#the eyes of a shellshocked soldier

[rocaydran]

obsessed with pictures of luke black with other esc 2023 people because theyre always having fun meanwhile he is harboring a deep dark secret

[buggreawlthys]

So desolate were those places and so deep the horror that lay on them that some of the host were unmanned, and they could neither walk nor ride further north. Aragorn looked at them, and there was pity in his eyes rather than wrath...

- thinking about how in his wwi service tolkien probably heard of or personally witnessed shellshocked soldiers being court martialled & even executed for desertion when their trauma disabled them. in his stories he gives them the mercy they were denied in life.

[starsreminisce]

SJM has a specific way of describing females when they meet their mate, often illustrated through the females staring at their mates unabashedly. This was particularly pronounced in the way she differentiated how Elain was when she first met Lucien and Azriel, and how Gwyn was the first time she met Azriel compared to the second time after her shellshock.

In regards to Elain, SJM made sure to show her fear towards the Illyrians, but with Lucien, she only cringed away once before allowing him to hold her while Nesta was under the cauldron and then staring at him when she was taken away from him.

In ACOMAF, Feyre's experience and Rhys's recounting of their initial meeting highlight this dynamic as well. Rhys described an underlying sense of fear and apprehension, yet there was an undeniable connection. This pattern suggests that SJM intentionally creates an initial sense of tension and unspoken attraction between mates.

Gwyn's encounters with Azriel, especially the second time after her shellshock, also emphasize this distinct dynamic. By having the females stare at their mates unabashedly, SJM underscores the unique connections and the deep, instinctual draw mates feel towards each other, showcasing this inexplicit yet powerful bond.

Feyre with Rhys

I stepped out of the shelter of my savior’s arm and turned to thank him. Standing before me was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Everything about the stranger radiated sensual grace and ease. High Fae, no doubt. His short black hair gleamed like a raven’s feathers, offsetting his pale skin and blue eyes so deep they were violet, even in the firelight. They twinkled with amusement as he beheld me. For a moment, we said nothing. Thank you didn’t seem to cover what he’d done for me, but something about the way he stood with absolute stillness, the night seeming to press in closer around him, made me hesitate to speak—made me want to run in the other direction.

Nesta with Cassian

Then, Mother above, Nesta shifted her attention to Cassian, noticing that gleam—what it meant. She snarled softly, “What are you looking at?” Cassian’s brows rose—little amusement to be found now. “Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while she did nothing. Someone who let a fourteen-year old child go out into that forest, so close to the wall.” My face began heating, and I opened my mouth. To say what, I didn’t know. “Your sister died—died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don’t expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make—and insult my people in the process.” Nesta didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied the handsome features, the muscled torso. Then turned to me. Dismissing him entirely.

Gwyn with Azriel at Sangravah

“The first had just unbuckled his belt when Azriel arrived.” Silent, unending tears streamed down Gwyn’s face. “Azriel slaughtered all of them within moments. He didn’t hesitate. But I could barely move, and when I tried to get up … He gave me his cloak and wrapped me in it. Morrigan arrived a few minutes later, and then Rhysand appeared, and it became clear some of the soldiers had gotten away with the piece of the Cauldron, so Azriel headed after them. Mor healed me as best she could, then brought me to the library. I couldn’t … I couldn’t bear to be at the temple, with the others. To see Catrin’s grave and know I failed her, to see that kitchen every day for the rest of my life.

Gwyn with Azriel two years later

Gwyn had been distracted today—one eye on the other side of the ring. Cassian could only assume she was watching his brother, who had given Gwyn a small smile of greeting upon arrival. Gwyn hadn’t returned it. Cassian cursed himself for a fool. He should have asked her if she’d be comfortable with Azriel here. Perhaps he should have asked all the priestesses about including another male, but especially Gwyn—whom Azriel had found that day in Sangravah. She’d said nothing about it during the lesson. Only glanced every now and then toward Az, who remained dutifully focused on his charges. Cassian couldn’t read the expression on her face.

Elain with Lucien

There was a flare of light, and a scrape, and then Lucien was stalking toward Elain, freed of his restraints. Tamlin remained leashed on the ground, a gag of white, iridescent magic in his mouth now. But his eyes were on Lucien as— As Lucien took off his jacket, kneeling before Elain. She cringed away from the coat, from him—Cassian again stirred—trying to rise, to answer Nesta’s voice as she held my sister and cried her name again and again. .... Water poured forth, Lucien hoisting Elain in his arms and out of the way. The bonds on Tamlin vanished, along with the gag. He was instantly on his feet, snarling at the king. Even the fist on my mind lightened to a mere caress. As if he knew he’d won. ... Nesta slammed into Lucien, grabbing Elain from his arms, and screamed at him as he fell back, “Get off her!” Elain’s feet slipped against the floor, but Nesta gripped her upright, running her hands over Elain’s face, her shoulders, her hair— “Elain, Elain, Elain,” she sobbed. But Elain was staring over Nesta’s shoulder. At Lucien—whose face she had finally taken in. Dark brown eyes met one eye of russet and one of metal. Nesta was still weeping, still raging, still inspecting Elain— Lucien’s hands slackened at his sides. His voice broke as he whispered to Elain, “You’re my mate.”

Elain with Azriel

Nesta was waiting at the head of the table, a queen ready to hold court. Elain trembled in the upholstered, carved wood chair to her left. I did them all a favor and took the one to Nesta’s right. Cassian claimed the spot beside Elain, who clenched her fork as if she might wield it against him, and Rhys slid into the seat beside me, Azriel on his other side. A faint smile bloomed upon Azriel’s mouth as he noticed Elain’s fingers whiteknuckled on that fork, but he kept silent, focusing instead, as Cassian was subtly trying to do, on adjusting his wings around a human chair.

[cosmic-ghost-hermit]

Hiii, I'm back to do regular pick-a-pile readings! However if you interested in booking a private reading please join my discord server! In todays reading I am working with Apollo to send the collective this message. Take what resonates and leave behind anything that doesn't. Thank you all 🩵 -ghost

PILE ONE

Crystal: Yellow Aventurine

Astrology: Leo, Sagittarius, Scorpio, Gemini

🧡💛🌻🍯🥮🥧🏺🔑🌟💫☀️🦂💰👘🧶🎃🤬🚼☣️📙🏮🏵️🥉🏑🍺🍹🍊🍋

Hello, pile one! I see you have been looking for your intuition. You have been searching high and low. Purchasing all manner of metaphysical assistance. You seem to think you aren’t powerful. You believe you are simple and small. My friend you are very mistaken. Your third eye is open and active. There are two thing about intuition that I had to learn that I will now teach you. The first thing is that you must trust yourself. Activating your intuition is only one step in the journey. The second thing is that you must be grounded to be able to use your intuition. This lesson I’m still learning. You must establish yourself to yourself to make any progress. I see you crave progress over everything else. Focus on who you are and focus on trusting the person you are. You have done good work so far. The journey is just a little different than what you expected. You can’t escape yourself in spirituality. Forgetting who you are is much more counter intuitive than you might believe.

PILE TWO

Crystal: Tigers Eye

Astrology: Pisces, Cancer, Taurus, Libra

💚🫛🥒🍀🐉🪲👒🪖🔫♻️🥗🥬🍃🦚🐍🐢🪀🧩⛰️🔋🪛✅📗🏡🚛🏄🏿‍♂️

Hi there, pile two! You have been looking for a battle to wage. You have had to fight a lot in your life. You have probably been fighting since you were a child. You fought so hard back then. You are blinded by the war you fought, my friend. You have aleady won your war. The enemy is defeated and yet you still look for the next flying fist to dodge. You cannot fight anymore. There is no one to battle. There is a new goal you must strive for. You have been such a strong soldier for a long time. Now that it is done you must rest. You must heal. You must clean your wounds and take the medicine required to get better. You have suffered enough. After war, when soldiers come home, it is understandable that they might not know how to come down from shellshock. They might have gotten physical or mental wounds that are in need of proper care and attention. It is time to learn to cope and learn how to fill you cup. I must reiterate, you fight is over. Your war is finished. You are safe. You have been grasping for safety while clinging to your violence. They cannot exist in tandum. Please sleep, my dear soldier. Please. Once you decide the war is over in your mind you will be able to finally relax. You will find things you enjoy. You will share peaceful moments with yourself again.

PILE THREE

Crystal: Black Tourmaline

Astrology: Aries, Capricorn, Virgo, Aquarius

❤️‍🩹🩶🏓🍉🦴🍚🍓🌹🐚🐁🐓🎒🧣⛑️💃🏼💋💯🗞️🔍💌📮🧲🪓⏰🚢🥁🎸⚾️🥡🥢🎂

Hi, pile three! Welcome to your reading. You have been carrying the weight of the world in your arms and I know you hate to admit it but you are tired. You are only one person. I understand you have needed to be independent. I understand you have been searching for help but my dear you have been refusing it at every opportunity. Your friends are here for you and you won’t open up. They are knocking at your door. They are asking to see you and love you. You seem to believe accepting their help makes you weak. Darling, that is not the case. You are human. You are not a machine and honestly even if you were machines need maintenance. Machines can’t always self-maintenance. You need help and you want it. Please accept it the next time it comes around. I see you might have some religious trauma or some kind of self-sacrificing wound. You are not a tool. You are not livestock. You are not alone. Humans are evolutionarily not solitary creatures. They need companionship. Humans are pack animals which means they need other humans. Every instance when a human is left completely alone usually the human goes insane. Talk about your hardships with your friends. Release some of what you are carrying on your shoulders. Let go of the mindset that you must sacrifice your mind or your body to be considered a good or successful human. You are already a good human without over-exerting yourself.

[heyidkyay]

And I'm petrified of being alone, now |

Part Thirteen

Matty Healy x reader

Summary: She’s just trying to get by, really. What with being a single parent to her four year old son whilst simultaneously trying to kick start a successful career as a radio presenter. She’s got everything she’s ever wanted though, friends close by, a mum who’s merely a phone call away, and of course her baby boy. What else is there to wish for? But then, it’s not long before her relatively normal life gets upended and turned on its head, and she’s suddenly forced to deal with situations she’s never even thought to imagine.

What happens when one mention of a certain controversial singer on her show sends a flood of unexpected challenges her way? 

Authors Note: I'm sorry it took so long!! I really struggled to write this part ngl, but once it came I just went with it:) lots of emotions this time around, AS WELL AS some healthy pining in store! So we're finally getting somewhere, finally. Anyway, thanks to @procrastinatinglikeapro for the idea surrounding Mouse's gift to Matty- was struggling with that whole concept but we're going w it now! Hopefully you enjoy, thanks for all the love on this series too, means a whole lot xx

> Just a reminder! We left the last update with a surprise knock at the door:) You can look back here if you'd like, or just read the last little snippet below!

Masterlist

Watching them was all too lovely as well. For someone with such a cool front, Matty seemed to melt around Teddy, succumbing to that of the boy’s charm and easy going nature. It was sweet to see, surprising, but endlessly sweet. Had me losing track of time, in truth. Which is why I jumped and cursed the way I did when the door finally knocked. 

“Mémé!”

...

“Mimi?” Matty murmured to himself as he followed the instruction Mouse had left him with, clearing away the wrapping paper Teddy had so carelessly tossed about the room earlier in his excitement and settling the little guitar up onto the sofa.

