#some emotional hurt/comfort

[mild-incompetence]

I like how we don’t see Fizz completely until he has his horns covered and how Fizz also doesn’t wake up Ozzie until he has his horns covered.

That whilst he’s lying on Ozzie he is still almost completely under the cover. You can barely see the tip of his face and his arm.

But then the alarm goes off and he has hidden himself entirely under the sheet.

[starrystevie]

"what are you doing," eddie mumbles in confusion, hair fanned out on steve's pillow, the moonlight streaming in giving him a hazy halo.

there's a hand on the side of his face and it's cupping his cheek, thumb stroking over his skin. it's soft, so soft, too soft. another hand is trapping his against the mattress, fingers trailing over his forearm before tangling into his own and squeezing tight. it's gentle, so gentle, too gentle.

eddie isn't soft, eddie isn't gentle. eddie isn't making love in a full size bed with wallpaper that matches the drapes. he isn't fluttering kisses in time with fluttering heartbeats and the fluttering wings of butterflies trapped in his stomach like the most lovely cage.

eddie is fucking at 2am when there's enough intoxication to make him look like he's worth it. he's rough and wild, quick and easy. a means to a barely wanted end because he's there and willing and with long enough hair to let people imagine he's someone else.

he should be caged instead of the damn butterflies. he bares his teeth and thrashes his limbs just to fight and see what he can get away with. he laughs loud and brash in the face of sweetness just to see anger, just to see hurt.

he has half a mind to think he's a feral animal that's hardly been trained, performing in some fucked up circus that charges two bucks to see him snarl and hurl insults at anyone who passes by. he bites at the hands that try to touch, try to feed, proving to the onlookers that he's only worth the pocket change they pay to see him.

but steve. he's holding his face like he wants to, holding his hand like it's the most important thing in the world. he's pressing kisses along eddie's jaw without any hurry, without any rush, kissing just to kiss. feeling just to feel. he's like a ray of goddamn sunshine even in the darkness that midnight provides, warming eddie from the inside out.

eddie wants to run. he wants to scream. he wants to feel like he's allowed steve's soft and gentle but he's-

"is this not okay?" and now steve's looking at him with all of whatever he's trying to give him lacing into his face, his eyes and spit slick lips sparkling in the moonlight like a shiny new toy. "do you not like it?"

concern and care are different sides of the same steve shaped coin and if eddie looks hard enough, he can see them blurring together in his frustratingly beautiful sparkling eyes and those damn butterflies start to come back.

"no, it's-" he let's out a sigh, relaxing his tight muscles and sinking into the bed, sinking into whatever steve is willing to give him. "just different, is all. good different, i think."

steve smiles and eddie shakily mirrors it back, before he's ducking his head again and slotting their lips together, fingers still holding tight to eddie's, still cupping his face like it's something precious.

eddie's come to terms with the taste of the metal bars of his cage, teeth wearing down as he tries to bite his way to freedom. maybe this time he'll let himself get used to the taste of soft and gentle smiles if it means loving steve.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Me, Us, and You

Synopsis: You've been used one too many times, and find comfort in the arms of those you love.

Foul Legacy x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Comfort Warnings: Mentions of being used as an emotional outlet

~ * ~

“Hey… why do people like using me?” Foul Legacy looks up from the chunk of crystal he was batting around, tilting his head curiously. You catch his gaze, inquisitive and concerned, and sigh. “…Sorry. It’s nothing.” He frowns with a quiet trill. Not good- he’s seen this habit before, your way of pushing down your emotions, never speaking a word. Legacy shakes out his fur, rising to his feet and crossing the room before plopping down beside you, chittering in worry. His claws knead against the carpet, nudging and pushing up against you gingerly until you finally huff out a laugh and weakly shove him back. “…You get what I mean." He does. Far too well. He’s seen it happen, from behind a corner as Childe; idly twirling a coin between his fingers, walking up to meet you at your favorite restaurant, or merely happening to pass by on the street.

One, two, three. Then more. The number of times that you’ve been treated as a mere outlet. You’re too kind for your own good, too patient, too understanding. Why can’t you get angry? Why don’t you tell off the people who start using you as an object to vent their emotions to- or at least tell them no? Instead you just smile and nod, offer your advice even when you don’t know what to say since you don’t even know your own feelings and what they mean, but you try so, so hard to lift them up, help them feel strong, better, braver. And they do. They smile again, nod, laugh. Sometimes they take your advice, sometimes they just want someone to agree with them. Whatever the case, they leave lighter, and you leave with a new burden in your arms. It’s fine. You don’t mind carrying it for them, as long as they’re happier- you insist that it makes you happy if they are, too. But inside it still hurts, knowing you only exist when someone needs you to listen. When you need to fulfil a certain role or do something for someone.

They started getting used to it, too. Pulling you into conversations as innocently as a lamb only to pour forth a tidal sea of issues and frustration. They cry and rant and yell and scream and then pat you on the back with a smile with a see you soon and talk to you later. One even paused, looking at your tapping fingers, your focused expression, and told you to write things down. So you could remember them for later, if more things came up- we wouldn’t want you to forget, now would we? A pause, a strained smile, as you fished a notebook and pencil from your bag. It made dread coil in your chest, a heavy weight over your heart. That’s right. You only matter as long as you have use.

There’s a croon, and you blink, shaken from your daze. Foul Legacy stares down at you, crystalline eye wide and anguished. No. No, no, no- he hates that you think of yourself like that, as someone, something to be used. He crawls towards you, cupping your face in his claws and letting out a soft, saddened warble. His wings twitch and flutter, curling in your direction as if he wants nothing more than to cuddle you close and shield you from all the dreadful things in the world, because he does, his instincts scratching at his skull and hissing, biting, gnashing the source of your hurt, trying to vanquish it in battle and make it disappear. Protect. Heal. Love.

Legacy squeezes you a bit tighter, pressing your head against his lavender fluff, grown soft with how much you brush and fawn over it. You think he’s beautiful- you’ve told him before, time and time again. Beautiful, lovely, wonderful- why can’t you see how amazing you are, too? How much you help, how much you matter? Even if anyone else can’t see past their own nose, he knows how much you deserve to be showered with gratitude and affection. His gentle nuzzles shift and crackle lightly, turning to soft skin, scarred hands massaging your arms. Childe presses his forehead to yours, his despair on par with Foul Legacy’s, murmuring frantic words of reassurance filled with tears. Nothing, nothing, nothing. That’s all you ever call your feelings, your wants and needs. You’ve spent so long supporting others that you can’t even remember anything you desire, truly, nothing at all. He caresses your cheek, looking deep into your eyes with an oceanic gaze. Please, tell him something you want. Anything. Please. You shudder, and desperately reach your arms to him. Childe meets you halfway, wrapping you in a firm, tight hug and pressing his face against your shoulder.

He wants to give you everything, yet he knows what you need most is someone you can just exist with, not to help, not to complete a task for them, but just to be in their- his- presence. If you listen to his woes, ever, not even the Archons would be able to stop him from listening to yours, because you deserve it. Friendships go both ways, the world seems to have forgotten. Childe was your friend first, and he’s your friend now, and your love, your Harbinger, your sweet, monstrous Foul Legacy, and he adores you with every fiber of his being. Childe peppers kisses over your face, one hand human, the other armored talons, both him and his Abyssal half comforting you. Yes, they get what you mean. They get what you mean all too well, aching and weeping and watching you suffer again and again, wringing yourself dry for people who toss you away once their problems are solved.

But not with them. Never again with Childe and Legacy, forever by your side. You have no tears left to cry, but they still hush you, gently. Shh, shh… it’s alright. Everything will be okay. Childe sighs as he pulls away, tracing your features with a finger and holding back his own sobs, steadying his voice against his resentment towards the world for your treatment. “Talk to me. Talk to us. Please.” For us, we love you so.

[bumblingbabooshka]

When the only person who might understand what happened- understand. Not sympathize or empathize or comfort you but understand what happened, isn't there anymore. Or: 'A Man Made Me Do Something I Didn't Want To', for when you can't talk about it or look it in the eye [Patreon | Commissions]

[pastafossa]

"You’re who I want." (Michael Kinsella x F!Reader)

Time for Day 3 of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! For Day Three, I chose to combine the fluff and angst prompts ("I feel real when I'm with you" and 'Broken'), and I also decided to try my hand at one of Charlie Cox's other characters for once, that being our favorite sad, tragic, sweetheart of a mobster Michael Kinsella! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!

Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings for this fic: mentions of blood, kiss at the end, angst (but with a happy ending obvs)

It was Birdy that called you right as you were getting ready to settle in for the night, the heavy downpour a drumbeat against your windows that you’d hoped would lull you into a peaceful sleep. But that wasn’t in your cards tonight, it seemed. 

“He’s headed yer way. Things… didn’t go well tonight.” 

Not for the first time, you quietly cursed the way the Kinsellas had dragged Michael back into their business as you dug out the first aid kit, setting it beside a change of clothes and a few clean towels to help Michael dry off from the rain when he arrived. You didn’t care what the Kinsellas got up to on their own time, who they sold to and what their family business was. What you cared about was whether Michael had actually wanted this. You knew he'd had different plans when he'd finally gotten out of prison, plans of a quieter, more peaceful life. But he was a loyal man, one who was endlessly devoted to his family, and that loyalty, that devotion was something Amanda was all too happy to take advantage of. 

You had thoughts on her, too, but much like your night's rest, it would also have to wait. 

 “We lost a few o’ ours. He managed ta turn it around at the last second, but… Well, the family argued after. Things were said to him, and…”

Some nights, nights much like these, you wondered just how long Michael had left before he broke beneath the weight of expectation and grim responsibility. It was a burden he shouldered without complaint, even as it became clear he was destined to crumble beneath it. In the two years since you’d met that beautiful, quiet man in a small coffee shop, you’d watched those brittle cracks form, line by line. Over time, as he'd gradually begun to let you in, you’d discovered far deeper fissures that lay buried beneath his fractured armor. Your lack of fear, your absence of judgement over what he’d done in the past, had only pried open that door further until he sought you out with regularity, just as you did him. Time passed, and your orbits revolved closer and closer together, spiraling planets caught inescapably in the pull of each other’s gravity.   

Neither of you had named what this was between you. But if he could find comfort here, safety here, then you’d happily give it. 

 “Just… be gentle with him, dear.” 

Somehow, even the quiet knock at your door sounded exhausted. You hurried out of the kitchen where you’d been filling up the kettle—you’d learned very quickly how important it was to have it ready at all hours when you’d moved to Ireland—and headed down the warm hall to the front door. You unlocked the door and tugged it open, letting in the roaring sound of the pouring rain and a gust of chilled, bitter wind. 

“Oh, Michael,” you whispered. 

He was soaked down to the bone, his dark hair plastered against his skin as he leaned tiredly against the doorframe, his body wracked with shivers from the cold. What was worse: even with the rain, you could still see traces of blood on his shirt and his hands, with more of it leaking steadily from a ragged split on his lip. Fortunately, only the blood on his mouth seemed to belong to him. He tried to throw you a small smile, but it was far too crooked, too brittle to be real, and you had a feeling his eyes weren’t red because of the rain. The moment he realized you didn’t buy the act, that shield fell away, and you were left with just Michael at his most exposed, empty and limp on your doorstep. 

“That bad, eh?” he asked tiredly, trying for dark humor and missing by miles.

“Shit, get in here before you freeze.” You caught his sleeve and tugged him forward until you could shut the door behind him. He didn’t fight you on it physically, for which you were grateful, but he couldn’t seem to resist at least a little verbal stubbornness. 

“I’m gettin’ yer floors all wet,” he said distantly. Without the need to pretend, his tone had gone empty and lifeless, drained of all energy as if he’d used up what little he had left on the walk over. He dropped his head slowly, staring down at the growing puddle of rainwater on the floor, his face twisting through an unreadable expression. “‘M sorry, pet. I shouldn’t have—”

“Floors can be dried, Mikey.” You waved the objection away, locking the door before turning back to Michael where he was still standing shivering in the hall, curled into himself as if he were reluctant to take up any further space, as if he feared he were unwelcome. And something about it, about the way he seemed to barely be holding himself together, just… broke your heart. “Come here.”

