a sword day a red day

a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises

[metamorphesque]

Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light, Richard Siken

[text ID: How much can you change / and get away with it, / before you turn into / something else, / before it’s some kind of / murder?]

[kamillahn]

Well, you've come to the right place, then, haven't you?

[serps-up]

so happy and free

[reachartwork]

this is going to be a silly reblog but i have kind of a fixation on animal qualia and the idea of an animal's umwelt, so i ended up wondering whether pudding was actually "enjoying" this.

which meant i went and read about snail brains.

here's the bad news, at least by human standards:

snails do not have anything like a centralized brain. their nervous system is made up of small clusters of neurons (ganglia) that mostly handle very local tasks. they don't have a cortex, they don't build big integrated models of the world, and they almost certainly don't experience things like appreciation, anticipation, or savoring.

pudding is not looking at the sky and thinking it's beautiful.

snail eyes are basically light sensors - they can tell bright from dark, but not form images. snail "taste" is done through chemoreceptors on their tentacles and around their mouth. those receptors don't produce flavor the way ours do; they just detect chemical compounds and sort them into "approach," "ignore," or "avoid."

so there's no evidence that snails enjoy food, or wind, or views, the way mammals do.

and that does sound kind of sad. but then i thought that maybe we are asking the wrong question.

snails do have valence. they detect aversive things (like salt or dryness) and withdraw from them. they detect non-aversive or beneficial conditions (like moisture) and stay extended. when pudding is stretched out like this, it means his nervous system is basically saying "this is safe; nothing is wrong."

if we define pleasure not as our human experience of dopamine and reward chemicals but instead as "the absence of aversion" - a state where the organism is open to its environment instead of defending itself - then this does count as something positive, even if it's extremely nothing like human enjoyment.

pudding isn't appreciating the wind. but his body is registering humidity, safety, and the ability to keep functioning, and that matters to him in the only way his nervous system can make things matter. he does not think "this is great, this is awesome, i love the weather", because he doesn't think in the way we do at all, but the neurological action in his ganglion tell his body that he is safe, that the moisture is an acceptable level, that it's not too dry or windy, and that there's nothing imminently threatening.

i think a lot of the sadness comes from assuming that a good life has to look like ours: full of enjoyment, meaning, and aesthetic experience. but a snail isn't missing those things. its world just isn't built to include them.

snails don't have a sense of flavor. they don't even have tastebuds. this seems like a gimme, right? but again that might be asking the wrong question about what "taste" is. biologically speaking, it's chemoreception. we taste sweet because it indicates high value, high calorie sugar molecules. we taste salty for salt, umami for proteins. so in what way does pudding's chemoreceptors differ from ours instrumentally? we can say "by our human perspective, pudding can't experience "preference" or "savoring" or "anticipation of delicious food"", but from pudding's perspective we have radically overengineered ourselves for the task at hand. pudding can tell what's salty, what's high value, what has the chemicals he needs. the functional outcome is that he can discriminate food souces based on their composition. is that not taste?

so maybe the point isn't "this is sad because he can't enjoy it," but "this is a reminder that minds come in radically different shapes, and value doesn't have to be rich to be real."

[chaifootsteps]

You showed Pudding the world and they said "safe here, this is fine," and there's value and beauty in that.

[dreamerofvalyria]

Bloody Paws and Broken Strings | Simon “Ghost” Riley x John “Soap” MacTavish | Daemon AU

Summary: Simon and his daemon Elanor have more than a little trauma from his time with Roba. Call of Duty daemon AU.

Notes: This took a lot longer than I thought and was much longer than I intended, but I hope y'all enjoy!

Pairing:  Simon “Ghost” Riley x John “Soap” MacTavish.

Warnings: Past Childhood Trauma, Torture, Amputation, Daemon Torture, Forced Separation, Being Buried Alive, Permanent Injuries, Fluff.

Series Masterlist: Here

CoD Masterlist: Here

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When Simon thought of torture, he thought he had everything figured out. As a SAS member, he’d been through all the training to resist pain and had sat through lengthy explanations of anything and everything the enemy might be willing to throw at him. It would all be unpleasant, sure, but he was confident that both he and Elanor could handle anything that came their way.  

How wrong he was.  

It was after only a week of captivity among Roba’s men that the unspeakable happened.  

The concrete floor was uncomfortable, but it was far better than the steel table they had strapped him to. The leather bindings were far too tough for him to break through without a blade, and there were enough of them holding him down that he couldn’t so much as twitch without the material digging into his limbs and bare throat.  

