[ PLAY ] for one muse to play with / brush / braid the other’s hair
for Nashley mine beloved<3
The sun’s already set by the time you get home, night rolling over the sun-warmed air of the city streets. You breathe a sigh of relief as the warmth surrounds you, the front door swinging closed to leave you in darkness. It’s quiet; empty-quiet, absence-quiet, nothing in the house but you and the dark.
And the sound of soft breathing, somewhere in the living room.
You find them on the sofa, head pillowed on their arm, legs sprawled out over the cushions. A cup of coffee sits, half-drunk, on the table, and the bandages that poke out over their shirt are ghostly pale against their skin. You stare down at them for a moment, debating whether to wake them. Pick up the cup and take a sip of the coffee as you try to make up your mind. It’s stone-cold, and you grimace slightly at the bitterness of it.
That settles it.
You head to your bedroom, drag the blanket off the bed - all in the dark, keeping as quiet as you’re able as you stumble blindly back towards the living room. Nash doesn’t stir as you tuck them in, feeling only slightly ridiculous - there’s no-one to see you doing this, except they’re going to know as soon as they wake up, and that’s-
Well.
You scowl at them. If they could just go to bed like a normal person, rather than insisting they’re fine…
A strand of hair flops across their face, stirring gently as they breathe, and you can’t help yourself. You reach out, brush your fingers as delicately as you can across their cheek. Push it back, taking a moment to enjoy the softness of their skin under your hand. Taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being allowed, of permission, the novelty of it all still doing something to your chest that feels more than a little like a knife in the ribs, a feeling you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to.
Not sure you want to.
Your fingers find their way into their hair, gently combing through soft black strands, keeping your touch as light as you know how. For a long moment, there’s silence - nothing but the soft sound of their breathing, the gentle rustle of fabric. Then their face twitches as they wake up, tensing, fighting the blanket as they instinctively raise their hands. You pull back, still hovering over them as their eyes open, focus blearily on you.
“What are you doing?”
Their voice is rough, sleep and pain dropping their usual rasp into something even lower, softer. More intimate.
You fight back a shiver, and lightly bop them on the nose. “Assassinating you in your sleep. Obviously.”
“Oh.” They frown. Shut their eyes, and huddle deeper into the blanket, pulling it up around their chin. Your blanket. You’d be lying if you said that didn’t feel… nice. “Do it quieter.”
“Yessir.” You can’t help it. Don’t have to, not any more. You lean in, and kiss them gently on the temple, smoothing a hand over their hair. “Do you wanna be in a bed?”
“No.”
“Want me to carry you?”
“No.”
“Want me to stop?”
They’re already asleep, voice barely audible as they mumble something into the blankets. You grin, and carefully pull the blanket further up, tucking it gently around their bandaged shoulder. Let your fingers drift over the soft skin of their throat, feeling the raised texture of scars and tendons there, the soft flutter of their pulse.
It’s far from perfect, but as they tip their head, baring their throat to your touch, you can convince yourself otherwise.
My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.
But life had other plans.
64.media.tumblr.com
War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.
There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.
I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.
Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.
This is my life.
This is my daughter’s life.
And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.
Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.
That’s why I keep going.
I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.
How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war
💛 If you can, please support our journey here:
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.
From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.
I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.
Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.
nighthawk – n. a recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night, that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep
(cw for brief wound/injury talk)
Nash isn’t a heavy sleeper. No-one in the Project is; perhaps no-one in the city is, the constant hum of the air conditioners a backdrop to the traffic, the noise echoing from the glass and the buildings in a near-constant crescendo. You learn to take naps where you get the time, and everyone pretends they don’t know about your nightmares. You pretend not to know about theirs, too, so it works out well. It should be part of the initiation process, they think in their more cynical moments.
Are you willing and able to take orders? Yes.
Are you ambitious, reckless, or saddled with enough of a martyr complex to risk your life for a cause you don’t care about? Yes.
Are you plagued by nightmares of everything you could have done differently? Yes.
Excellent. We’ll take you.
