#Neither abandoned nor Forsaken

[doulafaith]

Christ's Breakthrough

“His Abide”  Reading  Reflecting Responding To God’s Word while Walking it Out Context: Matthew 27: 1-66 Focus:  Matthew 27:51-52 “At that moment the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth quaked and the rocks were split. The tombs broke open, and the bodies of many saints who had fallen asleep were raised.” Matthew 27: 51-52 Definition: Breakthrough – a military…

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

[lullaebies]

For Aegon III/Jaehaera's requests: Aegon being nervous because Haera is having their first child and heir after a decade.

He can hear her screams of pain from behind the doors of their shared chambers.

He starts to pray the gods, despite Baela and Viserys' tentative reassurances then Haera calls for him and Aegon's feets lead him in front of the doors; the guards try to stop him and he orders them to not touch him.

They woke the dragon and the dragon will be protective of his mate and hatchlings.

When he enters, he is quick to be by Jaehaera's side

"My king you shouldn't-"

"I can and I will"

They had their baby boy🥺 and you bet that Aegon cries for the first time out of happiness, then Haera is there like: "Give him to me! he's mine!"

And doesn't allow anyone to touch their baby and you vet Aegon will wash his baby boy, much to the horror and amusement of the masters, midwives and Aegon's siblings

Aegon paces around the hallway in an attempt to calm down. He has been banned from his bedchambers for the better of half an hour now.  The Grand Maester and his accompanying midwives have tended his wife as she gave birth to her firstborn; their firstborn.

He is not a religious man, by any means of the word, but he prays under his breath. The gods had long forsaken him, laughing as they planted him on a throne of swords that had cost him nearby everything. But his wife had a woman of more faith, despite all she had been through herself. If the Seven are true to them, they would protect her.

Aegon hopes so, begs so, his stomach turning up and down. The toll of the birthing is clearly heard beyond the doors that separate them. Jaehaera is eight and ten, and they both grew plenty since their wedding, but she has remained a smaller woman to this day. Her pregnant belly had been big for her frame, he can’t help the dark thoughts his mind leads him to.

“You are going to have to breathe, dear brother,” Viserys tells him. “Births do not ever sound pleasant. This is a fact of life.”

Yet they never sounded so difficult for Larra, either, he wants to say, but he only frowns. If it wasn’t for the fact Lady Larra Rogare had left court a year prior, he may have said it aloud. Little Aegon, Aemon, and Naerys were left alone with only their father. The pit in Aegon’s stomach grows exponentially. This is a possibility, for Aegon too, and he had never trusted his odds.

Baela takes him by the shoulder. If it wasn’t his sister, he may very well flung that hand away. “You are going to look more dreadful than your wife when she gets out of that room,” she says straight to his face. “Calm down. I have done as much twice. Rhaena had done so six times. Your little wife will manage, she’s resilient, for all it’s worth.”

She’s neither you nor Rhaena. Resilient Jaehaera had been, but it hasn’t been without struggles. Aegon doubts she had ever said as much to anyone else but him, but this court had been a lonely place for her besides for him. She’s been changing it, step by step, and now labouring to change it definitively, but how alone must she feel in that room? 

Another pained wail comes from within the room. I can’t take it anymore.

“I am entering,” he finally says, escaping his sister’s grip. There are protests from all sides when he steps away from his siblings and to his Kingsguards. The bumbling fools in their white capes move to not allow him to enter, citing the instructions of the Maester, but he glares them down. He’s a full head taller than both, with a crown on his head. He has abandoned the days the Keep could rule him when he fired Lord Torrhen Manderly. “You serve the maester or the King, now? Move aside, or else.” 

The doors to the room open for him while Jaehaera is pushing, forehead wrinkled and sweatied as she does. All her attendants turn to him, but he ignores them and their words entirely.  Aegon only needs a few long steps to reach his wife, sitting beside her on their very bed. 

Jaehaera lifts her eyes to him, panting as he wipes her forehead and moves silver strands from her red-hued face. Grand Maester Munkun swallows as he moves to him. “Your Grace, you shouldn’t like to stay. Births are stressful occasions—”

Aegon does not listen to a thing the man says. “Aegon,” Jaehaera pants, fingers coming to clutch his sleeve. He gives her his full palm to squeeze. 

“—To both parents…” The Grand Maester slowly falters in his words.

“As I’ve noted,” Aegon answers, cutthroat. “I can stay and I will. Now mind your Queen before I find someone who does.”

The old man gulps in response, and scurries to his seat at the edge of the bed nodding. Aegon fixes the pillows under his wife’s head. The calls to push are difficult on his wife for a while, and he feels her using all her strength, the squeeze on his hand a testament to all her efforts.

Their child’s cradle is ready, standing by the window and illuminated by the sun. So many blankets woven for a child not yet born are laid within. Jaehaera had been waiting on the babe for so long, talking to her belly at times even, hoping the little one would hear. 

In comparison, Aegon had been almost afraid. He had worried and angered and anxiously dealt with the idea of a child coming under his wing. Broken wings, by most accounts. He has never known how his siblings had been able to heal the way they were, raising their own family in swift pursuit. Jaehaera’s losses, his losses, had made them become ghosts in the shells of their bodies for the longest while.

But he had grown into this shell, just as he had grown into his crown, and now it is their turn to rebuild. 

Jaehaera lets out a sharp yelp of pain, and Grand Maester Munkun lifts his head. “The babe is crowning,” he looks to the midwives. “Prepare the bath!”

Aegon squeezes his wife’s hand harder. Jaehaera’s eyes are bleary from tears of effort, but he feels he is the one who is in whirls of uncontrollable emotions. Jaehaera inhales in determination, readjusts her position and groans loudly one last time.

A babe’s cries deafen all other voices in the room. 

“It’s a boy,” Munkun announces to the room amidst cries of new life, and then looks at him. “A  healthy prince, Your Grace. An heir for the Iron Throne.”

Grand Maester Munkun is holding their son. Aegon doesn’t know how long he has been waiting on letting his tears fall. It could be from the moment he has been told Jaehaera’s water broke, and it could be from moons prior, when he had been first told Jaehaera is with child. There is some spell cast on him when he sees his boy writhe for attention, tufts of silver hair sticking to his head. It’s my…

The umbilical cord is cut, Jaehaera, despite her pain and fatigue, rises into half-sitting in a bolt. “He’s mine,” she yells at the Grand Maester, paralysing all attendants in the room. Queen Jaehaera, as the court knows her, hardly ever raises her voice. “Give him to me!” 