He shivered again, even as he shook his head, arms wrapped around himself. You could almost see him changing his mind, a wave of regret rearing up inside him, flashing in the dark of his eyes, eyes still looking too damp for just the rain. “I’ll… I’ll get blood on ya.” “I don’t care.”

He clenched his jaw, still refusing to meet your eye, a sign of just how bad things had gone for him. Some of the blood on his clothes and skin had joined the puddle of rainwater at his feet, the pale tile darkening to a tinted, rusty pink. And that only seemed to make him feel worse, as it seeped into the grooves and lines between each tile, staining it. “No, I-I shoulda stopped ‘a home first, cleaned up. And it’s late, yer clearly dressed for bed. We can talk another time—”

You crossed the distance between you both before he could take a single step towards the front door. He went stiff and rigid, closed off the moment you pulled him into you, but you let him work through it as you wound your arms tightly around him, hooking the fingers of one hand in his belt loops. You had to make it clear you weren’t going anywhere. You used the other hand to stroke gently down his back, heedless of the water and blood that began to dampen your clothes, breathing in the scent of warm whiskey and leather, of gun oil and fresh rain and blood. “Stop worrying about my clothes or the floors, you silly man,” you said softly, setting your chin on his shoulder. His breath hitched at your voice, his arms still locked between you, a barrier you knew he needed help to break down. “I don’t care about those. I care about you, Michael. No matter what happens, that won’t change. I’ll stand here all night with you if I have to.”

He choked out a shaking breath against your hair, and you could feel it the moment he began to break, his arms tentatively unwinding so his hands could find their way around your waist. Almost as if he were still convinced his touch, his need for comfort would be rejected. Something far warmer than rain dripped against your neck. “Why?” he whispered. “I don’t understand. I have nothin’ to give ya. To give anyone. I keep tryin’ to be what everyone needs, but I can’t even do tha’ right. Why do ya keep openin’ the door for a broken man, pet?”

“You might be hurt, but you’re far from broken,” you murmured, turning your head to lay it on his shoulder as his hold gradually tightened around you, his hands fisting in the fabric of your shirt. Another shaky breath rattled out of him, more of his tears rolling down your throat until he finally let his head fall to your neck, accepting what you’d offered. “I open the door because I just need you, exactly as you are. You’re who I want. So you can let go, Mikey. There’s nothing here you need to fix, no one else you need to be.” 

That was all it took, and between one breath and the next, he crumbled in your arms, the entire terrible night, terrible year, terrible life tearing its way out of him in choked, ragged sobs, the sounds of someone who hadn't been able to let go for some time. You held him as tightly as you could, soft, comforting whispers in his ears, your hands running gently down his back and back up through his hair as he let fall every last wall he’d put up between him and the outside world. 

It took time for that cresting wave of emotion to ease, time you spent with your head on his shoulder, with your chest to his, until eventually the shaking of his body began to slow, his breath easing against your throat into something slower and gentler. Only then did you guide him to the bathroom, setting him down on the side of the tub so you could clean him up. He accepted the care in silence, his eyes half closed, his form slumped and exhausted, drained after the emotional release. You knew better than to press before he was ready—and besides, people had demanded enough out of him tonight without you adding to it—so you let the quiet have its place as you bandaged him up, cleaning the blood from his hands and drying him off without so much as a hint of judgment. Whenever his breath grew a little shaky again, you’d lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles to remind him he was safe.

You left him alone just long enough for him to change, and you were grateful you'd both decided he should keep a few changes of clothes here. It was another unspoken intimacy between you both, this knowledge that your home was a retreat for him just as his home sometimes was for you, even if neither of you had said as much. Once he was changed and he stepped out of the bathroom, dark eyes immediately seeking you out, you tipped your head in a request he follow you before heading towards the bedroom.

He hesitated, and you paused in the doorway, waiting.

It wasn’t every time he came here that you both wound up curled up together. So far, it only seemed to happen on those bad nights, those nights when one of you needed the other’s presence to act as a shield against nightmares, against waves of grief or bloodied hurt. Until now, however, those moments had always taken place on the couch, the two of you dozing off together under the excuse that you’d never intended to fall asleep at all and well, it was late, wasn't it? It was expected. Tonight, however, you just… thought he deserved a bed.

That you and he had never taken this step before hung heavy between you, weighted and intimate as he considered you, his gaze shifting over your shoulder to the open doorway in thought. Neither of you had dared offer access to the other’s bed until now. Hell, you hadn’t even kissed yet, though there’d been… moments when you’d both come close, dancing along that edge, driven by adrenaline or alcohol or just a quiet moment when you both seemed to be drawn into it. But there was no alcohol now, no mistaking the shift in the air. There’d be no going back after this, no more pretending, even if no one had believed either of you before now when you’d both sworn you were simply good friends.

After a long moment… the soft padding of his footsteps began to follow. 

The bed came first, soft sheets and the gradually returning warmth of him, one of your arms draped over his waist as he buried his face in your hair, the two of you twined together so closely that there was no space at all between you. 

Then came his voice, the soft lilt of it soothing you as much as your touch seemed to be soothing him. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without ya,” he murmured, his breath slowly easing down into something like peace, like contentment. He nuzzled at you gently, and you tipped your head up to meet his eyes. The warmth in them stole your breath away, filled with tender light and a devotion so deep you knew you could spend the rest of your life searching for the bottom and never find it. “Every time I think I’ve lost who I am again, yer there to bring me back. I just… I feel real when I’m with ya. I…” 

His eyes searched yours for a moment before he seemed to make a decision. He dipped his head down slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Instead, you tilted your head back, your hand sliding up to tangle in his damp hair as his lips finally met yours. 

Your first kiss with him was a soft, new thing, fragile as spun strands of glass. His lips still tasted a little of copper and whiskey, skin chapped from the cold night air, but his breath was warm, and his mouth moved against yours with a growing confidence as you leaned into him, using your fingers in his hair to pull him in closer, his beard a pleasant scrape against your skin. His name on your lips was a sigh, a gift to him, one he breathed in as if he wanted to draw it down into the very heart of him. When he finally pulled away, he laid his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as he just... breathed with you. You reached up to stroke your fingers warmly against his cheek, and he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, though he didn't seem ready to open them just yet. “Wanted ta do that for a while, now,” he admitted. “Since not long after we met, if ’m honest.” “I may or may not have wanted the same thing,” you huffed softly, his smile growing wider. 

“Can I take ya to breakfast tomorrow?”

You made a contented noise as you curled into him, and he wound around you, the two of you getting comfortable for the night. It felt… permanent, as if you two had simply been waiting to find your way here, this place you were both meant for. 

“I’d love that.”

And maybe tomorrow... you'd tell him you loved him, too.

[deoidesign]

Hey when your art friends share their work with you, please take note to not turn that into a vent session about how your own stuff sucks... It's just gonna make your friend feel like their art is hurting you, and they're not gonna share anymore.

[aventurineswife]

I just thought of this now and knew it would be funny but,

What about a platonic!reader x aventurine but reader is like a grandma Madea. I feel like this would be funny since Madea does a lot of illegal stuff and since the IPC is sorta a government. Although she jokes around a lot, everyone knows she doesn't play when it comes to her family.

I feel like it would be really nice for Aventurine to see how much someone genuinely cares.

“You've Got a Friend”

Summary: When IPC’s gambling prodigy, Aventurine, meets a surprising new friend—[Name], a feisty grandma with Madea-like energy and a knack for stirring up trouble—his life takes an unexpected turn.

Tags: Platonic, Aventurine & Grandma Reader, found family, humor, tough love, loyalty, protective reader, unconventional friendship, hurt/comfort, lighthearted moments, character growth, emotional support, Reader is implied female(she/her) but nothing in details, Reader refers Aventurine with nicknames.

Warnings: Mild language, references to emotional scars, some themes of loneliness

A/N: I'M SO SORRY IF I GOT THIS WRONG SOMEHOW OR SOMETHING!! I HAVE NEVER WATCHED THE FILM/MOVIE AND TO READ THE WIKIPEDIA TO UNDERSTAND HER CHARACTER!! 😭

Aventurine knew he’d seen his share of unpredictable people, but nothing could have prepared him for you.

He'd met you by accident—a rumor had surfaced of an unusual figure wreaking havoc at a nearby IPC office, and he thought he'd investigate, assuming it was just another rowdy client. When he arrived, however, he found the office staff staring in shock as you, in all your “grandma” glory, stood there lecturing a young agent on the importance of family values, all while waving around your purse like a weapon.

“Now, let me tell you something, sugar,” you declared, your tone sweet but deadly serious. “When a boy like my grandson comes to your office, he’s here for business, not to be messed with. You play nice, and so will I. Got it?”

You didn’t notice Aventurine standing there at first, taking in the scene with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Finally, you turned, catching his gaze, your eyes narrowing slightly as you assessed him.

“Well, look at you, Mr. Fancy Pants,” you said, giving him a once-over. “What’s a youngin’ like you doing workin’ for the government, hmm? Ain't no good come from trustin' those suits. Just you remember that.”

The other employees in the office looked around nervously, but Aventurine only chuckled. “You must be…[Name]?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Grandma [Name] to you,” you replied, adding a pointed finger jab in his direction. “But you can call me Madea.”

The friendship that blossomed between you and Aventurine was…unusual, to say the least. You quickly took a liking to him, although you never hesitated to remind him you didn't trust “no government types.” You even went as far as calling the IPC “that mess of bureaucratic backstabbers” whenever Aventurine would bring up his job. Yet, despite the tough talk, you always had a glint in your eye whenever he’d visit, bringing you little trinkets he’d won in his latest gambling scheme or updates on his work.

One day, you caught him staring off into the distance, his confident smile faded just slightly, his guard down for just a moment. Without warning, you gave him a light smack on the back of his head, making him jump.

“What was that for?” he asked, rubbing his head and glaring at you.

“Stop lookin' like a kicked puppy. You’re handsome, got a job, a snazzy suit, and them fancy-lookin’ eyes. Life ain’t all bad, honey.” you said with a smirk.

“Since when do you hand out compliments?” he asked, a hint of a genuine smile appearing.

“Since I realized you ain’t got nobody who does it for ya,” you replied, shrugging. “You work so hard, pullin’ strings, playin’ games, but who’s there for you when things go south?”

That got him. He paused, then looked away. “Life is a game, Madea,” he said softly. “You can only rely on yourself.”

“Well, that’s a load of nonsense if I ever heard it,” you said, crossing your arms. “You got me, sugar. You just don’t know it yet.”

One evening, while the two of you were hanging out (at his request—though he’d never admit it), Aventurine made the mistake of mentioning that he had a meeting with some shady IPC officials that he didn’t quite trust.

“Now, what kinda mess you gettin’ yourself into, huh?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It’s business,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, I don’t like that look you’re givin’ me,” you said, wagging a finger. “Now listen here, if any of them suit-wearin' snakes give you trouble, you come straight to me, you hear?”

He laughed, holding his hands up. “I think I can handle myself just fine. Besides, it’s not like you’d be able to get into an IPC boardroom in the first place.”

You shot him a wicked grin. “Is that a challenge, honey?”

And sure enough, when Aventurine arrived at his meeting the next day, he was shocked to see you already inside the room. You were sitting there, looking comfortable and casual, surrounded by people in stiff business attire, a sly smirk on your face as you glanced up at him.

“Hey there, sugar! Fancy seein’ you here!” you called out, loud enough to startle the room.

The officials looked between the two of you, clearly baffled. Aventurine, unable to suppress his laughter, leaned in and whispered, “You know, you’re absolutely insane.”

“Only insane thing is lettin’ you walk in here without backup. They don’t scare me,” you whispered back with a grin, “but they should be scared of me.”

