#ptsd warrior

[borderlineangel222]

i live in constant fear of my own mind cause i dread the day it will come in terms with the fact that i’m indeed a monster just like my father.

[artistmugdh]

support artist here:

https://paypal.com/paypalme/mugdh

or below

[destroyingeverythingold]

Loving someone who's 100% out of reach is SAFE.

I've had so many bad experiences with men i don't know if i can ever again be in a relationship... Lot of men have traumatized me. They have broken me, abused me. I hated men for years

but then Bang Chan. Sigh.

Actually after falling in love with him I have been more.. out there... Flirting like a maniac. He cured my male hate lmao.

[moonwaxwingangel]

PTSD files 2

Well you probably wonder where siren had came from it came from people like me who are PTSD  Warriors since the first World War to right now there has been sighting of siren had and countryside areas like let's say rural towns to war zones. These sightings are not very common but they only come out during war and pandemic and I know this for a fact because I have seen this information about siren head before he is not just a figment of Trevor Henderson's imagination as many people has complained about seeing the entity many times .

When someone was PTSD war related or terrorism related PTSD comes about and they see something that looks like siren head they length in the methos of siren head. Something that I have had the uneasy opportunity to find out of my own when I was driving out with a friend one day and saw the two signature sirens or an opposing sides of a pole above the tree line. This is what started me to do my own graphic novel about the shelterberts and  Sirenhead mixed together. The Shelterberts are a Canadian graphic novel that is very simple and hard but very beautiful nonetheless and I find that as is important to continue this on with siren head mixed in. As I continue I have published my first episode on web tunes if you're ever interested in looking it up call siren head. What makes siren head or James Bond a possible as the fact that people rather be creative instead of down in the dumps and feeling sorry for themselves when they have PTSD. Sometimes it's not that way usually and some people have no other choice but to feel sorry for themselves but in some cases there's a hardware OK you like me or Trevor Henderson or Ian Fleming who would go around enjoying creativity over destructive behaviour.

My mom had once I always always will and even though she is beyond the grave now will always encourage creativity over self-medication any time of the day. So that's why I created this graphic novel if you're ever interested as I said it's on the web toons. 

Until then be happy and  be safe

Elena Melanson a.k.a Elena Stargazer

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

Imagine a feanorian or a nolofinwean etc traveling back in time to the years of the trees-

And finwe, of all elves, clocks onto something being wrong before anyone else, bc he grew up in a time where it was killed or be killed and he wants to know why his grandkid(s) went from an elf who has never seen a day of strife in their life, to a hardened warrior with ptsd seemingly overnight.

[moomkin77]

Something that I think about a lot sometimes is how in SAO there’s this really interesting dynamic because (at least for that first season) these people all stuck in the game are literally war veterans by the time they come out into the real world again. But like, they’re coming out into the real world where before they were in a video game, and it’s just this concept of yes okay “it was just a video game blah blah blah” but like they were literally all fighting for their lives?? They witnessed people dying left and right all the time. And so having these straight up teenagers that were the military generals and front-line fighters just be dropped back into normal ordinary teenage lives - how do you even cope with that? How do you even begin to explain to your loved ones that yeah it might’ve been a video game, but it was a war front too, and 9 outta 10 people have got some sort of PTSD after escaping the game.

I dunno, I just have a lot of feelings about this and I want it to be addressed more because idk if they touched on it a lot in the show since it’s been a bit since I watched it and i never read the manga so- yeah.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk

[archerlullaby]

Hello friends! It’s been a long while since I posted, but here’s a piece based off of @kikker-oma ‘s incredible whumptober art! Go check it out!

Sky is tired. So tired. Tired of walking, tired of how his lungs burn when the forest grows thick, tired of how his callouses tore after the fifth time he raised it in battle today. Tired of—

“Pick up your feet Sky. By what Wild says, we won’t make it to Necluda if we keep going at this pace.”

Warriors pats him on the back and moves ahead of him without even so much as a glance. Sky closes his eyes in agitation but sighs his annoyance away. You’re the peacemaker. The peacemaker is calm. The peacemaker smiles. You don’t get upset with your brothers, especially when they’re just trying to help. “Sky! What’d I tell you? Hurry it up!” Warriors’s voice breaks through his calming mantra and Sky grits his teeth.

“Yes! Coming!” He picks up his feet, catching up with the group with a wheeze he hides in his sleeve.

The sun grows hot, and though the surface world of Wild’s land is beautiful, it seems to have a personal vendetta against Sky’s lungs. Having spent most of his life up in the Skyloft where the airborne irritants are few, this forest full of different flowers, trees, and grasses is a far throw from what his lungs are used to. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take long until he feels that oh-so familiar band tightening around his chest. He focuses his breaths, trying to ignore the urge to cough, to yawn, to do anything to get more air in his chest so that the group doesn’t catch on.

“If you’re having trouble breathing, Sky, you should loosen your sailcloth. It likely doesn’t help being tied around your neck like that,” Warriors says, shooting him a backwards glance as if to say “I can hear you choking on the very air you breathe, dumbass.” Sky smiles thinly and tugs at the knot, loosening it slightly. Obviously that wasn’t what he meant. Warriors is just trying to help, as always, Sky chides himself.

“Right as always, Captain. Thank you.”

“Hmmm,” Warriors replies, giving Sky a quick once-over with a raised brow before turning forward again. Sky grits his teeth, hanging back away from the group to gather his thoughts and squash the buzz of annoyance that has once again invaded his headspace.

Master, I detect a rise in blood pressure and slight emotional instability. I suggest you take a break.

Fi’s voice echoes in his head and, unlike the usual calming affect her voice has, it only serves to muddle his thoughts.