It’s their boy, first. Before he is an heir, before he is thrust into his royal position, it’s their son.

Aegon comes up from his place, and takes his son from Grand Maester Munkun before he could give him to any of the midwives. He is a big baby, eyeing Aegon with a stare of indigo. He has small, pouty lips, and squishy cheeks as red as all of his body is.

“Our son,” he says, placing the boy in her arms. Jaehaera holds him close to her chest, and finally, the stress on her face dissipates. Tears escape her eyes, but she smiles so widely. “He has your nose.”

“Hello. I am your mama,” she tells the newborn softly. The babe’s cries calm as they speak. Aegon brings a hand to caress his face. Does he recognize their voices? Aegon hasn’t spoken to him during the pregnancy as much as Jaehaera, but the nights he did, does the boy recall them? Aegon had been so afraid for his upcoming arrival, but now he has him and he can’t look away. “And this is your papa.”

It’s my family. 

And he loves it, so dearly, he will never let it go.

“Congratulations, little brother, and good sister,” he hears Baela’s voice from behind him. Both her and Jaehaera look up to her. His sister is mindful of their space, but ogles the little boy with a grin. Viserys is further back, trying to catch a glimpse of the child too. “The midwives are afraid to ruin the moment, so I must. Our prince needs to have his first bath before the water grows cold.”

Jaehaera licks her lips, rather hesitant to give the boy away. They share their reservations with only their eyes. Aegon thinks for a moment and kisses his wife’s temple before looking at all the attendants in the room. “Bring the bath here. I’ll do it.”

There are many variations of his title that come about in exclamation. ‘Your Grace’, ‘Your Highness’, ‘Your Majesty’ and so on and so forth, all complaints and concerns and whatnot. None of it matters, not even a smidge, when Jaehaera smiles at him, and gives him their boy in full trust. He holds him, swearing his arms would be secure for the boy evermore.

Because I am your father, above all else.

[rikafurukawa]

Lo, the hapless traveler, bound by cruel fate, wanders the inky void where neither time nor space obeyeth mortal law. In this forsaken realm, where light withers and shadows reign, her steps falter, yet her spirit remains unbroken.

The stars, mere remnants of a forgotten sky, offer no guidance. The very air is thick with the weight of forgotten truths, yet silence greets her every cry. No path, no hope of escape presents itself, for this place, abandoned by gods and men alike, doth bind her in its unyielding clutches.

The void, a prison without walls, speaks only of despair, leaving no refuge—only the endless dark.

[sgt-scottymoreau]

Nightmares (Halloween)

Summary: None really, only a small fic for the spooky season inspired by the Alone skin. With a small twist :)

Warning: None

Words: 1.4k // Masterlist

A/N: None

The wind blew in the empty deserted hallway. A few dead leaves rolled on the cracked cement as her boots crushed the ones who came under her path. Her flashlight paved the way in the darkness in front, to a certain extent. Scotty didn’t like to be here. A gut feeling telling her that she shouldn’t be. But she kept advancing, calmly. Whenever a door or an intersection approached, she carefully checked and made sure everything was clear. Her radio crackled. The voice that came through sounded muffled, distant. “Can you repeat your last?” 

“....looks…left wing…”

Scotty let out a groan. Radio reception was terrible here! Whatever was the order, she took a wild guess and went for the left wing of the building. Her steps echoed against the walls, the place being as empty as where she was before. Repeating the same pattern as before, every room was empty, safe for a mess of broken furnitures, papers covering the floor, water leaks, all that would make this place abandoned and eerie. “Scotty, do you copy?” Gaz’s voice finally came clear. 

“Yeah, glad to hear a familiar voice.”

“Likewise. Listen I can’t get a grip of the captain, nor Soap or Ghost. Do you have anything?”

“No, same silence. I did catch someone telling me to go left but it was so b-” A loud dial, screeching noise pierced her ear through the earpiece before Gaz was able to come back asking what the hell just happened. To be honest, none of them had any idea. 

“Need backup now!” Ghost requested. He showed signs of life! 

“Where!” She quickly asked. 

He gave his position and in a flash she was making haste there. First time she allowed herself to run since she sat foot in this forsaken place. Of course the atmosphere wasn’t creepy enough, the closer she got to him, the colder the air became. Her breath was fogging heavily by the time Scotty stopped. She called him a few more times on the radio, no answer. Neither from anyone else. She was alone again… 

Scotty gulped and returned to a more careful state, advancing slowly. Then it happened. A horrifying scream came from all directions. It didn’t sound like someone who was scared or in a fit of rage. No, it was this scream of pain, atrocious pain. Close to torture almost. Her blood froze, the grip around her gun tightened. “Ghost?” She whispered. No answer. She gulped. No reason to stay stationary, might as well keep going. The scream echoed once more. What the hell was going on?

A shadow flashed on the wall and vanished as fast as it appeared. Instinctively, Scotty turned her attention to this movement. She advanced, turned the corner and… found nothing but another empty hallway. A curse escaped her lips. This was getting ridiculous. Her light brightened the distance and a figure ran in front of her. Or two? Her thumb reached for the radio. “If you can hear me I need backup, possibly hostile at my position.” To hope that this message would reach anyone. Gun at the ready, she approached cautiously. Her footing avoided most of the debris. Her foot stepped on something hard that cracked under her weight. A glance and Scotty saw the bone. Part of her wished it was animal in origin, but on a better inspection, it was human. 

“Fuck, fuck… what the fuck it this place!” She cursed getting creeped even more. Another cracking noise from the back had her turning on her heels. She finally shone some light on all this. She held down a scream and stepped back. 

The man… or men? No, that wasn't human anymore. It shielded its eyes from the light with his mutated… one..two, three arms?! His vision adjusted to the brightness and it lowered its cover. Scotty felt nauseous all the sudden. The deformed, skin stretched, ripping in some place three headed monsters looked straight at her. “Ghost?” Her lips trembled in horror. 

His three melted arms reached for her, a groan came out in a strange anharmonic way from all the heads. No this wasn’t Ghost, it couldn’t be! He looked like he was fused, mushed together with different versions of himself. An experiment that went horribly wrong. Her heart raced, her breathing matched the speed as fear settled in her system. She didn’t remember the last time she felt this way. He moved on step, she adjusted her gun. “Stay where you are!” Scotty ordered firmly. Ghost stopped, his heads tilted to the side. Scotty tried once more to contact the rest of the team. Static over static. What was she supposed to do now? Shoot this monster down or attempt to be friendly? Was it Ghost or not? If it wasn’t, it looked a lot like him! The monster behavior shifted. His glassy eyes… six of them were focused on her. He let out a piercing shriek. Scotty let go one hand from her gun to cover her ear while turning to protect the other. He suddenly charged at her. Quickly, she fired a warning shot. That didn’t stop it. Scotty didn’t give it a second thought, she ran the opposite direction.