Over time, you became a fixture in Aventurine's life, always popping up when he least expected it, giving him advice he didn’t think he needed, and occasionally pulling a prank or two on his IPC coworkers just to keep things interesting. And though Aventurine kept his usual, unbothered demeanor, he couldn’t deny it—having you around felt like having someone who actually cared.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you set down a plate of warm, homemade cookies in front of him. “A little somethin’ to lift your spirits, sugar.” you said.

Aventurine stared at the plate, then back at you. “I don’t…know what to say.”

“You don’t gotta say nothin’. Just eat. And remember—family ain’t about blood. Sometimes, it’s about who’s there to smack you upside the head when you’re actin’ a fool.”

A genuine smile broke through Aventurine’s usual smirk, and he picked up a cookie, savoring it. For once, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to play the game alone.

[sgt-tombstone]

If You Ever Forget That You Love Me

Ghost x Soap || Gen

tags: major character injury, amnesia, amnesiac Soap, canon typical violence, emotional hurt/comfort, they’re in love your honor

————

Soap gets shot, but he survives. it’s a close call, but he makes it out of the tunnel and to the nearest hospital, leaking too much blood for Ghost’s comfort, and the front desk nurse gets the fright of her life when three frantic soldiers march in with a breathing corpse held up between them, blood coating them all from head to toe. thankfully, scaring the shit out of other patients is a sure fire way to get treated quickly, so Soap is immediately swept away. Price and Gaz have to hold Ghost back, to keep him from following, his heart in his throat as Soap disappears from sight.

when he gets stabilized in the hospital, two brain surgeries and multiple cardiac arrests later, the doctors warn the 141 that he could have severe brain damage when he wakes up. that he might not be able to continue serving. that he might not even know who they are, or who he is. it’s a possibility that they all prepare themselves for, during the long weeks waiting for Soap to shake off his coma, to come back home.

Ghost worries the most out of all of them. Gaz and Price beat themselves up, even though they couldn’t have done anything differently and they all know it. they both throw themselves into work, spending well over twelve hours every day holed up in Price’s office, poring over every piece of intelligence on Makarov that Laswell manages to scrounge up, and they visit Soap whenever they can in between, but Ghost doesn’t move. he planted himself next to Soap’s bed the moment his sergeant got out of surgery and he hasn’t moved since, to the nurses’ clear displeasure. he doesn’t care.

he never got the chance, never plucked up the courage, to tell Soap how he felt, and he almost lost him entirely. he’s not going to make the same mistake again. he just needs Johnny to wake up, to remember him.

when Soap finally blinks his hazy blue eyes open, squinting in the harsh fluorescent light, head falling to the side and face splitting in a grin when he spots Ghost staring back, Ghost knows that worrying was pointless. Johnny’s the strongest man he’s ever met; if anyone could pull themselves back from a bullet to the brain, it’s him. and he did.

Ghost wants to confess right then and there. the air is thick with anticipation, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t. he needs to get the doctors, needs to tell Price, needs to let Johnny heal in peace without the burden of Ghost’s feelings heavy on his mind. he presses the call button and slips out of the room in the resulting chaos, resolving to stay as far away from the medical building as possible. a return to normal.

he makes it all of three days before Gaz nearly drags his ass back, complaining loudly and at length about Soap’s incessant whining at the absence of his favorite lieutenant at his side, and the way Johnny perks up, his eyes glowing with excitement and something like relief, breaks his resolve in an instant. he could he deny his sergeant anything, after everything?

he confesses that night, and if the ensuing make out session sends Johnny’s heart monitor into a tailspin and the nurses into a frenzy, well… Price doesn’t have to know that part. (evidently, he does anyway, if the half-exasperated, half-fond look he gives Ghost the next day is anything to go by.)

Johnny recovers quickly, all things considered. bullet to the brain and all that. within weeks, he’s up and walking around, all but begging to be released. he’s passed every milestone and test they’ve thrown at him with flying colors. he’s alert and aware. he’s mobile and quickly regaining his dexterity. he’s restless, more restless than Ghost has ever seen him, but he can’t exactly blame him, either. none of them are made to be cooped up.

which is why, six months later, when Soap’s memory starts to fail, they do their best to hide it.

it scared the shit out of Soap the first time. it was something simple, a word on the tip of his tongue that he couldn’t quite reach, and Ghost had watched in quiet horror as Soap floundered for several long seconds in the middle of the rec room, eyes welling with panicked tears. he’d quickly pulled them both back to Ghost’s room, unwilling to let his sergeant fall apart in public, and they spent hours curled around each other, assuaging their fears. one instance of a faulty memory was to be expected, right?

but it kept happening. nothing major, just enough to be concerning. words he couldn’t find, objects misplaced, details about the rookies under his command. Ghost took to trailing him like a lost puppy, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice should Soap’s mind betray him. he earned some odd looks for it, and Price was obviously itching to ask, but he refrained, and Ghost was infinitely grateful. if they were anyone else, doing anything else, he might’ve told him, but they were soldiers, and they needed to find Makarov. everything else could wait. men like Soap aren’t made to be cooped up.

they find Makarov, and that’s all that any of them are legally allowed to say. what happens to him afterwards is a story that even Laswell never gets to hear. the first (and only) time she asked, Price muttered, “revenge,” and she decides that some things are really none of her business; some things are better off staying unknown.

after Makarov’s death, though, Johnny gets worse. noticeably worse. it’s not just the occasional small detail that slips through his fingers like sand; the day he blanks on Gaz’s name when trying to get his attention is the beginning of the end, and the day he glances towards Ghost across an active firefight, wide-eyed and panicked, unsure of where he is or what they’re doing, is the end of it all.

the honorable discharge is nice, but none of them are in the mood to celebrate it, especially not when Soap clings to Ghost like a child while the 141 mingles. the circumstances of his discharge are strictly confidential, and most people assume it has something to do with his leg, considering the slight limp he walks with, and he lets them think it. he can’t exactly reveal the truth; the upper brass never like to hear exactly how their cannon fodder fare outside of the gilded halls of ceremony and awards. he’s the talk of the party and everyone wants to shake his hand and reminisce about the god old days. Soap doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t remember their names, much less any good old days they might’ve shared together. he relies on Ghost muttering almost silently behind his mask to get through the conversations with even a shred of dignity, and they last less than an hour before Ghost decides to call it a night. he can’t stand the anguished look in Soap’s eyes when he racks his brain for someone’s call sign or the name of their spouse.

it only gets worse outside, though; Soap turns to Ghost with tear-brightened eyes, and Ghost has never seen him so scared. they manage to make it back to the flat they co-signed for, back home, before Johnny falls apart, and Ghost retires the next day.

civilian life is… hard. for both of them. some days are better than others; some days, Johnny wakes up completely cognizant, and he spends those days curled in on himself, plagued by a fear of his own mind. other days, he wakes up lost and confused, his military training kicking in to defend himself against a stranger in a strange place, convinced that he’s been kidnapped.

Simon isn’t sure which days are worse. the former are spent trying to get Johnny to eat and get out of the house before his own mind paralyzes him and the latter are spent trying to convince Johnny that he’s not going to kill him in his own home.

there are good days, too, and those outweigh the bad in both number and quality. those are the days when Johnny wakes up and remembers Simon’s name, remembers his sister’s birthday, remembers that life is worth living. Simon hoards those days like treasure.

over the years, Johnny declines, slowly but surely. they both knew it would happen; it was only a matter of time, but it’s scary watching it happen in real time. Simon has lost count of the number of times that he’s been attacked standing in his own kitchen, making his morning cuppa, because Johnny woke up alone and terrified. he’s lost count of the number of times that he’s held Johnny in his arms, fingers threading through the overgrown strands of Johnny’s hair, reminding Johnny of their shared history. he’s lost count of the number of times that he’s had to remind Johnny what his name is.

the upside—because there are always upsides, Johnny was the one to teach him that—is that Johnny gets to experience a lot of things for the first time again. their Lord of the Rings marathon was a particular delight, especially when Simon got to wow his boyfriend with the Viggo Mortensen broken toe fact for the second (and third) time. his favorite, though, is when Johnny looks at his face like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it, all wide eyes and parted lips, like he’s caught a glimpse at the face of god. Simon always tells him that he’s seen it before, and Johnny never believes him, or at least pretends not to. it’s odd, having a running joke with an amnesiac, but neither of them have ever been normal, so Simon supposes it makes sense.

together, they come up with systems that help. it takes a lot of trial and error, and one too many awkward hospital trips where Simon has to convince the nurses not to call the authorities because his boyfriend stabbed him in the middle of the night, but they develop some routines.

Simon never gets out of bed before Johnny; he’ll wait hours for his partner to wake up, because he always wakes up better in Simon’s arms than in an empty bed. he leaves notes all over the house, little sayings and doodles that Johnny always gets excited to find, but the most important ones get put on the bathroom mirror, because he knows Johnny will reliably see it, vain creature that he is. their kitchen table is covered in a giant sheet of paper, which doubles as a drawing space and a living history; every detail of their lives, past and present, gets recorded on paper for Johnny to read whenever he gets lost.

it’s not perfect, but Simon wouldn’t give it up for anything. he adores Johnny, adores that he got a second chance to love Johnny the way he deserves, and it’s the one detail he’ll never let Johnny forget: that he is loved, unconditionally.

[vicsbasement]

Is the scene in the new snippet taken from the Maria/grief fic? :P

You absolutely caught me. It is! I don't know, there's something about that moment in time for me that compels me to write it over and over again. I keep going back to it because I remember that first time we saw the picture of Charles and Carlos driving out of Maranello and to see Charles there-- they already knew, you know? And they couldn't say because there wasn't anything official. But there's this whole headcanon in my head that Charles didn't, couldn't, let Carlos go through this alone because the announcement wasn't supposed to come this early, right. So when Carlos called he picked up. When Carlos needed him, he went. I don't know. Anyway! I did say you'd win another snippet so this is another one for clingy!charles. Enjoy! Carlos was sure that nothing was amiss. He was sure that Roberto just got in his head, but—as he stumbled out of his car in FP2, Charles was the one to grab his arm to stop him from falling. Why was Charles there?

“Hello, mate!” Charles says; a light tone to his voice, cheerful and sweet. Almost too light, like it was forced gentleness. Carlos would be suspicious if he didn’t feel like he was about to hurl.

“Care to hand me over to Gigi? I’m not feeling too well.” Carlos declares, a bit of his polite front waning when another roll of nausea hits him as Charles removes his hands from his back. Carlos starts to take off his helmet and balaclava, hating the sensation of the fabric dragging against his sensitive skin.

“Fred told me this.” Charles sounded… admonishing, like he wanted to make Carlos feel bad for not telling him he’d been having a hard time keeping his food down since yesterday. “You guys heard him, where’s Gigi?” Charles gets something in his eyes when he turns serious. Carlos has seen it a couple of times before, even directed at himself, but his garage—well. It’d come alive with his instructions, with Charles’ tone.

Two mechanics scrambled out of his seat to look for Pierluigi as Charles grabbed Carlos’ arm again and made him sit in a corner. When Carlos felt he wasn’t about to keel over, he let his body fold into himself and his back curved. Carlos just wanted to sleep. The pounding in his head was worsening, the nausea came back with a vengeance, and Charles was looking for—his isotonic drink, of course. That would help a little with the nausea.

“It’s behind you.” Carlos said, and Charles turns sharply and grabs the drink, offering him the straw between pinched-tight fingers. Carlos doesn’t hesitate, but Charles seems to notice the gesture—his fingers a little too close to Carlos’ lips and mouth, so he recoils, albeit gently.

“Thanks.” Carlos murmurs, and Charles nods. He looks fidgety, like he wants to help more but he doesn’t know how. Pierluigi must be looking for medicine to stop the nausea, that’s probably why he wasn’t close, maybe he went to the Ferrari hospitality for his medikit. Charles seems to get an idea and looks for a wet towel, and hands it to Carlos. The heat is stifling and it’s making everything worse, his mouth fills with liquid and Carlos feels like he’s about to throw up in front of the whole garage, when he feels Charles’ gentle hands press the ice-cold towel to his forehead.

