#motor relearning

[rakesh-snike]

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[shoecrabs]

continuing with my Leo with prosthetics propaganda (by giving him an arm gun his little bro :))

zoomed in pics of my faves as well

[hgmason-hellion]

Wayfinder trio except they're the Elric Brothers from Fullmetal Alchemist and Aqua is Winry

Oh no, I went off in the tags

[little-pondhead]

The Phantom's Letters

[I had fun with this]

—

Uh...hey, I guess. 

I don't know how to start this, but I'm your…son. I think? Maybe clone. Still trying to figure out the details of that. But I just wanted to send a letter. I don't want a reply, but I just wanted to let y'all know I exist. It would feel nice if you did. 

And, uh, I don't have anything else to say, really? I have a sister. She's my adopted sister, so she's not related to you, but my sister says that writing letters is one of the ways you can vent your frustrations and organize your thoughts. She wants to be a therapist, so I'll take her word for it. I guess this is just my way of being angry. I can't be angry any other way, too many people would get hurt. 

So if this works out, expect more angry letters in the future? CW says that bottling up my negative emotions and keeping everything to myself will lead me down a dark path, and I'm trying to avoid the end of the world, thank you. So you're gonna be my outlet. My...trashcan. Ew, no. That sounds like the title of a weird porno Johnny made me watch once. I just need someone to see the ugly side of me, without expecting anything else. Right now I'm just basically yelling into an empty void, trying to be 'healthy' about my feelings.

Sorry. If you don't like the letters, just burn them or something. I won't care. 

Anyways, uh. See you next time?

-Phantom

—

Ancients, this is still weird. CW said it was helping, though. So that's good. 

I failed my English test today. I didn't mean to. I even studied all weekend! But Boxy decided it was the perfect time to get into a fight with Lunch Lady, and we nearly had another Nasty Burger Incident. By the time I returned from breaking them up, the class was over, and I got an automatic zero. It was an important test. Like, a state one. I'm still...sad, I think. 

I'm not sure. I know I'm disappointed in someone, but I don't know who. Myself? Lunch Lady? Boxy? The teacher? Whatever. As long as I don't cheat, it's not the end of the world. 

Being a student sucks major ass.

-Phantom

—

hehehehehehe

I played a prank on my friends today! I turned everything upside down in their lockers and switched the colors of their clothes. It was really funny, even if they gave me shit for it. I had some help from Sidney Poindexter, this guy I know, so everything was right at the end of the day. 

Sidney's a pretty alright dude once you get to know him. He hated me at first cause he thought I was being a bully to this jock kid, Dash. When in reality, I’m the one being bullied. That day Sidney caught me messing around, I was just trying to get some payback after Dash did something really nasty. It was really weird, looking back, cause Sidney suddenly got up all in my face and kept trying to defend Dash, thinking I was some horrible person. Eventually, the mix-up got cleared up, and I apologized to Sidney for reminding him of his trauma around bullying. He hates it for a reason. Don’t tell him I told you this, but Sidney died from being stuffed into a locker by a bully and being left there. Now I’m afraid of getting stuck in my locker, even if I know I can get out. And Sidney would never let that happen to another kid. It just…eats at me. Whenever Dash closes that metal door on me. It always feels final.

Huh. Am I claustrophobic?

-Phantom

—

I defeated Skulker again today! Whoo!

Who is Skulker, you may ask? Why, he’s only the most annoying and persistent bounty hunter I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. I don’t even have a bounty on my head! Well, except for that one from Walker, but Skulker hates Walker on principle and rarely teams up with him. Walker likes to put everyone in jail, even me! (Even though I think I’m his grandson somehow??) 

Anyways, Skulker just likes to chase me around cause I’m ‘rare.’ He wants to skin me for his pelt and display it on his island, even though he doesn’t like people visiting said island. So what’s the point? Also, I rather like my skin, thank you. I’ve already been electrocuted to death, I don’t want to keep floating around my afterlife with no skin. I’d have to ditch my organs, too! (Cause bones are more pleasing to look at, aesthetically) And then how would I finish school?

Oh and that whole ‘rare’ thing? BULLSHIT. Skulker regularly takes work from another one of my kind, and most of that work is making my life difficult. There are only four of us in existence right now, maybe five if CW’s hints are to be believed. But let’s stick with the four. There’s me, that fruitloop fucker, and then the other two who are still technically ME! (long story)

Well, enough of that. I blew Skulker’s head off with his own missiles so it’ll take him a while to reassemble himself. I’ll get a break from him, and that’s the only thing that matters.

-Phantom

—

I went to go see Frostbite today, my doctor. 

My kid is finally stable. She’s gonna be discharged next month. 

How do you feel about being a grandparent?

-Phantom

—

Well, I’m not gonna reveal names n shit cause then you might find me, but the kiddo wanted to send you a gift from the sickie bed. Drawing was something she took up to keep herself occupied since she can’t read much yet. Her ‘creator’ didn’t bother to install that knowledge, cause that would apparently lead to more trouble than it’s worth. But she's learning fast! She already picked up a few letters just from the nurse's documents. Granted, they're in the wrong language...

Holy fuck do I want to punch that fruitloop fucker. 

Anyways I’m keeping it short, the doc wants to talk to me about her recovery and medicine plan. I attached the pictures below. 

-Phantom

—

I hurt someone today. I didn’t mean to.

Please, believe me, I didn’t want to. That damn clown-

It hurts so bad. I can’t breathe and my core feels like it’s breaking.

People are flinching at me now. I can still feel bones breaking under my hands, and I can’t remember if blood was spilled. Why me? Why can’t I remember? My friends won’t tell me what I did. Not all of it. 

I know I did something bad. I didn’t-

I can’t do this anymore.

-Phantom

—

Okay, so I’m all better. What’s a little mind control for the trauma list, eh?

Don’t worry about me, I’ve gotten over it. As long as the people close to me know I wouldn’t hurt them on purpose, it’s all good! :D 

Some of the townsfolk kinda hate me now, but I just avoid them. In and out, just get the job done. The others don’t mind. They were affected too, so things will be quiet while we all recover. 

The kiddo is doing okay and is asking about you. I told her I don’t want replies, but she still wants to send a letter. You might get one soon.

-Phantom

—

Hey.

How the FUCK does one handle being a king?

Asking for a friend, thanks.

-King Phantom

P.S. I am not the one putting that signature down. Sorry about that, I’ll get it fixed.

—

Hm. I think it’s fixed now.

-Phantom 2, Electric Boogaloo

—

OKAY, NOW IT’S REALLY FIXED. THAT LAST PART WAS A PRANK FROM MY FRIEND I AM SO SORRY.

You’d think that writing on fucking parchment paper would make it difficult to change one’s signature after it was written in ink. But nope. I just had to make friends with a time lord and teach my friends old magics.

-Phantom

—

Just a heads up, I’m gonna come out to my parents tomorrow. Er, adoptive parents. About my death. About everything. They're ghost hunters, so I may or may not disappear for a bit depending on their reactions. Don’t worry about it, I always come back swinging!

-Phantom

—

bear granbparents ,

my nane is ellie.

i an baddy’s datuher

he needs helq.

pleas come

dab menn in wite

theg got hin

- da n i elle p han tom

—

Danny finds out hes a clone/ adopted, and instead of processing that like a normal person he decides, "Well its not like they can find me so imma mess with my bio parent(s) while venting my frustrations. Two birds with one stone."

Hence (hero or villian of your choice) begins receiving letters via untraceable magic of him telling them he's thier clone/son and just telling them about his day/past adventures.

Unfortunately most of his adventures are horrifying and the person is desperately scrambling to find thier dumb (possibly undead) child and rescue them.

It probably doesn't help that Danny only signs his name as Phantom and is careful not to give clues to his location.

[aggravatedanarchy]

Favorite mode of transportation?

Honestly, I've only ever walked and been driven places before (cars and buses, but like, school buses- not public transport. I think you have to call people about that here if it's something you need/want.) In theory, it's trains though. I just think they're neat and I would probably enjoy myself on one.

OH WAIT. I have been on boats before- like, small ones. I get kinda nervous on them though. And seasick, depending on stuff. So trains still take the lead.

[artisiumstudios]

Stanley goes through extreme head trauma that causes him to either suffer extreme mental trauma and/or even cause him physical trauma. For example age regression or now being unable to speak properly (maybe unable to read) has to relearn how to do that, basically he has brain damage. Now this could go both ways.