His eyes lingered on the wooden instrument for a short second, recalling the moment when he’d first spotted it. He hadn’t thought much about what he’d been doing when he’d walked on by the shop window only to then find himself stumbling inside, spending God knows what on a little boy he’d only really met just the once. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it though, even with how nervous he’d been for Teddy’s reaction.

Speaking of Teddy though, the little boy had practically charged the front door the second it had rang a few minutes ago, jumping up and down and tugging at the handle in his obvious excitement, whilst the woman sitting opposite them had frozen completely in her seat, like a soldier experiencing shellshock.

Matty thought they’d been having a good time overall, a brilliant time even! But then the doorbell had sounded and all of her smiles and her carefree laughter had been drenched in water, washed away as soon as she had stood up to answer the knock.

“Mé. Mé.” Came a drawn out voice behind him then, obviously having heard Matty’s shoddy attempt at it and deciding to sound the word out for him.

Matty spun around on his heel to catch sight of the toddler hanging off of the living room door. The kid was like their very own little monkey, always swinging off of something. Matty raised a brow at the correction he’d been given. “Me-me?” He tried again, beyond perplexed and wondering what the fuck everyone was going on about.

Teddy giggled happily at him and then shook his head, curls flying with it, Matty briefly questioned where Squeaks had gotten to.

“Mémé.” The boy sounded it out for him again and this time Matty caught the different accent that had filtered in, it was so prominent when the boy spoke that one word.

Matty’s forehead creased. “Mémé?” At Teddy’s buoyant nod, he grinned at having finally grasped it, “And just who might that be, mate?”

Teddy glanced over his shoulder before he pushed off of the door, letting it swing slightly as he hurried his little feet over to where Matty was currently standing, bin bag in hand. The latter dropped it though to take a seat on the settee, hoisting the little man up onto his knee.

One thing Matty had quickly learned in his short time of knowing the kid, was that Teddy was clingy. Not that that was a bad thing, Matty knew he could be just as bad some days. If not worse. But having someone seek that sort of comfort from him, out of all people, in such an intimate way made him feel necessary, as though he served a real purpose.

“Go on, let me in on the secret then.” Matty prodded, jerking his chin out ever so slightly to nudge Teddy's shoulder. He relished in the soft giggles it earned him.

“Mémé’s my Mémé!”

“Oh! Well, that makes so much sense, don’t it?” Matty remarked in return, rolling his eyes fondly at the unhelpful reply before he tickled the boy’s sides, “Don’t it?”

“Stop, Matty! I tolds you, I tolds you!” Teddy squealed, laughing so hard that he nearly slipped right on out from under Matty’s hold, but the singer propped him back up all too easily.

“You didn’t.” Matty grinned, having relented on his attack of the toddler, settling Teddy more comfortably into his side. He enjoyed having someone smile back at him with no other intention than just the simplicity of enjoying his presence, with kids there was never any ulterior motives. “Where’s your mum anyway, huh?”

“Right here.”

Matty’s head shot up to find Mouse now standing in the doorway wearing a strained sort of smile, a single suitcase behind her and then, “Oh.”

“Mémé!” Teddy pointed, dragging his eyes back up to meet Matty’s weary and startled face as he bounced excitedly.

Of course ‘Mémé’ would've had to have been Squeaks’s mum, because who else could it have possibly been? Who else would have such impeccable timing?

He was fucked. And Matty knew it.

Mouse must've seen the realisation that hit him too, because she used the moment to try and disguise the utter horror dawning on Matty’s face by clapping her hands and promptly glancing back at her mum from over her shoulder. “Mam! This is Matty. Matty,” She turned back to him, thankful to find that he’d sort of wised up to the situation they’d been shafted with and shut his gaping gob, “Matty this is my mum, Anaïs.”

Matty tried extremely hard to commit the pronunciation to memory, which proved to be a little bit easier when the toddler hanging off his hip started parroting it over and over again.

“Eh, excusez-moi! It is Mémé to you, mon chéri.” The woman answered Teddy with a soft sort of smile as Squeaks stepped aside to let her mother further in, aged eyes honed in on her giggling grandson.

Matty took the moment to admire the older woman, focusing on all the things her daughter had obviously inherited, the way she held herself, and the strength of her gaze when it finally landed on him. He swallowed thickly. 

“And you are Matty?” Matty nodded at her, not really feeling the way Teddy was now tugging on his fingers whilst the woman stepped even closer, gracing her daughter with a quick look that Matty couldn’t quite make out. “Ah.” She breathed before she finally smiled at him, a small thing, so different to the one he’d previously seen when she’d been teasing Teddy. “Ana is fine really, it seems you people always have a difficult time with it.”

There was humour there but Matty didn’t want to brush her name aside just for the sake of struggling, he’d get there in the end, he was sure of it. Just like how he’d gotten through a setlist full of songs edited by George, replacing most words with- well, probably best not to think of those two very separate things in the same context.

Matty struggled to control his sudden urge to grimace.

“Anaïs?” He stumbled slightly but then tried again with an apologetic smile and dipped brows, “Anaïs.”

“Mémé!” Teddy cut in with a uninformative correction, reaching upwards to poke at Matty’s slightly stubbled cheek. He was in need of a quick shave but seeing as he’d be heading up north for the holidays he’d foregone it, knowing his mum preferred him clean shaven. ‘Makes you look so much healthier, Matthew!’

The man glanced down, a thoughtless chuckle skipping out of his mouth like a rock over a lake as he shook his head closer to the boy’s own, letting his curls tickle Teddy’s tiny face. “Matty!” He laughed again, squirming before he too was shaking his hair in retaliation. 

Matty couldn’t quite help his beaming smile when he looked back up at the woman, who seemed very content with just watching the pair of them. His eyes trailed over her shoulder briefly to spot the way that Squeaks was currently chewing on her lower lip, silently fretting.

“Sorry, I’ll get it soon enough.” He told Anaïs with as much genuinity as he could muster up, oddly wanting to keep the woman on side. “It is lovely to meet you though, Anaïs.” She smiled in turn at the use of her name, even with Matty’s slight wince, and then dipped her chin at him. “I didn’t realise I’d be stepping on any toes dropping by.”

“Non, you are fine.” She assured him with a slight shake of her head, waving his apology right off, “My flight was delayed. I was worried I’d be keeping them waiting, so you did me a favour.”

Matty physically felt his shoulders sag with sudden relief at the woman’s words, glad to note that he hadn’t fucked much up by stopping in without a warning. Although, he tapped Teddy’s leg softly then to get him moving, “Don’t you wanna go say hello then, monster? I’d best be off now.”

Teddy’s eyes widened at that last bit and Matty was sure he’d never seen anyone move so fast. “No!” The boy exclaimed, wrapping his chubby little arms around Matty’s neck and holding fast.

Matty’s eyes widened just as he adjusted his grip better around the kid, beyond perplexed by the sudden change. “God, little man! Tryna take me out here?” He chuckled as best he could, voice a tad bit strained by the surprisingly strong hold Teddy had on his neck.

“Teds!” Matty heard Squeaks gasp out quickly, before she was already rounding her mother in a hasty beeline to help. “You can’t just-”

She huffed when Teddy only tightened his grip and Matty couldn’t help the other chuckle that slipped out.

“Teddy.”

“It’s fine, honest.” Matty assured her, a hand splayed on the toddler’s back whilst he stared over at Mouse’s oddly harassed expression. “Teddy, mate. I’ve got to head out now, but I reckon I can promise you a visit soon though. If your mum doesn't mind much.”

The pair of them shared a look then, but Teddy didn’t take to the ruse.

Matty pursed his lips to keep his growing grin at bay, knowing it wouldn’t earn him any points with Mouse, and then moved at an angle in an attempt to see the little boy’s face that was still hidden away in the curve of his shoulder.

“Teds, look. We can make a plan, yeah? ‘Cause I proper enjoyed that last little outing we had the other day- you know, the way you went down that slide at the park was crazy! “ Matty peered in closer and smiled at the sight of a blinking eye. “Or maybe you can come ‘round mine. I’ve got lots of guitars there, reckon we could mess about with them and annoy your mum until she goes mad.”

That had Teddy pulling further away, but only by a fraction. Matty noted the way not just Squeaks, but Anaïs too, was watching him now.

“Play ‘tars?”

Teddy’s small voice snapped him out of the apprehensive feeling that had started to coil. He blinked down at the kid, “Yeah, if you want. We can do whatever, yeah? Zoo, the park-” Matty sort of frowned then and glanced back up towards where Squeaks was now crouched before them, “What else do kids like to do?”

His whispered ask was rewarded with a breathy chuckle that lit up the girl's entire face and had her giggling away to herself even as her son squirmed excitedly in Matty’s hold.

“Zoo?” Teddy questioned him with big pleading eyes, “With the ‘guins? And the tigers?”

Matty felt his face pinch, “‘Guins?”

“The cold birdies, Matty! ‘Dem ones.”

Ah.

“Yeah, ‘course the penguins will be there!” Matty nodded resolutely, then turned back to Mouse, “London Zoo has penguins right?”

She snorted unhelpfully but Teddy paid their conversation no mind at all, apparently far too excited with the sudden prospect of an adventure to the Zoo. Looking at his face, Matty knew he’d have to find a way to make it happen.

“Right, we all settled then?” He asked the toddler, raising an eyebrow down at the tyke, suddenly wondering how he’d gone from pleasing a crowd full of fans to bargaining with a four year old. How his mum had ever managed to cope with the likes of him at this age was maddening.

Teddy looked up at him then with eyes squinted from the strength of his smile, he took a long second to deliberate the whole ‘letting go thing’ and then finally released Matty from his chokehold. 

“Cheers, monster.” Matty laughed softly, ruffling the kid’s curls before passing him off over into Mouse’s awaiting arms. 

“Hear, mum! Hear Matty?” Teddy quizzed her immediately, bouncing on her hip as she stood.

“I heard, love.” Squeaks chuckled softly before she turned to flash a smile in Matty’s direction, both apologetic and grateful. “You wanna say thanks to Matty for your present before he goes?”

“Ta!”

A bright laugh burst from Matty at that, but he shook his head and then forced himself back onto his feet, reaching out to tickle the little boy’s leg. “Welcome, mate.” 

And just like that Teddy was squirming to get down and go see his grandmother who appeared to have watched the whole scene play out from the sidelines.

Matty dimmed his grin into a smaller smile and let his eyes linger on the girl beside him, on the love she obviously had for her son and mother both. He wondered briefly what having that much love might feel like.

“I cleared up, by the way.” He mentioned quietly now that he was watching Teddy too, leaning into Squeaks’s side a little. “Figured it was only right, seeing as I’d been the cause and all that.”

She tittered lightly to herself, then pivoted to face him. “I appreciate it, all of it.”

It was obvious she wasn’t just talking about the clean up.

“No worries.” Matty shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling suddenly self-conscious, which wasn’t new but was also not appreciated. “I’d better be off, though, got a long drive and all that.”

Her brows rose ever so slightly before she nodded, as though she’d only just remembered he was meant to be on his way. “Yeah, yeah right. I’ll walk you out.”

Matty smiled, then turned back to the remaining two. “Monster! I’ll be seeing you! Be good and keep practising those chords for me, alright? I’ll be checkin' in.”

Teddy nodded buoyantly from where he had dragged his grandmother over to the sofa to view his gifted guitar, “Bye, Matty. See soon!”

Kid was a right little charmer.

Matty grinned back at him before allowing his eyes to meet Anaïs's own. “It was lovely meeting you, have a Merry Christmas.”

