#may 15: nightmare

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (15) Nightmare

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 15)

Summary: Rosie tells us about her family's sanctuary that is 221B, but also about wars over board games. In the end, it's the story about someone else who also needs a safe haven.

Fifteen Years Old

I felt oddly protective of our home from an early age, and I didn’t want it invaded by my friends. Not that I was ashamed of all the bric-a-brac, Papa’s experiments, or how different it was to other homes I’d visited. It was just...our space, a safe haven where we all could lower our guards, Papa in particular. Over the years, his fame had increased exceedingly, and his derisive façade kept journalists and fans at bay. The moment he entered 221B, he discarded said façade by hanging his coat on the peg.

Another thing to consider, were the battles that always ensued whenever one of us challenged the others to a board game. Having an outsider witnessing that…well, we’d surely be sectioned for life if that were to occur. 

(More likely, the person would be granted vicious dreams for eternity.)

But as Papa points out; there’s always something. In this context, someone.  My friend Liwia. Her parents were Polish, and moved to England two years before Liwia was born. They were Catholics, and having to adjust to a society that was more liberal toward queer people than Poland, took its time. When Liwia came out to them as a lesbian the year prior, they’d tried to pin it on her friendship with me. I was after all related to quite a few of the sort and Liwia’s parents seemed to believe the ludicrous lie that queerness was contagious.

It took them some months to get over it, but once they realised that Liwia still was her normal self, they discarded the original idea of sending her to Poland to live with her strictly religious grandparents. Neither of the Barczykowskis was prepared when said grandparents announced that they were visiting London that summer, staying for at least a fortnight. 

***

Dad and I were in the middle of a Scrabble war, when Papa came home. Not that we realised it at the time. We were too engrossed in arguing.

“It’s bloody unfair to use all the medical terms and diseases you can come up with to win, you know!” I exclaimed accusatory.

“Oh, come now, Rosebud,” Dad teased, looking as pleased as the cat that ate the canary.

“Don’t you dare Rosebud me,” I said through clenched teeth. 

Dad only used that pet name when we were at war over the board games, and it rubbed me up the wrong way.

“Children,” Papa chastised, barely able to suppress his glee.

“You’re home,” we said in unison.

I waited for the inevitable eyeroll and his obviously, but none came.

“We have a guest,” Papa said and waved a hand, and that’s when I saw Liwia standing by the sofa wringing her hands, a look of despair in her eyes.

I leapt to my feet and walked over to hug her tight.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered into her hair.

She explained about her grandparents, and with just one look over at Papa, receiving a nod, I turned back to assure my friend that she could stay at Baker Street for as long as she needed, if her biased grandparents started to make her life a living nightmare.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson,” Liwia said politely.

I could literally see the relief wash over her, the tension in her shoulders dissipating and a tiny smile forming on her lips.

“Please, call us John and Sherlock,” Dad said. 

Then he turned his attention to me with a devilish grin.

“Does this mean you declare defeat, Rosebud?”

“You wish!” I snarled and left Liwia’s side to go into battle with my father.

(Before you go all bananas on me - this will continue tomorrow...)

Also available on AO3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies.

[ghostofnuggetspast]

Not Yet

Nightmare has a regular drop At Watson's house she lands atop Her gifts of bad dreams Always lead him to screams She knows her duty and won't stop

Check it out on ao3!

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @weeesi @friday411

[ghostofnuggetspast]

I'm pretty suspicious of water myself. Maybe John's on to something

The Deep / 221B

Words: 221 / Prompt: Nightmare

John’s never been afraid of heights. He’s jumped out of airplanes, climbed mountains, stared down into a cataract. Seeing Sherlock fall traumatised him. He avoids Barts, but doesn’t fear elevators or airplanes.

His worst nightmares have always been about drowning. It’s something he can’t explain.

He knows how to swim, how to stay afloat, treading water. But the dreams that wake him, screaming, always find him in black water, cold bottomless depths.  

As a child he loved the beach, would run through the surf, chasing his sister. They waded, sand squishing between their toes, looking for crabs and jellyfish. 

But he shuddered to pass a water tower, imagining himself in the dark tank where he couldn’t find a foothold or even know which way was up. He would swim, finding no surface, until his lungs ached. 

Now, in his dreams, it’s always Sherlock sinking below a dark, glassy surface, and John who dives in after him, his heart frozen with terror when he can’t find him.  Sherlock is lost to him, sinking to the bottom, already dead. 

He wakes, thrashing like a drowning man, gasping and weeping and inconsolable.

“John.” 

His lungs still heaving, he stills, lies panting in the sheets, now cold with his sweat. 

“John, wake up. You were having a nightmare.”

He gropes, feeling for a warm body. 

--

Tagging in the replies!

