#like so emotionally exhausted and weary and just done

[ptn-imagines]

Can we have some headcanons for a romantic relationship with Cinnabar please? The reader might be either a chief or a sinner, it's up to you

This finally got me to finish Cinnabar's interrogation, and I'm glad it did! As a note, usually if a gender isn't specified I try to write gender-neutral, but there's enough subtext with Cinnabar that I'm not comfortable writing her romantically with anyone masculine-leaning, so I opted to write for f!Chief.

Romantic relationship between Cinnabar and f!Chief

By far, Cinnabar is probably the most normal partner in the whole MBCC that Chief could have picked – aside from perhaps Nightingale – and it shows.

There was no crazy romantic confession or outlandish gesture with these two. Heck, there wasn't even alcohol involved – just some coffee and cake slices at a cozy coffee shop Cinnabar took Chief to on one of her rare few days off.

Cinnabar was the one who confessed, and to her credit she managed to keep her voice more or less steady, even if she did blush as red as Cabernet’s hair.

(Chief later found out that her comrades at Serpent Eye had egged her into finally confessing, which made why the usually professional and somewhat emotionally shy Cinnabar suddenly confessed make sense.)

Compared to other Sinners, settling into a relationship with Cinnabar was… surprisingly easy. She was aware of Cinnabar's temperament, but also of every other Sinner's – so when nothing really seemed to change, Chief wondered if they'd done this wrong somehow.

Of course, it quickly became apparent that Cinnabar was being shy, even with the recent change in their relationship status. It was adorably endearing, and Chief began to try to think of ways to encourage Cinnabar to be a bit more confident showing affection.

It takes time, but Chief’s patience bears fruit. She’s able to get Cinnabar comfortable with hand-holding! It’s not much, but it’s honest work.

Given all this, Chief was surprised the first time Cinnabar entered her office, looking weary after a long and difficult dispatch – and pulled Chief into a gentle embrace.

Surprised, but not at all protesting. Any words died on the Chief’s tongue as she quickly wrapped her arms around the Sinner in kind, but this unusual behavior still worried her; reaching out with the shackles, she discovered that Cinnabar was even more tired than she had initially seemed. She wasn’t physically harmed, thank God, but even so… Cinnabar was an Endura Sinner for a reason. Seeing her this worn down to the bone set so many alarm bells ringing.

That night, Chief broke several Bureau rules and allowed Cinnabar to sleep with her in her bed. Cinnabar didn’t even protest the breach of etiquette, which only made the Chief even more worried. Just how exhausted was she? She was more than happy for the chance to cuddle with her usually hesitant partner, but…

When Cinnabar woke up the next morning, she was mortified at the breach in protocol. She apologized over and over, saying that she shouldn’t have let herself be so improper with the Chief, girlfriend or not. Nothing Chief said could change her mind, and her propriety was as endearing as it was frustrating in this particular instance.

Chief ended up telling Cinnabar she’d “let her off with a warning,” though she had no intentions of punishing the Sinner if this happened again. Of all the Sinners in the Bureau, Cinnabar was the least likely to try to take advantage of what had happened and make a habit out of it, so Chief saw nothing wrong with her seeking comfort and relaxation in a moment when she truly needed it.

Still, the Chief did order Cinnabar to rest for the next week, worried about her wellbeing. Cinnabar didn’t make a fuss about it, but it became evident by the second day that the Sinner was restless and more tense without something to do, so Chief had Cinnabar stand guard over her. It wasn’t like anyone was likely to be able to harm her in her office, and they both knew it, but it worked nevertheless; Cinnabar was able to wind down a little with something low-stress to do, and Chief got to enjoy her girlfriend’s company. This whole routine quickly became Chief’s go-to whenever she noticed Cinnabar was overworking herself.

Due to the workaholic natures of both Cinnabar and the Chief, dates for them are usually small outings tacked on after a mission, before they return to the Bureau. A walk around the block holding hands, or small talk over tea and cakes in a cafe; these dates are never anything grand, but then again, they wouldn’t want it to be.

The first time Cinnabar and Chief kissed is a moment neither of them will ever forget. It was in the wake of a particularly strenuous mission that had left the two of them stranded in a danger zone, hiding from Corruptors as they waited for a rescue team to come retrieve them. Huddled tightly against Cinnabar’s warmth, feeling her heartbeat, seeing her brows drawn and a light frown on her lips as she concentrated…

Adrenaline and impulse guided Chief to place a quick kiss on Cinnabar’s lips. It was a good thing that the bodyguard had already cleared out the nearby Corruptors or this could’ve proved a fatal distraction; Cinnabar’s concentration immediately broke as she flushed tomato red, staring at Chief with mouth agape and eyes wide. She seemed at a loss for words – but judging by how she leaned in for another kiss, she wasn’t unhappy.

Kissing Cinnabar didn’t happen often, despite everything, so Chief found herself cherishing whenever it did from then on. The kisses were far from perfect – neither of them had relationship experience before so figuring the whole technique out was a process of trial and error – but it was them, and that was what mattered.

Of course, Cinnabar brought Chief along whenever she went to visit Serpent Eye, and Chief was quickly accepted as part of the family. Though both she and Cinnabar blushed whenever someone joked about the two of them marrying, which they did often – remarking on how lucky Cinnabar was to “have a wife as perfect as this” was a common one that neither of them ever got used to.

[rascal-xo]

Sorry, I forgot to add, or maybe when he sees she died, he starts laughing hysterically instead of crying because of how much his lost in his life. Or it turns from crying to laughing hysterically, and the others are scared cause ghost pretty much lost it cause his just so done with his life.

It Was Just a Dream - Simon Riley x Female Reader

Summary: A mission gone wrong costing you your life causes a ripple effect amongst the 141… especially for Simon

Warnings: Blood, death, language, ANGST

Tags: @pukbadger @fiveshelmet @myguiltypleasures21 @madamemelaninn @emmaadlerrichtofen1 @swissy23 @thatchickwiththecamera @glitterypirateduck @glitteryeggalmondherring @allaboutirem0 @kittyoonsstuff @guiltgoreglory

A/N: Helllooo i’m finally back from my very long and not so productive hiatus but i’m here to stay this time and you can expect a lot more of your guys requests being put out this month!

Also i wasn’t able to find the first part of this request so i hope i was able to fill in the blanks loll

Simon sat in the dimly lit common area, nursing a bottle of beer in silence. The room was filled with a comforting hush, the only sound the occasional clink of glass against the wooden table. He watched You sunk into the couch comfortably across from him, your presence a rare oasis of peace in a world of chaos.

The team had just returned from a grueling mission that had left you all physically and emotionally drained. Simon had been yearning for this moment, to unwind with you, to share a few moments of respite with the person who understood him like no one else.

As he gazed at you, he noticed the way the soft, warm light played on your features, casting gentle shadows. He couldn’t help but smile, taking in the way their eyes sparkled with a hint of exhaustion, but also a glimmer of relief. “Got something on my face?” You chuckled, playfully nudging his leg with your shoe.

But then, in an instant, the scene shifted. The color drained from your face, and the bottle of beer slipped from your grasp, shattering on the floor. “Simon…” You gasped. Simon’s heart raced as he saw a pool of crimson seeping through your shirt. His world spiraled into chaos as he watched your put their hands on the wound in shock.

Frantically, Simon dropped to his knees beside you, trying to stem the bleeding. Panic coursed through his veins as he realized that time was slipping away, and he fought to save the person who meant everything to him. “No, no, Y/N stay with me love!” But despite his desperate efforts, your life slipped away, right there in his arms on the floor, and he could do nothing to stop it.

Simon suddenly jolted awake, his heart pounding, his body drenched in sweat. The room was empty, the common area quiet and undisturbed. It was the same nightmare that had haunted him relentlessly since your tragic death during that very mission a month ago.

The little sleep he rarely was able to get was never rid of the same moment of your life slipping away on repeat. It was like his own brain was trying to punish him. He blamed himself for your death every minute of every day. How he let your life slip right through his fingers. How he couldn’t save the one person who saved him.

Simon’s heart had turned to ice, and he had shut everyone out, including Price, Gaz, and Soap. The pain of losing you had carved a gaping void in his soul, one that seemed impossible to fill.

Simon slowly pushed himself upright, his body feeling like a lead weight. He reached for his balaclava and a pack of cigarettes from the side table. It had been a long time since he’d even considered going out into the common area, preferring the solitude of his own misery to the company of his teammates.

As he stepped into the common area, he was met with an unexpected sight. The captain, Soap, and Gaz were there, their faces bearing the weariness of rigorous training. He hadn’t attended training in weeks, staying away from anything and everyone.

Captain Price noticed Simon’s entrance and gestured for him to join them. The atmosphere in the room grew tense as Simon approached, the weight of their unspoken concerns hanging heavy in the air.

“Simon,” Captain Price began, his voice steady and somber, “how’re you holding up?” Simon slowly looked up to meet his gaze. How was he supposed to be holding up when the one reason for his light had been put out? He turned away, stuffing the cigarette pack into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

“The last of Y/N’s things were dropped off this morning. We feel you’ll know best what to do with them.”

Simon’s world seemed to collapse in on itself. He had been trying so hard to avoid this conversation, to keep a facade of composure. But now, faced with the reality of Y/N’s absence and their belongings as a tangible reminder, something inside him snapped. “I can’t.” He spoke, almost too harshly for any sort of comfort.

“We- we can’t dwell on it. This is apart of the job.” Prices voice broke. “She’s gone, Simon.”

Simon started to laugh. It began as a low, hollow sound, but it quickly escalated into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. Tears mixed with the laughter, creating a surreal and unsettling symphony of emotions. His teammates exchanged worried glances, uncertain of how to react.

The pain, the guilt, the loss—all of it converged into this maniacal outburst of emotion. He was so done with his life, with everything that had happened. The laughter was his final breaking point, a release valve for the overwhelming pressure of grief and guilt that had been building inside him.

He left his teammates shaken, unsure of how to help him when he seemed so far beyond reach.

It was clear when you died, all of Simon Riley died with you on that field.

[harri-etvane]

The Angst sentence starters.

Because I obviously like to torture myself with your brilliant Angst writing and hey, I haven't cried and screamed at things in a while :)

Volena (because why not break my heart)

"I'm so sorry for anything I've done to you."

(If this sparks no inspiration I will also be happy with "Please, speak to me.", "I am just so tired." or "You can't leave me alone.")

(And if you feel super inspired ... all four?!? 🥺👉👈)

(No pressure and no hurry though. I need time to emotionally prepare myself.)

Hey Jam! - thanks for sending these, they were a good exercise for me to stretch my angst muscles. I'm sorry they took so long!

I've written about 300 words for each of them, apart from "I'm so sorry for anything I've done to you." which didn't spark any inspiration in me at the moment. I'll keep it in my WIP doc of doom though, and if anything comes to mind; I'll post!

As there's nearly 900ish words, I'll pop them just below the cut. There's no over-arching narrative (or there could be if you squint at it really hard) and apologies - one of them ended up a bit similar to some bits and pieces I wrote for Early Though the Laurel Grows.

Anyway - I hope you like them; I'm excited to hear your thoughts! If you'd like a continuation of any of them, let me know! xxx

"Please, speak to me."

She's said it hundreds of times, or it feels that way at least, longing more than anything to hear the rough, gravelly cadence of his voice, feel the press of his hand against hers, the scratch of his beard against her cheek - even just the slow opening of his eyes, the familiar dark brown sparked with recognition, affection even.

She'd give anything for that sight - everything, even.

It comes out as a whisper this time, her voice hoarse.

“Please.”

Just the echoing silence instead - her own heartbeat thumping in her ears, so quiet she can almost hear the rush of blood through her veins. His breathing is slow and unsteady, every inhale leaving them both balanced on a precipice until the flimsy, weak exhale in response somehow manages to pull them both back from the edge, an awful, endless waltz. 

She takes his hand in both of hers and lifts it, pressing her lips to his knuckles; trying not to think of how cold his skin is, at odds with the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the bright red of fever staining his cheeks. Olena shifts her grip a little, holding on as tightly as she dares, his fingers limp in her grasp and without thinking, her fingertips find the cool metal of his wedding ring for the security it has always represented. She realises it is loose suddenly, his fingers thin, and that alone feels like another wound.

His badly-won rest is not entirely peaceful, eyelids flickering; even in unconsciousness, dragged there forcibly by the pneumonia that stalks his weary bones, his face is hollow and wan, the frown on his forehead unmoving. The sickening lurch of helplessness slides into her gut and sits there like an unwelcome friend, an enemy - she cannot take the weight from him even now; so utterly drained and exhausted, unable to find peace.

Despite her pleas, he remains near silent save for every laboured breath, pulled away on a tide she has no hope of following - so she must stay on the shore and wait for him to return.

________

"I am just so tired." 

She’s never heard him sound like this before; flat, dull - listless. He sits beside her, the long shadows in the room throwing his face into darkness as the light changes. The afternoon sun is dreary and faded, dragging the colour from the room, from him. Olena feels, just for a moment, as though she has never been further away from her husband, despite being so close.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

She pulls him towards her until he rests against her side, the weight of him familiar but just this once, it doesn't bring the same ordinary comfort. The dull weight of concern sits firmly in her chest instead as she watches his gaze move back to his desk, to the phone, his laptop, the endless reams of paper, unable to let himself truly set it aside, even just for this moment. She can feel the shadow of his ribs, the knots of his spine beneath the thick, black sweatshirt, more prominent than they were before and the concern sharpens. Gently, she places a hand on his cheek, the grey of his beard soft beneath her fingertips.

“Love?”

He turns to look at her fully then as her hand drops to his chest, his heart fluttering unevenly beneath her palm. It seems to have happened very suddenly - almost without her noticing; he looks old.

“I- oh, Lena. I'm-”

For the first time in such a long while, he struggles for words.

In the end, his voice is quiet.

“I ache.”