“They told me you had a fever?” Charles asks, sheepish. He removes the towel for a second and replaces it with his hand, looking for the pulse point right behind his eyebrows and using his wrists to gauge the temperature. “I shouldn’t have put the towel before, I don’t know if you’re still—”

“I think I am, yeah.” Carlos says. Charles is using both his wrists to gauge his temperature, now, he’s basically cradling Carlos’ head between them. And Carlos gets a good look at Charles; the frown, the pursed lips, the demeanor, and Teto’s voice echoes through his head.

“He’s clingy.” He remembers. But this is not clingy, this is just worried. Right? Just worried.

Pierluigi arrives at that moment and sees Charles cradling Carlos’ head. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question, and Carlos just shrugs as Charles makes space for Pierluigi to lean down and ask him about his symptoms.

As Carlos is trying to recall what’s causing him discomfort he feels how his mouth fills with liquid again, he starts slurring his words, the world turns on its axis and he feels as he’s fading slowly away, the last thing in his vision Charles’ expression of  utter worry.

[24-05txt]

He spits in the vicinity of the guy's face and immediately braces when he sees a gloved hand raise. It's not a flinch—its not—but he needs to be ready when they hit him.

"Hey, Soap," says the man looking over him, quiet and even and casual, and Soap's mind is sent reeling, suddenly, because the last time he heard this voice in that tone was in a shitty kitchenette at three in the morning. Must've been days ago now (at least).

"Ghost?" He tilts his chin up, trying to look down his nose and under the blindfold. If he's hallucinating, he at least wants to see it.

"Yeah. I've got you." A rough, leather-clad hand comes to rest on the side of his head and the blindfold lifts and it's Ghost on the other side. Ghost is crouched over him. Ghost tosses the blindfold away and makes eye-contact with Soap for a long few seconds.

"...Ghost?" He asks again, and hates how plaintive it sounds. He desperately wants to say something funny, even curse a little bit, have a witty quip to kickstart some banter; something to say 'I'm alright, Lt.' But he can't think of a single thing.

Thankfully, Ghost covers for him (as usual) when he says, “that's my name, don't wear it out,” and shifts the hand on Soap’s cheek, taking a more firm hold. “Give us a sit-rep, Johnny, are you injured?”

His thoughts stutter a little, like a car struggling to shift into gear.

"Dunno what time it is," he rasps. His voice is hoarse from alternating between stubborn silence and full-volume yelling with very little between. "Estimate about two days here. Taken a few blows to the head, spotty circulation to my left hand, got me drunk off something a while back—"

"I can smell that much," Ghost grumbles, and Soap can't help but laugh—dry and brittle—at the offense in his tone.

"That bad, is it?"

"Certainly didn't waste the good stuff on you, Sergeant."

Ghost knows what it's like; laying flat on your back, helpless, unable to think anything other than 'it hurts, I'm in pain, I want someone with me. Anyone. Please, God, someone. I dont want to be alone.'

Nobody had come for him—the eldest son of an eldest son—not since his mother was killed. Even then, sparingly (though it pained him to admit any fault on her part. Heavy weight in his chest. Tight throat.) Even after Price came along to play at a guardian, Simon had already been convinced of his place with others. He knew he'd never be able to depend on anyone ever again, not really. Couldn't expect them to come looking for him. Couldn't expect his little brother or his mom to step up when his father put hands on him.

He doesn't know what Johnny's home situation is like; doesn't know if he has siblings, how many, what his place in the pecking order is, if he likes his mum. It's easy to imagine Johnny as someone constantly surrounded by family, but Ghost is all too aware of the things he hasn't heard his Sergeant talk about.

He doesn’t know who comes to bat for John MacTavish, but he isn't shy to count himself among their numbers (however many or few it may be). Simon's had a long time to wish for someone to depend on—has had even longer to give up on it—and he knows what he'd want, in this situation. What he'd want in a Lieutenant. A brother. A friend.

So he gives Johnny a gentle voice, firm hands. Moves quick and efficient and withholds every apology he tries to give for the obvious overwhelm. He treats Johnny himself, lets him shy away from the medics, and is quietly relieved at the lack of serious injury.

The line gets a little blurrier when he wants to tuck Johnny up under his chin, hold him tight against his chest and listen to him breathe. Is that something he wanted, at some point? Does he want that for Johnny or himself?

The fact that he lets Simon do that—curls up against him and sheds quiet, exhausted tears—is... fucking hell it's something all of its own.

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s5 episode 14 thoughts

we left off on some pretty high stakes last episode: bridges burning, eyeballs oozing, etc. now we must jump back in!

this episode is called “the red and the black”, huh… (les mis starts playing in the distance)

post episode thoughts: damn. this episode was full of twists and turns. the CSM lore goes CRAZY. krycek is your problematic bisexual representation. i do not believe that genes determine someone's capacity for evil, but i am going to have to ask this spender fellow to please back tf away from our agents. marita, you must defeat the ratboy in combat. please increase your studies of the blade. and perhaps most importantly, i love when mulder is written first and foremost as scully's loverboy and partner. yeah.

we begin with a recap of last episode, and ewww, those poor boy's eyes are soooo drippy and gross.

WHO IS THIS WRITING TO THEIR SON??? and who is this little boy in the winter snow, forced to be the mailman?

this mystery man is typing up a letter mentioning war gods, while this young child is out in the woods. someone go fetch this small child. he is wandering about. knocking on someone’s door and receiving a letter and dollar bill 

the mystery man is sending this red enveloped letter to the FBI???

wait hold on… it's a man living deep in the woods… writing a letter to his son in the FBI… is this CSM playing on the bastard mulder allegations…? because the typewriter… it’s CSM coded…

a bold swing and likely an equally bold miss, but we shall see

(i was so close and yet so far from the truth)

YOOO THE INTRO WAS SHORT *AND* WE GOT DIFFERENT WORDS THIS TIME!!! it says “resist or serve”! it has been a while since those have gotten changed up. hmm. "resist or serve" i do not care for that!!

back to the bridge slash dam area where we last saw many people gathering, including cassandra and scully. the burning has taken place!!! it was in pennsylvania?! that’s a bit of a drive from DC!!!

the medical personnel are arriving, and so is mulder!!! he’s running on his absurdly long legs while his coat billows behind him!!! does he know scully was here????

look at these bodies, they’re burned beyond any recognition!! it's horrible.

is that scully he finds??? no, and thank god for that.

skinner is here!!! mulder is yelling at him, asking if she was here, and he says she is!! and she is alive!!!

she was huddled in the woods… with a bunch of other survivors… and she had burns, but strangely all her fluids and electrolytes were gone!! the nurse tells these two men to gtfo because she is in vasogenic shock, which is not a term i know the meaning of 

look at mulder touching her hair while she is unresponsive...

(god, getting in those medical devices for a scene must be the worst)

they’re taking her away and he’s trying to follow!!! but they’re taking her in the helicopter. i thought for a second he would try and hop on and cause a scene, but he actually didn't do this.

(gruff skinner voice) “what happened here, mulder?” “the answer just got loaded onto that chopper!”

omg… are krycek’s people going to be after her, too?!? like they were after that poor boy dmitri??

agent spender is here, too. he wants to know if his mother has been found. :(

jump to a wildly different scene. is the well-groomed man a surgeon?? we see that marita is intubated!!! she was found on the roadside after her cryptic call with mulder, and it doesn’t look good for her survival. nooo, she has to live so she can backstab krycek. please hear me, queen.

OHHH he opens her eyeball and sees it covered in that nasty black oil stuff… and the syndicate is watching from above?!?! what will they do!! can they run some trials??

MULDER BRUSHING SCULLY’S HAIR TO WAKE HER UP IN THE HOSPITAL BED AND THEN SMILING GENTLY AT HER…. OH MY GOD I NEED TO LAY DOWN

if you could HEAR the noise that just came out of my throat….

LOOK AT HIM LOOKING AT HER, OH MY GOOOOOD

she asks what time is it and he LAUGHS!! oh my god, she nearly died and she just wants to know the hour... scully, you are so precious

he laughs at this question and she asks “why are you laughing?” <-OH SHE’S SELF-CONSCIOUS. STOP. I’LL CRY!!!

“i’m not laughing at you. i’m just very happy to be standing here talking to you, that’s all” <- OH MY GOD HE LOVES HER SO BAAAAAAAD he was so gentle in that explanation

(god. rereading these notes is killing me all over again. he loves her, he loves her, he loves her, a million times over. the way he explained to her that he's not making fun of her, he's just relived she's okay... oh mulder. you sweet man. absolute pathetic wet cat of a guy. you are so dear to me)

((SEE, WRITERS? see what mulder can be?! this is the man i recognize! jot that down! he's a lover!))

she asks him what she is doing here, suddenly panicked. and he gently explains, raising her bed so she can sit up while taking a seat next to her. oh my god. the tenderness. it will kill me a thousand times.

(there is something addictive stored in hospital scenes. the relief of realizing that someone is still with you, the terrible possessiveness it provokes after you almost lost them, realizing how lucky you are to have them in your life, loving someone at their most vulnerable, and the person in the hospital bed allowing themselves to be loved and cared for......... bottle it up. let it sit in the cellar and i'll pour it out only on the most special of occasions)

she can’t remember what happened. oh my god, she’s so scared :( the report on the incident is playing in her room.

she has no memories of what went on at the dam, but at this time a nurse comes in and lays her back down, saying she needs her blood pressure to come back up, and shooing mulder out. oh, i paused to write this down and she looks like a deer in the headlights. so trapped.

he says he’ll come back, but she has something to say!!! he’s out the door with a thumb’s up, though, trying to reassure her it'll be okay as she has no idea wtf is going on 

i’ve said it once i’ll say it again: poor scully :(

agent spender is here!! they didn’t find his mother, and he wants to know what mulder was “doing with her”. she hasn’t driven in a long time, and he knows scully was meeting with her!!! he wants them to leave her alone :( but now scully is wrapped up in this, too. so his mother might be the key to getting answers. agent spender, you may not get your wish.

oh, back to the russian ship in the new york harbor. krycek is chained up!!! well-groomed man is here… is some torture about to go down??

he says that the ship is heading back to russia tomorrow, and he is (sarcastically) sure that krycek's gulag pals will be happy to see him after his whole cutting and running deal. well-groomed man is dripping water into his mouth, and it’s making me thirsty.

OHHH get him for me: “your alliance with her was as misguided as ours, but it appears she was unaware of the consequences of her deception” marita... you are so mysterious...

omg, so krycek infected the boy so that anyone who betrayed him would also get infected!!!!

damn. did not wanna see krycek taking the W here. marita, you NEED to get better NOW and get some revenge.

but dmitri is dead!!! he died in the pennsylvania incident. 

krycek says that well-groomed man has to make a deal with him… but well-groomed man is no fool!

NOOOO I GOOGLED THE WELL-GROOMED MAN TO MAKE SURE I WAS USING THE RIGHT NAME (and i WASN’T, it’s “WELL-MANICURED MAN” and i got a SPOILER💔)

this is why i should not do these things. if i call someone by the wrong name, y’all are just gonna have to let me know in the replies and cringe through my mistaken posts.

damn. 

well. it’s been 2 seasons. i might as well keep calling him the wrong name.

okay, so he put together that if krycek was willing to infect the boy, he also must have had a cure for him, developed by the russians. krycek is silent at this. 

AND THIS WOULD MEAN RESISTANCE TO THE COLONISTS IS NOW POSSIBLE ‼️‼️

OHHH well-groomed man is YELLING AT HIM!!!! “DO YOU HAVE THE VACCINE?” damn, it's very echo-y place to yell, in the bottom of a soviet ship. 

hmm… well-groomed man leaves. i hope he finds the vaccine and it is not copyrighted by anyone and the whole world can become immune to oil aliens. this is the good ending.

okay, what the hell is going on now! a plane just exploded? where did this take place?? someone is dragging a body away. and a ton of military personnel are moving in. 

