#that which is sustains or is necessary for life

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

FUCK would vaggie's Spear! kid have dreams of all the battles she took them into? would the baby cry and cry and when chaggie finally figures out how to, like, use a magic thing to figure out what's wrong- it just projects these shadows of carnage- and vaggie RECOGNIZES all of it- and, she was holding the baby but hands them off to charlie before leaving the room... and the moment charlie's the one holding the kid and singing to them, the crying stops.

vaggie. just on the other side of the door, hearing this. sliding down to sit on the floor and Not Cry over how she brought a life into the world by taking other's lives, and this isn't even just her own thing to bear- just being HELD by her is enough to make the baby remember all the times when she was using them as a weapon..

charlie, alone in the room now, holding their kid a little tighter and singing with a little tremor in her lullaby, scared vaggie maybe ISN'T right on the other side of the door listening to them... or that she won't be for much longer

oh i hate this au now. bad. cursed

[heartburiedingreece]

THIS PHOTO OF ELIO MAKES MY FUCKING INSANE FUCKING LOOK AT HIM WITH THOSE FUCKING PUPPYEYES AND WITH THE SHIRT AND HIS HAIR AND HIS FUCKING CHEST AND OH MY GOOOOOODDDDDDD😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩

[ntls-24722]

What I think is extremely funny is that this transformation went mostly unnoticed up until the very end because a lot of the changes were very... Fritz. He was literally already enough of a freak of nature that when he DID become one, no-one noticed until they pulled up old photos of him.

Like - "You're telling me he's roaming the woods in the middle of the night, eating carrion and rotting meat, and you watched him crush bone between his teeth? Yeaaah, that's Fritz, he's a freak."

But anyways,

When Comet died, he was left without a source of protection. He's already grieving the loss of her, but now there is the problem that he actually is vulnerable and in danger without a giant spider to keep him company - they spent their whole lives dismantling an extremely powerful company that creates murder machines both un-and-in-tentionally. Fritz and Comet had an entire species and incredibly powerful billionares as opps for over 15 years, and Comet, the 80-ton murder spider on his side, is now dead. He is scared and sad, and one of the things he is scared to do is sleep.

The way Comet was at his side as they slept had an almost hypnotic effect (because of how big Comet's heart was, her heartbeat was constantly audible and as they slept, Fritz's own heartbeat matched up with what was a very slow one) that made the both of them feel incredibly safe and without her he's both scared for his life and without that easy crutch for calming down. Comet was placed in the starfall (I have NO damn clue as to how) and once while visiting her, he spends too long and sleeps beside her.

It is the first time he sleeps well in weeks.

Chasing that, he keeps visiting and sleeping by her side or inside her as the soft tissue begins to disappear, and because of the prolonged exposure, he begins to adapt as a member of the starfall ecosystem. His stomach becomes stronger and the smell/taste of rotting meat, something he used to hate, begins to be more palatable, and he's sensitive to even just the sound that her body produces with the wind, which is rather similar to organ pipes.

If it wasn't hard enough to cope with the loss of the love of your life, it's even harder when the love of your life is slowly becoming your ideal environment from her grave! The worst part is is that he struggles to stop visiting her because he likes the change. Because of this, he's 90 with the dexterity and general energy that he had 50 years ago, and the fact he's changing at all makes him feel like Comet is still with him. The fact that despite her death, she's still affecting him and changing him in the way he can see her effects on him, he can feel her effects on him, with his fingertips and in his head. He doesn't see them as effects or biproducts or circumstance radiating from her,

He sees the changes like it's her right there.

[shatterthefragments]

Apparently my coworkers thought I was going to fistfight my manager today. So. Uh. There’s that.

Just. Concert Friday. First festival next month. Maybe waterfall(s) in August. And more concerts September onwards.

[headspace-hotel]

How to begin a sustainable way of life

This is a draft of something I've been writing for a couple months. It is mainly focused on the culture of the USA. Feel free to repost or otherwise share, with or without credit.

Do not tell people what to do—help them do it! 

Give the gift of relief from being forced to engage in society’s unsustainable ways of life. 

“People need to eat more plant-based foods.” ->Talk about your favorite recipes, give others recipes, cook for them, and grow vegetables and plants in your garden and give them away as gifts. 

“People need to repair their clothes.” -> Offer to repair others’ clothes, and teach people how to repair their clothes. 

“People need to buy less clothes.” -> Give them old clothes that you don’t want, help them repair their clothes

“People need to buy less plastic stuff.” -> Learn to make things that can serve the same purpose, such as baskets, and give them as gifts. Let people borrow things you own so they don’t have to buy their own. 

“People need to stop using leafblowers and other gas-guzzling machinery.” -> Offer to rake the leaves. You can use them as compost in your own garden. 

“People need to be more educated about nature.”-> Learn about nature yourself. Tell people about nature. Be open about your love of creatures such as snakes, spiders, and frogs. Do not show awareness that this could be strange. You are not obligated to quiet down your enthusiasm for creepy crawlies to demonstrate awareness that it is weird. Point out at every opportunity how these animals are beneficial. 

“People need to use cars less.” -> Offer rides to others whenever you must go somewhere. Whenever you are about to go to the store, ask your neighbor or your friend who lives along the way, “Is there anything you need from the store?” 

You cannot control others’ behaviors, but you can free them from being controlled. 

If you think to yourself, “But this would be so difficult to do!” ask yourself WHY? Why does your society coerce you into less sustainable ways of living, forcing you to consume excessively? After thinking about this, consider that it is less simple and easy than you thought to make more sustainable choices, so why would you judge others for not doing it? 

Do not act alone—act with others! 

Environmentally friendly behaviors that can be done alone, without collaborating with or consulting another person, are the least powerful of all. Whenever an “environmentally friendly” behavior is suggested, figure out “How can I give this as a gift?” or “How can I make this possible on the level of a whole community?” 

“Personal choices” do not work because every single person has to make them individually. If you are focused on making your own personal choice, you are not focused on others. If you are not focused on others, you are not helping them. If nobody is helping each other, most people won’t be able to make the “personal choice.”

You inherently share an ecosystem with your neighbors  

            Start with your neighbors, the people physically close to you. You live on the same patch of land, containing roots from the same plants and trees. You can speak to them face to face without traveling, which means you can easily bring them physical things without using resources to travel. 

            Always talk to your neighbors and be friendly with them. Offer them favors unprompted and tell them about how your garden is doing. Do not be afraid to be annoying—a slightly annoying neighbor who is helpful, kind, and can be relied upon for a variety of favors or in times of need is a necessary and inevitable part of a good community. If you make the effort to be present in somebody’s life, they will have to put up with you on some occasions, but that is just life. We cannot rely on each other if we do not put up with each other. 

Simply spending time with someone influences them for good 

Every hour you spend outside with your neighbor is an hour your neighbor doesn’t spend watching Fox News. Every hour you spend talking with someone and interacting with them in the real world, eating real food and enjoying your real surroundings, is an hour you don’t spend only hearing a curated picture of what reality is like from social media. 

            Isolation makes it easy for people to become indoctrinated into extremist beliefs. When someone spends more time alone, watching TV, Youtube, or scrolling social media, than they do with others, their concept of what other people are like and what the world is like comes more from social media than real life. TV and online media are meant to influence you in a specific way. Simply restricting the access these influences have to yourself and others is helpful. 

A garden is the source of many gifts 

If you grow a garden, you can give your neighbors and friends the gift of food, plants, and crafted objects. This is one of the foundational ways to form community. When you give food, you provide support to others. When you give plants, you are encouraging and teaching about gardening. It is even better when you give recipes cooked from things you grew, or items crafted from things you grew. You can also give the gift of knowledge of how to grow these plants, cook these recipes, or craft these objects. 

More on gift-giving

            Some people are uncomfortable with receiving items or services as gifts. They want to feel like they are giving something back, instead of having obligation to return the favor hanging over them. 

            It can help to ask a simple favor that can be easily fulfilled. People generally like the feeling of helping someone else. 

When you give someone a gift, it can help to say something like “Oh, I have too many of this thing to take care of/store/eat myself! Do you think you could take some?” This makes your neighbor feel like they are helping you. 

When allowing others to borrow items, you might not get them back. Don’t worry about that. It just means the item found a place where it was needed the most. You can ask about the item if you think it might have been forgotten, and this can create an opportunity for a second meeting. But don’t press. 

If the person you give to insists upon some form of payment, this is a good opportunity to negotiate a trade. 

Ask to be given compostable or recyclable things 

Ask your neighbor to save compostable scraps, biodegradable cardboard and paper products, and any other items that might be put to use. Use them in your own compost pile. Or, start a compost pile at the edge of the yard where you both can add to it. Remember that “wet” compost like vegetable and fruit bits needs to be mixed with twice as much of “dry” and “woody” compost like cardboard, leaves, small twigs, paper and wood bits. 

Use the front yard for gardening

Overcome the cultural norm that the front yard is only decorative. Use the front yard for gardening so you can be seen by others enjoying your garden, and others can witness the demonstration of the possibilities of land. In the front yard, anything you do intentionally with your land can be witnessed. It also makes you a visible presence in your community. 

Grow staple foods 

Don’t just grow vegetables that cannot be the core component of a meal themselves. Grow potatoes, dry beans, black eyed peas and other nourishing, calorie-dense foods. Grow the ingredients of meals. You could even build a garden around a recipe.

Invite neighbors and friends over to eat food made from things you grew 

Be sure to send them home with leftovers.  

Grow plants for baskets 

Containers are one of the fundamental human needs. If we had more containers, we wouldn’t need plastic so much. You can learn to make baskets, and to grow plants that provide the raw materials for baskets. 

If someone rakes their leaves, ask to have the leaves  

If you see someone putting leaves in bags, don’t be afraid to ask if you can have the leaves. More likely than not they will be happy to agree. 

Collaborate with neighbors to plant things in the no-man’s-land of the property line 

In the border land between your neighbor’s yard and your yard, it is almost always just mowed grass because no one can plant anything without it affecting their neighbor. But these border lands add up to a lot of space. It would be much better if you talked to your neighbor about what would be nice to plant there, and together created a plan for that space. 

Give others the freedom to wander 

Make it clear that you will not get mad if the neighbor’s kids play in your yard or run across it. Invite the neighbors onto your land as much as possible. Tell them they are allowed to spend time in a favored spot whenever they would like.  

The power of the hand-made sign 

If there is a yard sale, you always know about it because of the hand-drawn signs placed around. Therefore, a cookout or unwanted item exchange can be announced the same way. In rural areas I have seen hand-made signs that say: FIREWOOD or WE BUY GOATS or EGGS. This is one of the few technologies of community that remain in the USA. If someone who looks to buy and sell can put up a hand-made sign, why shouldn’t you?  

Religious people or people with strong political opinions like to put signs everywhere. If they have the confidence and courage to do so, why shouldn’t you? 

So if there is a message you would like everyone to see, use the simple power of the hand-made sign. Proclaim “BEE FRIENDLY ZONE!” above your pollinator garden with all the confidence of a religious fundamentalist billboard. Announce to the world, “VEGETABLES FREE TO ALL—JUST ASK!” “WE TAKE LEAVES—NO PESTICIDES.” Instead of YARD SALE, or perhaps in conjunction with YARD SALE, you can write, PLANT EXCHANGE or SEED SWAP or CLOTHING SWAP. Who can stop you? 

Someone has to do it for society to change  

Some of these ideas might be eccentric, strange, or even socially unacceptable, but there is no way to change what is normal except to move against it. Someone has to be weird. It might as well be you. 

[thefugitivesaint]

"it's the dancing that kept them going" Maintaining joy in your life as an act of resistance is the kind of motto more on the Left should embrace. "...joy serves as a healing balm that sustains both the people and the struggles inherent in revolutionary times." In the words of Audre Lorde from her 1978 piece 'The Uses of the Erotic': "In order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of power within the culture of the oppressed that can provide energy for change.” In other words, fight the good fight but don't omit having fun in the process. That's not being glib. You have to remind yourself what you're fighting for while providing for yourself (and the ones you love) the "energy" necessary "for change." It's a sentiment found in the work of the anarchist Emma Goldman, an expression that has been reduced to a paraphrase, "If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution." She wrote in her autobiography 'Living My Life' about an incident where she was pulled aside and chastised for dancing: "At the dances I was one of the most untiring and gayest. One evening a cousin of Sasha, a young boy, took me aside. With a grave face, as if he was about to announce the death of a dear comrade, he whispered to me that it did not behoove an agitator to dance. Certainly not with such reckless abandon, anyway. It was undignified for one who was on the way to become a force in the anarchist movement. My frivolity would only hurt the cause. I grew furious at the impudent interference of the boy. I told him to mind his own business. I was tired of having the Cause constantly thrown into my face. I did not believe that a Cause which stood for a beautiful ideal, for anarchism, for release and freedom from convention and prejudice, should demand the denial of life and joy. I insisted that our Cause could not expect me to become a nun and that the movement would not be turned into a cloister. If it meant, that I did not want it.

'I want freedom, the right to self-expression, everybody's right to beautiful, radiant things.' Anarchism meant that to me, and I would live it in spite of the whole world - prisons, persecutions, everything. Yes, even in spite of the condemnation of my own closest comrades I would live my beautiful ideal." Back to Lorde, "In the way my body stretches to music and opens into response, hearkening to its deepest rhythms, so every level upon which I sense also opens to the erotically satisfying experience, whether it is dancing, building a bookcase, writing a poem, examining an idea. That self-connection shared is a measure of the joy which I know myself to be capable of feeling, a reminder of my capacity for feeling. And that deep and irreplaceable knowledge of my capacity for joy comes to demand from all of my life that it be lived within the knowledge that such satisfaction is possible, and does not have to be called marriage, nor god, nor an afterlife." .... "In touch with the erotic, I become less willing to accept powerlessness, or those other supplied states of being which are not native to me, such as resignation, despair, self-effacement, depression, self-denial."

[rosachae]

more than a game | lara raj x reader

⁍ song: sienna - the marías ⁍ genre: AU! fluffy, happy endings. tennisplayer!lara x physiotherapist!y/n. ultimately, just a story about two girls who are very much not over eachother. right person, wrong time-- except the right time is now. ⁍ wc: 8.3k ⁍ warnings: mentions of injury, nothing major. ⁍ synopsis:

lara broke up with y/n at the end of highschool to pursue her dreams as a professional tennis player. when she was faced with the decision, it wasn't made easily, but she convinced herself it was necessary. that was until she sustains an injury before an upcoming tournament and her new physiotherapist happens to be the very girl she left behind.

y/n had known for three days. three full days since the email arrived in her inbox, all official and sterile and life-ruining.

 lara raj — pcl strain, grade I — primary physiotherapy care assigned to: y/n y/l/n.

she hadn’t slept properly since. part of her almost regretted responding to manon’s email, the manager of the girl who split her world in two the day she left. she’d tried to tell herself it would be fine, that it had been a year, that she was a professional, that her heart no longer lived in the hands of a girl who smiled like sin and kissed like salvation. but none of it held up. not when she was standing just inside the rehab suite now, stomach in knots, lungs refusing to inflate past surface level. she heard manon say her name before she even saw her. 

“lara, this is y/n, your new physiotherapist.”

and there she was.

lara sat on the edge of the treatment table, long legs crossed at the ankles, her right knee gently elevated with a foam bolster. the navy skirt of her tennis kit curved along the defined line of her thigh, a shade darker than her skin. her top was cropped and sleeveless, loose in the back where it bared a long, toned stretch of muscle. her hair was swept to the side, no longer dyed red like it has been in their senior year of highschool. it was black now, natural and perfect against her complexion. strands fell loose along her cheekbones, which were as sculpted as y/n remembered. she looked unfair. poised and calm and glowing, even under the flat clinical lighting. and when her gaze found y/n, she didn’t falter.

“nice to meet you,” lara said, smooth as a drop shot.

her voice hadn’t changed. low, cool, deceptively soft. like velvet wrapped around something pointed.  and she said it—nice to meet you—like they were strangers. like she hadn’t once taught y/n how to hit a forehand in the rain and kissed her under the awning when she got it right. like she hadn’t broken her heart with an apology and a plane ticket and a “you know i have to chase this.”

y/n forced her lips into something resembling a smile. she prayed it didn’t look like a grimace.

“you too,” she replied, automatically, stepping forward to shake her hand.

lara’s palm was warm, firm. confident. y/n’s was clammy, cold. of course it was.

“y/n’s got a stellar background,” manon went on, still cheerfully unaware of the emotional wreckage she’d just reassembled in one room. “sports therapy, rehabilitative training, joint mechanics—you’re in very good hands.”

lara tilted her head slightly, her gaze still lingering on y/n like she was seeing through every layer of her.

“looking forward to it,” she murmured, smiling with all the grace of someone who absolutely was not.

not genuinely, anyway. y/n knew that smile too well. she’d studied it, memorized what it meant. this was the smile lara wore when she knew she was holding the upper hand. this was the smile that had once made y/n say yes to sneaking out of a biology exam just to drive around aimlessly and listen to music with the windows down. the smile that had y/n’s heart beating rapidly in her chest, just as it had all other times before.

manon clapped her hands gently. “great. we’ll ease you in today, no pressure—just letting y/n get acquainted with your injury and the facility.”

lara nodded, cool and agreeable. “works for me.”

and then manon turned to leave, her heels tapping softly out the door. the click of it shutting behind her sounded more final than it should have. the silence that followed was thick and oddly charged.

lara shifted, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. her toned arms caught the light in just the right way, and her smirk came back, subtle this time. 

“so doc,” she said, voice low, “you’re gonna be the one fixing me?”

y/n straightened her spine automatically, willing her pulse to behave. “physically,” she replied, keeping it clinical.

lara laughed. a low, amused sound that wrapped itself around y/n’s ribcage and tugged.

“you’re still funny,” lara said. “that’s nice.”

“you’re still...” y/n started, then caught herself and cleared her throat. “you strained your posterior cruciate ligament—likely from overextension during a pivot or landing. based on your imaging and the initial pain markers, we’re looking at a low-grade strain. not a tear, but if you don’t rest and stabilize it, it could worsen. you need to stay off it for the next few days before we begin any weight-bearing exercises.”

lara raised an eyebrow, like she found the lecture charming. “posterior cruciate ligament,” she repeated, slow and deliberate. “so formal.”

“it’s your knee,” y/n deadpanned. “i don’t know how else to explain what’s wrong without sounding like a quack.”

lara grinned. “i missed your mouth.”

y/n choked on air. “excuse me?”

“your words,” lara amended innocently. “you’ve always been good with them.”

y/n stared at her, trying very hard not to fall into the gravity of that grin. or the memory of it. or how it used to tug at the corner of her mouth when she was about to say something that would wreck y/n’s whole afternoon. she looked down at her clipboard instead. empty. entirely unhelpful.

“sessions start tomorrow,” she said, mostly to the paper.

lara leaned back, stretching just enough to make it obvious. “can’t wait.”

y/n turned to go, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape. but before she could reach the door, lara’s voice came again. quiet, teasing, but just loud enough for her to hear.

“you still get nervous around me, huh?”

y/n didn’t answer. she didn’t need to. she kept on walking, leaving lara alone in the room.

the very second the door shut firm behind herself, she sprung into action. she tried so desperately to play it cool, to not let herself be caught internally fawning over the girl who still managed to set her soul alight. alas, it was near impossible.

her footsteps carried her very pointedly in a single direction. the door to a small office, only a couple rooms down in the rehab wing, slammed open so hard it bounced off the stopper with a hollow clang.

sophia didn’t even blink.

she was kneeling on a foam mat beside one of the treatment benches, unbothered, guiding her client— choi soobin, pro tennis player and her assigned disaster for the next six weeks—into a deep mobility stretch. one hand anchored his wrist while the other pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, nudging him deeper into position. her expression was the same one she always wore when y/n burst in like this: calm, vaguely unimpressed, and only mildly entertained.

“i’m going to die,” y/n announced, dramatic and breathless.

“hi,” sophia said flatly. “welcome.”

soobin made a small sound, halfway between a grunt and a question. “is that, like… literal or—”

“not you,” y/n snapped, waving him off like static.

he blinked and went quiet again, wise enough to stay out of it as the temperature in the room shifted to match y/n’s spiraling heartbeat.

she dropped her bag on the nearest table with a thud, like it had personally offended her. “it’s her,” she said, breathless. “lara.”

sophia didn’t react at first. just adjusted soobin’s elbow with clinical precision. “lara… raj?”

“yes, lara raj. as in the client i was assigned. as in the literal love of my life and the reason i have abandonment issues.”

sophia hummed. “you’ve known this for three days.”

“i didn’t think it’d be her her!” y/n threw her hands up. “i thought maybe it was a different lara raj. or maybe i hallucinated the email. or maybe the universe would do me one small favor and make her ugly.”

soobin opened his mouth again, cautiously. “so you guys—”

“shut up,” sophia and y/n said at the same time.

sophia pushed his shoulder forward an inch farther. he let out a wheeze and didn’t try again.

y/n started pacing in a tight, agitated loop, like if she stopped moving she might implode. “i walked in and there she was. sitting all casual, legs crossed, like she didn’t ruin my life. still tall. still glowing. still smelling like coconut shampoo.”

“you’re kidding.”

“i’m dead serious. she looked me in the eye and said, ‘nice to meet you.’ like we didn’t know each other. like i didn’t write her a poem.”

sophia winced. “you did write her a poem.”

“and she loved it.”

“it was terrible.”

“well she thought it was nice!”

sophia didn’t argue. instead, she shifted soobin into a seated hamstring stretch without warning. he yelped. she ignored it.

y/n flopped face-down onto the bench beside them. “and then she smiled. the smile.”

“not the smile.”

“the smile,” y/n groaned. “the one that made me skip calculus to get froyo. the one that made me forget what state i lived in. it’s like it’s engineered to dismantle my sense of self.”

“she’s always been terrifyingly pretty.”

“she’s prettier now. it’s criminal. i should report her.”

sophia offered no sympathy. “and you’re still in love with her.”

“i’m not,” y/n said, muffled against the bench cushion.

“sure.”

“i’m not! i’m just... disoriented. and stressed. and probably dehydrated.”

“and in love with her.”

y/n rolled over and covered her face with her hands. “i can’t do this for ten days. she’s already trying to flirt. i can feel it.”

sophia actually laughed. laughed. y/n lifted her head, betrayed.

“you’re enjoying this.”

“a little,” sophia said. “but also? you’ve been fake-mad about her for a year. now she’s here, and you have ten uninterrupted days of forced proximity. that’s karma.”

“that’s a romcom,” y/n muttered darkly. “i don’t want a romcom. i want a sedative.”

“you want to make out with her.”

“i want peace.”

soobin groaned softly as sophia rotated his hip outward.

