(a very rough concept that popped up in my head right when I wanted to sleep - hope it either inspires you or me to write!)
Warnings for suicidal ideation/mentions of self-harm/child abuse (tell me if there need to be more, it's late and the brain is slow)
---
Riley who never kept going for himself. From the day his little brother was born, he dedicated a lot of his time to protect him from their father's evil. Their family never had much to begin with, and barely scraped by as their father got more and more irritated and snappy with each withdrawal.
He took on everything - every punishment, every bout of anger that ended with things being thrown at him, kicks, punches, cigarettes being put out on his skin, and harsh words that cut deeper than any knife could the more often they came up. Most days he ended up so exhausted and on edge, he didn't have it in him to even change out of his school clothes before bed. At one point he sees his grades dropping, and ceases to have the energy to fix it. He needs all of it for Tommy. All that's left.
He'd convinced himself early that his existence was worthless unless he could do some good in the world. And that good turned out to be his brother. The little boy who did nothing to deserve being brought into such a depressing place.
And Simon tried. He really, really tried to keep up for Tommy. He did his homework with him, studied with him, went outside with him, kept him away from their dad, got him treats from the corner store with the little money he scraped up on the street - anything in his power to help him have a better future than himself.
Though there was only so much he could do until he cracked from the stress.
It started small, in a way that didn't concern him at all. His appetite had not been great for a while to begin with, and he figured the time spent fetching a meal for himself wasn't worth it, so he didn't bother. Then he went out with Tommy less - and bless him, he'd found a group of friends in school that he could hang out with... it's not like their father cared when they went out. It just wasn't right for them to come home at any time of day.
He got tired. Not the tired from a lack of sleep, but a bone-deep exhaustion that never seemed to leave. He stopped putting up fights with his dad, stopped resisting, and just took whatever came his way believing there was no salvation for him.
Tommy seemed oblivious to the changes, thanks to his new friends.
His mother, however, noticed something was off, but she was too busy working her arse off to afford cheap groceries to take care of either of them.
And Simon kept going, and kept going until his mind started spiraling even without any external input, and the cigarette burns weren’t only from his father's hands anymore - he needed to punish himself, needed to feel the pain he deserved for not being strong enough anymore, and all at once - or maybe it had been creeping in slowly - there was... death.
And he thought of it so much that his math teacher reprimanded him for zoning out in class, and he must have mumbled something akin to "I wish I died", because she looked at him, horrified, and took him aside during break, handing him a little card she kept in case her studentd were in trouble.
That was the first time he saw the number. At his lowest point, shortly before making a very stupid decision, he called. For his brother. For his mum.
-
Now, at twenty-nine, mask on and eyes as hard as he can will them to be, he sits in an empty storage room in a far corner of the base they’re stationed at - the room is barely lit and dusty, but the blinds wouldn't open, do they have to make do in here, with the stale are and uncomfortable folding chairs.
But it's isolated enough that no one else will be able to listen to them.
MacTavish is sitting across from him, his face for once not in a state of everlasting frustration, but contorted into a kind of deep concern that doesn't suit him at all. It's not a bad look, makes him actually look his age, but Ghost wishes it wasn't the sign of an intervention about to happen.
Ghost doesn't know whether it's about his recent poor performance during training, his reports, or the fact that he snapped at Roach this morning because he asked him if he wanted to go for a run with him-
"The number ye've been calling. Every day for the past two weeks. Shepherd asked me to investigate, thinks ye're losing yer loyalty tae him."
So he was tracking all the calls after all. Bastard.
"I'm not... it's just." There is a lump in his throat.
Ghost doesn't know how to explain himself. He likes MacTavish, trusted him with some of his lighter personal information, even, and for all he knows... he won't think of him as a mole. He probably pieced together a thing or two about his business with the General - his wit too sharp to miss the signs.