OMG THE BODY DRAGGER IS THE NO FACE GUY FROM BEFORE!!! who was lighting the people on fire in the last episode!! is he an alien?? was that his spaceship??

back to more important matters at hand: scully. she’s looking through the photos of the incident at the dam that she was in attendance of, but cannot recall anything. and she is sitting up now, so that means improvement!

she cannot tell you where this place even is- but none of the other survivors have been able to give an account, either. very interesting that they felt called there but cannot recount it.

mulder found more implants in the bodies, which would explain how she and the others got there. must be her new implant that cured the cancer also inspires the feelings of restlessness that brought the others abductees to the dam. but it doesn’t explain why they wanted those people dead, or why she lived.

“all comes down to a question, scully, one that hasn’t been answered or… i don’t even think honestly addressed: who made that chip in your neck?” <- OH SHOOT... HE’S (finally) GOING THERE!!!

it was found in a military research facility… he’s convinced it was the government that did all this, to do biological experiments and warfare

“the truth i’ve been searching for? the truth is in you” <- oh my god… the truth being her… hold on, i need a moment for that one.

the truth being something that is physically within someone, and as a result, being able to hold The Truth; the truth being the forceful result of autonomy being stripped away; the truth being an act of violence; the truth being the north star that guides you; all of these things being in contradiction and embodied in dana scully. i am getting ideas for poetry out of this line. everybody say thank you mulder for making me want to pick up a pencil.

oh shoot. i sense some stuff is about to go down.

“mulder, when i met you five years ago, you told me that your sister had been abducted… by aliens” (he smiles, as if thinking his past self is foolish, or recalling that first night together, or both of these things)

“that that event had marked you so deeply that nothing else mattered. i didn’t believe you, but i followed you, on nothing more than your faith that the truth was out there, based not on facts, not on science, but on your memories that your sister had been taken from you. your memories were all that you had”

(faith being a motif in scully's life... faith not in what he thinks, but in him as a person... belief being a motif in both of their lives in opposite directions... her faith placed in him and in science, and his in her and in the unknown... man, hold on...)

“i don’t trust those memories now”, he points out.

“well, whether you trust them or not, they’ve led you here. and me. but i have no memories to either trust nor distrust, and if you ask me now to follow you again, to stand behind you in what you now believe, without knowing what happened to me out there, without those memories, i can’t. i won’t”

oh my god. ohhhh my god. is this the end? do they travel no further upon this twisted road together? and if it is the end, can we even blame her?

he gets up and looks out the window, probably to conceal the inner turmoil

he wants to give her those memories, to prove that what he believed for so long was wrong… but she asks if that is really what he wants

:( :(

this has the sort of emotional weight that makes me think i'll be unpacking it for decades. i will give it room to nestle into my soul, break my heart, and then dissect it in detail at a later time.

back to the syndicate. according to their reports, the guy with no face seems to have lost his facial features in self-mutilation done as protection (??). no facial features is protection against infection by the black oil!!! omg!!!

he’s an alien rebel!!!! omg!! that is what the boy saw last episode! so this alien rebel was the one that did the torching!! he’s fighting against the alien colonists!!!

a war has begun!!! 

OH SHIT!!! well-groomed man HAS the vaccine!! it was what was in that bottle that krycek stole last episode! do you think he’s telling the truth, or just bluffing to try and inspire resistance against the colonists?! well, we can find it out if we inject marita...

well-groomed man wants to side with the rebel, but the other dude says that the alien colonists will squash them! a terrible dilemma. reminds me of the civil war plotline in skyrim. you must take a stand against the aliens!!!!

so they inject marita….

but before we can learn if that mystery liquid krycek snatched from the gulag has any effects on marita, we cut to dr. werber’s office!!! he asks if scully is okay with this, and she quietly says she is. mulder is playing with his tie on the other end of the couch.

oh my god, so even though he didn't trust his own memories, he's going to bring her to his doctor to undergo the same process? he must really want to prove she experienced what she did.

the doctor is laying her down, and she’s watching mulder before she closes her eyes and tries to relax everything…. is it going to work??

OH!! she’s screaming!!! and mulder is freaked tf out as she does so!!!

she’s recalling the ship flying over…

and she’s groaning, tapping the couch next to mulder, wordlessly asking for him to hold her hand as she relives the awful moments (oh my GOD???)

she’s remembering the people with no faces lighting the others on fire. and there’s another ship!! and the rebels are burned up by the ship!! 

and then the second ship TAKES cassandra!! from right next to her!! they all lift their hands in supplication and she rises up out of her wheelchair!!! the aliens beam her up!!

she’s still yelling when the doctor tries to get her to come back, and it takes three tries to do so. she finally does, and she’s still panting when she turns to look at mulder and asks him if he was there the whole time. and he nods.

so that means that her body knew she needed to hold his hand despite her not being mentally present at all... the way they need each other...

holy fuck, we have never seen scully screaming in that level of distress before. and we have seen some CRAZY scully distress!! like when she lost her father, or when she confronted her sister’s killer. but this was SO out of body, the whole thing, like watching her worst nightmare.

and what is mulder thinking right now?? is he back in his alien era?? how does it feel to watch your best friend scream and scream in terror, knowing you can do nothing to stop it because the terrible things already happened??

please just cuddle for a bit, you two. take a breather.

SKINNER LISTENED TO THE TAPE OF HER BEING HYPNOTIZED!!! oh my god. imagine your boss listening to your worst memories…

despite sitting through scully having her own experience, mulder still refers to the memory of his sister’s abduction as false. so does he think this didn’t really happen to scully, either? i mean, they found her body there, and like 50 dead people! if i’m mulder i’d be thinking gee, maybe i was wrong about the memories of my youth being false!! this seems a little suspicious!! what is this man thinking...?

skinner clarifies that he needs to make a REPORT and this is nothing to go on. well. this is not unusual. 

mulder says the whole thing was staged by the government, and cassandra was taken by a military aircraft. but i ask: how would the government manage to kill 50 people and embed false memories in the others??

i mean, false memories through repeated hypnotherapy sessions for just mulder seems possible. it would take a while, but maybe they could convince him of the nature of his sister's disappearance being supernatural. but how could they do that so suddenly, and to so many people at once? i'm not buying it.

this explanation does not seem to please the pensive skinner

“over the past five years, i’ve doubted you, only to be persuaded by the power of your belief in extraterrestrial phenomena. and i’m doubting you now not because of that belief, but… because extraterrestrial phenomena is, frankly, the more plausible explanation” <- ohhh, we are allowed some insight into the enigma that is skinner’s mind…

(it is actually really interesting to see how skinner views mulder and the nature of his work and beliefs. i've wondered where he falls on the spectrum of believer to non-believer for a while; i guess i thought he was somewhere in the middle, not committed to anything beyond catching the bad guy of the day. if using secret psychic thwarting tricks helps get a killer off of the streets, by all means, he'll let mulder give it a go. but i think his skepticism on the authenticity of his claims makes sense. sure buddy, you can go buy a ghost detecting machine if it makes the public safer. just... get things done)

“then i suggest you put that in your report”, snaps mulder, who gets up to leave. BRO IS ALWAYS SO SNIPPY WITH SKINNER. HE IS ON YOUR SIDE. BE NICE TO HIM. meanwhile scully is sitting here in immense pain trying to figure out wtf is going on….

back to marita. the other syndicate guy is proclaiming that the vaccine does not work. he wants to turn the alien rebel over!!

but well-groomed man says they have to hold onto him- if they turn him in, they lose all chance of resistance!! i’m lowkey with him here. like, through the power of friendship everything is possible. consider that.

NOOO, this other guy says he already turned the alien rebel back over, and well-groomed man is left in shock! how wild our narrative is that i had come to root for him for a brief moment, and now feel sad that his ideas have been shot down!!

why is agent spender down in the basement office... did he let himself into the office of our agents? i do not like this one bit. he is not visually intimidating, but his aura is unsettling.

what is this dude doing…? he says he’s here about his mother. but he’s asking scully weird questions…

he wants to know what scully and his mother talked about. then he starts playing a video of baby him!!! and it seems he is doing regression hypnosis, and he’s recalling cassandra going up into the sky. but he says none of it happened!!! he said his mom told him to say those things!!!

he claims she told the story over and over again to make up for the fact that his dad left them and it drove his mother insane. which. doesn't really explain everything, but i guess it's a start.

he thinks dr. werber indulged in his mother’s fantasies and that his methods are dangerous and unsound, and she ought to question anything she experienced in his office

“well i appreciate your opinion, agent spender,  but i don’t have a mother feeding me abduction stories” <- GET HIM ‼️

“you’ve got agent mulder, don’t you?” <- OHHH, DON’T GO THERE YOU BRAT. and besides, he doesn’t even BELIEVE IN THAT STUFF ANYMORE. get lost.

(editing these notes and this pissed me tf off again. because how dare he imply that mulder is manipulating her psychologically instead of being her partner and seeing her as an equal? god forbid the two of them respect each other. no, clearly it MUST be that the man is taking advantage of the woman, tricking her into thinking alien thoughts in the same way spender's mother did to him. right?!? (heavy on the /s, btw) don't piss me off, buddy. implying their relationship is not built on mutual respect is going to piss me off EVERY time, no matter who is comes from!!!)

he tells her not to let herself be used, and there are tears in her eyes :( well right now, mr. spender, you seem like the one doing the using

when mulder gets home, he finds a note on the floor: “things are looking up” OH SHIT, SOMEONE IS ATTACKING HIM

“you must be losing it, mulder. i can beat you with one hand” GTFO KRYCEK I’M SERIOUS!!! I’LL CALL PEST CONTROL

“isn’t that how you like to beat yourself?” <- LMAOOOOO mulder may be on the ground with a gun in his face, but that man ALWAYS has a one liner 

“hear this, agent mulder, because what i’m telling you is deadly serious: there is a war raging, and unless you pull out of the sand, you and i and about five billion other people are going to go the way of the dinosaur” <- oh shit… he has to pick a side… between the colonists and the resistance!!

is the whole fate of the world really in his hands? can he not share that responsibility with his friends?

mulder is laughing at his claims of alien colonization. 

“one rule: resist or serve” <- KRYCEK SAID THE WORDS ON THE SCREEN

he calls krycek a murder and a liar and a coward, and asks how is he supposed to trust him!!! points were made!!

the mass incinerations were to disrupt the colonization… and one man is being held captive. if he dies, so does the resistance. hmm. how do you know all this, krycek? source: trust me bro

DID HE JUST KISS MULDER???

krycek is your problematic bisexual representation… wow. who would have guessed?

(been 3 days now since i watched this episode and i am STILL shocked. yeah yeah i KNOW he's russian, and european people smooch sometimes when they say hello, but that is NOT what happened here. at all. he was pinning mulder to the ground, filled with fury, and then lust overtook, as it so often does)

he gives his gun to mulder…. and says good luck in russian, leaving a very angry and sad agent on the floor. damn. i also need a moment to process that. 

let us take some time together to ponder.

okay.

HEY! i know this guy from the air force base! he’s the alien bounty hunter!! and he’s breaking in!!!

mulder is sitting on his couch in despair when in comes scully.

“what are you doing sitting here in the dark?” “thinking” “about what?” “oh the usual- destiny, fate, how to throw a curveball… the inextricable relationships in our lives that are neither accidental nor somehow entirely in our control, either” <- poetic!!

the intimacy of knocking on your bestie's door and he is just sitting there pondering with all of the lights off... wow.

she comes to tell him she’s reconsidered her experiences with dr. werber!! nooo, do not let spender get to you!! and mulder has also done some reconsidering of his own… 

has his alien era returned??

krycek’s note left the name of an air base on the back!! they must go to find answers!!

no mention of the kiss to scully, which is fine i guess. but i would have been curious to see her reaction. she's pretty unflappable, although maybe she'd say he's unfolding like a flower again. and he’s out the door. 

they’re being let into the base at night. poor scully looks very sleepy. 