Anaïs granted him with a soft smile, one that Matty had only ever really seen mimicked by his own mum. “It was. Joyeux Noël, Matty.”

He nodded quietly to himself, the French infiltrating his mind. By the time both he and Mouse had made it back out into the hallway, the living room door now closed behind them, Matty allowed himself to voice his sudden thoughts, “You never said you were French.”

Squeaks quirked a brow at him in return, already pulling his coat off the hook and handing it over to him. Matty slowly shucked it on.

“Half.” She informed, watching him now from her place by the bannister, “And there’s a lot you don’t know about me yet, Healy.”

It was teasing but Matty knew that truth rather intimately, Mouse was a maze of secrets. Her name, her son, her origin. He wondered over what else she had kept so carefully hidden, but bit his tongue when he thought to ask. Yet, she had said. Matty could deal with a ‘yet’.

“Seems so.” He hummed sarkily, although he was smiling again. He always seemed to be smiling nowadays. Then he went to double check he had everything in his pockets only to realise that his jacket still homed one last gift. “Shit.” He muttered under his breath.

Mouse’s brow dipped, “What?”

A surge of anticipation surged through him at that question, what indeed. What the fuck had he been thinking, more like.

He’d gifted presents to women before, friends, girlfriends, staff at gigs. But this one left him feeling all weird. The type of weird that you often felt getting caught with a girl at school, or mentioning a silly crush to one of your mates on the playground. 

His eyes flickered up to meet hers in the dimly lit hallway, fingers dancing over the envelope he had tucked away. 

“Matty?”

Matty forced up that familiar bravado of his and stepped on closer, plucking the present from the confines of his coat as if he hadn't actually had a second thought about it, and then held it out towards her with a sly grin.

“Realised I couldn’t come bearing just one gift.” He told her, widening his eyes and prodding the envelope closer so that she’d finally get the hint and take it. Her fingers grasped it carefully, like she was wary he’d snatch it back.

Then her warm eyes met his own again, “Matty.”

He didn’t think he would ever get used to the sound of her saying his name. No matter how she said it.

Matty straightened at it though, already knowing she’d try to give it on back before even opening the thing, and waved her on, “Go on, it’s right rude to deny a present, you know?”

That spurred a soft laugh out of her, ever entertained by his absurdity. But before he could cajole her a little more, her face was lighting up with a sudden realisation, “Hang on a sec.” She said to him and then darted back down the hallway, leaving Matty blinking in her wake.

It didn’t take her all that long to return, though the suspense she’d left him with had now jumped to new heights.

“Sorry,” Squeaks smiled sheepishly, the envelope still in her hand, only weighed out now by the small bag she held in the other, “Forgot this.”

Matty was back to blinking again, startled by the fact that she had thought to get him something at all, let alone in return. “Um,” He murmured, rendered dumbstruck, before her light laughter broke him free. “If there’s something dirty in there, I will be telling your mother.”

Her eyes narrowed but her lips curved, “If you can make it to her in time.”

“Ooh sending out threats now, are we?”

That smile of hers was both devious and full of amusement, “Always.” Then she pushed the bag towards his chest, “Go on, open it.”

Matty shook his head, though he still accepted the Christmas patterned bag full of red tissue paper. “I gave you mine first, so I can’t open this ‘til you open yours.” He shook the bag to further accentuate his point.

“That's how it works, is it?” Squeaks commented, eyes creasing in her mirth, but Matty was as stubborn as they came and met her stare head on. “Fine,” She relented with a gentler smile, as though she already knew she wouldn’t win this particular battle, and moved to hold the envelope between them, thumbing the seal. “But this better be something nice, Matty. If it’s stupid I will toss you out.”

He laughed at the fact that they were already standing by the door, “Already are, sweetheart. But nah, you’re alright. Just hoping you’ll like it.” 

Those eyes of hers flickered between his own again, left, right, then like ripping off a plaster she opened the envelope within a blink. As she grasped at the pages tucked within, Matty felt his resolve crumble somewhat, vaguely embarrassed by the many emotions he currently felt warring within him and the fact that he couldn’t wage how Mouse might react.

But all those thoughts and feelings were immediately sidelined when he heard her gasp, this breathy little thing that echoed in the small space between them and had Matty’s mind reeling.

“Matty.”

He reckoned that if he could get away with asking her to only say his name again, exactly like that, he’d record it and give it its own side on their next album. Fuck anyone who’d argue otherwise.

Her expression was one Matty had never witnessed on Mouse before. He’d seen her surprised (that day he’d turned up out of the blue at the studio), seen her happy (messing about with Teddy on Facetime, listening to the boy ramble and rant), he’d seen her awkward and stressed (at that charity event where he’d been all but glued to her side), and he’d also seen her tired (when those late night calls of theirs had ended with bleary eyes and sweet smiles).

Matty swallowed at the heavy feeling he felt corrode his chest.

“I can’t take these, Matty.” She argued, all but pulling him back to the present when she tried to hand the gift back to him.

He swatted her arm away, shaking his head with a tiny smile. “You can take them. What the fuck am I gonna do with 'em otherwise?”

She rolled her eyes but let his hand linger on the back of her own. “It’s way too much. I mean, how did you even manage it, how’d you even know?”

Matty laughed at that, “You’re really asking how I knew? Squeaks, babe, you bring him up almost every time we talk, you sing his songs when you’re cooking on call, and you never fail to mention him on your show. Even Teddy pipes up when he’s playing on the radio!”

Mouse had the nerve to look abashed at that. “It’s still too much.”

“Of course it’s too much. But I am, if anything, extreme.” Matty snipped back, smirking.

“But it’s Billy Joel, Matty! You can’t just buy a girl tickets to go and see Billy Joel!” Squeaks immediately argued back, though Matty noticed the way her eyes shone whenever she looked down at the tickets and how her fingers toyed with the paper ever so carefully.

“You’re right,” He agreed again, surprising her, “Good thing I got you two then.”

She gave him a huffy sigh in retort, one that had him grinning. “Matty.”

“Mouse.”

Her nose scrunched then, at the use of her name or the way he'd parroted, Matty couldn’t tell. “How am I meant to compete with tickets like these?”

Matty rolled his eyes at the stupidity of that question, “You don’t, I didn’t just give you them thinking I’d get something in return, Squeaks. I want you to have them.”

He was met with a drawn out silence then, her stare drifting back and forth between the tickets, himself and then back again. “Thank you.” She finally said, looking up at him with a wonder in her eyes that made Matty question whether she’d ever just been given anything for the sake of it.

“You’re welcome, love.” The smile he wore grew when she looped her arms around his waist to pull him into a hug. 

Hugs were a rare thing with Mouse, Matty had noted, unless you were four and had a mop-full of curls then you’d best not even think about offering her one. Though he had that last bit down tap, they didn't really do that sort of thing past a greeting.

Still, hugging her settled something within him, something he couldn’t quite comprehend but allowed to wander all the same.

She squeezed his middle once before they parted again and Matty did his best to ignore the slight sheen her eyes now held and the way she slyly wiped at her nose. “Really, Matty. It means so much.”

Matty felt his heart stutter at the tender look she wore, then smiled. “Just make sure you send me the odd video, alright? Or at least a pic of you all dressed up.”

She laughed when he winked but he didn’t let it deter him. He wasn’t a constant listener of Old Joe but a classic was a classic, and the man was exactly that.

“Won’t need to.” Squeaks told him firmly and when he raised a brow she grinned hopefully, “You’ll be coming with, won’t you?”

Of all reactions, it was baffling to Matty that he had not expected that.

“Me?” He asked her, needing her to clarify.

“I don’t see no one else standing here.” She snorted, but her grin dampened all too quickly at the expression that must’ve been plastered on his face. “You don’t have to, I know you’re busy and got stuff going. Just thought…”

She finished that with a needless shrug which had Matty reaching out, hand cupping her right cheek, fingers slipping gently into her hair, it was soft. “‘Course I’ll come. Nothing could stop me.”

Her eyes had widened momentarily at the unexpected touch, Matty was quick to notice, but couldn’t bring himself to pull away just yet, especially when her face softened and she leaned ever so slightly into his hold.

–

‘Course I’ll come. Nothing could stop me.

Those words played on a loop in my head for the rest of the day, taking me through into the late evening where I was currently stood in the kitchen making another round of tea. Chamomile for mam, green for me.

The words were a promise I couldn’t quite find myself believing.

Too many people had promised me things; promised to keep my secrets, promised to keep me safe, promised to be there, promised to come. But only a fair few had ever followed through.

Matty was an anomaly though.

In himself, and in everything he said and did.

It always left me thinking, wondering...

It was just as I was stirring the honey into the mug that wasn't mine that I startled at the soft brush I felt beside me.

“I was just coming.” I attempted to say, glancing over at my mum who now stood beside me at the counter, gazing out the tiny kitchen window.

She waved me off with a tender smile, taking over honey duty as she slid her cup closer. “Your mind has been elsewhere today.” She accused me and immediately I felt my hackles rise, ready to jump into defence mode, but she merely casted me a careless look. “You never mentioned this Matty before.”

The change of subject threw me, enough that I frowned and was quiet until she wandered on over to take perch at the table with both our drinks. I blinked, feeling the fight drain out of me, then followed after her.

The chair scraped against the tiles as I pulled it free and I cringed at the silence that followed, hoping it hadn’t stirred Teddy who had not long fallen asleep down the hall.

When the quiet remained, I finally took my seat, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug and pulling it in nearer. “I didn’t think to.” I told her, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. I was quick to drown it in tea.

My mum merely hummed, sipping elegantly at her chamomile. “He seems comfortable here. Teddy likes him too.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Thinking about earlier, the present Matty had gifted me, the one I’d given him in turn.

I could still feel the press of his hand against my cheek. So gentle, I’d almost wanted to break.

“They met about a week ago, an accident really.”

She hummed again, staring off ahead, and so I picked up my mug to keep myself from talking any more.

It had felt wrong, not getting Matty a present, which seemed so strange considering the circumstances. On how we’d only known each other a few short months. But I still couldn’t find it in me to ignore the feeling.

I could recall his face when he’d finally pulled away to peer into the gift bag I’d handed him, he’d been chewing on lip trying to dampen the sincerity of his smile...

Wary and still reeling off of the tender moment we’d just shared, I fidgeted with the envelope I held in my hand. It looked to be black but in the light it shone blue. It felt expensive, though I could see the way it had been fidgeted with, or held, like someone had kept picking it up only to put it down again.

Matty opened the bag with the same fragility I’d shown his envelope, rustling the tissue paper inside without much fanfare.

When he pulled the woolly item out from inside I felt all too stupid. What were his concert tickets to see one of my favourite musicians compared to a simple hat? I fretted.

I fish mouthed for a brief moment when his fingers swiped over the soft material, before my eyes finally darted up to meet his honeyed brown. 

“You got cold, that time we took you to the park. Teddy said it would be good for the next time we go.” I stumbled slightly, it wasn’t the whole truth, no. But I wouldn’t dare mention the hours I’d spent searching for the right one, none of them feeling anything like ‘Matty’ until I’d seen this redcurrant coloured beanie.

He stared down at the gift for a long second, leaving me to wallow in my pitiful gift and the hastily given thought behind it, before he smiled. It was kind and it was genuine and it had the air fleeing from my lungs.

“Well, I’ll wear it and think of you both.” Matty murmured breathily, his voice catching ever so slightly on that last word. I swallowed thickly and without thinking took his hand in mine.