Elanor was on a table to his side, and she had been much more difficult to deal with. While she was already muzzled from their capture, her legs had been left loose enough that with one swipe of her paw she drew three deep gashes into the face of the nearest man. It was bad to antagonise the enemy, Simon knew, but he couldn’t help the way his lips twitched upward slightly. After a week of torture, it was rather cathartic to see one of his abusers yelling and cursing while another attempted to stop the blood spurting from his colleague's face. 

Unfortunately, one of the other men in the room must have noticed his minor amusement, for he reached forward, digging his filthy fingers into Elanor’s scruff with a bruising grip. “Think that’s funny, English?” the man hisses, giving the daemon in his hold a firm shake.  

Simon is smart enough to remain silent, schooling his features into neutrality. He can feel the pressure of the other man’s nails digging into Elanor’s skin but refuses to give them the satisfaction of knowing how it affects him.  

The man continues, “I suppose we’ll have to ensure that can’t happen again, hm?” His hold on the panther vanishes as he moves around the table, pulling the bindings on the daemon’s legs tighter. A sinking feeling begins to grow in Simon’s stomach, but he pushes it down, settling for simply watching the man with narrowed eyes.  

“Don’t worry, I hear this is a standard procedure for cats that don’t know how to keep their claws to themselves,” there’s a glint of silver as the man selects a pair of bone shears, testing them out briefly before he turns back to Simon. “Of course, normally the patient is unconscious, but I’m sure you can handle it, right?”  

In response, Simon simply grits his teeth and focuses on his breathing, staring hard at the crumbling ceiling above. The man moves to stand in front of Elanor’s front paws, grabbing one of them and squeezing the top and bottom of the feline’s paw to force the claw to slide into view. He can’t see what the man does next, but he certainly feels it.  

Pain explodes throughout his body, completely blinding him as his vision is washed in white. He presses his head back into the table, choking back any pained noises that threaten to escape him, even as he listens to his daemon’s agonised yowls and thrashes. He can feel tears creeping into his waterline, but before he can even try to fight them back, there is another sickening crunch, and the pain intensifies once more.  

By the time they reach the fourth claw, Simon is panting, sweat beading his forehead. It’s difficult to focus on anything happening with his eyes blurred by tears and his whole body shivering from the pain his already weakened body is struggling to handle. He can vaguely see Elanor weakly struggling out of the corner of his eye, feeling her pain and terror flooding his body.  

No matter how he pulls against the bindings he can’t free himself, the lack of food and dehydration leaving his body feeling heavy and sluggish.  

Simon had been foolish when he thought that he knew how much it hurt to have his daemon harmed. He thought pain was when his father struck Elanor, or his despicable serpent counterpart would sink her fangs into them. But that was nothing compared to the feeling of his daemon having parts of herself cut away in uneven, bloody chunks.  

Elanor had taken such a large, dangerous form to keep her boy safe from the horrors of the world, but here these people were, muzzling her and snapping off her claws. She was reduced to the same defenceless little daemon she had been before settling, cowering in fear and pain and unable to save her person from being terrorised.  

He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that everything would be okay and they would make it out the other side. He tries to push those emotions to the forefront of his mind, desperately clinging to their bond in the hopes of ignoring the pain.  

Unfortunately, the moment he thinks he might just be able to get through the agony of his daemon’s mutilation, Roba’s dog moves on to the next finger. The pain is increased with each claw removed, and it quickly gets to the point that Simon almost wishes he could just pass out rather than soldiering through it. But his brain keeps him wide awake, registering each and every sensation that shoots down his nervous system.  

By the time it’s all over, Simon’s entire body is in so much pain that he hardly notices when they loosen the straps around his arms and legs. The skin where the bonds were has been rubbed raw, leaving behind thin trickles of blood that has soaked into the leather. The room stinks of something metallic, but it’s difficult to tell with the way bile burns his nostrils.  

Hands grip his arms and drag him off of the table, dropping him down onto the cold, hard ground with little care for the pained sound he makes when his body collapses into a heap. He grinds his teeth when he feels someone grab Elanor’s body but is far too weak to do anything about it, watching as she’s carried away.  

It feels like hours pass before they return for him, grabbing him from under the arms and dragging him across the floor and down the hallway back towards the detainment area. They throw him onto the ground again when they reach the room he’s been kept in for a week now, leaving him in the centre of the damp cell alone.  

Simon eventually musters the strength to roll over onto his back, searching the room for Elanor, only to find himself alone. He can feel darkness beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision, consciousness growing harder and harder to hold onto by the second. It isn’t surprising when he finally gives in and lets the abyss claim him, escaping from the waking world and the pain that comes with it.  