(also TW for suicidal thoughts)

Either ford is called in and is told that his brother has been in an accident and when he gets there to the hospital he is told that Stan now requires full time supervision and needs to relearn how to talk, walk, basically everything, ford still wants to hold onto the grudges and be mad for the past. He tries to reinforce this by thinking "oh yeah of course now that im getting settled in now of all times he decides to be hurt. Now that im finally succeeding he has to barge into my life and make ME have to deal with the consequences of his actions." (he thinks while anxiety bubbles up in the pit of his stomach a voice in the back of his head praying that his brother is okay."

But the moment he sees Stan bandaged up, with tubes and wires wrapping around and inside him, keeping alive, all he feels is guilt, he’s scared. Stanley once so strong and lively now silently laying on a cold hard hospital as machines keep his body alive. Its a slow grueling process, first off having to relocate Stanley to Gravity Falls and then having to reteach him how to speak, motor skills, how to read, how to walk, how to live. Not to mention the mental trauma. The exhaustion for both twins, ford having to make time to go with stan to his physical and mental therapy appointments, and Stan having to actually go through with both of those. It only gets worse as Stan regains some of his memories both from his time from the street and the the worse one, the night at the gym leading to him getting kicked out.

he already felt like dead weight for having to rely on Ford all the time, but now with those memories his self hatred and guilt comes back to him full force and all he wishes is that he would've died upon impact. Maybe that way he'd finally stop being a burden.

Alternatively, ford doesn’t find out and Stan is left to relearn everything on his own (when his memory gets better he has some “sense” to ditch the hospital since he won’t be able to pay.) Unfortunately that means he now walks funny and is practically unable to run, his eyes become far too sensitive to light, he’s can't properly talk (he decides to just not say anything at all, after all what’s talking ever done to him but get him in more trouble) and mentally speaking he’s just worse off then before (mood swings, extreme anxiety, and paranoia).

When Ford calls for him it takes a bit longer for him to get there, and when he finally arrives, Ford is worse than in canon, much more irritable, tired, swaying on his feet. Not to mention he has foggy brain which makes it harder to pay attention to anything, to his brother.

Ford gets pissed thinking Stanley is drunk or high, the few words he has spoken are slurred, he’s wearing sunglasses inside the house for Moses sake! Not to mention that he’s literally tripping over himself and that he went from crying because of the crossbow (although Ford is a bit more sympathetic on that one, it would be weird not to panic at a weapon being pointed at you. But even then, t's odd his brother is crying-) to huffing and puffing like a child, to looking extremely fidgety and anxious in the last 40 minutes. Ford gets even more pissed when he tries to tell him about the portal only to find Stanley messing with something else.

He yells at him that he’s irresponsible to show up drunk and continue wasting his time, that he has shown to be untrustworthy once again. Stanley stays silent and unfortunately Ford can’t see the way tears swell in Stan’s eyes once more, he can’t say the way the glaze over as Stanley begins to dissociate. Ford lets Stanley stay the night, saying tomorrow he must leave. In the morning Ford finds Stanley whimpering in pain, his sunglasses are thrown across the room as his brother hit his palms over his head over and over again. Ford panics trying to understand what’s going on, he tries to pry Stan’s hands but he can’t seem to, his eyes are squeezed shut tears flowing down his cheeks.

Before he knows it Stan is dry heaving, Ford quickly finds a bucket and hands it over. When he asks Stan if he’s hungover Stan just stares at him weakly, his speech slurred he mutters the words bright and hurts. Ford catches on bring Stan’s sunglasses over. It takes moment, Stanley's shaky uncoordinated hands place the glasses over his eyes. He finally sighing in relief, his breathing more calm. Ford looks around the room spotting where sunlight creeps through the wood he hand hung earlier that week, the sun shines bright, the snow probably not helping. Ford looks at Stanley close noticing a jagged line that reaches from the bottom of his neck up to the back of his head, guilt creeps into his bones.

Without thinking he reaches out, brushing his hair tracing the line up til he reaches the lower part of his partial bone. Looking at Stanley once more, he notes the small scars that litter his face and hands, the way he seems uncoordinated, confused, unable to speak. Like he's-

Oh no.

[apricotopera]

image id: a comic of sora and roxas from kingdom hearts talking to each other on a white background. sora looks upset, standing with his right arm in a sling, and says ‘man, i wish i could fight…’. roxas responds ‘why don’t you just use your left hand?’ with a baffled expression. sora gestures questioningly and says ‘because i can’t use my left hand?’. roxas replies ‘you can’t?’ and sora says ‘can you?’. roxas, leaning forward and similarly confused, says ‘yes???!’. end id.

very important headcanon: roxas is ambidextrous and just assumed sora was too. he is Not.

[knight-says-rollout]

Would you mind telling us about more disabled Cybertronians?

Oh boy would I

For this list let’s focus on physical disabilities, both because they’re the most commonly dismissed by the fandom and bc if we try to cover everything we’d be here all day (that can be another list, maybe, if y’all want)

This isn’t going to be comprehensive bc I’m tired but!! I will aim for a broad variety of examples nonetheless

Bumblebee - You all know him, you all love him. He’s the most obvious and most well known example of a disabled Cybertronian character.

In many iterations he is mute

Not by choice but because he lacks a voice box. Bee physically isn’t capable of speech and depending on the version has different tools to work around that. Sometimes he uses his radio to repurpose song and radio dialogue into speech, in cyberverse he also makes use of the internet for clips. In the aligned continuity (tfp and connected media) he speaks in binary, a very simplified form of language using beeps and buzzes, but still lacks a real voice and can’t form words.

In IDW he has a cane

At one point in the comics Bumblebee was shot by a human protester and as a result used a cane for a good bit of time. I haven’t had the chance to read that far into IDW yet so I’m not sure how long he had the cane for but it was enough time that it’s a solidified part of the charcaters history. I’ve seen little models of the cane for sale, to be paired with bee figures.

TFP Ultra Magnus - everyone’s favorite awkward commander, despite his popularity he’s surprisingly overlooked when it comes to this discussion

An amputee, he lost his hand

During an energon raid with wheeljack, magnus’ hand was crushed. Ratchet couldn’t save it and had to amputate, replacing it with a hooked prosthetic. I call it a prosthetic rather than replacement part because despite him being able to move it, it’s not a hand. Not in the way he had previously, and he has to relearn how to use it at all.

I think that’s an important distinction to make when discussing disability and transformers. Some bots might have only ever had one hand, or no legs, or etc but that’s always been their level of ability and since they Are robotic. Yeah they might not have the same capabilities as another bot but that’s a hard metric to go by. Seekers can fly but a grounder isn’t disabled because they can’t fly too, it’s a different standard.

WFC Shamble - far lesser known than Magnus, and reasonably so, this background character is Also missing a limb

Amputee, leg edition

His prosthetic is a lot less fancy than magnus’s, it’s a simple peg leg. Put em together and you get a pirate. Not much to say about him since i don’t know how he lost the leg, just that he did.

Shadow Striker - Most awesome lady in cyberverse. Unlike the above two, she Was able to get actual replacement parts rather than prosthetics. Despite this, she is both shown throughout the show and implied to have

Impaired mobility

Chronic pain

She was able to get replacement parts yes but they were needed because she was blown up. The limbs she was given were kinda just what the others could Find and as such are mismatched and don’t fit her very well. Her motor skills took a blow especially when it comes to combat, something she used to excel in. Her new limbs are described as unstable and prone to malfunction. The loss of mobility and implied chronic pain that come along with her situation are rough, but she makes do.

SG Soundwave - my favorite little guy, he’s in a bit of a different situation than the previous.

Bad Joints ™

His body was entirely overhauled multiple times, successfully, but the latest frame change was done with conflicting metals. Earth and Cybertronian materials clash in his joints, making them prone to getting stopped up. The most affected hinge being the one on the door to his tape deck. It is so prone to getting stuck that his cassettes refuse to dock with him at risk of getting trapped. To work around this, Soundwave has the aid of a personalized case he carries around that they dock in instead.

IDW Sunstreaker - speaking of assistive devices, this guy was (for a time) a wheelchair user! Or,, hoverchair.

Temporary,,, paraplegic? Correct me if another term fits better

Taking this moment for an aside to say hey!! Lookit that, both canes and hoverchairs are things that canonically and casually exist on cybertron!! It’s not too wild to assume there are bots out there who use them long term!! Yes both characters on this list were repaired eventually but they’re also both very popular old characters from an action based franchise and hasbro doesn’t have the balls to make something like that permanent yet. We the fandom are not hasbro. We can do whatever we damn want with our OCs. It’s canon that ur little guy can use mobility aids.