[anisohtropy]

since Alhaitham knows over 20 languages fluently (which itself is very autismcore), he probably dreams in different languages once he’s actually able to dream. It’s disorienting at first because it swaps between them wildly because dream logic but eventually it settles into single language dreams and he’ll wake up thinking in that language without noticing until he says something to Kaveh, who’s like I don’t actually know as many languages as you and Alhaitham says some shit like that’s not my fault, just learn

Relatedly, Alhaitham’s been writing love letters over the years in various languages both living and dead and when Kaveh finds them it’s a whole thing 

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 26 - Nightmares

title: almost unintentionally

fandom: hermitcraft smp

continuation of days 8 and 23, the sleep cycle au!

~

They’re holding him down.

They’re always holding him down, tying him up, hurting him—

They snap a muzzle around his face and he thrashes, he can’t he won’t, they can do anything to him but not this—

He can’t see, blinded by fear, but he knows, somehow, that he’s in the room with the burning floor. He gets a moment’s respite, a moment to claw at his face with mittened hands, before he feels the floor begin to heat up beneath his bare feet—

Ren wakes with a gasp.

For a moment, he thinks he’s still back there, on that stupid folding table with those idiots coming for him, ready to hurt him and restrain him and for what?

He snarls, and snaps his teeth, and raises his hands to defend himself—

But there’s no one there.

He’s alone in his bed, the sheets wrapped tightly around his body. The shadows around his bedroom are innocuous, and none of them hold the faces of his tormentors.

That’s . . . what, the sixth nightmare in six days? He needs to get a grip.

Ren kicks his legs free of the sheets and sits up, pushes his sweaty hair out of his face. It’s still dark, which means he should probably try to get back to sleep, but he feels sticky and overstimulated and a shower sounds really nice right about now.

He strips quickly, his soft pajama pants dragging like sandpaper against his legs. Really overstimulated, then. He might need to break out the weighted pillow for this one.

He picks up his communicator, but doesn’t check it. He just carries it with him, in case someone needs to reach him in an emergency.

Ren leaves the light off in the restroom when he limps in (his feet are still recovering from their burns, curse them, and each step is less than pleasant), just turns the shower on and waits for the water to heat up until standing is uncomfortable, then steps into the tub, settling into the shower chair that he’d borrowed from Scar.

The hot water falling onto his shoulders and head feels heavenly, switched to the highest pressure possible so that it practically drums into his skin. Ren sighs and melts under it, runs one clawed hand through his hair.

They hadn’t even wanted him. Not really. He was just bait, bait for Doc and Tango to follow.

Bait.

Ren’s fingers clench in his hair.

He’d gotten off easy, all things considered. Some bumps and bruises. Scratches on his face. A broken rib, quickly healed by a potion. Some burns on his feet that kept him on bed rest for a couple of days, but nothing major.

(Nightmares, every night, reliving the captivity.)

Better than Tango, who hasn’t spoken to anyone since.

Better than Impulse, who had been tortured the entire week and forced to stay awake.

Better than Mumbo, malnourished and trembling, left there for two months, no one searching for him.

Better than Doc, his entire goshdarn arm missing, his horns shaved down to nubs, his mechanical eye mangled, his molars pulled and more.

Xisuma wants them all to go to therapy. Probably for the best, but Ren feels a little like a baby, pulling up with his tiny problems compared to the others. So what, he’s got a couple of lousy nightmares. That isn’t the end of the world. That isn’t worth wasting some professional’s time.

Cleaning himself would probably be a good thing to do in the shower, so Ren grabs some shampoo and squeezes it into his hand, massaging his scalp aggressively. He didn’t check the bottle, but when he smells roses he realizes that he grabbed Bdubs’s shampoo. Good, it’s better for his thick hair.

He likes the smell, too. It makes him think of Bdubs, of his tight hugs and chipper smile. It smells fresh, not too overwhelming.

It’s calming.

He rinses it out, eyes closed to allow for the suds dripping down his face.

He hadn't bathed during his captivity. His body had grown grimier and grimier, sweat staining his days-old clothes, his usually well-trimmed beard getting scratchy and stubbly. He'd hated it, hated the feeling of his clothes against his sticky skin, hated that he couldn't do anything about it.

He rubs a bar of soap along his skin now, as if cleansing himself of the memories. The shower chair makes it a bit awkward to wash everything, honestly. He should get around to returning it to Scar soon, now that he's no longer in the phase of needing to wrap his feet in plastic to keep the wounds dry for every shower. He's pretty much recovered, six days after the ordeal.

He spent longer there than it took for him to heal.

Isn't that weird?

Isn't it weird that this whole thing elapsed two weeks, and nothing more?

Ren shakes himself—physically, even, his hair slapping against the wall of the shower. For him it lasted two weeks. Impulse is still having trouble sleeping, Tango hasn’t been seen by anyone. Doc won't be alone. Mumbo doesn't talk.

He doesn't even have it bad.

He wishes he could fall asleep under the spray of the shower. He feels calmer here than he has in days, worried over nothing serious.

But he can’t hide in the shower forever.

Even so, he takes a couple more minutes, just sitting there and basking in it, before he reluctantly switches off the shower, the last couple drops bouncing off his chest. Then he stands, grimacing at the wet seat against his bare skin—fine while the shower was on, unbearable now that it’s off.