OHHH THE GUY DOESN’T WANT TO LET THEM IN…. and he says his name wrong (lmao), so mulder says there is a leak and that someone inside requires immediate medical aid.

HE CALLS THE GUY “SON”? “why don’t you go check on that, son. i’d hate for somebody to die because you were uninformed” <- woah. that was very weird. him calling someone that feels off and strange.

mulder wants to gun it to get into the facility while the gate guy is investigating his claims, but scully is surprised to know that she recognizes the driver of the truck across from them!!!

while the guard is being told he needs to place our agents under military arrest, mulder has hatched onto the back of the other truck!! scully is just sitting there like wtf, and is now being arrested. he loves to jump on a moving vehicle. 

so he’s inside this tented area on the back of the truck and finds a locked box with the faceless alien rebel inside!!!! but the truck is stopping; have they been caught??

OH!! the guy driving IS THE SHAPESHIFTER!!! and he’s coming to go get the faceless rebel. what is mulder to do???

alien bounty hunter is coming to get the rebel; he pops out the needle…. but something is afoot! everything is bathed in light and shaking!!! 

the faceless man is being lifted up… but mulder screams “noooooooo” and fires his gun??? THAT WAS VERY BLURRY AND CONFUSING!! what just happened!!!!

are we back to marita now?? yes, we are!!! she seems to be free of oil in her eyes!!!

meanwhile, mulder is being arrested, but the rebel alien isn’t there!!! WHERE DID HE GOOOO?!

the agents are going on a date to jail. he’s covered in sweat and he doesn’t know what happened while he was out there….. she grabs his hand…. so romantic

spender is arriving into skinner’s office. what is going on here? he shared there is no news about his mother. oh, mulder has opened a xx file on the case…

skinner clarifies that this has no effect on spender's position in the FBI. and mentions that he has a patron who thinks highly of him??? WHO??? no one knows??? someone with a high level of influence??? oh, that is concerning. 

IS IT HIS DAD???

when he walks out her gets a letter from quebec… and it’s in a red envelope!! the same as that kid was holding at the very start of the episode!!!!

up in quebec, that kid is delivering another letter to the mysterious cabin…. and the letter was returned.

IT’S CSM??????? 

I KNEW HE WASN’T DEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CSM has a son and a family he left…. omfg…. and he’s hiding out in CANADA???? 

THIS ANSWERED NO QUESTIONS. AND EVEN RAISED NEW ONES.

okay, after seeing the whole episode, here are my thoughts:

still losing it at krycek kissing mulder’s cheek. i just KNOW the slash girlies were losing their MINDS. as they had every right to do! i felt your joy across time and space.

so, the vaccine against the alien oil works! if we can simply inject every single person in the world, we should be able to put up a resistance fight!! and also we will need to get a lot of those green needles that kill the shapeshifting aliens. which probably also come from outer space. so we'll need a mass scale smuggling. no biggie. /s

what happened to the resistance fighter??? did he get out?? was he taken away by the evil colonist aliens?? 

and who bailed these two out!!!

is mulder back in his believer era?? he has to be!!! 

marita is alive… you have to stop the ratboy, queen. you need to lock in. idgaf if he’s the one who knows about the aliens. wait until the alien stuff is sorted out and then stab him. for me. train hard to complete the task you have been assigned.

CSM HAD A FAMILY!!! HOLY HELL, LET’S CIRCLE BACK TO THAT SHALL WE?? and he left them!!! but he kept writing letters!! that is CRAZY!!!

rip my boy dmitri :(

i watched this episode 3 days ago and there is still SO much to process. it might take a long time. typical jam-packed sort of episode. is this what we refer to as the "myth arc"? because it establishes the mythology and main plot? am i using this term correctly? please do share. and also please tell me if the following things gagged you:

CSM alive reveal, CSM family reveal, alien rebel reveal, marita knowing krycek reveal, krycek smooching mulder reveal, scully screaming under hypnosis, mulder gently brushing her hair out of her face, etc etc. thank you very much.

[mimisempai]

You know me

Summary

Reflecting on his breakfast, prepared by Mycroft as he does every morning, Greg realizes how well his lover knows him.

Notes

Mystrade Monday  4.0  #3 - “I just want to get to know you.”

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

On AO3

459 words - Rating G

Greg entered the kitchen with a yawn, his eyes still a little hazy from sleep, and the first thing his senses awoke to was the smell of coffee and toast.

Mycroft had his back to him, pouring coffee into two cups.

Greg walked over to him and, wrapping his arms around his lover's waist, said, "Morning," in a voice hoarse with sleep.

Mycroft put the cups down, turned and, after a light peck on Greg's lips, said softly, "Good morning, Greg. Did you sleep well?"

Greg pulled away from Mycroft and walked over to the table as Mycroft placed a cup of coffee in front of him and sat down across from him.

"Too well."

"I noticed that. You didn't even move when I got up."

Greg laughed softly before picking up his cup of coffee and taking a sip, enjoying the way the hot liquid went down his throat.

Then he looked down at the plate in front of him.

Two perfectly toasted slices of bread, both buttered, one with jam and the other without.

In a small bowl, a soft boiled egg that he knew was also cooked just the way he liked it.

A glass of water at just the right temperature.

And finally, the newspaper folded next to his plate.

All prepared by Mycroft, just the way Greg liked it, because Mycroft knew him.

"How do you like your eggs in the morning? Your bread, properly toasted or not? Butter, jam, honey or something else on the toast? Coffee, tea or something else?"

It was their first morning together and Greg, not yet wide awake, was faced with an onslaught of questions. 

"Mycroft, I love you, you know that. But can we wait until I've had my first cup of coffee to start the interrogation?"

Mycroft handed him a cup of coffee and replied shyly, "I just want to get to know you. What you like, your preferences."

Greg smiled fondly and, giving Mycroft a little nudge on the shoulder, replied softly, "If you want to make a list of the perfect breakfast for Gregory Lestrade, the first essential is a good morning kiss."

Mycroft didn't hesitate to provide the first item on the list, and after exchanging a tender kiss with his lover, he asked, "What about the rest of the list?"

"You'll learn as we go along."

Mycroft had learned.

Every morning, Greg's breakfast was perfect.

There was something amazing about being loved by someone who knew you so well, even in such small things as the way you liked your eggs cooked.

Greg reached across the table to take Mycroft's hand and kissed the palm of it gently.

"Thank you."

Mycroft squeezed his hand in his own and replied simply, "You're welcome."

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Mystrade mondays 4.0 : here

Mystrade masterlist here

[lulu2992]

Hey dear Lulu! Hope you have a good day and congratulations on 100K❤️

I have reached a point in my fanfic where my OC is pregnant with John ( and yes, everything is in terms with Eden's Gate rules ) but I have no Idea how John would react/feel about OC begin pregnant- and how would he even be as a dad?

I am trying to stay true to his character as much as possible but it's hard when he hasn't interacted with other children in the game😭 I to think he will be a devoted, loving and protective over his child...but that's all I have...

How would you imagen he would be as a dad and how would he react to OC pregnancy?

Hey! Thank you, and I hope you had a good day as well!

I think it would first depend on whether the pregnancy is rule-breaking and accidental or if they are an official couple expecting it to happen at some point. In your story, I understand everything happened in accordance with Eden’s Gate’s moral principles, so that avoids a lot of angst and emotional turmoil… Unless John and your OC were trying not to make a baby, I suppose he wouldn’t react negatively.

His behavior would also be influenced by how emotionally mature and stable (as far as possible for him) he became in your story. In the game, John isn’t ready to have a child, I think, but that can change thanks to character growth and the magic of fanfiction! He does have the potential of being kind and loving because, as a young boy, according to Joseph, he was. A lot has happened since then, but these qualities must still be there, somewhere, under the pain and anger.

I agree that he would most likely be very devoted and protective because… well, he already is. The Seed family, despite being dysfunctional, is also tight-knit, and they would literally die for each other. John wouldn’t let anyone hurt his child, and neither would his siblings.

Now, of course, we must also consider the brothers had an awful dad and that none of them grew up in a stable and loving environment. Because of this, I can see them being scared of having children, partly in fear of becoming like their father or, in John’s case, like his adoptive parents. That said, he didn’t spend as much time with “Old Man Seed” as Jacob (who I imagine would be the most reticent to become a father for this reason, but that’s just a feeling I have) and I highly doubt he would raise his child the way the Duncans raised him. John undeniably has problems, but in my opinion, he would never want to put his child(ren) through the horrors he experienced.

We haven’t seen him interact with children in the game but I don’t know if that really matters since this baby would be his child, not just a random kid. A lot of real-life parents don’t particularly enjoy the company of other people’s children but want to spend as much time as they can with theirs. Even if John had canonically said kids were a nuisance, I think he could still love his to death.

So if the pregnancy were planned, I don’t think he’d be upset at all; on the contrary. If it were not but they were not trying to avoid it either, I imagine he’d be surprised and anxious at first, but would welcome the news eventually. And as a dad, since John apparently gives himself fully to everything he does, he could be very, very invested, and maybe overprotective. His enthusiasm would likely have to be curbed, as always, but I’d say how and if that happens would depend on your OC’s personality and relationship with him.

This is my opinion and interpretation, which may be incorrect, but I don’t think you can go wrong in fanfiction anyway because it’s inherently transformative and personal. If your idea feels right to you, then it is!

In any case, if you’re stuck or don’t know how to justify something in a Far Cry 5 fanfic, you can always do what they did in the game and either say “it’s the Bliss” or “it was God’s will” :’) For John to go from an emotionally unstable and violent Herald to a great and loving dad, the second explanation can help! Joseph did say he could free himself from his past and that love would be the key to his salvation, after all.

[veifei]

ok started working on a short shiguang fic (lu guang pov!!) and wanted to share the first little bit (hopefully i end up fleshing out/finishing the full thing. if so i'll definitely be posting on ao3. if not then enjoy this little tidbit anyway!)

Lu Guang doesn't remember being scared of storms.

He does remember the fear he'd lose Cheng Xiaoshi the moment he met him though. A pang in his heart when Cheng Xiaoshi turned away, waving goodbye, his white shirt sticking to his back, sweaty, his smile satisfied as he glanced over his shoulder at Lu Guang.

"Let's play again tomorrow!"

He doesn't remember if he waved—Lu Guang doesn't often forget details—or if he stood there, stunned by the light receding into the distant horizon, almost golden. A boy walking away. A raised hand in response he wouldn't, didn't see. Maybe Lu Guang's splitting hairs over the details. But the details are all he has.

So he doesn't remember being scared of storms, and he surprises himself when the sound of thunder and flash of lightning freezes him in place, eyes snapping shut. Cheng Xiaoshi is saying something—they're in their room and Cheng Xiaoshi is only partially illuminated by the cool lamplight, the bed above obscuring parts of him in shadow—and Lu Guang grips onto the chilled metal of the ladder as if he's bracing himself.

"Uh—Lu Guang?"

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

Though The Path May Be Long, I Shall Find You; Ruggie Bucchi

A path lies ahead, some are more treacherous than others. At the end of the winding, coloured footsteps is where they can rest; a bird directing them forward, made out of precious stone.

Main Character; Ruggie Bucchi

Supporting Roles; Grandma Bucchi, Rho (Ruggie's bird)

Content; Soulmate AU (I use the term soul match), gender-neutral reader, this can be read as platonic, familial, or romantic, hurt/comfort, I get emotional yet again about Ruggie, stressed reader

Content Warning; Ruggie's backstory (his mom's death and I mention childbirth, but describe nothing), self-doubt (reader), allusions of depression (reader), anxiety attacks (reader)

Word Count; 5 K

Do not put mine - or other creators' - works into AI; that shit steals.