Ok, PSA over, anyway yeah Sunny’s body was basically wrecked and alpha trion was able to repair all of him except his legs. This put him in a hoverchair for a good amount of time.

Finback - he’s a con, a pirate, who developed a “metal wasting disease”

He’s on permanent life support

The disease is going to kill him eventually, and it’s explicitly stated that he’s come to terms with the idea of his death. In the meantime he’s using pretender tech, kinda like fancy armor, to reinforce himself and boost his immune system

Perceptor - for a microscope, the fact he’s got vision issues in multiple continuities is kinda ironic

He’s fully blind in cyberverse

He lost an eye in IDW

Between the two we get to see both routes taken to work with this. Adaption and technological aid. In cyberverse he uses his scope to compensate for the loss of vision Toph-style. In IDW he built himself a monocle that basically replaces the pieces that are missing.

Now we get into the uniquely Cybertronian disabilities, one’s that don’t quite translate to human conditions

Transmutate - is a beloved bot from beast wars

They can’t transform, they don’t have an alt mode

I’m hazy on the details of their character but afaik they came from a damaged stasis pod. Described as deformed and handicapped for their both their lack of an alt mode and general appearance, they are probably the oldest explicitly disabled Cybertronian character

Xaaron - from G1 is in a similar situation

He can’t transform, it would kill him

Unlike transmutate he does have an alt mode, a tank, but after thousands of years without transforming he is no longer able to. The new stress it would cause on his body would kill him.

Broadside - continuing with the subject of alt modes, this clumsy boy is a boat! That’s not a good thing.

He’s very prone to motion sickness

As you can imagine, chronic sea sickness isn’t the most helpful thing when you are the boat. This brings in the entirely new element of mobility issues that are inherent to alt modes. A bot that functions fine in root form might not in alt mode and vice versa.

Trailbreaker - is another instance of this. He’s not a fast car by any means but that doesn’t stop the fact

His frame has a very high energon cost

Possibly the least fuel efficient autobot, he’s got an outlier ability on top of it all that only further increases his required energon intake. He needs to pay more attention to his energon levels and refuel more often overall.

G1 Knockout - yes that’s right the shiny medic himself is on this list, though not for the same reason as his tfp version, g1 knockout still lives up to his name

He’s prone to fainting

A knockout in the more literal sense, he faints when he gets too excited. Fully collapses and everything. Since he’s a fall risk, his teammates take care to keep an eye on him.

Annnnd Yknow he probably should’ve been earlier in the list along with the “human-ish” issues but I’m tired, it’s late, and I’m bringing this list to a close

Im sure there are more characters that I didn’t mention but I hope this helped! Thank you for the ask

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Do you think Color& or Killer would use would use AAC? Anyone else you think would?

Sure, definitely. I feel like Sans and Gaster had their own makeshift signals and number of sounds—taps, clicks, finger snaps—for quick communication whenever one or both didn’t want or couldn’t verbally speak, and of course this likely carries over when Color first escapes the Void.

Especially if he’s too confused, too overwhelmed, too scared to communicate or interact with a world that’s unfamiliar and possibly even unreal to him at first.

Perhaps Bravery’s influence is a major factor here, compelling Sans to be brave and speak up—even if that action later, looking back, possibly feels unnatural and out of character to Sans.

I do feel that Color will be taught sign language in his facility care stay if they didn’t already know—either by staff, or by other patients. Color has the time, the patience, and the perseverance to learn.

I do believe he will still heavily struggle—he has episodes of dissociation, he has a fractured open skull, he struggles with emotional regulation, he struggles with understanding social cues, sarcasm, overstimulation, he has severe trust issues of just about everyone and everything during this time, memory issues, getting easily exhausted both physically and mentally from social interactions and physical activity. His bones are fragile, his body is possibly even athropied due to the Void.

He will struggle to regulate his frustration, anger, and embarrassment if he makes a mistake or forgets anything—which he inevitably will, more than just the “normal” forgetting of someone learning something new.

I do believe Color would struggle a lot with using pen and paper as an alternative means of communication, not only due to the the Void having likely destroyed and annihilated his fine motor skills—as well as Perseverance’s possible dysgraphia, their potential eyesight problems carrying over from when they were alive, and the body’s already existing visual impairments—and the likely awful, painful chronic migraines that he likely deals with and could be triggered by stress and frustration.

A tablet with an app could help of course, but the screen lights could probably strain his one eye—unused to brightness or light as it already is—and he’s is very likely very, very behind on the latest technology and out of practice on what he does know.

If Color even actually remembers how to operate a phone or a tablet at all after two decades of not seeing or using any, and struggling to hold on to his sanity, memories, and identity.

Which, of course, could cause all the emotional regulation issues mentioned above. Wouldn’t be surprised if he needed up crushing or breaking a piece of technology given to him in sheer frustration—or was definitely going to, only to suddenly be overwhelmed with a dizzying, yet blanket feeling of calm overtaking him. As if suddenly stuck in molasses.

So, perhaps he uses cards or pictures given to him to nonverbally communicate at first— and perhaps the staff and another patient even caught on to his and Gaster’s made up little language.

Or not, perhaps that was something Color was unwilling to share with anyone there, as if possessive of his own experiences and memories—even as he kept doing it. If anyone did catch on to it and let him know that they knew, maybe that became a point of conflict.

So maybe Color uses those cards, pictures, nonverbal communications like facial expressions, body language, and hand gestures—whenever he can’t verbally bring himself to speak—while he learns sign language, and tries to relearn motor skills and how to operate both familiar and unfamiliar technology.

I’ve seen it HC’d that Killer in Stage 4 uses Morse code to communicate, and Killer in Stage 3 is primarily via body language and vocalizations. I do think Killer would primarily rely on sign language, either something he knew as Sans or learned himself as Killer (something new, beneficial for survival), or something taught to him—perhaps by Chara or even Color—when in lower Stages. Sometimes Killer in Stage 2 may be too apathetic to even want to put in the effort to communicate.

And of course, Killer will definitely use text to speech or an app if he must. He is a bit chronically online, and im sure his phone is one of the very few physical items he places value on.

It holds his cat videos and cat photos, it has stimulating games on it, it has Color’s number on it and proof of Color’s existence on it whenever Killer can’t see him or speak to him or touch him to reassure himself Color is real for whatever reasons.

Even if he possibly does have to speak in code with Color, and find ways to hide Color’s contact such as disguising it behind a calculator app or something.

Killer can also use pen and paper of course, and his goop adds as a substitute for ink and his finger as a pen—as potentially does his knife and either his or a target’s blood—but his possible visual impairment from said ichor and lack of consistent eyelights could be a hinder here.

As well has hand and arm cramps and exhaustion, man can potentially lose entire limbs and Reset to have them back, doesn’t mean his mind doesn’t pull the opposite of a phantom limb and randomly decide, “oh hey this arm shouldn’t be here, wasn’t this cut off?” and then his body starts freaking the fuck out.

As for others I feel would use AAC, regardless of the specific form and based off nothing but pure vibes, I’ll go with..Ink (pictures, drawings), Dream (I feel he needs to use AAC actually but is actually kinda struggling to either learn or to accept that an alternative option is valid), Nightmare (pen and paper and probably drawing).

I also feel like Cross and Delta would benefit from using some form of AAC, but both are kinda too proud to admit it; even as Delta encourages Beta to use it.

I feel like Dust, one who is nonverbal in some manner or just really not one prone for verbal speaking besides from maybe talking to Papyrus, just generally prefers to communicate via vibes and body language. Man shrugs his shoulders so damn much. People struggle to either see his face at all or read his facial expressions.

There’s probably more but I’ll leave my ramble here for now.

[coffee-in-rain]

Will being reminded time and time again Hannibal is only human post-fall. This turned into word vomit because I just typed to my little heart's content so the ending is a bit rushed lol. It ain't a formal fic. Just a little post-fall blurb.

They're standing underneath the shower head, warm water trickling down. Will is holding Hannibal by the waist--keeping his weak body steady and upright--because Hannibal is unbalanced due to a high dosage of pain medication. It's Hannibal's first shower after the stitches from his healing gunshot wound were removed. There's only a shower in this motel room--not a bathtub. Will knows Hannibal's been dying to bathe properly for weeks instead of the unsatisfying sponge baths.

Hannibal is washing shampoo through each gray strand, removing built up grease from his scalp when every finger steadily begins to slow and comes to a complete halt. Will is worried something's wrong--maybe Hannibal strained something while raising both hands over his head. Hannibal is barely breathing. Will leans in and peers over Hannibal's shoulder. Heat is creeping into Hannibal's cheeks. Hannibal's cock is half-hard and stiffening by the second.