“Now’s not the time, Fi,” Sky mutters.

On the contrary, master. There is a high probability of both your physical and mental health deteriorating further if you do not rest soon.

Sky merely groans inwardly and puts his focus into making one foot go in front of the other, which would be a relatively easy task had Warriors not fallen back to walk astride him.

“Sky, I think we need to work a little on proper hand care. A warrior is only as effective with a blade as his hands are capable of holding it, and I can tell that yours are hurting,” Warriors chides gently. The buzzing in Sky’s head gets louder.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” he replies stiffly. Warriors huffs.

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

“Now is not a good time, Wars.”

“Well, forgive me for trying to help you!” Warriors throws his hands in the air dramatically. “Listen. I’m just worried about you. I can tell you’re in pain, and I have a lot of experience with—”

Sky stops in his tracks, allowing the group to move ahead, leaving him alone with the other man. The annoyance that has been simmering all day suddenly ignites into something hotter. “Oh, and I don’t have experience?” He says, his voice low. Warriors looks at him with surprise, then rolls his eyes.

“Goddesses, Sky, don’t be ridiculous, you know that’s not what I meant. What’s with you?”

“What’s with me? What’s with you?”

Warriors opens his mouth to retort but Time’s voice rings out from ahead.

“It’s a dangerous place to fall behind!” Time says, the warning clear. Warriors gives one last look at Sky before turning on his heel and stalking back towards the group. Sky knew it was foolish to get in a fight over something so meaningless, but he was just so damn exhausted. He put a shaky hand to his chest and took a too-shallow breath. Can’t think straight. Can’t breathe right. Apparently I can't even take care of myself, according to Mr. High and Mighty, Sky thinks bitterly.

When he finally gathers himself enough to continue walking, the group is far enough ahead to where he can’t discern who is talking. Unease shoots through him and he begins to jog to catch up, but doubles over in a fit of coughing in just a few measly steps. When it finally subsides, he wipes the spittle from the edges of his mouth with one hand, his other supporting himself on his knee. With a groan of exasperation, he tries to blink away the spots in his vision

Master, behind—

“SKY!”

Sky looks up blearily to see Wild sprinting at him with a familiar glint in his eye just in time for a spear to imbed itself into the ground less than six inches from his boot. He has the right sense to throw himself to the side just as a Lizalfos’s tail sweeps the air right where his legs were a moment ago. Still recovering from his coughing fit, he wheezes as his hand reaches for the Master Sword, easily pulling the blade from the sheathe but not without throwing him off balance as he backpeddles away from the long reach of the monster’s spear. He lands on his back on the forest floor, bringing the sword up to defend himself best he could as the Lizalfos jumps on top of him.

Before it could complete its attack, a blur of royal blue body slams the creature off of him, both figures tumbling to ground with a thud. Twilight is not far behind, pulling Wild up with a single hand as the duo faces off with the creature. A hand tugs Sky up to his feet.

“Are you injured?” Time’s steady voice cuts through the air. Sky merely shakes his head, turning to help Twilight and Wild, but finds that the two have already dealt the final blow. Wild flicks his sword expertly to clean his blade, a grin on his face as Twilight glowers at him.

“Seriously? You have almost every weapon in the books and yet you still choose to tackle it?” Twilight baps Wild upside the head before chuckling. “Black-blooded too? You’re a maniac.”

Sky shoots Wild a shaky smile.

“Thanks, champ. I was in a bad way,” he says quietly. Wild merely shrugs.

“Sure thing. Also, we should keep moving. Where there’s one, there’s more,” he replies, before pointing and walking back to the path. “We’re only about an hour out. We can get to a safe part of the woods before the sun sets.”

The group follows Wild and Sky falls into line, acutely aware of how Warriors has not said a single word through the entire ordeal. The adrenaline wears off, leaving Sky feeling worse than he was before.

Just as Wild promised, they reach a clearing just as the sun touches the horizon. With a groan, Wind drops his pack and flops onto the ground.

“Ughh! My feet are falling off!” Wind exclaims, voice muffled by the grass. Sky watches as Warriors approaches the youngest and laughs, squatting beside the boy and ruffling his hair.

“Oh, come on, sailor! You could’ve asked me to carry you! Or we could have slowed it down a bit!” Warriors grins down at Wind.

Outrage. Slowed down a bit? Anger shoots through Sky as he hears Warriors continue to talk to Wind. Where was that sympathy when I couldn’t breathe? When he knew I was struggling?

Master, your heart rate has jumped to 115 beats per minute, an increase of 64.23 percent from two minutes ago. Sitting down would be a logical course of action.

“Yes. Yep. Sitting down, thanks Fi,” Sky makes out through gritted teeth. Taking off his armor and setting the Master Sword aside, he does his best to breathe. Rolling up his sleeves, he basks in the cooling air. He sits with eyes closed, face towards the darkening forest, listening to the sounds of the coming night, the crickets chirping, the frogs croaking. All is well. All is well and you are calm. You are the peacemaker…

“—Do not believe he should take watch tonight. I am not confident in his line of thinking right now,” Warriors’s voice cut through Sky’s meditation. Sky’s eyes snap open as he tunes in to what was clearly supposed to be a private conversation. Not confident?

“Can you check on him?”

“Time, I don’t think that’s a good idea. He clearly wants to be alone, and to be honest, I don’t feel like holding a conversation with him right now.”

“Warriors—”

“Don’t, Time. He’s been off all day, and there are already tensions between us. And with that stunt he pulled earlier? I already told him once to catch up. His lackadaisical actions could’ve gotten people hurt, or worse. Something has to change. I’m trying to figure out what to do with him.”