He rubs his wrists while he towels off. There’d been divots in the skin there when he was first rescued, but they’ve filled back out with a health potion and time. They’re still a bit bruised, but no longer tender to the touch.

Barely anything.

He limps back to his bedroom, grabs a fresh pair of boxers out of his dresser. It’s the last pair—he’ll have to do laundry. Might as well do it now, seeing as he doesn’t exactly plan on going back to sleep. Heck, then he’d have a nice, toasty, good-smelling pile of laundry to flop onto. That might lull him into sleep.

Knock-knock-knock-knock.

Ren scrunches his eyes closed for a moment. What time is it? Is it still early enough to reasonably ignore visitors?

He squints at the wall clock—three in the morning. Yeah, it is.

But he won’t do that.

He grabs a t-shirt out of his dresser and pulls it on over his head, clumsily sticking his arms through the holes. It’s a little bit small—probably belongs to Scar. Then he makes his slow way out of his room and to his front door, which he opens without checking to see who might be there.

It’s Doc.

Doc, his horns missing, his arm unfinished, shadows of bruises still painting his face.

Doc offers him a half-smile. “Hello.”

“How’d you know I was up?” Ren rasps, and he suddenly realizes he hasn’t drunk any water since getting up, making his voice still heavy with sleep. 

Doc lifts his communicator (in his organic hand, his mechanical arm not entirely reconstructed). “You stopped being AFK. Did you move your communicator?”

Ren doesn’t think about how that means Doc was already awake, watching the server list. He just shrugs, turns around to head back to his room, leaving the door open in his wake.

Doc follows him in, his footsteps heavier than Ren’s, all the way back to his bedroom, where Ren starts grabbing the various articles of dirty clothing strewn about his room and throwing them into the half-full laundry basket in his closet. Doc doesn’t move from the doorway, simply observing.

“Did you just shower?”

“Mhm.”

“Mind if I use your shower? Scar said you have his chair.”

Is that what Doc came over for? Ren shrugs.

“Go for it, dude.”

Doc leaves, and a few moments later Ren hears the sound of the shower running again, so he finishes gathering up the clothes and throws them all into the washer.

It’s too early to be doing chores, but Ren’s already started, so he picks up the dirty dishes in his room and takes them all to his kitchen sink, where he starts scrubbing methodically.

There aren’t too many. He finishes it quickly (though not quickly enough, his feet aching where he stands) and finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the dark floor.

He’s tired.

He’s been tired since they got out, and it doesn’t seem to be letting up any time soon.

The shower turns off.

Ren sighs, runs a hand down his face. He needs to shave. It can wait until morning proper, but he doesn’t like the stubble on his cheeks.

How long will the laundry take? Probably thirty minutes. Have thirty minutes passed? No, it would beep its freaking head off to let him know.

He’s so tired.

After a couple of minutes of staring at the floor, he hears the restroom door open. He listens idly to the rustling of Doc making his way back to the room, then the way the floorboards creak under his weight as he crosses the bedroom.

Doc rummages through Ren’s dresser without asking, pulling out a shirt and throwing it on awkwardly, his half-completed robotic arm still wrapped in dripping plastic. The shirt is one of Doc’s own, and he growls frustratedly as he shoves his arm through the sleeve, then tears off the plastic and balls it up.

Doc misses the trash can when he tosses the plastic, but he doesn’t try again. He just comes round to the other side of Ren’s bed and rolls in, shoving the blankets away.

“You need to sleep,” Doc grumbles. “Lie down.”

Ren sighs.

Then he complies, slumping back against the pillows. He only resists a moment before leaning into Doc’s slightly damp shirt.

Doc takes it one step further, wrapping his good arm around Ren and holding him there. The heavy weight of his arm feels nice, and Ren buries his face into Doc’s shoulder where the neckline of the shirt has slipped slightly, letting him shove his nose into Doc’s fur. It smells like citrus, orange and lemon, good and clean.

“Keralis,” Ren mumbles.

Doc hums. “Couldn’t find my bodywash.”

“Probably just as good. He’s always bragging about how expensive it is.”

“Rich bastard.”

Doc’s chest rumbling against him is comfortable, homey. Ren’s eyes droop; he yawns.

“Haven’t been able to sleep so well,” Doc admits quietly, in the darkness of Ren’s room. The washer whirs somewhere in the distant background. “Nightmares.”

Ren’s been having nightmares, too, but he can’t help but feel guilty. They can’t be anything compared to Doc’s.

“About what they did to you,” Doc continues, and Ren freezes.

What?

“What?” he says aloud, pushing back a bit to see Doc’s face. “I—but I was fine!”

Doc’s eyes are closed, his brows furrowed. “I saw you,” he says, after a long moment. “They showed me you. With—with that muzzle on. I know you hate those things.”

“I—”

“What they did to me hurt,” Doc says. “What they did to you hurt, too.”

“It’s . . . it’s different,” Ren says weakly.

“I don’t think so.”

Ren sighs. “I don’t want to argue about it, dude. I’m too tired.”

Doc shrugs. “Okay. We’ll talk in the morning. But you went through hell, too, dude. You don’t have to feel bad for us just because you think we had it worse.”