Will is shocked--but not at all surprised. He doesn't recall having ever given Hannibal a moment of privacy besides using the toilet. He knows Hannibal is touch starved and can't be at fault for such an involuntary reaction. Fingers stroke gentle circles against Hannibal's waist. "Rinse your hair. It's gonna get in your eyes and burn like hell." He knows Hannibal's brain damaged mind needs gentle reminders on occasion--even for basic steps such as washing one's hair. He knows Hannibal is relearning mundane tasks. He knows. He is patient through it all even when it comes as a shock that Hannibal still needs reminders for everyday things--that Hannibal could forget how to perform a single task--that Hannibal depends on Will.

Hannibal's nearly finished rinsing his hair and his fingers begin to tremble and his feet slide along the shower floor as if it's becoming uncomfortable to remain still.

Will knows what needs to happen and wonders if Hannibal is waiting for permission--permission Hannibal doesn't need yet still seems to search for, even if stuck in a perpetual state of mutism. He knows Hannibal is shy in searching for guidance--that fact never ceases to shock Will. "Take care of yourself." He waits for a long stretch of time for something to happen--for Hannibal's hands to move. But they only remain curled in Hannibal's hair, shaking as much as the rest of Hannibal's body. Then, it dawns on Will.

Embarrassment is not the reason for Hannibal's refusal. He simply doesn't remember what to do or understand what Will means. It's a fine motor skill issue and an amnesia issue. Hannibal's cheek burns Will's lips where a gentle kiss is placed upon wet and flushing skin.

"It's okay if you don't remember how, darlin', I know you've been doing your best." Will's hands move from Hannibal's waist toward Hannibal's stomach. He rubs over the soft, subtle swell of Hannibal's stomach. Giving Hannibal time to adapt to skin to skin contact after enduring three long years without a single affectionate touch. He knows it feels foreign, especially because of Hannibal's brain damage and amnesia. Hannibal awoke one month ago--confused--terrified even if attempting not to show it--because Hannibal's last unfractured memories were of being in France. Dim. Faded. Not Fresh. He keeps each touch slow and gentle, allowing Hannibal's touch starved body unrushed moments to adjust.

Hannibal's untouched cock is stiff and leaking and twitching in response to every caress of Will's hands along Hannibal's stomach. Hannibal's breathing is shallow. Hannibal's eyes are clenched shut. Will understands now. Hannibal must've been a virgin at this stage in life--a killer--but never granted anyone the chance to touch. Hannibal is aching--throbbing--barely able to contain a rising whine as trembling fingers betray him, clinging to one of Will's forearms. He trusts Will and only Will. Even though it's taken a long time for Hannibal's distrust to melt away.

Will understands in all reality Hannibal is a decade older. But Hannibal's current state of mind is only 19 years old. Will wouldn't ever dare to speak such a statement under another circumstance. But this version of Hannibal is sweet in rare moments when not attempting to ward off the world beneath a stone cold exterior--one not yet perfected--one with easily discovered fractures Will is unable to ignore after knowing Hannibal for so long. He whispers the single phrase that comes to mind. Right next to Hannibal's ear. "Do you need my help, sweet boy?"

Will can tell Hannibal is trying to fight it: the shock, the trembling gasp twisting an undignified whimper threatening claw its way forth, the small and pitiful abortive thrust--pitching forward into empty air. It comes to Will easily as if a second nature buried deep and forgotten. He soothes Hannibal's breathless whimper with a kiss against a soaking wet temple. "Easy, baby, I'll take care of you," Will whispers and curls a calloused palm around Hannibal's cock. A frail and wobbling moan erupts from Hannibal's mouth--shattered and hoarse and needy. Hannibal's other hand claws at the wall for balance. Will's grasp is gentle (unyielding yet nearly lax) as Hannibal's overwhelmed body struggles to find its rhythm in wake of such a foreign sensation--of such jaw-dropping pleasure. He knows it must feel like Hannibal's first time ever approaching orgasm due to brain damage and amnesia. Hannibal's feet are damn near slipping and Will loops an arm around Hannibal's waist. "You don't have to rush. Find your pace, sweet boy."

Echoing off the tiled walls are Hannibal's whimpers and moans--thin and ruined from rusted vocal cords. Hannibal's head is tipped back and leaning against Will's shoulder. He sobs a wordless plea once Will begins taking over with a sure and steady fist--spurring long-awaited friction around Hannibal's neglected cock.

Will can barely keep Hannibal upright because of how erratic Hannibal's shifting is becoming: sharp, unpracticed thrusts desperate to meet each stroke as if this sensation is entirely new and deeply craved--and pressing back against Will's clothed cock--Will wore boxers for Hannibal's comfort. He can't resist thrusting in response, burning with a mirrored need. He knows Hannibal is close: with nails digging into skin, with nails clawing at the walls, with thighs trembling, with knees threatening to buckle, with a rising stream of needy, breathless cries cresting into the air, with each swift twist of a wrist, with each murmur of praise breathed against Hannibal's ear. Hannibal's voice cracks on each unraveling wail--strained and wet with tears of overwhelm. He knows Hannibal's cheeks are soaking in fresh tears along with water from the shower head. Hannibal's chest is heaving bright with a flush--sinking in and filling with each ragged breath. He swirls a thumb around Hannibal's nipple--and again and again--when Hannibal's pulsing cock twitches in response--when Hannibal's sobs cease to be audible in wake of a toe-curling climax.

Will guides Hannibal through those dizzying, mind numbing moments. He presses endless kisses to Hannibal's jaw and cheek and temple. He climaxes soon after, a deep moan spilling forth. He cradles Hannibal, who's trembling and gasping through the aftershocks. He guides Hannibal out of the shower and into a clean set of pajamas. He showers quickly and steps out of the bathroom.

Hannibal is staring up at Will, eyes glassy and cheeks still warmed with a blush. He tentatively reaches out. He wants to be held. Will knows.

[last-of-the-lot]

thank you for the @ I loved seeing your response!

I could honestly ramble on and on about how weird and a bit fucky playing a stringed instrument can get with shot nerves. Or like, anything out of the ordinary.

Music is difficult, and stringed instruments tend to get a rep for being above average in difficulty. I'm disinclined to say if I believe it or not without a second opinion, but I will put this out there.

So much can go wrong so quickly, and when you don't know your body anymore it is like fighting a losing battle.

Wanting to get better, needing to get better for both magic-related and mental reasons, I could see Raine being so very determined to claw back what they had. There is a lot of frustration and pain in music to get to the level we saw them at, and returning to that is such a wonderful thing to think about because of how much goes into it.

I can also appreciate the catharsis that comes from the idea of them getting back to where they were. Yes, there is a little pain, probably more than a few tears, but the realization one day that you are there is so exhilarating.

someone's probably already thought about this but. raine and hunter dealing with the aftermath of possession. especially with the experience having chronic effects beyond the scars. hunter staying with both raine and darius for a while because i'm a raine-darius cohabitating life partners truther. hunter avoiding sleeping with an insistence that is Stressing Darius Out because he does NOT know how to get the kid to believe he's safe, only for raine to wake up shouting from a nightmare & darius to suddenly understand that this is about something else. hunter and raine having already had a great deal of mutual respect and concern for each other, so it's easier to banish self-loathing, bc if NEITHER of them could fight off belos, then probably they shouldn't be too hard on themselves. eda getting involved on the potions / pain management end when raine winces because there's nonsensical residual aching in the scar tissue and phantom pains in the nerves, like, Everywhere. about a year later hunter discovers that the remaining tremors in his hands make it extremely hard to hold a knife steady and he ends up locking himself in a closet to cry because he wanted this palisman carving apprenticeship so MUCH and he knows it'll be fine and he's probably spoiled to even BE upset, but it feels like belos will never stop taking things from him, even from beyond the grave. raine seeks him out and sits with him in silence for a while, then confesses, i've needed to relearn my violin technique too, kiddo. do you want me to show you?

[lets-try-some-writing]

How good would the bots handwriting be?

In English? In Cybertronian? Why not both?

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

On Cybertron, writing anything by hand was not exactly common. Technology trimmed the process down a great deal and writing by hand was seen as something reserved for the higher castes. A written series of glyphs was a material promise, something important and made only to be used in serious events. Otherwise most everything was done digitally to save time and improve efficiency. Autocorrect most certainly helped many a struggling writer back on Cybertron.

With this in mind, as resources cut short and Earth lacked the needed materials to make a surplus of datapads, handwriting skills became very clear. More so than ever once the children decided to try and teach the bots to write for possible cover reasons. One could never be sure when one would need a bot to sign them out of school early.