Knowing too much will taint him, and take away the only good thing in his life. But he also needs him to know. Needs one person to know what his life means, that he'll ruin everything he touches-
But he doesn't know to put it all into words. To explain that in order to keep them safe, in order to protect the team, he needs to keep going, to keep performimg, but he can’t do it alone, and yet he can't put any of them in danger, expose them to Shepherd's true self, or end up dead, because then some other poor soul will be his next dog, and he already died twice, but if he keeps slacking like he's doing recently, maybe he'll be relocated again, shown what it truly means to be an asset -
"Riley. Ye're scaring me. Ye're pale as a wall." MacTavish, bless him, doesn't touch him. Riley thinks he'd throw up if he did.
His heart is racing, and he can't from a coherent sentence so he does the only logical thing he can think of, pulls something out of the inside pocket of his sweater with a shaky hand, and holds out the same card his math teacher gave him all those years ago. Time has weatherd it, made the once thick paper softer than it used to be, crinkled the edges and had it acquire a slight yellow tint - but you could still read it well enough.
MacTavish takes it, spends a moment studying the flimsy thing, squinting at it suspiciously, until his eyes widen in horror.
Riley squeezes his eyes together at last, can't take it, and his ears start ringing before he hears what the Captain says. His hands itch for a cigarette.
(The rest is up to you - I'll figure it out once I actually write a fic again heh)
ur recent blurb abt the shadows finding out abt wife…. but do they ever find out abt the divorce..?
Thank you so much for sending this over. Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about writing the other side of this, but the second I started, I just kind of fell into it.
They noticed when she first showed up in his life, even before he said a word about her. The phone calls he stepped out to take. The way his mood shifted when her name lit up his screen. The way he came back into meetings a little lighter, a little warmer, like something had loosened in him without his permission.
So they notice the opposite, too.
It starts small.
A meeting runs long. Someone cracks a joke that would have landed a few weeks ago. Something harmless. Easy. The kind of thing Phillip normally would have met with a dry look and a half-smile before moving on.
This time, he doesn’t even look up, pen scribbling on his legal pad.
“We done here?” he asks flatly.
The room goes quiet.
A few glances get exchanged. A throat clears awkwardly.
“...yes, sir.”
“Then leave.”
Chairs scrape. Papers get gathered a little too quickly. Boots move across the floor with more urgency than usual. The door shuts behind them.
No one says anything until they’re halfway down the hall.
And even then, it’s quiet.
Because nobody is stupid enough to ask what happened.
Not yet.
The closed door used to mean something else.
People used to pass by and hear things they definitely weren’t supposed to. Not just the obvious things, either. There was laughter in there sometimes. Real laughter. Hers, bright and muffled through all that thick glass and wood, and his following after it, lower, rougher, like she had pulled it out of him without even trying.
Sometimes it was the kind of quiet that made people glance once at the brass nameplate on the door and keep moving.
A lunch dropped off that turned into twenty extra minutes behind a locked door. A quick kiss goodbye that apparently needed privacy. Her heels clicking down the hallway afterward, lipstick a little smudged, Phillip stepping out five minutes later with his tie straightened but that stupid, satisfied look still sitting on his face like he thought nobody could tell.
There were smirks then. Looks exchanged in the hallway. A silent agreement that whatever happened behind Commander Graves’ door when his wife was visiting was between him, her, and the Lord above.
And even God probably knew better than to ask.
Now the door stays shut for different reasons.
No laughter. No soft voices. Just the low, controlled sound of Phillip on the phone.
At first, nobody pays attention. Privacy is privacy, afterall, and Graves has always been the kind of man who keeps his door closed when he wants something contained behind the frosted glass of his office windows.
Then one day, the voice on the other side gets sharper.
Not loud at first. Just tight.
“…don’t talk about him like he’s a fucking timeshare.”
Silence settles over the bullpen.
A few heads lift.
Nobody fucking moves.
Someone looks down at their paperwork like it suddenly needs their full attention. Another Shadow stops halfway through reaching for his coffee.