Her feet slipped on the floor around the corner, her hand grabbed the wall to prevent her from falling. The monster was always on her tail, his shadow projecting in a menacing way, reminding her that he was never really far behind. Scotty looked for an escape. Who builded this place? Hallways that stretched on and on forever! She jumped in a room, her gaze searched for a place to hide. She found a table and decided that it would be better than nothing. She crawled under the small space just as the monster turned to check the surroundings. His steps were heavy on the concrete, his breathing was ragged. It would be close to these zombies in the movies. Then it stopped. 

The room went silent. A deafening silence that scared her more than anything. He couldn’t have vanished in thin air, could he? Scotty didn’t dare to look, she held her gun close to her. A minute or five passed with no sounds. Maybe she was safe? Maybe… The three faces suddenly appeared right in front of her. By reflex, she screamed and kicked them away. The desk behind her broke and she made a run for it. Or tried. The monster grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her back. Scotty kicked it again. The jaw from one of the heads broke but that didn’t stop him. Her mind begged , urged her to shoot at the creature. But it was Ghost’s face. Faces… Despite how monstrous it looked... 

“No it’s not him!” Scotty yelled at herself. “You are not Simon!” Hands shaking, she aimed her rifle at the middle head. The muzzle on the forehead, she pulled the trigger. Another gruesome display. But at least the monster was dead. Panting, Scotty pushed herself away from its grip, tears builded in her eyes as reality of what happened hit her. Well what even happened? She was shaking, adrenaline slowly falling down. She had to contact someone. “Scotty in the blind, does anyone copy?” Another minute passed in silence. “Come on guys, this is not funny anymore!”  

The shadow grew bigger behind her. Her eyes watched in horror as it formed on the wall she was facing. The Ghost monster was rising! She looked over her shoulders. Stupid. Despite one missing head that exploded, it threw itself at her, jaws ready to bite. 

****

The scream she let out was enough to have him wake up in panic. Ghost’s hand flew to the light stand. He flipped around to see Scotty panting, eyes wide open in panic. “Everything is alright?” He worried. 

Scotty was awake but her body was always paralyzed. It took a good minute to be able to simply turn her head to look at Ghost. Her eyes frantically made out every one of his features. One head, two arms. Not flesh splitting into… God, it looked so real! Felt real. She regained sensation in her fingers first, then was able to move her arm to cup his face. “Y-yeah. Bad nightmare.”

“Want to talk about it?” Nightmares could be many things. 

“It’s alright. Just some silly thing. Straight out of a horror movie. I’m glad you have one head again.”

He frowned with a smile. What kind of dream was that? Scotty promised to tell him everything later, for now she wanted to sleep. She crawled in his arms. Ghost pressed a kiss on her forehead, stroked her hair till he heard the soft sleeping sound. Sure that she was good, he closed his eyes and fell back asleep.

[bardic-tales]

It's now 3: 19 am, and I still can't sleep. As always, this means that I'm going to share the other half of the quotes of Crisis Core that has inspired these headcanons.

Sometimes, when my husband and I reply through the game we talk about how Bianca would react to this or that. One topic that always comes up is Angeal's quote: "What do angels dream of?". Bianca would have a very different react to this bit of dialogue.

Content Warnings: Abuse, body horror, existential crisis, experimentation, mental health struggles, religious trauma, self-loathing, societal rejection, themes of destruction.

source: imdb

Bianca’s perspective on existence is deeply tied to her identity as a hybrid of celestial and demonic origins. She resents both. Unlike the idealized notion of angels striving for humanity, Bianca sees no place for herself in either realm. Her human experiences are tainted by the rejection she faced due to her celestial origins, and her demonic heritage binds her to chaos and destruction. She curses the duality of her nature, which she feels only leads to suffering: her suffering and pain.

When humans first discovered she was part angel, they looked to her as a divine messenger: a being that could bridge the gap between humanity and the divine. But as soon as her Creator failed to answer their prayers through her, as the Creator is absent from the dimensions they birthed, humanity turned on her and used her as a scapegoat for their inability to understand the greater cosmic forces at play. This betrayal left her deeply scarred, fostering a hatred of human expectations and the idea of being a pawn in divine schemes.

Her captured by Shinra only deepened her self-loathing. Hojo's experiments, particularly the Project N (Project Nephilim), sought to exploit her hybrid nature by introducing Jenova and S-cells into her blood. These experiments were designed to see if her celestial blood could be fused with Jenova's, which would grant her unimaginable power on what she already possessed and help the SOLDIER program. While Project N was ongoing, she was experimented on by Diana Ravenscroft as a way to unlock the secrets of immortality, to prevent or cure life-threatening illnesses which plagued humanity.

But the result was far from empowering. Instead, it left Bianca feeling even more alienated and emotionally volatile, as her body fought between three irreconcilable forces: the celestial, the demonic, and the corrupted influence of Jenova. This process twisted her essence, amplifying the chaos within her and further obscuring her sense of self, as her demonic blood overpowered and corrupted the celestial essence within her. Her experiments were a constant reminder of her hybrid nature, a painful fusion of two forces that only led to torment. It was amid this agony that her opinion hardened - her heritage was a curse.

source: gamerant

While Angeal asks, “What do angels dream of?” and answers with the idea of angels yearning to be human, Bianca’s response would be the opposite. She dreams of escaping both her celestial and demonic origins, of ceasing to be a symbol of either side’s exploitation. Bianca does not dream of humanity. Humanity abandoned her, and angels have forsaken her, leaving her in the abyss between two worlds. Although she is entitled to ‘retire’ to the Celestial Realm when she tires of the mortal realm and Asmodeus wishes to use her for the prophecy surrounded her birth, Bianca is unwanted by the celestials and the infernal dominion.

In her mind, her existence is a blight upon the world—a cursed gift from her Creator. She is neither angel nor demon, but something far worse—a being that does not belong in either realm. Like Aerith, Bianca is the only one left of her kind: a Nephilim born of the union between angel and demon. She curses the very essence of her birth, and it is this curse that drives her toward her ultimate goal: the destruction and rebirth of the omniverse. Her plans to bring about a kilonova, wiping out all existence to start anew, stem from the desire to escape the confines of her existence, to erase the past that created her and the pain that shaped both her and Sephiroth, and to forge a future free from the limitations imposed upon her by her hybrid nature.

