★ supersonic sunburst.

the colorama in your eyes, takes me on a moonlight drive.

"can you pretend you want me?"

the air is thick at eleven o'clock, and violet tries to remember why she's there again, drinking warm beer from a plastic cup while she listens to her friend tell the same story she repeats over and over when she had a drink or two, even when it's plain wednesday — right. powder.

her sister wanted moral support to socialize, giving vi a hard time now that she was left there with a couple of friends from the team, with no sign of her sister nowhere close to be seen.

"sorry, can you pretend you want me?" vi doesn't really notice she's being talked to until you place yourself in front of her vision. the sound of your voice clearer than the music. "quick. it's a matter of life or death."

"excuse me-" her brows furrow in question "what did you say?"

Hi, my name is Mosab , and I’m from Gaza. Life here has been harder than I could ever imagine, but today I’m sharing my story with hope in my heart, because your kindness has already given us so much strength.

This journey hasn’t been easy. The war has taken 25 family members from us—25 beautiful souls we loved deeply. Their laughter, their presence, their love… all of it is gone, leaving behind memories that are both precious and painful. Every day, I carry the weight of their loss, but I also carry their spirit, which gives me the strength to keep going.

Our Journey So Far

When I first reached out, I couldn’t have imagined we’d make it this far. Your support has been a light in these difficult times, and we are so deeply grateful for every single contribution.

But the road ahead is still challenging. Every day, we’re reminded of how much we’ve lost and how much we still need to rebuild.

Here’s what life in Gaza looks like for my family right now:

🏠 Safety: The uncertainty of tomorrow weighs heavily on us.

😢 Loss: The absence of the 25 family members we’ve lost is a pain we carry every moment.

💔 Dreams on Hold: The future feels so far away when survival takes all our strength.

How You Can Help Us Cross the Finish Line Even the smallest act of kindness can make a difference:

✅️ Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 ) ✅️

Why Your Support Matters Your kindness isn’t just about helping us meet our goal—it’s about reminding us that we’re not alone in this fight. It’s about hope. It’s about survival. And it’s about giving my family a chance to rebuild our lives, even in the face of unimaginable loss.

Thank you for helping us get this far. Your generosity and compassion have already brought us closer to a better tomorrow, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

With all my love and gratitude,

Mosab and Family ❤️

rotting and thinking about figure drawing classes where vi's the model because you've been saying your favorite subject keeps getting canceled over and over again cause your teacher cannot find a model — how bad can it be to have a bunch of art nerds drawing on her?

𝕴. The Descent

The night is brittle with frost, and the gardens of Caitlyn Kiramman’s estate slumber beneath a veil of moonlight. The roses, once proud and sharp with scent, bow to the cold, their petals sagging beneath the weight of frozen dew. The wind slips through the iron railings, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the hedges, but it is soured by something heavier—something bitter.

Beyond the manicured rows and trimmed laurels, in the northern patch where wildflowers disobey the gardener’s hand, something stirs. The brush is damp with mist, thorned branches heavy with rain. The ground, muddied by the day’s storm, clings to something that shouldn’t be there.

A body—ashen, bloodied, and trembling—lies crumpled in the grass. Wings, torn at the edges, barely cling to the figure’s back. Feathers, once ethereal and whole, spill loosely into the dirt. Pale gold stained with rain and iron. Some catch in the brambles, others float in the waterlogged soil. The ground drinks the blood in shallow rivulets, red seeping through the weeds.

You are still. Your breath barely ghosts through parted lips. The remnants of grace flicker faintly, a halo’s dying ember, quickly fading to nothing. The earth is unkind to you—it holds you down, its weight foreign and cruel. The flowers bend beneath your ruin.

Caitlyn finds you there, a slumped figure in the moon-drenched overgrowth. Her boots scuff the edge of the stone path as she draws near, her lantern’s glow catching on broken feathers. She pauses, breath halting in her throat, eyes narrowing at the sight.

For a heartbeat, she thinks you are already dead. But then you shudder—a broken gasp—barely more than a breath.

She drops to her knees, hands unthinking, ungloved. Her fingers press into the dirt as she reaches for you. She brushes strands of rain-soaked hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple by mistake. You flinch faintly beneath her touch, but you are too weak to recoil.

Her hands press against torn flesh, and she feels it—the heat of blood thick on her palms, seeping through her fingers. Her throat tightens. She does not pull away. Instead, she moves quickly. Her arms slip beneath your broken form. She is trembling as she lifts you, as though afraid you might fracture further in her hold.

You weigh almost nothing. A celestial ruin, cradled by mortal hands.

Her boots sink slightly in the sodden earth as she carries you toward the house. The lantern swings at her side, its flame barely holding against the wind. She does not stop to wipe the blood from her hands. She does not pause when her breath catches. She holds you closer, desperate and steady.

The night is heavy with iron and roses. The ground where you fell is quiet again, nothing but damp earth and broken feathers left behind. And you, trembling and wingless, are carried into the dark.

