#sorry if its confusing

[mishastiel]

A big difference between proshippers and antis is that I feel way more comfortable around the former. And I just think it's funny that antis claim to be super wholesome, pure, accepting. When it's the complete opposite. With antis, I'd always feel extremely ashamed, embarrassed of sharing anything about my interests, even the ones they consider acceptable. I'd never talk about a fanfic I read because it contained something weird, I'd never talk about a ship because it was weird, I'd never talk about a movie or show because it was weird. I rarely ever participated in conversations about my interests online, because what if they find out I like this one thing? With proshippers tho, I was allowed to share so much, to think so many thoughts. I even became less bored because I didn't private myself from anything. I started exploring talents and artistic abilities because I was allowed to express myself the way I wanted.

So many antis say that you shouldn't feel ashamed or scared to be cringe, let yourself be, express yourself, to whatever you want to do but they will shut those who are cringe, who express and let themselves be down.

[hyperfixiation-station]

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Information Pt.3

TW: Blood, Torture, Violence

Summary: You get rescued(finally)

Part 1, Part 2

Silent. From the moment Price had found you in that dingy cell, broken and bleeding, that was all you had been. You were silent when they moved you, though it had to have hurt with how many broken bones and lacerations you had. You were silent when the medics asked you where you were injured, how you had been hurt. You were silent through the debriefings, through the desperate attempts to find out what you had been through, what secrets you had spilled. You were silent through all of it. 

It wasn’t your fault, not really. A mental barrier you had constructed during months of torture to keep secrets from spilling, a dam built with a mantra of DON’T TALK to keep your thoughts at bay as your captors repeatedly tried to draw them out of you. 

Even now, when the rational part of your brain knew you were safe, knew that these men, the men you served with, the men who had tracked you down and saved you, were to be trusted, the barrier would not fall. 

Every ‘what did they want from you, what did you see, did you recognize them, how many of them were there’ was met with silence. Anytime you opened your mouth you were hit with a wave of fear so strong it sent you into a panic attack. 

They understood, in part. They had seen recordings, seen the rooms, seen your broken body at the time of rescue. 

It took them 2 days to get to you after figuring out your location. They went in guns blazing, and tore the place to the ground. They split up, Price and Gaz taking the left with Soap and Ghost taking the right. They shot at anything that moved in their quest for vengeance, breaking down doors and checking every nook and cranny for where you might be locked up. 

Price found you about a quarter of the way into the camp. He took the bottom floor and Gaz took the top as they cleared the building. He had stopped before a door that was different, metal and welded shut with a small little flap in the middle, instead of solid and wooden like the others. It took him and Gaz some prying and metalwork, but they got the door open. 

Price almost cried when his eyes adjusted to the change in light. You lay curled in the corner, back to the wall as you shied away from the light. Your hair was tangled and matted with dried blood, your clothes were torn and dirty and your skin was crusted with so much blood and grime that he couldn’t even see you underneath it. 

“Y/n?” He had called, but there was no response. He crept slowly toward you, keeping his movements as open and relaxed as possible. He crouched in front of you, taking note of your dilated pupils, sunken eyes, obviously malnourished form. He winced at the weird bulges in your skin, indicative of broken bones. 

“Sorry love.” He whispered to you, taking a steadying breath as he slid his arms under you and lifted. Hise expected you to cry out, the action no doubt causing unspeakable pain, but you didn’t. In fact, you didn’t react at all. He didn’t dwell on it then, opting to get you somewhere safe and secure. 

“9 broken ribs, a broken left femur, both shoulders dislocated, pneumonia, dehydration and severe malnutrition, multiple lacerations that required stitches, broken wrists, all 10 fingers broken, right kneecap dislocated, multiple concussions, and a hairline fracture on their skull.” The doctor had said. It hurt all of them to hear how badly wounded you were. 

They gave you two weeks to recover before asking any questions. The first week you were unconscious, in a coma as your body tried to heal you. The second week you spent in worrying silence, saying nothing to anyone, not to your doctors, not to your teammates, not to your friends.