In the end, Bianca’s struggle is not about longing for the humanity she was denied or the purity of angelic ideals. It’s about rejecting both as false promises. What she truly seeks is freedom from the legacy of her origins—freedom from the chains that bind her to celestial, demonic, and human expectations. Her embrace of Sephiroth’s vision of destruction and rebirth is a rejection of all the forces that sought to use her, and through the coming kilonova, she seeks to tear it all down and build something entirely different—something beyond angels, demons, and mortals alike. It will be a place where the children she manifested into reality, Sephiroth, and those like them can thrive.

[therookandthecrow]

I've cooked up another Rook to romance Lucanis with in the future. Let me check my list, because I'm fairly certain that I've created more Rooks to romance with him than I can count on one of my hands.

Nirasha is the first female Rook I'm planning to romance him with. There is a long backstory under the cut -- it took me a while (about a week) to fall in love with her as a character, but now I adore her. 🥰

Nirasha is a Dalish elf, but she wasn't always Dalish. Her life began in the alienage of Highever. Her mother Nera never told her much about her life before she met her father, Halen. She and her younger brother Eirlen were the couple's only two children.

Life was simple through her youthful eyes, while sheltered from the realities of what was expected of two elves serving a human lord, while treated and paid well, the unfairness of what stations an elf got to hold in life was remarked, even to her.

Stoically, her parents worked to support their children. The peace of her childhood was cruelly interrupted during the Fifth blight. The Lord, Francis Aldwir had abandoned the city, and with his home - and his elven servants.

Neither Nera nor Halen were skilled fighters, and when the Darkspawn encroached the walls of the Alienage - both perished to the horde. Their two children orphans in the blink of an eye. The two of them ran for their lives while the horde ravaged the remainder of those who were unable to fight.

The two children ran until they could no longer, and when they would find a safe place to rest and to hide, they'd run again. They hitched a boat from Gwaren, stowing away in the cargo - before landing in the Free Marches.

They'd stalk through the night, not allowing themselves to be seen by bounty hunters, Templars and by others who'd take advantage of vulnerable people during a Blight. When the orphans were able to run no longer, tired and utterly forsaken - shoes worn through the soles, clothes ragged and dirty...

They thought that they'd meet an end. However, a group of Dalish scouts from nearby Nevarra had found the two children of their people, huddled together with haunted, pale faces. The three scouts discussed among themselves in a language neither Eirlen nor Nirasha were familiar with before they beckoned them to come with them.

The two had to be carried to the encampment by the two stronger scouts, as the third scout looked pityingly at the wounds that the two have 'collected' during their journey. The warmth in the scout's eyes were the warmest that they'd seen since their mother's eyes.

The clan's Keeper took one long look at the two children before he gave a look to his First, who nodded solemnly before he beckoned them forward. It turned out that these two were not the first City elves to find their way to the Clan by way of tragedy.

Their old life was by all means over, but they quickly felt at home with the Clan whose scouts were so kind as to bring them in, as opposed to leaving them to die by exposure. Nirasha and Eirlen were once again a part of a family, although they mourned their parents - they were among their people, and they were more free than they ever were as city elves.

Fast-forward some years, Nirasha was highly distrustful of humans due to how Lord Aldwir had let her parents perish by the Darkspawn instead of taking them along with him to the safety of his second home in the Free Marches. The Clan itself she became a part of held a cautious approach to humans as well, making sure to not camp near human cities.

Nirasha's bitterness continued to grow, and she poured a lot of her energy into crafting, eventually getting a Vallaslin of June. She was never one to journey out much, and she never intended to join the Veil Jumpers; that said, the backstory for how the Veil Jumper Rook occurred, and the rest was, as they say, 'history'.

If she'd met Lucanis even five years before she'd joined the Veil Guard, I doubt that she'd have given him a chance due to how her interactions with humans have been for the first twenty-plus years of her life. Nirasha has a lot of trust-issues to work through, but hers are merely with humans.

I'd like to see her slowly become softer and more open around Lucanis and to become protective of him, even against her own will and against her previously held ideals to have nothing to do with humans, especially when she has to work with them to save the world. I can see her being cold and distrustful to Neve as well, who is Tevinter AND a human.

While Davrin may be the most ideal choice for her to romance, she is actually not too fond of the Grey Wardens, because my canon Warden committed many atrocities during the Blight - and in his lack of favor in her eyes, he recruited Loghain who'd sold Ferelden elves into slavery into the Wardens, and considered him a good friend.

I can see her looking at Davrin with a raised eyebrow of concern, as she wonders if he'd do the same thing - because she associates Wardens more with abuses of power than with saving the world from the Blight. That said, I can see her warming up to Davrin and considering him a friend after she gets to know him.

Bellara is an obvious candidate for her best-friend status, apart from being faction-mates, I just can see them getting along exceptionally. Another thing is, she sees how Bellara gets along well with Lucanis, and she realizes that if another one of her people can get along with a human, so can she - albeit reluctantly.

Little does she know is that her mother wasn't always named Nera, and that she wasn't always a City Elf. Nera was born in central Antiva, near the Arlathan forest, into a Dalish clan, but was taken at a young age into the Antivan Crows.

After a decade and a half of serving the Crows reluctantly, she faked her death and forged a new identity in Ferelden where she met and married a Ferelden city elf, Halen. Nera would sing Antivan lullabies to her children, and she'd leave Crows feathers under their pillows - although neither of her children ever figured out why.

I headcanon that she learns about her mother's past in her relationship with Lucanis, and she finds an affinity with him due to shared Antivan roots and where she can look past the whole 'elves vs humans' mindset as she falls in love with him.

Her mother, while she was a trained assassin during her life in the Crows had left that all behind, when the Darkspawn had come, she was ineffective of holding them off, unfortunately she never thought she'd need those fighting skills again. How wrong she was...

Oddly enough, one of the items that Nirasha was able to grab while fleeing was one of her mother's old daggers.

[lightup0nlight]

Surah ad-Duha gives us a message of hope. Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala says:

🌺 ❛By ad-Duha.❜ What is ad-dhuha? It is the bright time of the morning. Allah takes an oath by this special time, the brightest time of the day.

🌺 ❛By the night when it darkens.❜ And Allah takes an oath when the night takes over, covering everything in darkness.