She nods silently, suddenly unable to speak, confronted with the painful weight of it all; this shattering glimpse of something so very raw, an unhealed wound that has nestled into the very heart of him. 

“I know.”

________

"You can't leave me alone."

The accusatory plea comes choked through a sob, ripped out of the deepest part of her, laid entirely bare here, in this one, lonely room. She tips her gaze to the ceiling - the ornate plasterwork, the gold - all of it blurred.

“You can't. You promised. You promised me the Carpathian mountains. You said–”

He'd said so many things, over the years, conjured so many ideas of what their life would look like afterward - hoped for something quiet and slow. He'd done it to comfort her, and often, himself - desperate to hold on to a future beyond the pain, beyond just living for each day, grateful for every sunrise and sunset. He'd murmured about their future during slow lunches over his desk and snatched seconds together, tentatively sketching it in broad strokes; fishing, walking, talking - space just to be. He'd talked about growing a garden, watching the seasons change and blossom with the sunlight, planting trees - cultivating something just for the beauty of it. She had listened to his plans, her hand in his and smiled - at his optimism, his determination, the knowledge that he would be by her side, through all things. She knew then that whatever happened, so long as he was with her - everything would be fine.

There had never been any question of them being apart.

Her solitude is shattered by the door swinging open, bringing with it a deeper silence, the familiar tread of combat boots and then a pause. She knows who it is without turning around. She knows why he is here. She feels Maksym behind her, his hand on her shoulder for the briefest moment. If she doesn't turn around, if she doesn't take another step; her world will not change - she will not have to go on, alone.

“Not yet. Maks. Not yet. Just, a little longer.”

“Olena Volodymyrivna.. I'm so sorry. It's time..”

[leconcombrerit]

I keep putting off watching recent episodes of DFF not because I don't like it but because I'm legit scared. I just watch spoilers. No further emotional involvement for now.

I put a lot of faith in this show and I'm slowly starting to think that maybe I should try and snatch it back while I still can. Although "think" might be a bit of a stretch. It's more of a survival instinct at that point.

Look, I don't care what trajectory it takes for most plot points and characters and ships and twists. Whatever is fine, it's done a good job so far, I'm in for the ride. There's just one thing I want -okay, maybe one and a half.

And it's for Non to have a good ending, preferably New as well.

And no, "everyone including them gets a bad ending" isn't a valid alternative for me. My love for these characters themselves put aside, it's the message and symbol that matter to me. I'm weary of the usual way characters like them are treated. Mentally and emotionally exhausted. I think I saw some Until Dawn comparisons at some point, and what happened in Until Dawn is exactly what I fear will happen in DFF too. Because it usually does.

Non, who's mentally ill and kept rolling with the punches over and over again, and New, who lived through trauma after trauma since his brother's disappearance, would traditionally snap (Non's aborted attack during his breakdown, New's whole story arc) and die.

It doesn't have to depict them as villains ; it can be a soft, sad and respectful tale of how people get abused and cornered and go too far as a result. So far they lose sight of themselves. But how many stories have you seen where they get a good ending ? The opportunity to heal and live ? Not many. Redemption and peace can only be achieved through death. It may be "realistic", but I find it very funny that media defaults to realism about this specific matter almost all the time.

What's worse, Phee and Jin are presented (so far, I'm still holding my breath) as the more "morally right" characters. Those you could see getting a good ending more easily.

And if Non, and preferably New, don't get a good ending, Phee and Jin absolutely musn't get one either.

They both have their flaws, sure, but how many times have we been shown that Jin is the least horrible person in this friend group, if not a downright good one at heart ? He's painted in a different light, always singled out. And Phee ? He's selfless, he's not a murderer, he's brave, he's kind, he regrets, he forgives, you get it (unless my theory of choice is right, but I'll go with what is explicitly told here). They both display values that everyone else lack.

But they got it served on a plate in comparison with the others. Those values and principles were developed in an environement that let them grow. We don't know much about their financial situation, but we haven't seen them struggle -unlike Non, New, and Tee's families. Phee talks to his dad and goes to him for help ; what about Por, who gets abused and is visibly scared of his father ? What about Non and New's relationship to their parents ? What about Tee's sick father and criminal uncle ? Where's the support system ? What about Fluke, always on his guard, entrenched in the sidelines, too scared to even allow himself to even think ? I'm leaving out Top (who I think represents gratuitous, unassuming evil) and White (who doesn't fit in the same equation for now) here, they give me nothing to work with so far.

Most of them don't have the strenght to walk the "right" path. They lived through shit much harder than Phee (who, by the way, chose to be with Non knowing, or even because, he was riddled with issues, and for whom Non's fate didn't break other parts of his life) or Jin (who seemed to live in his cute bubble before shit went down with Non, unaware even of his friends' true colors). They get a boost from the start and an easier middle, so of fucking course they'd be better armed to fight for a better end. Non was fucked from start to finish. He didn't stand a chance. New didn't stand a chance. Por, Tee and Fluke probably did, but not those two.

And it's not fair. Life isn't fair either, sure, but I can't help but repeat myself : it's fiction. And if even fiction tells you that if you're too damaged, and/or if you stumbled on a bad path while running away from what kept hurting you on the righteous one, then the only peace and redemption you can hope for is death, then I don't want it. Give me hope, not another "bittersweet" catharsis where it's always the same ones getting the bitterness and the same ones getting the sweetness. I don't want to be told I can be forgiven, I want to be told I can win and heal.

On a sidenote, I'm more lenient when it happens in fantasy settings. The events that lead to the character's ultimate fall and broken mind (sometimes rebuilt completely crooked) are far removed from reality. Your whole family was killed, you fought so many wars, truly horrible things, you name it. But in DFF the trauma is painfully rooted in reality. Many viewers, me included, had trouble watching Non's bullying. His breakdown, his loneliness. This is why I'm so demanding with the show. And as the end is closing in, I get scared.

HOWEVER I still have hope. A lot of elements I noticed could point to and ending I could accept. And, you know. It's not like going along with the trope I described is bad. It can be perfectly executed. It's a fine direction to take. Hell, I used to live for this narrative as a teen. It's just not for me anymore, I guess.

... Well, it was supposed to be a short post, apologies for the long rant, but I needed it off my chest.

[darkhairedmenrule]

Comfort in Love

This is for my friend @dantesunbreaker who needs some extra comfort right now. It is technically gn reader but he asked for Dew and transmasc reader so that's what I had in mind while writing this. I hope you enjoy it, sorry if it's not what you wanted.

To say you were not having a good day was an understatement and a half. Sometimes you can wake up and feel somewhat ready to start the day, others less so, and then there are the days like today. Days like today, when you awake from your voidlike sleep cycle and find the world already pressing in on you. Days where getting out of bed feels demanding and unfair to even consider. Days that no matter what you seem to accomplish, you find that you have 2 more tasks to do in its place. These days are a constant uphill battle and even with supportive clergy members and friends, it seems to drain you faster than you can get your chores done. Days like these make you feel grateful to call the Abbey your home, a safe space where you are free to be yourself and surrounded by friends who care and want to help you in any way that they can. And even though you know that your friends want to help, there is only one person who can help you feel more yourself after a day like today.

So when you finally get the last of your chores done for the day, you head back to your shared room to find your love. Opening the door to your room you find that your partner has not returned from his chores of the day, so you take off your shoes and other accessories and head to the bathroom to get ready to relax. After an emotionally draining day, you just want to go to bed and Cuddle with your sweet Dew, but you want to feel at least a little cleaner before getting into your bed. After cleaning up and changing into more comfortable clothes, you head back into the bedroom and see your little stuffed friend watching you from the bed. Even though they can’t talk and offer verbal comfort, they can cuddle with you and keep you from feeling too alone with your thoughts. Cuddling with your little stuffed horse that you have sweetly named Dewdrop, you try and maintain some sort of calm. It is even harder on days where nothing feels like it has gone right but you do your best to breathe slower and deeper while you wait for Dew to get back. 

A little while later, when you are starting to feel the exhaustion take over the anxiety and stress, you hear the door to your room open. Looking over to the doorway you see Dew taking off his accessories and mumbling to himself. He’s talking too quietly for you to hear what he is saying, but that is not what you are focused on right now. Your love is finally done with his day and you feel like you could cry with relief at seeing him. As he looks up, he notices that you are in your bed cuddling little Dewdrop, and a tired smile tugs at his lips. “ Hello my love, how are you doing?” he asks as he finally heads over to you, crawling in bed and pulling you close to his chest. “ Not great, today was just awful. Nothing I seemed to get done was right or what was needed. Then my family was awful and I-” You cut yourself off, burying your head into the space between his neck and shoulder, letting out a frustrated sigh.

Dew brings a claw-tipped hand up to your head, gently petting your head and holding you close. “I'm sorry that your day has been unfair to you my love. I wish I could help more but I'm here if you want to vent or you  just want to cuddle and let your mind relax.” You let out a little sniffle as the tears that you have been holding in all day finally slid down your cheeks in hot streams. You tap his arm twice and snuggle further into him, letting his body and presence act like a balm to your tired mind and weary soul. “ Alright sweetheart, let's just relax for a little hmm?” You make a small hum in response and relish in his slow, sweet loving brushes of his hand on your head and back.“ I love you, sweet boy, I know today has been rough on you and you are feeling too much but I just want you to know that I'm here and that I love you. Always. Nothing anyone or anything else has said or done will change that.” You feel a small smile pull at your lips and you whisper into his neck a quiet “I love you Dew” while you relax further into him. You might not be able to relax like this for long and you might need to vent or cry or do something else to get these thoughts out of your head. But for right now, you have your beloved Dew, and he's not going to let anyone or anything make your day worse. He is going to be here for you and help in any way that he can, holding you and loving you while you find your peace. 

[hiswordsarekisses]

How many times He has done this dance with me. 😭 Sometimes the consequences are the very best deliverer. He knows best. 💙 This is a little long but so beautiful:

“There he lay in a mess of emotion on the hall floor. Guilt and fear of a consequence wrecking his little body. Kneeling in front of him I ask for his hand. The sobbing response is ‘I don’t want a consequence.’ It had been thirty minutes of back and forth, the tug of war dance between irrational child and a parent desperate to remain calm. Once again I tell him I love him, stand up and return to fixing dinner. From the corner of my eye I see his body worn from the battle. I desperately want to tell him the future, my heart breaking over his distrust, but I can’t make his choice. I return to him again, ‘Give me your hand,’ I ask. ‘No,’ he replies, ‘I don’t want a consequence.’ ‘I love you son. Do you trust that I love you?’ As he shakes his head no, sorrow floods my soul. Once again, I say I love you, stand and return to dinner. His emotions calm and I return again, kneel, and ask for his hand. From behind him a brotherly voice says ‘Don’t do it, she’s mean, she just wants you upset.’ And the flood begins again.

So is this how God feels when I battle his character? He is love and cannot be other. I hear my Father say ‘a consequence is needed, your sin is apparent,’ but instead of trusting his love, I battle. In the wake of guilt and the sorrow of my sin, I can’t see truth. All I fear is the penalty I deserve as I hear voices around scream ‘save yourself, He isn’t good.’

Weary, I return to him again. ‘Look in my eyes,’ I ask. But he can’t...won’t. I see the battle raging inside. ‘I love you, look at my eyes,’ I repeat. His head turns but his eyes look away, up, down, around, determined to miss my gaze. ‘I love you,’ I remind him and wait. Knowing full well this is a choice he alone must make. Exhausted and worn, he looks up. ‘Give me your hand,’ I whisper.

As he timidly reaches out and grasps my hand, I help him up and into my lap.

Rocking and reassuring him, his sobs & body calm as he rests in my grace.

The fight was long and brutal; the war of self against obedience. Control verses surrender. It lasted longer than needed and cost him more emotionally than it should have. The punishment his heart endured was greater than any consequence deserved. And I was broken for him, wishing he would have chosen love and trust sooner.

So my Father whispers, ‘Trust my love. Correction comes because I love you. There is no condemnation, you are my child.’ And I have a choice. Trust Him and surrender to his loving hands or draw my sword, knowing full well battle always leaves unnecessary scars.”

Shauna Thomas

“And you have forgotten the exhortation that addresses you as sons: “My son, do not take lightly the discipline of the Lord, and do not lose heart when He rebukes you. For the Lord disciplines the one He loves, and He chastises every son He receives.” Endure suffering as discipline; God is treating you as sons. For what son is not disciplined by his father? If you do not experience discipline like everyone else, then you are illegitimate children and not true sons. Furthermore, we have all had earthly fathers who disciplined us, and we respected them. Should we not much more submit to the Father of our spirits and live? Our fathers disciplined us for a short time as they thought best, but God disciplines us for our good, so that we may share in His holiness. No discipline seems enjoyable at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it yields a harvest of righteousness and peace to those who have been trained by it.” Hebrews‬ ‭12:5-11‬

[bklynmusicnerd]

They really did segregation today segregation tomorrow on this episode. They really separated Trina and all the other black characters at home while everyone else was at Wyndemere for the repass. They also had the audacity to have Esme have a grave in the same cemetery as Spencer and had Liz of all people grieving her?!? Had Trina and Cam interact for like 1 minute but the rest of the episode he and Joss were sharing memories instead of all three of them?!? Trina had 30 second scenes, but the rest of the family, who didn’t give a fuck about him, had more scenes. Spencer’s funeral wasn’t even the focus because it went right back to Sonny and his shit and Gregory/Finn’s shit😑

Yeah I just got done watching it and I'm disappointed at all the missed opportunities that are occurring but I'm not surprised. Before I get into it, I wanna credit TA again for playing the physicality of Trina's grief/depression so consistently. Grief isn't always loud tears. Losing someone is exhausting. It makes you weary. And as much as the script is falling short, TA's acting isn't. That's what's making the storytelling choices so frustrating.