Prologue & Leona's Story | Jack's Story

Ruggie was out with the adults, tagging along to collect honey to bring back to the village. He followed silently behind his grandmother, holding her hand. Ahead of them two birds flew ahead, honeyguides, singing their song to alert the beastmen that there was a hive ahead. A hive full of sweet honey, a rare treat saved for the elderly and the young of the village.

“You see those birds, Ruggie,” his grandmother nodded up to where the birds flew. “Those are honeyguides. Your mother…” The woman paused, taking in a calming breath. It’s been nearly five years since her daughter, her only child, had passed away due to complications from childbirth. Unfortunately, it was common for many first-time hyena beastmen to pass while delivering… and such a fate fell upon her. She shook her head, continuing with her tale. “Your mother, her messenger was a honeyguide.”

Ruggie looked up to his grandmother. “Mama had one of those birds?” He tried whistling the tune of their leading song, but it just came out as raspberries.

His grandmother chuckled and ruffled his hair. “Yes, and oh the trouble those two got into. How do you think I got all this grey hair?” She tugged at a few strands to prove her point. She did their whistle, going slowly so that Ruggie could practice alongside her. “Like this.”

Ruggie eventually got the call down and whistled towards the other adults, and the two honeyguides. “Gramma?” He tugged at her shirt. She looked down and picked him up, putting him up on her shoulders. “Do you think my messenger will be a honeyguide… just like Mama’s?”

She smiled bittersweetly, picturing the rose quartz bird that stood still by the only pictures she had of her daughter. “Hmm, maybe. But that’s for the winds to decide. Regardless though, they’ll bring you great happiness.”

“Gramma?” Ruggie placed his head on top of hers. “What’s your messenger? Did Mama meet her soul match? Did you meet yours?”

The birds stopped, as they arrived at the hive. The adults tasked with smoking the bees out got to their jobs, passing down honey from the rock crevice and putting aside some of the comb for the birds. This harvest looked like it would be enough to feed both the elders and the children, plus some extra left over for the harvesters.

Ruggie’s grandmother hummed to herself. “I think that’s a story for a later time, no? Now come on, try some of this honey, it’s the sweetest I’ve ever had in all my years.”

She never got her messenger. Never had been gifted a soul match by the King of Beasts or the southern winds. And her daughter had met her match, but then he left after her death; her messenger going still after her passing. Leaving the ageing woman all alone, with only a few photos, her daughter’s lifeless messenger, and Ruggie. The person who looked the most like her.

…

The stars twinkled in the night sky, and Ruggie reached his hand out. “Hi, Mama,” he whispered. “I hope you’re doing okay up there in the stars… Tomorrow is my birthday ya know! I’m getting a messenger, just like you did!”

A gentle warm breeze caressed his face, and a shooting star raced against the deep indigo sky. Make a wish. Ruggie clamoured over the window, the breeze playing with his hair. He leaned against the frame, and closed his eyes. “Mama, if you’re up there listening… I wish that you could be my messenger. I know that I never got the chance to meet you, to get to know you, but I want to. I want to get to know you. And I know that you can’t be here, but … I love you, Mama.”

He cracked open his eyes and saw that the entire night sky was filled with shooting stars, a sign of a good omen. The warm breeze tickled his nose before going back out of the window. In the distance, he could hear a lone hyena calling out to its clan, but no one called back. He looked out into the sea of shooting stars and located the star he designated for his mom; an orange star, large, but not super noticeable. A warm amber amongst the darkness of the sky and pale blues of other stars.

He yawned and went back to his bed, clutching on to one of his mom’s old stuffies; a patched up warthog. “Good night, Mama, I love you.” He closed his eyes and was off to the land of dreams.

The light breeze was back, warm and carrying the scent of honey. It carried a small pink crystal bird with it, placing it gently at the foot of the bed, looking after Ruggie’s sleeping form. A honeyguide, much like his own late mother’s. It too being made out of pink crystal, but rhodochrosite, not rose quartz. A crystal meaning compassion, love, comfort, and happiness.

When Ruggie woke up he stared at the bird before cradling it gently to his heart. He walked to his grandmother’s door. “Look, gramma, it’s just like Mama’s!”

His grandmother hugged him, clutching on tightly to his back, tears rolling down her cheeks. Perhaps this life had been cruel to her, but she at least knew that her grandson, her only family, had someone out there. And that maybe, just maybe, her daughter was looking down from the stars smiling and looking out for her son.

…

…

…

Ruggie kept his messenger on him at all times. When he was wearing his dorm uniform, he kept the pink bird on a braided necklace that his grandmother made him for his fifth birthday, using some fabric from one of his mother’s old scarves. Whereas, when he was in the school uniform he kept it in his breast pocket, above his heart. And he would subconsciously check throughout the day to make sure that it was still there, a habit of his. 

It’s been four years, and yet the bird has yet to come to life. But Ruggie didn’t feel bitter, or sad. He knew that life wasn’t fair, he has witnessed that much. He has lived it, experienced that it wasn’t fair. Knew that it was something you could only make the best of. He also knew that he shouldn’t complain. He was thankful that he had at least something to match his mother. A symbol that she was always looking after him. So, even if the messenger never came to life, he could at least have an aspect of his mother. Thankful that there was at least a chance of him having a soul match out there, somewhere.

He hadn’t told his grandmother, as he didn’t want to bring a sense of sadness; had she not gone through enough? The last thing that he wanted to do was to bring more pain to the ageing woman’s heart. He just wanted her to be happy. She had done so much for him, sacrificed so much; the least he could do was give her some hope. That he could bring their family out of poverty. That he could get a well-paying job. That he could find happiness. That she needs not to worry about him. That he would be okay. That they would be okay.

Besides, the new school year was beginning and he was positive that would mean that Leona would give him odd jobs to do. But hey, money is money, and he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when said gift horse paid him graciously. 

So, Ruggie was busying himself by rearranging his room, placing the few personal belongings that he had in their spots. The photo of him and his grandmother, and next to it, the warthog plush that belonged to his mom. Everything else was hand-me-downs from Leona, or related to schoolwork. The only other personal things he had was the braided necklace, and of course, his messenger. He whistled the honeyguide call to himself, making sure everything was in place. Leona was off at the ceremony, so he basically had the day free to himself. He could probably go off and work some odd errands, but just for today, he would relax.

He closed his eyes and rubbed the wings of the stone bird. “I know you’re out there. I want to find you,” he sighed, holding the bird to his chest. “Let me find you.” He tried to fight off the drowsiness that was taking hold — it wasn’t even nighttime yet — but it won in the end, and he fell asleep.

As the sun set, and the waning moon rose, a warm breeze carried the scent of hibiscus flowers and honey, ruffling his hair. The stone bird tumbled out of Ruggie’s hand, falling gently onto the blankets. The breeze caressed it, and the stone honeyguide ruffled its feathers for the first time. It hopped upright and nestled in the sleeping hyena-beastman’s hair, singing its guiding call softly.

…

Ruggie stretched awake, the room still dark as the sun had not yet woken up for the day. The waning moon, and stars provided the only light, casting the room in blue and silver light. He walked over to the window and looked out, searching for his mom’s star. “Hi mom,” he said to the warm amber star up in the sky. A warm breeze tickled his ears, and he imagined it was her playing with them. “Can you show me a sign?” About my soul match?

Something shifted under the bedsheets, and Ruggie’s ears twitched at the noise. He crept over to the bed, and lifted up the sheet carefully, unsure of what it could be. Underneath the blanket was the stone honeyguide, twitching in its sleep.

His eyes widened, and he carefully scooped up the little bird, cradling it in his hands. After all of these years. After all of the hardships that he has endured. All of the uncertainty. His soul match was here. He took in a sharp breath, trying to control the well of emotions that had sprung forth; that his soul match was alive, and that maybe his mother, and not the King of Beasts, had sent him a sign. That he wouldn’t be alone in this life. But a lone tear traced down the planes of his face, dropping onto the bird.

This is your sign, take it, my love.

…

…

…

You didn’t know what to make of any of this. Being transported into some dimension and waking up in a coffin of all things. That you now live in a decrepit mansion with some cat-monster and ghosts. That magic existed and you had several life-endangering encounters with said magic. And that you now have a small bird made out of pink crystal, and that it was alive. That it could talk.

“You know,” the bird hopped onto your head, “I can’t explain more than you need to be privy to.” Their voice played in your mind, and you tried to ignore them, instead focusing on the tall stack of books about dimensions; trying to find a way home.

You waved a hand around, forcing the bird to take flight, landing on your desk. “I am well aware of that, since you dodge every single one of my questions,” you huff, flipping over the page since it had nothing relevant about your situation. It only said that giraffes were originally demons hailing from the Boiling Isles, wherever that was. This dimension had evil giraffes, but apparently your dimension without magic was far more ludicrous than that. Predictable. “So if you aren’t going to be helpful, just leave me alone. I don’t need your ‘help’.”

The bird gave you a bombastic glare, huffing to itself it went to a small dark brown leather bound journal with the gold insignia of a lion and a hornbill, placing it in front of you. “No need to get snippy with me. Here, read this, it should explain everything you need to know. I can’t do anything else pertaining to your questions now though, know that.” With that, the bird took off through the window, off to who knows where. 

You sighed, but focused on the journal they put in front of you and cracked open the centuries old leather.

Of all the magic there is in Twisted Wonderland, the most coveted, the most revered, is the magic of soul matches. These matches come in many different forms, different for every person. Platonic. Familial. Romantic. Those are the most common. For the merfolk it is a song that only they can hear, their match tugging at their soul. Gifted to them by the benevolence of the Sea Witch. For fae it is yet to be revealed, as they are a secretive lot. Fearing that should anyone outside of their clan know that that information would be used against them. All that is known by outsiders is that they were gifted from the Thorn Fairy, a blessing. As for beastmen, and anyone hailing from the Sunset Savanaclaw, they were gifted bird messengers made from precious stone. It is said the crystal represents what their match will bring to them. And once they feel that they are ready, a glowing path of footsteps will lead them to their match. The birds will dance, and then they will know that they have found each other.

You placed the journal back down, brows creasing. You weren’t from the Sunset Savannah, let alone this dimension in the first place. How on Earth do you have a messenger? Why do you have a messenger? And what did it mean? I’m not ready for this… I don’t think I’ll ever be.

…

…

Ruggie had formed a friendship with his bird, and he even gave her a name; Rho. She doted over him, and her voice was what he imagined his mother’s was like; confident, caring, and warm. And even though he had a friendship with her, he has yet to see the glowing footsteps. He was more than ready to meet them, so it must mean that his soul match, whoever they were, wasn’t. 

“It’s unlike you to dwell on possibilities,” Rho said, landing on his shoulder, returning from one of her daily flights. “Uncertainty clouds your mind, much as the smoke from a brush fire does. Clogging out any possible light from the bright sun that lies beyond the thick smoke.” Rho also happened to be quite poetic and… concerning? But she was sweet, so he ignored the cryptic verses.

Ruggie shook his head, trying to centre his mind. “Hmm? Just thinking is all. Ya don’t need to worry about me, Rho. Shishishi!” But she was right, as his mind tended to go down the more pessimistic path.

What if his soul match was never ready? What if they didn’t want to find him? What if they would reject him after finding out about the cards he was dealt in life? Would they stay by his side as he pulled himself, his family, and his community out of poverty? Would they… would they be like his ‘dad’ and ditch him in hopes of better prospects elsewhere, never to come back? To leave him behind? Leaving him alone to take care of everything, with no one to turn to for support?

Rho sighed, and hopped onto his head, ruffling his hair. “See, uncertainty. A tree cannot grow if it does not receive sunlight. And you cannot grow if you doubt yourself.”

He rolled his eyes, but she was right, as per usual. “Yeah yeah, I know,” he sounded relaxed but he took the words to heart. It’s something his grandma would also tell him, albeit she would get straight to the point. Something like, Quit doubting yourself. You are more than capable. Plus I love ya, and that’s what matters!

But Rho looked unconvinced. “If you want, I can go… persuade their bird to encourage them to meet you.”

