by colour year round. Above the bramble of the past.

Ghost had learnt one thing over everything else; a lesson that was recurrent in his life, stubborn and overwhelming. It swallowed him in waves, crashing him into the sand bank below.

Nothing is ever, ever permanent.

Admittedly, his retirement had gone well. The down payment was easy, the renovations smooth, moving in a sigh of relief. They’d have their harder days, where getting out of bed and walking without aid was difficult for Johnny, but they’d have their good days, too. They’d have their days where they’d go for walks across the countryside, watch as their service dog bounced around through tall grass, tongue lolling from her mouth.

They’d have quiet days, relaxing days. They’d have loud days, rough days.

But they were all days where the sun would rise and then set.

They were all days when the blue jay sang.

Simon had forgotten silence. His life was filled with sound, and love, and content.

Maybe… maybe the worst part of it all was loss.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the unmoving body, still warm.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the frantic screams that drowned out the silence.

Maybe the worst part of it all was the silence.

Silence.

A/N: bandaids don’t last forever

Idk if this is coherent or cohesive or any other co-words meaning readable and enjoyable. Maybe I’ll rewrite it, who knows. Probably not, I can’t post consistently as it is lmao

[hauntingyouwithpjo]

Ok so I was going post this as a life hack or something not related to my posts but then I realized this is SUCH a thing Percy would do

So basically showering with the lights off is so magical and it kind of soothes my headache/anxiety/ stress in general

Like just imagine Percy after the war (s) just takes a cold ass shower with the lights off- he can’t stand to see his own reflection through the mirror, and it hurts

He can’t stand to think of himself as a monster with blood on his hands and it’s all his fault

So he’s washing the blood off, without the lights so he doesn’t see the damage he caused in the world and on himself with simply just surviving.

[thebaldursmouthgazette]

I’m sure Dumat being defeated the same year andraste was born means nothing

I’m sure this has nothing to do with the fact that andrastes mother was part of a tribe who helped the grey wardens fight and defeat dumat the same year she was born, meaning that she could have been a fetus affected by the taint in the proximity of a dying arch demon

And the fact that nobody knows which grey warden killed dumat, as seven wardens died from injuries from his death throes, and therefore we cannot actually identify a warden who absorbed his soul, means nothing

And I’m sure it is a complete coincidence that andraste had dreams and visions of the being later referred to as the maker her whole life, and behaved strangely, talking about hearing lost voices and seeing strange auras. That absolutely doesn’t sound like anyone else we know

[ciderjacks]

despite Laios low self esteem making him think that if he’d been eaten, Chilchuck and Marcille wouldn’t have helped Falin,

theres a small part of me that thinks the reason Chilchuck stayed with the party and went back in the dungeon in the first place was because he didn’t want to leave Laios alone. That Laios was moreso the reason he stayed.

[nightshadeplant]

Silly thoughts but when I see so many mangas that start with the word Tokyo I just think damn it would be so funny for me if I had them and put them next to each other in my collection like Tokyo ghoul, Tokyo revenges, and Tokyo aliens

[damconcha]

One of my favorite things about the ASL Brothers is the fact that Ace was the one brought out the sake and proposed becoming brothers.

Not Luffy or Sabo but Ace.

Ace, who believes he is unlovable, Ace who believes that his blood is dirty, Ace who believes that he didn’t deserve to be born, Ace who thinks that his life is worthless, Ace who believes that his mere existence is a crime.

And yet Ace saw these two boys and approached them without apprehension or fear of rejection even though he was proposing something as irrevocable, something as bonding as brotherhood

[kiwisandpearls]

I think the argument of “it doesn’t matter if it’s fiction it’s still gross/wrong/etc” is really weak

it does matter. If a piece of fictional content is made with only fictional characters in said content, no one is being hurt by it being created or existing. Those characters are fictional and not real people.

That is what matters. Not whether you personally think it’s “iffy” or not, whether an actual living breathing person was harmed in the creation of that fictional content

and if no real person was involved in said fictional content? I’m going to be blunt, your personal discomfort does not matter.

[ultravioletbrit]

“dead” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 357 words

Part 3/5 (part 1, part 2 / part 4, part 5)

“What are you doing?” James asks Regulus after he lets Sirius into the flat.

“Trying to escape.” Regulus says like it’s obvious as he’s trying—and failing—to open James’ window.

“Why?” James asks in a tone that clearly says, ‘what now?’

Regulus stops trying to open the window but doesn’t turn around.

“I still think that’s an imposter and you could be dead any second. Then he’ll try to frame my brother, and he’ll be falsely accused of your murder, all because you opened the damn door when you shouldn’t have.” Regulus squeezes his eyes shut. He knows he’s making this so much worse, but he can’t seem to stop the nonsense that’s spilling out of his mouth.

“This is your brother!?” James asks and Regulus takes a deep breath and turns around.