C&D allowing Lucky Gold on breakdown (who is also credited on the infamous cabin episode) and Kate Hall on script to effectively disappear the black mourners once the memorial moved to Wyndemere is a pretty egregious legacy to leave behind. Again, this racial segregation in the storytelling is not just bad optics, IT'S BAD STORYTELLING. Emotional beats were missed because of this idea that Trina's family and Spencer's family cannot interact for longer than two minutes.

The problem isn't the writing for Trina's depression. It actually makes total sense for her character and the way she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, to perceive Spencer's death as a personal failure of hers and punish herself for it. The problem is there's no way Cam, Joss and Ava wouldn't be spending a lot of that time at Wyndemere concerned about Trina? I mean, they had Laura, Joss, and Cam looking at this scrapbook of Spencer pictures that Nik allegedly collected and the majority of them feature Trina.

It actually looked insane how hard they had to work to give these people dialogue discussing Spencer's journey that didn't mention Trina. Honestly the fact that they prioritized punishing Nik over that Esme bullshit so much that he wasn't even allowed to attend his son's fake funeral is a testament to how badly they're handling this presumed death arc.

Even the eulogy that Alexis gave made me laugh because she said something about how in the blink of an eye he became this confident young man who took responsibility for his choices. Uh, yeah, no, Spencer came back to town a bitter and angry young man who was stunted emotionally. Trina entering his life is what inspired Spencer to become the man that Alexis described. And Spencer himself said that many, many times.

Yes, he admired Cam and wanted to be like him, but those two didn't really bond until Spencer needed someone to confide in about his stupid hero plan to save Trina. It's the only reason Cam stood by him. The HS trio should have been the emotional center of this memorial. Instead, Spencer's family honored him by barely acknowledging the girl he loved so much he "died" for her. Because the writers decided maintaining their Generally White Hospital tradition (thank you to VA for that fitting title) was more important.

Trina and Spencer's story (and the sheer buzz around it) should be inspiring an integration of the canvas. Instead, it's being told poorly so they can enforce some pretty archaic storytelling politics. I really hope PM brings an end to that shit because it genuinely does mess up the flow of the story, disregards existing relationships and makes me uncomfortable when it comes to watching this soap.

There are shows from the sixties that aren't as strictly racially segregated as GH was today. I shouldn't even have to explain why that's not sustainable for a show trying to carve a future for itself. The writing culture under C&D's leadership was truly fucked up.

That said, this would have been a much stronger episode if we had SP or CG on script. They keep assigning these key aftermath episodes to writers who are clearly not comfortable writing long or in-depth pov for Trina. It's a poor choice, especially when we know it's a fake death and Trina is going to be key to his return. It's just unforced error after unforced error and that is why you don't see anyone seriously mourning the loss of C&D.

[starseedfxofficial]

Triple Top Secrets: How to Outwit the Market with Scenario Analysis The Triple Top Breakdown: What It Is and Why It Matters Ah, the triple top pattern—if chart patterns had personalities, this one would be the market’s version of the elusive "I'm not mad, just disappointed". It’s the kind of setup that toys with traders' emotions, hinting at greatness, only to pull the rug out just when everyone starts to relax. You think you're looking at a breakout, but suddenly, the market flips like a bad sitcom twist. And if you’ve ever mistaken it for a bullish signal only to watch your trade turn sour, don’t worry—you’re in good company. The triple top pattern is essentially the market's way of saying, “I’ve tried three times, and I’m done." It’s a reversal signal, showing us that an uptrend has bumped its head on resistance not once, not twice, but three times, only to fall back down. It’s a setup where scenario analysis comes in handy—allowing traders to dissect and understand the potential outcomes before things get messy. Today, we’re diving deep into the mystique of the triple top. Forget basic definitions—we’re talking about hidden opportunities, underground tactics, and strategic moves to help you make your mark while others are caught napping. Buckle in—but not like you would for an overly bumpy rollercoaster. This ride is going to be full of insights and perhaps just a few trading-induced chuckles. Why Most Traders Get the Triple Top Wrong Most traders look at the triple top and fall into the classic “false breakout” trap—they think it's time to buy because, hey, three attempts must mean this market wants to break free eventually, right? Wrong. A triple top is like that unreliable friend who says they’ll finally show up on time the third try, and then… you know what happens. The thing about a triple top is that it’s all about resistance—three peaks, one refusal to let price break out higher, and a market that’s ready to throw in the towel. While it’s an indication of weakness for the bulls, it also signals a potential opportunity for you to short the market if you time your entry well. And here's where the magic of scenario analysis enters the scene. Imagine the triple top as a dating scenario: you’ve got three promising dates lined up with the same person—each ending awkwardly, without that satisfying connection. By the third strike, you’re probably reconsidering if it’s worth another shot. That’s how the market feels when it can’t break past that resistance level—it’s emotionally exhausted and ready to make a U-turn. Flipping the Triple Top in Your Favor If you’ve been through Forex enough times, you know there’s always more than one possible outcome. Scenario analysis helps lay out these outcomes before they happen—like getting a sneak peek at multiple endings to a blockbuster movie. So, what’s a triple top scenario analysis look like? Scenario One: The Classic Reversal The triple top lives up to its reputation—it can’t get through that resistance, starts looking weary, and then the price plummets back down. This is your traditional triple top, and the one most traders expect. The trick to winning here? Patience. Let the market come to you—wait for confirmation before you enter. Spot the neckline, watch for the breakdown, and then pounce. “But here’s where the real magic happens...” (see what I did there with the subtle transition?) Adding to the analysis, you can use supporting indicators—like the RSI dropping below 50—to see if momentum agrees with your reversal hypothesis. Scenario Two: The Fake-Out Reversal Markets are mischievous creatures—they enjoy giving traders a good head fake now and then. Sometimes, after a triple top, prices fall just enough to make everyone jump in on the short side… only to rocket back up, leaving shorts in the dust. This is the fake-out reversal. Here’s where your ninja scenario analysis skills make a difference. Look at the volume—a convincing break typically brings the party with increased activity. Light volume? Be suspicious. And if your gut is whispering doubts (let’s be honest, we traders know the gut has some strong instincts), you may want to wait before clicking that button. Scenario Three: The Triple Top that Wasn't Occasionally, price will break through the resistance of a triple top, and all those who were waiting to short get blindsided. What we have here is market manipulation at its finest. And while it’s not exactly a party trick, knowing that this is a possibility could help you avoid buying into the hype too soon. Keep an eye out for macro announcements that could influence sentiment—such as a surprise interest rate decision or political development. For instance, a breakout could very well coincide with a change in the PMI data—another potential nudge in market direction. As traders, we don’t want to fall for what seems like the market’s version of a cheap trick. Embrace the Risk The traditional narrative goes like this: triple tops mean reversals, reversals mean risks, and risks should be avoided. But what if we flipped that? If you’re the kind of trader who has a penchant for standing out, perhaps the very existence of a triple top tells you it’s time to go against the grain. Contrarian trading, when done with solid research and careful scenario analysis, often yields rewards for those brave enough to take it on. Consider using layered entries around the resistance levels instead of the popular short positions. If the resistance gives way, you could catch the move earlier, positioning yourself with minimal risk—the hallmark of a truly shrewd trade. Don’t Get Caught by a False Narrative If you’re trading triple tops, you need to be best friends with confirmation techniques—not the kind of friends who "see each other once in a while" but the "exchange memes at 3 AM" kind of friends. Look at other indicators like moving averages, volume profiles, and candlestick patterns. Confluence is your trusty sidekick—more than one thing should tell you, “It’s time!” before you jump in. A wise trader once said, "Wait for the market to confirm, don’t force it." Was that an expert with a PhD in economics, or just my grandma sharing wisdom while playing bingo? I’ll let you decide. Beyond the Triple Top A triple top can also be a signal for other potential market patterns. Ever hear of the Head and Shoulders pattern? Sometimes, what starts as a triple top ends up morphing into a larger, more sinister pattern—cue the Jaws theme music. Your best bet is to keep track of the neckline and how the price reacts. Scenario analysis can help you anticipate whether this transition is happening, offering you a heads-up before the rest of the market catches on. Navigating the Trickiness of the Triple Top Trading isn’t just a science—it’s an art form, filled with psychology, patience, and a touch of humor to navigate those dramatic ups and downs. Triple tops can be the market's subtle reminder that not every mountain is meant to be climbed, at least not yet. The key to mastering this elusive pattern lies in meticulous scenario analysis, careful attention to market cues, and most importantly, understanding when to stay patient and let the charts tell their story. In conclusion, remember that not every pattern deserves a knee-jerk reaction. Wait for your setups, analyze your scenarios, and add a dash of humor to remind yourself that, at the end of the day, we’re just here to outsmart the market—not overcomplicate it. Happy trading, and remember, the next time you spot a triple top, picture it like buying those shoes you think you'll wear—three times you tried, three times you backed off. Maybe it’s time to reconsider. And hey, want to make sure you never fall for a triple top trap again? Join our community at StarseedFX for daily insights, alerts, and game-changing strategies. Don’t go it alone—trade smarter, not harder. —————– Image Credits: Cover image at the top is AI-generated   Read the full article

[vinceleemiller]

Storms and Strongholds of Refuge | 1 Samuel 23:28-29

Do you believe that God is your refuge in the storm?

Welcome to the Daily Devo. I am Vince Miller.

This week, we are in Chapter 23 of 1 Samuel. I've titled this chapter "Your Way Or The Lord's Way."

Yesterday, David barely escaped, and today, he ran to his 13th location after leaving King Saul's home. I wonder where that might be. Let's see in 1 Samuel 23:28-29:

So Saul returned from pursuing after David and went against the Philistines. Therefore that place was called the Rock of Escape. And David went up from there and lived in the strongholds of Engedi. — 1 Samuel 23:28-29

The next chapter chronicles the "Strongholds of Engedi," which, in my opinion, is one of the most significant chapters in 1 Samuel. You do not want to miss a single day of devotionals. You need to stay with me for the entire week. Don't miss one. Tune in because the next seven days are incredible.

For a moment think about how David felt after running for years to now the 13th location. He had zig-zagged across Israel to various locations to avoid the storm of Saul's unrighteous vengeance.

This last week, I evacuated Bradenton, Florida, to head up the coast and stayed in Panama City, waiting out Hurricane Milton. I was only gone for three days, and I cannot tell you how emotionally and physically exhausted I was. When I returned, I was unprepared for how much physical labor needed to be done at my son's home (St. Petersburg) and my home (Bradenton). Just so you know, it looks like Haiti down here. Gas stations are out of fuel. There are down powerlines everywhere. Most fences are gone or scattered all over the street. Massive piles of trash and debris line every street. But you know what? I cannot imagine how David mustered spiritual fortitude and stayed centered in the Lord after 10-15 years of running from the storm of Saul's vengeance.

It makes me wonder if I, as a believer, have become too soft, given the comforts and pleasures of my time. I mean, think about it. Three days running from a storm, and I was already feeling the weight of emotional and physical exhaustion. Yet David endured far worse—years of constant running, hiding, and uncertainty. He didn’t have a comfortable place to land. There wasn’t any relief on the horizon, just more running. And yet, through all that turmoil, he stayed centered in the Lord.

The “Rock of Escape” wasn’t just a geographical place for David but a spiritual reminder. In the middle of his storm, God provided a way out, a refuge, and renewed strength to keep going. And I think this is a lesson for us.

When we face our own storms—short like mine or long like David’s—it’s easy to grow weary and question whether we can keep going. But the truth is, God is still our Rock of Escape. He meets us in the chaos and gives us the strength to endure, no matter how relentless the storm may feel.

So, take a hard look at where you’ve placed your faith. Are you resting in your comforts, your routines, or your own strength? Or are you relying on the Lord as your refuge, your Rock? David’s endurance wasn’t because of his natural abilities. It was because he had learned to lean on the Lord through every challenge and storm.

Let’s learn from his example and put our faith not in our comforts but in the God of all comfort, who is our refuge when the storm rages on.

Stay with me this week. We’re just getting started.

#RockOfEscape, #FaithInTheStorm, #GodIsOurRefuge

Ask This:

In tough times, how can you rely on God instead of your own strength?

Reflect on a past personal storm and how God supported you. What lessons can you apply to current challenges?

Do This:

Trust God in your storm he is your Rock.

Pray This:

Lord, help me to find my refuge in You during life’s storms, trusting in Your strength to carry me through uncertainty. Remind me that, like David, I can lean on You as my Rock of Escape, no matter how relentless the challenges may be. Amen.

Play This:

Firm Foundation (He Won't).

Check out this episode!

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

YOU ARE SOMEBODY THAT I WANT TO KEEP ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; you aren't sure what you have with satoru gojo, but you know that it’s good.

word count; 6.7k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, colleagues to friends to something unlabelled, you love each other though!!, fluff, hurt/comfort, very very soft, reader falls first but gojo falls harder, both of u are afraid of intimacy lol, a lil angsty if u squint, satoru gojo cherishing u for ~7k words straight <33

a/n; basically just a collection of moments between you and gojo throughout the years <33 (a significant amount of time has passed between each part!!) hes an emotionally repressed loser but i love him and he is smitten w u.

in the soft luminescence of daybreak, your kitchen looks something like a dream.

tainted with a hazy sunshine, simmering with warm colours and pleasant scents, it almost seems to sparkle in the peripheral of your vision. brimming with that feeling of home, a home you’ve broken your bones building, desperate to shape it into something safe — and you think you’ve done a pretty good job.

it’s soothing, comforting, all of these sensations. bleeding into each other like smudges of paint on a canvas; hyacinths blooming by the windowsill, espresso-flavored steam wafting up to the roof, soft meows stemming from the cats by your feet. absolute bliss.

indulging in a peace yet to be shattered by the strain of the working world, you rub the sleep from beneath your weary eyes. blinking and yawning like a drowsy child.

beyond the translucent glass of your windows, glimmering with the light of a sun soon to rise, the world is painted pink and indigo — save for that one hint of gold, a streak of honey slathered across the surface of the sky. fluffy clouds drift through the chilly air, melting in the wake of a new day, and you think they look a little like tufts of cotton candy. soft enough to sink your teeth into, if only the glass wasn’t in the way. keeping the cold out.

it’s a new day. a pleasant morning, sitting comfortably on the brink of dawn, before the city has a chance to rouse from its slumber.

a kind of solitude you so rarely get to bask in. 

a false solitude, really. because, for once, there’s another human being in your home — one you don’t know nearly as well as you’d like, for him to be fast asleep on your couch, cheek smushed against the leather. snoring softly. 

satoru gojo.

like this, he looks very… human. vulnerable. hair just slightly tousled, from tossing and turning on your not-so-comfortable couch, blindfold only covering one of his eyes and close to slipping off entirely. his expression has melted into one of something vaguely resembling relaxation, as close to unguarded as you assume he can physically get.

even in his sleep, he looks a little stiff. not entirely at peace; like a stray cat sleeping under the hood of a car. 