“breathe through it,” she said, voice sweet, hands merciless.

y/n groaned, low and dramatic, and dragged both hands down her face like she could wipe away the memory of lara’s smirk. “she called me doc.”

sophia tilted her head. “you are a doctor.”

“yeah, but not like that. she said it in the voice. you know the one. the voice she used when she used to ask if i was free after practice, and then we’d end up making out behind the bleachers for forty minutes.”

“forty?” sophia asked, skeptical.

“it felt like forty.”

“it was, like, eleven.”

“emotionally, it was forty.”

soobin made another quiet noise of protest as sophia twisted his torso into a deep spinal rotation. she kept her grip firm and her expression neutral, like she wasn’t witnessing a slow emotional meltdown three feet to her left.

“and the skirt,” y/n continued, helpless. “why does she have to sit like that? with her knee up and her arm draped all confident, like she’s in an adidas ad and knows i’m dying inside?”

“because she does know you’re dying inside.”

y/n pointed a finger at her. “traitor.”

“realist,” sophia said. “look, i love you, but you have exactly two emotional modes when it comes to lara raj: ‘still in love’ and ‘fully feral.’”

“i am not fully feral.”

sophia raised a brow.

“okay, maybe a little feral,” y/n admitted. “but only internally.”

“mm-hm.”

y/n stared up at the ceiling tiles like they held answers. “she’s going to ruin me.”

“probably,” sophia said cheerfully.

“i’ll lose my license.”

“unlikely.”

“i’ll cry in the supply closet.”

“that one’s more likely.”

y/n sat up, eyes wide. “what if she’s trying to mess with me? what if this is her revenge arc?”

“revenge for what?”

“i don’t know! leaving her unread on valentine’s day senior year? forgetting her dog’s name that one time?”

sophia laughed. “she did hold a grudge about the dog thing.”

“it was an ugly dog!”

soobin exhaled loudly as sophia released the stretch. he looked faintly shell-shocked, like he’d just lived through a natural disaster and wasn’t totally sure if it was over yet.

“we done?” he asked, hopeful.

“almost,” sophia said, moving behind him. “one more set.”

he whimpered.

“you’re doing great,” she said, like a lie.

y/n leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “i think i blacked out when she said ‘nice to meet you.’ my soul left my body. i became a ghost.”

“you are pale,” sophia agreed.

“do you think she really forgot me?”

“no.”

“do you think she pretended to forget me?”

“yes.”

“psychopath,” y/n whispered.

“welcome to women’s tennis,” sophia said.

“i’m not going to survive ten days.”

“you’re going to survive exactly ten days,” sophia corrected. “and then you’re either going to get closure, or make out in a supply closet, or cry about it for another year. all of which are valid.”

y/n looked haunted. “what if she asks me to stretch her hamstrings?”

“then you remember your degree,” sophia said. “and your ethics. and maybe bring a cold compress for your face.”

soobin pushed himself upright with great effort, limbs slow and stiff like a baby deer learning to walk. he hovered awkwardly beside the mat, blinking at both of them, looking between them like a kid caught between two divorced parents mid-argument. “i feel like i just sat through a fight i wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“you did,” sophia said, unfazed.

“it’s good for you,” y/n added, dragging a hand down her face. “builds empathy.”

he stared at them for a beat, visibly trying to process the emotional whiplash. then he sighed, long and beleaguered. “i want a different therapist.”

“file a complaint,” sophia said, already resetting the mat with clinical efficiency. “y/n will write you a poem about it.”

“it’ll be terrible,” y/n warned.

“but heartfelt,” sophia added.

soobin muttered something under his breath and walked off like a man who’d just survived a natural disaster and wasn’t sure if it would come back for round two.

the door swung shut behind soobin with a soft click, and the room fell quiet in his absence. without his awkward commentary or the false comfort of banter to fill the space, the tension settled again—this time softer, heavier. y/n sat back against the bench, arms wrapped loosely around herself like she was trying to hold something in. or keep something out.

sophia glanced over, her expression finally shifting—less amused now, more open. steady.

“you okay?” she asked, voice gentler than before.

y/n let out a slow breath. “i don’t know.”

she sounded smaller than usual. not the flustered storm that had barreled through the door earlier, but something quieter. unraveling.

sophia moved to sit beside her, their shoulders almost touching. “you want to talk about it?”

“what’s there to talk about?” y/n stared at the floor. “she left. she broke my heart. i thought i moved on. and then i saw her and it’s like—i don’t know. it’s like no time passed. like all the stuff i buried just came back.”

“of course it did,” sophia said. “it’s not a switch. you don’t flip it off and forget her.”

y/n nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “she looked right at me. and smiled like nothing happened. like we were strangers.”

“maybe she didn’t know what to say,” sophia offered. “maybe that was her version of keeping it professional.”

“or maybe she really doesn’t care anymore,” y/n said, and her voice cracked on the last word. “and i’m just the only one still carrying it.”

sophia didn’t say anything at first. just let the silence sit. let it breathe.

“you’re not,” she said eventually. “i’ve seen a lot of people try to fake it, but you don’t forget someone you loved just because a year went by. and you don’t talk about someone like this unless you still feel something.”

y/n blinked hard, swallowing. “then why didn’t she say anything? why pretend we never happened?”

“because it’s easier to pretend than admit you left someone behind,” sophia said. “especially when you don’t know if they’ll forgive you.”

that struck something. y/n’s throat tightened.

sophia bumped her shoulder gently. “you don’t have to fix anything. and you don’t owe her forgiveness. but if she’s really here—and if you’re still feeling all of this—then maybe it’s worth seeing what’s left. for closure. or clarity. or whatever it is you need.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“what if it just hurts again?” she asked softly.

“then at least you’ll know,” sophia said. “and you’ll stop wondering.”

y/n looked over at her, eyes tired but grateful. “why are you always right?”

sophia smiled. “i’m not. i just love you. and i don’t want you carrying this forever.”

y/n leaned her head against her shoulder, the weight of it finally too much to hold alone. for a few moments, they just sat like that. no jokes, no dramatics. just the kind of quiet that comes when someone understands you enough not to fill it.

“i’m scared,” y/n admitted.

“i know,” sophia said. “but you’re braver than you think.”

and y/n believed her. or at least, she wanted to. and maybe—for now—that was enough.

she had ten days to see this thing through. she could only hope lara didn’t kill her before their time was up.

_

the next morning came by faster than expected, and sure enough, lara was already on the table when y/n walked in, reclined back on her elbows, tossing a stress ball into the air like it had personally wronged her. her hair was pulled up, skin flushed faintly from the earlier warm-up. she looked like she owned the room. like she always did.

she grinned. “took you long enough,” she said. “was starting to think you were scared of me.”

“i was,” y/n replied flatly, setting her clipboard on the counter with a little more force than necessary. “but then i remembered you’re the one who can’t walk properly.”

lara’s grin only widened. “ah. there she is.”

y/n didn’t return it. she gestured toward the table. “lie flat.”

lara obeyed, still smirking. “aren’t you going to ask how i’ve been?”

“no.”

“rude.”

y/n didn’t respond. her hands found their rhythm—methodical, careful, clinical. she started with palpation, fingers moving around the swelling, pressing gently, checking for heat, tenderness, guarding. she catalogued it all, let her body do the remembering so her mind didn’t have to.

but it did anyway.

lara’s skin was warm. familiar. same tan lines, same faint scar from that time she tripped over a ball cart during warm-ups and refused to let the trainer stitch it. same muscle under y/n’s palm that used to curl around her waist in the mornings, anchoring her in place.

y/n swallowed. kept her face neutral.

the silence stretched. it used to be comfortable, safe, even. now it just felt like a fuse waiting to burn out.

her fingers shifted slightly, pressing into the muscle just above lara’s knee, and it was muscle memory more than anything. not just the physio work—though she knew this anatomy like second nature—but all the rest of it, too. she remembered tracing these lines with her mouth. remembered lara half-asleep, limbs tangled with hers, mumbling dumb things into her neck. remembered this exact thigh wrapped around her hips, pulling her closer, always closer.

her hand stilled.

she breathed in, slow and steady, grounding herself in the sterile clinic air and the clipboard waiting across the room. not the way lara’s breath had just hitched. not the way it always used to.

y/n refocused. pressed down with more intent this time, dragging her thumb along the medial border like she was following a map she helped draw.

lara exhaled sharply, more surprise than pain, and y/n blinked hard, looking away.

it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. it wasn’t supposed to still be like this. they hadn’t even spoken after the breakup. not really. no closure, no friendship attempt, just a clean split followed by radio silence. y/n had buried it, like everything else. and yet here she was, elbow-deep in lara raj’s thigh and halfway to a breakdown.

she hated how easy it was to fall back into orbit. how close lara felt, even after everything. like no time had passed at all.

lara broke it first. “you still do that thing when you’re concentrating. the lip thing.”

y/n paused. “what thing.”

“bite the inside. right side.” lara turned her head, voice softening without losing its edge. “used to drive me crazy.”

y/n’s jaw ticked. “flex your quad for me.”

lara did. the muscle fired under her palm. automatic, precise. y/n nodded once and stepped away, scribbling something she wouldn’t be able to read later.

lara watched her. “you’re different.”

y/n flipped the page without looking up. “you’re not. still think flirting is a personality.”

“you used to like it.”

“you used to mean it.”

silence again. heavier, this time. like a bruise pressed too hard. y/n didn’t dare look at her.

after a moment: “okay,” she said quietly. “let’s start with some range of motion work. we’ll go slow. tell me if anything feels off.”

lara lifted a brow. “like your attitude?”

y/n just stared at her—the kind of look that used to be followed by a kiss or a slammed door. lara sighed and lay back again, one arm flung lazily over her head.

“fine, fine. i’ll behave.”

y/n didn’t answer, but her hands were steady as she guided the knee. internal rotation, external, slow flexion. she moved on instinct, trying not to notice the way lara kept making faces—these dramatic, exaggerated winces every time her fingers so much as grazed too close.

“are you always this dramatic?” y/n muttered, adjusting her grip on lara’s thigh.

“only when i’m being manhandled by an ex,” lara replied smoothly, eyes flicking to hers.

y/n’s mouth opened, closed. “jesus christ,” she muttered.

lara hummed. “you’ve gotten stronger. must be all those lonely nights at the gym.”

and that was it. y/n pulled just a little too hard on the next stretch.

lara yelped. “ow—okay! okay! what the hell, are you trying to tear it more?”

“you always did like it rough,” y/n said before she could stop herself. and immediately wanted to crawl into the floor.

lara laughed. loud and shameless, the kind of laugh that used to shake the sheets. y/n clenched her jaw and stared at the floor, actively resisting the urge to bang her head against the nearest resistance band hook.

“don’t make me laugh,” lara gasped, breath catching. “it makes the pain worse.”

“good.”

“you’re so mean now. it’s hot.”

y/n didn’t respond. she was too busy pressing into the medial thigh, deep tissue work that should’ve required all her focus. but all she could think about was how soft the skin felt. how close her face was to lara’s knee. how the air between them was thick with something unspoken and impossible to forget.

lara wiggled her foot. “you’re making that face again.”

“what face.”

“the one where you look like you want to punch me but also maybe kiss me.”

y/n jerked back like she’d been stung. her thumb left a sharp red streak along the inside of lara’s thigh. not intentional. not really. but it stood out. hot. bright. incriminating.

and that was exactly when the door creaked open.

manon stepped in, sunglasses perched on her head, a smoothie in one hand and a familiar glint in her eye. she stopped cold just inside the room, blinking once at the scene in front of her—lara flushed and sprawled on the table, thigh streaked with red, y/n stiff as a corpse and visibly sweating.

“jesus christ,” manon said. “do you two need a room?”

lara looked down and burst out laughing. “is that a hickey?”

“it’s not a hickey,” y/n said quickly, voice cracking like glass under pressure.

manon raised a brow. “sure it’s not. just a little physio love bite.” she held up her smoothie. “anyway, didn’t mean to interrupt your foreplay. i actually came with news.”

lara blinked, still breathless from laughing. “what news?”

“you’re in,” manon said, like it was obvious. “tournament officials accepted your wildcard. the final matches have been postponed for your recovery. you’re on the roster.”

lara sat up straighter. “you’re serious?”

manon grinned. “deadly. congrats, raj.”

the glow on lara’s face was immediate. relief. pride. something almost childlike in how it lit her up. she reached for the tablet manon had tucked under her arm and flipped to the schedule.

and just like that, the light dimmed.

her smile faltered as her eyes landed on the name next to hers in the bracket. daniela avanzini. reigning champ. already being called the next big thing by every major sports outlet.

lara didn’t say anything, but y/n saw it. the shift. the stillness. how her mouth flattened slightly, jaw locking into place.

manon didn’t seem to notice. she gave a dramatic bow and backed toward the door, tossing a wink over her shoulder. “celebrate later, yeah? just not on the treatment table.”

then she was gone. the door clicked shut behind her.

y/n didn’t move at first. just watched lara staring at the tablet like it had personally insulted her.

“what is it?” she asked, quiet, careful. “you were just excited.”

lara didn’t answer.

y/n sighed and stepped closer, wiping her hands on a towel, voice softer now. “come on. it’s me.”

lara’s shoulders shifted, the faintest sign of tension.

“daniela avanzini,” she muttered, eyes still fixed on the screen. “first round.”

y/n’s brow furrowed. “so?”

lara let out a dry breath. “she won this whole thing last year. hasn’t lost a single match since. i wasn’t even sure i’d get in—and now i have to open against her?“

y/n watched her, then leaned against the edge of the table. “you’ve played tougher.”

lara huffed a humorless laugh. “not with one and a half knees, i haven’t.”

there was no teasing in her voice now. just exhaustion. and the creeping shadow of self-doubt y/n remembered all too well.

“you’ll be fine,” y/n said, steady. certain. “you don’t back down. not from girls like her.”

lara looked at her then, eyes searching, like she wasn’t used to hearing that anymore.

and for a second, y/n didn’t care about the past. or the tension. or the red streak still fading on lara’s thigh.

because whatever they were now, she could still read lara like a book. and right now, she needed someone to believe in her.

“you’ve got this,” y/n said. simple. firm. true.

lara’s shoulders dropped, just slightly. she nodded, slow.

“yeah,” she said. “yeah. okay.”

y/n turned away and started packing up the ice packs like it was urgent. like the act of organizing something—anything—might keep her from unraveling. emotionally speaking, it kind of had to.

behind her, lara placed the tablet down and moved to stand. whatever flicker of doubt had cracked through a minute ago was gone from her face now, wiped clean and replaced with that effortless cool she always wore like armor. but y/n saw right through it. the wince as lara shifted her weight. the tightness around her mouth. the sheen of nerves still clinging to her eyes.

“so,” lara said, too breezy, like nothing at all had happened, “same time tomorrow?”

y/n didn’t answer right away. she glanced at her, the way you look at something you used to call home. lara had always been like this—sharp, stubborn, all-in. tennis was everything. it had been the start and the end of them.

still, y/n didn’t poke at it. didn’t offer comfort or push too hard. she just looked back down at her clipboard and scribbled something illegible, feigning disinterest like it was a sport.

“unfortunately,” she said.

lara bit her lip. not flirtatious this time, but soft. familiar. a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, quiet and a little worn around the edges. maybe even fond.

“can’t wait.” 

__

perhaps y/n should’ve trusted her instincts that something wasn’t quite right in the mind of her ex girlfriend.

the pop of the tennis ball echoed across the near-empty court, sharp and rhythmic. it was hot—too hot to be out here, especially with a healing knee—but lara’s body craved the repetition. the sweat, the sting of sun in her eyes, the dry rasp of her breath. it all felt like control. like something she could grip tight before it slipped away again. it'd been five days since her therapy sessions kicked into swing, and little by little, she was going crazy. she hated stagnancy. sitting and waiting around doing nothing when the court was right there. the late afternoon heat pressed down like a weighted blanket, thick and unmoving. golden light pooled along the edges of the tennis court, casting long shadows over the clay. cicadas droned somewhere in the trees beyond the fence. it was the kind of california heat that made the ground shimmer, the kind that stole breath from lungs. but lara was still out there, hitting ball after ball like it owed her something.

her tank top was damp, clinging to her skin, dark with sweat along her back. strands of her inky black hair stuck to her neck, and the angles of her face were set tight with determination. her movements were clean, trained. forceful even/ but there was a hitch in her stride. her knee. every pivot came with a flicker of pain she refused to acknowledge. she wasn’t cleared to be playing. she knew it. megan knew it. but knowing didn’t stop her.

on the other side of the net, megan twirled her racket lazily, her white tank cropped just enough to flash the silver hoops of her belt every time she moved. where lara was coiled tension, megan was loose limbs and sleepy eyes. 

“i’m starting to think you like punishing yourself,” she called out, visor askew like a lopsided crown. she stuck her tongue out in mock concentration. “either that or you just love making me run.”

lara didn’t answer. she returned the shot with a sharp forehand, sweat flying from her elbow. her chest burned. her leg throbbed. she didn’t care.

“don’t get me wrong,” megan said, jogging to catch the ball. “i’m flattered. i mean, i’ve got a nice ass and all, but if this is your way of flirting—”

lara hit the next shot harder. it cracked like a gun going off.

megan whistled. “okay, simmer down, federer. jesus.”

lara didn’t smile. didn’t even flinch. her eyes stayed locked on the ball, lashes clumped with sweat, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. her breath came shallow and fast. she could feel the tremble in her knee starting to spread, small at first, but gaining ground. still, she kept going. she had to. she wasn’t thinking about her knee. not really. she was thinking about daniela. daniela with the perfect serve, the iron discipline, the smile that never reached her eyes. the girl who might be better. faster. cleaner.

lara couldn’t afford to lose. not again.

“if you die out here,” megan called after a moment through her heavy breathing, slicing the ball with a lazy flick, “can i have your sneakers?”

lara lunged to return it. “you wouldn’t fit them.”

“rude and ableist. i’m a growing girl.”

they kept the rally going. backhand, forehand, slice, lob. lara’s form was cleaner than it should be for someone not cleared to train. but there was a stiffness in her leg, a hesitance in her recovery steps. megan noticed. megan always noticed.

“you’re thinking about daniela again,” megan sing-songed.

lara grunted as she pivoted. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are. it’s written all over your moody little murder face.”

lara hit the ball harder than she needed to. “i’m fine.”

“no, you’re tense. like emotionally and also physically. i’m your friend-slash-secret therapist-slash-occasional doubles partner, and i can feel it in my soul.”

lara didn’t answer. they both knew megan was right. lara just couldn’t help but dread her upcoming match with the latina. couldn’t shake the memory of her devastating efficiency, the knowledge that she was fresh. rested. uninjured. probably sleeping eight hours a night in a cryogenic pod while lara spent hers trying not to scream into a pillow every time her knee ached.

she hated that she wasn’t sure if she could beat her anymore.

“you know it’s okay, right?” megan said, softer now, tapping the ball across gently. “to be scared. or whatever.”

lara caught it on the bounce and shot it back harder than necessary. “i’m not scared.”

“okay. cool. you’re just out here in a heatwave playing on a busted leg because… you love pain?”

lara gave her a look. “yes. it’s called character building.”

“uh-huh.” megan grinned. “okay, new theory. you’re not scared of daniela. you’re just distracted. and i think i know by who.”

lara sighed. “don’t.”

“y/n,” megan declared, grinning wider. “hot physio. broody aura. what did you do, hit her with your car?”

lara’s next shot clipped the net.

“she’s—” lara started, then stopped.

“what?” megan twirled her racket. “gonna say she’s just your physio? because i’m pretty sure i saw you make eye contact with her once and your soul tried to leave your body.”

lara rolled her eyes. “megan.”

“what? i’m allowed to look. she’s hot. if you’re not gonna go for it, i’ll take a shot.”

lara’s grip on her racket tightened. “no, you won’t.”

megan blinked. “whoa. calm down, stabby.”

“i’m not stabby.”

“you sound a little stabby.”

lara hit the ball hard. too hard. the pressure jolted up her leg like lightning. the second her foot came down, she knew. the angle was wrong. her knee buckled, and pain shot through her like a scream.

she collapsed with a sharp gasp, racket skidding across the clay.

“shit—lara!” megan rushed over, dropping to her knees beside her. “hey, hey, don’t move—”

lara clenched her jaw. “i’m—fine—”

but the pain said otherwise. it pulsed hot and urgent, and her breath was already going shallow. panic started to press in around the edges. from the corner of her eye she noticed a familiar figure darting over.

“what the hell is going on?” y/n’s voice rang out, fierce and familiar.

lara looked up just in time to see her pushing through the gate, eyes wide, clipboard forgotten somewhere behind her.

“she fell,” megan said quickly. “knee again. i think—she’s in real pain.”

y/n knelt beside her without hesitation. “lara. talk to me.”

lara’s throat felt tight. “it—it twisted.”

y/n’s hands were already assessing the joint, fast but precise. “can you put weight on it?”

“not right now.”

megan stood back. “i’ll get ice.”

y/n nodded without looking up. “bench. come on.”

between the two of them, they got lara onto the bench. y/n’s arm around her waist was steady, grounding. her touch wasn’t gentle, but something about it made lara’s chest ache.

megan returned with an ice pack, handing it off with a sheepish wince. “i’m gonna give you guys a minute.”

lara didn’t say anything. didn’t meet y/n’s eyes. she ignored megan when she gave her a brief apologetic shoulder pat before sauntering away, disappearing behind the large fence.

the silence left behind was heavier than it should’ve been.

“you shouldn’t be out here,” y/n said finally. not angry. just tired. scared in her own way.

lara closed her eyes. “i know.”

“so why are you?”

lara opened her mouth, then closed it again. the truth tasted bitter, like something she didn’t want to admit.

“because i’m not ready to lose,” she said, voice low. “not again. not this. it’s all i have left.”

y/n was quiet for a long moment.

“you have more than this game,” y/n said softly, kneeling in front of her. the ice pack in her hand melted slowly, droplets slipping over her fingers as she pressed it gently to lara’s knee. “more than this court.”

lara exhaled through her nose, sharp and shaky. “you don’t get it,” she murmured. “tennis is all i’ve ever been good at. it’s the only place that made sense when everything else didn’t.”

y/n stayed quiet for a beat, watching her. the pain on lara’s face wasn’t just from the fall. it was the kind that had been building for years. “it doesn’t have to be,” she said. “you’re more than your ranking. your record. your injury. you’re… you’re smart. stubborn. annoying.”

lara huffed a breath, something almost like a laugh.

“and you’ve got people,” y/n added. “people who want you to be okay. not just back on the court. actually okay.”

lara’s eyes met hers then, dark, tired, and a little wide. like something in her had cracked without warning. “even you?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “especially me.”

the silence that followed was thick. a cicada buzzed somewhere just past the fence. a breeze picked up, lazy and warm. neither of them moved.