Sky heard Time say something in return, but the anger that had clouded his mind blocked it out. He rose slowly, turning towards the two with rage written across his face. Time notices him first and places a hand on Warriors’s shoulder.

“What to do with me?” He hisses, stalking towards Warriors.

“Sky—” Warriors starts, tugging out of Time’s grasp.

“What to do with me?” Sky stops nearly chest-to-chest with the other man. “What am I? A child?”

“No, Sky, that’s not—”

“Or maybe I’m one of your soldiers that you can command? Is that it, Captain?”

Warriors’s gaze darkens. “Well then, maybe, if it would help you get your head out of the clouds, perhaps it would be best to start thinking like the knight you are, Skyloftian,” he replies.

Sky was breathing hard, his wheezing starting to come back. Fi chimes from where he left her, but he ignores her warning. “You have been on my ass all day! There is no doing anything right with you is there? Because you’re always so perfect!”

“I’ve been helping you all day, because you clearly need it! Maybe you should use that head of yours to listen!”

“I don’t need your help!” Sky’s voice has risen, drawing attention from the others. Time merely stands aside with crossed arms, electing to let the two men settle their differences. “I don’t need you to tell me how fast to walk, I don’t need you to tell me how to take care of myself, I don’t need your two-sense on if I am capable of standing watch or not!”

“Is that so? Then explain to me how you got yourself trapped under the spear of a Lizalfos if not for you and your lack of ability to think for yourself?” Warriors spits.

Rage makes Sky’s mind go blank. He shoves the other man before gathering his tunic in his fist, pulling Warriors towards him, their faces mere inches apart. Sky could feel angry tears burning his eyes, and he was angry, so angry, and so, so tired.

“I’m getting real tired of you treating me like the village idiot, Captain!” Sky snarls.

Warriors’s hand wraps easily around Sky’s wrists, pressing bruises into the skin as he leans forward, his face red with anger. “You are way out of line, Chosen,” he snarls and yanks on Sky’s arm, which doesn’t budge. “You need to step back before I make you.”

Chosen? I’ll show you chosen, is Sky’s last conscious thought before he raises his lips in a snarl.

“Make me.”

M-STR…N-ED…TO…CA-M…DOWN!

Fi’s voice rings and reverberates in his head, but he chooses to ignore it as the hair on his neck and arm rise, the buzzing in his head deafening. He fails to see how Warriors’s eyes change from anger to fear, or how he tries to pry Sky’s fist from his tunic. He is aware of yelling, and then Warriors is ripped from his grip and a strong pair of arms is encompassing his chest. A sharp pop fills the air, then silence, and the next thing he knows he’s gazing up at a sky full of stars, something hard at his back. There is an odd energy in the air, and it smells of ozone. Ozone? Oh…oh no. Oh no, no, no, what have I done?

“Ow.”

A voice in his ear snaps Sky out of his panic. “Time?”

“That’s me,” Time’s voice replies.

Sky scrambles off of him and turns, his hands ghosting over the other man.

“Did…did I burn you anywhere? Does your head feel okay? Oh, I’m so, so sorry!” Sky exclaims, tears springing to his eyes. Time merely chuckles from where he lays on the ground.

“I’m fine Sky. But maybe I won’t wear my armor next time you call electricity forth from your person,” he says with a wince as he sits up.

“I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I really—”

“Sky.” Time stands and grabs him by the shoulders. “Don’t apologize to me. Gather yourself, and when you’re ready, go to Warriors. I believe a calm conversation would do you good. As adults.” Sky nods. Time looks at him skeptically. “And I reiterate, as adults,” he says again, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, I understand,” Sky murmurs, “Thank you.” Times nods and moves away, gesturing at the others to go about their business. Warriors is nowhere to be seen.

Sky makes his way over to his space, laying out his sleeping roll, gently refusing the food Wild brings to him (until Wild shoves it in his face with an unsettling glare), and apologizes to Fi for not heeding her warning. She chimes quietly in response, never one to hold a grudge. After several hours into the night, Sky still can’t sleep despite Fi’s gentle plea to get some rest, so he stands and searches the camp for Warriors. Legend, who is on watch, glances at Sky then simply juts his chin towards the edge of the camp, towards a large stump at the woodline. Sky smiles his thanks.

Gathering his courage, Sky walks towards the stump. On the other side, he can see the top of a blond head and a familiar blue scarf. Sky pauses just before reaching the stump.

“May I…join you?” Sky asks softly. Warriors merely gestures a spot next to him on the grass. Sky settles next to him, and they sit in silence for a while until Wars breaks it.

“So. Lightning,” he says. Sky winces inwardly.

“Oh…yeah. It’s a long story,” he replies, “And not a very happy one, unfortunately,” he adds quietly. Warriors nods understandingly. Silence again.

“Warriors—”

“It’s okay Sky.”

“No—”

“I should be the one apologizing to you,” Wars finally turns and faces him, regret in his eyes. “I was insensitive. Uncaring. I knew that you were being hurt by my words and I didn’t stop.”

Sky shook his head. “I was too lost in my own emotions to see that I was losing control. I almost hurt you out of anger. I hurt Time,” he sighs, resting his head in his hands. “You’re right. Sometimes I am too undisciplined to call myself a knight.”

Warriors shoves his shoulder. “None of that. We all have our moments. Yours wouldn’t have happened had I not been such a moblin-headed idiot,” he declares. “But truly. I am so very sorry, Sky. I was on edge already from traveling in Wild’s world and I took it out on you.”

Sky nods. “Thank you. And I’m sorry as well. For almost, you know…”

“Electrocuting me?”

Sky nods again.