He isn’t sure how long it took for him to wake again, struggling to blink his heavy eyelids open with the way they’ve crusted over during his sleep. Elanor is still nowhere in sight, but other than the throbbing pain from the previous torture, she seems to feel alright. She must be nearby if he isn’t feeling the uncomfortable strain on their bond.  

“Ellie?” He grunts out softly, hoping to not draw the attention of any nearby guards. “Elanor?” He tries again when he doesn’t get a response, moving to push his back off the ground. It’s uncomfortable with the black and blue bruises that coat his chest and back, straining at his already swollen muscles, but he manages to slump into an upright position.  

He listens intently for several long moments while heaving air into his lungs, exhausted by the simple exertion of changing positions, until he hears a muffled growl from nearby.  

Struggling against his own body’s deteriorating state, Simon hauls himself across the floor and as close to the front of his cell as he dares. Leaning his head against the cool bars for a moment, he swallows down the foul burn of bile lapping at his throat, choking out a whisper-soft “Ellie?”  

In return he hears a quiet growl, accompanied by the sound of chains shifting across the ground with faint clinking. He can’t see her, but he feels the way their bond lights up with feelings of relief, Elanor seemingly just as happy to hear from her boy as he is her.  

Simon moves to press himself into the corner of the cell, as close as humanly possible to where his daemon is being kept. His head rests back against the wall separating them and he fights back the panic threatening to overtake logical thought at the inability to see, to feel, his daemon. His fingers twitch with the need to run through her silky fur and feel her warmth pressed up against his body.  

It’s unnatural for a person to be without their counterpart for any period of time, let alone somewhere so dangerous. They can’t protect one another while they’re apart like this, can’t comfort one another and lend each other their strength.  

Elanor had always preferred smaller forms while they were children. A tiny squirrel or fluffy rabbit was perfect for her Simon to scoop up and carry around safely in his arms. He had always been so picky about which textures felt good or bad, but Elanor's fur never felt strange or weird, unlike some materials he would touch. He could bury his face into her soft fluff and revel in the way it pleasantly tickled his rosy cheeks.  

But then Simon’s father grew more aggressive toward them. He would corner Elanor and grab at her tiny body, cackling when she squealed in pain. Begging for him to release her only resulted in Simon being berated further for showing such weakness, the cruel man’s bony fingers digging deeper into her tender flesh.  

Small forms, while good for evading capture from the drunk bastard, did little to hinder the man’s slimy python daemon.  

Karoline was a sadistic creature, loving nothing more than to grab the young boy’s daemon and crush her with her muscular torso while Simon wailed for her to stop. More than once she had used her needle-like teeth on the other daemon to hold her in place so she couldn’t escape to somewhere Simon’s father couldn’t reach her.  

The worst was when the man insisted Simon kiss the serpent, “don’t be a coward Simon! Show some respect for your old man’s daemon,” he would growl, only to burst out laughing when the young boy earned himself a bite to the face.  

Being small and meek and avoiding confrontation hadn’t worked, so one day, refusing to allow her boy to be used as a punching bag anymore, Elanor had shifted into a panther. She slashed at Karoline with her new claws and a snarl on her face, badly wounding both snake and man in her attack.  

Neither Simon’s father nor his daemon raised a hand to Simon after that, and Elanor would never be able to shift again.  

For her to lose her claws is more than just painful, her entire purpose for choosing such a form was to be dangerous in defence of her human, and now they’re both just as vulnerable as they were as children. Simon isn’t sure how they will be able to adapt if Elanor is crippled for life – the procedure wasn’t exactly precise – and such an injury could very easily have them removed from service.  

If they get out of this situation alive, that is.  

Dwelling on the future, however, is cut short when Simon catches sight of several guards heading in their direction. There aren’t any other prisoners down this hall, so there’s only one place they could be heading. 

Time for the next round to begin.  

“You know, I have a contact in Mexico who specialises in daemon removal surgeries,” one of the guards says conversationally to the man beside him, but given he is speaking in English rather than Spanish gives away the fact they’re hoping Simon will hear. “Won’t even cause the daemon to dust,” he continues, “I hear the market for daemons that don’t have human counterparts is pretty lucrative these days.” 

The other man scoffs, “the boss wants English broken, not braindead. Haven’t you seen the state that surgery leaves people in?”  

The first man shakes his head “no”.  

“They are...” the man pauses for a moment to consider, “sin alma, they have no soul, empty.” 

While Simon has never had the displeasure of encountering a daemonless person, he has heard the horror stories just like any other soldier and has been told by other men who have seen it firsthand just how terrifying it is to witness. Men, women, children, all with their daemons cut away from them and sold as slaves on the black market.  