Then Phillip’s voice comes again, lower now.
“....not asking for weekends and holidays. He’s my baby.”
A pause.
“...my son, too.”
The words hit wrong. Too personal. Too raw. Not the kind of thing anyone is supposed to hear through an office door. Guilty eyes stare at the carpet below their feet as they pretend not to overhear.
Then, sharper,
“Don’t you tell me to calm down right now.”
A beat.
“I am calm.”
Another beat, shorter this time.
“This is me being calm.”
A few men glance at each other then. Quick. Careful.
Because this is Commander Graves.
The man who can stand in the middle of gunfire and sound like he’s ordering lunch. The man who can give commands over comms with explosions going off in the background and make everyone else believe they’ll get out alive because he sounds like he already knows it.
And now he’s behind a closed door, losing pieces of himself over the words ‘visitation schedule’.
Something hits the desk.
Not hard enough to break anything.
Just enough to make a few shoulders tense.
“No, go ahead…” Phillip says, voice cold now. “...in writing.”
A pause.
“...documented.”
Another pause, longer this time. His voice raises. Clearer now. More painful.
“Put it in writing that you think I should see my son less because it’s cleaner on paper.”
Nobody breathes for a second.
Not really.
Then, rougher,
“Write that if you want. I’m not signing it.”
A beat.
“No.”
Another.
“I said I’m not signing it.”
The bullpen stays frozen.
Someone near the printer slowly sets their papers back down without taking them. Another Shadow lowers his mug without drinking from it.
And then, behind the door, Phillip says it.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just quiet enough that it somehow feels worse.
“He’s not gonna grow up thinking I didn’t fight for them.”
That one does something to the room. No one looks at each other after that. They all look away.
Because that is not their commander anymore. Not for that second.
That is a father on the other side of a door, bleeding out over a custody schedule and trying like hell to make it sound like strategy.
When it opens, Phillip steps out like nothing happened. Face calm. Tie straight. Jaw set. Papers in one hand, phone in the other.
No slow working of his jaw while he thinks. No sharp hit of mint when he passes by.
He looks across the room once, and everyone finds something else to do, suddenly very busy.
The door to the outside clicks shut behind him, sharp enough to make even the most well-trained operators flinch.
He stands out near the edge of the lot, jacket pulled tight, head slightly bowed as he lights it, like it’s something he doesn’t want anyone looking too closely at.
Someone notices through the window.
“Didn’t know he smoked,” he mutters, watching as Phillip drags hard from the cigarette between his fingers.
One of the older Shadows glances up, just for a second.
Not surprised.
Because he remembers that version of him.
Back before the office. Before the suits. Before everything got cleaned up and contained.
Back when Graves was younger and meaner and half-running on caffeine, nicotine, and spite in olive drab fatigues.
He remembers when the cigarettes stopped, too.
Not all at once. Just less and less.
Then not at all.
About the same time she started showing up, if anyone cared enough to notice.
After that, it was wintergreen instead. Gum tucked into his cheek during meetings. That sharp, clean bite of mint when he passed by. Something to keep his mouth busy that didn’t leave smoke clinging to his collar.
Outside, Phillip crushes the cigarette under his boot, checks his phone, then lights another before he even makes it back to the door.
After that, it’s everywhere if you’re paying attention.
The smell of smoke on his jacket when he walks through the hallway.
The pack tucked into the inside pocket like it’s always been there. Lighter flicking rhythmically as he sits in his office while he stares at some meaningless spreadsheet on his computer.
The way he rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to shake something loose and can’t.
The ring disappears too.
No one knows exactly when, too scared to check. It’s just there, and then it isn’t.
The pictures take longer.
One disappears from the desk. Then another.
The ultrasound tucked into the wedding frame is gone first, which somehow feels worse. Then the photo from their wedding. Then the one of her holding their son on their front porch, smiling at something just outside the frame.
Until eventually, there’s an empty space on the corner of his desk where something used to be.