“Eh. I deserved it,” Warriors chuckles. A smile pulls at the edges of Sky’s mouth and they fall into a comfortable silence. Warrior’s arm falls across Sky’s shoulders and he pulls him into a hug.

“You’re still my brother. You know that?” Wars mumbles into Sky’s hair.

“And you’re mine,” Sky replies softly, melting into the embrace as tears prick at his eyes for the third time that day. “I love all of you to death,” he adds.

“Yeah, we’re pretty great, huh?” The other laughs quietly, Sky chuckling in return.

They stay like that for a long while. The night grows colder and the moon is high in the cloudless sky, the stars dancing far above the canopy of trees below. Sky feels his eyelids grow heavy, the warm embrace lulling him into sleep until Warriors nudges him to sit up.

“You should go back to your bedroll and get some real sleep. I know you’re exhausted,” he tells Sky.

“Dn wnna mve,” Sky mumbles in response.

“Huh?”

“Try to move me again and I will strike you with lightning,” He says, cracking an eye open and glaring halfheartedly at Warriors, who laughs in response.

“Alright, alright! Sleep well, Sky,” he whispers. A beat. “And for what it’s worth, I love you too. You lot are the best family I could ever ask for.”

Sky smiles, pulling the soft fabric of the scarf over his shoulder, and falling into a dreamless sleep.

[roostertuftart]

Evil elven Kyle based on an rp with @erratic-brainrot :]

[deripmaver]

it's obviously not intentional on miura's part, but it is interesting how possible doylist reasons for casca's recovery/arc taking so long to get to (miura being unsure what route to take maybe, or just wanting to dick around writing guts killing monsters a bit longer) create a scenario that functions as a metacommentary on irl rape culture.

in less fancy words LOL, a part of rape culture is the idea that survivors should at some point stop being affected by their trauma, usually a point very soon after the traumatic event. it's a burden put on the survivor to "move on," to stop bringing up the rape because its burdensome to the perpetrator and shameful w/in society, and after a period of time remaining & acting traumatized is even seen as a greater transgression than being a perpetrator of sexual violence. in that sense, i do always look at the desire to see casca go back to slashing at things with her sword & stop acting the way she does in canon post-eclipse with a bit more of a critical eye, particularly when it comes to the way she acts in ch 372.

of course, again, casca is a fictional female character written by a man. it's a man whose writing decisions have not afforded her any agency within the text, including related to her own assault. that being said, i think that SOME (not all) of the pushback to her regression to elaine, and her current situation in falconia, comes with a sense of discomfort to see someone being completely disabled due to their trauma, and never having that moment where she "gets over it." i dunno, i have a lot of criticisms with how elaine and casca's trauma was handled. i think her picking up a sword again in elfheim and then again in ch 372 and yet still having her trauma affect her deeply were also good choices.

[crazylittlejester]

adding to the list from earlier I said about things I believe could send LU Warriors into a coma or just kill him directly: The whole James Charles/Shane Dawson/Jeffree Star thing. Like not just the controversy analysis videos, all of it. The actual drama and watching it in real time. The mere idea of everything that went down would probably put him in a coma, and the Jeffree Star apology video with the expensive ass couch would send him to the grave immediately

that being said i think he and legend would together go through and rank a bunch of youtuber apology videos and keep the list accessible for years and years so they can always go through and add all the new ones that come in

[the-warrior-of-the-mind]

-it’s storming outside, with that brings thunder. Athena is currently hiding under her bed shaking. She’s always been terrified of lighting due to her father-

-that fear got so much worse after her death-

-right now she’s stuck in a state of torpor(owls do this when they’re stressed) in which she looks somewhat calm on the outside, but cannot physically move due to her intense panic and is very anxious on the inside-

[artistmugdh]

Hola, A Soundous New Year 🥳🥳 To Everyone.. A many many heartfelt thanks 🤩 to the 🌈 Family and 🌈 gatherings. Much love ❤️ to all the 🌈 brothers and 🌈 sisters, amazing travellers, & beautiful souls 🥰🤗 I really wish for every light 🌟 among the colours of rainbow & world 🗺️ alike, to keep shining like a star 💫 that we all are. As the new moon of this new year rises, with your blessings 🙏 , wishes🧞‍♂️, for our collective happiness 🙃 and joy 😂 and as a mark in the history of our physical world, i start my journey to show the world “What 🌈 is ?” Before diving into this life-travel-living photography-art project; my hearful thanks to 🌈 Brother Dimeth for the invitation into the family. Love you bro 👊🫶😘 for that Im still experiencing, understanding and living in the RAINBOW energy. While being in the process of building my own essence of existence with the life itself; i share the photographs and the serene inspirations that came along exploring the extents of my natural instinctive clicks 📸. Trusting my hands, my own creativity, feeling you, them & myself & us and the art itself as such. Here is the trust put in me by the beautiful 😻 🌟lights : .

.

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My Friend Shurya 🌞 😘🥰✨🌈🥳🌞 See you in 5! —Okasy zhok Hakuna Matata 😀 Soul : Mohit Ichko Artist : mugDh 🌈 Mug Ps. This photography-art project is also an answer to how rainbow gatherings happens. Its with people. And through my stories behind each wonderful rainbow feature; sharing the moments we shared in marking each click as a split in time where our consciousness ceased to oblivion of how it may be perceived. PERFECTION!

ps- ps- “Go and experience a rainbow gathering which happens from new moon to new moon. Travelers from all over the world go there. You will see the life there.” That's the way i was introduced to 🌈

Direct artist support here: https://paypal.com/paypalme/mugdh

[disabled-warriorcats]

Moth Flight has ADHD [canon], prolonged grief disorder, and PTSD [Mod headcanons]

[flowersandskeletons526]

"Over the Edge" - Warriors concept album fanfic (Part 2/3)

FINALLY got through the second part. A lot happens in kind of a shorter chapter than I usually write so be warned. TW for flashbacks of a near death experience and mildly implied suicidal ideation. Here's the link to Part 1. Enjoy!