Typical. Typical Doc, always guessing exactly what he was thinking.

Ren doesn’t respond to that.

He just snuggles back up against Doc and lets himself fall asleep.

When he wakes up a couple hours later from another nightmare, terrified and ashamed, he’s still in Doc’s warm hold.

So Ren lets himself doze. They both deserve a lie-in, he thinks.

The laundry can wait until later.

[ghostofnuggetspast]

😶🥺😮‍💨😣💀

You weren't kidding yesterday, wow.

Nightmare - May Prompt (15)

+

cw: major character death

+

“S’alright.”

“Oh god, no. Please. Don’t do this.”

This cannot be happening. This is worse than the worst versions of his nightmares, the ones where he’s shot to death in Afghanistan, where he doesn’t hand Sherlock his phone, he doesn’t move into 221B, he doesn’t fall in love, the ones where Sherlock jumps and stays dead. 

This is Sherlock actually dying in John’s arms. 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you’re indestructible,” and the first tear leaks out of the corner of his eye as his voice breaks. His heart’s already done, a portent of things to come.

Through the pain Sherlock laughs, mostly a gurgling gasp now. Many injuries are survivable. This one is not. John knows they won’t be getting Chinese at the end of Baker Street tonight. 

“I wish,” is all Sherlock says. His eyes droop a little, anchored still on John. He’s tired.

John presses firmly over the wound until his fingers turn white, then stain a deep red.

“You’re not going to die. You can’t die.”

Sherlock breathes. Slowly smiles. 

“Sorry, John.” His fading moonlight eyes. “Human…human being.”

A love like theirs will live beyond the next moment, will transcend the singular second when one of them has to leave the other behind. 

Their love is not forever. 

What they have reaches far beyond a word like that.

+

Today is my birthday! For me, today, tell someone you love 'em.

Thank you to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series! Tags in replies. Thanks for reading! <3

[dandelionjack]

if the conclusion to russell’s ‘pantheon arc’ will be that the doctor eventually gets named the ‘god of life’, i’ll be so disappointed. that’d feel so cheap and underdeveloped, and factually inaccurate since he’s more linked to death and endings than anything. if he has to be the ‘god of’ some conceptual domain (i dislike that phrasing anyhow, it’s simplistic, but that’s just a personal pet peeve), it should be either of the following:

god of change (central theme of the show)

god of hope (my personal favourite contender)

god of stories (lol, yeah, I KNOW. it works, ok?)

[keypostos]

caleb is 10 when he realizes that he's a physical touch fiend. the rush he gets when his hand lingers on top of your skin after playing with you is like no other. when he presses into your side while you're reading, his thoughts always circle around one topic: you, you, you. when you would run into his room after a nightmare, caleb was ready to swoop you in his arms and hold you until you fell asleep. every response towards you was involuntary.

caleb is 15 when he realizes that teasing 13-year-old you becomes irresistible. when he holds up your book, pencil, or some other item in the air, he watches as you jump up and down to try and grab it back. he's grown a lot in three years; if he had to estimate, he's a whole head taller than you now—20cm at least.

when you throw yourself onto him in an attempt to get your stuff back, he falters. you're laying against him on the couch, shuffling and moving up and down over his body, and caleb's breath hitches. you're so close and right there.

he's going insane. you can't even stand up for five seconds before caleb pulls you down against him once more, saying something about retaliation or revenge while tickling you to death.

caleb is 20 when he's about to leave for the DAA. there's an air of silence around the house. you've trapped yourself in your room more often, stressing over your senior finals. at least, that's what you've been telling him.

"i'm sorry caleb, i really need to study for this test."

"oh! i totally forgot about that project i had due tonight. shit, i'm sorry caleb. we'll have another movie night soon, okay?"

he doesn't know if you're actually this busy or if you're actually ignoring him. all he does know is that he misses you. he wonders about how he could miss someone who was in the room across from him. you were so close, but so far.

when you found out he was leaving—though you had a grin on your face while congratulating him—caleb knew you were devastated. he wondered if you were secretly mad at him for leaving.

two weeks before his departure, he practically forces you to be around him. he laid down next to you like before. he stroked your hair while you napped on the couch. he teased you and picked you up so you could hit him and grab him like you used to. he always chose to put his arm around you during a movie. he dragged you by the hand all around the neighborhood. he needed to all of that again, a thousand times more.

but at 24, it seems like there may have been a wedge between the two of you. calls are more and more infrequent.

"sorry, space signal sucks," he'd type.

