#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜

[mindsgame]

it’s exceptionally rare ( especially because he’ll never knowingly do it in front of an audience ) but on the occasions when near is in a really good mood, he actually has a tendency to hum softly under his breath while he works.

it’s also the same song every time, too; he first picked it up during his time with the first orphanage— the place his relatives left him before wammy’s took notice of his intellect. there was a caretaker who used to hum it quietly while she worked, and occasionally louder to comfort the children whenever they were distressed. it was surprisingly effective, and nate actually liked her a lot— though he was never one of the upset kids who needed to be calmed down. ( he was noticeably even tempered himself, even at that age. ) despite being largely nonverbal and seemingly withdrawn from reality, nate did end up bonding with her quite closely. that particular caretaker was actually the first person to take notice of his exceptional intelligence, as well as the first person to realize his “playing with toys” was more than what it seemed. 

near doesn’t know what happened to her, and considering how much she knows about him, he feels like it would be too dangerous to try getting in touch. ( nate river, after all, doesn’t exist anymore. ) but he still subconsciously associates her— and the song by proxy— with positive memories, and so he draws upon it when he feels particularly happy.

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #( i was thinking it was some kind of gaelic lullaby but hmm hmm i haven't settled on what yet )

[heroes-r-us]

Can I get an Endeavor soulmate story you can pick what type I'm not fussy I just haven't seen any don't yet and Endeavor deserves some love. Maybe just a little he is trying

I literally saw this and fucking squealed. It's been so long since I've written anything and you know my dumbass refuses to practice so shitty headcanons here we come.

I read this one au on Ao3 where the soulmate was represented through a mandrake thing. SO I'm gonna poorly explain this, and link the author at the end so y'all can read her stories. (It's One Piece fanfics actually lmao)

SO- from what I've read, it seems as though there is a ritual at graduation. You place a bowl down on an alter-like place and pour milk into it. Then, the mandrake root is placed in. Once fully submerged, you prick your finger, and add two drops of your blood to the mix.

A miniature version of your soulmate will appear. They're called mandrakes and they typically can't speak, however they can use hand motions and other things to express themselves. They also seem to have the same abilities your soulmate has, including things like powers, weapons and clothes. Mandrakes act sort of like an adjustment period. You can get to know your soulmates habits, likes, dislikes, talents, hobbies and more. Unfortunately the mandrake has no memories of things that your soulmate has done.

I personally LOVE this idea and the author really delivers the cutesiest shit. It's literally so adorable. The mandrakes are so fuckin smol. About three inches I think. My hEART-

ANYWAY SO I REALLY WANNA WRITE OTHER CHARACTERS AS MANDRAKES!! (COUGH FEEL FREE TO SEND SOME CHARACTER SUGGESTIONS- though I'll still probably do some anyway.)

The fanfic I so rudely borrowed this from---->

-----

-Having been born and raised in America, it was no surprise you hadn't met your soulmate yet. Afterall it was a massive country.

- After graduating two years ago you had hopes that you'd immediately find your soulmate and be able to experience what it felt like to meet your second half.

-It was clear that this was not going to be your fate.

- Sometimes your mandrake would disappear for days at a time, only to return as though he hadn't been gone in the first place.

- The first few times your Little ball of sunshine had disappeared you cried. You knew you could perform the ritual again, but after having one mandrake for so long, you were pretty attached.

- He didn't really appreciate your clinginess.

- But he was absolutely determined to be a helper when he wasn't going off god knows where.

- In the morning he'd be the one to turn on the coffee pot, grab your mail and jump on your face until you FINALLY got up for work.

- You'd make him his own mini breakfast (something you still find immensely cute.)

- There was a store in the mall nearby purely for mandrakes. Needless to say you were more than a little worried about paying rent after that

- You also enjoyed teasing the cutie. Calling him sweet, cute or tiny only served to piss him off. If you managed to make the little bastard angry enough he'd quite literally turn into a ball of flames. 🔥

- He never burned you, though he had no qualms about biting you, should you coddle him too much.

- You found the lack of intimacy (no. No giantess porn you fuckin weirdos) concerning. He never wanted to cuddle or even sleep in the same bed.

- After you bought a mandrake sized bed for him he started sleeping on your nightstand instead.

- this distance worried you. Would your own soulmate be that distant? You could only wonder.

----

- Endeavor had been one of few graduates in his class who never did the Mandrake ceremony.

- He didn't care about that shit, and he most certainly didn't want 'fate' to tell him who would be the mother to his children.

- Only he controlled that.

- He wondered, on rare occasions, what his mandrake may have looked like should he have taken part in the ritual.

- Those sort of thoughts plagued him most while resting in that damn hospital bed.

- He knew that you, wherever you were, weren't responsible for his actions. You weren't the one telling him to focus on becoming Japan's top hero. And you most certainly weren't the one telling him to not perform the ritual.

- There was a fear in him on graduation day. Not that he'd ever admit it, but it was there. It was a common fear.

- The fear that once you added those drops of blood... There wouldn't be a mandrake to come out of the bowl to greet you.

- The fear that you were one of few to not have a soulmate.

- He couldn't be burned if he never attempted.

- But now... He was older, things in his life that he fought to control were slipping loose, and though he technically met his goal, he wasn't happy. It didn't go the way he wanted it to.