--------

Rembrandt prayed the supervised tagging trip with Mercy would be a one-off, but it wasn’t. During the day, Rembrandt was subject to the ridiculous physical therapy regime Cochise implemented for her: strength training for her arm and stretches for her knee that hurt more than they seemed to help. Cochise was especially worried about Rembrandt’s shoulder because, according to what she read, one dislocation made Rembrandt prone to more if she didn’t take care of the joint, which was just fucking great. And of course Cochise had to make it worse by sharing that information in front of Cleon. 

By night, Rembrandt was out training Mercy with Swan and Ajax as security. It wasn’t as if Mercy only assisted with tagging. She went scouting with Cowgirl and learned first aid from Cochise. She patrolled with Swan and later Ajax, as well, after Ajax promised civility and Swan gave the okay. Rembrandt was proud of Ajax for that. The pair were a long way from being close friends, but they got along and Ajax had actually begun to like and even trust Mercy again. 

But they always needed more scouts. They always needed more people on patrols and Cochise made everyone learn basic first aid when they started. They only needed one tagger and that was Rembrandt but Rembrandt was kept on the sidelines just… supervising.

Mercy got good at it. So good it was hard for any non-Warrior to notice a difference, and no matter how frustrated it made her, Rembrandt was proud of Mercy. She knew Mercy was proud of herself and she had every right to be. She’d adjusted better than anyone expected, but every time she looked ready to celebrate another successful mission, she would look at Rembrandt with an expression the tagger couldn’t read and tone herself down and it made Rembrandt feel impossibly shitty every single time. 

She stopped sleeping. The flashbacks wouldn’t let her, not for more than an hour or two, until she stopped trying to make it happen. She turned to chugging coffee like water and smoking more than she ever had in her life, anything to get stimulants in her system in an attempt to stay awake. Nothing helped.

If Ajax didn’t trust her to be alone before, she certainly didn’t now. When Ajax had business to handle, Rembrandt spent her time doing nothing at Cleon’s apartment. They made sure someone was always in the apartment with her, something she both appreciated and loathed at the same time. One such night, she sat on the couch with her sketchbook in her lap, staring at the same empty page she’d been staring at for the past thirty minutes. Swan and Mercy were in their bedroom. Rembrandt wasn’t sure if they’d neglected to fully shut the door or if the walls were just thinner than she remembered, but she heard their muffled conversation.

“She looks like a fucking ghost!” Mercy hissed. “Look me in the eye and tell me honestly how much you think she’s slept in the past week.”

“I know she hasn’t,” said Swan, “but there’s not much we can do about it.”

“We could send her to a counselor or something.”

“Even if I thought that was a good idea, Rem would never go for it. Look, I’m worried, too, but-”

“Does she really have to do this?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”

“We have. She’s working through it, okay? She’s getting there.”

“She’s getting worse!”

Rembrandt slammed the front door hard enough to wake the whole block. 

She made her way to the roof, hating how her knee protested as she climbed the stairs. A harsh wind blew in off the ocean. She tucked herself into the corner of the short wall that bordered the roof to hide from the worst of it and lit a cigarette. She only got a few puffs before Swan came to find her. 

The war chief sat close against her, touching from shoulder to hip. “Mind if I bum one?” she asked. Rembrandt passed her a cigarette and a lighter, then watched as she failed to light it multiple times against the wind. It would have been funny if she didn’t feel so awful. Taking pity on her, she tilted Swan’s head towards her and put their faces close together to light Swan’s cigarette with the burning tip of her own. Swan blew smoke through her nose and mumbled a quiet, “Thanks.”

Rembrandt rested her head on Swan’s shoulder. “Tell Mercy to stop freaking out.”

“She still feels responsible for what happened.”

“She isn’t.”

“Try telling her that.”

“I did. When I talked to her after I woke up.” Rembrandt flicked her cigarette absentmindedly and closed her eyes. “Ajax is worried about me.” 

Swan took a long drag off her cigarette. “So am I.”

The door to the stairwell opened. “Swan,” Mercy said, “Masai is here.”

Rembrandt frowned and turned to Swan. “Why are the Riffs here?”

Swan didn’t answer. She just stubbed out her cigarette and took Rembrandt by the hand to lead her back into the apartment. 

Cleon and the rest of the Warriors waited for them in the kitchen alongside Masai and two Gramercy Riff soldiers. The Riffs stayed against the wall with their eyes on their leader; they were only ever around for entourage when Masai made a visit, anyway. Ajax nodded to Swan and replaced her beside Rembrandt, coaxing her to sit across from the two gang leaders at the table. Mercy took the seat next to her. She squeezed Rembrandt’s trembling hand under the table. 

“How are you feeling, Rembrandt?” asked Masai.

“Uh, fine. Thanks,” Rembrandt mumbled. “Cleon, what’s going on?”

“I told you we were figuring out exactly how to handle the Princes after they attacked you and Mercy,” Cleon said. Hearing the name of that gang was like a gut punch. “They already took care of the one that pushed you off the fire escape.”

“What do you mean?” 

Masai turned his palms to the ceiling. “He got what he deserved.”

“What does-”

“Rem,” Mercy whispered. She narrowed her eyes, her expression stony and frigid as she tried to convey the message without actually spelling it out. Rembrandt’s stomach turned. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Cleon said bluntly. “But the rest of them, we’re still deciding. Their leader knows this is inevitable and he’s guaranteed both no retaliation and assistance in whatever punishment we hand down, so we want you two to choose what happens.” 