"sorry, i was busy with training!" you'd reply, 2 days later.

he thinks that he would do anything to go back to before. he hasn't felt you in months. he sees you only twice a year.

it's hard. it was excruciating during the first few weeks. not only was he dealing with bootcamp, but he always found himself looking to his side, thinking you'd be there with him. at night, you were there, right next to him in bed.

he imagined that you would whisper words of reassurance in his ear. you'd hold onto him like you used to, when you had nightmares, and wrap your legs between his. there were days where we stroked his necklace, wishing that it was your hand instead. what he would give to have you next to him.

all he wants is to be able to feel you again. he chastises his 10-year-old self for taking you for granted back then. he wants to feel the apples of your cheeks when he caresses your face. once,—when he was 13 (you, 11)—he did that, and he thought you had a fever the way you warmed up. if he could, caleb would build a time machine to go back to that.

caleb is 25 when he is out of your life.

he thinks about you every day. it reminds him of when he was in bootcamp five years ago. it takes him back to when he was fifteen; you were on top of him, and his brain was fried to a crisp. caleb wonders if he's always been this way, because he can recall that at ten, you were still the only thing consuming his mind.

even during his arm repairs, you're there throughout all the pain.

when you discover his metal arm, all of caleb's instincts point to the door. he's spent so long trying to hide it from you: it's the constant long-sleeves (even though they made him incredibly uncomfortable), or making sure to only touch you with his left-hand (even though he wanted to pull you in with both hands).

but he stays. because it's you.

you freeze momentarily, listening to his writhes and moans of pain. caleb only notices you're there when he feels your hands brush his shoulder. he jolts back in surprise, and he sees you looming over him.

he stammers something, not even sure of what he said because you're here. you see him. you see it.

caleb's wanted this for so long. he wanted to see you again, in a state where you were both vulnerable, like old times. however, that moment probably wouldn't have come if he doesn't confess about this, so he relays the details.

you listen attentively, eyes wide with shock as caleb goes on. your hands wrap around his metal one, and he feels nothing. it's agonizing. he sees you examine him so gently. your fingers trace over bolts and plates of metal, lightly stroking up and down his arm. and caleb feels nothing.

how often has he dreamed of this? for you to be touching him again, so intimately and softly? he's stayed up countless nights wishing for you to be here, just so he can put his arms around you in a crushing embrace, only to be incapable of feeling you on one side of his body.

you pull away from his arm, asking if the fleet was accountable. when he doesn't say anything, he feels your weight lift off the bed and go towards the door.

whatever happens next is involuntary. he uses his flesh arm to pull you back, caging you between his forearm and his chest. there's no thought to it, no rationalization. it's just you and him. and he's been deprived of this for so long.

he breathes into the crevice of your neck, and he has half a mind to place his entire face there. he wants to breathe you in after being away from you for so long. no conversations, no contact, no touching. the last time he was this close to you was years ago. he needs this, caleb thinks.

the feel of you against his bare chest is something he cannot seem to describe. it's like he's his teenage (or even kid) self again, where he seems to short-circuit whenever he comes in contact with you. you're still small compared to him, but you fit perfectly like you did a decade ago.

he lets you go after he feels you trembling. you don't hesitate to place your hands on his waist and tackle him onto the bed. you catch him off-guard as you pin him beneath you, looking straight into his eyes.

"hold me," you plead, "with your right hand."

caleb lets out a shaky breath. there are voltages of electricity flowing through him—literally and figuratively. his skin sparks alive when he feels you. will it be the same with the metal arm?

slowly, caleb raises his mechanical arm. he wraps it around you, and feels the movement of your back shift downwards. you released a breath you didn't know you were holding. caleb held his.

you wait patiently before caleb starts running his metal hand up and down your back. you watch him exhale as he continues. you press your forehead on his, and you breathe in tandem with him.

caleb is 25 when he discovers that he loves physical touch.

wow like i didn't expect this to get so long... but like here we are???

i think we need to start embracing touch-starved caleb in all of our fics. this man hasn't seen the love of his life in YEARS (infrequently, anyway) so i think once she touches him (like INTIMATELY) for the first time in years he goes a little cray.

also sorry the ending was rushed i wanted to get this over with bc i intented this to be like 500 words but obviously it got way longer than that. what can i say... this freak has dug into my brain.

[ghostofnuggetspast]

May prompt and WIP Wednesday! Nice. Not nice for John though. Poor man.

So. This is part of two things.

May 15 Prompt: Nightmare, from @calaisreno’s prompt list. Check out their wonderful prompts!

AND

It’s a sneak peak for my current WIP: A Gentleman’s Shrine. You can find the post of what this fic is going to be about here.

Warnings: PTSD and Violence

A little context: This story takes place after WWI in England. John is on his way to the Noble Legacy Gala (explained in the post that I linked), and he catches himself in a nightmare.

•*•*•*•

It’s constant. Redundant. Persistent. Ceaseless.

Never-ending.

John only hears his panicked breaths, higher than normal. Dust is caught in his throat, gunfire is ringing in his ears. His sweaty hands are clinging to his rifle like it’s his one and only. Both German and English intertwine and he’s not sure which one he’s supposed to speak. He doesn’t believe he can speak.

Before John knows it, he catches a soldier’s head being pierced by a bullet, another taking the wrong step and his body detonates, blood splattering everywhere. He can’t move, or more like he doesn’t want to move because what the fuck is this?

This isn’t what he signed up for, it’s not. This doesn’t feel prosperous or close to honor. This doesn’t feel like he’s fighting for anything, let alone his country.