- His son was...rebelling. His now ex-wife was finally searching for her own soulmate, and his pride along with his face was damaged.

- Among all these things, he could only think that his heart must have softened.

- He didn't like to think about it.

- When he got home, he mulled over the thought for a long while. Before finally deciding to try his hand at the ceremony.

- He didn't need some damn priest to help him. He just needed to know if there was someone out there. If there was. Fine.

- If there wasn't, then that meant he had made the right call after all. Either that or his soulmate had died. Both were possibilities he was willing to cope with.

- once it all was set up, he found that same small seed of doubt planted in his head.

so, he found something else important to do.

- Paperwork, he should finish that first. Then he could figure this shit out.

- Three days passed with little change and he knew he'd need to get around to it eventually. He knew he was procrastinating. Which, in his eyes, is a form of weakness. He refused to be weak.

- With that thought he finally managed to complete it.

- He kept glancing at the clock. Back down to the bowl. To the clock, to the bowl.

- After five excruciatingly long minutes, he stood, stretching, and completely refused to feel even slightly upset.

- No. This was a good thing, he convinced himself. He didn't need or want a soulmate. He closed his eyes. They would only complicate matters more and-

- All it took was the sound of the bowl colliding with the ground for his eyes to snap open.

- There it stood, in all it's mandrake glory, rubbing it's eye as though awaking from a nap.

- It- no, she looked up at him, and studied him for several moments.

- She seemed to deem him safe and reached towards him with tiny, outstretched arms and encouraged him to pick her up.

- Slowly, and quite curiously, he kneeled to the ground and opened his palm for her. She hopped onto his open palm with excitement, only to trip over her own feet.

- He sat on the floor and crossed his legs while you attempted to right yourself.

- This changed things. Even though it wasn't supposed to. Even though this was just out of curiosity. Learning what you looked like shouldn't matter that much.

- He didn't expect that small nervous smile after you stood

- Or the way you twisted your hands anxiously as though waiting for some words from the giant man who would be your humanself's soulmate.

- He most definitely didn't expect for you to form a small ball of water to play with when it became clear that he wasn't going to talk to you.

- there was one thing that he now began to realize however.

- When you had smiled and proudly presented three orbs of water, it was confirmed.

- This had to be one of the worst damn things he could have done. Because if he hadn't, he wouldn't be searching through the files of his office for anyone who looked like you.

- And he most certainly would not be stressed about where you were. What you were doing. Were you with someone else? Why were you so damn clingy?

- And it was worse when he finally DID get a lead. Because had he not done this, he wouldn't be buying a plane ticket to America.

Okay!, I hope this was good! It's been so long since I've written 😢. Also I know this a rather weird soulmate au so feel free to Bash me in the comments for it hah.

#mha #mha x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #soulmates #soulmate au #soulmate #bnha endeavor #my hero academia endeavor #endeavor #endeavor x reader #endeavour fanfic #endeavour x reader #enji todoroki #mha enji #bnha enji #todoroki enji #enji x reader #enjixreader #x reader #/you #/reader #enji/reader #endeavor/reader #mha/reader #mandrake #mandrake soulmate

[seijch]

ANNOUNCEMENT: NOT A HELLO, BUT NOT A GOODBYE EITHER

omg hi ... im like . ashamed to come back after saying brief hiatus in october and then disappearing off the face of the earth til FEBRUARY but under the cut i will be explaining myself and the following, if youre interested (and a tl;dr at the very bottom if you don’t wanna scroll thru this obnoxiously long post):

the reason(s) i was gone for so long

what i was doing during that time (its just a personal account yall can scroll past this idrc)

the status of those um . halloween requests

the future of this account

i. so . Hiatus .

i know. i know . i probably mentioned it when i made the announcement post, but my mental health likes to go on one of those rides. yknow the ones where you go like up rlly fast then down maybe and then up then DOWN .... its like that. i needed a break and every time i wanted to come back or thought about it, something would happen and i would get stuck in my own head.

a big reason for getting stuck in my head was (and i hate to admit this ... i hate to admit that i have Insecurities On The Internet) my feelings of inadequacy regarding my writing. i love to plot fics, i love concepts and characters and making little headcanons but i dont ... know if i love writing rn. and i thought for the longest time that like . whatever ill just push thru it its fine ill be fine but it kinda wasnt lmao you can kinda see it in my halloween reqs and what become of them when i get to that but i began to feel like nothing i had put out or would put out would hold up prose wise (and normally i dont feel like this im much more “idc its my life im living it” but thats not a rant for tumblr LMAO). i still feel like that -- like im better as a reader than a writer. but . You Know :-)

tl;dr: mental state go brrrrr

ii. anywhere here’s wonderwall

when i left, i was in a steadily decreasing mental and emotional state, made worse by a situation at work that really was a case of petty jealousy on my end and rlly isnt very consequential now despite how much pain and resentment it gave me when it Was a problem so i wont get into it. the tl;dr of november and december was me using work as an crutch and distraction -- i know my job, i do it well, it helped me not think about my responsibilities and obligations and inadequacies. of course, as the holiday season grew busier n busier i was scheduled so often that i moved 88 or so miles (according to my apple watch, which i ONLY wear at work since im never anywhere else outside my house) and fell into a cycle of showering n sleeping at my house before going back the next day. (theres definitely something to be said abt capitalism and “grind culture” here but once again its not the time or place snsjkdfds)