𝕴𝕴. The Cage of Mercy

You wake beneath silk sheets, cool and unfamiliar against your skin. The fabric clings slightly to the fever-slick sheen still clinging to your body. The bed is wide and soft, too soft, as though meant to hold someone fragile. Pillows of down frame your head, and the faint scent of lavender water drifts from a porcelain basin on the nightstand.

You shift, but your body protests. Dull aches bloom beneath your ribs and along the plane of your back. Bandages cross your chest in careful lines, soft and taut, but you feel no reverence for them. No gratitude. They feel foreign—holy remnants wrapped around something no longer sacred.

You push yourself up with trembling arms, but the weight on your back drags you down. Your wings—stiff, broken, and molting—lie heavy and useless against the mattress. Their edges are frayed, the feathers matted and torn, dull where they once gleamed. You attempt to move them, and a sharp pain lances through your shoulder blades, the muscles spasming. They twitch weakly, pathetic in their ruin.

You grit your teeth. You do not cry. Instead, you rise.

The sheets slip from your frame as you stagger from the bed, breathless and aching. Your legs threaten to buckle beneath you, joints stiff from too many still hours. You reach out, catching the edge of a carved mahogany table, your knuckles white around the wood. Your bare feet press into the polished floor, slick with the sheen of cold sweat, but you do not stop.

Your eyes catch the window. The curtains—thin and gossamer—stir faintly in the morning breeze, the fabric limned with pale gold light. You move toward it, shoulders tight with defiance.

Your knees hit the sill before you realize they’ve buckled. Your hands press to the glass—damp from your trembling palms—as you stare upward. Toward the sky.

The clouds drift slow and indifferent. There is no hand reaching down for you. No warm light. Only the cold sun and the dull ache in your bones.

Your lips part, and you begin to pray.

Your voice is cracked and raw, barely more than a whisper. You murmur psalms Caitlyn has never heard, verses in tongues no mortal tongue could shape. Your voice frays against the edges of the words, quiet and fractured. You clutch your trembling hands together, knuckles white with devotion, fingers curling tight in desperate reverence.

“Sanctus. Sanctus. Domine Deus Sabaoth…” Your voice falters. You breathe and try again. “Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua…”

You chant, broken and breathless, waiting for heaven’s reply. But no light answers you. The sky remains pale and still.

A soft sound stirs from the doorway. You don’t turn.

Caitlyn stands there, silent in the morning light. She leans against the frame, her arms loosely crossed, but there is no steel in her stance. Only a quiet, folding tenderness. Her eyes soften when they fall on you—on your trembling hands and your lips moving soundlessly against the windowpane.

You don’t see how she lingers. How she holds her breath every time your voice wavers. How she exhales slowly when you do not fall apart.

You do not see her carry the weight for you. But you feel it. And you refuse it.

She steps forward after a moment, voice careful. “Come back to bed,” she says softly. “You’re still weak.”

You flinch slightly at the sound, as though the mortal words disturb the fragile thread holding your prayers together. You do not look at her.

Your voice rasps against the glass. “Leave me.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer, footsteps light against the polished floor. She sets a tray on the table beside you—a modest meal of broth and bread. It smells warm, faintly savory. She brought it to be kind. To care.

You do not touch it.

Her voice is gentler this time, but firmer. “You should eat.”

You stare through her. You press your palms harder against the window, fingers trembling faintly.

When you do not respond, she steps closer still, her fingers skimming the edge of your ruined wing. You tense at the touch, your breath hitching, the sensation both familiar and deeply, terribly wrong. She means it to be gentle, but you recoil as though burned. You twist away from her, arms closing over your chest.

Your voice is a low rasp, cracked from disuse. “Don’t.”

Her hands drop to her sides immediately. She doesn’t reach for you again.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, stretching too long, filled with the thin space between you. You breathe heavily, staring down at your shaking hands.

Caitlyn exhales softly. She turns back toward the table, removing the lid from the small pot of salve beside the tray. The scent of mint and chamomile drifts faintly from it. She dips her fingers in, rubbing the ointment between her hands, warming it.

“Your wounds…” she says, carefully measured, “…they’ll heal faster if you let me help.”

You do not move. You do not answer. You fix your eyes on the sky, on the fragments of light filtering through the glass, and you try to imagine it is heaven looking back.

She kneels beside you. Her voice, when it comes again, is softer. “Please.”

You turn your face away.

You do not thank her. You do not accept her salves. You do not touch the food she brings you.

She speaks of the city—the warmth of summer markets, the idle laughter of children playing by the fountain, the scent of spiced bread in the lower quarters. She tries to conjure life in her voice, to breathe warmth into it. She tells you about the festival that will arrive soon, the colors that will drape the streets. She smiles softly, trying to make you imagine it, to see it through her eyes.

You stare through her. Your eyes remain on heaven, indifferent to the hands that save you.

And still, she stays.

𝕴𝕴𝕴.Soft Chains, Soft Hands

Days stretch into weeks. Time becomes a dull and heavy thing—measured only by the slow mending of your mortal flesh and the steady, inevitable wilting of the divine in you.