(you’re curious. fascinated, maybe, by the loneliness that clings to the strongest person in the universe. by the paradoxical innocence of his grin.)

honestly, everything from last night is kind of a blur. you remember accompanying the strongest sorcerer on a mission, one long enough to leave you completely and utterly spent, fatigue nestled deep into your bones. remember gojo getting a sudden migraine, so earth-shattering that you thought he was going to keel over and throw up in the middle of the street.

then you remember bringing him back home with you. very hesitantly, only after he begrudgingly accepted the fact that he didn’t have much of a choice. because you were fucking exhausted, and so was he, and your apartment happened to be conveniently close. you remember him practically passing out on your couch, still somehow managing to crack a bad joke you can’t recall, while you went to collapse into the comfort of your bed.

and now you’re here. dyed in half-transparent sunbeams, caffeine bubbling in your veins, gazing at your sleeping coworker from your spot by the kitchen table. waiting for the world to open its weary eyes.

it’s still early. some part of you expects him to sleep a while longer, but you can’t say you’re particularly surprised when gojo begins to stir.

a splotch of sunshine splatters across your living room window, staining the floorboards, falling over the contours of his pretty face. in the light, he looks positively holy; white lashes, pale skin, plump lips. like a goddess.

when he opens his eyes, it’s even worse. a single iris cracked open, pooling with unbridled brilliance. eyes so blue they seem to cut through the stillness of the air.

(— and the world wakes up.)

a little groan slips from his lips, barely audible. with groggy movements, he brings a hand up to his face, obscuring the grating light of the sun flitting in. you think you can almost see the gears of his mind turn, as he takes notice of his surroundings, remembering what transpired just hours before.

faster than you thought, he regains some semblance of composure. huffing under his breath, as he forces himself into a sitting position. 

it feels a little wrong, to see the closest thing this world has to a god act so human. be so human. morning-fatigued, just like you, wearing droopy eyelids and a soft, sleepy pout. a little disheveled. groggy with lost dreams.

when his gaze meets yours, you can’t control the breath that hitches pitifully in the back of your throat. a meek skip of your heartbeat, like you just saw something you shouldn’t have. oops.

gojo cracks a grin.

“.. watchin’ me sleep?” he calls out, cheeky. paired with a drowsy yawn. composed, unbothered, but there’s something almost performative about it, something you’re sure you’d miss if he wasn’t still in the process of collecting himself. 

“good morning,” is all you offer him. ignoring his teasing remark. he doesn’t push it, to your surprise. “sleep well?”

a hum. absentminded, jovial. one of his large hands goes to adjust his blindfold, the other to fluff up his hair. kicking off the blanket you just barely had the energy to throw over him last night. your fluffiest one, warm enough to protect him from the chill gnawing at the windows. hopefully.

“like a log,” he quips, stretching idly, muscles straining under his baggy uniform. they must be sore, after that mission. or maybe he’s above such things.

choosing not to comment on his obvious lie, you put your lips against the ceramic of your cup. sipping from the bitter brew, a tinge of hazelnut on your tongue. letting him gather his bearings without you scrutinizing him. a little favor, one liar to another.

“thanks for letting me crash,” he grins, lazy. toothy. stumbling to his feet with a low groan, gaze flitting around the room — looking for the exit. “i’ll get outta your hair,” he mutters, and you raise a brow.

“not staying for breakfast?”

gojo stills. your question rings out, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, into the living room.

his smile twitches, ever so slightly, in what you think must be surprise. then it’s back to normal; like putting on a mask, not allowing a sliver of weakness to slip through the cracks. he exhales a raspy chuckle, a sound that flows through the air and crawls down your spine.

”generous, aren’t you?” he hums, voice rich with amusement. dappling sunlight licking at the white locks of his hair.

you shrug. “i wouldn’t mind the company.”

the words climb up the walls of your throat, a little reckless, eager to catch a glimpse of the miracle before you. satoru gojo, framed by the simplicity of your home — somewhat hard to let go of. sunkissed skin, restless hands. a little out of tune. shifting from foot to foot, eager to get away.

(a little like a frightened fawn, you amuse yourself by thinking. he’s really more like the fox who scared it.)

you think he must be bit uncomfortable. forced to spend the night in a coworker’s apartment, one he doesn't even know that well, one he probably doesn’t have any intention of getting to know. still trying to politely excuse himself. persistent, stubborn.

maybe he didn’t expect this. maybe he was convinced he could sneak away, before you had a chance to wake up. maybe he thought you’d be all too eager to let him leave, and never speak of this again. maybe he’s not used to being wanted. 

“ha… i’m flattered, believe me, but —“

“what do you usually eat?” you ask. cutting him off, gently, tapping your fingertips against the edge of the table. “for breakfast, i mean. i’ll whip something up.”

a chuckle slips from his lips. you can’t put your finger on it, but something about it bothers you. “really, there’s —“

“if you’re worried about inconveniencing me, don’t be.” you pause, unsure of what to say. but the words end up spilling out of your throat, oddly honest. ”it’s been a while since i had the chance to make breakfast for someone else.” 

it’s strange, really, how intent you are on seeing this through. how much effort you’re putting into making him stay. you barely even know him. actually, you don’t know him at all — all you know is that his smile makes you happy and his strength makes you envious. that you aren’t afraid of him, even though you probably should be.

something about him just feels safe.

“i’m pretty good at making pancakes,” you hum, a small smile playing at your lips. polite, jovial. pale light flits in through the window and slips into its curve. ”do you want some? before we go to work.”

(something in his fingers twitch, when you say that tiny word; pancakes. a little tell. you just barely catch it, before it sputters out. before he reels it back in.)

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, a rubber band bound to snap.

gojo stands there, a very subtle contemplation etched into his features. behind him, your cats begin to scratch at the couch, but you don’t scold them. just waiting for something to happen. beyond the glass of your windows, the sun unfurls in the sky, stretching its arms to envelop the world.

he grins, suddenly. soft light reflecting off the white of his teeth. cocky, composed, not quite performative — just a little more natural.

“well, if you insist.”

he strolls over to your side, just a tiny bit sluggish, lazy steps and comically long limbs. he must still be tired. but he takes a seat, right across from you, plopping down on the chair with an effortless air of confidence. lighthearted, leaning his elbows on the table, crossing his legs under it. comfortable. settling into his role.

you’re pleasantly surprised.

“how would you like them?” you ask, and you think some of your excitement may have spilled out with the question. if it did, gojo doesn’t comment on it. ”your pancakes.”

“with chocolate chips, please!” he shoots you a sweet smile. “and whipped cream on top.” 

so demanding. for some reason, it makes the corners of your lips quirk up. kinda like a bratty younger brother.

“got it.”

the smell of dark chocolate hangs heavy in the air as you get to work, shuffling around the open space. all while gojo waits, patiently, tapping his foot under the table and staring out the window. leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. listening to the humming of nightingales on the branches of the apple tree down on the ground, and the buzz of your old radio.

the kitchen fills with motion, sounds, smells. life. splotches of sunlight, crinkled cartons of orange juice. the clinking of plates. two tired adults, seated at the same table, indulging in a fleeting peace and the promise of something new. something almost concrete.

a small, precious moment. enough to make your fascination shift into something you know must be fondness. or close to it. 

gojo grins at you, mouth full of pancakes, eagerly telling you about something the kids did last week. wolfing them down, chocolate smeared over his bottom lip. you laugh, and suddenly the world feels a little safer than it should. a little more intact.

you wonder what it means. where it’s going to lead. this feeling of something wonderful beginning, something you couldn’t stop if you wanted to.

a budding connection.

the city lays blanketed beneath a layer of thick snow. blurry pale dots dancing in the wind, obscuring the sky, frost engulfing every building in a bone chilling hug.

with a slight shiver, you dig your hands into the comfort of your pockets, seeking the fleeting warmth you find. admiring the frozen landscape before you, the hustle and bustle of people going about their day. the saffron light of the lamp posts, the glittering snow by your feet, the skeletal apricot trees and their bare branches. this monochrome city you find yourself in.

gojo exhales. strolling cheerily down the street, in tandem with you, a frosty breath to your left that scatters and melts into the open air. it smells minty.

today, he’s wearing black shades — like he usually is when you meet outside of work. it’s kind of nice. when you angle your face a certain way, you can almost see the blue pooling in his eyes, the white of his eyelashes. 

he’s beautiful. he always has been. but like this, you think his beauty is simply unfair, highlighted by the winter wonderland you find yourselves in. mesmerizing, the red flush of his cheeks, how he hums along to some jolly tune playing from a little corner store further down the street. all bundled up, in a stylish overcoat and a nice scarf, untouched by the snowflakes fluttering about. 

protected by his infinity, always. the silly god you call a friend.

he looks content, despite the cold that keeps nipping at your bare skin, smiling widely. blabbing on about the movie you’re about to watch, how he saw it back in high school but never thought it’d get a remake. how his friend thought it sucked but that friend always had bad taste so his opinion is irrelevant. how he has faith that you’ll like it.

(cute.)

distracted by the pretty man so close by, close enough to touch, you don’t look ahead. maybe just a little bit entranced. which would be fine, if you didn’t happen to be walking on the right side of the street — 

crashing straight into a lamp post.

”owch!”

it’s sudden. and it’s a harsh collision, enough to leave your nose stinging, an ache that makes you whine. cursing under your breath as you take a couple steps back, hands reaching for the part of your face that took the brunt of the hit. 

and gosh, is this embarrassing. you dance on the edge of death for a living, and here you are — whining over walking into a fucking lamp post. because you were too enamored by the beauty of your own coworker to pay attention to your surroundings. 

a coworker who is currently looking at you, silently. having failed to warn you in time, stuck in his own memories, caught up in his in-depth, spoiler-filled review of a movie he’s been waiting to watch all week. 

for a moment, all he does is blink. long eyelashes fluttering, like a dove flapping its wings. 

then he starts laughing.

scratch that — gojo is downright cackling, thoroughly amused by your clumsy mishap, like he just saw the funniest thing in the world. laughter ringing out into the cold air, white breaths to compliment the red of your burning ears.

asshole.

with a harsh furrow of your brows, you attempt to look angry; but before long, your lips are curling up. infected by his joy. a soft punch to his shoulder is all you manage, biting back a little puff of laughter. you’re embarrassed.

(so embarrassed you don’t even notice how he puts his infinity down.)

”don’t laugh, you piece of shit!” you hiss, grinning even still, flushing and trying to ignore the curious glances you get from passersby. ”it really hurt!”

but gojo doesn’t stop. doesn’t even attempt to. you think he just grew even more amused, if anything, practically bending over from how hard he’s laughing — clutching his stomach.

”sorry, sorry — ’m just…” he tries to speak, taking deep breaths in between bursts of giggles. ”how the hell — how’d you —” 

he stops trying. laughing, again.

and it’s a genuine laugh. a little wolfish, spilling out from his pretty parted lips, showing off his sharp teeth. from the very bottom of his gut, clear and bright, deep and infectious. melodic. shades close to slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up behind them. trying to collect himself, muffled giggles turning to soft vapour in the cold air. dimples visible on his rosy cheeks.

and suddenly you can't think, can't speak, can only look at him and wonder how a human can be so very beautiful. how it’s metaphysically possible. like a crushed cluster of stars was given human form, a body of celestial light.

he looks so young, like this. a millenia younger, no weight on those broad shoulders, no immovable wall to separate you both. he looks like one of the guys you used to hang out with in middle school, running through corridors and play fighting and holding back shared laughter in the library. before the bite of the world left a mark in your skin.

he looks like himself. like someone pulled the mask off, and all that’s left is the human. none of the godhood he was saddled with at birth.

while you’re busy staring, gojo finally finds his composure again. wiping at his glassy eyes, a chuckle slipping out here and there. distracted by the breathtaking sight, you begin to forget the sting of your collision — until you feel something warm trickle down your chilled skin. 

searching for it with the pads of your fingers, you feel a trail of wetness beneath your nose. and when you bring them down, to get a look, all you see is red. 

”ah.”

gojo moves closer. maybe just a little alarmed, by the blood dripping from your nose, staining the white of the snow beneath your feet. a chilling contrast, one you’re frighteningly used to. it’s almost comforting. blood on your skin, that sting of pain clogging up your nose, enough for you to get lost in. colours melting together, memories rising to the surface —

when suddenly, something touches your cheek. 

one large hand goes to keep your jaw in place, gentle. smooth leather, sneaking under your chin, lifting your face up ever so slightly. warmth trickles from his fingertips through the fabric, and you can smell a hint of his perfume. strawberries and vanilla.

gojo looks at you fondly. wiping the blood from your nose, smudging his expensive gloves. from this angle, you can see his eyes, a blue shimmer in an evening painted white and gray — the sole flicker of colour in this monochrome city. they’re crinkled at the edges.

he looks awfully amused.

(you stay still, not breathing, like any slight motion could have him pulling away.)