at the turn of the new year, i happened to remember a birthday card i hadnt filed away for safekeeping from a friend of mine that id been horribly out of touch with til that point. i started crying because i realized how out of touch id been in general up until that point. the month of january was great for me: i was focused, happy, and in a much better place than i had been before. the end of it brought me down focus wise and im hoping that enough time away from my distractions will refocus me bc i ... need it LMAO and though ive burned out from that level of productivity and gotten distracted again im ... trying to stay positive which i think is the most i can do 😁👍🏼

media wise, i got real into stardew valley (but burned out bc i played it extensively as a way to wind down after work), the pokemon platinum romhack renegade platinum (still havent finished it bc of school n i played it w the intent to see if i could nuzlocke it ... bitch its so hard but its so fun bc of it), briefly assassins creed: odyssey (im one of those ppl who completes an entire region before i move to the next so you can tell i burned out of that one + wouldnt have the time to properly devote to it even if i didnt), got back into genshin impact after pulling for xiao (after not touching it for like . months), and danganronpa. yes . danganronpa 😐 i Know. i stopped playing it after the second trial of the first game bc i was so hurt by the outcome and picked it up in late january only to get sucked in (thank god i had the foresight to buy the second and third games during the steam winter sale). rn im at the start of chapter 4 if anyone wants to come in my asks and um . talk to me abt danganronpa

tl;dr: I’m Into Danganronpa Now

iii. you realize halloween was three months ago right

i mentioned this in the first section, but i love to plot things. every request is plotted or at least has a solid foundation. i had fun detailing what concept i wanted to go with considering what i was given, and there were some bangers i might touch up in the future. but heres whats going to happen to the requests themselves:

there are two finished requests. one will be posted tomorrow and the other will be touched up (just bc i finished it doesnt mean its good 🧍‍♂️) and scheduled for next saturday. as for the ones i never got around to ...

i will not be finishing those requests. i hate to be That Person, but i feel like we all expected this 🧍‍♂️ what i will do is post all of my notes for each request in batches -- requests that have an @ to go with them will be mentioned in the post proper, but anon asks will be pictured. (there are some asks that came from blogs who are now deactivated but i wrote down all the prompts and remember most of those askers so ill cross that bridge when i get there) there will most likely be an excerpt or two simply bc i think i mightve written a few plot points or interactions in the form of bullet points. i rlly am sorry about doing this but i remember looking at my notion doc with all the prompts and feeling ... like i wasnt measuring up n it wasnt just to myself or to some intangible concept of “other” id constructed but it was instead to those who requested n actually WANTED to see and hear and read my writing and i ...... im gonna admit thats another big reason i avoided this site.

regardless, youll definitely get what i have (and likely more than just my bullet points and illegible handwriting).

tl;dr: im sorry. what i have in terms of plot, concept, and interaction for every request will be posted, but i cant say ill ever complete them and mean it.

iv. so what now?

well i mean . im not entirely sure how sold i am on haikyuu in the content creation department (as a creator n to a lesser extent, as a consumer). as mentioned previously, its no longer my primary focus. it doesnt mean im not into haikyuu anymore; i have a lot of love for those boys but i cant rlly say im even caught up w recent fandom activity and also havent even finished s4 pt2 LMAO thats on my to do list

and despite all that, i still want to share my plots n concepts and snippets and maybe even fics. it wont happen anytime soon. it might not even happen. but i mean . its better than me saying i wont write ever again shjdkfs but either way ill probably use this blog as a personal blog w the occasional ask game for dialogue prompts (those are always so fun i love making up aus to fit like . the most mundane prompts)

as for my works (past and any potential future), ive opened an ao3 acc here n ill be editing n possibly expanding on my old works to post there. tumblr, to me, is The x reader hub, but i figure more x reader fics on ao3 is never a bad thing.

ill be deleting/posting drafted posts to the queue since they were all meant to be queued anyway as well as (sorry again 🧍‍♂️) deleting or answering asks in the inbox. (moots if you get a notif from me saying i rbed your post from months ago ... mind your business) im very hard to get ahold of and its ... a problem. expect an overhaul of the nav n shit to reflect my new direction n also because i feel like i cant tell if my passion for carrd is shared by the majority HSDKLFS maybe its better to read my info in a normal post ykwim .......

and of course . if youve read all this n decided im no longer worth the follow, i sure as hell cant stop you. thank you for wanting to, at some point, hear what i have to say -- it means more than you think.

tl;dr: writing will be edited and reposted to ao3, this blog will be a personal blog with a hint of writing (sometimes)

the tl;dr to end all tl;drs:

im back! i wont be as active as i used to due to a lessened interest in haikyuu in general, but i have an ao3 acc now where all my past work will be edited, possibly expanded, and reposted. any future work will also find itself there. my halloween requests will be posted in batches as incomplete concepts, plots, and snippets of scenes; i wont be promising to finish any of them.

there are still fic concepts im attached to and want to finish, but i cant promise any more writing on my end. this blog will be a personal blog with maybe writing, not a writing blog with my personal thoughts all over it.