The room spun. Rembrandt tasted bile and blood. Her vision went blurry as a shrill ringing echoed in her head. 

The night sky. Mercy’s voice. The sound of breaking glass as she hit the ground. There was blood, her blood, so much blood, and it was so cold and Mercy was screaming and she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t-

Rembrandt had no idea how she ended up in the corner across the room but she did. There were voices in her ears speaking words she couldn’t understand. She covered her mouth with one hand and screwed her eyes shut but didn’t completely close herself off like she used to, trying not to puke while simultaneously refusing to look like a weak, traumatized child in front of everyone. She was not fragile, she was not broken, and no matter how much her whole crew looked at her like she was, she would not dig herself further into that hole. 

Someone touched her shoulder. She roughly shrugged them off to disguise the way she flinched. Risking a glance behind her, she saw Ajax and Cleon forming a wall between her and the others. Cleon’s mouth was moving as she said something that wouldn’t quite register in Rembrandt’s mind. Behind them, she spotted Mercy and Swan, both looking like they wanted to go to her but not knowing if it was their place. 

She locked eyes with Ajax. Ajax followed her gaze to Mercy and Swan, then looked back to her and gave a small nod, because Ajax had been her ride or die from the start and always knew exactly what she needed if she could just be brave enough to admit she needed anything at all. 

Ajax stood aside. Rembrandt darted past Cleon, grabbed Mercy by the collar, and dragged her into the bathroom.

The second the door was closed, Rembrandt collapsed to the floor, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as she leaned back against the side of the tub. Mercy knelt in front of her. 

“What the hell was that?!” Mercy whisper-yelled. “You just like completely blacked out or something!”

“Yeah,” Rembrandt said, still trying to calm her labored breathing, “that’s been happening.”

“For how long?! Does Ajax know? Does Cleon?”

“Ajax knows. No one else does so please, for the love of god, do not fucking tell anyone,” Rembrandt begged. Mercy hesitated. Rembrandt dropped her hands so she could look the girl in the eyes. “Mercy!”

“I won’t! I won’t. Promise.” Mercy extended a hand and waited for Rembrandt to take it. “Rembrandt, we’re worried about you.”

Rembrandt shook her head. “No. Not now. Did you know about this? Did they tell you?”

“I-I… Yeah, they let me know first.”

“The one that pushed me, Cleon didn’t…?”

“No, it wasn't Cleon who did it. The guy’s own gang put a hit out on him for what he did. I guess he’s the one that planned all of it.”

“Why do they want us to choose what happens to the rest of them?”

Mercy hesitated again. She took a deep breath. “Swan says Cleon wants you to feel in control again. Says she thinks it’ll help.”

In control. In control. Rembrandt hadn’t been in control of jack fucking shit since the night they lost Fox.

Mercy continued, “I don’t know. They know you better than I do. Look, you don’t have to face any of the bitches that jumped us. Whatever we tell Cleon and Masai, we won't have to actually, y’know, carry it out.”

“What did you say?”

“You will not look at me the same way if you hear what I said,” Mercy admitted, and it looked like her heart broke a little doing it. 

All Rembrandt could say was, “You sound like Ajax.”

“Ajax said I shouldn’t be called Mercy anymore after she heard it.” 

“What the actual fuck.”

“She’s rubbing off on me. What can I say.”

“Oh, god.” Rembrandt raked her hands through her hair. “Okay. I think I’m ready to go back out.”

“Why don’t you take a minute? You look a little… green.”

“I’m fine. Can you give me a hand? I got my knee in a weird position.” 

A very weird and very bad position that left her leg in screaming hot pain, now that she was grounded enough to feel it. Mercy helped her to her feet and waited for her to stretch some of the pain out before following her back into the kitchen. Cleon and Masai were in the corner, embroiled in a heated and hushed conversation. Swan and Ajax looked like they’d just gotten out of one much the same and now stood closer together than Rembrandt had seen them in a long time, both staring sullenly at their feet. When Rembrandt walked out, Cochise immediately took notice of how she favored her injured leg.

“Rembrandt, you’re limping again,” the soldier said.

She shut it down. “I bumped my knee. I’m okay. Cleon?”

Cleon and Masai were before her in the blink of an eye. “You figure out what you want to do?”

“Jump them out. All of them that were in Brooklyn that night. And blacklist them so hard they’ll never be able to step foot off Staten Island again,” Rembrandt said decisively. “But don’t… don’t kill anyone.” 

Cleon didn’t flinch. Cleon never flinched. Years and years of gang life had broken that instinct out of her, but there was a set to her jaw and a glint in her eye that made it clear it would’ve hurt less if Rembrandt had simply decked her in the face. Rembrandt wanted to take back her last sentence the moment she saw that look because that was not a look Cleon ever got and it was not one Rembrandt ever wanted to see again. 

Cleon said, “Done.” 

There was a little more conversation after that, a few details that had to be worked out between the leaders. Thankfully, Rembrandt didn’t have to be a part of it. She got to sit on the couch between Ajax and Mercy and assure Cochise over and over again that yes she was wearing the knee brace - a lie - and yes she was doing everything in the physical therapy plan - a partial lie. 

Once the Riffs finally left, she took the chance to lock herself in the bathroom and puke until there was nothing left in her system.

----

If giving Rembrandt the final say in retribution against the Princes was Cleon’s way of letting her feel in control again, it only lasted for that one night. 

“Why is Mercy still tagging instead of me!” Rembrandt demanded as Cleon sat beside her on the couch. 