“Thought that was against the rules though?” Messengers aren’t allowed to disclose any information that could change their match’s mind on whether they wanted to meet or not. He had no idea why, but it was seen as a big no-no. “Didn’t take you as the rule breaking type.”

Rho flitted down to the windowsill, looking out into the Savanaclaw Dorm exterior. “As long as I don’t let anything slip, it is fine. A gentle nudge if you will. And technically, I am breaking no rules. Just paying a visit to my counterpart to discuss their progress. That is all.”

Ruggie raised a brow, chuckling to himself. “Shishishi, you’re a horrible liar,” he poked her on the nose. “Just don’t get caught, okay?”

Rho nipped at him and took off into flight. “Need not to worry.” She didn’t add her own thought, which was I’m unsure if they will be able to see me or not. It’s been several weeks since they arrived and I’ve seen no sign of them.

…

The bird has persisted to follow you everywhere you went; to all your classes, and you had to kick it out of the washroom on several occasions as well. Everywhere. And they. Would. Not. Shut. Up.

“Hey! Hey! You really need to find them!” They pulled at your uniform, trying to get your attention. “Hellooooo! Are you even listening to me?”

Unfortunately, yes. All you wanted to do was get back home. Yes, you have made friends here. You had fun. But you didn’t belong here, or least, you felt like you didn’t belong. The magicless Prefect from another, magicless, dimension. The closest thing you could even call family here would be Grim, and the three main ghosts who are still tethered to the Ramshackle Dorm. Stuck here without any clear way out, much like you are.

You glared at the bird, looking away from the nth book about different dimensions, still finding dillidy squat. “Yes,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “I heard you the first time. But until I find answers, they can wait. They’ve waited this long, I can survive without them.”

The bird plopped itself onto the book, effectively preventing you from reading any further. “Exactly. They’ve waited for this long. They thought that there was no one out there for them. I know that you’re tired; tired of not getting answers. Tired of being treated as less than due to your situation. Tired of not knowing. But know this; there is someone who wants nothing more than to meet you. They don’t care that you don’t have magic. They don’t care that you’re from a different place. They just want to know you.”

That made you pause in your research, hands trembling. They were right. You are exhausted from everything. 

“Now now,” a second voice played in your head, the voice of a woman. But when you looked up you saw another crystal bird, the only thing differing it from yours was that it had more red and white bands. “No need to be nasty. Dear, come now. What is weighing so heavily on your mind?”

Unlike your bird, this newcomer was gentle, and didn’t prod you. They hopped forward, wiping a tear from your face. Since when had you started crying? But the few pebbles that were trying to hold together the dam came surging forward, and the new bird comforted you, wiping your tears away.

“Dear, you’ll be okay,” they said, handing you a tissue. “You don’t always have to be strong. There is no weakness in admitting that you need help. That not everything is okay. There is strength in that.”

The flood of emotions, of stress, of anxiety, of being overworked, of being everyone’s therapist calmed down from a raging torrent to a gentle trickle. Taking the tissue you blew your nose. “I don’t feel okay… I’m so,” you took in a choked breath, “tired.” It felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, admitting to the truth. “I’m just so tired. I should be angry, but I’m just so tired.”

The bird put a wing on your face, holding it with care, with love. They had only just met you but have shown so much more kindness and empathy than anyone else during your stay. “Life has not been kind to you,” they said, rubbing grounding circles onto your palms, guiding your breathing. “You deserve to feel wanted. Deserve compassion. To be comforted when the dark clouds seem like they engulf all light. You deserve to be happy.”

“Why are you telling me all this,” you croaked, voice cracking. “I’ve ignored them-”

The pink bird shook their head, “No, you’ve been surviving, and adapting. But if you wish, if you are ready, you can find him.” They hopped back up to the open window, looking at you warmly. A soft breeze played with the ragged curtains, carrying the scent of honey, but also the smell of home. “Will you be alright?”

You rubbed at your nose, still feeling shaky but better. Not feeling like a water balloon about to burst. “I will be.”

The bird nodded, “Should you need anything do call. Your match calls me Rho.” They took flight, heading back to your match. And you could make out the faintest hints of glowing dandelion-yellow footsteps fading into the distance.

…

…

Ruggie had not had much free time for himself, being busy with schoolwork, lessons from Leona, and his normal workload alongside odd jobs to make some extra cash to send home. But even with the hustle and bustle, he had noticed the footsteps. They were faint, sometimes wavering, but they were there. It means that they’re open to meeting him, but not quite sure. Still some doubt in their mind.

“What did you tell them?” He looked up from the dishes he was scrubbing, filling in a shift at the Mostro Lounge.

Rho popped out from his breast pocket, climbing up to his shoulder. “That they aren’t alone. That they will be okay.”

Ruggie felt like there was something heavy in his throat. They feel alone? They aren’t okay? “Rho,” his grip on the plate that he was scrubbing tightened, and he forced himself to release it before he caused cracks. “What did you do? Where are they?”

“Ruggie, they will be okay. I told them words that they needed to hear. Affirming words.” Rho’s voice took on a more stern tone, which made Ruggie back off, but he still worried. “What did we say about dwelling on things outside of our control?”

Ruggie took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and released, calming his mind. “That it’s like the smoke of a brush fire. That beyond the dark smoke, there is sky beyond it, and fresh air… this too will pass.”

Rho let out a guiding call, “Good-”

Ruggie quickly grabbed her and put Rho in his pocket, hearing the door from the kitchen open. He didn’t want someone to walk in and find him ‘talking to air’ and think he was slacking off. “How is everything goin’ on out there?” He got back to scrubbing dishes, covering up that he was previously not.

“Quiet,” you huffed, putting on an apron and coming to stand next to him. “Azul has been trying to butter me up into making a contract with him… again.” You shook your head, rolling your eyes, “But I reminded him of what happened last time and he left well enough alone.”

Ruggie relaxed, it was just you. “Heyya, Prefect. Long time no see? Decided you were too good for Savanaclaw, huh?” He teased, bumping his shoulder to yours.

You bumped him back. Ever since you had to crash at Savanaclaw, you had formed a friendship with the hyena-beastman. He didn’t hide behind a mask, he was authentic, and that put you at ease. “Pshh,” you swatted at him with a towel, “like you could really get rid of me that easily, gotta come over and bug Leona every now and then. Keep him humble.”

“Pftt,” Ruggie burst out laughing. “Yeah, ‘keep him humble’. Just as long as ya don’t mess with him too much, yeah? Remember, I usually do his work.” There was no bite, and he swatted you back. “These dishes won’t clean themselves, come one, before Azul finds us slackin’ off.”

You quirked a brow but got to work, you would rather do the dishes and make light conversation, or just enjoy the quiet, with Ruggie, than deal with rude customers or being roped into something. So you and Ruggie worked in relative silence, working on getting the large pile of dishes done. The only thing breaking the silence being the distinct whistle Ruggie did quietly.

“Just curious, but what kind of whistle is that?” You put down the large pan you were rinsing off, down to dry, turning to Ruggie.

Ruggie stopped, his left ear twitching. “Ah, it’s just something I picked up when I was younger.” But he could see the curiosity in your eyes, and he decided to humour you. “It’s a honeyguide call, a type of bird. We used to work with them back at home to collect honey.”

Why does it sound so familiar then? Where have I heard it before? “Could you show me how to do it?”

As Ruggie taught you how to make the call, the two of you failed to notice Rho slip out of his pocket, flying up to where your bird rested. “We should just tell them! Look! The footprints are right there! Are they that dense?!” They huffed.

Rho shook her head, “They will do so on their accord. For now, let them be. They’re happy.”

…

…

The footsteps were glowing brightly now, a bright, warm, dandelion yellow. Cheerful, playful, and happy. But you hadn’t followed them yet, doubt still on your mind. Why did someone else get to pick my soul match? Shouldn’t I have a say in this? But every time those doubts came forward, the other pink bird, Rho she said her name was, would come for a visit.

“Good day, Prefect. How are you faring today?” She hopped over to your desk where you had a book about this world open, reading about beastmen and Sunset Savannah cultural practices.

You placed a bookmark on the page you were on, which discussed the caste system. “Doing better. But, Rho?” You held out a finger, and she hopped on. “I’m curious; what kind of bird are you?”

Rho cocked her head, “Ah, I thought you knew. My dear, I am a honeyguide.” She let out a call.

“A honeyguide…” You froze in your seat. It’s a honeyguide call. You knew you had heard that call before, your own messenger waking you up every morning with it. Did that mean… was Ruggie your soul match? The honeyguide. The feeling that everything would work out for the better when you were around Ruggie. He just felt… correct to you. Like home.

You rushed towards the front door, Rho and your own honeyguide clutching onto your uniform for dear life. “AFTER ALL THESE MONTHS YOU CHANGE YOUR HEART?!” Your honeyguide shrieked, falling off.

“Hush you!” Rho scolded, sending off your messenger to find Ruggie. “I take it you connected the dots then? You don’t need to rush, dear.” She said.

You didn’t slow down though, if anything you sped up. “My match is Ruggie, isn’t he?” It was stated like a question, but you knew that it was a statement. “I’ve kept him waiting! Kept him out!” You knew a bit about what Ruggie’s life was like before attending Night Raven College. That fate had seemed to mock him… and you also mocked him unknowingly.

Rho pulled on your ear, pulling you out of your spiral. “You weren’t ready, you cannot and should not blame yourself! You were making the best out of your situation!” This was the first time that Rho had sounded upset.

You stopped your frantic pace, halting in the middle of the hallway. Students passed by, some giving you weird looks, but they continued on their way. But someone stopped, and stepped aside, watching.

“I hurt him!” You shouted, but no one but you, and your match could hear when you spoke to your birds. “Hasn’t he been hurt enough?”

The footsteps were blinding now, he couldn’t be far away.

“Doesn’t he deserve to be happy? Don’t I deserve to be happy?! Why should some long ago king dictate how we should be happy?! We didn’t ask for this! Any of this!” You were heaving, the dam of emotions breaking again, tears rushing down your face in full force. “Rho,” you whispered, “I just want a place to call home. It doesn’t need to be the one I knew. It doesn’t need to be fancy, or elaborate. It doesn’t even need to be a place. He feels like home, where I can rest.”

But Rho wasn’t there anymore, your bird was now on your shoulder, trying to move you forward. “Well, you can’t do that if you just stay there! MOVE!”

You looked up and the footsteps were gone, in front of you was Ruggie with Rho on his shoulder. You hiccupped, be it from crying, the emotions, or the shock that he was right there, within reach. “Did you hear all of that?”

Ruggie nodded, “Yeah, yeah I did.”

Rho and your messenger took flight, performing the soul match dance before Rho landed on your shoulder, and your bird landed on Ruggie’s. And they sang the honeyguide call, indicating that there was something sweet ahead.

“Come on,” he took you to an empty classroom, away from prying eyes. “Here, breathe with me. In; one, two, three.” You breathed in as he instructed. “Hold; one, two, three.” You held. “And out; one, two, three.” And you breathed out. “Better?” He caressed the knuckles of your hand gently.

You nodded. “Ruggie, I’m sor-”

He stopped you, smiling. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. What matters most is that we found each other… That we chose each other.”

Fin

Author's Note; I literally cried writing this (I was emotional at the time). Ruggie's story has been in my brain since I put his name on the list for this AU. It has haunted me for weeks. Have had the honeyguide song stuck in my head for years ever since I first heard it on Wild Kratts of all things. My favourite one I've written as of yet; up there with Jade's.

Tag; @leonistic

Link to Masterlist

[girlwiththegreenhat]

cut script bits + extended scene/acting notes from season 3's junkyard dog. because i want to make you guys cry <3 the scenes that made the final cut are already painful enough, but reading the actual notes of what vibes a scene is supposed to convey or what an actor's performance is supposed to be based around make it hit so much harder.

+ kitt upset that his mom seemingly left, and there's something about the specific description that michael closes the door softly that fucking floors me