regardless if you stick around or not, its been crazy sexy cool (equal emphasis) being on haikyuu tumblr even tho i wasnt around for long ... even tho its not my main focus anymore, im still excited to see what the future might hold 🤝

love, ari 💌

#did i have an announcement tag #announcement #also regarding work hsjkdfsd the company i work for didnt give my location the opening for the full time position i wanted #my managers all agree id be promoted if we had it but we dont so i . hee . #anyway um i hope everyones doing well #some of my moots changed urls while i was away and now i have no idea who anyone is #its like when you see your familys friends and theyre like omg youre so big now! i remember when you were a baby and youre like 🧍‍♂️ #and you have to play along bc apparently they remember you hskdfsd #im not very funny in this post but i figured id rather be honest considering my lengthy absence #consider this my comeback stage

[alabama-metal-man]

conciliate

rated: PG-13; spoilers from Existence to MSIV.

Some time ago, @scully-loves-ruthie sent me a 5 Headcanon prompt in which Mulder makes an imaginary scrapbook for William while he and Scully are on the run.

This was actually the basic plot of a story I’ve wanted to write for a long long time so I was thrilled to receive it. I took some liberties with it and it ended up being very long (the rest is under the cut). I had several versions of this idea worked up already and decided to go with this one for a variety of reasons. I sort of rushed through the ending because I just couldn’t stand trying to perfect it any more. I hope it’s all coherent and doesn’t drag too much. I tried placing themes throughout and I hope they’re not convoluted or lost in all the prose. Thank you so much for this lovely prompt and for inspiring me to finally put this story together. I hope you enjoy it.

---

1. From under the last three weeks’ issues of the New England Journal of Medicine, stacked neatly on her coffee table, the grey and white striped corner sitting askew catches his eye. He runs his thumb across the smooth edge, nudges the journals aside, pauses. Welcome Little One the tidy cursive embossing reads above a small, grainy black and white sonogram inlaid to the cover. His fingers graze the image, he touches the letters.

A gift from Tara, Scully soon informs him as she comes in from the kitchen. His hand snaps back to his side, the ghost of the book’s lettering burning into his fingertips. He tries not to dwell on the shift in her eyes, the nearly imperceptible drop at the corners of her mouth.

He feels loose, untethered. Like he’s drifting. Like he just doesn’t fit anywhere anymore. Too many false awakenings while he was gone left him trying to reconcile nightmare and dream, fantasy and reality. He wanted to come home, wanted it so badly, but didn’t know how. He still doesn’t know.

They sit awkwardly, the steam from two tea mugs and her 32-week-round belly and a galaxy between them. It’s quiet.

2. He remembers the book some weeks after. After he declared his family as his Truth then shunned them in the same breath. (“It’s the only way to keep you both safe,” he’d tried to convince her, tried harder to convince himself. “I’m going to end this,” he said, his tongue tripping over tentative promises he only hoped he could keep.) After he wiped the tears from her cheeks and slipped from their bed. After he held his sleeping son to his chest and listened to his soft snores, felt the warm puffs of breath against his skin. After he kissed them goodbye. After he packed a suitcase with some clothes, some files, and a Dreft-and-William scented blanket and slipped quietly and away into the dewy morning.

The New Mexico desert sweltered on, dry and desolate, the answers he sought swallowed into the void. Answers to a Truth he was sick of seeking.

He misses them. Misses them so deeply in his bones that he can hardly feel anything else. He’s heard stories about amputees who can still feel their severed limbs, still feel the pain there. Phantom limbs. At once gone but somehow still there. It feels like that.

And he wonders if Scully has added to the book. He wonders if she even will. He knows she’s worried about him, terrified for them, but he hopes that their son can still have a babyhood as normal as possible. Joyous, carefree, full of love. He remembers finding his own baby book as a kid, and Samantha’s half finished one, reading through them with a fascinated nostalgia for memories of his childhood he couldn’t even recall. The pages filled with firsts, milestones, hopes and dreams. He spends his time between Truths imagining.

A photo of William in a onesie covered in rockets and planets and little cartoon aliens— ‘like father, like son.’ A satin blue ribbon, once tied around a gift from Maggie, tied into a bow and taped in with care. ‘3 months and getting so big! 14 pounds, 27 inches!’ Another picture— William in his bassinet, his eyes wide and twinkling like the desert stars.

...

The days, weeks, months drag. He keeps searching, forcing back the urge to run, run back home. He’s less and less resistant every day. Some days, he almost does it. Almost says fuck it all, come what may we’ll fight the future together, whatever the hell that even means anymore. But something he can’t identify, something he’s come to hate so viscerally, holds him back. He doesn’t know what else to do so he keeps searching. Keeps dreaming of his Scully, their William. He fills the imaginary pages of the real baby book with firsts that he won’t be there for. The firsts he’s sure he’s already missed.

Baby’s First Smile! Baby’s First Tooth! Baby’s First Word: ‘“Mama?” Actually, “more.” He’s a hungry boy! Like father, like son, indeed.

It’s what keeps him going. They are his strength, the drumbeats of his heart, the very essence of his life. He thinks it’s the only thing that keeps him sane, this unrelenting hope of hopes that he’ll see them again. That he’ll save them. Save them all.