He looked down at the joined pair and smiled, but our quiet moment was then interrupted by rather loud strumming that echoed out.

Shocked, we both jumped a tad at the sound but then laughed, listening to Teddy call for his Mémé to watch him play.

I went to let go and Matty almost let me before he lightly tugged my hand closer, pressing the woolly hat into my palm. “Put it on for me?”

Blinking, I grasped the beanie tighter and watched as his hand fell away. I nodded when I glanced back up at him, his eyes watching me closely, then stepped forward, fumbling to carefully place my envelope in the back pocket of my jeans before fixing the hat over the top of his dark unruly curls.

Having to tiptoe, I let my thumb skim the brim of it, just above the skin of his brow, so that I could fix it a tad. Then peered into his warm eyes once more, “There you go.”

Matty smiled, and oh did I love seeing him smile.

We didn’t speak as he roped me into another hug, arms latching around one another's middles. We didn’t share many of those but somehow they always felt right, and then when he stepped away I felt the faint graze of his lips against my cheek.

His fingers were catching the latch on the front door before I could even react, his smile still there, his eyes now shining with some sort of emotion I couldn’t place.

“Merry Christmas, Squeaks.”

I came back to then, at the feel of my mother’s hand cradling mine atop the kitchen table, my head turned to search her tender stare. “Glowing, ma chérie.” She reminded me and oddly, I felt caught.

“Maman.” I whispered, looking away, but all she did was gently pat the back of my hand before pulling back.

“Petit à petit, l'oiseau fait son nid.” Was all that she said, throwing me back to days spent when I’d only been a little girl curled up in her lap.

Little by little, the bird makes its nest.

Slowly but surely things will change. I just had to remind myself that change wasn’t always a bad thing.

[thetomorrowshow]

just when i was getting to know you

TRUST AU

yeah yeah i'm posting a lot of trust au. i have a backlog ok

~

Joel wouldn’t say he was the closest person to Scott. Sure, they know each other. They’re friends. They've been in House Blossom councils together for the past ten years, and Scott's been joining in on family night, and the elf's engaged to his brother-in-law and best friend, so they have to at least be acquaintances. They happen to be friends.

Friends or no, they certainly aren’t best pals.

To suddenly be possibly the closest person to Scott at the time of his death is more than a little pressure.

Well, Katherine's there, too, but she seems even more shellshocked than Joel.

It's—well, the whole thing is . . . incredibly violent. Xornoth throws Scott around with tentacles, kicks him into the ground, breaks his wing. . . .

Katherine covers her eyes. Joel watches, flinching at every knock of Scott's head against the stony ground.

When Xornoth drags Scott up for the final time, Joel gets one last look at him—dusty, hair tangled, scraped and bleeding and eyes barely open, limbs dangling helplessly—and then he's thrown off the edge of the cliff.

Joel doesn't run with everyone else to peer over the side.

Joel flicks open his elytra and takes off into the sky, heading the opposite direction.

Xornoth watches him.

Joel doesn't know why, but Xornoth lets him go.

And that's terrifying, just a little bit.

Xornoth doesn't think the massive armies of Mezelea are enough of a threat to kill him here and now, like he did Scott.

Scott's dead.

Goodness, Scott's dead.

Rivendell has always been a force to be reckoned with. Ancient and up in those frozen mountains, Joel hadn't even considered that such a country could fall so early in a war that hadn't yet reached its borders.

The Codlands had fallen in one bloody day.

Now, in a reflection of its deceased lover, Rivendell has too.

Joel soars across the ocean, wondering just how long it will be until Rivendell is forced into servitude. Mere days, like the Codlands? Or maybe more gradually, a months-long process designed to make the elves feel in-control of their descent.

How many are left to fight the evil? Him, Lizzie. Shubble's certainly been conquered as well, seeing as Grimlands army would have marched through the Undergrowth to reach Rivendell. Katherine has thus far declared neutrality, as has Pearl. Pix hasn't been heard from since the war began. And Gem—

Gem's down, too. Possibly dead. And her students aren't really built for war, try as they might.

So it's just him and Lizzie.

Goodness. And they're supposed to win this fight, let alone survive?

It isn't exactly black and white, of course. There are likely fugitives leaving Rivendell and the Overgrown as he flies, and he has a small army of Rivendell soldiers in his forces that Scott sent over several weeks ago, and he and Lizzie have already been strengthened the slightest bit by dissenters from the enemy armies. They aren't as alone in this as he feels.

Still. The loss of Rivendell is a terrifying, war-changing blow. Rivendell gone, Scott dead—

Joel feels like nobody ought to be able to blame him for feeling a bit hopeless.

He needs to get back to Mezelea, reorganize his armies, inform his support from Rivendell that they cannot return home, contact Shubble and see what they can do to help. He needs to do all sorts of kingly matters that really shouldn’t wait.

But he stops at the palace rising out of the depths of the ocean, landing on one of the towers and hitting the ground running, elytra flapping in the wind behind him.

He sprints through the doors, down the hall, takes a left, Lizzie's probably in some sort of important meeting so he takes another left toward her war room—

There's a soldier standing guard outside of the room, and when Joel approaches, he shuffles to block his entrance.

"Her majesty is not to be disturbed," the guard says, blocking Joel from entering. "She is in a meeting with—"

"I'm her husband and I do what I want," Joel tells him, before shoving him aside and going in.

Lizzie is standing at the opposite end of a somewhat large, square table, pointing at a map, a gnome amongst three other advisors (one the Rivendell ambassador, another clearly fae) gathered with her. When Joel enters, they all look up.

Lizzie isn't wearing grey.

Her dress is purple, the sleeves billowy and light. Her hair is down, neatly brushed and falling into her face, her crown set upon it.

Her mourning period has ended.

"Joel?" she says, brow furrowed. "I asked to not be interrupted."

Joel strides across the room, stopping at the other end of the table. "Right, right, but—"

"These plans are only to be known between those of us present, it's frankly a war crime for you—"

"Scott is dead," he says loudly, and Lizzie freezes.

"I—what?"

"Scott is dead, and Rivendell surrendered," he says, and the elf in the room (Elif, if he remembers correctly) actually staggers back.

"The king?" Elif demands, his hands shaking. "King Scott? You—you jest!"

Joel shakes his head. "I saw it," he manages, the shock of it all really hitting him. "He's dead."

"What happened?" Lizzie asks, rushing around the table.

Joel shrugs helplessly. "He just—the demon killed him. Scott—he tried to do something, something with magic or whatever, but it didn't work, and the demon just. . . ."

He doesn't want to tell them everything he saw. He doesn't want to tell them of how Scott's body lay crumpled on the ground, his mourning clothes torn and bloody, while Xornoth towered over him, declaring victory.

He doesn't want to tell them that at no point in the battle did Scott have the upper hand.

That it was hopeless from the start.

That he didn't even try to help.

"He's dead," he whispers.

Lizzie's eyes are wide, horrified. She almost seems to search his face for any sign of a lie.

"No," she breathes.

Joel only nods once.

Tonight, he'll tell her what happened.

Tonight, as they get ready for bed, he'll recount in a whisper the demon appearing, the way ice had seemed to burst out of Scott in jerky and uncontrollable ways, the way Xornoth had broken free nonetheless and beaten Scott to the ground and cast him to his death.

He'll hold Lizzie close to his chest as she cries, and a year ago she wouldn't have cared if Scott lived or died but now it's almost like he was the last living piece of Jimmy other than Lizzie herself and with him gone, everything is lost.

He'll lay awake in bed, wondering what on earth will happen now that Rivendell has fallen—will the elves be hounded out of their lands, forced to find homes elsewhere? Will they be forced into servitude? Will Katherine declare loyalty to a side?

Will there be a funeral for Scott?

But right now, as Lizzie turns away, as Elif collapses into a chair, as the gnome mournfully asks Joel what has become of the Overgrown, Joel can't say anything.

He can only stare at the table (with maps and figurines and inkpots) and think of all he must do.

-

"I'm going to mourn," Joel tells Lizzie the next morning.

It's a senseless decision. He should be in gazillions of meetings, preparing his country for refugees and attacks, deciding how to divide his forces, proportioning what to give to those in need. He doesn't have time, in the wake of everything, to spend three days secluded in his quarters.

"You shouldn't do that," Lizzie advises, pinning her hair behind her ear. "You have too much to do."

Joel shrugs. "I'm gonna do it anyway."

"Why?"

"Just feel like I should."

Lizzie sighs. "Joel, you really can't. I need your help with this, your country needs you, you can't just—"

"It's only—"

"—other mourning periods, it would be fine, but Mezelean—"

"—without me for three days—"

"—total isolation, you have—"

"Who else is gonna do it, huh?"

Lizzie falls silent, arms folded. She raises an eyebrow, and Joel struggles to come up with the words.

"Who else is gonna mourn him?"

"His people," Lizzie is quick to answer.

Joel scoffs. "They've just been conquered by the archenemy of their dead ruler—you think the demon will let them?"

"Katherine."

"Katherine doesn't mourn, it isn't a part of her culture."

"Gem."

Joel remembers Gem, lying on the ground, hair entirely white, and shudders. "I don't think she can. She was . . . injured, yesterday."

"We're all mourning him," Lizzie waves him off. "We may not be wearing black, but we all miss him. We're all thinking about him. It's basically the same thing, just without any outward sign."

Yes, but that's part of mourning, isn't it? Scott, at some point last week (it's just like Jimmy, Scott was fine last week and now he's gone forever), had mentioned that his clothing is designed to be as similar as possible to his betrothal clothing, to remind him at every moment of his loss.

The outward signs aren't for others, aren't proof of how sad you are. They're a tool in grieving, in memory.

"You weren't even that close," adds Lizzie. "Would it even be proper to take the mourning period?"

Propriety doesn't matter. Not anymore.

"I know that we've got different beliefs on what happens with death and all that," Joel says awkwardly, trying to figure out how to word this. "But for us, we believe that . . . that there's this, like, waiting period to get into the afterlife. So the three days—it’s like you're waiting with them."

Lizzie nods. They've talked about this before.

Joel looks down at his boots, suddenly unwilling to meet his wife's eyes. "Nobody else will be mourning," he says quietly. "I don't want him to wait alone."

He and Scott weren't that close, it's true. But Scott had intended to marry Joel's best friend and brother-in-law, and that basically makes him family.

Lizzie doesn't argue any more. She only nods, then takes the pin out of her hair and ties it up into a tight bun.

And Joel goes back to Mezelea, and shuts himself in his quarters for three days, despite the contrary advice from his chamberlain.

When he comes out of the mourning period, he's resolved to save everyone he can.

-

And then Scott isn't even dead so it doesn't matter anyway.

But when Joel sees him—because the demon had blasted him to the side, and he'd heard a lot of shouting and chaos while blacked out and trying to regain his bearings on the floor, so it isn't until he stumbles out of the building that he sees him—, his heart actually leaps with joy.

He's alive.

Scott is alive, and he's right there, his back turned away and Joel has never seen him in homespun, brown peasant-like clothes before but it's definitely him, from the shock of blue hair on his head to the familiar satchel hanging from his shoulder.

When Scott turns around, Joel can't help the smile that breaks across his face.

He rallies the troops, claps Scott on the back (he wants to hug him, he wants to pull him in tight and never let go which is weird but whatever), and does his best to act normal.

"I don't know how you're alive," he says, breathless with—with wonder, or something. And maybe Scott isn't really alive, maybe this is some ghost version of him sent back to help them win this (but he feels awfully solid beneath Joel's hand). "But it's good to have you, for however long it'll be."