And this, too, is how our lives will be. We will never have straight sunny days, where everything will constantly go perfectly well. Neither will it always go bad, or worsen all the time eternally. These times will alternate with one other. After ad-duha, the night will come, the darkness will cover us; but ad-duha will soon return, and such is life.

🌺 ❛Your Rabb has neither forsaken you, nor hates you.❜ Not only will ad-duha come again, but even in dark times, our Rabb has not left us.

This is a message not only to Rasulullah salla Allahu ‘alayhi wa sallam, but to you and me as well. When things get really difficult, and we’re unable to see it through because of the darkness of the fitan (trials), remember that Allah has not abandoned us.

Just because things are difficult, it doesn’t mean Allah hates you. Just because you’ve had a bad past, it doesn’t mean Allah will never forgive you. Just because you’re unable to overcome a trial, it doesn’t mean that nothing good will come afterwards or out of it. Just because the dunya looks bleak right now, it doesn’t mean your akhirah is doomed to be bleak as well.

🌺 Allah says: ❛Who listens to the distressed when it calls on Him, and Who relieves its suffering, and makes you inheritors of the earth?❜ 【Surah an-Naml 27:62】

So do not give up on Allah’s Rahmah. Make du’a for His Protection and Forgiveness, while having good thoughts of Him. Remember this dunya is temporary, while the akhirah — your true, happy ever after — is for all eternity.

Your sister in Deen, Aida Msr ©

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Heretic - a Malevolent fic

What road remains for a man whose purpose abandoned him?

AO3

For @aktrashpanda, who drew this art:

What road remains for a man who lost his own? Who misplaced the one he was given? Who followed, sure, faith and sight fixed on what seemed narrow and true?

Aye, but that’s the wrong question. Here is the right one: what remains for a man whose road, narrow and true, abandoned him?

It’s an answer I never sought, for I did not know the road could refuse its rider. My purpose, my meaning, as I knew he was, left me behind. I woke without my road, and without my arm, my purpose run away. No one has seen him.

What road remains, then, for a man? The truest of all: seek and you will find.

#

‘Tis the newspapers which the Lord uses to shed light on my new way: the report on the mayhem up north, half of New York’s elite caught up in some scandal.

I recall… something about upstate. This is where my purpose was going next, and by God, it sure looks like he got there.

The story’s a good ‘un, rife with worldly intrigue, and the papers talk of nothing else. There’s murder, fire, underground rituals, strange masks and bodies no one can identify, and… Satan-worship? 

So it’s called in the reports about the mess our finest uncovered, yet that is not the devil’s symbol I see in these grainy photos. I know what I see, for it was in Arthur’s book.

I had time to study that book, to learn some new truths, and I remember what it was called: Malleus Monstrorum, the Hammer of Monsters. Between learning to live without my arm, and giving comfort to my sheep (who come to me for it, distressed by my injury and unable to offer their own), I take months to locate a copy. To track down the wayward brother in Dunwich who has one, and is willing to let me see.

And in that time, I find no comfort with my flock, or in my prayers, or on my knees. Neither with the host on my tongue, nor with sleep in my eyes. There is no comfort, for my road has forsaken me.

But the book. The book, blasphemous yet true: brother Andrew, muttering and mad, lets me see, and in it I find the symbol they saw upstate, and it leads me on.

He was not alone in his hard journey, brother Andrew, and from him, I receive names, clues, a way forward. I follow that symbol through paths and hints and secret codes, and I find the people who know what it means, and I walk this new road that seems to have found me.

Which it has.

And then, I find her.

#

She, who walks between. She, who thinks herself above creation, but is not; she, who, being so old, is so young, and has so much to learn. And I… know I am meant to teach her.

(Is it heresy to find a new purpose after yours got away? Is it heresy to seek a new path, to follow a different star when the one you knew has gone dark?)

She takes me from my life because I recall to her that same road which abandoned me; we’re both forsaken, left behind by him who gave us purpose and direction and hope. (Though she does not call it hope, I know what I see. What she lacks is not hope, but faith.)

She says he was her favorite. I say he was my purpose, and so condemn myself.

“I will keep you, little priest,” she says, not acknowledging that I sought her.

“I will use you, little priest,” she says, bidding me wield the skills the good Lord gave me, which she calls magic and I call penance.

“I will corrupt you, little priest,” she says, not knowing that I am already corrupted, and she can bring me no lower.

But I can lift her up.

Through her teaching, I learn to heal, and so can finally do good deeds to weigh against my bad. Through her, I meet and lead wild sheep who may never lay eyes on another shepherd through all their cursed lives. Through her, I travel, and see works and worlds unimaginable, and through her, I will be redeemed as I guide her to redemption.

(It is not the same as weekly confessions, the same humble faces masking repeated sins and perfunctory repentance. It is sanctification, active and pure.)

Arthur Lester was my purpose, but now, I see: he was not an end in and of himself. He was the road to my end.

“I should kill you, little priest,” she says, but she means it not at all. I am her purpose, and she’s mine, led together by one who had no faith of his own. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

“I will convert you, little priest,” she promises, low, and that I will not worship her makes her question what she knows.

In the end, we will save each other, or damn each other, and either way, Arthur Lester is to blame. I don’t know that he lives, but I have faith that he does—and I pray for him. I pray he finds his own road, and this time, that he stays true.

----------------

NOTE:

Psst… there's a way to support my writing now (and thank you Kraiva, Som, Charlie, Flamia, Bree, and more who encouraged me to do it).

[scribeforchrist-blog]

Not Broken, but Comforted 

MEMORY VERSE OF THE WEEK

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+ James 1:16 So don’t be misled, my dear brothers and sisters

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VERSE OF THE DAY 

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Isaiah 40:30 But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint

======================

** SAY THIS BEFORE YOU READ; HERE’S SOME CHRISTIAN TRUTHS **

I AM NOT BROKEN 

I AM NOT TOSSED TO THE SIDE 

I AM LOVED 

I AM COMFORTED 

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READ TIME: 7 Minutes & 55 Seconds

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THOUGHTS:

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   So, I got a 3D printer, and I can create all these things, but I couldn’t get it to work when I first got it. It took me three hours to set it up, and when I got it all set up, the first print I made was this little, tiny boat, and the top of it didn’t print, and I was going to throw it out because it wasn’t finish, but when I looked at it, I thought maybe I should keep it.