Someone notices.
Of course they do.
A newer guy walks in with paperwork, stops just inside the door, and his eyes flick to the bare spot on the desk before he can stop himself, mouth falling open to ask.
Phillip notices the pause immediately.
“Do you have something to say?”
The guy straightens. “No, sir.”
“Then close your goddamn mouth.”
“Yes, sir.”
The papers get set down. Signed. Pushed back across the desk.
“Fix the third line item,” Phillip says, already moving on like he is bored of the conversation.
The guy nods and gets out.
Fast. Tail tucked between his legs.
And after that, nobody looks at the desk too long.
There are a few of the older Shadows who know more. Not because Phillip tells them everything, but because they’ve been around long enough to understand patterns.
They saw him before her.
They saw him with her.
And now they’re seeing what he looks like after.
That’s the part nobody really knows what to do with.
Because he’s not broken. Not outwardly. He’s still Commander Graves. Still sharp. Still steady. Still the man who can walk into a room and make everyone sit up straighter without raising his voice.
But he is different.
Stripped down.
Like whatever softness she pulled out of him got packed away with the pictures.
One night, late, there are only a few lights left on in the office. Most of the building has gone quiet, but his door is still cracked open, the glow from his desk lamp cutting a thin line across the floor.
One of the older Shadows stops in the doorway.
Phillip is still at his desk, working through something that has already been reviewed twice. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. Ring gone. Empty corner of the desk sitting there like a bullet wound nobody is allowed to patch.
by flickering candle light, you drank from your tankard. just one would do; you liked to keep your head straight and coffers full. business had been slow this month.
you sipped. it was shitty ale, the cheapest money could buy. it also burnt on the way down.
you watched the patrons flit about. some were happy to be there, but others were like you, drinking away your sorrows while you waited for something.
"you the hunter?"
you rose your eyebrows and looked at the man in front of you. his clothes were burnt and ragged, skin bubbling like he'd put his hand in a flame.
"depends," you said. finishing your drink, you wiped your mouth. "how much do you have?"
he dropped a leather pouch in front of you. the money inside of it jingled like an instrument as it hit the table. immediately, you snatched it up and emptied it into your hand, carefully counting the coins.
"what's the job?" you asked, pocketing the coins.
the man sucked in a breath and pulled out the chair opposite you. he sat down and clasped his hands together. "there are dragons in my village."
you furrowed your brows. it couldn't be that easy, could it?
"they look just like men but they're not. bigger, stronger. they're a danger to my people."
you pulled your knife from your belt and stabbed it into the wooden table. "how do i tell them apart from humans?" you asked.
"they are bigger than you and i, stronger. they use some sort of magic to disguise the rest of their horrifying features. but a renowned hunter like yourself should have no problem identifying."
you swallowed thickly and patted the coins in your pocket. "fine. leave me with a map and i'll be at your village tomorrow at sunrise."
***
everybody in the village looked normal. boring, even.
sword strapped to your side, you rode through the village. the folk stared at you, the stranger from out of town, and you stared right back. there had to be something to give away the dragons in their human form.
four men. tall, broad. they were built like mountains. if this wasn't a job, if you weren't so suspicious of them, you would have been drooling.
you watched them without looking like you were watching them. they went about the village as anybody else would, buying things from the stalls set up in the market and such. you bought yourself some fruit to watch them inconspicuously. you fed your horse the apple core and went back to watching them.
when they moved, you went with them. you left your horse tied to a post and followed them on foot, hand on the hilt of your sword.
here's the thing, you'd never killed a dragon before. your sword had never tasted blood. you were more in the business of relocating dragons instead of slaying them.
the four men left the village. one released a booming laugh as they headed into the woods. once you where out of the village, you fully drew your sword.
you didn't make your presence known until you were deep in the woods. all you had to do was clear your throat.
the men turned. you were sure of it then, by their eyes, by their claw-like nails. "wot's this?" one of them said, approaching you. facial hair, you didn't know dragons could grow that, even in human form. you wondered what he would look like in his dragon form.