“have you…” lara started, then trailed off, eyes flicking away.

y/n tilted her head. “what?”

lara’s voice came quieter this time. “have you been with anyone since me?”

y/n blinked. “why?”

lara shrugged, but it was brittle, all edge. “just wondering.”

y/n watched her for a second. “no.”

lara’s gaze shot back to hers. “really?”

“yeah. really.”

lara nodded slowly, jaw tight. she looked away again, toward the net where the ball still rested like a forgotten thought. “i haven’t either.”

y/n didn’t say anything.

lara’s voice dropped even lower. “because no one was you.”

the air caught in y/n’s throat.

lara didn’t smile. didn’t flirt. didn’t try to hide behind the usual smirk or offhand comment. she just sat there, sweaty and bruised, a little broken and not bothering to pretend otherwise.

“i didn’t know how to move on,” she added, almost to herself. “still don’t.”

y/n reached for her hand without thinking. their fingers brushed, hesitant at first. then stayed.

they didn’t say anything else after that.

__

the planned ten days were over within a blink. neither of them mentioned the words lara uttered that day. the remaining days they had were spent in full recovery, much to the desi girls' chagrin. she was back to her usual coy smiles and flirty compliments, but y/n could’ve sworn there was something deeper hiding beneath the surface. a warmth she hadn’t seen since they dated, a warmth she often stayed up late at night thinking of. a warmth she craved for so long, and perhaps, one she never got over. spending time with lara had her heart soothing over, mending slowly without even realizing it. she missed her. and of course, sophia was right.

y/n was still deeply, madly in love with lara raj.

y/n was torn from her thoughts when a loud jeer sounded through the staff room.  the room was cramped, humid, and vaguely haunted by the smell of instant coffee and sports tape. above the lockers, a slightly tilted flat-screen tv streamed the tournament feed in all its 720p glory. y/n sat cross-legged on a bench beside sophia and manon, the two girls having grown quite fond of each other over the past ten days they’d spent in the same social orbits. y/n kept her arms folded, her expression tight: trying to look calm and collected and pulling off exactly neither.

soobin’s match had just wrapped. he’d played clean and sharp, held his own against a higher seed, made it all the way to the semis—but came up short in the last set. the staff room let out a collective, sympathetic groan as the final point landed.

“still proud of him,” sophia said, chewing a protein bar aggressively. “personally, i think i would’ve done better. maybe that’s just the competitor in me. bad bitches always come out on top.”

manon blinked. “you cried when i beat your ass at mario kart two days ago.”

sophia narrowed her eyes. “shut your mouth.”

y/n wasn’t listening. her gaze was fixed on the screen as the bracket updated. next match: lara raj vs. daniela avanzini. center court. her stomach tightened.

manon noticed the way y/n’s face twisted. turning away from the filippina, she lowered her voice in clear concern. “you good?”

“peachy,” y/n said flatly. “just watching my ex-girlfriend walk into battle against the most terrifying forehand in women’s tennis. no big deal.”

manon blinked. turned. “wait, what?”

y/n didn’t flinch. “we dated.”

“what?!”

sophia rolled her eyes and offered manon the rest of her protein bar. “catch up, girl.”

manon’s face was somewhere between scandalized and impressed. “why did no one tell me?!”

“we figured the dramatic mid-tournament reveal would be more cinematic,” y/n said dryly.

manon threw her hands up. “i’ve been in the dark for ten days!”

y/n stood before the banter could pull her under. she smoothed her staff polo, then immediately regretted it. it didn’t help anything.

“i’m gonna go check on her,” she mumbled.

sophia gave a thumbs up. manon looked like she had several follow-up questions but wisely zipped it.

the hallway was unusually quiet—like even the building itself had gone still, holding its breath for what came next. y/n slipped through the back corridors with practiced ease, dodging staff carts and volunteers with clipboards, letting instinct guide her more than memory. she didn’t have to think about where lara would be. she just knew. past the physio bay, past the equipment closets and storage crates of unopened gatorade. just before the tunnel to center court—there.

lara stood exactly where y/n expected: framed in the stark fluorescent light spilling from overhead, tucked just out of sight from the cameras and chaos waiting at the other end. she was alone, headphones hanging loose around her neck, not playing anything anymore. her racquet leaned gently against the wall beside her. her knee, freshly wrapped in compression tape so smooth it looked like glass, bent and straightened in a slow, careful rhythm, like she was testing its limits without daring to push too far.

she looked good. better, even. lighter on her feet, her posture more relaxed than it had been a week ago. physically, at least, she was ready.

but her hands were fidgeting. her shoulders tight with tension. her brow furrowed in that way that always came when she was thinking too much, feeling too much. y/n stopped just before she reached her. didn’t say anything at first.

lara noticed her anyway.

she looked up, and for a moment, all the nerves on her face paused. like the sight of y/n alone was enough to break the spiral.

“hey,” lara said, voice low and rough around the edges.

“hey,” y/n echoed, softer. she let herself linger on the sight of her, how strong she looked, how scared she clearly still was underneath it all. “figured i’d find you here.”

lara gave a weak smile. “it’s almost time.”

y/n stepped closer, careful not to intrude too quickly. “how’re you feeling?”

lara nodded, too fast. “i’m good.”

y/n arched a brow. “you’re literally vibrating.”

lara’s jaw worked, like she wanted to argue and didn’t have the energy. 

“i keep thinking,” she said, gaze fixed past the tunnel, “about everything that can go wrong. like—what if i slip again? what if it gives out? what if i choke in front of all those people?”

her voice was too steady for how fast she was blinking. y/n took another step forward, now close enough to touch her, but didn’t. not yet.

“you’ve already done the hardest part,” she said gently. “you got back up. the rest is just tennis.”

lara gave a short, quiet laugh—dry and almost bitter. “just tennis.”

“you know what i mean.”

lara looked down at her hands, flexed them once, then let them fall.

“sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” she said. “i’m not enough.”

y/n’s throat tightened. she reached out, slow, and brushed her fingers against the hem of lara’s sleeve, straightening it with care that didn’t need words.

“you are,” she said. “you always have been.”

lara finally looked at her. eyes shining, jaw tight.

y/n held her gaze. “and if you forget that out there, just look for me.”

a long beat. the kind that said everything too big to speak aloud. then the announcer’s voice boomed from the court, muffled but unmistakable.

lara flinched like it physically tugged her. her name echoed into the tunnel, followed by a swell of crowd noise.

she exhaled shakily.

“time to go,” she said.

y/n nodded.

lara hesitated—just for a second—then took a step forward and rested her forehead briefly against y/n’s, barely touching.

“thank you,” she whispered.

and then she was gone.

the match was chaos. not the kind that spiraled out of control, but the kind that demanded everything. every nerve, every drop of focus, every breath held and released in rhythm with the ball.

y/n didn’t take a seat.

she stood in the tunnel, half-hidden in shadow, just past where the athletes emerged. not quite on court, not quite behind it. close enough to hear every thwack of the racquet, every screech of shoes on the baseline, every collective inhale from the crowd.

lara started strong. sharper than she had in weeks. her footwork was tight, her backhand crisp, her serve landing just where it needed to. she was reading daniela well. all of the angles, predicting the pace. but then came the second set.

one bad step on a wide return sent her skidding, her sneakers dragging across clay. she didn’t fall hard, but y/n’s heart still jolted into her throat. she gripped the wall instinctively, knuckles white, watching lara freeze for a half-second before she pulled herself up like it hadn’t happened.

that was the turning point.

lara adjusted. gritted her teeth. she stopped trying to out-power daniela and started out-thinking her instead—mixing in drop shots, surprising her with deep lobs, keeping her off rhythm. tie breaks. long deuces. brutal rallies that felt like little wars.

y/n stood still through it all, not blinking, not breathing.

lara looked exhausted. flushed and damp, her wrap peeking through the edge of her skirt, her swing a little slower with each game, but she never backed off. never once glanced toward the tunnel.

not until championship point.

y/n knew the pattern by now. she could see it coming in lara’s posture, the way she bounced on her toes one last time before the serve. the way daniela’s return came just a fraction too high.

lara pounced. a forehand down the line. fast. unforgiving. it clipped the baseline and vanished past the reach of her opponent.

silence. then the crowd roared. the stadium exploded, cheering, whistling, thunderous applause like a wave crashing over the court. confetti started falling from somewhere. a reporter yelled her name. cameras swung wildly to catch her face.

lara had won. she’d done it. on court, lara stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide like she didn’t fully believe it either. a tournament official jogged over and placed the trophy into her hands. silver and shining and somehow too small for what it meant. it was only the first round, yes, but she knocked out the toughest opponent she’d have to face for the rest of the tourney.

lara barely looked at the small trophy before she turned. and for the first time in the whole match—hell, maybe the whole year—she wasn’t searching for the ball, or the next point, or the fear of what might break again. she was looking for her.

before y/n could even react, lara was already moving. she slipped past the officials with barely a glance, dodged a reporter, ducked under the boom of a camera that tried to follow. someone caught her by the arm, and she shook them off without a word. then she was there. standing in front of y/n in the tunnel. flushed from the match, eyes glassy with disbelief and adrenaline. breath caught halfway in her throat. for a moment, she didn’t say anything. just looked at her—really looked. like y/n was the only thing anchoring her to the ground. then, with a trembling breath, she reached out.

her hands found y/n’s face gently, like she was afraid she might shatter if she moved too fast. her thumbs brushed over her cheeks, soft as breath, and then she kissed her. slow. tender. nothing rushed or showy, no crashing hunger. just this quiet, aching certainty that said i missed you. i see you. it’s always been you.

y/n didn’t move right away.

not because she didn’t want to, but because the softness of it, the sincerity of it, cut straight through her. lara raj—newly crowned champion dethroner, one step closer to taking it all, headline material, national broadcast darling—was kissing her like none of that mattered. like she’d won the biggest trophy of her life and still turned around to find the one thing that made it real.

when they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. lara was still catching her breath.

y/n blinked, dazed. “what the hell was that?”

lara’s laugh was quiet, shaky. “closure. maybe.”

y/n raised a brow. “that felt suspiciously like the opposite of closure.”

lara smiled again—crooked and small and impossibly full of love. she didn’t pull back.

“i used to think the game was everything,” she whispered. “that if i won enough, if i kept proving myself, maybe one day i’d feel… whole.”

y/n said nothing. her heart was too loud in her ears. lara’s thumb traced the line of her jaw.

“but you—” she swallowed. “being with you made me feel like i already was. i didn’t need to chase anything. i’m so sorry i walked away. i thought i had to choose. but there’s nothing—nothing—in this world i want more than you.”

y/n’s eyes burned. she didn’t say anything. just wrapped her arms around lara’s waist, pulled her in close, and kissed her again—deeper this time, but still just as sure.

lara didn’t care a single shred about the outcome of her match, she realized. standing with y/n in that moment made all the sense in the world.

it felt like coming home.

[sayruq]

Dear friends and kind strangers,I urgently need your support to help me raise funds to evacuate my family out of Gaza. This is the only way to help them survive. It breaks my heart that it has come to this, but this fundraiser is my last window of hope to secure the necessary funds to evacuate them. My father and my two brothers urgently require medical attention, and time is of the essence. I am Eman Abu Hayya. I have survived four Israeli assaults on Gaza before leaving to pursue my studies in Philosophy in Doha, Qatar, back in 2017. While I reside in Qatar, my entire family remains in the Gaza Strip, trapped amidst the cruel and harrowing reality of ongoing genocide. My aim is to facilitate the evacuation of my loved ones from Gaza to ensure they receive the critical medical care they urgently need and to shield them from the constant threat of Israeli bombings and the dire scarcity of clean water, food, and healthcare. My family consists of 11 members: my mother Najat (49), my father Akram (60), three brothers Ahmed, Yahya and Zakaria (30, 27, and 22), one sister Shaima (24), two sisters-in-law Wafa and Hana (25 and 24), and three young nieces and nephews Najat, Hayat and Gaith (aged 1, 2, and 5). They deserve the chance to live full lives, and I cannot bear the thought of losing any of them. My two little nieces’ names mean Life and Survival (Hayat and Najat), respectively. Let’s help make these two names a living reality through your kind donations.

Please help Eman. Donations have slowed down but my family's situation remains dire. Her family's house was destroyed. One of her brothers sustained a serious injury during the bombing which requires surgery while another has a serious medical conditions requiring immediate medical intervention. On top of all of that her father has diabetes. Not to mention the two children above.

Please please donate. Share if you can't

[diremoone]

it’s just a scratch! (it isn’t) | sylus.

a/n:: apparently receiving a head injury leaves plot bunnies behind too lol [ sylus fluff ;; tis mildly selfship coded ;; i whipped this drabble up in about an hour haha ]

Sylus watches you pause as you lift the mug to the cabinet. Your brows furrow and proceed to slowly spin the mug around curiously.

“Sylus?” You halfway turn to him to look from your peripheral.

He glances up and replies, “Yes?”

“What am I doing?”

“Unloading your dishwasher, I believe.”

A pause, then a small, “Oh,” escapes your lips. Then you put the mug up and close the dishwasher. He’d finish it for you later.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, eyes glancing up at you from the book in his hands.

“About the same… Uhm…” You space out, staring at the TV for a good ten seconds before coming back to reality. “Maybe more dumb than usual.”

Sylus chuckles. “You’re not dumb. You just sustained a head injury.”

“Which has made me feel dumber,” you point out.

“Which is why I’m here,” he adds.

“To tell me I’m dumb?”

He scoffs in disbelief and closes his book as he remarks, “To make sure you don’t smack your head into anything else while you’re recovering and on leave, sweetheart.”

You feel the fluster creep to your shoulders and your cheeks at the nickname, ducking your head down bashfully.

Sweetie, when he’s teasing. Sweetheart, when he’s being soft and caring. You often hear more of the latter nowadays.

“It’s just for a few days. My symptoms should clear up come the day I go back for a checkup,” you grumble. “And it wasn’t even that bad. My elbow took the brunt of it.”

“I’m aware of all that. And until then, I’ll be sticking around to make sure you’re okay, kitten.”

But the cute moment ends when you cuss profusely, hands flying to your head in the spot where you’d gotten hit. Sharp pains crawl down from the spot, nearly debilitating and making you hunch over.

You faintly register something hitting the couch, followed by large hands guiding you by your shoulder and waist to sit down.

Sylus doesn’t like the way your body rocks in his hold, head bobbing up and down while your eyes are screwed shut from the pain, hissing when it flares. He takes his hand and gently cradles the back of your head, pulling you to his shoulder to find rest. If you had been standing, he’s sure he would’ve had to catch you before you hit the ground.

Thirty seconds in total pass before the pain in your head finally dies down. You still feel a tingle, but don’t mention it.

You inhale, then speak softly, “It passed.”

It takes a few seconds for Sylus to reply. “That was the worst one yet.”

“That you’ve seen,” you try and joke. But the grumble of dissatisfaction tells you he’s anything but amused. In fact, you might’ve just put him in a worse mood.

“I guess that means I’ll be staying over for quite some time, even after your next doctor’s visit.”

You lift your head from his shoulder and stare pointedly. “Sylus, no.”

“What? You don’t like my company?”

“It’s just not necessary for you to stay and watch me. I’m a big girl,” you argue.

“A big girl with a head injury,” he “corrects” you with a grin. “And don’t worry about your little friends. I’ll disappear for awhile when they decide to come over.”

You sigh in defeat. “You’re making my head hurt.”

“Then stop arguing, kitten.” And then Sylus’s voice drops an octave, expression changing from cheeky to concerned. “Let me take care of you. Your head meeting that table after that giant Wanderer tossed you wasn’t pretty to watch, you know.”

This time, you finally hear him, and he sees it.

You know where this is coming from. You know this comes from whatever past you two had together that you can’t remember (but apparently Sylus does) for the life of you. His concern for you is always genuine, you know this. Underneath every layer of teasing and cheekiness, you know Sylus means it when he says he wants to take care of you. And you can only imagine what you must’ve looked like getting tossed like a ragdoll by that Wanderer you’d fought.

You sure as hell know what your head feels like.

“Alright, you win.” You shift yourself onto his lap, getting cozy and laying your head back on his shoulder and closing your eyes. “Just make sure to jet when my friends come over. The last thing I need is a tremendous headache about how the leader of Onychinus is in my living room tending to me.”

He chuckles, then presses a long, sweet kiss to the top of your head. “Deal.”

[rockyyfireee]

How the BLLK boys kiss you

(First post chat, wish me luck 😛)

WARNINGS: Very suggestive, insinuations of dry humping, insinuations of getting hard.

CHARACTERS: Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi, Yoichi Isagi, Reo Mikage, Ryusei Shidou

Rin Itoshi

•Rin never really asks. He’s more just about giving you intense glances that he expects you to get what he wants.

•He’s normally subtle when he approaches you, maybe putting a tentative hand on your waist, the other on your neck, sliding up to cradle your jaw as he leans down to kiss you almost sheepishly.

•He’s always nonchalant about it, but the slight pink tint to his cheeks never goes unnoticed by you.

•He prefers to give you short and sweet kisses, multiple soft pecks at a time. But if he happens to be feeling a little bit hornier, he tries not to seem desperate. But he is.

•The signs are there when he clutches you a little bit tighter than necessary when his hands shake slightly, breath a little bit more quickened and pupils dilated a lot more than one would consider normal.

•To be more accurate, his kisses would be messier for sure. Kisses would be a little longer, tongue prodding desperately at your lower lip and once he gets access it’s like he’s completely gone.

•That nonchalant facade ain’t fooling anyone no more once his tongue gets into play. He’s a messy kisser. Saliva carelessly mixing with yours to a point drool slithers down both yours chins, his breathing much heavier and half lidded eyes pathetically wider like he can’t breathe without you and he only really controls himself when you tell him to take it down a notch.

•Bro wants that cookie bad.

Sae Itoshi

•Sae won’t ask too. When you two meet up or happen to be at each other’s houses, kisses are actually not that common between you two unless if you ask, which he won’t hesitate to comply.

•Sae kisses you briefly a quick peck and he moves on with life. Maybe give you a kiss on the cheek once or twice a day on his own accord. But when he’s aroused? Bro is also nonchalant about it, but he on the other hand does not try and hide it.

•He straight up just brings you towards him and presses his lips against yours with an undertone of neediness or he tells you straight up. “I want you.” Just like that.

•His hands are always busy, and he likes to have you on his lap when you two make out. His hands rest on your lower back but we all know sae has an ass fetish, so it makes sense that he massages that majority of the time.

•He’s not a messy kisser, probably likes to sustain a sense of control when you two are intimate in general. His kisses a little bit rougher and more demanding but of coarse you don’t mind.

Yoichi Isagi

•Oh he’s definitely sheepish about it. I think overtime in your relationship he gets more comfortable giving you kisses out of nowhere and vice versa without being stiff and a blushing mess.

•His kisses are not too long and sweet. He pours out just how much he loves and cares for you in a simple kiss, eyes always gleaming at you when he pulls away like how he looks after every soccer game he has.

•On the other hand, I think Isagi does get turned on quite easily so I don’t think it’s that hard to figure it out when you sit beside him, legs draped over his lap and he just stares at you without looking at the tv. His thought getting the better of him as those puzzle pieces run like a storm in his head on how exactly to even initiate kissing you like he doesn’t do it every other day. But he always overthinks when he’s horny.

•He probably is never aware when he physically shows he’s aroused when he’s so deep in thought, especially when you’re on his lap. That imminent poke of something hard beneath you not even a surprise anymore these days, and he always gets embarrassed about it. But hey, it’s always a start.

•He kisses you with neediness on full display, he doesn’t really hold back. He’s flustered and he can’t get his mind to work out what he should do in particular at the moment so he’s always on autopilot, hands everywhere he can touch but always on your thighs. The plump and soft flesh of it is exactly what he loves about you.

•He does get messy-ish with his tongue but it’s controlled and sensual, long strokes along your tongue in a harmony you both like.

Reo Mikage

•Reo is down bad, I think we can just get that out the way. So him being down bad means he really won’t hesitate to voice that out. He consistently compliments you throughout the day, kissing your cheek, back of your hand and lips of coarse constantly without failure.

•He’s charming with his words too. “You look beautiful, my love.” “Not enough money in this world could ever buy you” (huh?) “My pretty girl.”

•When he’s aroused, it would probably become obvious over time. I think he’d be clingy to another degree and always have his hands on you, rubbing your waist or lower stomach. Chin on your shoulder where he can easily press multiple kisses on your neck and cheek which would eventually trail to your lips.

•Would probably pin you gently to the wall because he thinks your delicate like a prize, one hand beside your head the other on your waist as he kisses you with fever, tongue stroking yours in fierce waves that send heat through your body.

•He’s oh so needy and clingy and you love it!

Ryusei Shidou

•Shidou is a freak. Shall I go on?

•Bro is practically teleporting beside you for kisses, making sure to leave a stain of translucent saliva with that irritating smirk of his before walking away like nothings happened.

•On your neck, cheek, thigh, calf and of coarse lips.

•Bro is pouncing on you the moment his horny meter jumps up even a smudge. Even though he’s practically ovulating everyday, those days he decides to do something about it it? We’ll pray for you twin.

•He’d probably dive straight into tongue no questions asked, messy and trailing away from your lips to your neck. Leaving pretty marks on your skin, no matter what colour your skin honestly pretty, trust me he’s leaving a mark.

•I think he’d be more than happy to catch you on the couch, easier for him to rub his obviously growing bulge against you in a way that could counter his clear adrenaline fuelled self. It’s a skilled manner he possesses and he knows it when you wrap your legs around his waist, lips parted to accommodate light pants.

•Just know you’re in for one hell of a night.

(I’m a little down bad for Isagi 💔)

(Requests are open for business, Tilly’s Hotline has officially taken off!!)

[rockwgooglyeyes]

Finding Paradise of Someone Else's Flesh - Paratise Analysis

Unlike Nowhere, which was a song detailing Ivan's resignation in the face of life, his apathy and how his dreams have been trampled upon by reality, Paratise is a love song. Admittedly, Black Sorrow is a love song as well, but the love therein has already been tainted by Ivan's trauma. Black Sorrow is more about loving someone in spite of the fact that they will never love you back, the pain of looking at someone and knowing they'll never turn back for you, never meet your eyes. Paratise is a bit different, because the love is new, fresh, revolutionary. Ivan has never felt something like this before and so it changes his entire worldview.