”careful,” he croons. so low you barely hear it, almost a purr. the word has a soft underbelly, something you don’t need to dissect to feel.

a sentiment that seems to simmer in the air around you, drifting past the little corner store, a dog tied to a lamp post, your reddened cheeks. past the blue of his eyes, a peripheral that stretches to cover the city before you. words too heavy to speak aloud.

stay safe for me, silly.

then he’s letting go. sudden, the bite of the air replacing his hand. it lingers on your skin, like a memory, like the ghost of a memory. but it’s there. strawberries and vanilla, leather and warmth. something kind. warm.

and it stays there, even as gojo takes a step forward, no longer facing you. walking confidently, the wind bending around his tall stature. long legs and large steps, leaving an imprint in the snow for you to follow. a northern star.

he turns his head, and grins. hair tousled by the breeze, white locks glittering with snowflakes. ”you coming? it’s starting soon.”

a moment passes. 

”or do you need me to call shoko?” 

you puff out a breathy laugh, at that, stumbling forward. reaching up to wipe more of the blood sticking to your skin. sniffling, but smiling, teeth peeking out between your lips.

”yeah, yeah,” a roll of your eyes. ”’m right behind you.”

gojo’s eyes crinkle, disappearing behind his shades when he straightens his back and raises his head. moving forward, while you follow; his back turned to you, snowy hair melting into the white all around you. like something out of a painting. 

with a pep in step, you catch up to him. eager to hear more of his voice, his memories. still basking in the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

a touch from the untouchable.

gojo’s lying on your couch.

he usually is, to be fair, so it shouldn’t be surprising. kicking his legs up, watching tv — or sleeping, snoring loudly, like the couch belongs to him. like your home belongs to him. like he pays rent, and doesn’t just laze around and devour all the sweets in your kitchen cabinets.

(he’s there so often that you’re starting to wonder if you should give him a copy of your keys, or something. but you have a feeling that’d be just a smidge too intimate for him to ever accept.)

this time, however, gojo is doing neither of those things. 

he’s on your couch, but he isn’t manspreading, or draping himself over the leather with a lazy grin. he doesn’t have that air of effortless confidence. and it’s palpable, in the air, the open space, enough that you can feel it. an itch on your skin, a lump in your throat. you could practically feel it as soon as you walked through the door.

he isn’t wearing his blindfold, or his shades. he isn’t even smiling. and gojo is always, always smiling.

you think he might be having a rough day.

even the cats are noticing that something’s off. jumping up in his lap, trying to comfort him, brushing against his legs. purring, when he cradles them close — always so gentle with them. hands petting down their backs, softly, the same hands he uses to rip out the throats of curses and curse users alike.

then they mewl and run away. and for once you wish they wouldn’t, wish they could keep clinging to him like they always do. just to make him feel better. right now, in the state he’s in, you wouldn’t even mind gojo’s usual smug declarations of how does it feel to know they like their papa best? 

you can’t help but feel unsure of yourself. gojo isn’t doing anything, and he isn’t saying anything. he’s just lying there, on his back, eyes closed. letting the darkness of the room engulf him. drowning in his own thoughts.

he must know that you’re there. he must have heard you come in. but he isn’t saying anything, and you wonder if that means he wants you to leave him alone.

you’re reminded of that one morning. when he woke up on your couch, and looked more human than you’d ever seen him. how you wanted to avert your eyes, how wrong it felt to see a god rouse from its slumber. 

(but you know better now.)

hesitantly, you begin to inch closer, step by step. quiet, floorboards barely creaking beneath your weight. tentative, as you settle down on the couch. brushing against the infinity between you.

gojo’s eyes flicker open. like an old tape beginning to play. they still shine with that same brilliance, they always do, but now you think they look just a little dull. a little red.

a moment passes. agonizingly slow.

before you can properly think it through, you’ve done it. almost on instinct, jumping the gun before he has the chance to cover everything up with jokes and laughter. opening your arms; a silent invitation.

gojo only stares. 

his gaze moves down to your outstretched arms, and then up to your face. your pursed lips, nervous eyes, worried crease between your brows. one second passes. two, five. you stop counting.

for a moment, you’re almost certain that he’s about to get up and leave. that he’ll flash you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, walk out the door and then never return. like you flew too close to the sun, just another icarus too mesmerized by the glow of his grin to notice your melting wings. like you stepped over the fragile line that separates his bones from yours, his heartbeat from your greedy hands.

— but then he sluggishly gets into a sitting position, and doesn't look at you.

when gojo collapses into your embrace, you’re so surprised that you almost forget how to breathe. almost forget your own name, forget whose home you’re in, why your arms are wrapped around a pale man. all you can think of is how warm he feels, how he’s like a weighted blanket against you. how he trusts you enough to come so very close. 

cheek pressed against your chest, arms loose around your waist. no infinity, no barriers. just a single touch shared between two damaged human beings. 

a brief inhale gives you the composure that you need. air flowing into your lungs, your brain, as you settle into a comfortable position. no words leave your lips; you just continue to hold him, one hand on his back, testing the waters. letting him hear the echo of your heartbeat. unsure, the both of you, but something about this feels right. close to right. almost there.

gojo is stiff. when you strain your ears, you hear a sharp intake of breath, and a full body shiver courses through him. a tremble of his spine. like he’s itching to run, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. so painfully unused to a proper embrace. 

(a little like a frightened fawn.)

a tender something unfurls within your chest, and you feel almost devoured by the fondness rooting itself into your beating heart. delicate, as you begin to brush away his tousled bangs, leaning close. pressing a kiss to his forehead, glistening with sweat. letting your lips linger on his skin. 

he’s pale, shining in the bleak moonlight cast from the translucent curtains of your living room windows. pale like a ghost. and there are dark crescents beneath his dull eyes.

nightmares, you surmise. they haunt him too, don’t they? of course they do. 

eyes brimming with emotion, you gaze at him; quiet as a mouse, closing his eyes. leaning into your touch, ever so slightly, breathing out a sigh tinged with pure exhaustion. and a certain realization washes over you, akin to a tidal wave, sudden and inevitable. so obvious it’s funny.

you’re not a god at all, are you? 

a coo slips from your lips. barely a sound, more like a soothing breath. warm against his cold skin.

you’re just like everyone else. just as fragile.

one of your thumbs goes to smooth over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. so, so gentle. like one wrong touch could have him crumbling into little grains of stardust, spilling out over the worn leather of your couch.

there are so many things you wish you could say to him. so many things you’ll never be able to say, because you’re afraid that if you give him too much it’ll scare him off. like love could burn him if it were to leak out too fervently. like it’s burned him before. 

so you don’t say anything. but you think it, you repeat it inside your mind like a prayer, and some part of you thinks that’s enough. i’ve got you — a whisper that you don't dare to voice. 

one gojo still manages to hear, somehow, if the way he tugs you closer and snuggles into your neck is anything to go by. a shaky exhale brushing against your collarbone.

(if you feel something wet touch the skin of your shoulder, you don’t mention it.)

you simply hold him, and don’t even think the thought of letting go. even though it takes him hours just to fall asleep, hours you spend anxiously wondering if he’ll change his mind and pull away. but he doesn't leave, even though his body may want him to, and that's enough, and you don’t let go. not even once. he stays cradled to your chest the same way you’d hold a tiny puppy, something fragile. something you need to handle with care.

and when his heartbeat finally mellows out, when you hear little barely audible snores flow from his lips, you finally begin to relax. melting into the couch beneath you, watching him get the rest he deserves. praying that any nightmares of his will be given to you instead.

sleep comes, eventually, to the both of you. tangled up on the couch, him on top of you, comforted by the flutter of each other’s heartbeat. by the warmth of another human being. safe in each other’s arms.

(the next morning, through hazy sunshine and the clinking of coffee cups, he teasingly tells you that just satoru is fine.)

it’s barely daybreak when satoru wakes you up.

a rude awakening, to say the least. he pulls out all the stops, intent on not letting you sleep even a second longer; poking at your cheek, pinching them when that doesn’t work. tickling you, blowing cold air into your ear, flopping down on top of you like a big dog. anything to rouse you from your deep slumber.

and he just will not give it up. no matter how hard you try to ignore him, no matter how many times you swat him away with your duvet pillow or turn to bury your face into the sheets. that’s how satoru always is, how he’s always been, how he hopefully always will be — an absolute pain. one you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

so, when he starts whining for you to just wake up already, voice tinged with a sadness that tugs at your heartstrings, you find yourself opening your tired eyes. all while he murmurs on and on about something unintelligible, still trying to bribe you.

”i’ll make you coffee, okay? just get up. c’moooon.”

”… what time is it, satoru?” is all you mutter, voice leaving your lips in a raspy, disgruntled fashion. stirring a little at the promise of coffee. 

he cracks a grin. ��don’t worry about it! just come with me.”

despite your grumpy attitude, and the ungodly hour at which satoru shakes you awake, you find yourself letting him scoop you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. placing a hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you like it, before grinning mischievously in a way that has you feeling ill at ease.

and ten minutes later, you find yourself on top of a hill. overlooking the woods, and a big lake below you, no city lights visible no matter where you turn — god knows where he’s taken you, but it’s pretty.

breathtaking, even. all frost and wildlife and peace, sweet solitude, tiny flowers blooming on the patches of grass around you. a murder of crows takes flight in the distance, scattering into the indigo of the sky.

gojo grins, boyish and bright, excited breaths turning into vapour as he speaks. awfully proud of himself. 

”i can’t take you on vacation, but —”

he drags you with him, arm looped around your own, plopping down on the ground. not before taking off his jacket, to cover the ground beneath you. grass tickles the skin of your palms, as you comfortably spread your legs, making sure to sit as close to him as possible.

and your heart softens a little.

because he’s mentioned it, before; how it’d be nice to go on a road trip, someday, just the two of you. all around the world, wherever the wind takes you. basking in that feeling of freedom. it’s no more than a fever dream, though, with how busy satoru is, the responsibilities you both shoulder.

so this’ll have to do. that’s probably what he’s thinking.

”the sun’ll rise soon. it’ll be pretty, i promise,” he beams, so close that you feel his warm breath on your skin. that you can see the dimples on his cheeks, his barely visible freckles.

”oh, so that’s why you woke me up so early.” 

his smile widens. ”nice, right? i wanted to surprise you. d’you like it?”

a smile blooms on your lips, in tandem with his, honeyed and content. indulgent. gojo looks at it, and immediately knows your answer.

”yeah. it’s really pretty out here,” you face forward, taking a deep breath, fresh morning air entering your lungs. cool and crisp, stirring your sleepy mind. ”kinda nostalgic.”

satoru hums, and follows your lead. looking ahead, admiring the beauty of an empty world.

the big lake looks like a mirror, from here, glittering in the peripheral of your vision. the sun licks at the frozen sky, not quite breaking through, not entirely ready to rise — but it paints everything a rusty gold and you can almost feel spring shining through, taste it on your tongue, that promise of something better, something more concrete. a warmth you don’t have to question. 

a warmth that’ll stay with you for a long time to come.

it takes about ten seconds for the man by your side to start speaking, again, shattering the peaceful silence. but you don’t mind. his voice is nice, a mellow melody to your morning-fatigued brain.

side by side, you wait for the sun to rise. sharing hushed whispers and laughter, like two kids having a sleepover. like nothing exists but the space that cocoons you, wraps you up in a nostalgia so palpable the entire world feels like a fond memory.

(it makes you feel a millenia younger.)

satoru giggles like a child, telling you about something shoko said, or something megumi did, and you don’t miss a single word that spills from his glossy lips. hanging on to every word he’s willing to give to you. 

he looks so unbothered, like this. eyes crinkling, humming some tune you don’t recognize, like a little nightingale ready to take flight into the skies.

you part your lips, admiring his features. every patch of skin you can see. words making themselves manifest, hungry to see inside his brain, to know more about him. a fascination that’s never quite left you — though now you think it may be better described as love. ”hey, satoru?”

at the sound of his name, he turns to you. the weight of his eyes feels so light, like this. those blessed eyes staring into yours. he tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. ”mm?”

”if you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be right now?”

satoru blinks.

he looks at you, a mild surprise flitting through the lines of his face, as he takes you in. measures the weight of your words.

then he smiles, again. lopsided, almost a smirk, rich with amusement. a hum buzzes in his throat, like a butterfly itching to break out.

”.. you teasing me?” 

a huff fills the air. ”it’s a genuine question!” you insist, moving your leg to nudge his own. ”c’mon. anywhere in the world. i’m just curious.”

another hum. he narrows his eyes, playfully, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a chuckle when that makes you grumble. pouting softly, tilting your head. he’s amused, you can tell. 

but he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, glimmering with morning dew. and you can tell he’s taking you seriously. tasting the question on his tongue.

something shines in his eyes, when he opens them again; crinkling at the corners, soft lines of crows’ feet. you can almost see that burst of aquamarine, breaking through the black glass of his shades. like the laws of physics can’t contain it. and he smiles, as always, a smile so beautiful you wish you could live on the curve of his lips. flimsy, no teeth peeking out, no dimples to admire. but sweet. slathered with honey, as sincere as can be.

his voice comes out a little raspy, tainted with a tinge of fatigue, a smokey residue that sticks to the walls of his throat. but it's genuine, like he just woke up, like he's too sleepy to be dishonest. like every word he says can be no more or less than the absolute truth.

and when he turns to face you, tilting his head enough for you to see that shade of blue you love so dearly, his eyes shine with an honestly so palpable you feel like you’re being devoured.

satoru parts his lips.