“Because Cochise doesn’t think it’s safe for you to try that kind of physical activity yet and neither do I,” Cleon said. Rembrandt could hear in her voice exactly how close she was to the end of her patience.

“But I’m fine now. My knee barely hurts anymore and I can put my arm above my head again. See?”

“I can see that you are in extreme pain doing that, so stop before you make it worse. I told you, it’s just for now.”

“When is ‘just for now’ gonna end?”

“You can’t expect to be completely healed after a few weeks,” Cleon said, her tone becoming more clipped and frustrated. 

“But I’m fine!”

Cleon snapped. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you blacking out lately!” she exclaimed. It wasn’t angry. It was… pleading. Pleading and desperate, like this was her last chance to get through to Rembrandt. “You think I haven’t noticed how you suddenly turn into a zombie whenever that night gets brought up? You think I haven’t noticed how Ajax has to constantly bring you back to reality? You got hurt, Rembrandt. Badly hurt. We almost lost you that night and I’m trying to make sure we don’t lose you now! You’re not tagging until you’re completely healed. I don’t care if it takes a month or a whole fucking year. That’s final. Do you understand?”

Rembrandt felt the familiar rise of vitriolic words rising in her throat. She was not a fighter, never had been, but Ajax and gang life had taught her a lot about different ways to lash out when she was angry. And fuck, was she angry. Angry and bitter and hurt and frustrated beyond the point of reason, but she still had the good sense to remember she was staring her leader in the face. She’d said some harsh things to the others in the past, things she wasn’t proud of when she looked back, but never to Cleon. 

So she held her tongue, nodded stiffly, and dropped it. 

That night, she laid awake in bed beside Ajax. Ajax was curled up on her side, facing the wall and snoring softly. Rembrandt reached over to rest a hand against her back, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, and gritted her teeth. 

Bleeding out on the couch. Indistinct voices filling the room. Ajax beside her, tears in her eyes, promising everything was going to be alright-

As quietly as she could, Rembrandt got out of bed and went to the fire escape. 

She sat just outside the window, one leg still in the apartment as she lit a cigarette. She watched the smoke curl up and away from her in the chilly night air.

Cold air in her lungs. Hot blood pooling around her.

Rembrandt stood on the fire escape. Tucking her cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she put both hands on the railing and looked down at the street below. 

Rough hands on her collar. A wicked grin and wild eyes.

She could almost imagine herself laying there: unable to breathe, bleeding out and broken, as the Princes closed in around her. 

Weightlessness. Breaking glass. Mercy screaming.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

She didn’t know who she was trying to convince anymore. 

Rembrandt grabbed the edge of the stairs above her head and stepped up onto the railing. 

The night sky. Mercy. Cleon. Ajax.

Closing her eyes, she balanced on her good leg and held on with her good arm and leaned out over the edge.

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. 

“Rembrandt, no!”

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 7: Suffering in Silence

Ao3

CW for PTSD, referenced injury, and unresolved interpersonal conflict

--------------------------------------

He needs sleep. 

Warriors stares into the water-speckled restroom mirror and sees nothing. Blurred shapes are all that are there, forms and colors he knows make up his visage. But his sandpaper eyes have turned them all indistinct. 

He is borderless now, as shifting and immaterial as he feels. Brush against him and he will simply float away.

Or sink into the depths that call him. 

Taking a deep breath, he scoops a palmful of water onto his face. Its icy frigidity does little to awaken him. He is too far gone for that now. 

Movement. Thought. They are nearly impossible. Have been all day.

Perhaps, that is why he had lost it earlier. Perhaps, that is why, the infallible, optimistic captain had simply…snapped.

His breath hitches unexpectedly. Trembling legs give way, depositing him on the tiled floor. Warriors brings his hands up and digs his palms into his eyes, fighting against the searing bite of oncoming tears. 

Damn it. Keep it together, captain. You already fell apart once, don’t do it again…

His hands curl into fists. Fingernails dig mercilessly into calloused flesh.

Wild’s words still echo in his mind, a terrible weight he is almost certain he lacks the strength to shoulder. 

Even a spirit of courage isn’t mighty enough for things like this.

Hurl him into hoards of squealing beasts. Send him hurtling through time and space. Drop him in the midst of situations he struggles to even comprehend. Take those he loves to a place he cannot go himself. Tear his body apart until there is nothing left. 

He can handle all that. He was built to handle all of that. 

But to strive so hard, so long only to hear that cursed shout…

“I hate you!”

The deathly chill that has gripped him since the fight (the one that had closed him off from the hero shouting in his face, that had turned his gaze dull, his expression stony, filled his mind with cotton so he could neither think nor feel…and had ignited Wild’s ire further) cracks and shatters into one million pieces. Pain cleaves through the exhausted numbness. A sob rips through his throat.

He’s heard worse. Far greater accusations, far worse insults have been spewed at him with fury and revulsion. Screamed at him as fists and feet connected with bone and muscle; shouted as blades ate away at flesh and cloth.

His own men had called him a traitor to Hyrule. The people he fought to protect had dubbed him a murderer. 

It hadn’t hurt as badly as this.

Warriors lets his head fall back against the wall. Hot tears glide down his cheeks, streaming down his neck to skitter beneath his collar. 

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He hadn’t meant to break. But the sleepless nights had only continued since Twilight’s brush with death. The tasks hadn’t stopped piling up. The troubles hadn’t stopped parading through.

(The memories had kept coming, hounding at his every step, haunting his dreams, stealing the breath from his lungs. Memories of death and loss. Of betrayal and heartbreak.)

The latest battle had just been too much. Especially, when Wild had disobeyed orders yet again, hoping to catch the Shadow before he could streak through another gateway. 