Ivan's love for Till is dirty, visceral, desperate- and I would argue that's because of the fact that he's never felt anything like this love before (there was no warmth to be found, well that would have been okay, and then my eyes saw you struggling). I made this comparison when I was talking to a friend (@4listr) but the intensity of Ivan's love reminds me of when you're a baby and every new emotion is the biggest emotion you've ever had and anything can make you cry because you can't regulate your emotions, you have no foundation or context.

Ivan's never wanted anything before, not in the same way he wants Till, (In the empty space about "what's your wish?" I wrote something for the first time) so of course he's ravenous. If you'd been starved for so long you forgot what hunger even felt like and you suddenly got a taste of food, wouldn't you realize how unbearably hungry you were? Ivan has never been loved before, never been in love before, and he's desperate for whatever little scraps of affection he can get (I want you more, to dig into your wounds, so perfect).

So many of the metaphors in Paratise are about how, whether or not Ivan truly believes he can be the center of Till's universe, whether or not he believes Till could ever love him in return, he wants to be the shadow that clings to Till's heels (What's even closer than light is always shadow), he wants to still be close to Till, even if it's painful (Carve it into my painful existence, the relationship between you and I, I like it). He literally says that he wants to be the rest between the notes of Till's song, which basically means he wants to worm his way into Till's life in whatever way that Till will have him, because the same thing is said in Black Sorrow "Where your eyes reach, where your fingertips brush, waiting for you endlessly." Ivan isn't doing this because he expects to get anything out of it, he's doing this because he has to be close to Till, Till makes him feel like he's alive. That's why he died for Till because without him, he would be dead anyways.

Tying into that, the title Paratise, is a combination of "paradise" and "parasite" which is frankly genius because of the added meaning there. Till is salvation for Ivan, he makes Ivan feel like this might be worth it, gives Ivan a reason to live, but at the very same time? Ivan would be unable to live without Till. The reason this is so important is because of the choice to use the word "parasite", as parasitism is a kind of symbiosis where one organism is harmed and the other (the parasite) benefits. Additionally, many parasites cannot sustain themselves without a host, meaning that while it is negative for the host, it is necessary for the parasite to survive, which is definitely what Ivan is playing at. Especially with lines like "My wish, to live in you like a parasite" and "I want you more, to dig into your wounds" Ivan is focusing on and amplifying how intense his love is, and how ugly it would be were it ever realized.

It's impossible for me to think that Ivan says "My secret... Bury it, deep within my heart, by the time you figure it out, it's already Unknown till the end..." for any other reason than that he thinks that his love is too ugly and horrible and that even if Till didn't reject him (and that's a big IF in Ivan's head because god forbid he ever be happy), his love would hurt Till. As much as Ivan thinks himself to be a monster, he doesn't want to hurt Till, and in a way, that's why he never told Till about his feelings, because he believed that his feelings would only serve as a burden, a curse for Till to bear for the rest of his life. After all, "you are always for me."

tagging my friends who helped me figure out this argument and listened to me babble about this!! @ivanttakethis & @verdantlights. also tagging @bluemoonscape, @geospiral, @alien-til-i-stage & @crustyfloor feel free to yell at me if you do not want to be tagged

source of translation

Side Note that doesn't really fit in with my main argument: Frankly, on a biological level, I would argue that Ivantill (as a relationship in general) isn't an example of parasitism, simply because Ivan doesn't solely benefit, nor is Till solely harmed. They kind of have a back and forth of hurting and helping each other in turn, whether that's on purpose or on accident- I would say it's probably closer to mutualism- but I think it's safe to say that Ivan views it as parasitism simply because he hates himself something awful, he views even his kindness to Till as inherently selfish, and also he thinks Till hates him.

[vitaminseetarot]

Mermay 2025 Pick a Card: Your Summer in a Seashell 🐚🧜‍♀️

*･ﾟ✧Masterlist | *･ﾟ✧Ko-Fi

Hey y'all, I'm back in time for the New Moon and the end of May with another pick a card reading! This time we're combining Mermay with my current nostalgia theme going and -- vóilà -- we got Mermaid Melody PichiPichi Pitch today! We'll be taking a quick glance into the general energies surrounding your summer. As always, take what works and our current energies are always subject to change with the right intentions.

Please choose your pile:

Pile 1 - Coral 💗 Pile 2 - Scallop 💙 Pile 3 - Whelk 💚

Pile 1 - Coral 💗

Person (2nd); Everything is Temporary; Spiritual Guide; 39. Back on Task; Opportunity, Wild, Ambition; 2 of Pentacles, 8 of Pentacles, 2 of Cups, XI Justice, Queen of Wands

Hey pile 1! It looks like a busy part of your year is happening in the summer. I'm hearing "firing on all cylinders" so it can feel like you're juggling like a mad hare to get things done, especially before the end of spring. Something will come up which will ask for more of your energy and time, but I don't see this opportunity as a negative. In fact, I feel like this busyness is stabilizing a part of your life that may have been stuck crawling rather than walking, so for a while you may be having sprints of intense days, but it will even out over the season into smoother waters. Not to fret, though, because with the 2 of Pentacles and the Justice card, it's not all drudgery. There could be an occasional rendezvous where you give yourself the license to let loose for a day or two. This is a "work hard play hard" pile for sure!

This pile may be going to school or doing summer jobs over the next few months. There may even be an extracurricular like sports or some college prep program. Some of you may be catching up with things that were left on the backburner for a little too long. I feel you will have the steady energy to accomplish whatever you're setting out to do. Just be sure to keep an even pace and don't feel like it all has to be done at once. It can be tempting to go all in just because you're trying to pick up speed, but that kind of outburst can't be sustained for very long. If you struggle with procrastination, then there will be tools and guides to help you nudge along little by little.

You have one of the two 'Person' cards in my Lenormand (there's actually 4 in total), and this Person card has to do with someone other than the querent. That combined with Spiritual Guide above the 2 of Cups. There is a major connection for you that will happen over summer. This could be a literal spirit guide, you could be feeling more in tune with your spirituality. This could also be a kind, supportive tutor or friend who's able to help you out with your projects and work. As a boss, this person will be fair to you and will embrace your quirks. I think this person is familiar with what you're doing and may provide some very helpful advice as you navigate your progress. For romantic relationships, I'm getting that you may date someone who is supportive and encouraging. They may drag you away from the computer for some time at the boardwalk or art studio.

Whatever opportunity is coming up for you this summer will rectify the parts of your life that felt stuck and out of place. This will likely have to do with work, but it depends on where you're exerting yourself more. Earlier this year, you may not have had as much on your plate, but things have gradually veered towards being productive. Now, it's a matter of leaning it back in the other direction. The more shifts you fill and overtime you do, the more you will find friends sending you notifications asking when to hang out. The universe is helping you sort it out. It's okay to step aside and spend quality time with the ones you care about, it's not necessary to block out everything to show gratitude for this opportunity. Seize it, but seize the sunshine too!

By the end of summer, you'll be stepping into a greater sense of confidence and self-assurance in what you're good at doing. If you stay on task when you need to be, and you pace yourself in between, you'll find that the hardest parts will pass by quickly while the ending will feel so rewarding. It's like after everything you do this season, interestingly you'll be more fired up than you were before. If winter and spring felt slow and awkward, then these months may feel a lot more stable and easy flowing in comparison. It'll be busy, but a good kind of busy, and you have good people there to back you up. I'm seeing great things as far where work-life balanced are concerned. All the best, pile 1!

Pile 2 - Scallop 💙

Person (1st); You Belong Here; Nurture; 33. Let Your Personality Shine; Patience, Guidance, Listen; King of Pentacles, 8 of Pentacles, 5 of Pentacles, XV The Devil, IV The Emperor

How's it going, pile 2? You come off to me as a very hard worker, the one person on the team who does the crummy errand everyone wants to forget about because you know it's necessary to keep the systems running. You've been grinding for months and this summer season is showing its bounty to you. There may be a lot more spending money to use for your everyday life; I'm seeing you pampering yourself with soothing lotions and silky pillows, things that make you feel soft and comfortable. The money you spend on self-care will be proportionate to the energy you've given in your position. Sore feet? Time for a foot bath. Bad back? Perfect chance to try out a new chair support.

It's funny, this pile's vibe is similar to pile 1's, except you're ending where they're beginning in this case. You both got 8 of Pentacles in the same spot, so this summer is gonna involve a lot of working or studying. You could be deeply getting into expressive hobbies in between the work. But what needs to be considered is the rate at which you work. I don't know if this is one huge thing you're working on, but it feels continuous like a day job, and there is a little risk for exhaustion near the end of the summer. It's not just a lot of work, it's a sense of being frantic about finishing it. There's also a sense of "needing" to fulfill hobbies at breakneck efficiency. But this exhaustion isn't guaranteed, it's simply a side effect from pushing oneself too hard. So when you get the resources to buy a nice bath bomb, consider doing so if it brings your mind at peace.

In more personal areas, I'm seeing a little bit of FOMO when it comes to summer events coming up. When I drew these cards, I first heard someone saying, "I can't, sorry, I have to work that day." With Guidance up above it, I'm hearing to not give up entirely on making plans with your friends. "You belong here." You deserve to enjoy the sunny weather, so don't pressure yourself into doing what can be done later if it means having a unique night to spend with friends. I've known plenty of folks who accrue PTO and don't use it, so if this is you, then get some time away from work to chill at the pier. I know "making time" doesn't always sound easy or possible, but I'm getting that you will have a chance to do something or go somewhere fun if you're willing to look for it. Be open to fun!

You have an opportunity to break away from some kind of monotonous routine that hasn't been feeding your soul. Listen, I once worked in an office that was so dark because it was in a basement (creepy right?). Those were 12 hour shifts, sunrise to sundown. The lack of sun affected me mentally and physically. Ask if the position you're in is nourishing you, lighting you up, and letting you feel free to enjoy life. If not, if it's draining like a sun-loathing basement job, it's okay to reconsider what you're doing even if it means letting go of old attachments. Having good pay is not the only requisite for a good job; having high-paying career prospects does not guarantee that the college major will be right for you. Like pile 1, you have the other Person card, and this one refers to the querent. This will take trusting your gut alone, no one else's.

Whatever choice you end up making, it will lead to a growth in your intuition and self-compassion. With two Kings framing your tarot cards, you're gonna start strong and end strong, but in a whole new way. You'll learn how prioritizing your needs and giving yourself time and space to think things through will lead to so much positive change that you can bring into the autumn season. It's not just the ability to listen to others that's being finessed, but also the ability to listen to your own inner wisdom. The patience you give yourself today will be the patience another receives in turn, so remember that being kind to yourself helps you as a hard worker far more than it hinders. Summer is about fun in all shapes and sizes, go find a way to build fun for yourself and make a "mini-vacation" whenever you can. Take care, pile 2, you're doing great!

Pile 3 - Whelk 💚

Ring; Springtime Renewal; Positive Intention; 44. Unexplained Wonder; Direction, Reflect, Empathy; 0 Fool, Queen of Pentacles, 9 of Wands, 3 of Swords, Ace of Swords

Hi, pile 3! Summer is gonna pop like fireworks for you guys! It'll be like walking into a new year's celebration. This season is when 2025 really begins for y'all. I see you charting your map, plotting your course, and receiving the treasure at the end of it. The Ring stands for promises, so this is an intention that will last for the entirety of the season, like new year's resolutions except somehow whatever you plan will be much easier to carry out. For a tiny number of you, the Ring could indicate a proposal or offer to deepen a relationship in your life, and you'll be the one to make the final decision, whatever you choose.

Despite this explosive energy of new beginnings and adventure, I also see you being homebodies for a stint. I get not everyone is a fanatic for going out and doing the usual summer activies like barbeques and beach visits, but this pile seems keen on doing things a little different. For you this summer will involve staying in your zone of comfort and relaxation, as a result of needing to deal with many changes going on at once. You may be deciding to renovate your room or home, bringing in brighter or bolder decorations to the scene. Familiar local sites of water or parks will also be sources of feeling safe and tended to. There could even be a house party you're invited for, or summer events that happen at someone's (or your own) house.

I feel you've been spending some quality time in hermit mode over the past months, calculating the next moves that would effect the coming summer. This new moon is already an excellent time for it, but for your whole season, you may be reviewing your goals and desires to find out what's best aligned with you. Things are about to change for the faster, though, so buckle your seatbelts. Manifestations may fall into place so quickly that it shocks you at first, but this is a result of your summer blooming like it's spring. The unicorn fish does look funny but this is one of the best cards in this oracle deck as it's basically saying YES! It will manifest and will do so sooner than you realize!

With Empathy above the 3 of Swords, not everyone in your life may have it so fun. An issue may come up with a loved one for which they will greatly benefit from your presence. There's a lesson here when it comes to gratitude and compassion. We're not always going to be in the same place or state of mind our whole lives. When your life situations are straightened out, there may come a point at which you will need to hone your interpersonal skills. An example: you got into your dream school through an acceptance letter, while your friend may get a rejection letter from the same school, or their health may be bad while yours is improving. This will be a sign for you to step up and support others with the blessings you've been given. You could end up being a person's miracle by being there in a critical time of need. You don't need a lot of expertise to be caring to others, but either way this skill will develop over the next three or four months.

Your mind is being sharpened both by insight into what path you'd like to take next, while also pausing along the way to lend a kind hand when needed. The 3 of Swords, at first, appears to be a hunting expedition, but upon closer look shows merpeople mourning the whale after an accident. You're can stay clear headed when it comes to perceiving people's motives and natures, and you may find it easier than before to forgive people for certain faults. You're taking a huge leap ahead overall, which will adjust how you see folks around you and vise versa. They may be initially nervous of you, but you can see that they're on a path of their own like everyone else, so little nuisances will just slip by and not matter as much. You're moving to higher ground and separating yourself from the noise altogether because your intentions are fused with a stronger self-concept and motivation to make them happen. So much peace and newness for you, pile 3, wishing you good luck!

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2025, @VitaminseeTarot ™

[veneralice]

art credit: @sesamefruit on x / twitter! all credits to the artist!

divider credits: @cafekitsune ! all credits to the original creator of the divider!

seaborn soulmates / rafayel (m.)

in a cruel twist of fate, it is the god himself who becomes the most fervent worshipper. after lifetimes of looking for you, rafayel has finally found his beloved bride once more - but this time, it is him sinking to his knees to chant your praises, not the reverse. (20.4k words)

content warnings: maybe ooc-rafayel idk i’m still an inexperienced writer, me making up lemuria lore as i go because my ass wasn’t playing the game when god of tides came out (also i’m clueless about lads lore), mc as an independent character called michaela (pushing my wlw agenda with her and simone fr), kind of dubious consent???? (past!reader worships rafayel and acts very self-sacrificing so uh? idk? i’ll note it just to make sure) (also drunk rafayel initiates some skinship but reader shuts it down because you cant give consent while youre drunk yall), they fucking, p in v, switch!rafayel (bc we all know it’s canon /j), some biting, some scratching (rafayel’s back bleeds), overstimulation (fem. receiving), violence (blood and cutting is involved in deity worship), is it stalking? 💀 (he keeps tabs on reader in the same way he kept track of mc in-game before they met), idek man, let me know if you need more content warnings 🙂‍↕️, kind of inspired by @poisonf0rest bc i read her siren rafayel fic and saw god and immediately decided i had to write a raf fic myself, so honorary mention of them LMAO (pls read their fics they are so fucking good)

A thousand moons and a thousand suns have risen and fallen on the waves, but none compare to the sight of you entering Rafayel’s court. You are the only celestial constant in this life from that day on, the planet around which Rafayel’s immortal life spins. How humorous, that mortals are so below Lemurians that they are not even worthy of appraising their worship, but it is a mortal bride that weakens the god of the tides.

You are radiant, ephemeral in your beauty. There is a certain kind of delicate balance in your mortality, a rose so ethereal before it withers. Your skirts, although handmade and of unparticular material, a sign of your lowborn upbringing, part to reveal the soft skin hidden beneath, an image that makes Rafayel’s fingers twitch in yearning. He has never envied the land-walkers their bodies, not once. But at the sight of your clay-formed body, loved and created by the earth, he finds himself straining for the shape. Your feet land on the coral floor as if the ground there had been prepared for your stride, blessed by your existence.

It’s not love at first sight, certainly not. But it feels like brushing your fingers over a book and knowing the story already. It feels like helplessly wandering into the trap out of your own volition, although you know that trap will bite. But you let it. It creeps in, the sweetest kind of death you could imagine.

Like poison, the first taste of you condemns Rafayel to eternity.

“Your divinity, we have brought you your sacrifice,” the priests chant, the human part of your procession. The Lemurian guards accompanying them cast them a dubious glance. Not every sacrifice is deemed appropriate, but it is not like the world beneath the waves would balance itself without the human’s worship. A necessary evil, an ugly truth. Their sacrifices are not acknowledged, but appreciated nonetheless. A god feeds on what is given, no matter how all-powerful they are. Even blood as soiled by the human world’s elements is sustainable. “Your bride, your blood, your heart. We have brought you your sacrifice.”

When you walked in, your beautiful face had been angled upward. Even the most stoic of people are forced by the frescoes set in the wall to halt and wonder, because there is nothing else in this world that compares to the sea’s creations. Rafayel’s court was closed in by a dome, decorated with mosaic illustrations of the kingdom’s history. Painted in with elegant whorls of blue, white and red, the image depicted here showed the creation myth of his people, rising from the foam on his fingertips. You had looked straight at that painting, ignoring the gaggle of eyes that had looked on, feasting on the sight of you. But at the call of your entourage, you lower your gaze, meeting his straight-on.

There had never been a feeling so violent seizing him than in that very moment. He wanted to crush you. He wanted to own you.

He wanted to know you.

Rafayel is not the first monarch to hold this court in his blue-scaled fist. He is also not the only one whose heart has ever been stirred for something that could wreck this empire forever. It feels like being hunted, heady and dangerous and addicting. In your eyes lies a future more enticing than anything the seven seas could ever offer him. This is damnation.

What a powerful heart that frail chest must contain; secured only by the soft bones that would willingly give way to his monstrous hands, protected only by the warm flesh surrounding it. Rafayel is the king of sirens, monarch of the abyssal deep, but it was your song that drew him in. He wonders if the prayers you had dedicated to the waves tasted as sweet as your lips looked.

The soldiers surrounding his throne stepforward, signaling the silent message until here and no further. But Rafayel has already risen. Not registering the court which sinks to their knees as they pay their respects, he draws near enough that he could grasp your hands, tucked away in your companion’s crook of his arm. You lowered your head, obedient supplicant as you are. “Court of clay, I accept your sacrifice,” he announces, breathless. He doesn’t care how giddy that makes the humans, how his court begins to whisper. A scandal, an outrage. He only sees you. Not able to hold himself back, he reaches forward to cup your chin - you are shaking, an information he shouldn’t delight in, but does - and your gaze is steady, certain. You are a docile little lamb, not afraid of the knife about to fall. He could crush your right then and there; he could snap your neck if he wants to.

That was his first mistake. Gods have always been unmade by the most simple of human emotions, a fact every single predecessor had heeded. He should have struck you down where you stood, before you could lay the seeds of destruction. But Rafayel doesn’t heed his instincts. There is nothing else in the world anymore but you. Your eyes search his face, taking in every detail, as if the roles were reversed and you were the executioner who was gently lowering him to the chopping block. He imagines your hands roaming his body as you prepare him for certain death.

Deep inside his cold, scaled body, under the layers of divinity and immortality, his godly heart skips a beat.

Rafayel is coming undone, unravelling at the seams. It is only a matter of time until he dissolves into the sea, cupped by your gentle hands, until he finally disappears.

Later, when night draws closer and washes the world in darkness like a paint dissolving in a glass of water, he accompanies you and the bridal party to the rooms you will be residing in for the near future. Gentle, gentle fingers in his hands; you are ashamed of being able to touch him like this, and he notices it. Rafayel angles his head so he can look at you. Although this is nothing but a fancy dress-up of the matter at hand, which means your death at the end of this foolery, the sacrifice is still honored. That means becoming familiar with the heart that will soon bolster his powers, immortalized in him forever. It’s an excuse, of course, but it’s what his mind settles on as a reason for trying to commit your existence to memory. Your eyes are swimming around, looking like the schools of fishes that lounge around in his stronghold. Taking everything in. His own are obsessed with gazing at every inch of your face; soon, it will become more familiar to him than his own. “Your name, supplicant,” he says, breaking you out of your trance. “You have not given it yet.”

Your answer is quiet, and he has to lean even closer to actually hear it. Your female companions, who will wash you and prepare you and celebrate the wedding with you, are chattering behind him to the point of annoyance, but the excitement is understandable. The syllables of your name take physical shape as they go through him, and Rafayel finds himself closing to his eyes as he listens to the melody of your words. Settling in. Taking root. “But you may call me as you wish, Your Divinity,” you demure. Someone has trained you well in the niceties. “I am honored to become anything that you desire.”

“Bride of blood,” he says, and his treacherous fingers finally begin to wander. The supple flesh draws him in, and he adores the way goosebumps claim your skin. He is quite cold-blooded after all. And you are oh, so warm. Human bodies are so confusing and strange that Rafayel can’t help but wonder what moves them. The unreliable skin that gives way too easily to the lightest of bites, the awkward bones that bend at the simplest of angles. As Rafayel chases the muscles running down your arms with his fingertips, you turn your wrist so he can seize it, as if you know what instincts he is following. An instinct as old as time. Life was created when intuition turned into contact, after all. You watch as the deadly king of the abyss stares at your flesh as if it was a wonder to behold. As if he is not the father of all miracles.

Soft, soft flesh. Brittle as wood worn out by the water. Rafayel does not relinquish his hold on you as he speaks. “Bride of clay. You have already become what I desired. You are welcome to ask any wish of me for the sacrifice you will accomplish. Let no one speak that the ocean’s court is ungrateful to your service.”

“I would never imply otherwise, Your Divinity.” Your cheeks are aflush with your humanity, heating below his touch in reaction to being so close to the object of your worship. You do not seem like a typical, blushing bride. He has already taken notice of the harsher, roughened way you admonished your bridal party earlier. Often times, the brides sent to him are scared, chosen at random, unprepared for what the sacrifice means. Often times, it means that Rafayel chooses other brides, casting over the human’s lot. Every year they visit, fighting to compete in their adoration with other worshippers, not realizing that they cannot compare. But you are true in your faith. There are scars feathering all over the palms of both your hands where you have drawn blood to cast into the sea. A moon-shaped indentation, where the lunar priests of the sea (as his worshippers are called above, named for the moon’s strained effort to become one with the sea) brand themselves after ascending to their positions, is situated in the hollow of your throat, right above that precious collarbone he could snap like a coral branch. You are calm, clear-headed.

You could not have been more perfect.