Your body recovers. Your limbs strengthen, and the bruises fade from your skin. But your wings—once celestial, once a thing of glory—dull from silk to dust. The feathers, once radiant and fine, shed in brittle clumps. They fall in uneven patches, leaving bare spaces along your spine. You no longer feel the tug of the sky when the wind drifts through the open windows. Gravity has claimed you fully.

You no longer speak Caitlyn’s name. You do not even look at her when she enters the room. You only call for your Father, for the gates, for the light.

When you wake, you whisper prayers to a heaven that does not answer. When you sleep, you see it slipping further away.

You become a relic of your own punishment. Trying to claw your way back to paradise with trembling hands.

But Caitlyn—relentless in her devotion—stays. She does not move like a martyr, nor a fool, but with a tenderness so steady it threatens to break you.

She brings you clothes softer than the robes of your choir, carefully folded and left at the edge of your bed. She brushes the ends of your matted hair, fingers slow and patient, working through the knots with infinite care. She never pulls too hard. When her fingertips catch against a tangle, she stops, smooths it out, and continues with quiet reverence.

She kneels beside you when your legs buckle from the pain of phantom flight. When the ache beneath your shoulder blades becomes too much—when your ruined wings spasm uselessly, still searching for the currents they’ll never find again—she is there.

She offers her arms without hesitation. And you do not reject them. You let yourself lean into her touch, trembling but stubborn, without a word.

She never asks why you do not speak. She never asks why you flinch when she presses warm cloths to your back, or why you turn your face away when she calls you by name. She simply stays.

And in the quiet moments, you begin to break.

One night, you dream of fire.

It does not begin with flame. It begins with wind. With the sudden and terrible absence of light—the cold snuffing out of warmth and grace. You see the sky rupture, clouds folding inward. The stars retreat as your wings fold downward in unholy descent.

You dream of the fall. Of gravity claiming you in a sickening pull. Of the divine spilling from your veins in molten ribbons. Of your feathers blackening mid-flight, blistered by some unseen judgment. Of sin blistering your skin as you plummet. Your own screams tear through your throat like ash.

You strike the earth with shattering force, your grace torn from you. You hit the ground in a broken heap, lightless. And then— Nothing.

You wake violently, gasping for air, the sheets tangled around your legs. Sweat clings to your skin, a thin sheen of cold across your neck. Your hands claw at the blanket, seeking purchase against something, anything—

But you cannot breathe. The fire is still in your throat. You swear you can taste the ash.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright.”

You startle at the voice. Hands—warm and steady—close over your arms.

You do not recognize them at first. You are still in the fire, still in the ruin. You thrash against the hold, your chest tight and heaving, the phantom of gravity still clutching at your lungs.

“Shh, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

Her voice cuts through the haze, low and trembling but steady, and you come back to the room by fragments—the silk sheets damp with sweat, the moonlight trembling against the window, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.

And her hands. Her hands, anchoring you.

“Breathe,” Caitlyn says softly. “Just breathe.”

Her thumbs stroke slow, tender circles along the inside of your wrists. Her voice—rough from sleep—carries the faintest tremor. You feel the ghost of it on your skin.

You shudder in her hold. Your hands, still shaking, curl weakly into the fabric of her nightshirt. You feel the tremor in your fingers even as you grip her, even as you press your forehead into her collarbone.

You feel her breath catch sharply when you do. But she does not pull away.

“Did you dream of it?” she asks quietly.

You do not answer. Your throat is too raw, too tight, to speak. But she doesn’t need you to.

She shifts slightly, pulling you further against her. You feel the strength in her arms, the solid press of her palm against the back of your head. She holds you as though you might fly apart, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleep shirt, gentle but unyielding.

Her breath ghosts over your temple, uneven and warm. “You’re here,” she murmurs softly. “You’re alright.”

You are not alright. You are anything but. But she repeats the words like a prayer, low and steady, as though willing them into truth.

Her fingers stroke softly along the sharp ridges of your shoulder blades, where your ruined wings twitch faintly beneath her touch. She is careful. Reverent. The weight of her hand warm against the place where your divinity once rested.

And though you will not admit it, you lean into her. Your hands remain fisted in the fabric of her shirt, knuckles white and trembling. Your forehead stays pressed against her throat, your lips parted, pulling shallow, uneven breaths.

You feel the warmth of her arms encircling you completely, the faint press of her lips at your temple—so light, you might have imagined it.

You breathe against her skin. And you do not pull away.

For the first time since the fall, you do not dream of fire. And she does not let you go.

𝕴𝖁. She, Your Eden

Caitlyn begins bringing you out into the gardens—the very place where you fell. The place where the earth first cradled your broken body, where the grass still remembers your blood.

You resist at first, your legs still weak from disuse, your steps faltering as though your body does not recognize gravity’s grip. She stands beside you, patient, always within reach but never touching.

The morning air clings cool to your skin. The scent of damp earth rises beneath your feet. You walk side by side, though you never brush against her. Your hands remain clasped behind your back, fingers lightly interlaced, as if in silent prayer. As if holding your holiness like a barrier between you.