“Reggie!? What the fuck are you doing here?” Sirius asks Regulus—justifiably shocked—before turning to James. “Do you know each other?”

“Oh yeah, we go way back.” James’ voice is dripping with sarcasm and he rolls his eyes at Sirius then turns to Regulus. “Wait. This is the brother you’re hiding from?” James asks.

“Hiding?” Sirius asks James.

“He barged in here and said he needed to hide from someone.” James starts explaining to Sirius. “He looked kind of panicked, and I thought he might be in trouble or something.” Regulus realizes neither of them are paying attention to him, so he starts to slowly inch his way to the door. “So, I let him stay, but I realized pretty quickly he wasn’t in any real danger. But then I thought he was kind of snarky and he’s gorgeous so…errm… I still let him stay.” James finishes while rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact. This gives Regulus the opening he needs to slip behind Sirius.

“You let a crazy person stay in your flat because you thought he was pretty?” Sirius asks, like James is an idiot. Regulus made it to the door and slowly starts turning the knob. “I swear to God, James, you’re gonna get yourself killed one if these days.” The door clicks open and, “Freeze!”

So close. Regulus thinks.

[formulanni]

Genuinely Williams switching Logan out for Franco feels personal and petty. I haven’t been following f2 super closely this year but from what I’ve seen Franco is just.. fine? I mean, he’s good, but he’s not Kimi or Paul. To replace Logan at this point would only make sense if they swapped him for someone with loads more experience, someone more likely to score points. At this point they’re swapping him for someone who’s probably gonna have his same level of performance, if not worse. It just feels almost petty? It’s like a weirdly personal move and it just makes me think about all of the reports of JV’s alleged mistreatment and silent treatment towards Logan.

[sableeira]

Do you care for a cigarette?

[alldni]

can’t wait to find out rogue’s lost partner was jack harkness when they were both in the time agency. taps mic is this thing on

[rozugold]

I slapped my pencil all over my screen for an hour and a half and this appeared

Based on @sunlitmcgee’s latest fic :’]

[reigobun]

visiting

[morphean42]

I’m not someone who can add anything to this discussion that hasn’t been stated in canon or by others but my god Charles’ arc just always hits so close. The fear of becoming the thing you hate, the thing that hurt you. It’s all consuming, it’s a sharp burning at the back of your mind every time a word comes out too rough or when your palms feel thick and hot with the urge to hit.

I need season 2 to dive into this deeper. Charles does get better throughout 1, especially after Edwin assures him he is good, but it can’t end there. This sort of fear goes so much deeper than just a little conversation. I want Charles to be able to confront his father somehow (though that’s a whole different post innit) and prove to himself how he isn’t like him.

Yes, Charles works through his anger in the show and is reassured he isn’t like his dad, but I want to see him get angry and be allowed to do so. So often working through trauma one can think ‘I���ll get better and never be angry again’ but the truth is no emotion is fundamentally wrong or abusive. I need Charles to get angry and be okay with that, to know he’s allowed to feel this without being a bad person. It’s so hard to do something that reminds you of someone who hurt you, but in the end it’s always the healthy thing.

Also he was hot when he threw the Night Nurse off the cliff who said that not me

[turtleblogatlast]

Don’t think I ever quite said what my LGBTQ+ headcanons are for the boys, so these are my current thoughts! Always changing of course but this is what I feel most strongly right now.

[hersterical]

We all know Lisa from lis 1. Max’s plant that you may or may not water. Just a fun little ‘this action will have consequences’ jump scare, right?

It WAS until Before the Storm where we get a similar choice in Chloe’s room. Except if you choose to water it then Chloe will water it with a can of soda, figuring it’s better than nothing, killing the plant. On the surface this might seem to support Chloe’s insecurity that she expresses during her and Rachel’s argument in the junkyard where Chloe expresses that she only ever hurts people she cares about and screws everything up. That’s probably how Chloe sees it. But that’s not how I see it. How I see it is that in order to properly nurture something, you need to use the right method. Like how in the junkyard and Rachel’s room Chloe learns that the best way to comfort Rachel is to give her space and just be there for her, which goes against Chloe’s instincts. Something that might seem good in the moment is actually harmful in the long run. This reminds me of Chloe’s dream/vision of William when he talks about how the intense and destructive beauty of fire (Rachel) can blind you to the calmer and consistent beauty of the stars (Max) (this is not about a ship war, I swear. That’s just the messaging that I feel like the game is trying to tell us).

Chloe and Rachel’s relationship is not the healthiest. They did need each other for a time, and we see in the comics that there is a timeline where they end up having an amazing relationship, but it was pretty clear that in our canon timeline the longer their friendship/situationship lasted the more harmful it was becoming. Something that seemed good at first but in the long run would metaphorically kill them. If Rachel wasn’t killed then their whole relationship probably would’ve went up in flames.

Now we come back to Max. She’s the stars. She waters Lisa with water. She and Chloe are what each other needs in the long run. They’re what each other needs to live and thrive