”right next to you.”

a moment passes. silent, endless, no sound to be heard but the beating of your own heart.

at last, the sun breaks through that layer of frost, peeking up from the boundary of the world — and the morning begins to thaw. streaks of sunlight cascade down the contours of his handsome face, painting him a mellow gold, and it’s almost enough to distract you from the warmth of his hand finding yours. 

for a moment, satoru looks unsure. smile shifting in the light, into something slightly stiff, and you know that means he's nervous. silent, as he wets his glossy lips. pink tongue tasting strawberry chapstick. 

then he’s leaning forward. 

it’s chaste, the kiss he plants on your forehead, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. but it lingers, even after he’s pulled back — a warmth on your skin. a silent declaration.

he doesn't have to say anything. when you look up at him you can see the red flush of his ears, and when you strain your ears you can hear all those unspoken whispers. the sentiment neither of you will ever have to say out loud, because you know. it’s there. and it means everything. 

and you know that for as long as you live, you’ll both have this. one single thread of normalcy, in your unorthodox existences, one single glimmer of something almost entirely good. something that heals, something that isn’t a blessing and a curse all in one. something soft to the touch.

there’s no need to find the right words for it. there never was.

”kinda looks like melted ice cream.”

the words pull you out of your stupor. satoru’s looking at the sky, and you follow his gaze, watching the sunrise in tandem with him. 

it’s beautiful. soft clouds melting into pinks and oranges, dappling sunbeams lapping at the trees, a saffron shade washing over the empty world in front of you. a world that may not be so empty, after all, because you hear crows in the distance, and someone’s fishing by the lake, and you think you spot a squirrel in the tree closest to you. 

and you have someone, right next to you, right by your side. someone who won’t ever leave.

sometimes, loving satoru gojo feels a little like strolling on the edge of a cliff. like one wrong step could have you tumbling down, a mess of broken bones and unspoken words. but if you do stumble and fall — you know he’ll be waiting at the bottom of the precipice. arms outstretched, wearing that same innocent grin, ready to hoist you both back up.

so you know it’ll be fine.

swallowing down a bout of fresh laughter, like a flower unfurling in your chest, petals brushing against your ribcage, you give in. opting to bask in the moment, in his presence.

”yeah,” you puff out a chuckle, head slumping against satoru’s shoulder. he makes a little noise of approval, and your grin grows. ”it does.”

he doesn’t say anything. smiling, wordlessly, admiring the way the sun kisses up your collarbone. lighting up your face. and you bask in his warmth, how right it feels to be tucked into his side. how safe he feels, even now. how safe you make him feel.

you look at the man to your left, and he looks back at you, and that wonderful unnamed something unfurls inside your chest again. and, without having to speak it aloud, you know it will continue to do so.

many, many years later, he’ll still be satoru, and you’ll still be you. the distance between you will be what it always was; breachable.

and that will be enough.

[colleybri]

I really love this analysis. It’s heartbreaking that Bix is surrounded by people always yet is still so alone.

Gilroy’s production brief tells us that she did indeed lose her parents at a young age. In terms of her relationship with Cassian, it’s a very turbulent history: “She and Cassian have been flirting and dating and circling each other and breaking up since he was, like, ten years old. They know everything about each other. They’re meant to be together, and yet it’s been impossible all these years. When we come in the show, she’s done with him. He’s burned every last bridge.”

Yet he still comes around a lot . Timm observes this, and how she “always seems upset” afterwards. Cassian is in terms of business one of her regular suppliers of stolen parts. She has obviously mentioned him to Luthen in this context, which is why Luthen is so interested in meeting him. But emotionally, Cassian has hurt her far too many times before for her to let him get close in that sense. Their scene together in episode 7 is heartbreaking. As you say, she is totally drained of emotional energy. Cassian, meanwhile is insensitive about everything that’s happened to her. He fails to gauge the depth of her grief, her own guilt (she’s the one who told Timm about Kenari ) and her sense of having been betrayed. Ironically, loneliness and isolation is something that Cassian shares with Bix. They are just unable to share it together.

“Bone-weary” is a great description. When she finally tries to silence Cassian’s attempts to deflect blame from himself she says, her voice completely enervated, “If you, if me, if Timm”. It’s like she’s succumbing to a horribly exhausted fatalism. Even the rhythm of the words suggests a heartbeat of monotony, a profound emotional tiredness.

The only time in the scene where she talks with complete emotional commitment and force is when she’s telling Cassian that he needs to get “as far away from here as possible”. And my goodness, she means it, and you can see from his reaction that he knows it.

Bix’s isolation is complete. She sees emotional attachment as incredibly painful and something to be avoided from now on. Yet the love and loyalty of her friendship with Cassian - which runs very deep - will lead ultimately to her torture.

You’re right. She’s not ready to trust anyone. Yet even in her darkest hours at the end of the season there are hints of hope for her. Tortured and brain-addled though she is, she hums to the funeral music. She is yet again physically and mentally isolated, but in that sad but beautiful moment there is a hint of connection with Maarva and the Ferrix community.

She even is able to perceive that something profound has changed in Cassian . “He will. Cassian will find us,” is such a profound statement of faith in a man who she has not been able to trust in many, many years.

Her healing, such as it is, is going to be a very long road and probably one doomed to ultimate failure.

But I hope at least that this terrible profound loneliness in Bix, which you so beautifully described here , is alleviated - just a little. Even if the new community she now yearns for ends up being the Rebellion itself.

I can't stop thinking about how utterly alone Bix is. Even surrounded by the tight-knit community of Ferrix, she is so isolated and lonely in terms of actual human connection.

As far as we can tell, she has no family. She's not older than her late 20s, but her parents are implied to be dead, seeing as she inherited their salyard. She's been running the place on her own for years, hired Timm a little while ago, started dating him probably since she's so busy she doesn't even have the time to meet anyone else. She avoids him as much as possible, she doesn't tell him anything about her life, and she only comes and finds him when she's been drinking and she can't sleep, uses him more as a distraction than a companion.

Her relationship with Cassian, once so close in their youth, has become strained and distant and he only shows up every few months, only when he needs to ask a favor. And in response, she pushes him away too, rejects his attempts to ignore the distance that's grown between them, not with any bitterness or anger, just a deep, exhausted sadness.

She smiles and greets her neighbors as she walks by, but the smile drops as soon as she passes. They all know her, but they don't know her, really.

Salman Paak knows the most about her operation, but even he doesn't know the details. He's not really involved; Bix was the only one to use the radio, and Salman met Luthen only once, then turned the operation over to Bix. Bix and Salman have a friendship that extends beyond just business, but they hardly ever get to talk; the first thing he says when Bix walks into his shop in episode one is that he hasn't seen her lately. She has ties to Brasso and Maarva and others in the community as well, but hardly sees them either.

Whenever we see her, she's perpetually in motion, always busy, always worried, always finding something to do with her hands, or somewhere to go, always having to do something, just to avoid the prospect of being still with her thoughts. She keeps moving to avoid that terrible quiet, keeps the noise dialed up as much as possible, just staying ahead of that crushing loneliness that envelops her life even when she's surrounded by people.

And of course, that's just the beginning.

She may not be thriving, but she's surviving, she's holding herself together, she's keeping an iron grip on whatever stability she can find in her life. But then— Timm's betrayal. And before she has time to process that, his lifeless body is tumbling down the steps before her eyes, and she can't reach him, and she's alone, and there's blood in her eyes and her head is spinning with a fresh concussion, and she's alone, and he's dead, and she's alone.

But eventually the Paaks find her and release her and drag her away and she drags herself up and cleans up the mess and tries to piece the shards of her life back together. And when Cassian shows up at her door, even knowing how dangerous it is, how the whole city is crawling with soldiers looking for him, she can't summon urgency or anger or fear. She's just too exhausted. There's only tiredness in her voice when she tells him he can't be here, only blunt resignation as she tells him of the dangers, only sadness and bone-deep exhaustion at this same distance, this same pattern, as he leaves again.

So she keeps going. And she takes care of Maarva and Maarva is dying but she takes care of Maarva and she tries to contact Cassian to tell him and she knows it's a hopeless, dangerous mission but she does it anyway. And so she's cut off from her only off-world connection as the radio is shut down forever, set adrift, but there's no time to think about it, because then she's being dragged into an interrogation room. And there's Salman, tortured and unconscious, being dragged away for execution, and the guilt is enormous, it's all her fault, but how could she have known that the punishment for owning a radio, just owning a radio that someone else used, would be to be tortured and killed, but of course it's still all her fault and the guilt is consuming but there's no time to feel it, she locks it away as she locks eyes with Dedra, channeling everything into the defiance she'll need to make it through this.

But there's no making it through this. There's no way to maintain her resistance or her dignity or even her mind and body, not as they were before. And when she's been alone with this torment for weeks, when can hardly stand, can hardly speak, her only solace is the distant beat of a funeral drum and the words of a dead friend. And then she's on a ship away from the only community she's ever known, her and Brasso and Wilmon and Bee and Jezzi all together but all alone, not looking at one another, not speaking to one another, just exhausted, just processing more than anyone could process in a lifetime.

And now what? Even as she heals physically, even as she can walk and speak again and begin to look forward, how can she possibly explain what she's been through? This torture that no one has heard of before, that left no marks save for the deep scars on her psyche, that sounds so implausible she almost questions the reality of it all herself. How can she possibly explain? Would they even believe her? What if they don't believe her? What if they don't understand? Or maybe it's even worse if they do, if they look at her with pity, if they treat her like she's fragile, if they speak to her like they don't quite know what to say.

Where can she go? She has to go back to Ferrix, there's no other option, she feels the pull of those ties that can never be broken. And yet, even with that deep need to return, what is there to return to? Most of the people she cared about there are dead. The idea of rebuilding her old life is almost laughable, how could anything ever be normal again? Could she even be normal again? This mind, this body hardly feel like her own now.

And yet one thing is always unchanging: she is still alone, always alone, just the same as before.

[dandelionflower]

I saw on one of your post that said to send you prompts sooo... can I request A childhood friend AU either Felix or Marinette moves away and then reuniting in college in France at age 14 in Felix's school with the Quantic Kids.

It was a pretty normal day, which probably meant something was going to happen. If it wasn’t a normal day, something was bound to happen as well; life in Paris hadn’t been normal in months. It being a normal day meant that Marinette was late. Super late. Way, way, so very late she might as well be early for the next thing kind of late. So late that- (oh, she’s beginning to catch onto why she’s so late.)

She knew even as she was shoving toothpaste into her bag for Tikki and brushing her teeth with frosting (wait, switch that) that she would be late, and her erratic movements were enough to convince her parents to write her an excuse. Not that anyone could blame her; she had to deal with three akumas in one night. Three akumas. Who could blame her, or anyone for that matter, for being late when there were three emotionally-stunted teens each wreaking havoc upon the city? It was a wonder that anyone else got to class on time, except for Alya, who Marinette was pretty sure didn’t sleep.

Marinette kissed both parents goodbye, thanking them again for the excuse note. They shoved a box of pastries into her hands, as was their habit whenever she didn’t leave school fast enough.

They had done it since her first day at her new school, when she was tiny and frightened of new people; having the same best friend since birth would do that. Her father had shoved a box of macaroons in her arms and her mother placed a bracing arm on her back. They told her what to do and she tried her hardest to follow their instructions, standing up straight at the front of the class, introducing herself, and offering cookies. Unfortunately, that was the same day Chloe Bourgeois was joining public school, and compared to cookies, her offer of money to ten year-olds wasn’t all that effective. And Chloe was excellent at holding a grudge.

Of course, she ended up with friends: Alya, Nino, Adrien, and everyone in art class, but it was hard to go about her first couple years of school without anyone in her corner. Becoming Ladybug really gave her the boost of confidence she needed to break out of her shell and make new friends, and now she had a whole class full.

She stopped in the classroom to put her stuff away, pausing for a second to breathe. How was she out of shape? She’s Ladybug, for heavens’ sakes! Those three akumas really took it out of her. Luckily enough, she had gym class up next. (Can you hear the sarcasm?)

“Girl! Where have you been?” Alya smiled up at her from where she was stretching her hamstrings.

“Sorry Alya, slept in too much.” She fell into place beside her, choosing one of the more advanced stretches to accomplish instead. “Three akumas yesterday; couldn’t get much sleep.”

“You need to get over yourself, Mari. Ladybug and Chat Noir always win against the akumas, this fear of yours is ridiculous.” Alya glanced at her with an incredulous look, but when she saw her intense yoga pose, the look shifted and she yelled over her shoulder. “Adrien! Get over here! Marinette’s doing her physics-defying stuff again!”

Adrien joined them, laughing at Alya’s exaggerated despair. “It’s really not that hard. You just have to-” He fell into the position easily and began matching her movements. “There.”

“How on EARTH?” Alya shrieked and threw herself to the right, toppling into Nino, who was in a shaky warrior two. They ended up in a heap on the floor, Alya staring in horror at the two still upright and Nino staring bewildered at his girlfriend. “How are you two doing that?”

“Well, I don’t know about Marinette,” Adrien moved into an upward dog, “but father insisted that I be physically active in some way and my mother used to do yoga. So I picked it up.”

Nino leaned close to Alya’s ear. “I’m not sure whether to add this to the ‘reasons Gabriel sucks’ list or be happy he has this thing with his mom.”

“Both I guess?”

“What about you Marinette?” He moved into a handstand-like position. “Why do you know all this stuff?”

My superhero moonlighting requires me to be as stretchy as a rubber band, so my partner, who is also a furry, taught me yoga. “My first best friend and I learned tai chi, and this just felt like the next step.” Not a lie, just not why she chose yoga.

“Okay, you’re fine.” Alya pointed a finger between them both. “But next time you do something weird, I’m starting a cryptid blog about you.”

“You don’t have the guts.” Marinette leaned in and Adrien flipped down to join her. It felt familiar, like deja vu; not her crush, she killed that with fire once he started dating Kagami.

“Heey!” Nino opened his arms in front of them. “Let’s change the subject, what about that new student?”

“There’s a new student?” Marinette turned to the rest of the class, who were all stretching dutifully. No new faces whatsoever. “Where are they?”

“Not here, he went to the office over a scheduling conflict. Seems like a jerk.” Alya pulled an arm behind her head, glaring with derision in the direction of the office.

“Alya, don’t.” Adrien nudged her with a foot. “First impressions don’t mean anything, right Marinette?” He shot her a playful glance.