You always keep one step ahead. And Caitlyn lets you.

But her eyes linger. She watches you. Always.

She watches the way you tilt your face toward the sun, as though waiting for it to split open the clouds and carry you back to grace. The way your eyes flutter closed, desperate for warmth that no longer recognizes you.

She watches your lips form prayers that never rise. She watches your knuckles tighten when you clutch at your own hands, as though trying to hold yourself together. She watches you fall apart.

She speaks of life. Of mortality. Of things that bloom in the dirt and not in the clouds.

“Look,” she says softly one morning, gesturing toward a cluster of wild roses growing unruly along the garden wall. Their petals are pale gold, blushing faintly at the edges, heavy with dew. Some have begun to wilt at the tips. Bruised by the cold. Imperfect.

“They’ll be gone by next week,” Caitlyn muses, crouching beside them, brushing her fingertips over a drooping stem. She glances at you over her shoulder, lips pulling into a faint, almost mischievous smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You look at her, disbelieving. “It’s dying.”

Her smile does not falter. She plucks the bloom from its branch and holds it out to you. Her voice is quiet, steady. “And still beautiful.”

You do not take the flower. You turn from her, from the roses, from the dying beauty she speaks of, and walk away.

She does not stop you. But when she finds you the next morning—hunched by the fountain, your fingers trembling over your beads of prayer—she kneels beside you without a word. She does not speak of flowers that wilt or the beauty of decay.

She only presses a shawl around your trembling shoulders, her fingers warm against your skin. And you let her.

When she realizes the garden cannot reach you, she tries the city. You refuse the first time she asks. And the second. And the third.

But she is stubborn. And when she stands before you that morning, her eyes suddenly soft but unbearably earnest, her voice quiet but breaking faintly at the edges—you cannot deny her.

“Please,” she says softly. There is no command in her voice. No persuasion. Only a quiet, fractured plea.

And so, you follow.

The city is a tangle of warmth and dust. Stone and iron. Smoke and spice.

It is nothing like heaven. And yet, she keeps showing it to you. As though it might be.

She takes you to the market first. You walk beside her, your posture rigid, unsure. The crowd swells around you, voices low and rough, unrefined. Mortal laughter clatters against stone walls, uncontained and imperfect.

You do not understand the appeal of it. But Caitlyn does.

She stops by a fruit stand. The merchant hands her a sliver of honeyed pear on the edge of a dull knife. She turns, holding it out to you, eyes glinting with unrestrained delight.

“Try it,” she says simply, her voice lighter now, teasing at the edges.

You stare at the sliver of fruit, brow faintly drawn. “I don’t need it.”

Her smile tilts, coy and knowing. “No. But you might want it.”

You glance at her. The sun catches in her hair, turns it to dark silk, makes the blue in her eyes burn a little brighter. And against your better judgment, you take it. You place the sliver of pear against your tongue, slow and uncertain, and the taste—syrupy sweet, clinging to the roof of your mouth—shocks you with its richness.

Her eyes flicker with satisfaction. But she says nothing. She only hands you another.

You do not refuse.

In the following days, she shows you more of the city. She lets you walk behind her at first, always allowing you the space you demand, though her hand lingers close enough to catch yours.

She buys you books filled with mortal poetry—thin volumes with gilded edges and worn spines. She leaves them by your bedside. You tell yourself you will not touch them.

But you do. You read them before you sleep. You read about broken hearts and fleeting beauty and stars that live and die in the same breath. You read about a world meant to end and bloom again in the ashes.

And when she finds you on the veranda one evening, book still open on your lap, you scowl at her. She only smiles. The slightest tilt of her head. Like she knew you would.

One evening, the wind is sharp with the promise of rain. You shiver slightly when it drags its cold fingers along your skin. You do not complain. You would not dare.

And yet, without a word, Caitlyn unwinds the scarf from her own neck and drapes it around your shoulders. Her knuckles brush against your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before they retreat.

The scarf is warm with her scent. You clutch it closer without meaning to. And you despise yourself for it.

You watch her as she glances away, her eyes settling on the rows of lanterns swaying softly in the evening breeze. You do not see the smile she hides.

You still pray. Still beg for the gates. Still clutch at your beads with trembling hands.

But she cannot bear it. Cannot bear the way you gaze at the sky with longing eyes, waiting for the light that will not come.

She watches you ache for a heaven that has already closed its gates. And so, she decides.

If you will not stay for the world, She will become your reason.

She will make herself your Eden. And she will be merciless in her devotion.

𝖁.Soft Damnation

That night, you break.

It happens without warning. The sky offers no omen—only emptiness. Ink-black and void of answers.

The stars are sharp, pale shards scattered across the heavens, and yet they do not hear you. No light answers when you beg. No voice calls your name.

So you fall. Again.

You collapse to your knees in the dirt where Caitlyn once found you. Where you first became something unholy. The cold earth clings to your skin, biting against your bones. But you do not rise. You only bow lower.

You press your trembling hands together, knuckles white with desperation. Your voice rasps against the stillness, cracking with every breath.