Their eyes are dull and their bodies shaky, always searching and reaching for their other half, continuing to live even after suffering a fate that should have killed them. No man should be without their daemon, no matter their crimes. It wasn’t just unethical; it was unholy to tamper with the connection between a person and their soul.  

But if Roba won’t allow these men to remove his daemon, even if it would ensure his subservience, then there isn’t much more they could do to him that he doesn’t already know they can endure. They can survive the torture; they just need to figure out a means of escape. Nothing could hurt the way having someone tearing off chunks of his other half could.  

Only Simon was very, very wrong when he had thought that physically hurting Elanor was the worst these monsters could come up with.  

An hour later and he can only press himself against the bars of his cell with a hoarse scream as he feels his connection to Elanor burn with strain. She’s been put in a small crate and slowly, agonisingly slowly, they’re pushing it further and further away from Simon. At first it was only a little uncomfortable, then painful, but now? He can hardly see straight.  

He knows he’s screaming and thrashing, throwing himself against the steel bars with a wild kind of abandon only brought about by the desperation to survive above all else. The tethers that bind the man and daemon together have been stretched beyond anything Simon has ever experienced, and he can feel some of the bonds shuddering, dangerously close to snapping altogether.  

With shaking knees, Simon falls to the ground, clutching at his chest in a desperate attempt to choke down some oxygen. He can’t even scream anymore with the lack of air in his lungs. It’s hardly a surprise when his body finally gives out, watching the ground rush towards him before everything fades to black. 

This method or torture isn’t used only once, but again and again and again. Every day they stretch their connection further, as if it’s some kind of game for them, to see how much they can tear them apart before risking death. More than once, Simon had hoped that Elanor would dust and they’d finally be at peace.  

“You should thank us, English,” one of them grins, watching the way Simon whimpers, his body shaking uncontrollably, “it is rare for someone to be able to separate from their daemon, you’re already able to be further from that cat then when we first tried this.”  

Simon doesn’t bother replying to him, closing his eyes and silently praying that the man and his coyote daemon will simply leave him to suffer in peace. They’re thankfully finished with the torture for the day, shoving the crate containing Elanor back into her respective cell.  

It has been several months since Simon last saw his counterpart, even longer since he heard her voice thanks to the muzzle she has been forced to keep strapped tightly to her face. She’s still in pain constantly, and he can feel his mind slowly falling to pieces at the loneliness. He still tries to talk to her, even if she can only offer a tiny chirp or purr in return.  

He sometimes catches stray thoughts sent his way, but most of them are of how they both ache and yearn to be able to touch one another again.  

It continues for another month, until Simon can hardly feel his bond between them being yanked at. The pain has dulled down to an old ache that he’s learned to ignore over time, his spirit beginning to wane as the days pass by. The thought of escape has started to drift away, replaced only with thoughts of trying to get through the current day.  

He really shouldn’t have been surprised when Roba finally loses his patience.  

Resilience is a vital trait for anyone serving in the Special Air Service – they are routinely pushed to the brink of human endurance to ensure they can handle taking on the most difficult of assignments without breaking under the pressure – and Simon is no different. His homelife fostered a certain tenacity in him from a young age and, coupled with his time in the service, an unbreakable will had been born.  

Roba had admitted that his mettle was impressive, but it was costing the man time, money and resources, and as of yet had failed to yield any worthwhile results.  

The smell of being trapped beside a rotting corpse in a wooden box is something that will never leave him. It was a battle to keep down the tiny amount of water left in his system from the intensity of the odour, but the smell was nothing compared to the sensation of maggots wriggling around beneath him, crawling over his body after bursting from his old major’s deteriorated remains.  

Tearing the jawbone from the dead man’s face is difficult, even with the tendons holding it in place having largely withered away. The foul sludge that had once been the man’s blood makes the bone slippery and difficult to keep a hold of, but he’s able to grip it long enough to crack through the top of the casket he’d been buried within, tearing the wood apart with his bare hands.  

He’s amazed that he has any energy left at all when he crawls out of the sandy ground, dragging his body a few feet away from the hole, before rolling over onto his back. His wounded ribs burn as he pants heavily, the dry, hot air a blessing compared to the quickly depleting supply he’d been surviving on for several hours now.  

The gentle tugging at his bond draws his attention toward the wooden crate abandoned nearby. Despite his weary bones, he pulls himself closer, still brandishing his bony weapon.  

His fingers are coated in a thick combination of muck from Vernon’s corpse and his own fresh blood that makes it even harder to pry apart the box’s hinges, but with the last of his strength he’s able to pull the front of the crate open.  