He tugs you along, deeper into the cold water. You do not complain once. The court to strangers is built like a maze, intended to confuse and rattle. A safety measure that is laughable. There is no one who’s might parallels the god of the sea. But Rafayel had taken care to implement it nonetheless, to protect the weak, even though the most vulnerable Lemurian could still overpower the weakest of humans. It is why it so unsettling that you stir him like this. He has loved nothing else on this earth than he has loved the folk of the water. He angles another look at you, suspicious.

The moonlight makes every edge of you luminous with beauty. From the tips of your lashes, to the curves of your features, down to the shape of your human body. It is normal to experience attraction. You were very comely, after all; it wasn’t only Rafayel’s head that had turned to follow your every move. During your presentation, even the most cranky of attendants had lit up with pleasure at such a delicious sight. But he wonders if this means more. He shouldn’t be so attuned to you, shouldn’t be so drawn in by a first encounter. Fate had such a funny way of working its motives. Its cruelty and its humor affected the happenstances of all beings, even gods like him.

The doors to your room have already been affixed with a pair of guards. They are armed with lances, sharpened at the edge to stab through even the most enduring of scales. Warriors of the sea are trained to handle even the most extenuating of threats. Rafayel dismisses them at once, and they stand aside, each taking a few steps away to grant the party their privacy. They will return to their post when Rafayel has left. He gesticulates with his free arm that the women may enter; your companions mouths shape oohs and aahs of wonder as they step inside, but you remain where you are. Your warm hand still lies inside his, a fact that makes his fish-blooded heart tucker inside his chest. “Forgive me for this presumptuous question, Your Divinity,” you say then, affixing your gaze to his face. A face of polite pliancy. He can almost imagine you leading the prayers in the rooms of your faith, the prideful upraised head looking to the sea. “But might there be a fountain which we can use for our prayers?”

“Praying to what, when all your prayers have been answered?” Rafayel swipes a thumb over the blood-darkened veins inside your wrist, the blood you wish to cast into the waves in the same manner as starlight spills over the endless sky. Your skin is as malleable as sand. He wants to dig in, a primal urge from when Lemurians still hunted humans for sport. Some still do. “You may ask the guards to show you to an appropriate location to perform your prayers. But you have already become a symbol of faith, bride of clay. You are being rewarded as such.”

You dip your head in acknowledgement. “I have, Your Divinity. But it does not mean I should stop dedicating myself.”

He stares at you, hard. You are going to die for your faith. That precious little thing you seem to guard so weakly inside your mortal chest will be ripped from you like a human child is torn out of the womb. And yet here you are, asking to dedicate yourself to the very faith who will murder you. Piety is a wondrous thing, and it has moved you so far that you have surrendered to your own sacrifice, but is it really piety that is making you go through the motions of something as superfluous as prayer, when the very act of sacrifice is the highest religious duty you could fulfill? “What an interesting bride they have brought me,” he says, and you lower your gaze, the picture of humility. “Pray, then. As long as you meet me after you do.”

You hum in response, and he watches as you finally rejoin the women already appraising the room. One of them, a younger woman who shares the curve of your jaw and the color of your hair, reaches out to grasp your hand. You free it almost immediately to brush over her hair, a startlingly gentle display of affection in comparison to the chiding you subjected her to earlier. She must be family, though she does not share your beauty.

How confusing to be jealous of a simple gesture like this. How idiotic to yearn to be in that woman’s stead. Rafayel turns his back on the bridal party, before he can do anything that could tarnish his reputation.

Rafayel finds you where he guessed you would be. Your blood is still dripping into the fountain as he approaches you, the thick drops submerging quickly as they fall, like tears of pearl. It was once said, a myth unfurling in the motions of history due to the fascination other creatures often felt at the people of Lemuria, that his folk cried pearls, a myth they had been hunted for. “Wasteful, don’t you think?” he quips at the sight, but his touch is gentle when he takes your hand into his own. “Spilling blood when you will spill so much more when we are wed.”

“Nothing performed in service of the sea god is wasteful, Your Divinity,” you answer calmly. The supplicant at your side, not the family member he saw yesterday, sends you an alarmed look before she lowers it. You questioned the words of a god, an action most people would never even dare. Had you been anyone else, your bones would have already become the fishes’ supper. Even if you had been part of this court, such a comment could still have costed your head. But Rafayel feels himself begin to bend, turning over in your scarred palms. For being the most powerful entity roaming this planet, he feels as though you are the one holding all the cards. “It may not be worthy, but I beg you to accept our meager offerings to you. It is an honor to live in the light of your divinity.”

A memorized answer, devoid of anything personal. It is not the answer he craves, and he wishes to tug at your hair, to tear the secrets you carry in your heart from your head. It is a gruesome instinct, supped on the desire that is beginning to grow inside his heart. “Come with me,” he says, and then, addressing your companion, “You may remain here. I wish to become my bride’s acquaintance.”

The companion lowers her head in pliancy, but she seems nervous, apparently not trusting herself to formulate words in answer. Not because of his presence, perhaps. Rafayel has the inkling that it is you who’s distressing the bridal party. Something mysterious is unfolding in front of his eyes, and he itches to know more. He turns to offer you his arm, and you hesitate, shying away from the fact that he is an immortal being that is worshipped by everything the waves washes ashore on. But you take it, your warmth as shocking as the flash of lightnings the rainstorms sometimes inflict on his domain. Rafayel begins to walk, directing you to the royal gardens.

The weather is much nicer today. The sunlight fights to flood the scenery wherever it reaches, creating shadows of myth. Power is appearance. This court has been designed in a way to strike both fear and awe in hearts untouched by the heavens. You turn your head as far as it reaches, taking in the sight in the same way you had admired the ceiling yesterday. You must have an eye for art. “Tell me about yourself, daughter of clay,” he says, using the address most non-humans utilize to respectfully interact with an unknown land-walker. You whip your head back around to look at him. Today, your face is kissed by the sun, the lovely light enunciating every feature, every trace of the ancestors who had loved the idea of you so much that they willed you into existence. The sight rips into him like a shark bite, and for a moment, he finds himself envying whoever created humans. They had been much more adoring and obsessed with their work than he has, and it is reflected in the creation of you. “And none of the faithful derision today. I do adore being admired, but we are to be wed, and I wish to know whose heart I am going to consume.”

“Faithful derision,” you repeat, clearly taken aback by him reducing the faith of the sea to a simple piece of doggerel. Most of humanity’s prayers go unanswered, after all, expected from an existence so frail it could be wiped out with the smallest of tsunamis. “You mock me so, Your Divinity. Very well. What is it you wish to know of me?”

How have you managed to bewitch me, you evil thing? Rafayel thinks, but does not say. The urge to consume not just your heart, but you in your entirety has still not left him, even after a cold night of serious self-reflection. He has never realized how much desire could blur into hunger. “Who raised you?” he asks instead. “Who were you before you came here? What is it that made you become the lamb to my slaughter?”

Your eyes glaze over, an unidentifiable emotion he only manages to glimpse before you veil it over with the distanced civility you employ to interact with him. “I never knew my father, but my mother is a shepherdess above the sea,” you answer, slowly. The words are chosen carefully. “My mother used to be a priestess, but she was released from her duty when she had me. I was born of sin, you know. A lunar priestess is supposed to remain unwed and untainted, but she became pregnant with me. I am absolving both my mother and me of that taint.”

What a human belief, Rafayel thinks. To categorize love and coupling and touch as something sinful. As if the simple act of dedicating yourself to another wasn’t the holiest experience one could live through. The wax and wane of desire is as holy as the kneel of prayer to a Lemurian, which live and die for love. Above all else, it is the connection to someone else that could be the most well-guarded treasure a Lemurian could ever possess. But humanity’s civilization keeps its own rule, and to laugh about their beliefs would mean disrespecting you, so he only responds with, “I am sure the taint you speak of does not exist.”

“You are kind to say so, Your Divinity.” You do not sound like you believe it. Your words are, like nothing else, an act of worship. But perhaps it is because you understand him that you accept the answer, and that means something to him: to be understood as he is. He guides you along until he reaches a pavilion in the middle of the garden. You sit down first, a distance away from him in the spirit of propriety, but Rafayel is done acquiescing to your silly human rules. He sits near enough that your knees knock against each other, and as he cages you in like a hunter would circle his prey, he takes hold of your hand again. A bone-deep ache has claimed Rafayel, an ardor he never knew he possessed. It is taking hold of him, surging up in him like a wave. It is more than just your body he craves, something that runs deeper and hotter than the center of his own existence. “There is something you are hiding from me,” he tells you, watching as your eyes darken. You do not like being perceived, and the realization almost makes him laugh. “I will not make you tell it. You are free to do whatever it is you wish. But you fascinate me, daughter of clay. It is rare to enrapture a god’s attention, you know.”

As the night before, you roll your wrist in his hold so he may grasp it properly. Perhaps you search out his touch in the same manner as he does yours. Your fingers graze the flesh of his thighs as he lowers your hand to his lap. “I will get in over my head, Your Divinity, if you keep complimenting me like this,” you say. It makes his lips quirk into a genuine smile. Clever human, to play along like this. Your pulse thrums below his fingertips, the rhythm addicting. A true siren song. “I may overstep myself. That would not befit me at all. I am here to be free of sin, after all.”

“You are free already.” Rafayel’s fingers trace patterns into your skin, lower and lower. He unfolds your fingers for you, stretching them as far as they go. The scars on your skin are hypertrophic and ugly, but they fascinate him as much as every inch of your body does. They tell the stories of experiences and lived memories. Each one contains another secret he wants to unveil, a pearl he wants to claim as his own. “And we are to be wed, aren’t we?” His fingers curl over your own, and then you’re holding hands, intertwined in all manners of fate. Rafayel leans in, close enough to make you uncomfortable, close enough to kiss you. You don’t lean away. “There is nothing sinful about being betrothed, or what you do in the name of love. You are mine now, daughter of clay. All mine.”

For the first time since you have arrived here, you smile, your teeth gleaming like knifes. He feels it cutting into his chest, cutting away at his restraint. Although Rafayel is part of a species that is the apex predator of all predators, hunting and reigning over all that lives and breathes, in this moment, it is you who becomes the huntress.

How easy it is to climb a throne. How easy to be torn from it.

In the following days, he feels that tear at his existence in everything you do. Your allure only grows with every minute spent in your vicinity, and finally he has grown so needy that he absolves you of your prayers. Instead, he makes you worship him in person, and the time blurs into eternity, the noose at the end of the road long forgotten.

Rafayel spends afternoon tracing the traces of your creation; every bone, every tendon he explores with the devotion of a fervent prayer. Your fathomless eyes, glinting with the knowledge and the plans you keep hiding away from him, draw him in like the bait at the end of a fishing rod, and even though he knows it’s a trap, he lets himself be caught. Three nights before the day at your wedding, he finds himself caught on the sharp hook as he submerges into a bath with you.

You are not naked, but it almost seems like you are with the way the fabric of your dress begins to cling to you as the water kisses your skin. The shivering claiming your human bones create little currents in the pool, the water much colder than the ocean that surrounds this make-shift castle. Rafayel presses you closer to him, and then his face is in your hair, breathing in deeply. You both have long stopped caring about the rules of polite society. Rafayel has not allowed you to. Every touch, every word, every smile has made you more pliant, until finally you have even allowed him to partake in your ablutions before the wedding.

Every sacrificial bride of the sea god is supposed to take a bath before her wedding, washing away her past so that she can present herself in her most purified state. Most times, the bridal party is asked to help her with that, but Rafayel has stolen that role. It is the single most blasphemous thing one could do. But he is a god, and it is him who dictates the rules, delivers the scripture. All it took was a jut of his lip, the allusion of a pout, and you had caved immediately.

And now you were here, in the curve of his arm, your ear hovering above his chest. His heartbeat was powerful, pounding as loudly as the waves crashing on the beach, the sound susurrating inside your very soul. You breathe in deeply, shaking. This is the most divine thing you have ever experienced, something your mortal shell never thought it would be able to feel. “Sweet conch shell,” Rafayel murmurs in to your ear, shocking you to your core. “I’m sure you know that we have to step in even further to be able to perform the purification.”

“Just a second, please,” you speak through gritted teeth. This man vexes you in the most alluring of ways, and you cannot help but acquiesce to his every whim. You know your pleading falls on deaf ears, though, because Rafayel’s immediate reaction is a smile so mischievous it borders on schadenfreude, and he is already tugging at your shoulders in an attempt to submerge you further. You try to stand firm, even though your determination is crumbling. “It’s cold. It’s really cold.”

“Hmmm.” Rafayel nips at your ear, then your throat; you shudder violently enough for the water to splash. In the silence of your private little bubble, it almost sounds like an explosion. It makes your eyes snap open, as if preparing itself to fight or flee. Never had you let a man so close into your proximity. The village had always been ripe with gossip-mongering and backtalk. Your mother, although the most honorable person in the world to you, had been a demonized figure, to the point where your own worship had made you cull out the presence of men. No one had ever expected you to follow in your mother’s footsteps. No one had expected you to become a bride worthy of the sea. The simple pleasure of his ministrations floods your cheeks with hot blood. “See, I already warmed you up,” he teases, mouthing the words against your carotid artery. Speaking the words directly into your heart. You are guided much easier now, the water sloshing as you are pulled in. “I’ll take care of you, my pearl. You’re with your god, aren’t you?”

With your god. You turn your face toward him. Rafayel’s fingers tug at your lower lip, and you watch as his eyes zero in on the flesh; he is weirdly entranced with the way your human body works, the strange reaction it elicits from him. It is something you have become accustomed to in the past few days. His nail is sharp enough to draw blood. “See, that wasn’t so hard,” he coos, mocking you outright. But his fingers are shaking. It’s you who’s got him wrapped around your little finger, and that feels both emancipating and sacrilegious, a conflict so confusing that you do not know where you have to draw the line. You don’t even want to draw a line. When you had joined the faith of the waves, the image you had conjured during prayer had been ephemeral and fleeting, as changing as the sea. Not in your wildest dreams would you have been able to picture a man, a deity as flawless as Rafayel. His beauty kills. It constricts your lungs and tugs at your heart, as if falling into the maw of a great beast. The still water does nothing to take away from your hypersensitivity to his proximity.

Mortals aren’t made for divine dalliances. You burn too easily. But here you are, playing with fire.

You aren’t delusional enough to think he loves you. You are clay-born, after all. Rough and hastily assembled, none of the precision that the sea god had employed to give birth to his people. You are dazzling in the same way as a fire is dazzling: a short burst of destruction that is as awe-inspiring as it is revolting. But even you can recognize that he is attracted to you, and to a simple servant of the faith, that is quite enough. You are basking in whatever affection he grants you, any scrap at all.

Although you are still on the cusp of youth, old enough to yearn but young enough to grasp the moment, you had never in your wildest dreams conspired of something like this ever happening. Love just wasn’t on your cards. You had your sister, and your mother, and your faith, and that was truly enough. It was fulfilling to the point that you had felt untethered to the earth, free from the judging glances of the village, free from all the expectations the convent placed on you. Living and breathing and becoming one with the sea. If you had died tomorrow without ever having glimpsed the miraculous sea god you had entrusted yourself to, you would have died happy anyways. It was as simple as that.

But this was life-changing. Altering. You were experiencing an out-of-body experience, mythology come true. After all those years you had thrown your love into the universe, the universe was reaching back. You were spinning off axis, losing sight of everything but Rafayel. He was the new epicenter of your existence.

You jump as his fingers trail the naked skin of your arms. He settles on your hips, the touch so electrifying that you bite the lower lip he is still so fascinated by, staring at it as if it were a treasure he discovered at the bottom of the sea. The moon behind him outlines his shape in silver and white, making him seem more like an apparition than an actual person. How fitting, when you have been fantasizing about him all your life. “We should perform the purification now,” you whisper, but Rafayel is still lazily drawing patterns into the flesh of your curves. “Certainly,” he drawls out, every syllable enunciated in the abundant leisure only a god could possess. Your nerves feel like they are on fire. “In a minute.”

“Your Divinity,” you caution.

“Raf-a-yel.” He pronounces the words slowly, but with a deadly intonation. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “Say it. Say my name.”

You look at him, unsure. He looks just as much the deadly hunter he is sometimes depicted as in the murals. Before humanity had started building shrines in honor of the sea god of the abyss, they had painted warning signs about him, about the quick and bloody death he delivers. Some sailors still caution against all interaction with the creatures of the sea, their doom-calling stories a fresh batch of nightmares every time you hear them. The way Lemurians used to drag their willing prey beneath the waves, where they watched as the light left their eyes. What remained of them were the last bubbles of air as they rose to the surface. You cannot say his name, not with your tainted tongue. Not with the bastardry you carry in your veins. Not when you are deceiving him for the sake of your sister. But … “Rafayel,” you whisper.

You should feel scared about the way his lips curve into a smile. Beneath the most beautiful skins still lies the deadly bite of a venomous snake. Somehow you don’t think it’s fear that spikes the speed of your heartbeat, though. It’s not adrenaline that makes you angle your face upward so Rafayel can nuzzle your neck, and you almost buckle at the swipe of his tongue. Tasting the salt on your skin, the earth you came from. “Here, I purify you,” he answers. “I’ll lick you clean.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s what the scriptures meant, Your Divinity. Rafayel,” you hastily correct. He had frozen in his motions, but resumed nipping at your skin when you had added his name. The cold water was doing absolutely nothing against the fire racing inside your veins.

“Don’t care about the scriptures.” Rafayel draws up, pulling you with him. The languorous stretch of his figure forces you upward, and following his guide, you wrap your arms around his neck until you’re flush against him. His eyes darken at the press of your breasts against his chest. You screw your eyes shut at the delicious pressure, the way your nipples had brushed against his skin. How easy it is to throw all caution into the wind. You were losing sight of everything you built, in the name of love. “My word is law. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, Rafayel.”

He almost seems to purr at the sound of his name, easily pleased. It’s a deeply unhuman sound that should make you shrink away in fear. You screw your eyes shut as his lips trace the shape of your cheeks, inching closer to your mouth. “My name sounds so delicious on your tongue,” he whispers against the corner of your lips, bordering on a kiss. “If only all your prayers had been like this. I would have flooded all the ports and claimed the land just to have you.”

“I am yours,” you tell him, and you mean it. Rafayel grips your hips hard enough to draw blood, and he doesn’t need to tell you to know what he wants from you. You repeat it, again and again, telling him you belong to him, until Rafayel shuts you up with a kiss that tastes of both sanctity and sin, and the poison he pours into you is so decadent you almost don’t realize it’s killing you. You forget that at the end of this, it will not just be his kiss consuming you whole. You welcome the knifes and the sharp teeth and let Rafayel devour you.

The night passes then with the two of you trading kisses in the dark, small touches bordering on disgrace. You bend so many of your rules that at the end of the night, you’re not sure whether your virginity is sacred after all. But Rafayel never asks you for it, and you both remain clothed, although the bath has made you drip all over the floor. Inside the enormous bed that Rafayel claims as his own, you watch the sun rise as his fingers trace your ears, your collarbones, the shape of your body. It feels intimate in a way that is devoid of sex. It almost feels like Rafayel is the supplicant and you his deity, with the reverence he dedicates to touching you. “You do not need to be purified, bride of blood,” he says, addressing you like he did on the day you met him. Once again, it is a sign of respect. A sign that although he doesn’t understand your beliefs, he still wants to adhere to them because you treasure them. “You are flawless as you are. I chose you because you are everything I want.”

Although your sight is already blurring from tiredness, you make an effort to look at him. “Even though I am human?”

“Despite everything,” he tells you. “My heart sings with the presence of you.”

The sincerity of that statement dizzies you. You fall back into the blurness, feeling light as a feather. Never in your life before have you experienced a joy as profound as this; you have seen the face of God, and God has looked back at you. He is only looking at you.

“You do not have to do this, you know.”

It is the sister who speaks. Rafayel turns over the ceremonial knife, staring at it as he strains to hear the soft voices in the room behind him. Technically, he was eavesdropping. It was a breach of privacy, of course, but there was the matter of intention; he had come to see you, to fall into your lap as you told him about the human world, to allow himself to be reduced to a lover at the beck and call of a mere human like you. The days were beginning to slip away like sand in an hourglass, the wedding inching closer with every passing second. He had been trying to identify where the pit of dread inside his stomach came from when he heard your sister speak up, a feat so rare that he had forced himself to stop behind the door before she stopped. Your bridal party was composed of the most annoying people in the world, all of them paling in comparison to you in both faith and creature, but your sister guarded her words like a clam her pearls. And now, when she finally spoke, it was to deter you from marrying at all.

Rafayel hears something shift. You must have sat closer to her. “Do not say those words,” you hiss, a tone he has never heard you take before. “Do you forget how easily it is for a human to lose their head down here? We are already on thin ice.”

“I’m serious. You do know we could all die anyways, right? How can you be so calm? I feel like I’m about to go insane!”

“Then keep it together!” The answer is too loud, a cat mother snapping at its young. The anger in your voice is palpable. For a moment, the silence claims the room alongside the tension created by the secret conversation, but then you speak up, much calmer. “We either die together for this treason, or I die and you will live to tell my tale. In either case, it’s fine by me. I don’t care about my own life, but so help me god, Alia, if you even think of ending this ruse I will send you above water myself. I’m your older sister. It is my duty to think of you first.”

Treason. Rafayel’s fingers skim the edge of the knife. Blood pearls at the tip of his fingers, the sight of it as nauseating as the thought of a possible betrayal by the human world. Already, the world above them has started to leave them behind, with their experiments of gunpowder and weaponry. More and more patrols return decimated, the serving soldiers reporting death and violence. Complaining, pointing fingers. It’s no secret that the bridal party at court has become somewhat of a group of hostages. And hadn’t Rafayel already known that you were hiding things?

But he thinks of the way you let him cup your face in the sight of only moon and sky, how your eyes glint with the unspoken tenderness between the two of you. It was easy to lie with words, but your souls sing to each other. You both know it. There is something tucked away inside your human heart that belongs to him and him alone, something that makes Rafayel forgive you for every past and future grievance you could possibly muster against him. There is something every living heart wants for itself, and his heart wants you. The metaphorical knife sinks and sinks and sinks into his chest, slamming into bone, stuck there like Rafayel is stuck on his throne. Forever a hand-width away from everyone else, even his happiness. Just then, your sister whispers, “You love him, do you not? You have already given him your heart.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you gently reprimand her. Rafayel closes his eyes; the hand twisting the knife is rough and scarred, but familiar. He imagines taking that hand to aid it. Stab here, he wishes to say. Just a little deeper. I permit you. Only you. “This plan isn’t going to work, and I don’t care. I’ll take them down with me if I can. If I’m dead, I can’t be blackmailed, can I? I don’t care whether I die, as long as you live.”