“Domine, adiuva me.” Lord, help me.

But the words feel like ash on your tongue. Dry and dead. Familiar and useless.

You clutch at your beads, fingers unsteady, the rosary trembling in your grip. You pray again, louder this time. “Domine, ne derelinquas me.” Lord, do not forsake me.

But there is no answer. There never is.

You feel your throat tighten. Your eyes burn with the betrayal of salt. And you shatter. Into something less than divine. Something broken. Something mortal.

She finds you like that.

Caitlyn’s breath catches in her throat when she sees you—the fierce, unyielding creature who once spoke of salvation with such reverence—now trembling in the dirt, splintered by absence.

“Hey,” she calls softly, her voice barely a whisper. But you do not lift your head. You do not answer.

You only press your forehead deeper into the soil, as though the earth might swallow you whole. As though you wish it would.

“Please.” Her voice is closer now, low and unsteady. The smallest fracture in her tone makes your spine stiffen.

You feel her hands on your arms—gentle at first, uncertain. Fingers hesitant against your skin. But when you refuse to rise, when you resist her, she grows bolder.

“Stop—” You twist away from her, your nails biting into your palms. But she is stronger. Her arms circle around you, unyielding. And this time, she holds you.

“Stay,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. She buries her face against your neck, her breath uneven, trembling. “Stay. Please.”

Her lips are too close. Her words too human. Too pleading.

You feel her desperation in the way her arms tighten around you, anchoring you to her. You feel her voice quake against your skin.

And you break. Utterly. Completely.

First in sobs, sharp and breathless. Then in silence, your body trembling in her arms. And finally—finally—in her mouth.

You do not know who moves first. Only that your lips find hers, seeking with the violence of sorrow. A collision of trembling mouths and sharp breaths.

Her lips—warm, mortal—burn against your trembling mouth. You taste the salt of your own grief on her tongue. And she tastes the sorrow on yours.

Your hands, still shaking, rise to her face, fingertips unsure. But she holds them there—keeps them against her cheeks with her own trembling hands. Grounding you.

She murmurs against your lips—desperate, reverent, wild. “Stay with me.” The words press against your mouth like a vow. Like a plea.

And you answer her in the only language you have left. In the only prayer you have left.

You pull her closer. Your hands tangle in her hair, wild with grief and need. Your fingers twist into the strands at the nape of her neck, desperate to keep her near, to feel the weight of her. To know she is real.

You kiss her with the fury of a lost soul seeking light. And she answers you. With no hesitation. No grace. Only need.

That night, Caitlyn worships you. But not with reverence. Not with delicate prayers. But with hands that devour. With lips that consume.

She carries you into her room, your limbs weak and unsteady. And when your knees buckle, she catches you. Her arms steady around you, her breath at your ear.

“I have you,” she whispers. A promise, low and feral.

She lays you down on the bed, her hands trembling as she undresses you. You let her. You do not resist when her mouth finds your throat. When her lips trace the hollow beneath your jaw.

She leaves her mark on you—soft and fleeting at first. But then harder. Fiercer. Like she wants to brand herself into you.

“You’re mine,” she rasps against your skin, her voice raw with need. A confession. A claim.

You do not protest. You do not stop her when her teeth scrape softly against your collarbone, when she bites down just hard enough to make you gasp. You do not stop her when she kisses her way down your stomach, slow and deliberate. Her mouth reverent but merciless. A prayer in every press of her lips.

Her hands trace the curve of your hips, shaking with restraint, afraid you might still disappear. But you don’t. You stay. You stay with her.

You cry out softly when her lips trace the inside of your thigh, when her mouth finds the heat between your legs. You bury your hands in her hair, trembling as you pull her closer. Her breath is hot and heavy against you, and you arch into her mouth, into her devotion.

She leaves no part of you untouched. No part of you unworshipped.

Her lips press prayers into your skin—desperate, broken prayers. Her mouth speaks the only gospel she believes in now: You.

And when she rises over you, when she sinks into you with shaking hands and a trembling mouth, your back arches off the sheets, wings limp and breathless. Your nails score soft marks down her back, and she gasps at the sting.

“Say my name,” she pleads against your lips, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. Her eyes—dark and raw—search yours, aching. “Please, say it.”

And you do. For the first time, you speak it without shame. Without resistance.

“Caitlyn.” A whisper, trembling and reverent. The first prayer you speak without heaven in mind.

And she swallows it. Takes it into her mouth like sacrament. Like she could live on the sound of it.

That night, you do not reach for God. You reach for her. And she holds you like she is the only salvation you will ever need.

𝖁𝕴. The Flightless Dawn

The morning is golden. And cruel.

The sun breaks in through the window, spilling light across your skin like a slow and deliberate confession. It exposes everything. The shallow curve of your back. The faint, bruised blooms where her mouth had lingered too long. The tender scrape of her nails down your spine.