"you boys been enjoying your time in the village?" you asked them. "because it's time to move on."
the biggest of the four chuckled. he folded his arms over his broad chest and stepped forward. "is it?" his voice was so damn mocking. "you and that little tooth pick gonna make us?"
you raised your sword higher. "if i have to. i was hoping we could sort this out civilly."
the other two stepped forward with their dragon brethren. they surrounded you on all sides, caging you in. "I smell treasure," one of them said. the rest of them nodded.
they changed suddenly. a scream left your lips as they became their dragon form. clothes shed to the floor, but you didn't have a chance to focus on that.
they grabbed you. you weren't sure which one of the dragons it was, claws wrapping around your body. another scream as you dropped your sword.
all four of the dragons beat their wings, flying into the air. no matter how desperately you screamed, nobody was coming to save you as the four dragons flew off with you.
New and terrifying medical experiences mean new and exciting descriptions for the whump community :') might as well let my suffering be educational
cw: real-life medical procedures, injections, maybe coercion by doctors, medical trauma
What do spinal/joint injections feel like?
I've had facet joint injections and nerve ablations (cauterizing the nerve to prevent it sending pain signals; it grows back over time), and just today I had a SI (sacroiliac) joint injection. It was supposed to be two, one on each side, but I could only handle one.
These injections are typically done under continuous x-ray, so no one but the doctors (with lead aprons) are allowed in the room with you. It's a lot like an OR, lots of bright lights and beeping equipment. You lay face-down on a cushioned table, kind of like a massage table, and an x-ray machine hangs overhead.
You're awake for the whole experience. The most I've been offered through any of these is one xanax before the nerve ablation.
They move your clothes out of the way enough to expose the relevant space. Then they clean your back with iodine soap (or betadine, whichever makes sense based on allergies or whatever) and lay a sterile drape around the injection site.
They take a few images with the x-ray to get an idea of where your joints are, and continue taking them every few seconds throughout the procedure. Next, they inject lidocaine to numb the area. This was a really sharp, stabbing pain for me. I can handle shots just fine most of the time, but this was in the most sensitive part of my back, so I think that contributed. It seemed to take affect pretty quickly though because I didn't feel much more pain at the surface level. When I had my ablation, that numbing shot didn't seem to work as well and I could still feel quite a bit.
Once the area is numbed, they go in with the steroid shot (or ablation tool, in the case of nerve ablation). There's a lot of pressing and poking as they use the x-ray to guide the placement. By this point, I was shaking and starting to cry. The initial numbing shot hurt quite a bit, but the actual injection was getting too much to bear. It wasn't just vague pressure that I could easily ignore; it felt like it was poking up against a nerve that ran all the way across my butt and down my leg (probably the sciatic nerve) and I could feel pain every time it moved. The nerve ablation wasn't quite as painful technically, but it got hot every time they cauterized the nerve, which was a New and Different kind of uncomfortable.
I had to ask the doctor to stop for a minute because I was crying uncontrollably. When I could calm down enough to make a decision, I said that I wanted to at least finish this first shot. So after a lot more pressure and jabbing, it was finally done. They put a bandage on the site and within a couple minutes, I was back in the prep area with my spouse. They checked my vitals one more time and made sure I was okay to walk out, gave me discharge instructions, and then it was done.
Honestly, I would compare this roughly to the spinal tap I had a few years ago in terms of pain and general sensation. Right now, about 8 hours later, the injection side is still tender and that nerve still feels irritated. I'm hoping that will subside soon and I'll get any level of relief, but I'm not holding my breath. I don't know if I'm an exception here or if this is typical, but I don't feel like it's made very clear how actually uncomfortable these injections are. Most of the info I saw online (and even my doctors) make it seem like it's practically as easy as getting a flu shot. Like it's silly to be afraid of it or to be unwilling to try it.