No, he is in the presence of hell. The Western Front is where men turn into something equivalent to animals, fighting for land they will never step foot on. It is where intelligent minds turn into a sequence of survival instincts. It is where all humanity comes to an end.

“Get up, Watson!” John barely registers a strong hand pull on his arm, hoisting him up and out of the mud mixed with blood. “You’re gonna die if you don’t–”

Whoever was speaking to him is shot to the floor, his limp body hitting the mud John was just near unconscious on. Limping away, John stumbles through the trench, looking for…something. Or was it someone? Was he even looking for anything in the first place? What was he searching for? What was he after? What is the point?

Someone charges after him with a close—combat knife, and John holds his rifle up and shoots. He shoots the man. He’s dead. He’s–

No. No, no, no. What has he done? What has he–

John kneels down next to the man, checking vital signs, as if that will accomplish anything. He hears him mutter something in German, but John doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand anything. Realizing he’s doing everything in the wrong order, John tries to press down on the wound and attempts to stop the flow, but it's no use. When a river begins, it doesn’t cease.

John sobs, repeating an apology that won’t do any good. He’s a doctor, he’s trained for this, he can help. He can help, he can sort this out and get this man to safety because he has a family at home and they’re waiting for him. They’re waiting for him and John’s made their wait worth nothing.

This is wrong, this is all wrong. He wants to go home. He wants to go back to Mum and Harry. He doesn’t want to forget the feeling of sitting at the dinner table and eating his mum’s soup.

Keep the pressure, keep the pressure. Don’t let this man die.

He doesn’t want to forget the voice of his sister, cracking jokes and hearing his mum scold her for the inappropriate ones.

The man is dead, but John doesn’t stop the pressure. He will never stop. He will never stop apologizing, and he will never forget the man muttering in German, “Please, God, let me live.”

——

John screams as he wakes, jolting up in his seat. He takes several deep breaths, trying to calm himself, return to a leveled mindset that he didn’t have during the war.

“Sir?” a man’s voice asks. “Sir, are you well?” He puts a hand on John’s shoulder and John flinches away. Realizing his rude behavior, John forces himself to lose the tension in his body, shifting in his seat. He swallows.

“Uh–yes. Yes, I apologize. I…” John looks around the train, seeing the other participants staring at him with horrified expressions. Mothers hold their children tightly and fathers grace him with disturbed looks. John forces his eyes to the crew member, who seems unsure of what to do in this position. “Only a nightmare,” John dismisses, clearing his throat.

“Should…we move you to another cart?” the man asks, eyes flickering to the other people seated.

John’s jaw clicks. “No, this isn’t to happen again, I assure you. I’ll be fine here.”

With hesitance, the man nods. “Alright, then. Would you care for any refreshments?”

“No,” John says. “Thank you.” The man leaves and John’s face burns. He’s made a fool of himself, he never should have fallen asleep, no matter how long the journey is.

Everyone in the cart begins to forget about the outburst, going back to their conversations or finishing their small meals. John rests his head on the back of his seat and stares out the window, watching plains of grass pass by and sheep being heard.

John should soon be arriving at the next train station soon enough. He closes his eyes, wondering what his life has become.

*•*•*•*

I hope you all enjoyed this little sneak peak! I saw the prompt for today and thought it was perfect for this. This fic is currently in the works and I promise that it includes a lot of research, not just assumptions or blind facts, haha. So I’m certainly trying my best ❤️

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @thegildedbee @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked @cortina @kettykika78 @johnlockbbc

(Let me know if you want to be tagged in the future)

[snowjemmer]

Uh oh! Had a PTSD realization while stoned and playing overwatch

[vampfucker666]

i keep trying to look for bulk packs of doll shoes because i have so many shoeless wonders in my collection but most of the ones im finding have just the ugliest fucking over the top decorated heels as 90% of the shoes included. man i just need some pumps.

[queeranarchism]

Adulting advice: if you think you can’t do a thing because you tried it as a child or teenager and you sucked really badly: try it again.

You may not notice it, but as an adult you continue gaining motor skills, insight, problem solving skills and above all patience and resilience in the face of failure. Also puberty can be a nightmare. For some of us it’s just harder to do things when we’re full of insecurities, low impulse control and focus, heightened emotions, etc. A thing that was hard for 15 year old you might not be hard for 25 or 35 or 45 years old you.

I thought I was the absolute worst at sowing because I tried to learn it in my teenage years and failed spectacularly at the most basic tasks. Turns out I just didn’t have the patience and focus for it yet. I tried it again recently and it didn’t take long at all to learn how to make my own clothes. (And oh my, being able to make any outfit I want in any fabric is a queer superpower.)

It really sucks that we’re told quite early in life what our talents are and we end up assuming that there are some things we’re just not good at, when the truth is that learning as an adult is just completely different from learning as a child.

[ghostofnuggetspast]

You both suck so much at communicating. Uuuuuuugh John, reign it in. Sherlock, take a deep breath and apologize ffs

May 15 - Nightmare

We're at a crossroads! Eek! Time for timelines to start merging. It's gonna be a bumpy few days. Enjoy!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"When were you planning on telling me?" John's fury was written on his face, in his stance, in the tone of voice. Sherlock lowered the phone and turned to look at the man in the doorway.