As long as you live. Rafayel thinks of hearts, and the consumption of them, and of weddings and happy endings. He tucks the ceremonial knife away, his insides cold with the grim certainty of what he is going to do.

Later on, Rafayel will not remember the way his wedding had crashed and floundered into flames. He will not remember the sharp sting of betraying his own people, how his power had bled and bled. It was always so gruesome when gods fell. They weren’t destined for tragedies of this scale.

The only thing Rafayel will be able to commit to his recollection is how stunning divinity looked on you. He will forget the way his home had tasted, how the blooming kingdom of Lemuria had seemed to explode with colors, how the laughter of his folk had accompanied him everywhere. The only thing left will be you, your radiant face and your warm, warm tears, as warm as blood, sparking a fire in even the coldest of deep sea creatures. It should make him curse your name.

And yet he cannot forget you.

He looks for you everywhere, at every time, in every moment. The way your smile looked like the warm rays of the sun as they broke through the rain-heavy sky. The way the sound of your steps seemed to echo like the drum-like rhythm of his heart. He races after people who seem to have just the right hair color, who seem to share the shape of your eyes, who remind him just too much of you, only to realize that it wasn’t the person he was chasing after. You are haunting him. In every waking moment, in every dream that tortures his sleep, it is always you.

The resulting soul-devouring longing has turned him into quite the artist. When Lemuria fell, it took everything with it. Every painting since then he has ever drawn up fails to compare with the real thing, and he is terrified by the idea that he is forgetting how his home looked like. Already the details begin to slip away from him, becoming eroded over time. What remains crystalline is the imagine of you. Devilish you, crux of Lemuria you. It torments him to love you, but what torments him more is the loss of you. He had never been prepared for this possibility. He had never even considered what giving his heart away would look like.

And yet, he would do it again, and again, and again. Selfishly, egotistically. What he wouldn’t give to be able to make you smile again. In his most desperate nights, he strains himself to remember the way you used to laugh, the sound more heavenly than any music ever composed on earth. Even the falsification of the sound still manages to bring him so much peace that Rafayel stills his hands and abstains from painting another death trap. Although revenge has become the new mistress of his heart, he doesn’t love her as much as he will ever love you. It is the memory of you that makes him halt, makes him grant mercy to a possible victim. That, and the everlasting fear it is your blood he could be punishing. Your wish had been granted, after all - it was your sister who had lived and witnessed the death of a civilization, your sister who had escaped all culpability.

It was one of the most earliest memories he managed to commit to his brain after the atrocity that was the destruction of Lemuria. He had dug your sister’s grave with his bare hands. He had never even known her, not closely anyways, but it was your blood running in her veins, your love that had raised her. After so many years of searching and retracing his steps, he had finally found the village you had been born into. But by then, his bride had disappeared, and your sister had grown old waiting for you, and she had barely been able to squeeze Rafayel’s hand before passing on peacefully. That had hurt him in an entirely different way. Here was someone, who loved you and missed you just as much as him, who would understand how severely the loss of you had impacted him, but then she went and died. A cruel fate, as usual. But he did not regret finding her. For a little while, someone had been able to share his grief. And for a little while, that had been enough.

In his worst nightmares, Rafayel dreams he will never see you again. He will live and die for his love, but it will not matter. The bond that connected your souls stretched on into nothingness, past the place where living beings could reach, and you have already passed onto a place he will never see, because you’re an angel and he’s going to hell. Whether he believes it or not, he has betrayed his people, his court, his duty. There was no redemption, no way to come back from that.

Sometimes he resents you for it, so much so that his soul grows heavy with the anger he carries within. He stares at himself in the mirror for hours, trying to claw off the Lemurian mark that bonds you to him, but then he dissolves into sobs. He is hollow of you, a carved out corpse, a mermaid drowned. An oxymoron, like he was. He loves you so much that he convinces himself the pain is worth it; he convinces himself that he can survive this.

He becomes a renowned artist, his paintings a manifest oh the emotions he tries to overcome. But in every single one, his muse remains the same.

Like divine intervention, it is his paintings you admire when Rafayel finally finds you again.

He almost doesn’t trust his eyes. After all, this is not the very first time he has chased after a mirage like a traveler lost at sea. The back that is turned to him is not as scarred as yours was, and the curls of your hair are tucked away in a neat coiffure that almost makes him look away; you had hated to have your hair up. His favorite part of the morning routine you both established was when you had let him sneak into your rooms, and you had let him brush your hair until it was smooth and silky to the touch. But then you cock your head at the painting, and Rafayel sees your face, and he almost buckles.

The moon pales in comparison of the sight of your face twitching into the amazed expression at the painting before you. The sharp teeth remember him of your knife-like grimaces, the ones you used to grace him with when he saw a little bit too much of the truth inside you. There is a horrifyingly familiar birthmark where your brandmark used to identify you as one of the most devoted priestesses of the sea’s faith. You are as beautiful as the day as he lost you, as stunning as the day you had walked into his life.

He stumbles into Thomas, who steadies him with an appalled noise. The rest of the world falls away as Rafayel drinks in the sight of you like a man completely parched with thirst, as if he might die from it. You’re staring at a rendition of how Rafayel had imagined you might look in a bridal gown. His legs carry him forward, and never has the burden of walking on earth hurt him as much as now; he feels that knowledge tearing at him, clawing away at every protective measure, before he even reaches you. Every step is razor-sharp and painful, a conscious memory of what he sacrificed to roam the earth for you. He already knows before you meet his eyes. Your eyes are as clear and amazed as the day you had been brought to him.

You have no idea who he is at all.

It had already been a weird day. You had woken up to your face wet with tears, but as you touched it, you couldn’t for the life of you remember what you had dreamt about. There was only the disturbing feeling that were was something missing, something you couldn’t live without. You had laid in bed for a very long time, your hand placed over your heart, before your bestfriend and roommate Simone had burst into your room and told you to ‘get your ass up before we miss work’.

In the subway, the feeling hadn’t subsided. Beneath the bones of your breast cage, your most vital organ sputtered and stuttered, strangely arhythmic. The thing wasn’t very reliable, anyways, and you already had monthly check-ups to ensure it wasn’t fucking you over and you could continue your work. And then sometimes, it performed miracles. So many times you had woken up in a hospital bed after having passed out with the certain thought that you were going to die, but every time your heart had won out, like it loved battling death and beating the shit out of it every time. It had mystified Zayne, your childhood friend, to the point where he had suggested setting up a field study for his university studies, but you had firmly declined. You didn’t want anyone else to know about this freak heart, thank you.

Work itself had passed by quickly either way, and you had almost passed over the opportunity of going out with your friends. But Simone had wheedled at you and whittled your rejection down until it turned into acceptance, so now here you were.

Staring at this stranger.

He almost looked familiar. In another life, perhaps, you would have walked up to him and struck up a conversation. You had a special weakness for pretty boys, even though you knew even the most beautiful of predators are still deadly. But you had sworn off men after college, the short dalliances that had sparked up remaining unfruitful, so you thought it was for the best.

But the look in his eyes was so heartbreaking.

If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he knew you. He seemed to be looking at you like someone who he had believed dead had magically been brought back to life and returned to him. When you finally mustered up your courage to approach him, because he had been staring at you for quite a while now, the gorgeous man had turned and left. You quickly lost sight of him, which made you frown.

You were a Deepspace hunter, one of the best. You usually don’t lose track of your prey, especially not pretty ones like him.

It didn’t matter. You never saw him again afterwards. Your fake vow of chastity remained stable, even after the countless club nights Simone dragged you to and even after Tara’s desperate pleading to please, pretty please let her set you up with someone. You declined every time. Not because you were stubborn, but because there was a hollowness inside you that starved for tenderness, something so unreal you were sure you were never going to find it. There was a beast encaged by your veins and bones, starving for the scraps of affection. You had fed it and fed it and fed it, to the point where at the end, you were the one who had been left unnurtured, so you had abandoned the search.

You had never once thought it would find you instead.

There were times when the timing seemed almost too suspicious. The appearance of a fake account perceiving your social media posts. The feeling of someone keeping watch of you. Not following you, but checking in on you. The knowledge that someone was looking out for you, but every time you turned the corner, what greeted you was the sight of a whole lot of nothing.

It’s Wednesday night after Simone’s shift when the doorbell rings. “Did you order in?” you ask the girl, but she shakes her head, the freshly washed hair whipping around like a flag in the wind. “Maybe it’s Michaela?” she theorizes, and you shrug. You’ve met Michaela before; she was Xavier’s hunting partner, a competent hunter that was sure to rise through the ranks. You hadn’t realized that Simone and her had become so acquainted, though. You were definitely going to needle Simone about that.

You went to open the door, but it wasn’t Michaela standing in front of it. Instead, a delivery boy that looks like the most bored employee you’ve ever seen holds out a packaged bouquet to you. “Please sign here, miss,” he says, and holds out a board where a paper has been pinned to it. You scan it quickly to confirm it’s actually for you, then give him the signature he requires.

“Who was it?” Simone appears in the hallway, scrubbing away at her hair. You are momentarily distracted from the bouquet and stare at her instead; you always scolded her for walking around with wet hair. “Is that a bouquet?” she asks before you can say something, her voice amazed. “I thought you were a chaste nun and all that!”

“I’m not dating anyone!” you immediately defend yourself. But your heart is racing as you pass her, and you quickly walk to the kitchen counter where you reach for the scissors in the drawers. Simone rejoins you and watches as you free the flowers from their paper cage.

It is the prettiest bouquet you’ve ever received. Nestled inbetween baby’s breath and foxgloves, water lilies in full bloom reach upward, filling the kitchen with their dizzying fragrance. Simone begins to sneeze almost immediately; she is violently allergic to foxgloves. You, on the other hand, breathe in deeply, almost light-headed with the violent longing the flowers fill you with.

You stare at the flowers for a very long time.

After almost an hour of theorizing and reaching to no conclusion, you place the bouquet on the windowsill in your room where it can be seen from the street. It’s intentional, because you are almost sure that the feeling of that watchful stranger was not just a feeling. Maybe it was a secret admirer or something. But your heart was at peace with that knowledge, and the feeling that encapsulated you was as familiar as a dream; a dream where you are loved as you are, with every inch of your being. You sleep deeply and restfully for the first time in a very long time.

As someone rounds the corner, he angles his eyes upward to stare at a certain window. He passes by here almost daily, just to see whether you were sleeping and taking care of yourself. Worrying about whether when the lamp burned deep into the night, it meant you were overworking yourself or haunted by nightmares. Reassured when the light was off and your shutters closed, because it meant you were home and sleeping. When the shutters are open, he doesn’t even bother to pass by this street, having learnt quickly it meant you were on a business trip of some kind. He has quickly become resentful of your vocation because of how much it drains you. But today, he sees the bouquet he sent you, proud on display on the very windowsill he is able to see from below here, so far away from you.

Almost unwillingly, because he has yet to relearn the motion, his lips curve into a smile. Rafayel walks home, his heart as light as it never has been before. Well, maybe once. Back when the waves were still the emperors of the world. When love meant a certain, moonlight-illuminated face.

It doesn’t take long for Rafayel to re-enter your life under the guise of a part-time job. A bodyguard, for a painter. The joke almost writes himself. But you couldn’t deny how you had clapped your hands in joy when you saw him again, the pretty face with no name you had seen on that day of the art reveal. You let him seduce into the worst side-gig ever, which might as well have been a babysitting job instead of a bodyguard position.

You learn that he’s a recluse, famous painter with the weirdest quirks. You’ve never met a man as strange as him. He was immature, and whiny, and a brat. Most times, you were too exasperated to handle him, despite the ridiculous amount of money he was paying you (the dude was rolling in money) and the bonus of getting to see his gorgeous face every day for free. Sometimes, though, when you are careless, your heart jumps to your throat when your fingers brush. Other times, when you watch him paint, you have the counterproductive urge to grasp his face and kiss him until you’re breathless. You cannot understand it. You don’t know where the instinct comes from. But it runs deep in your blood, a calling as old as time.

Simone calls you a horny freak, almost guffawing when you meekly admit to having developed a crush on him. And hey, sure, maybe you were a little horny. (A woman gets quite desperate when her only sexual encounters were the reliable appendages of her own hand.) And sometimes you did want to jump Rafayel’s bones until you were sure you (or him) wouldn’t be able to walk for a least a week. But it’s not what stirs you when you look at him. Deep inside your heart, something yearns for Rafayel, something that’s even hungrier than the beast you call your own heart.

You’re never sure what will overcome you. On most days, where Rafayel mooches off the vacation days you get from Deepspace hunting and calls you in to watch him live his life, your cravings run on the need of wanting to touch him. You want to ruffle your fingers through his hair to discover whether it’s as soft as it looks like. You’ve even candidly wondered what it would be like to hug him while he sleeps; Rafayel often falls asleep on his own job, curling into a sleeping position right in front of his unfinished paintings, the elegant fingers unfurling around his brush. The need to touch him can get so severe that you brush your fingers over his hand as he sleeps, just to satisfy it; it feels like fire grazing your skin, as dangerous as his Evol. You never tell him about anything of this, though, even though you know the secret is burning you.

Sometimes he looks at you as though he can tell exactly what you’re thinking. Like now.

He looks up before you can tear your gaze away. You had been staring at him for a little too long, admittedly, but he was looking downright ethereal today. You had almost collapsed on his porch when he had answered the door. The man was already a threat because of his looks, but he had opened the door looking like he fell right out of the bed and walked to the door without doing anything. The sight of his sleepy face and frazzled hair was doing a number on your heart. He claimed he’d already had breakfast and had laid out a plate of pancakes for you (not prepared by him, of course, the man was too lazy to stand in the kitchen without incentive), then gotten straight to painting. You were fantasizing about what it would be like to wake up in bed with him, to wipe away the sleep from his eyes and kiss the eyelids, when he caught you red-handed. “What, do I have something on my face?” he quips, and you jerk upright.

“No. Why would you think that?”

“You’re looking at me as if I sprouted another head. I’m not an alien, you know.”

“Technically, you are. Aren’t you?” You blink at him, the question innocent. Rafayel rolls his eyes, though, as if he had both expected your stupidity but had hoped you would overcome it. “Lemurians are from the ocean, idiot,” he retorts, turning back to his painting. He was swiping away at another creation, something that looked like the abstract rendition of a hurricane on the sea. “Last I checked, that was still on earth.”

Well, he got you there. Before you could think of a smart response, your phone rings, bringing the conversation to a halt. Rafayel clicks his tongue in annoyance; he likes to be the center of your attention and has often hidden your phone during work hours just so you couldn’t distract yourself. As someone with the attention span of a goldfish, you had rebelled pretty soon. You turn your attention to the device in your hands and read Simone’s name on the display before you answer the call. “Hello?” You drawl out, gaze still fixed on Rafayel.

“Where are you?”

“Working. At Raf’s.” You don’t miss the way Rafayel straightens up at the nickname, looking like the satisfied cats he often chases away due to his hatred of them. It’s your turn to roll your eyes; he was easily pleased. At the same time, his simple joy at a nickname makes your heart soften. Although his dramatic flair ensures that he is never taken seriously, deep beneath it all, you have come to realize that Rafayel is a genuinely tender person. And who are you to judge for being needy when it comes to affection? “I told you that this morning. You know, when you were in bed with Michaela.” As far as you knew, they weren’t dating, since Simone claimed Michaela had only slept over yesterday because they had stayed out late, and she had refused to let Michaela walk back home in the dark.

“Do not say that out loud,” comes Simone’s buzzing response from the other end of the phone, and you momentarily hold your phone away as you cringe at the sound. You put it back just in time to hear her add, “I do not need the fish-man to know about my private business, thank you. He’s an employer after all.”

“Everyone knows about your fat crush on Michaela.”

“Well, how about your fat crush on…”

“NO!” you shout down the phone before she can speak it out loud and ruin your life. You manage to startle Rafayel so strongly that he topples from the chair he was situated on; you wince and turn around guiltily, not wanting to deal with the consequences of that. Simone had almost given away your secret feelings for the man currently painting his heart out on the canvas. “Alright, point fucking taken. Is that why you called me? To bully me?”

“You decided to bully me first! Anyways, I called to let you know that they emergency-scheduled you for this afternoon. Something about you being familiar with that no-hunting zone.”

You narrow your eyes. She was probably talking about the suburb north of Linkon that had just recently been declared a no hunting zone; they were still carrying out evacuations from the area, although majority of the place had been abandoned ages ago due to a factory accident. You often ran patrols there and had been the one to notify the agency about the rising threat-level which had ultimately led to the declaration of it now being a no hunting zone. Still, it must be pretty serious if they scheduled you without checking back with you first. Jenna usually didn’t take advantage of your willingness, since you often offered to cover shifts for your colleagues.

“When?”

“7:30 at the subway station. North exit. You’ll patrol alone, but I can join you if you want to.”

“No, that’s fine,” you answered absentmindedly, already racking your brain about what could have happened and how you could get there. Perhaps another luminivore? But you had cleared out a nest of wanderers just a week ago…

You barely remember to say goodbye to Simone before you whirl around to face Rafayel. He’s still on the ground, pouting, his full lips jutted at you in irritation. “Let me guess,” he grumbles. “You’re gonna abandon me again. Forget aaaaall about me on your fancy wanderer-hunting job.”

“Rafayel,” you sigh. He always got vexed about this, the fact that you had a life aside from basically being his handbag that he carried everywhere. Rafayel doesn’t even like public appearances, and rarely appears often enough where the necessity of a bodyguard was warranted. You step towards him and offer him your hand so he can let himself be pulled up, but he turns his face away like a child. “Don’t be like this. I’ll literally be back tomorrow.”

“Oh, will you? And what if you get another emergency? And what when your free days are over and you have to go back to your regular work? Since you’ve managed to forget to text me every time you’ve been busy, I’m assuming you’ll check back with me as soon as sharks have started walking on land.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Rafayel turns his head to glare at you. It’s the only thing your register before the world is flipped upside down in a rapid whorl of colors. Rafayel has taken hold of the hand that had intended to help him and had pulled you down. The movement is so swift and sudden that you squeak in indignation before you can remember your training, but your fight-response dies down as soon as Rafayel leans over you, his hands pinning yours over your head. You could easily free yourself if you wanted to. You were a Deepspace hunter, for crying out loud. But it’s Rafayel who’s pinning you down, Rafayel whose lovely hair is as blue as the swirling sea, his eyes capturing you like a predator hypnotizing its prey. “You’re a liar,” he tells you. It’s an insult, but your skin tingles as if the word was a caress. You squeeze your hands into fists in his hold, and he grips your wrists tighter, as if he can imprison them. As if he can imprison you. Rafayel’s eyes are as hard as flint, and you recoil from the real anger inside them; he’s never looked at you like this, never. The air is thick with tension. “You humans always lie. You’ll leave me and forget about me.”

The situation seems so silly, but there’s something urging you to take it seriously, something in Rafayel’s eyes that tugs at your heartstrings. You feel like a deer in the headlights, yearning for the approaching car. “I’d never lie,” you tell him after a few moments, unsure where the words are coming from. “And I’d never leave you.”

Rafayel scoffs, and you feel the embarrassment creep up on your face. Well, it’s not like you were the one who initiated this ridiculous situation! But you cannot help but feel this isn’t a joke. You scan Rafayel’s face, but he’s as unreadable as the calligraphy of a foreign language, unavailable and unreachable to you. “How can you be certain?” There’s a tang of anxiety to Rafayel’s voice, a tone so disquieting that you feel desperate to get rid of it. The urge is strange, but not unwelcome. You think for a long time before you tell him, “I can’t be. I’m only human, after all. But I mean it with all my heart when I say I would never intend to.”

Rafayel’s eyes visibly soften at the words. It’s a confusing, mind-muddling reaction. Although your relationship to Rafayel is indescribable by words and constrained by its professional setting, you would still be able to claim that you had grown close enough to realize this was an extremely uncommon reaction. What’s even more confusing is when Rafayel lowers himself to tug you closer; you fit like puzzle pieces as he cradles your head in the hollow of his neck, holding you against his heart. You return the embrace with a racing heart. This is everything what your touchstarved brain had asked for and more. You turn your face to tuck it into the crook of his neck, and the man above you sighs with what sounds like content. After a few moments, he finally releases you, his arms unfurling like the petals of a flower. He’s still pouting, but he looks appeased. “Go, then,” he says, sitting up and crossing his arms. “But don’t expect me to miss you or anything!”

Like a sea creature that’s washed up on the beach, unable to breathe air, you gape at him. Meanwhile, Rafayel dusts himself off, as if nothing ever happened. He goes straight back to his art, sparing you not even a glance as he says, “Be sure to lock the door behind you, will you? I really don’t want Thomas to crash in whenever he wants again. I like my privacy.”

That damned fish!

This is the shape your relationship takes on, the constant push-and-pull between tearing each other apart and digging into every crevice you can reach in the other. What has started as a simple crush is starting to drive you insane, what with how Rafayel begins to take advantage of how familiar you both become. It’s on a night like this where he makes every effort to blur the lines between you two, like colors mixing and washing over each other, creating something new. It’s the middle of the night, and you should really be in bed sleeping before your newest mission in the morning, and yet you’re standing in front of the art gallery in the middle of nowhere. Thomas’ face looks like a tomato. He’s been blushing and apologizing for at least ten minutes, begging you to forgive him and spewing excuses about how he absolutely couldn’t call anyone else. He pawns Rafayel off like a discovered item being handed in to lost-and-found, abandoning you to your new task so he can hush back inside and hide the fact that a) the artist in question being discussed in there is drunk out of his mind and b) he’s pulling the Frenchest exist ever known to humankind, having slipped out the backdoor that is supposed to be reserved for the staff. You stare at the label that marks the closed door as such long after Thomas has left you, ignoring the whiny little sounds Rafayel is making. Asking for your attention, probably. Eliciting a very different kind of response in both your pissed and tired mind, but also your easily excited abdomen.

How did you even get here?

“Can you pleaaaase stop staring at that door and stare at me instead? And I made all that effort to look pretty, too.”

Your eyes snap back to Rafayel, momentarily distracted. “Surely you didn’t dress up for me, mister,” you huff, although you did take note of his attire. It’s an elegantly cut suit and tie, the cuffs of his shirt studded with something that looks like glinting stars in the dark. As you step closer, you realize that the buttons are not buttons, but rather pearls. From Rafayel’s left ear dangles an ear ring, a silver fishing spear that seems to pierce through the earlobe. “Because you best believe I didn’t agree to be dragged out at the ass-crack of dawn to pick you up just because you can’t hold your liquor.”

“I can hold my liquor!” Rafayel complains. You want to muster up a snarky response, but then he grabs your calf and falls forward, his head coming to rest on your thigh. The proximity is making your breath catch in your throat. “That was just …. a lot of piña coladas. They were just so delicious. It’s not my fault.” The drunkard at your feet squishes his stunningly beautiful irritating face against your leg, looking up to catch your gaze as he pleads you to swallow the lie.