Price sent Ghost in first. He had had similar experiences and Price figured he would be able to relate. However when Ghost came storming out an hour later, slamming the door behind him, he came to regret that decision. 

“I got over it.” He had said, “Why can’t they?” Price reminded him that not everyone responds to trauma the same way and sent him away.

Soap tried next, and came out near tears after sending you into a panic attack after calling you ‘Little Bird’. He was confused until Ghost not-so-gently reminded him of the video they had seen, of the words ‘Pretty Bird’ being used over and over. Ghost pretended not to hear him throwing up in the toilet later. 

Gaz tried, to no avail. He ended up just sitting in silence with you, showing you videos of his cats. He counted it a victory when your busted lips twitched into a tiny grin for a few seconds.

And on and on it went, with refusing to speak to anyone. They were losing hope until the psychiatrist finally spoke with you. 

“GIve them time.” She said gently, “You trying to force a response will just make this worse.” 

So they do. The higher-ups still want answers, of course, but Price manages to dissuade them from asking until you are out of the hospital. They spend the weeks treating you as normal as possible, stopping by to give you updates on missions, show you a video of Soap absolutely biffing it in training, tell you the latest gossip of which recruit is sleeping with who. But even though they are trying, they still handle you with kiddie gloves, afraid that the wrong word or look will make you shatter irreversibly. 

Which brings you to now. It’s nearly 2 A.M, and visiting hours are long over as you stand unsteadily in the bathroom, staring at your pale, pathetic form in the mirror. You open and close your mouth, trying and failing to get words out, the barrier cemented in your mind by blood and tears too strong to break down.  

‘Speak, you stupid fucking bitch!’ You scream mentally at yourself, ‘You have to speak! If you don’t you'll be discharged and you'll never be able to serve again! They already think you’re broken, and if you can’t tell them different they’ll never treat you the same. Stop. being. So. Fucking. Pathetic.’

Tears streak your cheeks as you slide down the wall. You draw your knees up, hiding your face in them as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. Rationally, you know you are safe. Rationally, you know that if you were to speak, nothing would happen. But it’s not the rational part of your brain that is keeping you from speaking. 

Going dark in that hellhole you were trapped in had saved your life, and you couldn’t seem to get past it. Sure, not responding had almost killed you right at first, as Kravchenko became more and more ruthless in his attempts to get you to speak again, but eventually he grew bored. His little plaything had lost its sparkle, and he locked you in a cell and threw away the key as soon as he lost interest. But starving to death was still a better alternative to the all-consuming agony that had been your day-to-day. 

And now, the subconscious, irrational part of your brain was convinced that if you spoke you’d be dragged right back and strapped to a table, that you’d wake up to find that your rescue had all been a dream. That you-

“-/n! Y/N! Y/N!” You flinch, startled out of your reverie. You look down to see rivulets of blood running down your arms, your nails having gouged holes into your skin. You look up to see the eyes of a worried nurse, holding your hands in hers. 

“There you are. We lost you for a minute. Do you mind letting me bandage you up here?” Her voice is soft and gentle and you find yourself nodding, letting her lead you back to your bed where she cleans and bandages your upper arms. 

“What are you doing up so late sweetie?” Her voice is calming, almost hypnotic, “I mean, I’m awake cause I get paid to be, but you should be sleeping all your injuries away, shouldn’t you dearie? If I was you, I’d of been cryin’ too, being awake at 2 A.M. for free.” She laughs, the sound echoing through the room, “Course, I suppose you probably think I’m crazy for agreeing to work this shift anyways. Did you know I was supposed to have this shift off? But Roberta’s kids have the flu and so I agreed-” She keeps talking, her voice soothing your fears and helping you relax. YOu can’t help but mentally thank Roberta’s kids for being sick, for sending this wonderful lady who does not treat you like you're going to break at any moment to you tonight. 