"John." 

"You're going to run away again. Is this all you ever do?"

"I don't..." 

"Don't what? Actually want to stick around? I let you be a part of my daughter's life! How are you going to explain this nightmare to Rose?"

"John." Sherlock stared at his friend. Unable to find the words in the face of such anger. 

"I heard it all, Sherlock. I know you're leaving us."

"I... it's not what you seem to think." John took a step forward. Sherlock willed himself not to move backwards despite his brain reminding him that the last time John was this angry...

"So 221 isn't up for sale? You've not just accepted an offer." Sherlock swallowed and looked away. "So it's exactly what I'm thinking."

John turned and walked back towards the door, his back rigid, his steps clipped. 

"I trusted you. But all you ever do is leave me behind." Suddenly, John was back, forcing Sherlock back up against the wall. John's fist connected with the wall beside Sherlock's head. "Fuck you, Sherlock." 

As John left, Sherlock merely stood, staring at the plaster, broken. 

All for @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge. Read the whole fic here

[sennamybeloved]

⛧ SELFSHIPTOBER 2024 ⛧

HELLO ALL! welcome to another year of selfshiptober. i've noticed this is pretty much the 'official' selfship tober event now, which honestly warms my heart! i love seeing what this wonderful community does with my prompts :)

this year, i'm doing things a little differently. EACH DAY HAS TWO PROMPTS ASSIGNED TO IT. the first set is SHIPPY, while the second set is SPOOKY. you may either COMBINE THE TWO PROMPTS TOGETHER or CHOOSE ONE OF THE PROMPTS. the spooky prompts are a bit on the grittier side and probably won't appeal to most, so if you'd like to only use the first set of prompts and completely ignore the second, be my guest! on the other hand, if you prefer the gritter prompts, you can only use the second set of prompts, you can do that too! if you want an extra challenge, you can create a piece that incorporates both of the day's prompts. you can also change your approach depending on how you feel that day!

there are no hard rules for this. YOU CAN START WORKING ON THIS CHALLENGE EARLY, but i encourage you to wait until october to post anything. YOU CAN ALSO CONTINUING WORKING ON IT AFTER OCTOBER ENDS! you can drag this shit out into december for all i care. just DON'T OVERWORK YOURSELF PLEASE.

without further ado, LET US PROCEED TO THE PROMPTS!

#1. confession  |  night.

#2. blanket  |  flame.

#3. embrace  |  blood.

#4. apple picking  |  fog.

#5. all dressed up  |  blade.

#6. carnival  |  haunted.

#7. rain  |  infection.

#8. swim  |  terror.

#9. music  |  masquerade.

#10. warmth  |  claws.

#11. comfort  |  recovery.

#12. married  |  ritual.

#13. party  |  magic.

#14. date night  |  vampire.

#15. games  |  hunt.

#16. candy  |  illusion.

#17. heart  |  feast.

#18. pining  |  violent.

#19. shared hobby  |  potion.

#20. trust  |  experiment.

#21. snuggle  |  nightmare.

#22. kiss  |  scars.

#23. movie night  |  slasher.

#24. baking  |  empty.

#25. rest  |  bandages.

#26. beautiful  |  grotesque.

#27. decorations  |  cemetery.

#28. brush  |  forest.

#29. pumpkin  |  lantern.

#30. flowers  |  snow.

#31. halloween  |  death.

TAG YOUR CREATIONS AS #SELFSHIPTOBER 2024 AND TAG ME IF YOU'D LIKE ME TO SEE! i cannot guarantee interaction as i struggle socially, but i promise i'll look at everything! HAPPY CREATING ♡

[harmoonix]

Forever

- Astrology observations -

Channeling Song:

People with their Moons in the 1st, 7th or 10th house. With moon in these houses you can easily fake your emotions and people might have a hard time to understand how you feel. Your emotional nature becomes more public rather than private, you might hate crying in front of others.

Sun aspecting the Moon can create identity or personality issues, you might have a hard time understanding things about yourself, you are very indecisive, and you have it hard opening to others

Saturn in the 4th, 6th, 8th, or 12th house natives tend to be private. You won´t know many things about them. These people do not like to share that many things, neither often being secretive or mysterious to the people around them

Lilith harshly aspecting the Moon (square, opposition, conjunction) can create lots of hate and underwhelming feelings. These aspects often create tense situations with other women/girls

Lilith in the 10th house can be a placement indicating exposing/shaming publicly. You can be exposed by others and, at the same time, to expose them in front of others

Mercury - Pluto/Mars aspects have a big mouth. They do not let anyone dissrespect them or the people they love. They might get aggressive when defending others or standing up for themselves

Mars aspecting MC tends to get in controversial situations in their life, take care of who you have around you, take care of who you talk/share things to, because it can end with drama

Virgo in the 8th or 12th house tends to have a lot of fears, especially if Mars is involved too. They can have lots of phobias, nightmares, ptsd, ocd and many more

Venus or Mars in the 8th house can get involved in "friends with benefits," and one night stands sometimes, making the native to crave satisfaction from other people even though it is wrong

Pluto/Lilith/Saturn in the 5th house had to grow up too soon. They might have lots of intense feelings when it comes to their childhood and having a hurt inner child.