Arcee has the worst handwriting by far, a surprising twist considering her dainty digits and relatively small size. One would think writing would come easy to her, but she hates doing anything like that by hand. She can type quickly, but writing out anything on a datapad, much less paper of all things? No she would much prefer being on Shockwave's operating table over having to possibly write her report manually. The glyphs of the various dialects on Cybertron are too much for her and the hatred of writing transferred over to English even though it is FAR easier to write in. The team won't say it to her face, but her writing looks like chicken scratch in both languages. The children don't know she is garbage at writing in Cybertronian too, and the team are content to leave them with the thought that she is just bad at learning English.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack share one braincell on a good day, and their writing shows this. They write exclusively in the wartime Wrecker dialect that formed over the millions of years of conflict. No one but Autobots can even begin to read their writing as its all a strange deviation from Autobot encryption. Sure they can write in mainstream Cybertronian dialects, but it looks awful and honestly the team prefer having to put on reading glasses and stare at their encrypted writing over having to get out a dictionary to even begin to parse out their other writings. In light of this, they do not write in English when asked to use an Earth language. Instead, they like Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and other such languages due to the ease of which they find encrypting the writing to be. They are hated by Bot and human alike for their habit of making things more complicated than it needs to be.

Ultra Magnus writes in the most computer generated manner known to any of the bots. How he does it is a mystery. Yet somehow he got so used to manually writing out his signature that now his every written glyph comes out as if it were typed. He doesn't seem to notice or care for the team's gawking, and he absolutely refuses to write in English simply because he had no interest in relearning writing. The team don't know, but the real reason he doesn't want to write in any other dialect is because he purposefully trained his motor functions to only write in his very specific manner. To try and learn a brand new written language would mess that up and ruin his clean and crisp glyphs.

Ratchet is an odd ball in his writing. When in a hurry, his writing in both Cybertronian and English looks like the Doctor's scrawl that those outside of the medical field have no hope of figuring out. However when he's not in a rush, he has a very distinct method of writing his glyphs and letters. In Cybertronian dialects of any kind, he adds extra emphasis in places where there has been no need for further glyph usage since the age of Wrath. In English, he adds interesting swirls and excess E's absolutely everywhere as if it is an additional glyph meant to add meaning to the word. Rafael tried to correct him once. That didn't end well.

Smokescreen has never written anything in his life. He can type like lightening, but he was never schooled in traditional manual writing simply due to how time consuming it was and how unneeded the ability happened to be at his post. He can't do any writing to save his life, but he has managed to convincingly fake the ability to write when in a tight spot. He can scribble and make it look like REALLY bad Tarnian dialect. And since that particular script hasn't been used since the city was destroyed, most don't judge him for it. But Optimus knows, and when he has time, he does what he can to school the rookie. Rafael has also taken it upon himself to try and teach Smokescreen some English with limited success.

Bumblebee grew up under Optimus, and Optimus in turn grew up under Alpha Trion. The two have startlingly similar handwriting more often than not. They both know many languages and dialects and are fluent in them, they both share glyph usage preferences, and both are known for their regular language swaps in writing. The only way to really tell them apart is to look REALLY closely at either the curvature of a specific glyph in Ancient Cybertronian or to stare really hard at the way their write their O's and B's. Both write like they walked straight out of ancient eras of old on a good day and write like living dictionaries for pretty much any other dialect. The team and the children gave up trying to figure out who wrote what a long time ago. If they can't pick it up from the context of the writing, they can just assume its important regardless.

[rookiesbookies]

Recovery

Soap x Price’s Niece!Reader & and exploration of his platonic relationship with his teammates based on what we’ve seen in the games.

Content Warning: Hurt-Comfort, mild angst, bittersweetness, some fighting, and it’s over 5.2k words

It’s all under the cut from here, big thanks to @shotmrmiller for editing my crap

When Soap had been shot, he had gotten incredibly lucky. The bullet hadn’t gone all the way through and had ended up lower than Simon swore he saw.

Well, I suppose ‘lucky’ is subjective. Johnny would be in the hospital for months healing. He had lost degrees of peripheral vision in both eyes, so there was no way he could go back into the field, he had to learn how to walk again, and some of his motor skills were to be relearned. He had been confined to a wheelchair for months. Complaining constantly about losing his muscles and how it would ruin his charm. His hands shook, he’d be unable to do any of the demolition and explosive work he used to.

He felt as though who he was, Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, was completely lost.

Captain Price and Laswell had been well overpatient with him.

Johnny had flung food trays at them when his hands shook too much to eat, constantly missing his mouth. He had had amnesia for the first two weeks or so after he woke up from his coma. He had had surgery after surgery, his mohawk shaved off to make it easier, the final piece of his identity stripped from him.

Price had never seen Johnny cry until the realization of who he became someone he could never be again.

Price still had no clue what had possessed him to call her.

His sweet niece, at least that's what he called her. She had been an exchange student, studying abroad for advanced college courses, when she lived with Laswell and her wife. They had volunteered so she could practice medicine on soldiers. Field medic had been her goal, but Price did reverse nepotism to make sure his niece never left the base.

He knew deep down she was the only one he could trust with the care of his sergeant. He also knew he could trust the Sergeant with the care of his niece.

It was a dream she had given up on, and she had planned to come visit anyway. Maybe this was an excuse to see the closest thing he had to a daughter again.

Laswell and her wife had offered to adopt the girl, Price told them they’d have to fight him for the chance. Maybe it was Price trying to atone for being too overprotective to let her fulfill her dream.

He had introduced Johnny to her before. Back when she had visited the second time. Johnny was still much younger, just earning his sergeant rank. He had threatened both Gaz and Soap, saying that if either tried anything he’d make them do work outs until they were in the medical station.

He knew Simon wouldn’t have been an issue.

Johnny and his niece were only a few years apart. Their first run in was when she was running to give Price some papers, it was before he had even introduced them and she had been on base. The floor was wet making sure she accidentally slipped and slide tackled poor Johnny. It wasn’t until she read his velcro on his uniform that she realized it was Price’s sergeant. She had been red in the face and embarrassed. Her papers littered the wet floor and she had been so apologetic she hadn’t even seen Johnny pick them all up.

It made their official introduction awkward, to say the least.

Johnny hadn’t seen her in a couple years when she walked into his room this time. His head was wrapped tight in a bandage, hair growing back in a small fuzz that he found embarrassing. His lips were red, cracked, and bloody from his angry chewing at it. He was so pale too, paler than a Victorian child. He didn’t smell of the arousing male musk he normally did, he looked weak. His pearly white teeth weren’t on show, his blue eyes weren’t bright.

“Johnny,” she said softly, “it’s been a while.”

“Don’t look at me, lass. I’m a sight to make eyes sore, not a sight for sore eyes.” He grumbled. Doing his best to cross his shaky arms and sigh. His voice wasn’t smooth or suave as it normally was with his natural Scottish gravel. It was dry, dusty, and crunchy like a gravel driveway in the summer.

They had flirted heavily. Or at least she had to him back in the day. An American who made disapproving jokes about the brits as he did. He couldn’t deny he found her attractive, the chemistry was undeniable, but he didn’t dare flirt back in the public eye for fear of his life.

She walked over and sat on the edge of his bed. Reaching out to rub his chin, feeling the rough scruff that was longer than he’d usually keep it. Small knicks littered his face from when he tried to shave. She used this as an excuse to pull his face to look at her.

“I don’t know what you mean, I still see the same Johnny I always did.” She spoke softly. She knew being delicate with patients like this was crucial. She ran her thumb over his cracked lip. “Here.”

She pulled a lip balm from her purse. Telling him to pucker a bit so she could rub it on.

He couldn’t bring himself to say thank you, but she saw it in his eyes. The desperation, the want to cry, the defeat.

“I doubt yer just here to visit me.” He grumbled, having to stretch his arms out as keeping them crossed made them begin to shake like earthquakes instead of the small tremors that they were prior.

“Uncle John called me. I take it he and Laswell haven’t told you the plan.” She said softly, taking one of his hands in hers. He tried to pull back but quickly let in. “Just means I get to deliver the news.”

He cocked a brow.

“The plan is to fake your death. Put you in hiding. Get you out of here.”

“Lass, yer probably too bonnie to think about this, but I can’t wipe my own arse.” He snapped, like a hurt animal, not an ounce of malice or hate.

“Why do you think they called me in?”