He drops back down onto the sand, tossing away the bone with an exhausted huff. Reaching inside the box, he grabs Elanor’s front legs, pulling her toward him as gently as possible. He can’t speak, too focused on swallowing down fresh air as he unstraps the leather muzzle from her face and unravels the rope tethering her paws together.  

The moment she’s free, Elanore is pressing her face against her boy with a deep, pleased growl. She doesn’t mention the damp spots on her fur from where Simon presses his face into her, his body wracked with sobs and half-mumbled apologies. His grip is on just the wrong side of too firm, but neither of them care, not when they haven’t been able to feel one another this close in God knows how long. It’s pure bliss, even if their bond still pangs and spasms every now and then.  

They need to move quickly, lest the cartel return to confirm their prisoner’s demise. And so, ignoring the throbbing of every inch of his body, Simon hauls himself to his feet. He wobbles at first, but Elanor is there to support him, gently leaning her weight against his body to keep him standing straight.  

As they walk, Simon’s fingers are buried in his daemon’s pelt, unable to physically release her. Her every step is agonising, the tiny particles of sand digging into the poorly healed wounds from the exposed nerves and bone of her toes. It feels to them both as though glass is tearing at her paws and, eventually, Simon is forced to try and carry the massive feline to try and ease her suffering.  

He can’t let anything else happen to her. He won’t let anything else happen to her. He wouldn’t let anyone touch Elanor again, ever.  

Of course, all those years ago, he hadn’t factored in the existence of one John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. 

Johnny seemed to have been born an expert when it came to worming his way past Ghost’s many, many layers and directly into his very core where the remnants of Simon reside. No one had believed he could do it, including Ghost himself. Yet somehow, there the man was, lounging on his bunk as though he belonged there, Elanore laying peacefully on the Scot’s chest.  

Gwen, the honey badger, has her face nosed up against Elanor’s side, grooming the feline with her rather rough tongue. She’s purring loudly, very pleased that Elanor has simply decided to concede defeat and allow the smaller daemon’s doting behaviour.  

While Johnny lays on the bed, his hands ever so gently glide over Elanor’s muscular front legs, exploring the panther’s stunning body with a touch so soft that Ghost barely notices it. The sensation he does feel is unusually pleasant, almost as if he can feel the affection radiating off of the sergeant through his bond with Elanor.  

Anyone who treats his daemon with such tender care, as though she might shatter at even the slightest mistake, is a rarity and something Ghost isn’t entirely sure he deserves. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky as to have Johnny in his life, but he’s determined to do everything in his power to be as worthy of such devotion as humanly possible.  

He’s drifting off again, mind pleasantly hazy as he relaxes back into the chair under him. Both he and Elanor are so distracted by the delightful sensation of another person’s touch that they don’t notice when the man’s hands draw closer to the feline’s paws.  

Johnny gently slides his fingers down one of Elanor’s pads, going to massage the big cat’s paws with his thumb and-  

Elanor snarls, shooting to her feet and near enough throwing herself away from Johnny, Ghost just as startled by the way pain suddenly shoots through him. The panther’s lips pull back in a panicked hiss, her fur standing on end.  

“Ellie?” Johnny sounds horrified, sliding down from the bed and onto the floor where he kneels down, “are ye alright, bonnie?” If anyone else had tried to call Elanor by “Ellie” they would have had their face bitten, it’s reserved for Ghost only, but the name sounds so right coming from Johnny’s lips that neither of them have said a word about it.  

Ghost shivers slightly, but quickly pulls himself together, placing a hand on Elanor’s spine to pacify the frightened cat. Johnny is looking between Ghost his daemon frantically, trying to piece together what caused the feline to react so aggressively, and Ghost can’t help feeling bad for not warning the other man in advance.  

“’s alright, Johnny,” Ghost promises, feeling his heartrate slowly lowering back down again, “old girl’s paws are sensitive.” 

Now much calmer, Elanor creeps a few steps closer to Johnny again, offering a headbutt to the hand the sergeant offers her. An apology for responding so hostilely toward a loved one. She very quickly has Gwen rubbing up against her side with little chirps, clearly concerned.  

“Did she get hurt somehow during the last mission?” Johnny asks, laying his hands in his lap rather than trying to touch Ghost’s daemon again, providing her some much-needed space.  

Ghost gently wraps one of his fingers around Elanor’s tail, watching as the daemon’s limb curls around his arm in response. “It’s because of her claws, they cause her pain,” he explains, “it wasn’t your fault, Johnny, we didn’t think to tell you.”  