     The Holy Spirit reminded me that he didn’t  throw me out; he took me as I am broken as I am, and has always reformed me, always loved me, and sometimes we are done with people because they aren't on the level we are on, sometimes we are done with projects because it isn’t  going anywhere, sometimes we are done with friendships because the person  won't change but what we have to remember is God  won't give up on us, 

     God doesn’t say, I'm done with you because you're not where you suppose to be , look at, Peter. Jesus knew that Peter wouldn’t be where he needed him to be; he didn’t leave him, he didn’t shake his finger; he told him, look, Peter, you're going to betray me, and Peter said no, not me, lord and he still didn’t leave him when we are at our lowest Jesus doesn’t throw us away, he collects us up and comfort us.

  “Matthew 11:28-30 Come to me, all who labor and are heavily laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

   The word says, come to me, and he will care for us even if we are heavily laden. He will comfort us and give us a restful mind, and no matter how cruel the world can be, he will still be gentle; his burden might seem long or harsh, but they aren’t . Jesus sees us as his own; sometimes we can feel the world is closing in on us because we are often not accepted by people, especially when we are genuinely following God, but God wants us to know that he is there through it all, he's there through the missed treatment, through the isolation, through the anxiety of life he is there. 

  2 Corinthians 4:8-9 We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair;9 persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.

      The word tells us we are hard-pressed but not crushed. We can be under extreme pressure, but we are not crushed. A lot of times, we can feel this way because that’s what the enemy wants us to feel like. We are not winning, or we are not accepted, but we are accepted by God regardless of what is we have done, the word says we are perplexed: what does perplexed mean? We are filled with uncertainty but aren’t at a loss for hope. Our hope is in Jesus; we are tried on every side but not forsaken by Jesus; we will constantly feel struck down, but we are not destroyed. We are victorious, and that’s something we must hold on to. Many of us lose hope when going through it, but we have Jesus, and in him, we have victory.

   Victory might seem neither here nor there, and victory might not feel like it is ours, but it is; a lot of us have to realize that no matter what we go through, God is going to be there, but we must focus on him a lot of times we are lost in our thoughts lost in our situations but when we have no one to go to God is standing there saying I can help you just trust in me! 

   Verse 16: Therefore, we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed daily.

   It says don’t lose heart A lot of our situations seem endless, like there’s no way I’m getting out of this, but God says don’t look at your situation, keep your eyes on me, don’t let what you are going through stop you from praising him, don’t let what your feeling stop you from thanking him, praise him when you're going through, don’t lose heart at what’s happening but stand your ground and tell the enemy that I won’t lose heart, that I won’t feel defeated because I am  VICTORIOUS in Jesus name! 

  Verse 18 So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

  The word tells us again, don’t fix your eyes on what is seen but fix your eyes on the unseen, which is eternal that’s even with your troubles, don’t let your troubles be what you focus on; give them to God and allow him to work it out and a lot of times it might feel like you can’t let our troubles go I know it’s hard but the more we hold on to them the more we are telling God I don’t think you can handle what I have going on and he can if he can string the stars in the sky ,if he can create this whole world don’t you think he can take care of you? he can! 

  God doesn’t look at what we look like; he doesn’t throw us away because we don’t have this or we don’t look this way; no, he holds us and comforts us through our hiccups that’s what a true parent does through our hurt and pain he’s there to comfort us. 

   ***Today, we talked about how God doesn’t just throw us to the side; he stays with us; many of us have had people toss us to the side because we don’t meet their standards. The only standards we need to keep up with are God's standards, and he doesn’t have any; he wants us to come to him just the way we are so he can love us right where we are. 

   Psalm 73:76 My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

    God's strength will never run out; we will run out of money, we will run low on energy, we will need to replenish a lot of things, but God love won’t stop neither will his strength , I can say I have been in some tough spots, and I thought I won’t ever see the end of this. Still, God shows me why I can depend on him every time. If you're having a hard time, you can also go to him and tell him exactly how you feel. ©Seer~ Prophetess Lee

======================

PRAYER

======================

Heavenly Father, thank you for today; help us be stronger and wait on you. Lord, we thank you for your love, grace, and mercy. Lord, help us to keep our eyes on you and not on our troubles; lord, help us to know that when we do have troubles, we have you, and you’ll guide us through it all and that we aren’t broken, and we aren’t thrown away because you love us through or mistakes through or deepest pain. Lord, we are so grateful, in Jesus' Name Amen 

======================

REFERENCES 

=====================

+  Ephesians 3:16 that according to the riches of his glory, he may grant you to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in your inner being,

 

+ Titus 3:5 he saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to his mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit,

 

+ Psalm 27:13: I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living

=====================

FURTHER READINGS 

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 Proverb 22

Job 32

Psalm 116

Joshua 17

======================

[mwolf0epsilon]

The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 21: Shock

Summary: While on their way to the basement floor, Kix's team is reunited with the rest of the 501st's medics. Finding a cure will have to wait just a little bit longer...

Warning: Slight gore warning due to injuries, but it's not overly descriptive (there is mention of a potential loss of limb)

Twitch belongs to @gaeasun Pitch belongs to @lost-on-kamino

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

---

The lift had been fingerprint-locked with a specific code for each set of prints that were logged into the security system's database. Neither Rex, Fives nor Kix had anything on them that they could use to slice into the system and bypass this security measure so, as a result, the trio had been forced to rush down flight after flight of stairs. Making them regret ever having climbed up a tree, to reach the exposed vents that were mounted up on the 11th floor of the hospital.

Usually running down a few stairs wouldn't tire them out this badly, but considering how grueling the campaign had been (for various reasons), suffice to say they were not in great shape at that exact moment. Sleep deprived, hungry and thirsty. And maybe a little cranky as well, which was more than a little fair.

That said, they were finally on the first floor. Sweating bullets and practically dragging themselves forward, while utilizing the facility's map to figure out where the basement hatch was located. Because of course the Umbarans had decided to make it hard for just anyone to stumble into their precious server rooms.

Nothing could be easy on this gods forsaken planet.

"It says right here that the hatch is in a tiny room behind the main lobby." Fives offered as they got closer and closer to the entrance of the hospital. Keeping an eye out, despite all of the halls they had traversed being virtually abandoned. "Probably so the receptionist can keep an eye on whoever goes in and out..."

"It's only gotten colder..." Rex sighed. "My HUD is giving off insane temperatures..."

"You know, the harder I think about it, the more sense it makes to keep the temperatures so cold in here." Kix looked around, his own HUD showing him just how frigid the halls really were. "A lot of terrestrial arthropods don't do well in the cold, and Dogma looked like he'd turned into some kind of insectoid. The infected would probably avoid coming in here because it'd mess with their bodies and senses."