You sit by the window, draped in nothing but the linen sheet, your knees drawn loosely to your chest. The fabric clings to your damp skin, still cloyed with the scent of her. Your hair is tangled from her hands, wild and unkempt, and you hate that you no longer know if the heaviness in your chest is from grief— or from the weight of her gaze.

Your fingers tremble faintly as you trace your own shoulder, feeling the faint indent where her lips had pressed too softly, too reverently. The memories cling like damp cloth. Too close. Too heavy.

You should be praying. You should be weeping for the sky, for the grace of it, for the gates you once called home. But you only sit there. Flightless. Silent.

You press your forehead to the windowpane, its chill biting at your skin. But the cold does nothing to cleanse you. It only makes you ache.

You hear her footsteps before you see her. Soft against the wooden floorboards. Slow. Careful.

As though she is afraid she will break whatever fragile peace exists between you.

Caitlyn enters quietly, her hair damp from the bath, clinging in darker strands at her temples. She has already dressed, loose-fitting pants and a thin button-down shirt that clings in places still damp. But she carries none of her usual formality, none of her sharpness. No holster at her hip. No stiff posture. Just her.

She does not speak. Not at first.

She only crosses the room, barefoot and silent, her eyes never leaving you. And when she reaches you, she kneels beside you, slow and deliberate.

Her fingers find your bare shoulder—hesitant at first. Testing. Like she expects you to flinch.

You do not.

She exhales softly, her hand warm and steady against your skin. Her forehead comes to rest against your temple. And she stays there. Breathing you in. No words. Only silence.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You only breathe into each other. Soft and slow. Like two souls trying not to wake the storm.

And then her voice—low, raw from the night before—breaks the stillness. Fragile and unsure.

“Are you alright?”

The question is a whisper, meant only for you. But it carries more weight than it should. More fear. More longing.

You do not answer right away. Your throat tightens. Your hands flex faintly against your knees. But you feel her fingers trace along your shoulder—slow, soothing—and you lean into the touch before you realize it.

You feel her breath hitch.

“Hey…” she murmurs softly, shifting slightly, her other hand coming to your jaw, gently coaxing you to face her. Her thumb brushes over your cheekbone, reverent, seeking. “Look at me.”

And you do.

Your eyes meet hers, and something in your chest buckles. Because there is no demand in her gaze. No expectation. Only tenderness.

Only her.

You hate the way your eyes burn at the edges. The way the ache in your throat rises like a swell. But Caitlyn does not look away. She does not flinch from the fragility in your gaze. She only leans in.

Her lips brush softly against your forehead, lingering longer than they should. She does not press for more. She only holds you there, unmoving, like she might somehow steal away the weight you carry if she just stays close enough.

“I’m here,” she whispers against your skin. Soft. Certain. Steady. “I’m right here.”

You exhale softly—ragged, broken—and you press your cheek against her palm, eyes fluttering closed.

You do not speak of the night before. You do not say her name. You do not weep for the sky.

You only let her hold you.

She shifts, carefully, pulling you into her lap. Her arms wrap around you with a gentleness that is almost painful. You bury your face in the curve of her neck, and she tightens her arms around you, one hand threading slowly through your hair.

You do not fight her. You do not resist when she places her lips softly against your temple. When she murmurs words into your skin—too quiet to be prayers, too raw to be anything but love.

“I’ve got you…” “You’re safe…” “I’m not letting go.”

And you believe her. For once, you let yourself believe her.

The sun slips higher, spilling golden warmth across the room. You feel it stroke your bare back, warm and insistent. The light brushes your skin like a fading echo of the divine. But you no longer flinch from it.

The sky is endless. But you do not weep for it anymore.

You let yourself lean into her, your hands weak but clinging softly to the fabric of her shirt. You let her press her lips against your hair. Let her cradle you. Let her carry you.

For now, this is your heaven. And you do not turn away from it.

Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR!

Our family, the Dohan family, is suffering under painful and difficult circumstances in Gaza. Father Moatasem bears the burden of war every day alongside his son Youssef, while Nada and Nouran suffer from severe food shortages and contaminated water, which has led to many health problems due to environmental pollution. 🌍💔Mother Iman, who is in Egypt, devotes her effort to caring for her daughter, Nour, who was seriously injured as a result of the bombing that destroyed their house. 🏥🚨 Unfortunately, we have no other way to get help except through a GoFundMe donation campaign. With hearts full of hope, we appeal to you to support us in creating this campaign to provide treatment for Nour and purchase basic food commodities. Any donation, no matter how small, can make a big difference in the life of this affected family. 🍉🙏

And this is the shape of our house in which we spent our lives and childhood and everything was beautiful after the occupation destroyed it overnight. Our house is gone and everything beautiful is gone with it. We are now without a shelter to shelter us. This is our situation now. ⛺

We now need to raise 20.000$ so that my family and I can escape from this danger that surrounds us to a safe area. 💲🗳

We need your support by donating to us or publishing widely. I want to compensate my family for the fear and terror they were exposed to and to escape from here with minimal damage before it is too late. 🤕🙏🏻

🔎 Vatted by✅: @90-ghost

🔗 Donation link here:

@dlxxv-vetted-donations @90-ghost @gazavetters @gaza-evacuation-funds @gaza

apartment neighbor!vi who disappears, or at least tries to -- no more weekend visits, no more tuesday night movie dates -- you still see her, or rather, catch glimpses of her here and there, but she's always ducking away or off somewhere before you can catch her, and for a someone who's so conspicuous, she's more slippery than you could've ever imagined. and at first, you're angry -- hurt, confused -- but the pain dulls after a week, two, and soon enough, there's only the barest flinch whenever you see her silhouette slipping down the hallway when you catch her coming back from the gym, or in the mail room --

once, you catch the bright chime of powder's voice as vi opens her door, and you could've sworn you heard your name, but the next second, the door's slamming closed behind her, and powder's voice cuts off like an old record.

parings: vi x FEM!reader

tw: angst mainly not not a lot...yet, some surrgestive stuff

summary: beings Vi's prison wife, and then it all l falls apart.

a/n: im sorry for not posting, i've been writing

The prison air was thick with sweat and desperation, but somehow, you and Vi had carved out a space that was just yours. The cell you shared was tiny, barely enough room for both of you to move without brushing against each other, but that was the way you liked it. Every glance, every casual touch—it was all the more intense because of how close you were forced to be.

Vi was leaning back on her cot, arms behind her head, watching you with that lazy smirk she always wore when she was in the mood to mess with you. Her pink hair was buzzed short at the sides, and her sleeveless jumpsuit showed off her arms—scarred, but strong. You were perched on the lower bunk, a needle in one hand and a makeshift ink pot in the other.

"You sure about this?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

Vi rolled her shoulders. "What, you think I’m scared?" She grinned, voice dripping with challenge. "Babe, I’ve been punched in the face more times than I can count. A little ink ain’t gonna break me."

You smirked, dipping the needle into the ink before dragging the sharp tip over her wrist, etching the rough outline of a small emblem—the only thing you had to remind yourself of the outside. It was a symbol of your old life, one that Vi had asked for after months of sharing whispered confessions in the dark, promises that when you got out, you’d stick together.

Vi hissed but didn’t flinch. Instead, she chuckled, her voice lower, raspier. "Damn, you got a real gentle touch," she teased. "Didn’t expect that from the meanest bitch in this joint."

You rolled your eyes. "I’ll make it rougher if you keep talking."

She tilted her head, smirking. "Oh? Kinky."

You jabbed the needle just a little harder than necessary, and Vi let out a sharp breath, grinning through the pain. "That’s what I thought," you muttered.

After a while, Vi switched places with you, sitting behind you on the lower bunk, her legs framing your body. She worked with a steady hand, dragging the needle over your shoulder blade, her fingers warm against your skin. Every now and then, she’d pause to admire her work, trailing her fingertips over the fresh ink. It sent shivers down your spine.

"Y’know," Vi murmured, her breath warm against your ear, "if we weren’t in a cage, I’d be doin’ something else with my hands right now."

You let out a quiet laugh. "Oh? Like what?"

Vi chuckled, her lips brushing just barely against your ear. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

You turned your head to look at her, noses almost brushing. The air between you was thick with tension, the kind that built up over months of stolen moments and lingering touches. Vi’s smirk softened just a little, and for a second, you thought she might actually kiss you.

Then, the bell rang. Yard time was over.

Vi groaned, pulling away. "Guess we’ll have to finish this later."

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the burn of fresh ink. "Better not leave me with an unfinished piece."

Vi shot you a look, something teasing but also strangely serious. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

THE NEXT DAY

You sat on your cot, arms crossed, glaring at the wall.

Time-out.

One of the guards had thrown you into solitary after a fight broke out in the yard—not even your fight, but since when did the guards care about fairness? You’d spent the last 24 hours in a tiny concrete box, no light, no sound, just your own thoughts clawing at your skull.

The moment they let you out, you went straight to your cell. Only, it was empty.

You frowned. "Vi?"

Silence.

Your stomach twisted, a creeping unease settling in your bones. Vi was always here. She never left without telling you. You checked the common room, the yard, even risked asking a few of the other inmates. No one knew where she was.

Panic started to rise in your chest.

Finally, you cornered the head guard, an older man with graying hair and dead eyes. He barely even looked up from his paperwork when you asked.

"She’s gone," he said flatly.

Your blood ran cold. "What do you mean, gone?"

He sighed, rubbing his temple like this was some great inconvenience to him. "Bailed out. Some councilwoman paid her way out."

Your ears were ringing. "Who?"

"Didn’t catch a name. Tall, dark-haired, fancy accent."

Caitlyn.

You felt like the floor had been ripped out from under you.

Vi was gone.

She didn’t tell you. She didn’t wait. She just… left.

Your legs felt weak, but you forced yourself to stay upright. You swallowed hard, nodding stiffly. "Right."

The guard barely even acknowledged you before walking off, leaving you standing there in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by prisoners who all had somewhere to be, something to do.

But you didn’t.

Not anymore.

WEEKS LATER

The world had lost its color.