“What happened to her claws? Never seen the lass use ‘em, are they really that sore?” Johnny looks so upset by it, brow wrinkled as he frowns in worry.  

“She doesn’t have claws anymore, they got removed.”  

“Why would-” Johnny cuts himself off, thinks for a moment, before immediately puffing up indignantly. Ghost has to fight down the urge to mention just how adorable it is when the sergeant and his daemon visibly fluff up like disgruntled birds whenever they’ve decided that something has personally insulted them. “Who th’ hell removed ‘em?!”  

Ghost isn’t entirely sure how to de-escalate the situation, but settles for simply telling his partner the truth, “Ellie had the tips of her fingers removed while we were captured a long time ago, scratched the wrong person,” he chuckles, refusing to show just how ill the memories make him feel, “she just never healed right because of the shoddy job the bastards did, cut through the bone wrong and fucked up the nerves in her feet.”  

To say Johnny was mad would have been an understatement, he immediately jumps to his feet, shouting curses and rambling angrily in what might have been a weird mixture of English and Scottish. It’s difficult to tell with how rapidly the man is grumbling to himself, hands flailing in his obvious distress.  

Abruptly, Johnny turns to Ghost again, face red and his hair a mess after running his hand through it too many times, “yer both in pain? All the time?” He sounds so heartbroken at the very thought.  

Ghost isn’t sure what to say to that, offering a slight shrug, “normally. Doesn’t cause much trouble for us unless we’re going through rough terrain.” When that doesn’t seem to satisfy Johnny he adds, “we’re used to it, you don’t need to worry yourself about it.”  

He can see that his partner still looks as though he’s going to argue, so Ghost decides to cut him off before he can, rising from his chair and walking over to the man. “Really Johnny, Ellie and I are fine,” he breathes, gently taking the sergeant’s hands into his own and rubbing circles into the back of them. He never been great with intimacy, nor with helping to calm others, but with luck his genuine tone will do the trick.  

It takes a few moments, but Johnny eventually breathes out a heavy sigh, his shoulders drooping. “Sorry, ah shouldn’y have lost me heid,” he admits, scratching at the back of his neck, “am sorry fer makin’ you tell me all tha’, and fer hurting Ellie.”  

In response, Elanor leans over to butt her head against Johnny’s thigh again, “we’re okay, Johnny,” she purrs, licking at the top of Gwen’s head. The badger’s fur sticks up like a carbon copy of her counterpart’s Mohawk, much to the panther’s amusement.  

They’re able to gently steer Johnny and Gwen away from the conversation, but Ghost can tell that the other man isn’t quite ready to drop the subject entirely.  

It isn’t for another few days that it’s brought up again.  

Ghost is preparing to ship out for their next assignment in a few hours and he’s taking a moment to do a final check of his travel pack. There’s a knock on his door and, upon opening it, he’s met with a rather nervous Soap, holding some fabric in his hands. Before he can ask what’s going on, Johnny shoves the bundle into his chest.  

“I, uh, got ye somethin’,” he says quickly, tanned face quickly turning a bright shade of red, “ah thought ye might appreciate it, y’know, considering we’re shipping out in a few.”  

Ghost glances down at the fabric and then back up at Johnny again. He carefully removes one of the items from the collection, flipping it over in his hold as he inspects it, “the hell did you get these?” At first, he had thought it was a couple pairs of gloves, but they’re the wrong shape and have some tread built into the bottom.  

“Got ‘em from a local handcrafts store,” Soap grins sheepishly, “they’re supposed to be shoes fer cat daemons, ta keep their feet warm ‘n comfy durin’ winter. Ah thought they could be useful fer when we’re out in the field and there’s rough ground.” His face is bright red by this point and he’s looking in every other direction than at Ghost.  

The lieutenant can’t help swallowing thickly, a warm feeling filling his chest. This is, perhaps, the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given to him and it’s making him feel a strange fluttering in his stomach.  

Pulling open the velcro holding the glove together, he bends down and gently takes one of Elanor’s paws, wrapping it around the end of her limb and securing it in place. He moves through the rest of Elanor’s feet until her feet are completely covered.  

Elanor wiggles her paws within the confines of the new gloves, testing them out by stepping from foot to foot. The inside of the little boots are covered in soft wool and the bottom are supported by a soft sole. The tread on the bottom of the shoes keep her from slipping and, while they’re likely not intended for intense use, they’re certainly a lot more comfortable than walking barefoot.  

“They’re perfect, Johnny,” Ghost offers his partner a rare, genuine smile from behind his mask, “thank you.”  