“Don’t remind me.”

“That one was a misunderstanding. Mister Ice Cold over there doesn’t even say a word, just nods and walks into the back of the class. At least Adrien did something and he asked for forgiveness afterwards. Frosty doesn’t even look at us.” With that final comment, Alya joined the rest of the class in dodgeball.

“Is she alright?” Adrien side-eyed her.

“Yeah, she just really hates people acting superior to her. Let’s go.” Marinette shrugged it off and joined her in picking teams.

Dodgeball was a mess; it always was. The entirety of the class had been akumatized at one point, and some of the strategic prowess remained. Marinette’s team always won, which everyone attributed to her agility, but it was really that Ladybug had more practice in strategy. The only way the teams could be considered even was if Adrien was against her.

She still won; she always won. When it was all over, each team, sweating and exhausted, gravitated to the center line to shake hands and congratulate one another on a game well played. Adrien met her in the middle with a weary smirk. His hair was disheveled, but there was a spark in his eyes that made him seem more familiar than he already was.

“I almost got you that time.” He gripped her hand tight.

“All that training with Kagami is really upping your game.” She quipped, shaking his hand. “Better luck next time.”

With that promise of another match, everyone vacated the gym to the locker rooms, where Alya continued to warn Marinette against the new student.

“Even Chloe doesn’t like him and he seems like the kind of rich boy that would be right up her alley.”

“Alya, I get it. You aren’t the new guy’s biggest fan.”

“And the feeling’s mutual too.” She griped.

“So just don’t talk to him; it works with Chloe. Why not this guy too?” She wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her to their desk.

“Fine, but I don’t have to like it.”

“You don’t have to like him either.” She pulled out her notebook and began writing down the date.

Before Alya could make another passive aggressive comment about the mystery new boy, Miss Bustier walked in, the usual skip in her step. “Class, I know I already introduced you to our new student but since some of us weren’t here for the first period,” Marinette ducked her head with a sheepish smile, “I’ve decided there’s nothing better than a redo. So, here’s Mister Culpa, introducing himself again.”

Culpa?

A boy with pale blond hair and paler skin strode into the room. He wore what could only be called business-casual, all monochrome. His eyes were a one-in-a-million breathtaking ice blue.

Culpa?

“Hello.” His eyes scanned the room emotionlessly. “As I previously said, my name is Felix Culpa and I am from-” He stopped when he reached her. “Nette?”

“Felix.” She breathed, barely even daring to say it louder, lest he disappear.

He was a blur, climbing the steps and reaching her in the time it took her to stand. There were no words when they hugged, other than the other’s name. She was on the tips of her toes, pressing her forehead to his collarbone. Felix got tall.

“I missed you.” He whispered, squeezing just a little tighter.

“I missed you too.” She laughed, pulling back to see his face. He was crying. She was crying.

“What in Ladybug’s name is happening?” Alya’s shout broke them from whatever pocket dimension they were inhabiting together. “You two know each other?”

“Alya, this is Felix.” She turned to look at her, hand still on Felix’s shoulder. “He was my best friend from birth to ten.”

“Was?” He bumped her hip with his. “Didn’t know I’ve been replaced, Netta.”

“I couldn’t contact you after I moved! I was ten and your mom never told us what her new number was.” She punched his elbow. “What are you doing here?”

“My family moved. I didn’t know you were in this area too; imagine my surprise when I see what the current events in Paris are and find out that there are superheroes and my best friend is now a borderline celebrity.” He chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

“We have to catch up some time.” She grabbed his arm.

“Certainly, maybe not here and now, though.” He gestures to the class around them, avidly watching the exchange.

“Right.” She released his arm and rubbed the back of her head awkwardly. “Coffee and macarons later then? My place?”

“I would like nothing more.” He quirked a smile that would seem tiny to anyone else, but to Marinette was as bright as the sun. “Until then.” Felix squeezed her hand and moved to the back of the class with a little wave.

She returned it, a goofy smile definitely on her face as she sat back down.

“Well,” Miss Bustier coughed, “since Felix has been so thoroughly introduced to everyone else, I suppose I should start the lesson.” And she dove into a spiel about the first World War.

“Dang, girl. Is it just me, or do you have a date after class?” Alya whispered to her from behind her textbook.

“It’s not a date! We’re just catching up.”

“Sure.”

She spared a quick glance at Felix, who was nose-deep in his book, just like when they were kids. He had such sharp features, and upon reconsideration, his eyes looked even more beautiful than she remembered. Felix grew up just fine without her. Really fine, in fact.

It took Marinette a couple seconds to realize she was staring, and when she did, her head turned back to the front of the room so fast she swore she heard a snap.

This was... going to be complicated.

[slightlycrunchy]

Dadmight, ♖ or ♗ please

Hair washing it is! Send me dad prompts

read on ao3

This got so soft: hair washing, caretaking, bnha manga spoilers, post hospital injuries, 1.4k words

It is only after they’re home, standing in the foyer of Toshinori’s borrowed dorm room at UA, that Toshinori asks.

“Can I wash your hair, my boy?”

Midoriya looks up at him with dazed eyes, hooded from the strong painkillers running through him and the bone-deep exhaustion that lingers from his body trying to mend itself. Toshinori pointedly doesn’t look down to the two casts that lay limp at the boy’s sides. For a moment Toshinori isn’t sure if Midoriya has registered what he has said.

Soon however, a small, lazy smile crooks up the boy’s mouth. “Is it that bad?”

Toshinori looks at the ragged mess on top of Midoriya’s head with a soft expression. Flattened in places from days on end spent lying down, tussled in others from the sheer force of lingering dirt and sweat that rags and spit washes alone couldn’t quite care for, Toshinori shrugs.

“It could do with a scrub.”

Too many times over the last number of weeks in that horrid hospital room did Toshinori want to reach out and run his hands through that hair, soothe the nightmares and fix the mornings that his boy would disappear into, eyes staring at nothing as he shuttered away into his own head. On those days, Toshinori would talk about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing in equal measure. Sometimes it helped, he thinks, Midoriya slowly returning to the present, blinking his eyes as if he had only been asleep for a while.

Toshinori always greeted him with a smile when he came back.

“This way, my boy,” Toshinori gestures, leading them down the hall into the spacious bathroom Nezu had had the foresight to install. The principal had also been generous with Toshinori’s shower arrangements, installing a deep tub with a shower attachment and built-in seating. He has never felt more grateful for it than now.

With a little help, Midoriya dresses down into just his shorts, torso bare to the cool air of the bathroom. The bruises have mostly healed, fading into pale yellows and greens, deeper wounds knitting together nicely under dissolvable stitches that will still remain for a few weeks more. The hospital had sent the boy home with cast guards—glorified plastic bags that fit snugly around white plaster, which Toshinori carefully applies in case the water goes places he doesn’t intend.

For a while, there are no sounds other than the rhythm of their breathing mixed with the crinkling of plastic, the soft running of water cocooning the room in a thin haze of steam as it’s left to warm, and Toshinori takes advantage of the calm to observe Midoriya.

The boy’s gaze is still softened, as if he isn’t quite sure what’s going on, but by the way he responds to Toshinori’s guiding touch and hums an affirmation when Toshinori asks him a question, he isn’t worried too much.

The boy looks beaten.

Emotionally as well as physically, he looks like he has taken on the weight of the world, and after it had slipped from his shoulders, he mourned the loss of it.

The doctors said his arms would heal given time, and Toshinori will never be able to forget the relief that had brightened the boy’s skin for the first time since he had woken up in the hospital, hooked up to too many machines and bound under too many wires. But soon enough the grey had returned when Midoriya was faced with just how much of an uphill battle his recovery would be, dark freckles fading into the dullness of his skin.

Today had been a good day, the boy brighter than ever that he could go home, something he had talked about incessantly for days, and even now with just the two of them, the boy still looks better than Toshinori thought he would.

His boy has always been resilient.

“In you get, Midoriya,” Toshinori says when they’re done, helping the boy through his clumsy steps that suggest his legs aren’t entirely under his control right now. Once Midoriya is seated comfortably, arms held stiffly in front of him, Toshinori grabs the detachable showerhead and brings it around to the boy’s back, letting the warm water begin to run down his bare skin.

“Mmm…” he hums, his eyes closing slowly. Toshinori huffs a laugh.

“If that feels good, just wait until we actually get started, my boy.” Warm water like this must feel close to heavenly after so long without a proper shower. Without another moment wasted, Toshinori begins.

He discovers that Midoriya’s hair is surprisingly long as he runs the water over the boy’s scalp, drenching the strands until they are dark and hanging heavily just past his shoulders. Grabbing the shampoo, he places the showerhead aside, working a generous dollop into his hands before applying the product first at the scalp, working it to the ends.

Midoriya simply comes undone.

More hums of contentment make their way from the boy, his body swaying with every push and pull from Toshinori’s long fingers. He uses them to massage Midoriya’s head, taking every moment to not just clean his hair, but to make him feel good; Toshinori can’t bear for this to be purely utilitarian.

If anyone deserves a gentle touch right now, it’s his boy.

As he works, Midoriya’s posture slackens, his spine bending forward in small increments until Toshinori is nearly bending over to reach him, hands covered in so many bubbles they’ve all but disappeared.

“Alright, Midoriya, time to rinse.”

When the boy doesn’t so much as nod his head, Toshinori finds he isn’t surprised.

Midoriya stays upright even as Toshinori lets go, and this suggests the boy hasn’t actually fallen asleep even though he would probably like nothing more than to do so. Looking down on him and his relaxed posture, Toshinori has an idea.

His hands are still covered in suds, but he reaches around anyway, pushing gently at the boy’s chest to straighten him enough for his body to lean back into Toshinori’s other waiting hand. When Midoriya’s head falls back, neck fitting snugly into Toshinori’s open palm, and the older man finally gets a good look at Midoriya’s face, his heart feels unbearably warm in his chest.

Midoriya’s face is slack, mouth open slightly with eyes closed, his face the utmost picture of comfort. Toshinori’s insides twist in a form of glee that he keeps carefully quiet, not wanting to disturb the peace that has fallen over a boy who after fighting for so long deserves any rest he can find.

With his free hand, Toshinori continues, grabbing the showerhead once more and letting the water run as white rivers through Midoriya’s hair, taking all the evidence of the boy’s battles with it. Dark green strands weave in and out of Toshinori’s fingers as he moves the boy’s head back and forth, encountering no resistance from the tired body in his palm, Midoriya’s lax mouth only widening a little more with each turn of his head.

It strikes Toshinori, as the last of the shampoo is washed from the boy’s head, just what this is.

Pure trust.

This boy has taken on the world, winning in some ways and losing heartily in others, and yet when things go quiet and the darkness recedes and they come together again, two parts of a whole (and isn’t that even truer now, Toshinori thinks, peering down at the shattered remains of this child’s limbs that rest just below him), this boy does not shrink. No, his heart remains open and kind, seeing the good around him that remains, and he still places himself into another’s care; one that isn’t quite sure if he deserves such unwavering confidence.

He may be unsure, but if Midoriya deems him worthy, he will strive not to disappoint.

“Midoriya, my boy...we’re done. Time to wake up.”

The boy’s head is still slack in his hand as weary eyes blink open, a small, dopey smile lighting the boy’s face as he stirs awake.

“All Migh’? Done?”

With a nod, Toshinori helps the boy sit upright, twisting his hair to remove the last of the water. Already his curls have begun to spring upward into relaxed ringlets, and Toshinori can’t help but wrap one around his finger before letting it slip away. He has a small smile he can’t seem to get rid of as he helps the boy out of the tub, drying him off and helping him dress with as much modesty retained as possible, a task that will be difficult for Midoriya to accomplish on his own for a while.

Midoriya looks ready to collapse by the time they’re done.

“Sleep now, my boy?” Midoriya nods.

His head hardly has time to hit the pillow before he’s out like a light.

[wizardingsouls]

the ease of trading and sharing touch feels like a treasure. the results of the years james had spent needling for more and the story remus hadn't told him yet about what life had really been like after the attack. he knows moony will share, eventually, like he always does. for tonight though, this counted as answer enough about everything. all of them showed their weariness in different ways, after all. it showed in james most often in the lapses of silence when he used to be almost as difficult to shut up as sirius, and merlin help anyone who got both of them yapping at the same time.

" thanks for the permission, " he echoes playfully, gaze following their hands and eyes half-closing when they stilled again. how was he? exhausted, firstly. emotionally wrung out, still aching a little from being on the floor so long earlier. fucking thrilled knowing with complete confirmation that both remus and sirius still love him as much as he loves them. a dozen more things, all in different directions. " ...i'll concede to being tired. " which would be silly to not admit at this point anyway. but he considers even more carefully before deciding that wasn't enough of an answer.

james shrugs a shoulder, just enough for the movement to be noticeable without disturbing their comfort. " i'm glad to know for certain where we stand, but with everything going on, mostly tired is winning. and it was probably a good thing you had to pause before i did. " and that was edging into the too honest territory, james almost abrupt in being done talking about it. for as much as he enjoyed attention in general, he didn't much like focusing solely on himself, especially when asked to do so in a reflective state. " you know, i never thought i'd end up such a homebody. aside from getting sirius and harry, i just realized i haven't really gone anywhere lately. "

he hadn't gone much of anywhere since waking at st. mungo's, truthfully. once he could get out of there and back home, the focus was getting to a point where they could get padfoot. there had been the one meeting with the minister himself, technically, but the man had come to him when he was still working on not being bedridden. remus did the shopping on the occasions they needed anything, until harry had moved in too and the pair sometimes went together. but james had been so busy focusing on people that it hadn't even occurred to him to worry about places too.

it says a lot about where james is, the way he enjoys and lingers. he's worn out from the night's earlier events and the emotional roiling that came with them, but still ever eager for any thread of love. a less exhausted night he probably have pressed to very literally pick up where they had left off, but this...this is what he needed right now. it always had been a wonder to him that remus could do that without them ever speaking on the matter; he somehow just knew. always.

even when a pause to breathe is required, he's content exactly where he is. tiny thrills race under his skin when remus's hands move, james undeniably entranced by the fountain of affection. he couldn't imagine a lifetime of being away from this when he'd barely handled it before-- and then he hears it. or rather he registers it after there's suddenly space between them again and remus has pulled away. the near-break in the other's voice that reminded him one of them had had a lifetime being away from this.

he's initially too stunned to actually say anything, caught in the whirl of the bathroom's cool air prickling against his throat where warm hands had been a few seconds ago. then he's being told not to say anything, and for once james listens. gives moony the moment to collect himself that was necessary and surprisingly patient until he's invited close again. " and there i was thinking we didn't need a swear jar anymore, " he teases as he does so, this time nestling against remus's side so neither of them have to twist uncomfortably to look at each other or hold hands. still, he can't help a concerned trailing of fingertips across the other's cheek down his jaw, a silent check in to avoid the mess of trying to find the correct words to ask any questions.

a concern he realizes might also just as easily tip things again, but he doesn't take it back. just seeks out the hand unoccupied with holding him close to lace their fingers again. " guess it has been that kind of night though, huh? " the question is rhetorical, of course. a tired approval of the cursing so aptly describing the interruption and its wake. maybe a little bit admitting defeat, which he hated to do, but the night had been long and not easy on any of them.