3. He’s in a military prison when his son turns one. Baby’s First Birthday! He holds onto a little glimmer of hope, the only light in this dark dark place. The Truth will prevail, the conspiracy will be revealed. It has to. And he’ll be able to leave it all behind, to do what he’s so desperately wished to for so long now. To be free. To go home.

Skinner is the one to tell him. And his hope is crushed.

His brain mocks and taunts him.

Baby’s First Kidnapping! Baby’s First Cult! Baby’s First (Second, And Third) Near Death Experience! Baby’s First Plane Ride! Baby’s New Parents!

She held him. Kissed him. Said she was afraid he wouldn’t forgive her. Oh, Scully… no…

He wishes she would slap him. Hit him. Scream and yell at him. Hate him. Call him a selfish bastard. But instead her own forgiveness is soft and aching and so so tender. He clings to it, to her.

The only truth he learned, the only one that matters now anyway, is that he’s a guilty man. He’s failed in every respect. He deserves the harshest punishment for his crimes. All that they’d lost, all that he’d taken... And he– cowardly son of a bitch that he is– can’t even tell her what it was for. It will crush her, he’s sure. He’s terrified that she’ll finally see how he failed so completely, understand that her greatest sacrifices were for nothing. He hopes for her sake, and dreads for his own, that she will finally leave him. He wishes the earth would open up and engulf him in the hellfire he surely deserves– wonders briefly if he should just help the hellfire along– but he also knows his loss will irreparably break her and he just can’t willfully cause her any more suffering. He’s caused her enough heartache, more than anyone should face in one lifetime, but she still stands so strong against it. Refuses to believe his complicity. He slew the albatross yet she, as always, wore it around her neck as her burden to bear, the vicious stench of rot and ruin lingering as a reminder of his defeat.

She just holds him and whispers hope into his ear. He tries to believe.

4. They run and run and run. Months slip easily into years, days and weeks blurring in a haze of asphalt, sweat, bleached cotton sheets, and the improbable loneliness of their shared sorrow.

He begs her, guilt and desperation and so much love forcing him to ask, for stories of their son and she gives them to him, her eyes glistening with aching reverence as she speaks.

The habit he formed in the desert, while changed some through the years, still lingers.

Their son is two. He laughs and kicks when his belly is tickled. He never lets go of his favorite blanket. He calls his parents mama and daddy.

He just turned three. He talks in full sentences. He has a dog, big dog, named Comet that he tries to ride like a horse. He always loses his shoes.

He’s four. He had his first trip to the zoo. He had lemon ice for the first time and screwed his eyes shut at the tartness. He pressed his face against the aquarium glass and let his breath fog over the lionfish. He likes the gorilla enclosure. The hyenas scare him.

They look for him everywhere, in each redheaded and brunette little boy. She asks him once, wrapped up in him on a cold winter night in their new old house, if he thinks they would really recognize him. He admits that he struggles sometimes, trying to imagine their son as he ages, his only real memories of a squirmy, fresh, days-old newborn.

But then he remembers Samantha at 14, so different from the eight year old he knew yet somehow exactly the same, and says yes. He can’t exactly explain how he knew then (and realizes with a small prick of shame that he never really told her before) but he tries; the flutter and twist in his gut, his lungs constricting, chest tightening, heart hammering, blood pounding in his ears, one streaming thought– it’s her it’s her it’s her it’s her. Pure instinct. A muscle memory of the heart, the soul. She nods against his chest, satisfied for now, and he pulls her closer.

…

He always tries to tell her how sorry he is. He tries to tell her with words, with little pleading kisses to her shoulder as he spoons up behind her in bed.  He tries and tries and tries but it never feels like it’s enough.

She assuages his guilt with gentle touches, soft moans, whispers of love and reassurance. (“He’s your son, too. You did what you could to protect him. To protect us.”) She tries, at least.

…

She studies, renews her license, and gets a job at a hospital, working pediatrics. He sees the joy it brings her, helping people, but beneath that he sees the hurt and longing. He wonders, somewhat absently, if she does it hoping one day to find their son admitted (for nothing dire, of course, perhaps just to set a broken arm or a routine tonsil removal). And then his mind wanders down a different path, old and overgrown and dark dark dark. Maybe she hopes to help these children the way she couldn’t with Emily.

He flashes to a life adjacent. Newborn William held in his big sister’s arms for the first time. Emily encouraging babytalk stories from her months old brother. Playing in parks. Climbing trees. Riding bikes. Barbecues. Birthdays. Christmases. Snow angels. Road trips. Pictures of them both unabashedly littering the house and their offices and wallets. He mentally shakes himself. That way, madness lies. He’s beginning to think madness lies everywhere.

…

The firsts keep coming, rushing in waves, trickling in droplets. They always hit him hard no matter what, these imaginings. The milestones and adventures he hopes his son is having.

First day of school. First little league practice. First time at the beach. First camping trip. First Big Kid Bicycle. He used to share the ideas with her and she used to smile, counter with a few ideas she’s had. But then he noticed how, as time continued on, she stopped smiling with the stories. How it offered less hope and more regret as the years went by.

Eventually, they talk about him less. And less. And less. Then they almost stop talking altogether.