Without Vi, prison felt suffocating in a way it never had before. The cell you once shared felt too empty, too cold. The ink on your skin—the tattoo she had given you—was a cruel reminder of what you had lost.

You barely ate. Barely slept. The other inmates noticed, but no one said anything. You weren’t the same.

At night, you lay on the thin mattress, tracing the lines of the tattoo with your fingers, pretending Vi’s hand was still there, steady and warm. You thought about the way she used to smirk at you, the way she’d pull you close and murmur promises of the future, a future that didn’t exist anymore.

Had she even thought about you when she left?

Did she regret it?

Or were you just another thing she left behind?

You didn’t know.

And that was the worst part.

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. four

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐒𝐇𝐄.

← 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑒𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑣𝑒 →

listen to the song linked for a better and more realistic experience, hope you like it and think it fits them as much as i did <3

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 7k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: fluff, LOTS of tension, nothing big acc happens but is SUPER important for the story and plot, shows my undying love for music, fake dating, cursing, modern au, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, afab!reader, multiple part series, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Behind closed doors.

sum: arranged marriage caitlyn kiramman x reader

warnings: this is short but i put my whole pussy into it, reader lowkey has issues, my girl cait does aswell, hardly proofread, INSANE lesbian yearning

you've always appreciated the way the kiramman manor looks at night, after the sun has lulled itself to sleep in orange hues and the moon is reborn - surrounded by black inc and a thousand stars visible through the large windows of you and your shared wife's room, the night-life of piltover with tall buildings and bright lights shown to your tired eyes from linen curtains pulled back.

it distracted you from how your back grew sore from your position of sitting against the headboard, and why you were here in the first place. you gazed down at your resting wife - she's gorgeous, with prussian blue hair fanning over her pillow and framing her face. you're jealous of her peace in her deep state of unconscious sleep the way her comforter is tucked to her chest and the way it rises and falls with every passing breath.

you had been sitting with your busy thoughts for far too long, you could hardly handle yourself anymore. you've never understood the purpose of getting married ever since you first learnt the term as a young girl. to know someone for a few years and finally like them enough to buy expensive rings and voice vowels to one another, which, most of the time, are bullshit.

tapping the mic against my skull

listen y'all can characterize ellie however you want. whatever works for you! whatever does it for ya! but i know the truth and the truth is... this loser is not all that.... i've seen a few posts go around and tbh i just wanna yap and give my two cents so Without Further Ado

i fear she's just a girl? she can never take herself seriously, not even her journal is safe from her own judgement and persecution. this bitch would agonize over her spotify playlist titles hoping to come off as cool and mysterious. she has aesthetic pinterest boards for everyone in her life and they're color coordinated. she echos any memorable tiktok sound and says ow! when she bumps into shit. and says sorry like the thing is Real. she wears silver jewelry and really likes wearing thumb and knuckle rings. she doesn't grow her hair out very long bc it tickles her neck and she hates it.

she says things if she means it, otherwise she won't bother. she's sarcastic and sometimes blunt, but never mean. she bites like a dog when she's hurt because she's hurt. she talks more with her eyes than with her mouth because words are hard, writing or verbal. she likes first person shooter games, but she's fine with mortal kombat. she's phenomenal at tetris. she will cheat at uno if she's losing astronomically.

she enjoys free verse and contemporary poetry but she's great at analyzing traditional poems. she reads people's body language because that says more about a person than whatever they come up with.

she's not some masc dom mf with no feelings and a mysterious aura. if she comes off that way its purely coincidental and she finds it funny. she will go to chuck e cheese and call the mascot charles. making joel laugh was and will always be her greatest goal in life. she would adopt a cat and name it something completely unconventional like doorknob or smth idfk

regret & saudade; loose threads ⭑.ᐟ

☆: this a collab with the loveliest of lovely people, @bloodstainedsapphic ♡ musing about this with you was the most fun thing ever, i don't know how i'll ever be able to express just how talented you are, and how thankful i am for all your contributions here!! ...i mean chat, all the credit goes to lyss. i'm serious!! thank you sm lyssbug, and i better see yall thanking her too!! hope y'all enjoy :) ellie's m.list.

◇: 18+ mdni. alcohol consumption, ellie’s a little mean (she's hurt), reader as well + tension, tension, and more tension. whiny sub!ellie x mouthy dom(ish)!reader, oral & nipple sucking (e! recieving), and she has hip tattoos lol. also contains angsty themes and a purposely ambiguous ending. ++ 3.6k word count.

Getting dragged out of bed for a basement party hosted by a friend of a friend was the last thing you wanted tonight. Yet, here you were, begrudgingly getting ready—much to your dismay—to indulge your friends’ wishes.

Model Behavior

masterlist!

synopsis: models are supposed to have some kind of professionalism, right? (18+ themes ahead)

pairings: vi x reader (no use of y/n)

Your agent said this would be easy. Quick, easy, only three shoots. Hit a few poses, change your clothes a few times, have some good camera chemistry with your partner. 

Yeah, well easy your ass. 

You had never met a model more annoying than Vi.