"When you put it like that, the basement thing also makes sense." Rex mused as he kept on walking at an even pace. "If the entire building is cold, but one section produces noticeable heat, they'd try to break in and congregate in the warmer server rooms. By keeping them in the basement, they can at least mask the difference in temperatures..."

"Still sucks that we have to go down there." Fives pointed out.

They were now in the lobby, which was as deserted as the rest of the facility. Briefly, Kix wondered if maybe the staff had been evacuated once the two battalions had made it planet-side. Or maybe something else had happened while both armies went at it out in the woods?

He couldn't be sure, nor did he really ponder on it for long. Not when the entrance door swung open, revealing two very familiar figures carrying...

"Twitch?! Coric?!" Kix gasped at the state of the two standing medics, before his eyes focused on the two prone figures they were carrying on their backs. "Oh stars..."

"What happened to Pitch and Sponge?!" The second most experienced medic heard Fives exclaim, as he rushed forward to help. Settling the unconscious Sponge on the floor and noting their bruised and bleeding face, before moving to do the same for Pitch. Startling slightly when, despite not moving in the slightest, the blue-haired medic blinked up at him and darted his eyes about, trying to take in the scene.

"They're...." Twitch's legs shook as he collapsed onto his knees. All energy drained as he tried to catch his breath in loud shuddering gasps.

"Easy vod'ika..." Rex comforted the younger clone, kneeling besides him to rest a hand on his back. "Take deep breaths, like this..."

While the Captain took charge of the youngest, Fives muttered a loud curse as something suddenly occurred to him.

"Kark... Their buckets aren't on them, and their armor is pretty busted up. They're gonna freeze in here..." The ARC pointed out, seeing the poor state they all were in. There was no way their kit's thermoregulation systems were operative "I... Blankets. There's got to be blankets in a hospital right?"

Paying no mind as the ARC ran off to look for something to keep their injured vode warm, Kix instead began to assess the situation. Sponge had a broken nose, busted lip, several scratches and bruises, and their breathing wasn't sounding too good. Coming off rattly and wet-sounding, which he hoped was just because they were trying to breathe through a broken and bloodied nose.

Likely concussed to hell and back as well...

Pitch, meanwhile, seemed to be awake and aware but unable to move. Perhaps also unable to feel anything at the moment, since he'd definitely be passed out from both the horrific gashes on his face, and the huge gaping hole in his upper-thigh. Both of which were bleeding sluggishly.

"Dogma stung him..." Twitch mumbled. "He uh... He can't... Can't move or talk or.... Or..."

"Easy vod." Rex continued to comfort Twitch.

"Coric..." Twitch blinked tiredly. Looking towards the CMO who was standing there with his left arm dangling uselessly at his side.

Looking at his Ori'vod, Kix's heart began to race ever so slightly. He was still standing, but the wound on his shoulder looked bad. So bad in fact that he could just about see exposed bone. The way the arm hung limply also did not give him much hope that Coric had any use of it left, since the muscles and ligaments on the shoulder had definitely been torn off.

And then there was the far away look in his brother's eyes that gave him a lot of reason to worry. That glazed unseeing look that he mostly only saw on dead vode. Or, in some cases, the ones that just couldn't take the pressure of war anymore.

Resistant to stress his left nut and shebs...

"He's going into shock." Kix hissed, looking to Rex. "Get his armor off."

"But he'll free--"

"Now, Rex!" Kix barked out the order, giving no space for the blond to argue. Thankfully the Captain seemed to understand and moved over to Coric so as to begin removing his kit. Twitch joining in, the younger medic likely trying to use the repetitive motion as a way to ground himself and avoid going into shock himself.

"Fives, have you found those blankets?" He called out after the ARC, who was somewhere under the receptionist's desk fiddling with the drawers and storage boxes.

"Got some of those electric ones that we've got in the Resolute's medbay, and some emergency ones as well!" Fives replied as he held up both the familiar reflective material and a very large bundle with a wire and remote attached to it.

"Great! Bring them over, as many as you can carry!" Kix knelt back down to turn remove Sponge's kit and then turn them on their side to avoid any chances of aspiration. His fellow medic didn't need to drown in their own sick, or end up with a bout of pneumonia on top of everything they'd already gone through. "Rex, Twitch, wrap up Coric in one of each blanket. I need one of you to keep an eye on his breathing and heart rate, and the other to raise his legs up. I'm going to tend to Pitch and Sponge, and once I'm done I'll have a look at his arm."

Fives handed over two of the blankets to Rex, before moving on to wrap up Pitch who was watching quietly. Giving Kix space to work on Sponge, while offering the blue-haired medic some basic first-aid. Between the two of them, the other two and most injured troopers were quickly patched up and bundled up nice and warm.

Then, Kix moved on to treating Coric.

As he'd guessed, his arm was in terrible condition. With all of the damage his shoulder had received, it was very likely he'd be losing the arm altogether. Something which made Kix's heart ache just thinking about it.

A loud and inhuman sounding shriek outside made everyone jump slightly. Pitch's eyes immediately darted towards the door, while Twitch visibly tensed. The younger medic's trembling worsening considerably as he recognized the horrid sound.

"Oh crap, I think they're here..." Fives gulped as he squinted out one of the tinted windows, seeing some movement in the distance. "We need to get that cure, and fast..."

"We're down three medics." Kix pointed out. "Cure or not, going out there won't end well for any of us... Especially if they know they have us boxed in."

"They hit so fast..." Twitch whimpered. "They caught us by surprise and... And..."

"We get the picture kid..." Fives winced, looking towards the injured medics and back out the door. "We'll... Think of something... But first, lets get down into the basement and look for what we came here for in the first place..."

Things were not looking good in the slightest. But what else could they do other than proceed with their mission? Maybe once they knew what they had to do, they could then figure a way to change the tides.

[ddelline]

s(tory) i(n) p(rogress) saturday

blurb | sup tumbler, it's ya girl!!! ya girl who's popping back in here after being absent for a solid month n a half (not voluntary, believe me) w a wildly non-canonical slice of jjk!post canon!doomed yuri!bit. I've been tits down (ass up) in work & gigs but caught up w the manga & anime today, anddd........