5. She’s been gone for almost 6 months and he’s been gone much longer. The X-Files are re-opened and they’re suddenly thrust back into each other’s everyday. They don’t talk about the important things, just skirt around them, ducking behind file folders and cabinets and autopsy tables to avoid them. They’ve been free for nearly a decade but, he knows too well, old habits die hard and running has become their new normal.

But Maggie Scully’s death brings with it a clarity found only in the darkest of griefs.

Like her daughter, she had watched the weight of his guilt crush his spirit over the years. And, like her daughter, she had been unable to soothe him. But with her final breath, she tries again to ease his pain— always a mother, unwavering in her kindness, even as she stood at the precipice of beyond.

“My son’s name is William, too.”

They talk— really talk—  for the first time in what feels like years. Maybe it has been. And suddenly, the dam bursts, the floodgates open, the emotions rushing forth in a wave of honesty and relief, and they finally finally step out of hiding. He stops making hollow promises, trades them instead for purposeful action. He finds renewed meaning in his work, his beliefs, his life. They try again.

…

Maybe for the first time in his life, he truly doesn’t want to believe. He wanted so badly for none of it to be true, she wanted the same, and he tried so hard to keep her from spiraling. But they both knew. He felt it the minute he laid eyes on him, knew she felt it too.

The heart pounding, the chest tightening, the blood rushing. It’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him.

Their son is 17. He lived in a typical two-story suburban house. He had parents who loved him, wanted the best for him. He admired Malcolm X and liked drawing and dabbling in the dark web. He collected snowglobes.

Their son is 17, and he’s dead.

His blood boils, his heart crumples, at the image of their son with a bloody hole in his temple, their son in a body bag. The guilt creeps back, despite Scully’s years-long efforts. How can he not blame himself? How can he ever believe he holds any claim to William– Jackson, he constantly forces himself to remember– after everything? She’s the one who carried him, felt him, held him, soothed his cries, let him go. He just ran.

…

He tries not to focus on himself. Instead, does what he can for Scully. Does everything he can to find Jackson, to protect him. The next few days rush by in a blur of instinct, adrenaline, and raw emotion.

He’s safe. Or as safe as he can be right now.

Later, much later, Scully asks him to stay with her. And in the dark, as it has always been, she soothes his worries, kisses away his pain. She’s not free, but she’s somehow lighter. Stronger than ever. He takes her light, takes her love and her strength, and pushes away from the brood of guilt constantly at his heels. They hold each other, tears of respite soaking their skin.

…

They try to live again after everything is over. After their son dies twice and resurrects himself. After that cigarette sucking bastard is cold and rotting. After burying the last of their friends. After putting away their guns and badges for good this time. After their daughter is born.

Baby books aren’t common practice anymore, most precious memories being stored in the digital stratosphere, but they decide to make one anyway. A new beginning, a new chapter. The pages fill, one by one, with photos, memories, firsts.

On the plain grey cover is a photo. Their weeks old daughter, fingers peeking out of soft blankets, watching her brother in wide-eyed wonder as he smiles down at her.

#wow i'm so sorry this is so absurdly long #and i'm so sorry it took so long to write #i really loved this propmt so much #and i kinda used it as an excuse to write out an idea i've had for a long time #that's why it's so ridiculously long and wordy haha #but i hop eyou enjoy it #can you tell how hard i tried to tie it all together at the end? #my writing #i guess this counts as my first full length publishing on here too #huh #and if anyone wants to send me more 5 hc prompts #bc you somehow enjoyed this #and don't mind possibly waiting a while lol #please send them along

[mindsgame]

because near’s usual diet is so healthy and routine, he really doesn’t handle anything too out of the ordinary that well. excessive amounts of sugar, to be specific. in small amounts, it’s fine. but anything more than a few bites will give him a sugar high, and everything that entails. ( it usually manifests in the form of a lot of talking, stream of consciousness style. not too embarrassing, but it’s yet another reason why near avoids most sweets— besides simply not liking them. )

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #( small headcanon but there's a wedding in the mfrp discord server i write in and it's with near's boss so he's attending #he ate one slice of wedding cake and devised a brand new form of code based on the number of times his leg bounces in a minute. ) #( it's not.... hyper because he's still very calm he just talks a lot more than he normally would and repeats himself )

[mindsgame]

near doesn’t remember much about his life before wammy’s house. in fact, he knows so little it’s usually more convenient to say he knows nothing at all. what he can recall is vague and reveals scraps of an upbringing too disjointed to make much sense out of; the tiny hand of a child, eclipsed one much larger— yet with long, delicate fingers that bear eerie resemblance to his own. warm gray eyes peering down with clear fondness, crinkled slightly around the edges as if paired with a forgotten smile. a playroom filled with toys of every color and shape. windows towering impossibly large and picturesque rolling hills stretching as far as the eye can see. if he were to guess, near would assume he came from a place of wealth and comfort— though as for what happened to it, he wouldn’t be able to say. it doesn’t bode well no matter the answer.

to be completely honest, near doesn’t want to remember. there’s no point to it; only more weight to be stacked upon yet another loss in his life. it’s easier to forget— to repress everything, the trauma, the love, and face the world with a clear head uncompromised by whatever came before. that life is over and he’s never getting it back. nate river is dead as far as anyone outside of his bubble is concerned, his records wiped clean and any traces that he existed lost to the forward march of time. there’s only near now. there’s only the next L.

though sometimes the thoughts about what could have been come creeping in despite his best efforts to ignore them.