[tenthgrove]

Can I request la squadra discovering their Fem!Teammate (who's like in her early 30s) is actually a mother, who joined Passione to pay for her 5 y.o daughter's hospital expenses, and she sometimes secretly goes to visit her and spend time with her.

Mother Mother

La Squadra x Reader, Platonic, SFW

Risotto has always kept an eye on his squadmates. It’s not that he would ever entertain the thought of one of them betraying him, even a relatively new member such as yourself. It’s just that with La Squadra’s status in Passione, he’s always feared one of you being used against him against your will.

It’s for this reason that Risotto became concerned by your twice monthly trips away from the base. Risotto doesn’t usually police his underlings’ activities, but the solemn look on your face each time you leave is cause for deep concern. Perhaps if you weren’t so secretive about your reasons, he wouldn’t have to go to the lengths of spying on you.

Risotto catches sight of your car as you pull into the hospital parking lot. There’s a definite weariness about you as you cross quickly towards the entrance. Risotto activates his invisibility and follows.

As you speak with the receptionist, Risotto is fixed on which department you will turn to. Are you sick and hiding it? Pregnant? But then, you surprise him. You turn to the children’s ward.

Risotto follows you past white corridors and waiting rooms. The nurses address you by name, he notices. It seems you’re a regular visitor. Finally, you arrive in a large ward of lonely pods. In each one lies a sick or injured child. He cannot ignore the fact that the one you head towards looks exactly like you.

As you caress the little girl’s cheek, Risotto comes to realise what’s been happening with you all these months. These trips, this sorrow, it was all for your child. A child Risotto didn’t even know you had.

Risotto leaves you be as you talk with your daughter. He feels guilty, undeserving of being present in this conversation. He’d always wondered how someone like you ended up in such a foul business as his, but if it’s really all for the sake of your daughter he doesn’t know if he can bare to keep ordering you on such dangerous tasks.

He can’t cut you out either, that could be detrimental for your sick offspring.

::::::::::::

Risotto goes home and seeks out Melone. It really ought to show the desperation of the situation he’s in that he’d fall on Melone for advice, but the strange man is the only person he can think of who might possibly guide his conscience on such a matter.

“Melone, a word please,” Risotto demands, swinging open the door of the other man’s bedroom. Melone hums and sits up from his nap, pulling off his night-mask to rub his eyes.

“If this is about the vibrator, I swear I didn’t mean to have it delivered here.”

“I- what- no. It isn’t about anything like that. I need your advice,” Risotto explains. Melone taps his fingers excitedly and crosses his legs.

“Oh, by all means go on then!”

“If, hypothetically, a person like us were to have… unavoidable other commitments, how would you say it should be tackled?” Risotto asks.

“Clarify.”

“Family commitments. Children, to be precise,” Risotto elaborates. Melone tilts his head.

“Capo, did you knock someone up?”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t done anything of the sort!” Risotto insists. “Alright I’ll clarify some more. How do you think I, as this team’s leader, should support such a person?”

“…Oh, I understand,” Melone assures him. “It’s (y/n) who’s pregnant, isn’t it?”

“I… forget it. (Y/n) isn’t pregnant you fool. I don’t know why I bothered with you,” Risotto laments, shutting the door.

Melone, meanwhile, is unconvinced. Risotto’s defensive behaviour suggests to him his theory regarding your pregnancy may be right after all. This isn’t something he can leave alone.

Melone’s foremost concern is your wellbeing. You’re his friend, and he wants to make sure that your parenthood (should you choose to go through with it) is as easy for you as possible. There’s one person in particular who comes to mind when it comes to raising children in the mob.

::::::::::::

“Prosciutto!” Melone calls, entering the second-in-command’s bedroom as he enjoys a cigarette out his open window.

“What do you want, and what did I tell you about barging in?”

“Please Prosciutto? This is important,” Melone begs. Prosciutto turns around.

“Alright, get it over with.”

“Didn’t you say once that you raised Pesci? I’m curious how it was,” Melone enquires.

“I hardly raised him,” Prosciutto rolls his eyes. “His mother was a good woman, and perfectly capable of raising him herself, money aside. My role was mostly as a financial supporter and an occasional babysitter when my step-mother needed a day off.”

“Oh, I see. But how was it with Passione? How did you balance your commitments between them and family?”

“I’m not a fan of this line of questioning, Melone, but I’ll indulge you. It was hard, very hard. They made me join when Pesci was 6 and back even then they constantly held his life over my head. I couldn’t spend too much time with him for fear of seeming disloyal, but at the same time I feared what would happen if I turned my back too long.”

“Christ,” Melone exclaims. “That’s rough. I never knew it was that bad for you.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all for now?” Prosciutto asks, cocking an eyebrow. Melone swallows.

“Well… I think (y/n) might be pregnant.”

“…What?!”

::::::::::::

“So that’s why we’re suspicious,” Prosciutto finishes. Formaggio stares at them wide-eyed.

“Fucking hell. I knew something was up, but pregnancy?” he exclaims.

“It’s serious, we know,” Melone affirms. “Risotto isn’t letting up so we need you to help us be certain. I’ve got all your DNA on record-”

“Creepy.”

“Regardless, I’ve got hers up on the tracker now, and I need you to take Baby Face and follow the dot until you find its location. Baby Face doesn’t show place names. If you’re spotted, you can shrink down, so it’s better you go than us. Got it?”

“Yeah sure, I’ll go,” Formaggio agrees, picking up the laptop and standing. “I’ll ring if I find anything.”

::::::::::::

Sure enough, 30 minutes later, Formaggio finds something. A hospital to be precise. He looks down at his screen, and back at the hospital. Nope, everything still checks out. There is no possible way the dot could be anywhere other than inside that building when it’s that close. You’re in there. You are in the hospital. Pregnant, near certainly.

Formaggio’s had enough shocks for one day.

Turning tail, Formaggio half-runs back down the pavement towards the base. He fumbles for his phone and calls Prosciutto. No answer. Thinking fast (but not well) he hits the next number in the list. Illuso’s.

“Illuso hi. It’s Formaggio! She’s definitely at the hospital like we thought!”

“…Are you high?”

“Oh fuck, did you not know? (Y/n)’s pregnant and Mel just found out!” Formaggio fills him in. There’s a long pause.

“Holy fucking shit! Get back here now and tell me more!”

::::::::::::

Shortly after this, the sitting room of the La Squadra base finds itself crowded with Melone, Prosciutto, Formaggio and Illuso all in frenzied discussion.

“This is insane. We can’t have a baby! In the hitman squad!” Illuso decries.

“We’re not recruiting the kid!” Melone reminds him.

“That’s not the point!” Prosciutto protests. Formaggio puts his hands up in a show of peace

“Okay okay can everyone please-”

“I AM CALM!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GUYS SHOUTING ABOUT?!” A voice calls. It’s Ghiaccio, standing in the hallway with Pesci at his side. The four men in the lounge look between each other nervously. Formaggio steps forwards.

“Ghiaccio, Pesci… let me fill you in on some things.”

::::::::::::

“RISOTTO WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU TELL US ABOUT THIS SOONER!”

Risotto Nero has seen a lot in his days, but never before has he had his office door kicked down by one of his own teammates, while in mid-conversation with two others.

“…Ghiaccio I beg your pardon.”

“(Y/n) was pregnant and you didn’t tell us about it?” Pesci says. “I was on a mission with her just last night! I could have done more to protect her if I’d known!”

“Risotto, I know you like to respect our privacy, but this is serious! If (y/n) is going to have this child then we need to have discussions about how it’s going to be feasible now. As a team,” Prosciutto argues. Risotto blinks.

“Capo, what on earth is going on?” Sorbet asks from by the window. Gelato, having clung onto him since the door fell, continues to look at the crowd in the doorway like… well, like they just busted the office door down.

Risotto takes a sip of his coffee, and sighs.

“I think you all may be under a severe misapprehension.”

::::::::::::

You get back to the base around 4pm, severely exhausted both emotionally and physically. Your daughter is stable, you’re assured, and clearly in better spirits than your last visit. With continued treatment, the doctor sees her out of the hospital and living comfortably with only minor supports within the year. But the bill to get her to that point will not be cheap. You honestly don’t know how you’ll manage it.

As you hang up your coat you are met with visitors. Sorbet and Gelato would like to speak with you, it seems.

“We’re glad to see you’re back. Could you follow us please? It won’t take a minute,” Gelato requests.

“Okay?” you agree, following them into the sitting room. Your entire team is present in dead silence, with Risotto at the helm in his usual chair. He is looking grave. This can’t be good.

Risotto gestures for you to sit down. You comply.

“(Y/n),” he begins. “We know about your daughter.”

Everything seems to go still. You cannot help it as tears well in your eyes. Before you know, you are crying in front of your teammates.

“We are willing to give some help,” Risotto announces. You look up from your tears. Did he just…

“We did some maths and we calculated that if we all pool together, we can pay half your daughter’s monthly bill every month for the immediate future, without any major changes to our lifestyle,” Sorbet announces. “We’re all happy to do that,” he adds, to a chorus of nods around the room.

“Additionally, we can look into getting her case transferred to a doctor on Passione’s payroll. It will be the same quality care or higher, and at a significant discount,” Melone suggests. Oh fuck, why didn’t you ever think of that?

“You would… you would all really do that for me?” you sob.

“And if it still isn’t enough, we’ll find a way. You can rely on us to help you, I swear it,” Risotto promises.

“Thank you… thank you all so much!”

[hiswordsarekisses]

How many times He has done this dance with me. 😭 Sometimes the consequences are the very best deliverer. He knows best. 💙 This is a little long but so beautiful:

“There he lay in a mess of emotion on the hall floor. Guilt and fear of a consequence wrecking his little body. Kneeling in front of him I ask for his hand. The sobbing response is ‘I don’t want a consequence.’ It had been thirty minutes of back and forth, the tug of war dance between irrational child and a parent desperate to remain calm. Once again I tell him I love him, stand up and return to fixing dinner. From the corner of my eye I see his body worn from the battle. I desperately want to tell him the future, my heart breaking over his distrust, but I can’t make his choice. I return to him again, ‘Give me your hand,’ I ask. ‘No,’ he replies, ‘I don’t want a consequence.’ ‘I love you son. Do you trust that I love you?’ As he shakes his head no, sorrow floods my soul. Once again, I say I love you, stand and return to dinner. His emotions calm and I return again, kneel, and ask for his hand. From behind him a brotherly voice says ‘Don’t do it, she’s mean, she just wants you upset.’ And the flood begins again. 

So is this how God feels when I battle his character? He is love and cannot be other. I hear my Father say ‘a consequence is needed, your sin is apparent,’ but instead of trusting his love, I battle. In the wake of guilt and the sorrow of my sin, I can’t see truth.  All I fear is the penalty I deserve as I hear voices around scream ‘save yourself, He isn’t good.’ 

Weary, I return to him again. ‘Look in my eyes,’ I ask. But he can’t...won’t. I see the battle raging inside. ‘I love you, look at my eyes,’ I repeat. His head turns but his eyes look away, up, down, around, determined to miss my gaze. ‘I love you,’ I remind him and wait. Knowing full well this is a choice he alone must make. Exhausted and worn, he looks up. ‘Give me your hand,’ I whisper.

As he timidly reaches out and grasps my hand, I help him up and into my lap.

Rocking and reassuring him, his sobs & body calm as he rests in my grace.

The fight was long and brutal; the war of self against obedience. Control verses surrender. It lasted longer than needed and cost him more emotionally than it should have. The punishment his heart endured was greater than any consequence deserved. And I was broken for him, wishing he would have chosen love and trust sooner.

So my Father whispers, ‘Trust my love. Correction comes because I love you. There is no condemnation, you are my child.’ And I have a choice. Trust Him and surrender to his loving hands or draw my sword, knowing full well battle always leaves unnecessary scars.” (Shauna Thomas)

“And you have forgotten the exhortation that addresses you as sons: “My son, do not take lightly the discipline of the Lord, and do not lose heart when He rebukes you. For the Lord disciplines the one He loves, and He chastises every son He receives.” Endure suffering as discipline; God is treating you as sons. For what son is not disciplined by his father? If you do not experience discipline like everyone else, then you are illegitimate children and not true sons. Furthermore, we have all had earthly fathers who disciplined us, and we respected them. Should we not much more submit to the Father of our spirits and live? Our fathers disciplined us for a short time as they thought best, but God disciplines us for our good, so that we may share in His holiness. No discipline seems enjoyable at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it yields a harvest of righteousness and peace to those who have been trained by it.” Hebrews‬ ‭12:5-11‬