Normally, Warriors would have held his tongue until he found the best wording for a rebuke. Normally, he would’ve dealt with the situation calmly, firmly…kindly.

But he had been so, so tired. 

Even now, he longs to fall into the plush embrace of a heap of blankets. But sleep was impossible out there where he could feel their eyes on him, hear their murmured conversations. He couldn’t-couldn’t see their faces a moment longer.

Warriors hadn’t even allowed himself to dwell on their expressions. Sorrow, shock, judgement, pity — he had identified them all in the split seconds he’d had to look over his friends.

His brothers.

The lump in his throat burns. Warriors swallows against it. 

He will have to come out soon, stone-faced and determined. He will have to face the repercussions of everything that has happened with a brave front.

He will have to force down the emotions churning within him, the hurt boiling up. 

He has suffered in silence for a close to a week now. And it’s not as though he isn’t skilled at the art of constructing facades by now. At times, the mask feels realer than his true face.

So, really, what’s a little longer for the sake of tentative peace?

Though, what kind of peace can be struck when one person despises the other?

He chuckles, harsh and wet. The sound is hardly audible over the never-ending rush of the water that cascades from the faucet.

Shut it off, the soldier within him shouts. Resources must be preserved.

Warriors doesn’t budge from his place on the floor. 

If he had obeyed his instincts, however, he might have heard the sound of a hand on the doorknob, a pick in the lock. 

Wind shimmies into the bathroom with shocking stealth. At the sound of the door clicking closed, Warriors startles. Instantly, his hand flies to his boot, seeking the dagger nestled against his leg. But then, his gaze lands on the sailor, standing mere feet from him, expression screwed up in worry. And he lets his hand drop to the floor.

“Goddesses, sailor,” he breathes, “you almost gave me a heartattack. Trying to put me in an early grave?”

Wind slips down beside him, shoulder pressed to the captain’s.

“Sorry! I just…” He looks down at his hands, clasped atop his lap. “...I didn’t think you were actually taking a bath in here. That would’ve been a really long one if you were.”

Warriors chokes out a chuckle. “Wouldn’t be out of character for me though, would it?”

Wind shrugs. “People don’t go bathe after a fight. I know I never do when Aryll and me argue.” 

The ceiling smears further into combined shades of emerald-blue. Warriors clears his throat. The suffocating tightness doesn’t lessen.

“‘M sorry you had to hear all that, sailor,” he croaks. “I shouldn't have snapped.”

Wind is quiet for a long thread of moments. When he speaks again, his voice is small. His words, however, are firm, confident. 

“Wild didn’t mean what he said, you know.”

The ache in Warriors’ chest pierces deeper and spreads like a blot of ink on silken cloth. 

Right when he thought this day couldn’t get any worse, now the sailor is trying to comfort him.

…as he mopes on the bathroom floor.

How far can you fall in one day?

Pretty far, it seems.

He shakes his head, hoping the sound of his hair brushing the wall behind him will cloak that of his shuddering breaths.

“Wind, you don’t have to — ”

Wind scoots closer and wraps his two arms around Warriors’ one.

“It’s true! Wild said some really bad stuff but…he was just angry at the Shadow. And…scared.” Large orbs the color of the Great Sea gaze into Warriors’. “Like you.” 

The captain is quiet, allowing that a moment to sink in. Or, perhaps, to merely settle on the tower of wavering feelings stacked within him.

He’s so tired. (How many times has he thought that now?) If he closes his eyes, the weight hovering atop him will plummet, dragging him down with it.

More tracks of salty water scurry down his cheeks, bringing warmth to his chilled flesh. 

“You’re gonna have to talk to him, you know,” the sailor continues, voice just audible over the continued downpour. “Wild can be an idiot sometimes, especially when he feels bad. He’s gonna wanna talk about what happened but…he probably thinks you hate him now.”

That hardly makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside. But Warriors knows he’s got a point. 

Some people reach outward when regret has them by the throat. Wild has already lashed out. Now, his only option is to go in.

And when that happens, even the rancher can hardly drag him out.

Good to know luck is on my side, snarks the spiral of self-pity. 

Warriors drags in a breath and swallows a mouthful of tears.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he hums. He coaxes his arm out of Wind’s grasp and wraps it around his slight shoulders, pulling him close. “You’re a smart kid, you know that?”

Wind giggles, softly. “Yeah, I know.” He pauses. “And I know you and Wild are gonna be okay. You’re brothers! Siblings always make up, trust me!”

“You’ve got a lot of optimism, sailor,” Warriors whispers. 

Silence glides in on the tail of his words. It settles, heavy and hyptonizing over the small space. Warriors allows it to reign for a while. 

The days of stress and exhaustion have fully caught up to him now. Frazzled, devastated thoughts slow, bumping lazily against one another. He stares ahead of him and lets everything disappear behind a film of sorrow and fatigue. 

“Hey, Wars?” Wind’s voice is a bit louder now, but hesitant. Gentle. “I love you.”

Warriors’ eyes slide closed of their own accord. He doesn’t bother to drag them open again.

“Love you too, sailor,” he murmurs and every word is laborious to utter. “Love you too.”

[is-your-blorbo-neurodivergent]

do they have ptsd?

submit your own characters here to be featured!

reason: When I mention every PoV character, I mean Every. Single. One. - Main Series Protagonists, Super Edition Protagonists, Novella Protagonists, Graphic Novels etc.

These PoV cats and their Clanmates are literally going through multiple battles, multiple illness crises, losing multiple of their loved ones, being manipulated and/or used by a higher afterlife power, and/or living through multiple major historical events within the Clans that they live in throughout their lives.

There’s NO way that these characters don’t have (at the very least) SOME sort of extreme trauma from something occurring within their lives.