You are robbed of speech.

It’s one thing to have an unrequited crush. It’s another thing to live with it. And then it’s something entirely different to have that crush used against you. Rafayel’s cheeks are red from intoxication, his eyes lidded, seemingly in a haze. But his hands are steady, goal-oriented. They feel their way along your legs, up to the hollow of your knees, until finally Rafayel digs his fingers into the back of your thighs and closes his eyes.

If anyone knew how fast your heart was racing right now, you’d never live to hear the end of it. You are shy and overwhelmed and in love. Before you can embarrass yourself even further, you take Rafayel’s hands into yours and pull him, the sound of your blood rushing in your ears reminiscent of the way the thunderous waves crash on Whitesand Bay when it storms. “Let’s get you home,” you hear yourself speak as if from a distance. For once, Rafayel is obedient. He nods eagerly, wrapping both his arms around the one you offered him, and you manage to find your way back to the main street as you round the art gallery and hail a cab.

The driver looks as tired as you are. The meter, calculating the price for the amount of distance travelled, sets a ticking rhythm for the drive. As you settle in and buckle up both Rafayel and you, the former uses the chance to inch closer to you. You direct your gaze to the roof of the car, thinking, dear god, please help me survive the ride back home.

Because this is just plain torture. It takes Rafayel five minutes, tops, to fall against you and hide away his face against your throat. His breath comes more steadily now, not as erratic, and he’s still got the scent of coconut syrup and rum on his breath, but beneath all that, he smells like the Rafayel you have come to know. That strange smell of salt and paint and mint, the latter being part of the perfume he prefers to use. He’s close enough to bite through your throat if he wanted to.

Somehow, the thought doesn’t terrify you. The lack of fear ought to be a warning sign, but all you can think about is how lovely it would be die on those teeth, like the drowned sailors crushed to pulp as the waves throw them against the cliffs over and over again. You curl your fingers to your fist in your lap, willing yourself to endure it. In the darkness of the cab, every touch seems amplified.

“Missed you,” Rafayel mumbles then, almost making you leap out of your skin. He hadn’t been loud, but you’re growing incredibly hypersensitive to his every mood. His lips brush your skin as he speaks. “Thought you wouldn’t come.”

You slightly turn your head to create some life-saving distance. Your heat is threatening to jump right out of your chest. “Of course I would come to get you, silly fish,” you whisper back. Through the window, you see the cab cut by the city, drifting through its streets like a snake through a flower field. Even in the middle of the night, Linkon City doesn’t seem to sleep. You try to fixate on the sight outside, instead of the man beside you that was threatening to make you lose your grip on sanity.

Rafayel grunts, then shifts his position. As he sits up, his hand falls into your lap, and with an ease you usually only ever see him exert on his brushes, he claims your hand for his own and turns it over. He presses a thumb to your palm, the touch light, but something feathers in your muscles. Your hand twitches. “You sound so sure,” he sighs, sounding petulant. He doesn’t believe you.

When finally the sight of Rafayel’s humble appears on the horizon, Rafayel manages to step outside the cab without falling over once. In the time it takes him to step outside and stand up-right, you’ve already paid and thanked the cab driver, who only nods and speeds away as soon as the door to his vehicle closes. You watch for a few moments until the cab merges with general traffic and then disappears, then turn back to your drunk, pouting companion, avoiding your eyes as if the eye contact could be embarrassing to him. For being so touchy in the cab, he sure has some nerve of acting like this. Without another word, you enter the passcode to his door, and Rafayel slips inside.

The studio looks like a mess. Clearly, nothing had been cleaned or tidied up before someone left to attend their oh, so important event. There is paint everywhere, even on the couch you know costs more than an entire year of your salary. You avert your eyes and press your hand on Rafayel’s back; you would talk about that tomorrow. The studio usually was a representation of Rafayel’s mental state. Whatever bothered him, had exploded into the artful reorganization of his home. “Quit pushing me,” Rafayel nags at you. He winds around so that he can free himself from your touch, then glares at you as if this was somehow your fault. “I can walk on my own.”

“Well, then maybe you’ll take yourself home, too.”

Your voice comes out too harsh. You know it as soon as you close your mouth, but Rafayel has already flinched. “I’m sorry,” you say as you try to soften the blow, and it feels ridiculous. Why is it you who has to apologize right now? But you continue speaking as if compelled, because you can’t stand the thought of hurting him, of him thinking he meant nothing to you. He doesn’t answer, so you step closer, intending to make him look at you so he’d see that you’re being earnest. That’s not what happens, though.

What happens is that Rafayel’s hands find your shoulders, and you’re about to ask what he’s doing, and then the only thing you can feel is the shape of Rafayel’s full lips crashing against yours, swallowing your words. It’s not even an actual kiss, too messy to be actually deemed one; his teeth clack against yours, grazing your lip painfully enough that you’re almost sure he’s drawn blood. But then he re-angles his face and Rafayel is actually kissing you, tasting you, stealing the air you breathe. Your brain shortcircuits. For a second, you forget why you’re here, and your fingers act faster than your mind does, gripping onto Rafayel’s shirt so forcefully you almost rip the pearls off them. Thankfully, your brain snaps back to reality almost immediately, and you push Rafayel away before the realization that you had been tasting his sinful tongue can actually hit you. That would be an information your brain would deconstruct later. “You’re drunk,” you exclaim. It is the most difficult thing you ever had to do, tearing yourself away from Rafayel. His face is the very picture of longing, an expression that makes you want to eat him alive, bones and all. But you did it anyways, because it would not be fair to him, and this is something that would have to be discussed when he’s sober. “Come on, Raf, I’ll take you to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed.” His fingers haven’t left you. They wander up the sides of your throat, digging into the space beneath your jaw, forcing you to angle your head up. Like this, he almost looks like the deep-sea predator he is. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that seems to reflect your own hunger, a kind of starvation that will not leave a single scrap of you to scavenge. If you’re not dangerous, he will drag you into the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again. “I want to make you feel good and make it up to you, please, pretty please. You’ll let me, won’t you?” He tugs and tugs, unrelenting. His wicked lips are shaping his typical pout, his favorite expression of getting you to do his bidding. He almost gets away with it, too, and the only thing keeping him from kissing you again are your quick hands, placed on his mouth before he can even think of capturing your mouth again.

“Raf, I will not take advantage of you while you’re being drunk!” you exclaim. It’s unbelievable how his face grimaces into the most heartbroken expression ever, just because you refuse to be the villain here. It physically hurts, to see him in so much anguish. You quickly spin him around so you don’t have to see his face, directing him to his bedroom. “You can make it up to me tomorrow,” you say tentatively. Secretly, you hope he will forget all about this, and you’ll never have to talk about it all. You’ll file away the kiss in your secret drawer inside your mind palace and polish the memory until it physically deteriorates, like it’s your last dinner on death row. You’ll make that memory last. Because you know he doesn’t love you; you had just been a warm body who had been kind to him at the wrong time.

“You’re so mean.” Rafayel sniffs, but this time, he comes more willingly. In the bedroom, the atmosphere has almost returned to its original tranquility, the silence enveloping you both seeming to sober him up. The bed feathers, creaking as Rafayel falls into it, but then the only sound left is his quiet muttering as he continues to complain about your attitude. He falls asleep like that, grumbling about how you would regret not letting him kiss you, how he could make it worth your while. He almost looks innocent like this, his face relaxed and devoid of his usual dramatic flair. It smoothens out the deeper he falls into sleep, sinking further into the mattress, looking like a pre-Raphaelite angel in a painting. Peaceful. Neutral. Entirely ethereal. He’s so surreal, you wonder if you might not be imagining this moment, the way you imagined him doing other things to you as you laid awake at night.

You fan your burning face, wondering what exactly had Rafayel intended to with you. It only adds on to the maladaptive daydreaming you dedicated your time to every day, ever since the fish-eyed king who called you his bodyguard had stolen your heart.

You stare at him for a very long time, until every ethereal feature of him is burned into the back of your eyelids. Your heart is light as a feather, floating, yearning. It sings his name in a steady pattern, synching almost naturally to the breath that stirs in Rafayel’s chest.

From then on, there is a current of tension underlining every interaction.

It’s not on purpose, of course. You just can’t help yourself. Every single nerve is on fire, at the beck and call of your favorite painter’s whims. You twitch when your fingers accidentally touch. There’s an involuntary gasp whenever he comes near, a sound tugged out of you against your will. You would have never thought that love would feel like a thousand fireworks going off at once. Soft, resounding explosions going boom, boom, boom in your chest.

You are so very conscious of Rafayel. Your heart jealously guards every moment you share with him.

Amor vincit omnia, famous poet Virgil once said in his own works. Love conquers all. Poets have to describe it like that, for emotions to be so consuming. It’s supposed to be a fun little tale, a nice piece of text, to be read and enjoyed. It’s not supposed to be something that happens to you, in the most violent way possible. Rafayel, although his own empire has been laid to rest centuries ago, his claim on the throne long faded, has succeeded in conquering you after all, heart and soul.

But, spoiler alert: you do not talk about what happened. In fact, you make every effort to escape the conversation whenever Rafayel tries to bring it up.

Why, you ask? Well, that’s something not even you can answer. Your friends have grown intolerable with frustration, to the point where Simone has staged an intervention to get you to fess up and confess to Rafayel. (Michaela, finally dating Simone, had planned an entire powerpoint dedicated to the benefits of admitting your feelings to someone. Which is ironic, because it was Simone who had finally gotten her shit together and told Michaela about how she felt.) Even Zayne, uninterested in your love life and its endeavors, had chipped in with his own opinion, which you had quickly ignored, because Zayne was the only mentally-sound, responsible adult in your friend group, which meant unresponsible you didn’t want to think about his advice at all.

It probably has a lot to do with how Rafayel is the epitome of perfection in your eyes, and you are nothing. You know it’s completely idiotic to think of someone as flawless, although Rafayel, being a sea creature of mythological background, might be a little closer to fitting that description than a human would. But you do. He is tender and attentive and all-encompassing. You refuse to lose him like this, to lose him to an unrequited crush that he had nurtured on a whim because he had been intoxicated.

No, you’d rather dance around it and be able to stay in his vicinity. Even if it kills you to be the outstander in his life forever, you’ll sacrifice yourself for it.

Unluckily for you, Rafayel is entirely fed up with sacrifices.

To say the door was closed would be to put it gently; it crashes into the hinges as Rafayel shuts it in front of your nose, cutting off your only route of escape. The evening sunlight paints him in a rosy hue that only adds on to the weakness your heart feels when you see him. He is exquisite. “We are going to talk about this,” Rafayel states, crossing his arms in petulance. “Whether you like it or not.”

“Ah, I’d love to, Raf.” Your lips quirk into a nervous smile. The memory of those arms wrapping you up in their embrace is so powerful, it manages to spike your blood with adrenaline. You theatrically check your wristwatch, then point at it, as if Rafayel needed some kind of extra confirmation that you were out of time. “But I really have to get to this meeting, and I already told Simone that I would…”

“Nope, don’t care.”

“But I…”

“Nooooope. You want me to say it in Lemurian?”

“Raf,” you groan out. “Don’t be like this.”

“Me, not be like this?” It seems as if you’ve missed some kind of signal in his communication, because suddenly Rafayel draws up, taut as a bowstring. There is a palpable taste of anger on your tongue, like a shark tasting blood in the water, and the realization dawns on you that you probably shouldn’t have answered him like that. “You’re really one to talk. You know, I thought we were finally getting closer. But you can’t even look at me properly! Have I done something to you?” His eyes are unhappy, glassy with emotion. It tears at you. His anguish has always been like a knife in your gut, disembowling you like a fish being gutted.

Your breath hitches. Yes, you have done something to me. You’ve ruined me. All I can think about is you, and the way your smile looks like the first streak of warm light at the break of dawn, and how even your annoying jokes make me float with joy. You’ve done something, alright. But all you say is, “No, of course not. I mean, no you haven’t done anything. I like spending time with you.”

“Then, what is it?” Rafayel has stepped closer. You instinctually step back, craving distance from him so that your heart won’t explode in your chest, but it seems like he has had enough. He ignores your attempt at evading him and grabs your arms, shaking you like a child would its toy. You look up at him, helpless. “Please. I can’t stand the thought of being apart from you.”

“Don’t say that, please.” Your voice is meek. You cannot believe he is even saying those things to you, that he could possibly replicate all the feelings in your heart, both the light and the dark.

Rafayel sucks in a breath, as if the words were a slap to his face. “Does it disgust you? That I feel like this? Because if you don’t want me to take liberties, if you don’t want me to bother you, then that’s all you have to say. I promise I’ll go back to any role you want to cast me in, as long as we go back to what we were, and you will talk and laugh with me again.”

What even is this moment right now? You are dizzy with emotion, incapable of producing speech. In all your wildest dreams, never once had you thought that it would be Rafayel begging for even a scrap of your attention. It was always in reverse, the natural order of things. You shake your head, appalled at his words, heady with them. “You can’t possibly feel like this,” you manage to say through gritted teeth. “You can’t possibly feel like you’re the one being pushy, when all I’ve done is ruin things between us. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. I knew you did it because you were drunk, and I’m not mad at all, but I should have been the responsible one, and now I’ve ruined everything.”

“Ruined everything?” Rafayel’s voice is ripe with incredulity. When you finally gather courage to look up, you see Rafayel’s face suffusing with blood, although you can’t tell if it’s in anger or frustration. You don’t understand that in reality, Rafayel has spent his entire existence living in devotion to you, praying to you, deifying you. There is a split second where you both look at each other, completely silent, but then Rafayel’s painter-roughened fingers circle around your wrist and guide you back into the studio.

There are art supplies strewn everywhere, littered on every surface, but the actual paintings have been draped in curtains, hidden from view. Sometimes, even the most talented of creators gets shy about his works, and you’ve never once pushed him or teased him for it, respecting his privacy. But now you’re standing in the middle of his domain, his one hand still gripping your flesh, the other curling around the soft fabric that hides his art. “Then believe this,” he scoffs, and before you can protest, he rips the curtain off to reveal what is beneath.

You are robbed of speech.

That day in the gallery, your eyes had been cloudy, blind. You never once thought to stop about whether Rafayel had a muse that he venerated, something he enshrined with his paintings in an effort to cage in the feeling. Like the visionary described in Plato’s allegory of the cave, you are stumbling towards the light, blinded by the grace Rafayel utilizes in everything he shapes and touches.

Blooming all over the canvas is a rendition of you, floating in the ocean, kissed by the sunlight straining to reach you in the depths of the water. You almost reach out to feel the brushes, each stroke of the paintbrush a loving word, a compliment to your existence. Rafayel has painted you with the loveliness of an artisan completely entranced with their source of inspiration. There is an unspoken language of love woven into the material of the canvas itself, every color, every shade fondly handpicked to highlight your radiance. The drawing of you is glowing, basking in Rafayel’s attentiveness, completely wrapped up in his adoration.

“This,” Rafayel speaks up at your side, leading you back to reality, “is how I feel about you. I worship you.”

“Worship me?” You are breathless. It’s an impossible feat to tear your eyes off of the craftsmanship, but you manage to do so. The sight of Rafayel almost knocks you to your knees anew. His gaze is so full of warmth that for the first time in years, your heart is expanding, feeling full and hungry at the same time. Rafayel takes your hands in his, pulling them towards him. “You sound so shocked,” he laughs gently, the reaction so untypical for him. You let yourself be guided closer into the circle of his arms, into your safe haven that Rafayel represented for you. “Is it so hard to believe that I love you? There is no one else I’d want to kiss, no matter whether I’m drunk or sober. I dream and think of you all the time, and I hate it, trust me. Did you really think there would have been anyone else that could take your place in my heart?”

You are still adoring the painting, but when you angle your head back to look at him, Rafayel is already looking at you. It’s a soul-connecting look, the kind that reaches deeper than his eyes, the color of them ressembling the star-speckled sky reaching to kiss the pink waves. He is literally cracking open inside his chest so that you may look within, so that you will believe him. There is a memory at the edge of your consciousness, something that washes the saltiness of the ocean and the strangely sweet taste of divinity over your tongue, something that you cannot recognize yet. But what you can recognize is the heart inside Rafayel’s chest, so similar to your own, even hungrier than yours possibly could ever be. “Say it in full,” you plead with him, just to hear it once more. To realize that this incomparable man, more legend than reality, in all his heavenliness and gracefulness, belongs to you. That although your heart has always been the most insatiable creature alive, it has finally found a twin that matched its voracity. “Say you love me.”

Rafayel’s hands come up to cradle your face, cupping it like one would hold their most precious treasure. He is looking at you like a devotee who has seen his salvation, like you are the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. It’s the look of love you’ve always, always wanted directed at you. “I love you,” he says, sounding entirely to exultant for a moment like this, his voice like the bells of heaven. It is utterly unlike your sassy crush, the man who’s outwitted you countless times, who always tugs a laughter out of you whether you want it or not. This is someone else, someone who’s set fire to the earth just to dig you out of its ashes. “I will love you until the day I die and if there is another life after this one, then let me love you in that one too, in all lives that may yet come.”

You screw your eyes shut then. You are blinded by joy, amazed at what just a single string of words can do to you. There is a key turning in the lock inside your chest, something that opens up a tsunami of emotions inside you. I love you. I love you. I love you. “Rafayel,” you whisper, and then you stumble forward at the same time as Rafayel tips down, and you collide like stars. When Rafayel finally kisses you, it tastes of cosmic dust and red strings of fate and it tastes like eternity. Your hands reach upward, seizing at his clothes and shoulders, until finally your fingers claw at his cheeks and you are probably hurting him. Neither of you cares. You fold around each other until no one can tell where you stop and he begins.

Rafayel groans into the kiss, a sound of such profound relief that you almost manage to stop kissing him just to laugh. There is no opportunity to do that, though, as Rafayel keeps dragging you back for another kiss, and another, and another. “My pearl,” he gasps against your lips, and you swallow the sound eagerly, lips moving against his like the tide crashing back into the shore. There is a loud crash as Rafayel moves backwards; you are momentarily distracted and look downwards to see the palette having strewn all its paint and contents all over the floor. In the heat of passion, you had completely forgotten your surroundings. “Whoops,” you murmur, not feeling sorry at all. It makes Rafayel burst into laughter, and for a moment, you are two idiots stumbling in the dark, two boats in a storm.

Holding on to another.

“It’s so typical of you to make a mess when I’m trying to be romantic,” he whines, becoming your unserious Rafayel again, love of your life Rafayel. You brush a lock of his storm-blue hair aside, and he tilts his head until his cheek is fitted against your palm. “You exist to sabotage me, admit it.”

“You admit something first.” Still love-drunk from the kiss, you swipe your thumb over his cheekbone, the touch electric. “When did you paint this? Do you really like me for as long as I have liked you? Because if I’m being honest, I’ve been having the most embarrassing crush for the longest time. Simone can tell you all about it.”

Rafayel dips his head, looking at you straight on. “You have no idea,” he tells you, entirely honest. He looks as if he can tell that your heart is racing, like he’s speaking the words into your veins, carried to your heart with the steady pump of your blood.

You step closer to him then, the need so primal you feel your entire body shivering. The urge is so tantalizing that you threaten to choke on it, succumb to the threat that Rafayel’s love poses. He is a walking siren song. “Help me understand then,” you whisper. “You’re always so chatty. Chat to me now.”

“But I’ve done all the talking, you know.” He pouts, the expression entirely bratty and so Rafayel-coded that you can’t help but giggle. The corners of his own mouth twitch, clearly pleased by the reaction, the sound the only symphony in his ears he likes to hear more than the swell of the ocean.

Your arms come to wrap around his neck, and you slot together like puzzle pieces, every rib fitting into the hollow of Rafayel’s chest. It feels like you are made for each other. You place your lips on Rafayel’s ears, your own only hearing the rush of the ocean, the sound of your blood racing. “Tell me, please, Raf,” you whisper. He shudders violenty, a reaction that reaches deeper than evolutionary instinct. His hands find their home on the dips of your curves, every finger digging in. “I want to hear about every single thing inside your head. Always.”

“You are unfair.”

You kiss the curve of his ear. “Of course I am. I’m the human that stole your heart.”

Rafayel’s lips are seized by a helpless smile, an expression you’ve never seen before. It’s almost as if he’s reminiscing about a secret that you don’t know, something that feathers along the edge of your memory. But he answers you nonetheless. “But there was no theft, my love,” he purrs. It’s the sound of pure, languid affection, the kind that wells up from the depths of one’s heart. “I’d give you my heart again and again and again. You can tease me all you like, but in truth, I’d sink to my knees whenever you’d like and worship you forever.”

Your lips part in astonishment. You don’t miss the way Rafayel’s eyes zero in on the reaction in hunger. “You were right, you shouldn’t talk,” you stutter then. “Your words are gonna go right to my head.”

“And it’s such a pretty head, too.” Rafayel’s lips begin to chase the soft slopes of your face, tracing a fiery path across your cheeks. It is unbelievable how such a simple act unravels you, how you are going to explode beneath the simple touch of Rafayel’s kiss. You almost preen beneath the ministrations. You angle your head to entangle him in a kiss, but this time, it’s him who moves before your lips can touch. “Let me prove it to you,” he whispers, the words itself as soft as a kiss. It’s a dangerous promise, an even more dangerous game. “Please, pretty girl, let me prove it to you, show you how much I adore you. I’m all yours. Let me show you, I beg you.”

You bite your lips. You’re pretty sure the bar is in hell, but this is the single most attractive thing a man has ever done for you. Here he stands, his heart on a silver platter presented to you, his entire being at your whim. You are heady with power, dizzy with the implications. But at the same time, you have never felt so safe. You are in the palm of Rafayel’s hands, safe and comfortable and oh, so loved. “Show me,” you tell him, biting your lip. “Please, Raf, show me.”

Those are the magic words. You didn’t even need to plead. Before a single ‘please’ has left your mouth, Rafayel’s lips once again crash into yours, and this time, he kisses you properly. His tongue, as commanding as his personality, tastes like a weirdly enticing combination of cherry coke and ocean salt; there is a loud, embarrassing squeak that escapes you when Rafayel’s teeth drag over your lower lip, but the sound quickly changes into a drawn-out moan when he gently sucks on it. He releases it with a groan of his own, and his eyes, like mirrors to his soul, reveal the depths of his hunger. “God, you have no idea what I’d do for you,” he gasps out, his brain working faster than his own mouth, the words hurtling from some part in his soul he has been jealously guarding. You are his only vulnerability, the only one. “What I have been looking for all my life. Light of my life, my love, my pearl. Need to show you.”