Ironically, my pain management doctor made it seem in the office that this was my only option, yet in the procedure room she was all "you don't have to do this if you don't want to; it might not work and it's temporary, so we can totally stop if you want." Where was that energy when I was being pressured into agreeing to it in the first place? She denied me pharmaceutical options and basically said this was all she could offer. How was I meant to say no uncoerced? That's what kind of gets me about all these injections pain doctors push--it feels invasive and violating, and it also feels like you don't have much of a choice in the matter. It's scary, especially when you know it's going to be painful, but there's nothing you can do about it.
Anyway, hope this helps any of you. Might also just be an excuse for me to vent but whatever lol.
I gotta say I do love the way that kids these days do their retro fashion. Saw some kid today that was wearing one of those short puffer jackets with the fake fur hood and rhinestones on the text embroidered on the back, and kinda dark pink velour tracksuit pants, exactly the kind of shit you would've seen Paris Hilton wearing in 2005.
And I'd bet that if I had told him that, he would've had no idea who the fuck that is.
Little habits whumpee may not realise is a result of trauma
-Always knowing where every exit is. And always being near an exit.
-Always keeping their back to the wall, never wanting to be caught in an open space.
-Obsessively locking every door, every window, even their own bedroom. They won't relax otherwise.
-Brushing off compliments.
-Being overly defensive.
-Extreme independence. Never relying on anyone, they are fully capable of doing things alone and they are determined to
-Walking quickly. Never lingering, not even for a moment.
-Standing hunched, head down, making themselves as small and inconspicuous as possible. They wear loose, basic clothing, trying to both hide themselves and not stand out
-Lapses in memory. Especially not remembering childhood memories
-Never expressing excitement or want for anything. Never hoping for anything.
-In the same vein, never admit to enjoying anything. They fear they will be mocked, or it will be taken away. Anything can be used against them in some way.
-Being excellent in a crisis, even if they panic in minor situations.
And I'm not talking about cancer or lupus (istg the VOICES) I'm talking about common colds, raging fevers and blocked noses
Like, whumpee has gone thru so much pain and suffered but survived only for mild sickness to take them out
Not being able to walk straight or do simple tasks thanks to a splitting headache causing their hands to shake
The frustration of not being able to breathe thru their nose when laying down bc it gets blocked immediately
Relearning to breathe thru ur nose after the sickness subsides
Random aches and pains
Hands and feet that are painfully cold and can only be soothed by putting it under running water, making them wet and worsening everything
Using every herbal medicine in the book but it only helps with symptoms and not the actual sickness
Bonus points if caretaker is unavailable or out of town or smth and comes home to find whumpee passed out on the sofa bc they don't have the energy to do anything, let alone cook or clean for caretaker since they're living rent free :(
When the Caretaker is big and scary looking, and Whumpee assumes he’s their new owner and just, quails because oh my god he wouldn’t even need to try…
Hands that could crush them gently helping bandage their wounds, a voice that could shake brick walls offering comfort and kind words, arms that could rip limbs from trees gently carrying them to bed.
It takes a long time to get over the knee jerk reaction of fear and dread at just, everything about him, but eventually, Whumpee sees them as they are, kind and gentle and strong in more ways than physical.
Whumpee almost forgets how intimidating Caretaker is until Whumper finds them again. And while watching Whumper experience the full force of Caretakers strength, they’re reminded that yes, Caretaker was gentle, but it was a choice he made.
Hear me out: What if Hero saw injured Villain but was clueless that this battered guy is their nemesis, because Villain is in their citizen form? So, to Hero, this is a stranger-to-caretaker situation; to Villain, they know they is doomed.
Bonus: Villain kept silent all the time in fear that Hero might recognize their voice. So Hero just thought they was speechless from trauma/mute.
snowghoul
stormborns
kaledo-art
gummygunk
pixelskylines
discoholicmusic
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