Scott only stares at him for a moment before asking (that's definitely his voice, his thick elvish accent, his funny-sounding Es and As, so inimitably Scott), "Why does everyone have weapons?"

And Joel just wants to laugh and laugh.

And later, when Scott's asleep in Rivendell's infirmary and Lizzie's some giant axolotl monster thing and Jimmy's also, somehow, alive (Jimmy’s alive Jimmy’s alive Jimmy’s alive), Joel laughs.

He sits on the front steps of the palace, exhausted and bloodstained and with aching arms from carrying bodies, and he laughs.

As his laughter dwindles into chuckles, he looks around at the reclaimed capital of Rivendell, the moon and stars illuminating torn palace grounds and those collecting the dead, and he sighs.

"I'm gonna claim this as my own country," he jokes to himself. "Who's gonna stop me? Rivendell's mine now."

"Good lord, your majesty, please do not," comes a tired voice behind him. Joel glances back to see Ilphas stepping out of the palace, easing the door shut behind themself. "I don't believe I would be able to restrain myself from attempting regicide a second time."

Joel snorts. "Right, wouldn't want to inconvenience you. A different day, maybe." Then, after Ilphas doesn't respond, he adds, "How is he?"

Ilphas offers a small, strained smile. "The king has not yet woken," they say, "though his majesty Pix believes it will not be much longer."

Joel had carried Scott to the infirmary after he had collapsed, the no-longer glowing sword under him. He'd hurried forward, while armies on both sides had remained frozen, and he'd dragged Scott out of the center of everything, laying him beside Jimmy's (Jimmy?) body, because Joel hadn't even known Jimmy was also here and now he was dead again?

None of it made any sort of sense, but as the soldiers of various armies tried to sort out whether or not they should continue fighting, Pix had pushed through the crowd and hefted Jimmy's limp body over his shoulder, before leaving without explanation.

Joel had stared after him for a long moment, wondering if maybe he had hallucinated the whole thing.

Then, gathering strength beyond his normal, he had heaved Scott up and carried him to the palace, where he had been met by several elves who quickly took over.

He'd really just hoped that Scott wasn't dead. Then he'd pushed it out of his mind and set to resolving this war.

Now, here he is. Jimmy is, somehow, alive, sleeping off a life-ending wound.

And Scott is also alive, asleep in the Rivendell infirmary.

Joel kind of feels like he missed a chapter somewhere, because nobody has explained to him how they're both here in the first place (and some part of him still believes that they are spirits, brought back by some ritual to help them defeat the demon), but they're here and they're alive and that's what matters.

And Ilphas, judging by the way they finally seem to be relaxed enough to let their shoulders drop, feels the same.

"It's good to have him back," Joel comments idly, and after a moment, Ilphas nods their agreement.

"It is," they say softly.

Joel's still exhausted. He's still confused. He's got no idea what's going to happen next.

But Scott is back, and Jimmy is back, and the war is over.

So he gets up, and claps Ilphas on the shoulder (the elf starts in surprise), then returns to the fields.

He has to help Rivendell rebuild if he's going to conquer it, after all.

[charleecat-bat]

Shadow in my SU/Gem AU (UPDATE, added in his backstory!)

Nickname/s: Mahogany, Obsidian, Maho, Obsi (not recommended you call him by any of the last two) Gem Location: Back of Neck Weapon/s: Spear Rarity and Status: Rare and elite working gem Role on Homeworld: Elite Bodyguard/Escort Gem Unique Powers/Abilities: Enhanced Speed and Agility, Lava Manipulation, Heat Blast.

History:

Mahogany, like most Obsidians, was made to be an elite bodyguard. An escort gem for the rarer more important gems that required or wished for one that were more quick and swift instead of large and bulking one like a Jasper Soldier.

In this case he was created and chosen to guard a high-class aristocratic gem known as Sapphire, whose duty was to be a Cartographer, creating maps of different galaxies to track, mostly to find new planets to spread their empire.

Like most gems, Mahogany knew what to expect from his job the very moment he burst from the ground... which is why he was put very off guard with Sapphire. Unlike most aristocratic gems, who paid him no mind unless to give him some snide comments just for their own ego boost. Sapphire was never like that, she was sweet and soft-spoken. She'd be quiet towards most of the other gems, but when together. She could talk to him for hours, at first Mahogany didn't understand. Thinking he was still expected to keep up his duty. She started to break down his walls to remain focused and not respond unless necessary. They soon became more than just bodyguard and protectee; they had become friends—close friends. Even with this, he started to learn things that Sapphire did, things that she wasn't supposed to do. She had been deceiving the diamonds. Purposefully leaving off planets that had been checked to be full of life and living creatures, she did not have the heart to put them in their clutches and see these lively planets die for their own sake. Even if he didn't fully understand, he found this admirable of her. It just showed how wonderful she was in his eyes...

Which made the news of her discovery much more horrifying.

It all happened so fast. Sapphire was suddenly summoned, and he saw it all. She was accused, but she didn't dare hold back. She implored them to leave the planets alone. She claimed that causing whole planet-wide species to go extinct just for their own kind was horrible. But the words would fall on deaf ears. Of course, the diamonds wouldn't understand.

And much to Mahogany's horror, she would be shattered, right there by Black Diamond himself. Mahogany was simply shooed away the moment this happened, ordered to be assigned to some other gem.

While on the outside, he was shellshocked and horrified, on the inside, he was fuming, burning up with rage and disgust. It grew more and more with each and every gem he went through. He was barely even focused on his duty anymore, he could only pay attention to the rage and hatred for these gems building inside. None of them were like Sapphire. No one would be like Sapphire. It was clear to him few of his kind cared at all for anything but themselves and the diamonds. The top of this hierarchy flourished, while anyone below it suffered. And the ones outside of their kind, suffered the worst.

One day, he snapped, and Mahogany Obsidian was quickly known as a fugitive. In his rage, he attacked many gems and even shattered some. It wouldn't take long until he was forced to flee form homeworld but he is still a known fugitive in Homeworld and many gems who wish to be rewarded by the diamonds have gone to look for this rogue obsidian but he has remained uncaught.

Mahogany spent many of these centuries alone, until he came across a few select gems. His usual instinct was to attack, thinking they were gems who were after him. But after quite a formidable fight and expecting to be bubbled and presented to homeworld for their own selfish wishes. He was surprised to learn he was spared. Mahogany would come to they were closer to what he was. Unaligned with Homeworld. Runaways. Rebels.

They, too, turned away from their homeworld and its hierarchy. Although their approach was...certainly different to his.

In repayment for sparing him and not taking him back to Homeworld, he made them an offer. The location of the untouched planet they could call their base. Noticing that all they had was this ship that was slowly losing space for their slowly growing numbers.

The Planet Mobius.

It would take time for him to even consider them allies, let alone friends. His distrust and trauma being a difficult thing for him to let go off. But they have slowly broken his walls down... and with these new allies of his, he hopes he could make Sapphire proud and do what she would want. To fight and stand-up against homeworld for the sake of others.

[numinousmysteries]

For the prompts: Mulder peering into the wondrous world of his fishtank.

This prompt is ancient now but the muse strikes when the muse strikes. Origin story of Mulder’s fish tank comes from @sagan-starstuff's brilliant post here. (I also don't actually. think I answered the prompt but this is what happened.)

A true one-bedroom in a good neighborhood—”in walking distance to Old Town,” according to the matronly realtor—2630 Hegal Place wasn’t a posh address but it wasn’t a total shithole either. Despite his burning instinct for self-flagellation, Fox Mulder’s trust fund parachute and Brooks Brothers upbringing would only let him stoop so low. Still, it was dreary enough to feel like a punishment.

He wasn’t naive enough to think that apartment 42 would be the answer to life, the universe, and everything, but it was an appropriate answer to the question of where to put a brooding man, ears still ringing from the shellshock of a failed six-month marriage. A fitting habitat for a 20th-century Heathcliff in virgin wool Zegna suits locked on course to ruin his professional reputation in the name of a long-lost sister and memories he didn’t fully trust. 

It was meant to be a stopgap. He signed a month-to-month lease. Months turned to years.

Late at night, dozing on the couch (beds are for men deserving of rest, who have the luxury of shutting off their brains a third of each day with no need for constant vigilance), the only light came from the fish tank. 

He hated the fucking fish at first, resented their glorious ignorance, their freedom from the burden of comprehension and consequence. The tank and its occupants were a housewarming/divorce gift from the Gunmen; a poorly-considered insurance policy against what they expected was his impending suicide. Fuck them, he thought, let the fish die. Let it all burn to the ground. After two days of mutual starvation, though, he locked eyes with a translucent molly and felt his humanity pulse beneath callused layers of cynicism. He tipped the container of freeze-dried flakes into the tank. He made himself a piece of dry toast. 

Newton’s first law of motion governs that action begets action. He kept rising every morning, searching for the truth, and feeding the fish. 

He was assigned a new partner. She fed the fish when he was detained in military custody, quarantined with a parasite of unknown origin, or chasing radio signals in Caribbean jungles.  

But Scully didn’t belong in his fox den. His newspaper-plastered bile nest. 

Her home was light where his was dark, soft where his was hard, warm where his was cold. She displayed framed family photos out in the open. Apple-cheeked baby nephews. A younger Scully in a cap and gown with her father grinning beside her. He hid an album of patrilineal co-conspirators under the false bottom of a desk drawer. Unsmiling men quietly plotting the demise of all mankind over cans of Rheingold in well-manicured backyards. Demerol-dazed wives trading their children for Givenchy dresses and empty promises of a valiant future. 

All her blonde wood Pottery Barn furniture and Yankee Candle torches couldn’t protect her from his darkness, though. Duane Barry stepped right into her sanctum and tore her away from him.

He took off on an ill-fated West Coast vampire hunt that ended in a bloodless climax and a three-alarm blaze. Somehow, all but one of his fish survived. He flushed down the fallen soldier, contemplating the shortcomings of mortality and the prison of eternity. 

Bleary-eyed and broken, he sat in the darkness, his gaze darting between his loaded gun and the glowing tank. This new knowledge of himself—that he was a man who’d kill in cold blood for vengeance—threatened to obliterate his reluctant detente with the fish. By tomorrow morning, he would no longer be their worthy steward. 

A knock on the door. Melissa Scully entered, her presence a tauntingly inaccurate facsimile of the woman he wanted to see. She was a few inches too tall, her hair several shades too dark, her rosy worldview miles off base. But she wasn’t that different from his partner after all. She called him out on his masochistic bullshit and saw the light within him. 

Newton’s second law of motion states that an object requires a commensurate force to launch it into action. He doesn’t believe that. These wispy Scully women with their birdlike bones and feather-soft breath shouldn’t have the power to lift him out from under two decades of self-hatred—but they do. So he put his faith in this patchouli-scented witchy sister with her silk choker and mall-bought crystals, bid the fish (and his blood-stained, testosterone-fueled revenge fantasy) goodbye, and went to see his dying partner.

[mlmxreader]

The Worst Symphony | Alfie Solomons x m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ “I did it exactly the way you liked it”With Alfie please? ❞

: ̗̀➛ There's one thing that Alfie wishes to save from the war. It's just a shame that he lost it so long ago.

trigger warnings : ̗̀➛ swearing, trauma, war & violence, depictions of being eaten alive, depictions of injury, shellshock

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

It seemed as if it would never stop raining.