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #( his moms loved him a lot actually... :') )

[mindsgame]

near is absolutely haunted by survivor’s guilt following the events of the series, but his problems stem deeper than simply feeling bad that he’s the only product of wammy’s to challenge kira and live. to make matters even more complicated, he has a difficult history with trauma; his preferred coping mechanism up until that point was repression— but he can’t just repress mello. he can’t repress the entirety of the kira case and all the things his life had been building up to. it leaves near in a tough spot where he’s suddenly been saddled with all of this loss with no reference for how to cope with it and not a clue how to properly express it, either—  on top of being thrust into a position he strongly believes he cannot fill on his own. ( with the one person capable of complimenting his weaknesses dead and gone forever. )

additionally, it also contributes to near’s persistent feelings of isolation— because for all intents and purposes, the only people who could ever understand him that he wanted to be understood by are no longer there. he’s all alone, if not physically then at least in spirit. because the spk, for all that he trusts and appreciates them and for all that they’ve done for him, can never match near on an intellectual level. they can never empathize with the experience growing up in wammy’s house offered.

so he is alone. cut off from the outside world, cut off from other people, with only ghosts for company.

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #epilogue. —— ❛ lonely boy . / the world is your inheritance . ❜ #( hey show of hands who else is upset over chapter 109 because i am )

[mindsgame]

handwriting  can  tell  you  a  lot  about  a  person  . 

go  here  and  repost  with  your  character ’ s  name  in  their  handwriting !

tagged  by :     stolen!  tagging :     steal it!

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #( he writes like a generic font )

[mindsgame]

i also write near in a multifandom group on discord, and i was putting together some thoughts on a potential pokemon au for an upcoming event. they’re a bunch of disjointed notes because i like to write down my ideas as they come to me, but i thought it was worth linking to here on the chance i decide to bring a pokemon verse to this blog! ( the details are subject to change. )

near is a cryptid: the au. now with 100% more pokemon.

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #( the person who writes mello asked if i wanted to collaborate & have them both be from the same AU and i was just blease... ) #( the basis was L=Looker in this AU......... he still dies. IT'S A VERY GRIM POKEMON AU. )

[mindsgame]

a miscellaneous list of miscellaneous things near hates for miscellaneous reasons?

cooked foods. meats in particular, though he dislikes most cooked things by default— it’s a textural issue, rather than flavor. ( usually it all just has a bad mouth feel. ) he also doesn’t enjoy a lot of sugary sweets for similar reasons— being overly gritty or sticky— but near will make exceptions here and there for certain things. in general, his diet could be classified as raw veganism, though he doesn’t adhere to it as strictly as the term may imply. ( mostly near just eats a lot of carrot sticks and apple slices— he likes food that he can hold. everything else gets supplemented with a cocktail of vitamins. it’s... healthy. kind of. not really. )

he’s also not a fan of overly hot or cold drinks. it’s for similar reasons to his cooked food aversion— it just feels weird. hot drinks are sickly, cold drinks are uncomfortable. additionally, coffee and tea are inefficient when near can just take a caffeine pill for the same effect. he’s even more stubborn about this than his eating habits and yes, this does mean everything he drinks is practically room temperature. if someone has a problem with that, near honestly could not care less about their opinion. ( he will shamelessly have that non-chilled orange juice. ) though he has been known to sometimes turn to hot chocolate as a sort of comfort drink, it’s still very rare.

eye contact is another big one, but it’s more because near finds the act of doing so uncomfortable. ( he isn’t intimidated by... anyone, really. ) if the situation warrants it, he can push through his aversion ( particularly if the circumstances don’t require conscious effort— like if he’s feeling shock ) but for the most part, the majority of near’s in-person conversations take place with his head down or his back to the other party. if he absolutely needs to look at someone, he would much rather focus on observing their body language or— if worse comes to worst— focus on a spot just to the side of their face to give off the illusion of looking at them.

following in the same vein, he also dislikes mirrors. the first reason for this is obviously due to near’s problem with eye contact— which extends to even his own reflection— but he also just doesn’t want to look at himself. he’s not self-conscious about his appearance ( actually quite the opposite ) but he still thinks he’s an ugly person all the same.

and finally restrictive or uncomfortable clothing, which could probably warrant an entire post of it’s own because near very picky about what he’s willing to wear. ( and he doesn’t like change. )

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #( he's very particular about how he likes things ) #( i could probably make a second part to this? i might later on this was just a spur of the moment thing. ) #( he also has a habit of stacking his food when deep in thought & forgetting to eat it. )

[mindsgame]

near knew that L was going to die.

no, saying he knew was a very strong word for it. he could not determine that with absolute certainty— rather, the evidence was piling up in such a way that the great detective’s chances of coming out of the kira case alive grew slimmer by the day. near knew that; he could look at the facts objectively with the sort of emotional detachment that afforded him the luxury of a clear head. from the very beginning, it was an unusual investigation— a dangerous one. and it was even more unusual for L to take so long to complete a single case. he didn’t want to be right— he wished that he wasn’t— but near couldn’t deny the facts, especially when they stood out to him with such unwelcome clarity.