“Yer not wiping my arse, love.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” She mumbled. Looking to the door to wave Price and Laswell in, Ghost and Gaz filing in behind. It had been months since he had seen those two. She saw the way his eyes almost lit up and quickly dimmed. Hollow. Like a fire that tried to start but the spark burned out too fast.

“We’ve already filled out the KIA.” Laswell started. “We’ve started filing the paperwork to put you in witness protection. You’d be moved to at home care, somewhere quiet. Given new identification, new everything.”

“My girl is going to look after you. I expect you to do the same in turn. I'm trusting you with her, MacTavish.” Price said, a poor attempt at playfulness with the dead inside young man before him.

“We’re going to start your PT. Help you with your motor skills. You should have the ability to move to at home care in a month or so.” Laswell tacked on.

John’s niece got off Johnny’s bed. Putting a hand on her uncle’s shoulder and nodding to Laswell before they filed out. Giving him a moment with his teammates, his brothers.

“Yer both gonna let them tell this poor girl she can wipe my arse?”

“Really stuck on the ass wiping thing, huh,” Gaz mumbled.

Ghost turned to close to the blinds on the door before sitting and pulling his balaclava off his head.

“Johnny.” He said as softly as his sharp voice could. “Maybe this is the fresh start ya need.”

“I don’t want a fuckin fresh start. I want my old body back.” Johnny growled.

“You can’t get that bloody back,” Simon snapped back before returning to his soft tone, “Price and his niece are doing your sorry arse a favor. This poor girl has agreed to be married to yer ass for an indefinite amount of time, don’t ya get that ya bastard?”

“A favor I didn’t ask for.” Johnny grumbled. He looked over at his gear, which sat sadly on a table.

“Johnny yer still young.” Simon sighed. “She’s a good girl, let her care for ya. We’re actively working to get permission to visit ya when yer all settled.”

Gaz stood, looking out the window at nothing, “ya know some would give a lot for an opportunity with a girl like that.”

“Then I’ll trade ya,” Johnny snarled back in a low voice.

Simon looks Johnny in the eyes one last time maskless in the room, “don’t fuck up yer chance at a new life, Johnny. Be smart for once ya bloody dense bastard.”

Ghost pulled his mask back on over his face. Blonde hair disappeared as he shoved it back under properly. Gaz moved to fix the window covering on the door, pulling it back open.

A couple of nurses filed in to change his bandages, the two men disappeared out to the hall.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea, Uncle Price,” she started, rubbing the back of her neck, “he doesn’t seem as… enthused as he normally would have been.”

“He’s in there, he’s just adjusting.”

“Hard to adjust to being helpless.” Gaz mumbled.

“Once he starts PT- the physical therapy will help.” John’s niece interjected. “The lack of is what’s been causing problems. Once he tries harder and has goals he may pep up.”

“I think it’s the loss of his beloved mohawk. I vote to get him a bloody wig.” Ghost threw in.

Laswell sighed. “Poor boy. He’ll pull through, it will just take time.”

Getting to Johnny to do PT was like leading a horse to water, you can’t make it drink.

His Commanding Officer yelling orders at him hadn’t done it, John’s niece couldn’t get him to do it with soft cooing and coaxingand even Simon failed. Johnny just ended up throwing the crayon he held in his hand to work on writing, and let himself fall as he tried to walk. Shouting about being a lost cause and how it was a waste of time.

“Johnny, please,” she pleaded, “just a few more steps. You’ve made such good progress.”

“Yer not my bloody girl, quit tryin to sweet talk effort out of me. I can smell yer pity.” He hissed, sitting back in his wheelchair.

17 steps.

They had gotten 17 steps out of him today. Which was a step and a half more than yesterday.

At least Simon hadn’t needed to pick him up like a giant baby to get him back to the chair today. He had also stood a good 10 minutes before needing a break.

When it was Simon’s day to motivate Johnny, he was by far the hardest on him.

“I'm going to keep pickin your sorry arse up and making you walk until you double what you did yesterday,” Simon growled through his mask. “I can tell yer not giving it your all.”

Anyone with eyes could see how emotional it made Simon. He was pushing his dear Sergeant sometimes well beyond his means.

It was also beyond a struggle for Simon to communicate how hard it was to watch Johnny just give up. Price could see how Simon’s eyes turned shiny as glass as he yelled at Johnny. He heard the small cracks in his voice as he picked Johnny up and made him walk those few more steps. He could see Simon’s pushing was all out of desperation to get Soap back. To get his partner back.

John Price had known Simon a long time. Well before he became Ghost, Price worked with him. Johnny was one of the few that brought Simon out in Ghost. Price and Gaz did as well, but not the way Johnny did. Johnny and Simon had the same dry sense of humor, there was a sense of understanding between the two that Price was proud to foster. That sense of understanding flooded the team, but whatever was between Simon and Johnny was just that bit more in depth. They were a team of brothers in arms, but those two were true friends.

Anyone could see Simon blaming himself for what happened to Soap as the two snarled back and forth. One of the two only let up when a physical therapist touched their arms or John’s niece quietly told them that arguments didn’t lead to progress.

Simon wasn’t supposed to be here even helping Johnny. Price had tried to tell him no. That it added risks, to which the lieutenant snarled that if the Captain could go see him he could. That it would arguably be safer for him since no one knows his face but the team.

Simon had never spoken to Price like that before.

Gaz had typically decided to wait outside for the sessions after the first one, it would have ended with Johnny fist fighting a physical therapist if he could close his fist without violently shaking and using all his strength.

Johnny didn’t see Simon blaming himself until the day he got so fed up in the private session he threw his mask to the floor to scream at him. A pointed finger to his chest as Simon finally exploded.

“Are you fuckin blind, Johnny? We’re not fighting against ya!” Simon practically screamed at Johnny. It was the first time he had yelled at anyone in years. Even stunning Price. “We’re not the enemy. We’re a team! We’re trying to help you get back to yourself.”

Simon took in a deep, shaky breath, “We don’t care about Soap, Soap is just a callsign and nothin more. We’re here for Johnny, ya dim bastard! Each and every one of us. We ain’t fightin ya, we’re fighting for you.”

A rogue tear, an enemy operative, running down his eye black. No one would have believed it if the trail wasn’t clear on his face. It was as if Simon’s tough love finally registered in his mind. As if someone else’s feelings were finally registering in his mind. This wasn’t the orders of a superior. This was love from a true brother.

It was the first time Johnny hadn’t had a snarky quip in two months. There was no snarl back, no growling, no yelling. Johnny just did his best to open his arms for a hug. Bracing himself with his brother’s body. Finally realizing he wasn’t the only one affected by this, that Simon and his team had genuinely thought he was dead. That they wanted him to truly live again.

The sight had the poor Captain teary. His niece took his hand to comfort him, watching carefully at the sight as months of Soap’s attitude turned into soft cries against Simon’s shoulder. She also distracted her uncle and herself, giving the two men some privacy.

The poor ferocious beast licking its wounds turned back into a scared little boy. One that muffled cries about losing who he was, not knowing what was next, fearing he’d never be the same, that feared he’d lose his team- his only true family- to this weakness and pain.

Simon just listened. He did his best to lift a bit of Johnny’s weight from his feet. Knowing he couldn’t stand long enough, or hardly at all. A small gesture, a bit of consideration for his friend.

It was the longest John MacTavish had stood since the accident. While he wasn’t unsupported, they all counted it as progress. A great deal of progress.

“It could only have been you to get through to him, ya know?” Price said with a sad playfulness as he nudged Simon.

“He’s got a thick skull, the bastard does.” Simon sighed, trying to return the playfulness, but all he only sounded defeated.

“I think where we are is evidence of that enough,” Price laughed dryly. Kneeling in front of Simon in the recreation room on base for the team. “Never seen ya yell like that, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t like yelling, but the ringing in his ears must still be there.”

“Still think it’s because he doesn’t have the mohawk?”

“I’m getting the idiot a wing from party city and gluing it to his head next time he tries to fight me,” Simon grumbled with a smirk under the mask. Price could see it, even if he couldn’t see it.

It was sad humor before John gave him a nice little love tap before going to bed.

The rest of the night was quiet. Johnny was wheeled to his room, legs aching from weak muscles and hands shaking from gripping things. He didn’t sleep. For now, he has the drive to keep going. A newfound understanding for his new chance. A second one. He took the large oversized and overly thick pencil from the best side and the giant clipboard. Hands shaking in attempts to grip them.

“Come on, Johnny.” He mumbled to himself, resting the clipboard and paper on his thighs. He took the kiddy pencil in his right hand.

His grip faltered a lot. He worked to even put enough pressure against the paper to draw a line.