The trenches slowly beginning to rise as the water pooled up; the squelch hardly audible above the constant, never ending, sound of shells and guns. Mortars and screams.

The single worst symphony in the world.

Yet with your violin in hand, you knew that the bullet would hit the target the second that you squeezed the trigger. Another life taken, another life lost.

You were exhausted, dense bags under your eyes and slightly dizzy; sleep was not a known friend amongst the barbed wire and slick clay. Your once black boots now a light brown with smears of bright red that matched the biplane you sometimes saw flying above the trenches.

Dying men, paralysed from their injuries, would scream and howl throughout the night as rats gnawed and clawed at their insides; eating them from the inside out. No tears of grief could ever be shed, not anymore. Greatness was a lie. Glory was a lie.

A worthy sacrifice was a lie.

They said that the others were inhuman, that they wanted to slaughter you all and you should treat them as dogs; but seeing how thin and fragile they were from lack of food, seeing the dense bags under their eyes and the slight sway from the dizziness.

You knew that showing them no remorse wasn't an option.

They mirrored you perfectly.

Captain Solomons told you that you should never question it - never question what you were doing, what you had become. A monster. A machine.

Yet the violin in your hand only shook a little despite the immense tremble of your fingertips against the barrel. You swallowed thickly as you looked past it, past the mud and clay and slow rising water at the bottom of the trench; your gaze seemed to go on for a thousand yards as you thought of nothing but the screams.

Oh, how harrowing they were.

Forever smearing the air so thickly that birdsong would never return. Not even the bravest lark with its great breath could overcome it.

You hardly even noticed as you sank down, clay and water rising to your hips as your knees sat parallel to your chest. Your violin resting between them as you kept your hands on it; staring, never blinking.

You could hardly even hear the others sitting nearby as they smoked and spoke in such hard words that they were almost screaming above the terrible symphony.

"It's the war to end all wars!"

"No, it isn't! We're just cannon fodder! Food for the guns!"

"Y'think you know better than the King!?"

"I do! He's not out here! He's just arguing with his cousin while we pay for it! He's a cunt! Sending us to die so he can have his family disagreement!"

You didn't even notice, hardly able to hear a thing at all as it slowly grew muffled and distorted, as a familiar soldier approached; he sat down beside you, leaving his chello to the side as he cleared his throat and, for once, took his eyes from the blade that sat at the barrel so that he could look at you.

Captain Solomons himself.

Before the war, he was just Alfie.

Alfie, the baker who was always so kind to you and would often join you on walks. Alfie, who had the kindest smile yet the meanest temper. Alfie, who could knock someone's teeth out and then two seconds later turn to you with the sweetest soft gaze.

Before the war... before the war, he was human like you.

The same couldn't be said anymore.

War had a funny habit of that.

Changing men. Chewing them up and spitting them out with their organs on show; taking out every single good thing and ripping it from cold hands. Turning man to monster. Machine. Just so that its vile symphony could carry on and be heard for hundreds of years after.

Captain Solomons took one look at you, and frowned. You had been changed more than he did, and in your distant and hazy gaze, he could see the teeth marks from where you had been chewed. He clenched his jaw a little, wondering if perhaps it was his fault.

He had always done his best to protect you from everything he fathomably could; even going so far as to specifically request you as his lieutenant. Yet he could see it now he had failed so horribly.

From Alfie Solomons, had risen Captain Solomons. From you, humanity had been turned to dust.

Slowly, he reached out with a rolled cigarette between his fingers, and offered it to you as he cleared his throat; his words were far from quiet, yet not as harsh as the men speaking nearby.

"C'mon," he urged, almost pitifully. "I did it exactly the way you like it - extra baccy at the front."

You slowly turned to look at the cigarette, then shook your head. "Fire kills us."

Captain Solomons sighed heavily. It wasn't like you to turn down cigarettes, especially not luxury ones that were hand-made - none of that ration bullshit in them. "You'll be fine. It's daylight."

Reluctant, you took it from him, and allowed him to light it for you.

He could see it so easily, the fact that you were now so used to constant violence that it had shattered everything else; he had failed to protect you. To ensure that you would go home in one peace.

"Listen," he cleared his throat as he squirmed amongst the clay and mud and water to get comfortable. "You can hide the tears. Hide the fuckin' fear. Hide the bloody things goin' on in that head, but... I'm not fuckin' lettin' you be alone in this. I ain't never been your Cap'n. Never. I've always... I'll always be your Alfie."

You flinched, tensing up when a plane broke through the symphony. "Get in the hole."

Captain Solomons looked up, and furrowed his brows. "It's one of ours..."

You watched, keen and expert like a dog after a hare; Captain Solomons knew, then, he knew all too well.

He had lost you.

For all his fighting, he had lost the one thing that he had vowed to protect.

You weren't going to come back from the war.

[lieutenantbiscute]

Been thinking about Cassandra and Venus’ roles in ShellShock and how they’d both revolve around the tone and idea of parental/female approval.

To explain for them, Cassandra in my au is a half sister to Casey. He’s around 26 or so when he finds out from his estranged mother that he now has a new younger sister in the pick. Casey himself wants absolutely nothing to do w/ his mom and her side of the family so opts to just cut her off from there. He and his mothers relationship is a whole can of worms from feelings of abandonment and his early attempts to reach out to figuring out that she basically wants nothing to do with him and his sister before boom.

New sibling.

Anyways Cassandra’s mom wasn’t great with her and long story short she ends up in the care of foot Lieutenant and foot Brute for the foreseeable future. The feeling of abandoning from her mother leave her screwed with the need for validation and wanting from older female figures; so when she gets entangled with the turtles things get complicated. She’s wanting to prove herself like in the show but also as she later grows close with the boys she also seeks to impress the likes of Mona, Aunty Karai and such.

With Venus it’s kinda the same box but not? She herself has grown up as basically a dress up doll/super soldier for Big Mama with the unfortunate benefit of having her emotional security and self stripped from her by Draxum (she has an emotional regulator installed at the base of her neck running through her upper spine and Atlas vertebrae.)

So once she’s able to have that removed curtesy of her brother Corrin, Donnie and Seri she’s vulnerable a lot of the time. Often sticking to her father when around their rescue family. I’m rambling so; all that to say she hates anything remotely feminine. Bows makeup being called cute or pretty- very much an intense sense of internal self hatred and misogyny.

Being girly was somewhat abusive for her and her childhood. Made to be a prize; a doll. Nothing more than a piece of a match set with her brothers.

But the one thing she hates about that; her flaws is that she’s seeking validation from female role models- again like Mona, Aunty Karai, April and such.

So her and Cassandra would both start doing things in order to get that validation. Cassandra would seek to try and stand out and over active as usual and Venus would slowly start working on her self in attempting to being comfortable in her own shell/femininity.

One day asking about why April braids her finger hair, Karai and her eye makeup. Maybe referencing how Mona is dressed to seem both fierce as a warrior but also soft in a way. Femininity as a concept was screwed for her growing and such.

Cassandra being a try hard when it would come to joining the boys training sessions and sometimes asking for training with Karai since she’s the head of the New Foot. She’d probably lean more into learning from Karai since they both would bond over being raised by the Foot from childhood onwards.

Anyways that just my character ramblings for these two since I find their storylines could be really interesting to lean into.

[electrospherevaults]

Spare a Little Innocence

Excerpt from Maiden, sequel to Defiler.

[The Maidens of Wrethella have been fighting in another bloodied conflict in another corner of the galaxy. After the end of a prolonged siege that saw them lose a close comrade, the squad of Lady Analussa takes the time to lick their wounds. The two armies that fought against one another are doing the same.]

“That guy doesn’t look too good,” Analussa commented.

“HEY YOU!” Zenella shouted at the soldier, but he did not respond. He just remained sat by a steel crate that had remained intact, rubble at his feet, helmet on his laps, rifle laying against him and eyes that stared mindlessly down its barrel.

They long had forgotten how to blink.

“Shellshock,” Belissi commented. “Analussa, should we go-”

Tosanovva brushed against Belissi, prompting her to stop talking. She continued walking past her, her scoped rifle left behind, passed along to Jenivirre alongside her lit cig. Belissi, much like the rest of them, quieted down and observed.

Tosanovva sat by the soldier. She unwrapped a candy bar she had on her – a bit of chocolate and fruits and berries, all mushed together to such an extent you only got hints of flavour from a bit of everything with each bite. The exception was the oats. And there were a lot of oats. Nobody liked the oats, so she had found herself a small pocket of heaven she knew she could tap into that nobody else would bat an eye for. She extended this heaven of hers to him, taking his hand and opening it. He put the bar down on his palm.

“Eat.”

The soldier, a slight panic in his eyes, complied. He unwrapped the candy and brought his food to his face. He took the first bite.

“You need the respite, soldier.”

The soldier nodded again and again in a hurry, almost mechanically, by sheer brute force of discipline instilled into him. There was no room for doubt and hesitation in war after all – any seconds wasted and a bullet will remind you why. Tosanovva stayed by his side with each tiny bite, the mist from the rubble clearing with each gentle gust of wind that swept. The gunfire had long died down. Only the eerie peace of the aftermath remained by their sides.

“Dankebo,” the soldier mustered eventually once he was halfway through.

Tosanovva turned to look at him. “You’re from the north, aren’t you?”

The soldier nodded. “I am a Rotringer, ja.”

“Shouldn’t you be with the republicans instead of the centrals?

The soldier grasped onto his bar tighter. He almost smashed it. He took the bite, chomping down a larger chunk this time. His long stare returned, losing itself amidst a thousand yards up north from here. “My brother is.” He tried to bring his feet back to the ground, taking another tiny bite, letting the merciful mix of chocolate, berries and oats wash over him. “I hope I didn’t kill him today.”

He let the words hang out in the air, an air poisoned with smog and fire and rotting carcasses. Even if he did, there was no way one could tell. It was not the stench that got you, it was the way your nostrils accommodated the slaughter, and the realization of its normalization that did. On your first day of combat, the adrenaline does not let you recognize the mauled and the broken that fell besides you. On the second day, their bodies flood you with their miasma. On the third month, their memories do not register anymore.

“And if I did,” he finally said again, the bar depleted in his hands, “I hope it was a clean kill. I hope I did not make him suffer.”

“War rarely is a clean affair.” The soldier turned to look at the Maiden besides him. Her face did not look much younger than his – and she already bore more scars and stitches. Tosanovva pulled out two more of her candy bars from her pouch. She offered another to the soldier. He hesitated at first, but he ultimately grabbed it.

“If you do not mind, Maiden,” he asked a bit later, “what happened to your face?”

“Oh, this?” Tosanovva chuckled as she pointed to the stitch on her left cheek. “That’s my girlfriend’s handiwork. Cutest solarian nurse in the galaxy!”

The soldier smiled. “She must be very lucky indeed!”

“Oh you would be mistaken – I am the one in luck. Without her, this whole jaw would be gone.”

“Oh,” the soldier responded. He unwrapped the second bar quietly. He cut it in half, and shared it with her. She held it in her hands, and put on a bitter smile.

“War is rarely clean. Yet, we forge on, counting our blessings.” Tosanovva got up again. “Find some rest, find some friends. Your brother is in Wrethella’s hands now, soldier. So are you.”

The soldier nodded. He smiled again. Tosanovva returned the smile and turned to walk away.

“Thank you for the candy, Maiden!”

Tosanovva turned her head slightly, still smiling, and gave a welcoming nod. She then walked back over to her squad.