.......ho boy. if I wasn't f*cking inspired to write depravity for cv(sm)/adsr ANDDD, anDD venture off-road into au/rare pair!hell after that. gege, I did not have an ounce of faith left in u. but wtf!!!! anyway here we are w/ a bit of (incredibly) rough nobamaki (no I don't go here so idk what the ship apprev is (nor am I clever enough 2 coin my own sexy-sounding ship shorthand))

premise | post-canon (wherein everyone who's currently alive stays alive, plus nobara (as canonically never refuted!!!) lived post-shibuya) wherein both kugisaki nobara and zen'in maki, somewhere between bleeding wound & puckereed scar tissue, learn that you can be simultaneously more and less than your heritage - and be better for it. plus yūji. bc it's yūji

She startles awake at dawn.

An approximation of dawn, at the very least.

It’s funny, Nobara thinks, viewing the world through a half lens: she’d berated all of her tiny, narrow-eyed and even narrower-brained town of Yomogita as being one-eyed—as in figuratively—without ever stopping for a second to consider a) the possible physicality of the expression, or b) that she might one day be one-eyed (now literally, not figuratively).

It’s day three post-apocalypse—because what other term are you supposed to use when describing the past couple weeks—when she stumbles out the door of her corner of their figurative dorm at ass-o’clock in the morning and runs smack in to the unyielding front of Itadori.

The physicality of Itadori is a fun house that’s been abandoned to its vices, lilting just on the side of forsaken more than unoccupied: he’s baby faced and peach-haired at the same time as he’s sixteen rows of abs and a set of quadriceps fashioned to choke, rather than scale.

Nobara twists left and slams into him, but instead of admitting to the loss and conceding that she’s still wholly out of her depth with only one eye (plus a coorinated set of PTSD-guided nightmares, give or take) she starts and jumps backwards.

“Itadori!” she barks. 

Itadori has the good graces (which she was never taught—or they never stuck, whatever) to look sheepish. “Kugisaki,” he concedes. “You’re up early.”

She sucks a breath through her teeth. “Someone’s got to pick up the slack.”

Itadori inclines his head. He motions haplessly outwards, as if to say ‘headed out?’.

He says: “Where’re you headed?”

Tomato, tomah-to.

There’s a fine line between actively questioning and passively acknowledging, though via noncommittal query, what her intentions are, at 06:48 AM.

Nobara acknowledges the soft cheeked, unyielding abs-and-shoulders dichotomy of Itadori; she sees only the snot-nosed silhouette of the baby sibling she’d never had.

“You can take a guess, can’t you?”

“Hm. I guess you can’t sleep either.” 

It’s neither pitying nor searching. Is a question that isn’t a question.

Nobara rights the waist of her skirt and smooths the lines of her shirt down. It’s just beginning to crease, the poplin cotton of the uniform shirt starchily pressed still, its perfunctory lines not yet worn down to the point of giving beneath the press of the day’s whatever burdens. “It’s morning. You thought you could sleep in, or something?”

Itadori tilts his sharp-boned, soft-cheeked face. He smiles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

[let-me-iiiiiiiin]

I am betaless :((( i am forsaken, abandoned, wretched, left aside on a wet pavement invisible to any passerby, unheard by any ear, felt by neither skin nor heart, and I am alone. so alone. my fic has been left bereft of a father, the icon of safety, the mountain that shields from the bows of an invader and soothes the child with the certainty of their grasp. I, the mother, am widowed, and my faithless spouse, the watcher of my babe, has left me desolate on the splintered wooden floor. they look at me from the distance with only their peripheral gaze, and I see them walk by. A passerby. And I am unseen. Unheard. Unfelt, unloved.

[just-a-wri1er]

Seraphima

Your skin as dark as oak, seemingly like coffee; dark.

Your eyes shine a light I've never seen.

Your eyes a deep brown, like chocolate.

A whirling pool I could drown in.

Your arms, for me, are open wide

With a love forsaken.

Your voice dripping honey.

It was a symphony for my ears.

But all this a blur.

For people will abandon us tonight,

And people will hurt us for the most innocent of things.

Love, is neither a poison nor a cure,

But two people accepting another even despite all one's flaws.

So as I open my eyes again

And see the earth once more.

My heart breaks not once but twice.

"Sera?"

Now I live with the alive, with a broken heart, a shattered person and half a soul.

With the half of me gone, half of me missing.

The moon is ever eternal, a Goddess, a beauty,

Isn't she, My lovely phoenix?

©2023 Debbie Duran. All rights reserved.

[fozianabi]

By the forenoon. By the night when it darkens. Your Lord has neither forsaken you nor hates you.

Al-`Awfi reported from Ibn Abbas,

"When the Qur'an was revealed to the Messenger of Allah, Jibril was delayed from coming to him for a number of days (on one occasion). Therefore, the Messenger of Allah was affected by this. Then the idolators began to say, `His Lord has abandoned him and hates him.' So Allah revealed,

مَا وَدَّعَكَ رَبُّكَ وَمَا قَلَ

Your Lord has neither forsaken you nor hates you."In this, Allah is swearing by the forenoon and the light that He has placed in it.

وَالَّيْلِ إِذَا سَجَى By the night when it darkens (Saja).

meaning, it settles, darkens and overcomes them.

This was said by Mujahid, Qatadah, Ad-Dahhak, Ibn Zayd and others. This is a clear proof of the power of the Creator of this (light) and that (darkness).

[mikewheelerfan2022]

I found the best copypasta on Reddit ever today. Here it is:

My most revered and distinguished sir, if I may, with the utmost deference and regard for your exalted station, be so bold as to tender an observation of a somewhat delicate and regrettable nature, it is with the deepest sense of sorrow and incredulity that I must bring to your attention the apparent abdication of your once-pristine and universally admired mastery of the noble discipline of grammar. This skill, a jewel in the diadem of your intellectual prowess and a source of awe and inspiration to all who were fortunate enough to behold its resplendent application, seems to have, in a manner both sudden and profoundly unbecoming, forsaken its exalted position within your considerable repertoire.

One might envision this erstwhile paragon of linguistic precision as having been seized, almost as if by a wayward and capricious gust of wind, and unceremoniously thrust through the figurative aperture of a window left carelessly ajar, its departure executed with neither the solemn dignity nor the stately grace that one might reasonably expect of such an esteemed attribute. What has been left in its wake is a scene of considerable disarray-a veritable cacophony of misplaced modifiers, syntactical misadventures, and a distressing abandonment of concord and clarity-an upheaval that stands in stark and painful contrast to the polished eloquence which was once synonymous with your name.

Indeed, it is a most disquieting affair, and one that I recount only with the sincerest hope that this most curious state of linguistic entropy might soon be rectified, allowing your once-illustrious command of grammar to return to its rightful station, restored to its former glory and radiance, much to the relief and admiration of all who are privileged to witness it once more.