Johnny’s whole face lights up in that adorably excitable way of his, Gwen wriggling about equally as eagerly at his feet, “ah, it’s nothin’,” he waves away Ghost’s thanks, smiling brightly, “am just glad ye both like it.”  

Ghost wishes he could take the time to well and truly thank his sergeant, but the clock is ticking and they both need to get a move on. “I’ll see you on the tarmac before take-off, sergeant,” he says, noticing the increase in activity outside his room and deciding to take a slightly more professional approach, just in case anyone should be watching.  

Johnny simply offers him a nod and a half smile, “sure thing, L.T, catch ye soon.”  

He watches as the Scott makes his way down the hall with Gwen hot on his heels, waiting until he is out of view before pulling his door closed again. He still has that gooey, mushy feeling inside and, judging from the way Elanor is grinning at him, she feels it too.  

This must be how it feels to be loved.  

[thealogie]

me watching kim live the most perfectly normal life imaginable: literally ANYTHING but this. I’m sick out of my mind. how could they do this

[nonsensegnomes]

What Gordon Smith said about Mike being pissed off with Saul because he knows Jimmy’s just trying to prove his brother right about him, kills me completely

wow yeah i knowwwwww, that scene in s4 when jimmy calls him up about the hummel scheme & mike just cuts completely through his bullshit and goes no but i’m sorry about your brother…. absolutely Deranged!! bc you know it means he was not taken in by the saul persona for one second, even in brba & even when he’s threatening to break his legs – he’s still seeing the pathetic little lawyer who used argue with him about stickers!!!!

also always so wild to me when i remember that mike and chuck actually met, like what is mike’s TAKE on that whole clusterfuck!!! soooooo fascinating to me that they basically have opposite approaches to their family members dying: mike defines himself by matty’s death & getting revenge (perhaps even moreso because he blames himself for it), whereas jimmy immediately starts eliminating every reaction and emotion he could possibly have to what chuck did bc he’s experiencing similar amounts of anger & guilt but there’s no one he can take it out on but himself – and chuck, who’s gone

like imo jimmy is so so transparent about how he’s (not) dealing with chuck’s death but mike is one of the ONLY ones to call him on it! he even tells him that the scam shouldn’t be jimmy’s type of job any more than it’s his – and then of course hard cut to s5 & the next time they work together is when jimmy’s gotten himself in soooo far over his head w/ lalo 🙃

kinda an interesting parallel to his relationship with nacho; mike warns hin every time he tries to solve his salamanca problem that he’s only going to make it worse + then lalo escalates the stakes so much mike can’t help him any more 💀 but like as more clever people have pointed out, mike admires nacho for working so hard to ensure his dad doesn’t have to take the bribe that mike feels so guilty for forcing matty to take

whereas with JIMMY what’s so so fun is that mike actually sees him at his best in the first scheme they ever pull together (the kettlemans) – and then watches him deteriorate into the worst version of himself over the course of the show. like, he had a million dollars in cash right there in front of him! no one would know he took it!! but he makes the most moral choice he’ll make for the entire show (apart from saul gone, i suppose) and gives it back to fix the kettlemans’ mess – not to make chuck proud of him or to help kim (well it does a little but that’s not Why he’s doing it per se) or to assuage his guilt but just cause it’s the right thing to do!!! he even returns the bribe, just like mike so desperately wishes he could’ve done! if you were mike & this guy you watched undo the same mistake you’re most ashamed of came up to you like a week later talking about how he regrets not making that mistake, OF COURSE you’d do your best to stop him from pursuing this life & go a little insane when you couldn’t!!!!!

anyway. uh. what was the question? oh yeah i think mike sees this version of his younger self who COULD have chosen better but ALLOWS himself not to, bc he’s Doomed By The Narrative (chuck’s voice in his head) to never be anything better than slippin’ jimmy + i think it undermines the story he’s been telling himself about that one defining moment that doomed him (because the reality is you CAN choose better! at any time you can make the right choice & face up to the consequences!! maybe you can’t escape the past but you can walk off of the bad choice road! if it sucks hit da bricks!!!) + i think by brba all he sees when he looks at saul is a cloud of Contempt & Pity, so no fucking wonder he ended up trying to break his legs 🙃

[paramar]

[symphonyofsilence]

Writer : the morally gray outlaw adopts the traumatised child.

Me, every single time :*melting* THE MORALLY GRAY OUTLAW ADOPTS THE TRAUMATISED CHILD !!

[aragornsrockcollection]

So googled cavelry cause I was thinking about Maglor’s gap.

Google asked if I wanted to know the most successful cavelry in history and I was like “yeah, why not, I’m a nerd.”