“And that should about do it dearie. Just press that little call button if you need any more help, alright?” She says cheerfully. She squeezes your hand and heads to the door before pausing. 

“Make sure to get some sleep.” She leaves, gently closing the door behind her. Something about her makes you feel safer than you have since falling off that helicopter. Maybe it was her motherly demeanor, maybe it was the fact that she treated you like a normal human being, maybe it was the fact that she could have put you on a psych hold an ddin;t, but whatever it was, you loved her for it. 

And as the door closes and the room stills, you whisper a quiet “thanks.” 

Part 4?

~tags~

@louthedino @scarletdfox @dangerkitten1705 @warenai @spineless-spino @rainy-darling

[professional-termite]

I love your Star Trek relationship charts but forgive my ignorance what is QPR? Thanks!

thanks for the question anon! qpr stands for queer platonic relationship, and its definition kind of depends on whos in it. a qpr can be anything from very close best friends, to something bordering on whats usually defined as "romantic" but is mutually defined by the parties involved as "other," and anything in between. usually people in qprs are aro/acespec, but pretty much anyone can be in one.

again, theres no set definition for a qpr. but generally, its a partnership that involves love that isnt romantic and is stronger than most platonic bonds, and it usually has some degree of exclusivity like a romantic relationship.

[hinamie]

noir

[pokituu]

HITO!!! [she/he] the purple sketches were some of the first I did of him. Every drawing since I'm slowly figuring her out :3

[ryssbelle]

Drew a bunch of Marinettes in a bunch of different artists styles it was a lot of fun!!

Artists who's styles I mimicked: @buggachat @hamsternamedmarinette @ladybeug @sabertoothwalrus and @anna-scribbles all epic artists 🤟😎

[ferncloud]

🌗 moonpaw

[hai-nae]

uno reverse

[four-pointed-leaf]

happy pride month

[whilomm]

i like to think that the tentacles in dungeon meshi are kinda like mushrooms or perhaps even lichens in that they are very confusing to identifty and have 200 completely different species that look very similar ("delicious brown tentacle vs BROWN DEATH TENDRIL") and you need to be an Expert to determine the difference between some of the more confusing species and some of them have like 300 different sexes and some of them are actually composite creatures composed of several different species and somehow yeast is involved and also no one really knows half of whats going on with them and in like 50 years someones gonna figure out that uhm actually these are two completely different types of tentacle creatures that arent related like at All they jusf happen to look similar and oh btw that one common house mold is actually a tentacle

[chloesimaginationthings]

Horrifying being beyond my comprehension just saying “no???” Is absolutely hilarious

IM GLAD YALL FOUND IT FUNNY TOO, cause drawing this killed me 💀

[mr-payjay]

More drawinfs <3 the usual art dump

[heshmmity]

i have an urge to post it here so i post it here. be normal guys

50 shades of "bill we need to stop doing old men yaoi kisses its not very good for my reputation" dude nothing will save your reputation atp.

[okiroash]

grahhhhh they multiplied

[ciliomv]

Bit confused on your wording, but i'll try describe it; I don't feel anything. its like if other people had a folder for who they're attracted to, i just, don't have that. it can be similar for people who are aromatic too, i am in both communities, hell, i don't really feel like i got a gender either. In an attempt to avoid a tangent and confusing you any more, i do not feel anything, and like i've said, for me, its like i'm missing a folder some other people have.

Hey. So, um. I’m trying to figure things out. It’s not going great.

I have a question to ask asexual people. Aces? Whatever you want to be called. Can you just… explain what that’s like? For reasons, it’s not exactly a good idea for me to look into it in my current environment, so… yeah.

Y’all, I came here to learn about myself, but not like this.

sigh

Well, I’m here now. And I’m entirely too unsure to be comfortable. I’d appreciate the help.

Oh, also, because I don’t know how many people this will actually reach on its own, please reblog to help me out.

[yuridovewing]

“we want more complex wc villains” you cant even handle a mother who does bad things but still loves her children