of course, no one believed him— and who wanted to believe him? L was their idol, an almost godlike figure of whom the wammy’s kids could only aspire to become a pale imitation. ( and if kira managed against all odds to defeat L, what did that say about their chances? ) so near didn’t say anything; he kept his mouth shut and hoped beyond hope that he was wrong. that he was simply being paranoid, that the other children’s faith wasn’t unfounded, that L would be capable of pulling off a miracle like the infallible being he had been led to believe he was.

obviously that didn’t happen. ( which, by the by, contributed to his rather cold reaction to the news— that and near just being near. )

as a result, he realized there’s a dissonance between the L all the wammy’s orphans were raised to look up to and the reality... that he was only human and just as capable of making mistakes as anyone. near respects the image of L and what he represents, but strictly speaking as a person, he can’t help resenting him slightly. because he was imperfect. because he was a lie. because he died before they were ready. ( and everything that followed after— matt, mello, part of the spk— can be traced back to his failure. )

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #act I. —— ❛ we lived so freely until today . / those days are gone . ❜ #( me rubbing my angsty little hands together ''near doesn't like L you say? :) hmm i wonder why.'' )

[mindsgame]

near’s first two years at wammy’s house ( age 6 — 8 ) were largely spent being completely nonverbal. it wasn’t that he couldn’t talk, he just possessed no desire to and so he didn’t.

at the time, this wasn’t a new thing; after his parents’ untimely deaths, nate was shuffled between sets of estranged relatives who neither wanted him nor were they willing to put in the effort to understand or take proper care of him. he didn’t make eye contact, he didn’t say a word. in fact, he barely seemed to acknowledge the world outside of his own little bubble, and was completely content to stay parked in a corner ( back to the wall ) and play with his toys. the handful of child psychologists who saw him theorized it was the trauma; he had, after all, been a witness to the murders— or at least the evidence strongly suggested as much, as nate wouldn’t say anything. what sympathy this generated was short-lived, and after only a year he found himself abandoned at an orphanage when their patience ran dry.

in hindsight, this actually worked to his benefit; to the shock of his new caretakers, nate soon exhibited signs of genius-level intellect that far surpassed his peers, which in turn was what caught the attention of wammy’s house.

additionally, nate wasn’t the one who chose the name ❝ near ❞ for himself. rather, he had no opinion on the subject— as he did about most things at the time— and it was selected for him instead. ( combining the first two and last two letters from his first and last name respectively. nate river  —> near. ) he didn’t hold any particular attachment to it, nor did he dislike it; he just let it be.

the following two years of silence continued in much the same way— as a passive observer with no strong opinions on anything. he completed his work and seemingly cared little for much else besides toys and puzzles, an empty shell living just for the sake of existing. until one day, gradually, near started to open up again. he was like a sleepwalker waking from an extended dream, and the catalyst for this sudden change remains a mystery. ( though some people probably would have preferred he stayed silent. ) even stranger is the fact that near genuinely doesn’t remember much of his time before coming to wammy’s; his life as nate may as well have never even happened, and he prefers it like that.

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #act I. —— ❛ we lived so freely until today . / those days are gone . ❜

[mindsgame]

tag dump!

#act I. —— ❛ we lived so freely until today . / those days are gone . ❜ #act II. —— ❛ it’s a race . / vengeance was always the prize . ❜ #epilogue. —— ❛ lonely boy . / the world is your inheritance . ❜ #isms. —— ❛ last one standing . / the robot with a bleeding heart . ❜ #open. —— ❛ communication is a puzzle . / pieces don’t want to fit . ❜ #self. —— ❛ soul dipped in monochrome . / the ghost who didn’t die . ❜ #ooc. —— ❛ i run on coffee and lizard brain . / how am i still alive . ❜ #memes. —— ❛ incoming message . / the comfort of keeping distance . ❜ #headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #promo. —— ❛ information splashed across monitors . / puzzle pieces . ❜ #status. —— ❛ words are a weapon . / some can wield them better . ❜

[mindsgame]

when near gets overly tired— as in, multiple ( 3+ ) days in succession without sleep tired— he just kind of... goes limp after a while. when his body finally reaches it’s limit, he slumps over like a puppet on cut strings— sometimes in a chair, but usually on the ground, surrounded by toys or documents or whatever has his interest at the moment. it’s not that he doesn’t have a bed, it just rarely sees any kind of use; for the most part, near finds it a big hassle to physically get up and walk to his sleeping quarters— especially when he’s already tired. he’d much rather nap where he works, and get back to it as soon as he wakes. it’s not a matter of comfort, but efficiency.

additionally, near also has a habit of talking in his sleep— though not without prompting first. ironically, this tends to happen most often when people try to gauge whether he’s awake or not; if they ask him, he will answer. it’s not coherent speech, though; mostly indistinct mumbles. still, it gives the illusion of him being conscious enough to be pretty confusing if you aren’t anticipating it.

#headcanon. —— ❛ that boy is gone . / his file was burned long ago . ❜ #( how many times do you want to bet this messed with the spk though i'm going to guess ''many'' ) #( he just cant be bothered to sleep in a bed 90% of the time it's a waste why not just nap on the floor so he can #get back to work when he wakes up?? )