Then a line turned into squiggles.

Squiggles turned into a name that looked like it was written by a toddler, but it was a name. It was his name. He put it all on his bedside table and picked up his old journal.

He gingerly flipped through the sketches and words.

Why had he given up on being an artist? Why had he let it go completely and only continued as a hobby? He had been an Advanced Art Student in school as a boy, how could he let it go? How could he have taken it for granted?

He ran his fingers over the pages. He laid it in front of him lower on his thighs, bringing the clipboard and pencil back, flipping to a new blank page. He groaned at how run down the pencil was, he’d need someone to sharpen it soon.

He weakly gripped the pencil so it was vaguely horizontal with the blank paper.

“Come on, Soap, ya wee bastard. Just do it like you always did.” He mumbled, hands shaking as he tried to touch the pencil to the paper.

He made sure the lines were faint, going over it 3 or 4 times to create darker ones to make sure it was all in the shapes he wanted. He tried to copy an old sketch of his red skull mask.

It was clunky. Looked like bad cubism mixed with a toddler's hand turkey if that were possible. He worked on it all night. Copying it until his pencil was worn well to the wood.

When the nurses came to wake him the next morning, they found him asleep lightly holding the pencil with his journal and clipboard on his lap.

One of the nurses snagged a photo of it, all the scattered copies around his bed and beside it, sending them to Price’s niece, who was listed as the emergency contact. It wasn’t proper and the nurse knew that but they figured the family would want to see such progress.

She had sent the images to Simon, telling him to bring Soap his sharpener, and more big pencils. Simon was scheduled to be Soap’s first visitor of the day, taking to rotations on days that weren’t PT days made it easier on them all.

Price was usually the last visitor.

In a way, he blamed himself more than Simon ever could. He gave the two that mission, let them take it on. Let them get lost. Let them get pinned down.

He stopped Johnny from shooting the fucker when they had the chance.

It was more than easy to see that Price dreamed of being a family man- craving two or three kids to come home to, a dog, a white picket fence, and a missus to keep his life in order. Sadly, it was a dream he gave up on a long time ago.

In a way, he did have three kids. Three boys he adopted risk their lives day in and day out for the safety of others - it made him prouder than anything. It was hard knowing that Soap- John MacTavish- had no known family. No real family to take care of him. No one to notify if anything happened.

Price had tried too, using what samples the military had from him to find any family.

What Price found broke his heart. All he learned was that Johnny had been an orphan since he was a kid. His parents were lost in a car accident, t-boned by a super speeder at an intersection. Johnny had been home with a babysitter, still practically a baby. He did his best to find other relatives, but none knew of Johnny, all were too distant.

In a lot of ways, he looked at Johnny and saw his son. Johnny had always made him proud since the day Price first met him. Johnny had always been willing to go the extra mile to be the best.

Laswell jokingly called Johnny ‘Junior’ to Price. She saw a lot of resemblance to a younger Price in the Sergeant.

She found Captain Price sitting outside Johnny’s room, he was clearly deep in thought as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s tough as nails, John, he’ll pull through.” She said, sitting next to the Captain.

John pulled off his hat, holding it in his hands as he slouched forward. He braced himself with his forearms against his thighs.

“Can’t help the worry.” John mumbled.

“He’s getting better.”

“It’s taking so long.”

“Healing from anything takes time, especially something physical and mental like this.”

“He didn’t deserve it.”

“No one said he did.”

Laswell gently rubbed circles on John’s back. “No one believes he did,” she mumbled again.

“Terrible things happen to the best of people, the ones who deserve it least especially.” She said, watching the tears bead up on his lashes as he tried to blink them away.

“Blaming yourself for this isn’t what happened, no one on the team is at fault. No one could have known what would happen next.”

“I should have let him shoot the bastard,” Price mumbled, his hand moving up to hold his forehead. Trying to cover where the tears fell down his cheeks before getting lost in his beard.

“You can’t blame yourself for not knowing then what you know now.”

Price sighed.

“You can’t, John.”

“I gotta ask myself if it should have been me,” John mumbled against quivering lips.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

He stayed silent as she kept up her circles on his back before she stood up to go.

“If you can’t be strong for yourself, be strong for the kid.”

Gaz sat quietly in Johnny’s room. He had never been much of an artist so Johnny figured they could both learn as he relearned.

Gaz held up a poorly drawn humvee, “remember the time we superglued the zipper to Price’s sleeping bag and because he always had it all the way up he got stuck and Ghost had to cut him out of it?”

“Yeah,” Johnny gave a chuckle, “remember the time when we made a bet that whoever couldn’t get the nurse’s number from Alejandro’s base had to buy the rounds at the pub when we got home?”

“I remember us both losing.”

“She didn’t have a wedding ring, I didn’t know she was married!” Johnny laughed, holding up his crudely drawn humvee. Johnny snorted, “Looks like we’d be great cubists.”

Gaz cocked a brow.

“It’s an abstract art style, looks goofy. It’s the one famous artists do when they get lazy after becoming famous for super detailed work. They just slapped a name on laziness.” Soap snorted, “reminds me of my hot art teacher from school. What I would have even for a chance with that braw lookin lass as a 13 year old.”

“We all had those teachers, mate.” Kyle laughed. “Had a Spanish teacher with big ones,” he said, holding his hands in front of his chest, “I learned nothing in that class.”

Kyle clapped him on the shoulder as they both laughed. Then a silence fell.

“Next time I may just be wheeling behind you as we make our great escapes.”

“How about I push you instead,” Kyle said, holding out his fist for Johnny to pump.

And he did, weakly. But it was far from the amount of shaking it would have taken him to hold a fist weeks ago, or a month ago when the process started.

Johnny held out five folded pictures to Gaz, “been working hard on ‘em, they’re labeled.”

Gaz nodded and gave him a hug with a chuckle, “I’ll make sure they get to the right people. Get some rest, dishy lad.”

It didn’t hurt as bad for Kyle to be around Johnny.

Kyle was grateful for that, he had his buddy back.

He shuffled through the folded paper in his hands.

One for himself, Simon, Price, Laswell, and Price’s niece.

He patted Price’s back, “ready to head back?”

“How is he?”

“In a much better humor than a month ago, even has gifts for us.” Gaz said, holding up the papers.

When they got back to the waiting room, Gaz dished them out.

Each slowly unfolded the papers with their names on it. Price’s niece was the first to get her’s open, a soft gasp leaving her mouth as her eyes began to tear up.

It was a sketch of her standing between Price and Laswell from when she was first introduced, the paper had clearly been torn from a journal. A second paper fell to the floor from behind it and she snatched it up before it hit the floor. It was a copy of the image, its lines were sharky and it was clearly one of the blank printer paper sheets they had given him to practice writing on, but the image was pretty close to the same.

‘Always thought you were such a bonnie lass, hope my bad attitude didn’t scare you off.

-Johnny’ was written in the bottom corner of the page with a small heart. The writing was as shaky as the art but it didn’t stop her flushed face and her shocked tears that threatened to fall.

Simon hadn’t intended to open his until he got back to his own barracks, but when he peered over and saw the niece’s he could help himself.

“What did the jammy bastard do now,” Simon grumbled. Eyes going wide as a photo of him and Johnny on their skull masks fell out. A polaroid Alejandro had taken with a camera they found. Simon told him to burn it. Apparently, he never saw Johnny slip it into his gear. An older sketch of it Johnny had done and a small scratchy sketch in there too.

‘Remember when Gaz and I tried to see how many of your stupid masks we could steal before you got mad when we were new on the squad? I remember you waited us out until we had to get the baklava off your face. The ass kicking you gave me for coming close to getting it in your sleep definitely scared me straight.

-Johnny’ Simon ran his fingers over the scratchy words before folding it up for safe keeping. He’d give Johnny back his polaroid later.

Price’s was a sketch of the photo they took before their first 141 mission, it always sat on his desk in his office. An old one he had done probably a year ago and a new one.

‘Couldn’t have asked for a better CO. Thank you Captain. We had a good run.

PS: I knew I was always your favorite sergeant, I didn’t tell Kyle though.

-Johnny’

Price didn’t even register the tear sliding into his beard and the sad chuckle that left his lips.

Laswell unfolded hers, it was a drawing of her and John from the back and her with her elbow on his much taller shoulder.

‘Make sure my team doesn’t get into too much trouble. I won’t be there to bite the next bullet for them.