Whatever remained of it.

“Is your new boyfriend going to be alright?” Belissi asked, a playful smirk on her face. Tosanovva did not return the gesture.

“I killed his brother,” she answered coldly.

The squad stood still.

Smiles and teases and laughter died down. Belissi stepped back. “How can you be sure?” Yevletti asked instead.

“I saw him in my scopes. Same birthmark under the right eye. Squished lips. Long neck.” She extended her hand, and Jenivirre passed her the lit cig she was already smoking. She tried to bring it close to her lips, but she let it hang by her throat. Any closer, and her carotid would have gotten burnt. “That’s where I got him.”

Tosanovva put the cig on and puffed, letting a long billow of smoke come out of her lungs. She opened her eyes and tried to look for the sun. Only traces pierced through.

“Ouch.” Jenivirre commented as Tosanovva handed the cig back to her, exchanging it for the rifle she entrusted her with. “Nasty way to go.”

“Did you tell him?” Analussa queried, checking her equipment one final time. Tosanovva shook her head. “Good.”

“Why is this good? He is instilled with false hope now,” Zenella shot back.

“We were innocents once too, Lady Zenella,” Tosanovva responded, putting the rifle on her back. “It is good to spare ourselves a little innocence wherever we can.”

Zenella opened her mouth, and then closed it back. She traced her fingers against the metal mask that covered half her face. “You are right,” she said.

[hardly-an-escape]

snippet: The Trenches Have Vanished Under the Plough

Square: B2 - Crying During Sex Rating: E Word Count: 789 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Warnings: No archive warnings apply Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - human, Alternate Universe - no powers, 1910s, World War I, PTSD, scars, discussion of trench warfare, soldier Hob Gadling, period-typical homophobia, mutual pining, oral sex, anal fingering, anal sex, implied eating disorder Summary: In France in 1917, amidst the mud of the trenches and the bloody battles of the Great War, Captain Morpheus de Endelas and Corporal Robert “Hob” Gadling meet and are drawn irrevocably together. They begin an affair that ultimately threatens their hearts, their careers, and their very lives. It is not until after the war is over that the two broken men can even begin to think of picking up the shattered pieces of their lives and moving forward. But will they move toward one another, or away? Fill for @dreamlingbingo

When this excerpt begins, Armistice Day is several months behind them. Morpheus has found Hob in the cottage on the Sussex coast where, shellshocked and still recovering from his wounds, he has retreated from the world. After an argument about their parting and an emotionally charged confrontation, they fall into bed together, unable to deny the strength of their feelings for one another.

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you naked before.”

“No,” says Morpheus. “No, I suppose not.”

Their trysts, Hob remembers all too well, were always hurried. Hidden. Clothing shoved aside just enough to reach what they needed in order to clutch at what pleasure they could. Now Hob looks his fill, eyes roving over the shapes he’s memorized by feel, if not by sight.

“You’re beautiful.”

Morpheus snorts, an ungentle and caustic sound that Hob doesn’t like at all.

“Look at me,” he says, gesturing down his body with a sweep of his arm.

“I am looking,” Hob says quietly.

Morpheus’s skin glows in the low light of the kerosene lamp. Even from across the room, Hob can pick out the scars – pale skin marred by even paler marks, except where some still show an angry red in places. It’s only been seven months since Armistice Day, after all. Not so much time to heal. A particularly bad one winds around Morpheus’s left knee like a vine. Hob has a matching one on his right. He’s surprised Morpheus doesn’t walk with a limp. He does, a bit, when it’s damp or when his leg has been strained.

Hob only realizes he’s still staring when he sees the pink flush creeping over Morpheus’s cheeks and chest, and registers his prick valiantly plumping a bit against his white thigh.

His tobacco pouch falls forgotten atop the table as he returns to the bed, drawn like a moth to a flame.

“You are. Beautiful,” Hob says, placing a knee on the mattress. “Beautiful,” he says, as he lies down beside Morpheus and runs a hand down his ribs, skims across his hip and his narrow flank. “Beautiful,” he whispers, tenderly urging the wasted thighs to straddle his chest. He fits his thumbs into the too-deep divots at his hips and gently pulls Morpheus forward, until his knees are snugged up into Hob’s armpits and his hardened prick can nudge against his waiting lips. Morpheus’s eyes are squeezed shut.

“Come, love,” he whispers into the silence between them, “let me show you. My beautiful man.”

He lifts his head, lets his mouth fall open, makes it as soft as he knows how, lolls his tongue out like a warm, red carpet welcoming his lover home. And carefully, Morpheus ruts forward into Hob’s mouth.

He moves slowly at first, so slowly, thighs tense, one hand braced on the simple wooden frame of Hob’s bed. Hob can see the scant muscles in his belly fluttering with the effort to stay upright, to keep his movements shallow; so he squeezes Morpheus’s hips and takes as much of his weight as he dares, encouraging him to move, desperate to feel every inch, every twitch.

When his prick bumps against the back of Hob’s throat Morpheus moans above him, loud and obscene in the quiet of the cottage, and Hob feels the vibration down into his chest, feels his own cock stir between his legs at the sound, the proof of Morpheus’s pleasure. When Morpheus’s thrusts quicken, Hob moans in turn.

Morpheus’s eyes fly open, piercing blue even in the dim light of the kerosene lamp, and his free hand, which had been flexing against his own thigh, steals tentatively into Hob’s hair. Their eyes are locked, now. Hob cannot look away. He will never be able to look away from Morpheus again. Beautiful, beautiful, he thinks, trying to broadcast his thoughts like a radio signal. My love, my beautiful man, stay, stay, be mine, my love, stay.

It is absurd, to think that Morpheus can hear him, and Hob is neither a mystic nor an occultist. But something happens, some spark catches between them; perhaps it is but physical passion, but Morpheus’s kiss-bitten lips part in astonishment, and those pristine eyes fill with tears and overflow, twin crystal streams that run down his thin face and drip onto Hob’s chin.

Hob wishes wildly that he could taste Morpheus’s tears, but then his hips are stuttering, and he is crying out again, and all Hob can taste is his own spit and Morpheus’s spend on the back of his tongue, and that is enough; that is a beauty all its own.

“I may wake in the night,” mutters Morpheus, “especially if the storm is bad. I do not sleep well, these days.”

“You? Really? That’s a bit hard to believe,” says Hob. “You know… we used to call you ‘the cat.’ Because you could curl up and doze off anywhere.”

“I know. I know you did,” says Morpheus. “Things are different, now.” His voice is rough, and so tired.

“Yeah,” says Hob. “Yeah, I know.” He clutches Morpheus a little closer and kisses his temple. “I know.”

Historical note: The title of this fic is from the song “No Man’s Land” (also known as  “The Green Fields of France” or “Willie McBride”) by Eric Bogle. I recommend this 1980 recording by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, which makes me cry literally every time I hear it. It's one of the great anti-war songs of the 20th century.

This fic is almost complete! If you enjoyed this excerpt, subscribe to me on AO3 to get notified when the finished work is posted!

green = complete, orange = WIP

[vanguardangel]

Could you write something about being the ptsd counselor on mother base?

Being a PTSD counselor on Mother Base

IT TOOK FOREVER BUT I DID IT! Oh gosh, it's been so busy at the clinic I work at. Flu season has arrived everyone! Be safe and be healthy! I genuinely hope this was good, I'm still kinda unsure about this, but I did my damndest! As always, feel free to screm at me if I got something wrong.

(Important disclaimer: I’m not at all a licensed professional regarding mental health.  PTSD is something that I take fairly seriously as it has affected both my father, an Army veteran, and my friends who have childhood PTSD. If you or someone you love is experiencing PTSD or any other sort of mental distress, I highly encourage you to reach out to a counselor, psychiatrist, psychologist, or even someone you trust to talk to. You’re worth it.

On a side note, remember, this was in the 70s-80s, and modern mental health resources were still in their infancy. PTSD wasn’t even included in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DMS, until 1980 after research involving returning Vietnam War Veterans, Holocaust Survivors, and others and the link between war trauma and post-military life was established. It wasn’t even taken out of the anxiety category until the DMS-5 in 2015.)

Ho boy, you have your work cut out for you. Being a PTSD counselor on a normal military base is incredibly difficult. But being the counselor for Big Boss and his army? That’s one hell of a task.

Warnings: PTSD, mentions of war, misunderstanding of mental health

MSF (Peace Walker)

The 1960s and 1970s were pivotal times regarding PTSD treatment. Growing evidence from 1968 was revealing that trauma was associated with psychological symptoms, though further research was escalated by the signs of active and returning US soldiers during the Vietnam War. Preventative measures for “shellshock” or “gross stress reaction” were implemented during this time, but it was clear that it was only delaying the long-lasting symptoms. And not even the MSF led by the legendary Big Boss was immune to it.

You originally started in the MSF as a medic, preferring to take care of the injured rather than taking life. Eventually, your bedside manner and commitment to making sure your patients were okay both physically and mentally even after leaving the Med-Tent caught Paz’s eye, and she recommended that you be placed in charge of counseling soldiers that were in between deployments. Considering how much he’d been through himself, I don’t think Big Boss hesitated before allocating the appropriate funds for your new job and education.

Despite backing from Big Boss, your start was a bit rocky. Despite the fact you were the same person who helped them in your time of need, most of the base kind of avoid you, not wanting to be “psycho-analyzed” or labeled as “crazy.” Very few came to you voluntarily, often having to be ordered to talk to you by either their commanders or by another medic. No one was being intentionally ugly or cruel to you, but rather didn’t truly understand that your job was to just keep doing what you’ve already been doing; you just now got a title, better pay, and access to education. Eventually, they all came around thanks to your history as one of the medics and began to truly value you as someone to rely on with even their darkest nightmares. 

Kaz will occasionally come to you when the nightmares get too much, but he’s much happier talking to you outside of your “office hours.” It just feels more real to him. He will more than likely playfully flirt with you too.  Ocelot will probably steer clear of your work but will still be quite friendly toward you. Considering his track history though,  I wouldn’t put it past him to maybe pry into some of the secrets you’ve been entrusted with (keep your documents under lock and key!). But one of your most common visitors is Big Boss himself. At first; he wasn’t too keen on divulging his inner dilemmas to you, rather using the time to just…relax. Talk about something else besides the mission and the battles. That is until things start to become too much.

Big Boss will eventually trust you enough to open up about some of his more distressing thoughts. Despite his steadfast determination throughout the series; I always felt as though Big Boss was constantly at war in his mind, always trying to determine what was best to fulfill The Boss’s dream. He’ll share that inner conflict with you and try hard to take every bit of advice you give him. Depending on how close you get and how much trust you earn from him; you may end up being the only one who truly knows what happened in that field of white flowers. Don’t be alarmed if he disappears for a few days after that. It took a lot out of him, but he’ll be back. Congratulations! You just earned the unwavering trust of the Man who Sold the World!

Overall, despite your rocky start on base, your work as a counselor will end up being considered invaluable. Many soldiers will end up giving you the nickname “Doc” even if you don’t have a doctorate. They’ll invite you to the mess hall and sometimes leave little gifts in your office. Even the Boss will leave you flowers and maybe even a few Calorie Mates.

Mother Base (The Phantom Pain)

Honestly, you weren’t expecting that call from Kaz. How long had it been? Ten years since that horrific explosion? At this point, you were working professionally as a counselor, but you just couldn’t stay away. Not when you learned Big Boss was alive. And not when  Kaz sounded so…broken.