Capricorn or Saturn in the 7th house, your parnters can cross your boundaries very often, standing your ground might help but is important to date mature people from now on

If you have Pisces or Neptune in the 7th house, your exes might come often back to you. You can have that "missing the partner" feeling once they break up with you...they will come back

10, 22, 8, 20 degrees on sun can indicate the native tends to appear intimidating to others, they can have a cold personality and may seem harsh at first

7, 19, 2, 14, 26 degrees on moon can indicate the native often gets inspired from things that hold a meaning/are dear for them. These natives are good at making a good first impression

Jupiter square/opposite Mercury can have a hard time being positive. Their mind plays a big role in this one. Your brain controls everything, Jupiter helps by trying to make the native less depressed

Saturn in Gemini/Virgo/3rd/6th or at 6° 18°, 3° 15° 27° degrees, even though Saturn here has the communication skills of mercury, the native tenda to be shy/anxious at their workplace

Sun aspecting Saturn natives have high self-control. Usually, if it comes together with an earth sign or degrees

'She can beat me, but she cannot beat my outfit' - an Aries Rising.

Leo/Sun/Libra/Venus/Mars/Aries in the 7th house secretly want their partners to tell them. 'You're my favorite'

(IM CRYING FOR ARIES MARS PPL LMAOO MY FRIEND SEND ME THIS:😭😭😭

The topic is about Mars signs in bed*

Virgo Mars natives are not safe neither😭🙏🏼)

On topic, these mars signs can have it good and struggle sexually at the same time .

Mars or Saturn harshly aspecting the Ascendant or Sun can make the natives body not so strong./sensible body or bones. Sometimes, even struggling with an ED (eating disorder). If you think you have, you should definitely contact a doctor on it

Mercury in the 5th, 7th, 8th houses can be so good at flirting/talking dirty/charming others with their words

I feel natives with Saturn or Uranus in their 2nd/10th house struggle with finding their worth. You struggle to see your true potential

Mercury aspecting Moon natives genuinely have a beautiful mind/mindset. You can fall in love with they way their think/perpective/logic. But you can also learn a lot from these people

Chrion in the 6th/12th house axis can make the native to not feel 'real' sometimes. You can question life so often and wonder if 'is it worth it'

Chiron in the 1st/8th house can overthink hardly when they're hurt/in pain. Sometimes blaming all on themselves

If you have a strong connection with someone's 5th house, you can easily end up dating them/liking each other after a while

Have a good start of the week everybody!🩵🩵

Harmoonix 🩵

[fathialhaj]

Urgent & Emergency Help 🚨🚨🚨

🕐 Kindly take just 1 minute of your time to read my 454 Nightmare story 🇵🇸.

I am Fathi Alhaj, and Ana who organized my GFM campaign, is my best friend. Her wonderful family hosted me in 2013 in their house in Seattle while I was representing Palestine in the US during the MEPI program.

Unexpectedly, after the 7th of October, my life turned upside down, transforming us into seekers of life amidst all this death, destruction, and darkness in Gaza.

After losing our homes, my car, my job, and everything we had, I created a campaign to help my family survive and meet our basic human needs for food, water, and shelter during our 6th displacement in Gaza, and rebuild our lives when we can evacuate 👨‍👩‍👧‍👧

Please be assured that any help brings us closer to our goal, and no matter how small your donation may be, it will make a big difference in our lives, we reqch 15% and by your help we will achive our dream 🫂🫂❤️❤️

As Martin Luther King said:

"Everyone can be great because everyone can serve."

Please spread Ana’s words in our story at the donation link below and support me, my two Kids and my family as much as you Can please

🫂❤️🇵🇸👨‍👩‍👧‍👧🍉

One day befor the War,

After 453 days 💔

👨‍👩‍👧‍👧🔗 Donation link :

https://gofund.me/0580344a

✅️✅️ Vetted by : @gazavetters No. 169 / @bilal-salah0

@90-ghost @heritageposts @gazavetters @neechees @butchniqabi @redbuddi @reginaofdoctorwho @tamamita @littlestpersimmon @halalchampagnesocialist @heydreamer @halimaidmf @wizardarcher @virovac @variantsofblue @littlestpersimmon

@halalchampagnesocialist @heydreamcatcher-blog @halimaidmf @kindergarten-mafia @officialssay @ot3 @o-lanterns @bixels @butchfemmelove @buttercupagere @officialssay @ot3 @o-lanterns @imlizy-blog-blog @brilcrist @butchfemmelove @buttercupagere @wilwheaton @wellwaterhysteria @papermagazine @prisonhannibal @razzberrysheep @fading-event-608 @tamamita @autisticmudkip @heliophilos @akajustmerry @fromjannah @sweet-honey-bunnies @nevert-the-guy @deathlonging @girlinafairytalelovestory

Fathi Alhaj