They roll over in bed, listen to the springs creak in the velvet dark. Across the room, curled in the other cot, the dark shape of their partner breathes slowly, softly. No-one in the Project is a heavy sleeper, but since the implantation, Nash hasn’t heard a sound from them. It’s the silence that bothers them on nights like this, the dark ringing in their ears as they stretch out until they feel the metal bars of the bedframe at their feet. It’s too quiet, too peaceful, a sharp contrast to the way it used to be; Nash shifts again, raises a hand to the semi-healed ridges on their shoulder, the scar tissue forming over thick scabs, the dull thrum of pain as they push down on the wound.
Their partner has matching scars, now, a neat line where Nash’s are jagged, just below the hairline instead of scattered across the shoulder, but there’s something satisfying in it, all the same, catching that gleam of pale skin just before it’s covered by a hood. The satisfaction is always chased by something bitter, a sharp aftertaste as they lie there in the dark, unable to sleep. No payment for their own scars, no AI to keep their dreams in check. Some days, they want to ask: was it worth it?
For a decent night’s sleep, maybe. Maybe that alone is enough.
They roll over again, turn their back to the body sleeping peacefully opposite them. Partners. It’s always felt like a loaded word to Nash. Every now and then, lying in the warm velvet dark, waiting for sleep to finally come, they turn the word over in their head, examine it from every angle. They pull back the hammer, check the chamber. Every time, they find the bullet in there, inert and gleaming. Every time, they put it back, safety off, barrel hot against their throat. Nash isn’t sure which of them holds the gun, but they know one of them will pull the trigger, eventually: one of them will have to.
Nash isn’t a heavy sleeper: on nights like this, humid and close, they lie awake in the indigo dark, and they wonder.
I read this yesterday and read it again today, so I wanna share some thoughts.
WARNING: WALL OF TEXT under the cut
I especially like the metaphor with the gun because it HURTS SO MUCH.
The fact that Nash keeps checking the chamber means that they have an obsessive need to confront the op: did you see it? did you mean it? was it worth it? But Nash is a repressed person; they think too much and never say anything out loud (or couldn't). And confronting the op could shatter what little they had left if the betrayal turned out to be true. What if they couldn’t trust the op anymore? What if they couldn’t trust the only person they have left in their life after leaving their family behind?
But in their head, the truth had been sealed. Still, they couldn’t even hate the operative for that because they’re partners, and their conscious awareness of the competition (alternatively some kind of justification for the op) that had both of them pit against each other. They chose this sure; they just hadn’t thought they would almost get killed by their partner– whether it’s intentional or not (as we know in the new update). Especially in a place like Scytha where competition and hostility stew excessively; you learn to lean on the person you work with. I think Nash is an emotionally attached person too, so when u earn their trust- which is an achievement on its own (remember the snippet "adronitis"?)- it's basically ride or die. If they became distrustful of the op, where would that leave them? Someone who’s easily discarded by the project or even by their own partner? (here's there are hints of fear of abandonment and vulnerability...) WHICH LEADS THEM TO "increase their tendency towards recklessness" (as a form of competition with the op) WHICH MAKES THEIR RELATIONSHIP EVEN MORE STRAINED
Moreover, I also think Nash was waiting for the op to talk to them first– which is more than wishful thinking because both of them are BAD AT IT (never say something that will be held against you, guys…).
And the bullet… oh that bullet… It’s like the consequences of THAT mission always loom above their head (the shoulder and IVI) and Nash’s unwillingness or inability to move on, always wanting to seek closure. They keep putting it back every time and keeping the safety off could be implied as readied retaliation or confrontation, or even reconciliation– and it really is based on players’ choices, which I don’t think won’t be happening if the invasion hadn’t happened.
Alternatively, could it mean they want to have some kind of psychological leverage and control of their emotions with the uncertainty of not knowing which of them will break first? A kind of emotional anchor to solidify their feelings? Since Nash also talks about how they doubted their loathing and found its exhausting.
Also, why is Nash at the receiving end? Probably because they were the one got hurt and– in their narrative– most likely would got emotionally destroyed due to their thinking the op didn’t care enough about their partnership with how they acted after IVI (egotistical, ignoring, ect.); doesn’t matter who confronts first, they're hurt nonetheless.
Theory time: Leon was into Vince and something happened between them! Then either Leon messed it up or Vince is straight and freaking out about it which is why their relationship soured👀
this sounds like wishful thinking to me... you guys are shameless
been taking a break from writing so my brain doesn’t explode but scapegoated leon and vince yaoi anons have kept me alive. i don’t reply to all, but i do see all… thank you.