Your reunion with Big Boss, Kaz, and Ocelot was…bittersweet.  Despite welcoming you with open arms, they maintained a fair amount of distance from you for the first few months. Considering what you all went through, it was understandable.

This time, many of the soldiers were easier to convince to come to see you (it helped that Ocelot pretty much ordered them to after almost every mission). Speaking of Ocelot, he made a consistent effort to 

Kaz was the first to come to you, not as a patient, but as your commander. Even behind his sunglasses, his gaze seemed harsher. Ice settled in your stomach when he demanded absolute loyalty to the Diamond Dogs before promptly leaving your office. But as the months wore on, you two eventually fell back into your old habits. His nightmares had gotten even worse, compounding with his capture, torture, and loss of limbs, but you had gotten even better at your job with your experience. And to say Kaz was happy to have you back in his life is an understatement. You’re getting a homemade burger from him almost every week.

Ocelot was his usual friendly if somewhat slightly unnerving self. It was insanely impressive how well he had taken the entire last years, especially considering how devastating the attempt to rescue Paz and Chico went. Still, he was immensely grateful to you for taking care of the soldiers. Expect him to bring D.D. around for playdates.

Then there was Big Boss. You were worried from the beginning as the man you knew as Big Boss was and was not Big Boss. Most of his memories were the same, even his demeanor and mannerisms seemed identical. But during your sessions, little things did not seem to add up. They were minor inconsistencies, such as remembering specific conversations you had or nightmares you talked about. At first, you chalked it up to memory issues from the coma and simply continued to help him. It was a strange feeling, as though you were meeting him for the first time all over again. Once again, though, you found a fast friend in Venom. Sometimes, your sessions would even be just sitting in each other’s company, listening to his Walkman.

Quiet will absolutely be curious about you. From what I can gather, I don’t believe Cipher had any sort of counselor. At least one that cared as much as you did. Do you ever feel like someone is watching you? More than likely it was Quiet while she’s invisible. After deeming you safe, she’ll start to interact with you. She opts to draw to communicate her thoughts to you. She’s not the best artist, but she’s so proud every time she draws something that you can completely understand. You’ll always be safe with her watching your back.

When you finally discovered the truth about Venom, you felt more sadness than shock. You spent so much time with the man, helping him unravel the maelstrom that was his mind, only for him to seemingly lose trust in everyone. Kaz will try and convince you to leave. Venom himself states that while he will miss you, he will not blame you if you leave. Instead, he will thank you and hand you a copy of the songs you listened to together.

Sources:

[sifonie]

aesthetics for the entities, part ii.   bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here.  this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

viii.  the hunt. sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.   a whistle’s echo.  the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air.  sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run.  a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls. focused eyes. a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous.  perfecting your craft.  peering into the dark and running after it.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo.  a house too big to hear your family members in.  alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it.  separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation.  not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence.  fear of crowds.  staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea.  depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realize they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter.   a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.  improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill. a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.  a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain.  not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming.  a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lessers to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs.  a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill. too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral.   sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves.  losing possessions.  losing people. losing your sanity.  corkscew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed.  doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view.  loss of time.  a garish colour.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh.  jokes and tricks. illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii.  the stranger.  wax figures.  a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colours of a circus.  a puppet with no strings.  mannequins.  glitter and sequin.  a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices.  images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  the vast.   open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights.  endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity.  the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building.  falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

xiv.  the web.  undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed.strings of fate. manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap.  never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realizing it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

+  the extinction. the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism. the last written history. a changed world.  no survivors.  old prophecies.  a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape.  catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point.  overindulgence.

[arcxnumvitae]

Aesthetics for the Entities

aesthetics for the entities, part ii. bold what applies to your muse, italics what applies situationally or only in certain verses. rest of the fears here.  this is based on a horror podcast;  potentially triggering and / or upsetting content ahead!

viii.  the hunt.   sharp canines.  sore calves after a run.  the scent of blood.  an adventure for the journey’s sake.  the adrenaline right before the kill.  a whistle’s echo. the woods.  the doe eyes of a prey animal.  your own breath in the air. sharpened claws.  being tracked.  fear of someone knowing your every movement.  hunting down monsters.  hide and seek.  running away only to end up where you started.  staying alive purely because the enemy enjoys seeing you run. a set of footsteps behind you.  blood dripping from bare hands.  barks and growls. focused eyes.  a victim going limp under your hands.  a mouth full of fresh blood.  catching the scent of something monstrous. perfecting your craft. peering into the dark and running after it.

ix.  the lonely.   an apartment too small for a double bed.  completely vacant streets.  waking up to see everyone gone.  fog.  point nemo. a house too big to hear your family members in. alone in a faceless crowd.  a mask with nothing behind it. separated cubicles.  a deafening silence where joy should be.  a blinding spotlight.  the least missed in your friend group.  streets without lights in the windows.  isolation. not truly knowing your friends.  your friends not truly knowing you.  need for silence. fear of crowds. staring into space knowing nothing is looking back at you.  a ship alone at sea. depression.  knowing your friends are better off without you.  talking to someone only to realize they’re gone.  a family too large to notice you there.  safety in being alone.

x.  the slaughter.    a game of tag.   senseless violence.  a true crime hobby.  improvised weapons.  blinding rage.  intent to kill.  a horrific day in a quiet community.  a medal of bravery.  holding on to what validates your anger.  history books that spare no details.  an injury you want revenge for.  war.  counting kills.  songs of soldiers.  a knifeblock on the counter.  a pool of blood.  shellshock.  unspeakable horrors.  anger pushing you forward.  unimaginable pain. not seeing who will hurt you but knowing the pain is coming. a fully human monster.  an authority sending its lesser to their deaths.  kill or be killed.  unedited wartime memoirs. a weapons collection.  not knowing the names of who you kill.  too many to remember.  loss of hope.  there’s no heroes in war.

xi.  the spiral.   sleep deprivation.  corridors you can get lost in.  maze puzzles that loop back on themselves. losing possessions.  losing people.  losing your sanity.  corkscrew curls.  rows of funhouse mirrors.  optical illusions.  a separate reality.  walking through the wrong door.  delusions.  not knowing what your hands are doing.  blank spaces in documents.  hallucinations.  wrong proportions.  a nameless thing.  a place that has never existed. doubting your own mind.  blind faith.  losing track of names, labels, categories.  distorted sound.  an imperfection in a glass that twists the view. loss of time. a garish color.  doors that open to nowhere.  lies.  an unnatural laugh. jokes and tricks.  illusions.  a doorway.  a sculptor with a wild imagination.  limbs in impossible angles.  doing what’s fun, not what’s sensible.  fractals you can get lost in.

xii. the stranger.   wax figures. a close approximation of a human face.  a borrowed appearance.  a strange smell.  glass eyes.  furs and pelts.  a dance.  a song of a choir.  the uncanny valley.  stitching yourself together.  the colors of a circus.  a puppet with no strings.  mannequins.  glitter and sequin. a stranger you’ve always known.  someone strange in the place of someone you knew.  stolen identities.  stolen skins.  a machine imitating humanity.  the anonymity of a service worker.  hiding in plain sight.  uncomfortable to look at.  a faked accent.  concealing.  forgetting who you are.  forgetting who others are.  a replacement no one notices. images that look posed.  the only one seeing the false face of someone.

xiii.  the vast.   open spaces.  carnival rides going up and down.  fear of heights. endless infinity around you. your insignificance in an universe.  stomach turning at a drop.  fear of not the crash down but the moment you slip.  the sway of a cable car.  an adventure holiday.  losing track of where the surface is.  miles and miles of nothing around you.  staring at the sky and feeling like you may fall into it.  loss of control.  a fall that doesn’t end in death.  glass floor to the view below.  terminal velocity. the sound of wind in your ears.  a reach over the railing.  a jump from the top of the building.  falling into nothing.  feeling your feet let go of the ground.  a leap of faith.  motion sickness.

xiv.  the web.   undecipherable code.  a puppeteer holding the strings.  power over the weak-willed. strings of fate. manipulation.  an arranged accident.  a hundred minions doing your bidding.  cobwebs.  spiders.  a laid trap.  never voicing discomfort.  outwitting a cheater.  doing things without realising it.  red string across a corkboard.  finding something lost where you were sure you checked.  power over the unreliability of chance.  watching others dance for you.  an entangled death.  a thousand tiny legs and fangs.  shady forum threads.  something important gone missing.  suspiciously disregarded case.  a missing witness.  connections.  the world wide web.  power of victimhood.  gullibility.  no control over your own decisions.  an invisible leash.  mass psychology.  a horror film in the making.  scapegoat.  never remembering to ask for a name.

+  the extinction.   the end of an era.  apocalypse movies.  the alarms of warning systems.  a desolate landscape.  end of the world cults.  nihilism.  the last written history.  a changed world.  no survivours.  old prophecies. a thousand predicted ends.  a new chapter.  an end with no escape. catastrophes.  a calendar counting down.  breaking point. overindulgence.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Hello there!

I haven‘t heard of my favourite vampire for a long time. Let‘s see some Erich ultimately giving into his new nature. Pls 🥺👉👈

"Erich was slowly but surely starting to enjoy himself, feeling his humanity slipping away from him."

Dresden, East Germany, 1947

With every passing day, Erich Eeten was slowly - but surely - starting to... enjoy it.

The feeling of skin torn apart by his teeth, the rush of hot blood on his tongue and down his throat, warm skin that went cold as he drank and took another life, and another, and another... It had gone from a horror to an ecstasy, each time the idea that he was doing harm seemed further and further from his mind.

It felt like his humanity was slipping away from him.

More and more often, he found he did not care. He lived, after all, in the ruins of the greatest inhumanity he could ever have imagined.

Tonight, he walked with his hands buried in the pockets of a great overcoat, a cap pulled down low to shield the vaguely feline, inhuman pupils of his gleaming eyes. The ruins of the bombed-out city felt like observers all their own, piles of brick and rubble that seemed to sway towards him and then away.

The darkness slid around him like liquid, and the person he was following did not see him at all.

Why he had even wanted to return to Germany, he wasn't sure. To see his homeland desecrated and wrecked, the land of his father broken by the bombs that it had carelessly egged on again and again... Then split in two.

In the First War, they had taught he and the other soldiers, too young to know better, that there was glory in fighting for your country. Thousands had wandered home with shellshock and nightmares to show for their grand ideals and the ambitions of old rich men who sent the young and poor to die in the fields of France.

If he were going to weep for what Germany lost, he would have done so in 1918.

Here - now - all he could feel was the hunger that was never quite satisfied.

He sidestepped a fallen stone as he moved past the ruins of a grand church. Two walls were all that stood now, the curve on one side and straight lines on the other. A statue of Martin Luther still held court, looming with solemn dignity over the death of worship.

Someone had laid flowers beneath Luther's stone feet. They had gone gray, brown, and dried.

The man Erich followed had paused to light a cigarette, his matches a bright flicker of flame in the ever-present darkness.

Erich felt the ache in his fangs that longed to be buried in soft living skin. He swallowed, shifting slightly to the side. He let the shadows hide him.

It mattered so much less, now, if he knew someone had done harm or not.

Only the old rich men ever truly won the wars. The young and poor only went home to wait until they were forced to fight another.

And was it any worse to take life from a need to survive, than it was to order men like chess pieces to fall and be lost for nothing but vanity and ambition?

At least Erich kills clean.