And so I just learned about the Winged Hussars, an elite class of Serbian Mercenaries who fought for Polish and Hungarian lords in the 1600’s, won every battle they fought and already look like they came from a fantasy novel:

Those wings actually served a purpose besides looking badass (and therefore being intimidating, so that is a valid purpose): the wooden frame protects from blows from behind, and the feathers create a sound that spooks enemy horses.

So Maglor the bard warrior cavelry guy absolutely had, if not feathers, like reeds or bells or whistles or all three tuned to create a song that would alarm dark things, not just horses.

They fought with extremely long but hollow metal lances, which were HORRIFYINGLY reported to spear five people in one go.

They became obsolete when fire arms became accurate enough to hit fast moving targets at distance, but until technology advanced to that point they never lost a battle.

So. Headcanon for Maglor and the elves of the gap.

[hrgifs]

"Never in life have I blushed. Russians do not do this."

[pandy-ssen]

Today i finished playing DH2 with Corvo in high Chaos and he made this comment (can't remember exactly how it went) about how Delilah has ruined the tower and It got me thinking about how Dishonored is a game for melancholy. You can visit Dunwall Tower with Corvo four times through the games and each time everything is so different and changed, and yeah it's home but the same way your childhood house feels like home but if you go there once again things have changed and there's this feeling of sadness and nostalgia about knowing you can't go back. And yeah, Dishonored is exactly about that. About the missing childhood, about past mistakes, about how things should have been different (and most if not all the main characters wishes that). It's about the torment of knowing this is all there is. No amount of pain and regret can bring Jessamine back, not Corvo's, not Daud's. Emily clinges to the very few memories she has with her mother. Lurk remembers vividly the day she betrayed Daud and it haunts her. Stilton recalls Theo, he mentions him almost in every sentence and his memory impregnates all his thoughts. Dishonored is about the loss of something precious, and that absence has become a presence itself. A part of who they are and the essence of the game. It's about the inevitability of certain things, you can't save Jessamine, you can't prevent the plague from taking place, you can't stop the coup from happening; it's all about the things that can't be fixed.

[preacherboyd]

Black Sails | XVII.

[saintvainglorious]

#he is so eager and starved for voiced validation of his importance in her life it is insane it is sick. and he's so tentative with his want#like she's a skittish cat. he doesn't want to spook her. jack interacts with the world and makes sense of it and himself by giving it words#and the one he love the most simply cannot. like its not about him its just that she doesn't work like that. it's a crucial incompatibility#but still they try to meet each other halfway. still she says we are going to be partners until they put us in the fucking ground and#it is enough for him. he'll take it and whatever she wants to give him but this particular moment to me just really#betrays how much more jack wants/needs. and i dont even think that if he ever got this perfect version of anne that speaks her innermost#thoughts and feelings to him he would even LIKE her. because it wouldn't be her. the permanent hunger is a fundamental part of their love#and why as much as they wish they could remain a developmentally arrested twinship they cannot truly be fullfilled without opening up#their two person world. im normal about this btw. if you even care#black sails#platonic lover theory

Tags by @jessaerys

[marveldaily]

Werewolf By Night 2022 | dir. Michael Giacchino

[sloanegabe]

SHANE & ILYA + parallels

[fiskler]

Wesley fanart… the only context for this one is that he’s looking at fisk. do not let his mischievous gaze fool you, this is how he stares at people he is deeply in love with

[caspercryptid]

I feel like not enough people realize that people under enormous strain act really really fucking Weird

[caspercryptid]

If someone is doing things that don't make Sense, try to understand that it is entirely possible that their brain is probably under an enormous weight and fracturing under the pressure. People who have been stabbed will sometimes talk a circle around the fact that they've been stabbed because stress and shock prevent you from recognizing the distress you are in and what you need to do to seek help for it. PTSD will do this also. You will find yourself repeatedly jamming a bag of frozen fruit into the same spot in the freezer where it doesn't fit and keeps falling, over and over and over, focused on nothing but that bag. You will decide that a beanbag chair is 10000% necessary to your life. You will lose your entire shit because you stubbed your toe on a table and that means the whole setup of your furniture is wrong. These are largely harmless examples. People under strain will also hurt themselves and others. Cornered animals bite. And it doesn't heal the bite to go "Hey, are you okay?" But it might get you to an animal that stops biting, so you can start to heal. And before you had an animal that bit, you probably had an animal that kept doing shit you didn't understand as stress signals

[meanbuddhist]

*turns my attention inwards* mmmmm. no *turns my attention back outwards* oh god