-Johnny MacTavish’

Laswell gently held the two sketches side by side, chuckling at his terrible joke about his situation. It was from the day Price made Kyle do a pushup for every tooth in the zipper of the sleeping bag because he took the fall for the prank. He made Johnny and Simon stand behind them and watch so they knew what would happen if they messed around. Laswell laughed fondly at the memory, it was a bittersweet chuckle.

Gaz was the last to open his. Softly unfolding the papers. The sketches were of an old selfie they took from the time they were stationed at the same base for training. The rest of the recruits behind them and the two made overly dramatic shocked faces with Soap - with Johnny pointing at the angry General staring at them. The new shaking sketch only focused on himself and Johnny and their stupid faces. A reference to a terrible meme they had seen earlier. He remembered fondly that one of the sergeants on base made them mop the rain outside that afternoon because they had already pissed off the General before that morning at breakfast. He forgot how he really only talked to Johnny at training, Johnny starting just after him.

‘Don’t forget to consult me on any base antics, I still have plenty of ideas. Bonus points if you guilt trip Price and tell him you’re doing it in my honor when he tries to get you in trouble.

-Johnny’

They all sat there quietly before saying goodbyes, going their separate ways.

Price’s niece slipped away back towards Johnny’s room with a knock, earning a, “come in.”

“Hey Johnny,” she said, moving to where he patted her at the edge of his bed, near his hips. “I had no clue you did so many sketches.”

“Had to fill my free time somehow, you can only walk around the base so many times before you lose your mind.”

“They’re beautiful, both of them.” She said softly, looking at them again, “I had no clue you drew me.”

“Woulda done it like one ‘a my french girls but yer uncle didn’t like the idea.” He chuckled, cut off by her planting a soft kiss on his temple. She held his chin with her hand gently, thumb dragging lightly over his lower lip. His face flushed as she treated him like glass.

“No sassy retort?” She asked with a giggle. Face not far from his.

“I got brain damage, lass, and out of practice, gotta give me time to get back in my groove,” he chuckled. “Also, ya missed.”

“What do you mean I missed?”

“I’ll show ya,” he said, planting a kiss on her lips. It was quick, testing the waters, making her face flush and her eyes widen. “So glad yer uncle won’t yell at me now for this, been waiting a while for this chance.” Johnny pressed another kiss with more pressure as she giggled against his lips. “Promise to make sure I don’t eat Mexican so wipin’ my arse ain’t so bad.”

“Again with the wiping the ass thing?”

“Just gotta remind you what ya signed up for,” he said with a chuckle, planting a lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth.

Masterlist is pinned on profile as always, don’t forget to leave me a comment or a request in my inbox to let me know what yall want to see! Also Comments are always appreciated! I love hearing from yall!

[ofyoursilentreverie]

i was listening to @thefoxholecast 's third episode, and they were talking about kevin's injury and whether it was realistic for him to come back from - i ended up sending them an ask with stuff about soccer injuries but i think i've thought of a better analogy.

i'm assuming exy is played with both hands like lacrosse (although it's never really mentioned in the series) but i would imagine that, like lacrosse, one hand is more of a stabilizing and supporting hand while the other gives a lot of the power and aim - with that in mind, and knowing that lacrosse is probably the best analogy but unfortunately i never played outside of gym class so i can't really speak to it, i'm thinking of fencing - a sport that also involves a lot of wrist movement from one arm. i had a teammate who injured her right shoulder and fenced left-handed for the year that it was healing, idk of anyone at a super high level who's done it, but it's definitely possible to relearn with your non-dominant hand. and once her shoulder was healed, she slowly started using it again and is back to fencing right-handed. i also know of a lot of serious injuries like acl tears that take roughly a year to a year and a half to recover from. his recovery timeline is a little fast based on how severe they make his injury sound, but he doesn't start using his left hand again until after the winter banquet, which would be right around a year after he first injured it, which i can accept as fairly reasonable, especially because it doesn't seem like exy uses a ton of fine motor skills so his hand probably didn't need to be completely like it used to be in order for him to play exy with it

i think a slightly less realistic injury would be neil's shoulder - he frequently dislocates it (which is realistic, once you do it once you're more likely to do it again), but he hops right back into contact without any rest time. every teammate i've had who's dislocated a shoulder has had to sit out from contact for at least a couple weeks, and most of them ended up getting surgery on their shoulder (i can't speak to the specifics cause i've luckily never done it myself but they were certainly not jumping into practice the next day). i know a lot of his injuries throughout the series are superficial - bruises, cuts, etc - but even something like a sprain can put someone out for weeks depending on the severity of it. coming back from baltimore should have been more than a week and a half long recovery. so in my mind, kevin's injury and recovery timeline actually makes a lot more sense than neil's throughout the series, and i understand that it's cause nora sakavic needed to keep the plot moving and the foxes really didn't have any subs to take neil's place, but his injuries are more severe than his recovery times would indicate, and it's one of the things that pulled me out of the series the most when i was reading it for the first time

[kangjaehyuk]

hyunhyuk ramble because they're so in love

tldr; hyunsu means so much to eunhyuk that he, a neohuman who's supposed to be emotionless, was able to smile at the sight of him before he relearned how to feel in the finale.

full analysis under the cut

---

even though it's barely noticeable, neohuman eunhyuk smiled when he saw hyunsu for the first time in almost a year, despite claiming that neohumans have "evolved past the need for emotion"

i'm sure a lot of people are familiar with muscle memory, but aside from remembering certain motor skills, our bodies can also store emotions. this is why we're able to feel butterflies in our stomach when we're nervous, our chest feels heavy when we're sad, etc. it's almost impossible for a "human" being to be 100% logical and unfeeling because the framework by our reasoning is defined by our emotions. this is why eunhyuk could regain all his emotions in the finale.

it's most likely that emotions are pushed deep into a neohuman's unconscious mind the same way traumatic memories are, they serve no purpose to the neohuman. however, both can resurface to the conscious mind with the right triggers. in this case, it's hyunsu.

having been reborn with emotions that have no major importance in his wiring, it's only natural that his body isn't used to expressing any of them. so when he reunites with hyunsu, the happiness that arises in him must be so intense, that his muscle memory makes him subtly smile. these emotions are what's left of human eunhyuk, the one who went back to green home because of hyunsu before he let himself become part of its collapse.

not only that, he smiles A SECOND TIME when he asks hyunsu for help, this time being more obvious.

in contrast to the poker face he had when speaking, eunhyuk really meant it when he said he missed hyunsu, even if he was just talking to his monster.

the scene where he tries to relearn how to smile/properly feel emotions by imitating he and eunyu's family picture just further proves my point. when he tries to make himself smile, it looks unnatural and uncanny. (he's trying his best tho and that's what counts)

additionally, you can see the smile reach his eyes when he was with hyunsu.

going back to the picture, him keeping it also proves my point of neohumans' emotions just being buried in their unconscious mind. there's no logical reason for him to hold onto it. he didn't lose his memories, therefore he didn't forget eunyu. the only reason he has it is because of emotional attachment, and he doesn't realize it. he doesn't realize he's more emotional than he thinks he is in general.

[nameification]

@horrorsprovider just so you know this gave me so much inspiration i had to stop myself from doing any more

a few more hcs related to this under the cut

pre grove incident:

-didn't "need" it that much but still had it in case -hyacine got it for him after the first soul splitting experiment when he needed to readjust to his body -used it mainly after any alchemy related/soul splitting experiments -many areas he frequents have become very accessible bc of this

post grove incident: -your body being reanimated does numbers to your motor functions -he tries to stay put as much as possible but sometimes you just gotta go outside -left his old cane in the grove (even if he tried to find it it's probably destroyed) so for a while he did rely on cerces to help him move around and at the very least make it appear like he was not in too much pain but he didn't like how not in control of that body he felt so he eventually went out to get himself a new cane -he actually meets hyacine again but since she probably knows of the extent of the damage shes like "professor a cane would be way unhelpful right now !! you shouldn't really be up and about at all, actually... but if you insist on getting out then please use a wheelchair or at the very least forearm crutches !!!" -he relents, convincing hyacine to get him a pair of forearm crutches and a cane -hyacine was right. it's better with the forearm crutches for the first week or two and then he switches over to the cane -there are not a lot of accessibility accomodations in okhema (</3) but he makes it work

other -he likes the cane more than the forearm crutches because he likes having at least one hand free -cerces really helped in the readjustment process a lot because something that would take at least a few years to recover properly (he was *dead* surrounded by *black tide*) took about two months ^two months is the average timeframe between versions and im using that as the basis for the time it took for naxy to relearn how to walk properly. hes definoprobably still in a lot of pain by 3.2 but hey he can walk and maybe fight again !