“Show me what?” You’re so drunk on his kisses, you’ve already forgotten what Rafayel requested from you in the first place. He tugs you in the direction of his bedroom, and you follow with a scary compliance. Maybe all those stories about the sailors drowning at sea had more than just a kernel of truth to them. Who wouldn’t throw themselves into the waves, for a chance to experience Rafayel’s experiences, even if it was only mere seconds? Your haziness chases you into the bedroom; your head is still spinning when he pulls you down into the luxurious bed you’ve always mocked him for. Suddenly, all that space begins to make a lot of sense. You spread out on the bed entirely too easily, unfolding beneath Rafayel like the blossom of a flower.

He sucks in his breath, his chest rising rapidly. Even though you are dizzy in your stupor, your brain still registers with a delight that it’s not alone in its sensation. You are doing this to him, you are undoing him just as much as he is you. The knowledge is so sweet that every inch of your body seems to sing. “Show you how much I love you,” he says. “Never gonna make you doubt me again. You’ll never think about anyone else after this. No one will ever love you like I do, I promise.”

The promise sounds entirely too harrowing for the romantic atmosphere you had been cultivating since the reveal of the painting in the studio. You almost sit up. Not too argue against him, but to question where the need for the promise came from; after all, you’d be just as ready to prove to him that no one in your life would ever come close to the reign he held over your heart. But then Rafayel bows over you, and you’re entirely engulfed by his shadow, and Rafayel’s hands are carving their way out to your abdomen.

It almost makes you shy. You’re not a blushing virgin, but you’ve never let anyone into your body in this way, not like this. You’re afraid that Rafayel’s gonna get inside and seize evey cell of your body for him, and he’ll settle in your bones and your marrow and your blood, and he’ll stay there forever. It’s a delicious fear, a kind of anticipation that makes you peer into the void, listen to its call. You want it so bad that your own fingers dig into the way-too-expensive fabric of Rafayel’s blankets, tearing, anchoring. Finally, finally, his lips kiss their way down the shape of your hip bones, chasing their way to the edge of your jeans. “May I, please?” He asks, his voice laced with desperation, the picture of a petitioner.

You look down at him, at this siren bewitching your body and spirit. Although he looks like something straight out of a pornographic movie, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything this beautiful. Rafayel was like the most ethereal pictures, his lovely features carved out with the tender carefulness that makes even stone seem soft. His eyes are hopeful, open, trusting. You are falling in love with someone more divine than your mortal mind could have ever conjured, your every dream come true. “You better,” comes the weak response from you.

It’s all the consent he needs. Rafayel all but tears the pants off of you, his hands chasing flesh, craving connection. “Thank God,” he moans, and you almost think he’s enjoying this just as much as you are, more than you are. You watch his own hips buck into the soft mattress, chasing the mock-sensation your pussy would offer him, and you clench your thighs so hard your kneecaps almost pulverize. He grinds into the blankets, the torment of his own desire seemingly making him delirious, but his touches are determined, measured. Your curves fit perfectly into his hands, the elegant painter fingers gripping into your ass to angle you to his liking. “I thought I’d die without ever tasting you again.”

Again? You repeat in your mind, thinking you misheard. But Rafayel doesn’t permit you to think. Another pull, another tug, and then his treacherous mouth is around your core, kissing you through the cotton, mouthing around the shape of your pussy. You cry out, more in surprise than pleasure, but that quickly changes when he begins to drag his tongue across your pussy in a long, languorous swipe that makes your insides twitch wantonly. “Get those panties off of me or so help me god, Rafayel,” you manage to push out between gritted teeth, your own hips flying up to chase his touch. His grip is unrelenting, pinning you back into the mattress. “Weren’t you gonna prove something to me?”

Rafayel’s answer comes in a purr. “Your wish is my command, beloved.”

He pulls your panties to the side in a swift motion, placing another kiss on your clit. “Fucking hell,” he seems to mutter in amazement, and you’re not sure you were supposed to hear that. A mere moment later, Rafayel digs in like a man starved, moments away from the death sentence. You are not just a death row meal: you are the entire five-star course. You cry out entirely too loud as Rafayel plunges his tongue into you, the flexing muscle angling up to trace the soft, sensitive spot you chase with your own fingers when pleasuring yourself. You have no idea how he knows that, but you have no time to ponder as his left hands begins to trace circles around your clit, bullying the bundle of nerves with the pencil-roughened pads off his fingers. “Raf, oh my god!” you gasp, the sound dragged out of you in the same steady rhythm as his tongue pumping into you.

“I’m your god,” comes the moaned response, the sound’s vibration making your insides twitch in response. His fingers don’t let up, the ministrations steady, slowly picking up in speed in tandem with the coil of pleasure tightening inside your belly. You are twisting like a snake, your body shortcircuiting. “Say it.”

“Rafayel.” You are suprised in the coherency you fathom in expressing his name; your mind is already blurring at the edge, falling apart in soft colors like the confetti inside a kaleidoscope. “You’re my god, Rafayel, mine all mine.”

“Yours,” Rafayel keens. You notice the admission make him almost feral; he immediately puts his mouth back to work, slurping your essence in the most obscene manner. You are way beyond proprieties, way beyond embarrassment. All you can hope for is that he catches you at the end of this, as he hurtles you past the point of no return, the death-drop on a scary rollercoaster. You almost scream his name when he sucks your clit into his mouth, nursing on the spot like he’s going to die from thirst. The flick of his thumb makes you come undone; you fall back into the mattress into oblivion, shaking out of existence as Rafayel’s skilled tongue continues teasing your slit until you push him away, over-sensitive. “Stop, stop, stop,” you chant, the words slurred around the mind-blowing effects of your orgasm. Your tongue is heavy, your throat scraped raw. Did you scream that loud? “Can’t, Raf, can’t anymore, stop. So sensitive.”

“But I wasn’t done,” he whines out. His fingers still chase after you, even after you hastily sit up, dragging your unwilling body up the bed. He crawls after you, looking deliciously pathetic, his stunningly beautiful face pulled into a heartbroken grimace, as if the world was going to end if he couldn’t keep you eating out. There’s an unmistakingly large tent inside his thousand-dollar-designer pants, one that makes your mouth run dry again with hunger.

Heavens have mercy, you’ve never wanted to suck someone off so bad. You wonder if his pretty eyes would roll back into his head if you took it deep enough into your throat.

You don’t get to fulfill that wish, though. Rafayel pounces on you almost immediately, your sight taken over by his beautiful face as he kneels over you. His hips knock aside your thighs, demanding entrance, and you open up to him too easily. “Wanna make you feel good,” he begs you, but you’re too distracted with how delicious his kiss-swollen lips look. You trace your thumb over his lower lip, watch him as his mouth chases to suck on it.

He almost gapes when you place your thumb into your own mouth, tasting yourself. If he didn’t look so fucking attractive like that, you’d have laughed.

“You’re killing me,” he admits. Despite how vulnerable that sounds, he doesn’t hesitates at tearing at your legs until you’re laying below him chest to chest, ignoring the way you squeak at being manhandled into position. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Now you laugh. “I have no idea what I’m doing. But I’m definitely not trying to kill the person I love.”

His face softens. It’s that expression you’ve begin to adore, categorized in your mind palace which is entirely dedicated to being a shrine for Rafayel. It doesn’t matter that he’s the one submitting to you at the moment, wrapping himself around your finger. It’s you who’d move all the seas in the world just to be with him. “I love you more,” he tells you, and he sounds earnest. “I love you so much more. Here, I’ll show you.”

The kiss he places on your lips is entirely too sweet for the debauchery his lower half is committing. While his teeth gently tug at your lips, begging for entry, his hips have begun to grind against your pussy. You mewl into the kiss, the sound quickly swallowed by Rafayel’s greedy tongue as he curls it around your own, tasting you, tasting him. There’s a string of saliva connecting your lip when he disentangles from you, and you’re too busy staring at it to notice the way he stares at you like you’re the single most important thing in his world.

He’d die a thousand times just to live through this night once more.

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the realization that Rafayel has begun tugging off his clothes. You quickly mirror him by shedding the last of your own, tugging aside all the fabric until you’re as bare before him as the day you’ve been born. You feel a little self-conscious, but to him, you must look glorious: this time, you visibly see the way his chest expands with the sheer joy, the admiration that drowns out all the color in his eyes. “Like what you see?” you tease him, but there’s an edge of nervousness tainting the words. You’re literally offering yourself up to him like a sacrificial bride.

“I adore you more than anything,” he answers, his voice reverent. His fingers shiver with tremors as they brush their way down the curves of your breast, enveloping your waist until you’re snug in his grip. It makes you blush; he’s looking at you as if he’s seizing up every detail so he can paint you anew, the devotion only a painter can muster up for a muse he loves. “This is the single greatest thing I have ever experienced.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t been inside of me yet.”

His eyes darken then, returning to their sinful mischievousness. “No, I haven’t,” he retorts, and then he pulls you towards him, the head of his cock nudging aside your labia, knocking at your entrance. You yelp, and he snickers like the bastard he is. “May I come in?”

“Fuck you,” you tell him, breathless. It was supposed to be a harmless insult, your usual banter with Rafayel that most often ends up in you guys thinking up the most creative “your momma” jokes until you guys dissolve in laughter.

This Rafayel doesn’t. “You should not have said that,” is the only warning you get, before Rafayel drags you down on his cock, sheathing you entirely on it. Your back arches off the bed as if your heart was trying to escape your chest; the intrusion is so sudden that the nerves in your brain spasm before you register there’s something kissing your cervix. Not possible, you think. Not fucking possible. He can’t be this big.

Oh. Oh.

Rafayel bundles you up in his arms and pulls back his hips just to snap back into you with the deadly precision of a predator who’s killing its’ prey. This time, you’re fully conscious of the scream you let out, your insides squeezing the living hell out of Rafayel’s dick in a desperate attempt to contain him. The only thing that amounts to is him being spurned on; you turn your head to the sound of Rafayel’s sinful moans flowing into your ear, tingling right down into your abdomen. “Rafayel, slow down”, you manage to squeeze out, but at the same time, you raise your hips to meet his every thrust, your eyelids fluttering at the same time as the rapid rhythm Rafayel sets as he pounds you into the mattress.

“What was that, my pearl?” Slap, slap, slap. The lewd noise of his Rafayel’s balls smacking against your entrance makes your toes curl in delicious pleasure, and you wind around in his hold, sobbing from how good he makes you feel. His cock cruelly bullies into you, your cervix screaming up through your nerves every time the circle of muscles makes contact with his cockhead. Your fingers claw at his back, desperate to steady themselves somewhere, anywhere. You barely even register the fact that there’s blood dripping from where your nails dig in; you’re too distracted by the fact that the pain you’re inflicting on him only seems to make him fuck you into the mattress harder. “You want me to go faster?”

“Can’t,” you wail, feeling incredulous by the fact that sex can illicit a response like this in you. You’ve severely underestimated how much everything changes when you do something with the person you love. “Can’t, Raf, it’s too much, too much.”

Rafayel’s only response is to ignore your begging. He frees a hand from where it’s digging into the mattress above of you to balance himself and cradles your face in it easily, angling your face up so you look at him straight-on. “Wish I could stop, my angel, but I’m obsessed with you. Need you to cum all over me, mark me as all yours so I can never run away again. Can you do that for me, sweet thing? Cum for me, please?”

“Raf,” you whine out, the tell-tale sign of your orgasm approaching muddling your mind again. How exactly does he expect you to form a coherent thought when he’s fucking you like it’s his last night on earth? Your fingers search for purpose, gripping into his shoulders, weaving a cradle around his neck. He bows then, kissing you like his life depends on it, never once stopping his rhythm of fucking into you. “Gonna cum.”

“You promise?” he whispers against the curve of your lips. He angled his head, instead kissing his way down your throat, swallowing the sound of your heartbeat screaming his name inside your veins. Every thrust claims your soul more and more, until you’re nothing more than a prisoner to his love. “Please, my seastar, I can’t fucking take it. Need to cum with you so bad.”

“Pleeeease.” The sound is a single cry, hollowing out your chest as you hug him closer. Rafayel bites into the soft flesh of your shoulder, and you interlock your legs behind his back, seeing white. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. His bite feels like the soft brush of a kiss, violence mingling with lust. “Come with me, Raf, I’m coming, coming, coming.”

Your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave. You arch off the mattress, weightless for a moment; Rafayel continues to fuck you through it, chasing his own release as the most lewd moans tumble from his lovely lips, which are probably going to haunt you and your daydreams forever. His semen mingles with your release, the messy sound making you hide your face in the hollow of his neck; you slap at Rafayel’s chest when he doesn’t relent, almost wailing when the pleasure gets too much. Your heart feels raw and cradled at the same time; Rafayel doesn’t pull out when he falls off from you, instead pulling your leg with him so that you’re locked in an embrace while you both lay there, panting like animals who’ve been chased. For a long time, no one says anything. There are no words for the way your souls have converged. You’re almost not sure whether what you did even can be called sex. But then you feel Rafayel’s cum drip out of you, and the blush that rises to your cheeks reassures you that yes, it still is sex.

Rafayel squeezes your hips, hugging you against him like someone would a teddybear. “I love you,” he drawls against your still naked skin, kissing the raw teeth marks he left behind on your shoulder. You sigh out, a sound of pure contentment. Your heart still feels like it’s on the tip of your tongue. “Love you more,” you tell him, but Rafayel, stubborn as always, shakes his head. He kisses you into silence, hands cradling your face gently as he angles you upwards to receive his kisses. “Never,” he murmurs into each one. You don’t argue with him. As the moonlight bears witness to the whispered love declarations you speak in the dark, the two of you curl around each other until you’re an indistinguishable tangle of limbs, cuddling into each other like cats bathing in the sunlight.

You fall asleep like that, head pillowed against Rafayel’s chest as he props you up against him. He continues to mumble compliments into your hair long after you’ve fallen asleep, thousands of words of adoration he’s had to keep to himself in the years that have passed waiting for you.

It’s finally his turn to become your worshipper. Finally, finally, Rafayel’s hearts soars with happiness again. The sea always returns what it takes. You have washed up on the shores of his life again, mate of his soul, love of his life. And this time, he’s never going to let you go.

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

☻ 𝒫𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒜 𝒫𝒾𝓁ℯ: 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓈 ℋ𝒶𝓅𝓅ℯ𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒩ℯ𝓍𝓉 ℐ𝓃 𝒴ℴ𝓊𝓇 ℒ𝒾𝒻ℯ ☻

𝗣𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝟭

Coming up next in your life is a time full of action and determination. You have your eye on something, and you’re not letting up. This is going to be a busy period where you’re focused on taking the necessary steps to achieve your goals. You’ll find yourself preoccupied with many tasks, adopting a go-getter mindset fueled by tenacity and ambition. However, this drive could lead to a hectic and even chaotic time.

Because of your intense focus, interacting with others might lead to conflict. You won’t want anyone to interfere with your plans, and this might cause tension with people who aren’t on the same page as you. The biggest challenge will likely be dealing with those who want you to slow down, be more present, or spend more time with them. Your forward-thinking, goal-oriented mindset may make it hard for you to prioritize quality time with others.

There seems to be someone in your life—possibly someone with romantic feelings for you—who feels neglected because of your preoccupation. They want your attention, time, and emotional connection. While they’re initiating communication and quality time, you’re focused elsewhere, leading to a disconnect. This person might feel as though you’re not taking them seriously or envisioning a future together, which could create conflict.

Your actions during this time may come across as selfish—not in a malicious way, but because you’re prioritizing your goals over emotional connections. This might lead to neglecting the emotional needs of those around you, leaving them feeling excluded. The person who has feelings for you seems emotionally invested, but you may not be reciprocating their energy or interest, which could make it feel as though you’re leading them on.

This imbalance is likely to create tension and disagreements in your interpersonal relationships. Misaligned perceptions between you and this person could result in a breakdown of trust and further arguments. They might feel as though you’re putting them to the side while you, on the other hand, believe you’re simply pursuing your goals.

Ultimately, this situation will push you to re-evaluate your actions and take accountability. You’ll need to confront both the person involved and your own approach to achieving your ambitions. While your ambition is commendable, there seems to be a lack of balance and intentionality in your plans. You’re moving quickly but without the structure or clarity needed to sustain your efforts.

This period of your life will be supercharged with energy and focus, but it will also require you to reflect on how you manage your time, relationships, and goals. Finding a better balance between ambition and personal connections will be crucial to moving forward in a more responsible and fulfilling way.

𝑷𝒊𝒍𝒆 2

An action-packed time is coming ahead for you, filled with passionate and driven energy. You may feel a strong desire to pursue things that make you feel free, youthful, and playful. This period brings a vibrant, positive energy to your life, and you’ll find yourself radiating charm, charisma, and warmth. People are drawn to you, enjoying your uplifting presence and good vibes.

You seem to be socializing more, engaging with different groups, and having spontaneous, meaningful interactions. Your warmth and friendliness make you approachable, and you may find yourself easily starting conversations and brightening others’ days. This positive energy likely stems from a sense of clarity entering your life. Situations that once seemed confusing are becoming clearer, allowing you to release recent worries and move forward with more confidence and understanding.

During this time, you may not be following a strict plan or focusing on long-term goals. Instead, you’re grounded in the present, allowing yourself to go with the flow and enjoy the moment. You’re taking a more fluid approach to life, observing and absorbing rather than rushing toward specific objectives. Your focus is more short-term—day by day or week by week—rather than planning for months or years ahead.

Even though you may not be chasing long-term goals, when you do have something you want, you go after it with determination and energy. Your current mindset allows you to take action without overthinking or obsessing over the details. Once you gain clarity, you’re quick to seize opportunities and take decisive steps forward.

However, you may also experience moments of emotional imbalance. While you’re uplifting others and radiating positivity, you might feel that the love, care, and tenderness you give aren’t always reciprocated. This can lead to some frustration or feelings of emotional vulnerability. As this is still a transitional stage in your life, some fragility remains. There may be days when you feel aimless, emotionally unbalanced, or unsure about the next steps in your journey.

Despite these small hurdles, this period is marked by growth and progress. You’re learning important lessons, gaining wisdom, and achieving greater emotional clarity. Though some days might feel challenging, your overall trajectory is toward a brighter, more positive future. This time is engaging, playful, and full of self-discovery, ultimately helping you take meaningful actions that align with the truths you uncover along the way.

𝑷𝒊𝒍𝒆 3

For this group, I see an opportunity on the horizon for you to restart and refresh a connection in your life. This could involve deepening an existing relationship or meeting someone new who brings warmth and fresh emotions into your life. Whether it’s a romantic interest, a crush, or even a meaningful friendship, you seem to be opening yourself up to more emotional and receptive connections in the near future. However, there is also an undercurrent of toxic energy that could complicate things.

This toxicity may stem from unresolved personal issues—either yours or theirs. For some, this new connection may start out lighthearted but shift toward something less healthy, such as a dynamic focused more on physical intimacy than emotional bonding. While there’s potential for reciprocity and warmth in the relationship, lingering toxic patterns from the past could resurface, impacting the connection.

Your current life circumstances might play a significant role here. You may be facing financial struggles, such as recent losses, overspending, or challenges in rebuilding your stability. For instance, you could have experienced a divorce, holiday spending, or job loss that left you feeling unsteady. These material and emotional concerns might weigh heavily on your ability to fully invest in this new connection.

The person entering your life seems to be sincere, kind, and giving. However, if you’re still dealing with unresolved wounds, depression, dissatisfaction, or instability, it might be difficult to reciprocate their energy. You may not feel ready to commit emotionally or consistently invest in the connection, which could create barriers. For example, you may find it hard to communicate regularly, meet in person, or form a stable bond. This could lead to frustration and prevent the relationship from fully flourishing.

There is also an underlying theme of self-dissatisfaction during this period. You may be struggling with self-love, fulfillment, and a sense of control in your life. Although this person brings warmth and nourishment into your life, they can’t fill the void of what you may be lacking internally. This could lead to emotional blockages that prevent you from fully opening up to the connection.

Despite these challenges, the person coming into your life appears understanding and willing to accommodate your current limitations. They may offer practical help, such as being flexible with plans or supporting you financially or emotionally when needed. However, it’s important to avoid taking advantage of their generosity. Instead, focus on using this time to grow, heal, and regain your stability.

This connection has potential, but its success depends on your ability to address personal toxic patterns, heal from past wounds, and regain emotional and material balance. Once you feel more secure within yourself, the relationship could become more balanced and fulfilling. For now, take this as an opportunity to reflect, heal, and allow yourself to grow into a healthier version of yourself so that you can build stronger, more stable connections in the future.

𝑷𝒊𝒍𝒆 4

For those in this group, an exciting opportunity is on the horizon. This could involve collaborating with someone on a shared goal, whether it’s a current partner, a new connection, or a professional or educational opportunity. You might find yourself planning or working alongside someone to create something meaningful, and this collaboration could bring a fresh start and positive momentum into your life.

However, I sense that you’re still tied to the past in some way. There may be lingering sadness or emotional energy surrounding something that hurt or disappointed you. It seems you’ve been dwelling on this past situation, feeling defeated or stuck, unable to fully let go. This emotional attachment has likely left you in a reflective, melancholic state, as you’re grappling with unresolved feelings or unanswered questions.

It appears that something from the past deeply impacted you—whether it was a loss, a breach of boundaries, or an experience that left you feeling wronged and hopeless. This emotional weight has carried into your present and may be clouding your ability to move forward. You might find yourself replaying moments, trying to fix or make sense of them, but ultimately remaining stuck in the same mental and emotional cycle.

Despite these challenges, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. An opportunity is approaching that will allow you to work with someone—whether it’s a person from your past or someone new—on a concrete goal. This collaboration could relate to your career, education, or even a shared project. If it’s someone from your past, it might be an opportunity to rebuild and strengthen that connection. If it’s a new person, they may offer support and help you solidify a goal you’ve been working toward. Either way, this opportunity is practical and tangible, and it holds the potential to bring you out of your current funk.

This new chapter will encourage you to release the burdens of the past. While the pain you’ve experienced may still linger, this collaboration or goal-oriented opportunity will give you a renewed sense of purpose. It could also serve as a reminder that brighter days are ahead and that you have the strength to rebuild. By engaging in this opportunity, you’ll begin to feel less stuck and stagnant and more motivated to move forward.

It’s clear that the past has weighed heavily on you, leaving you questioning whether good things are still possible. But the upcoming opportunities will help shift that perspective. You’ll start to see blessings and positive changes emerge, which will restore your hope and encourage you to believe in brighter possibilities. Though you’ve experienced a period of stagnation, grief, and heavy emotions, this is the time when things begin to turn around.

As you step into this new phase, you’ll find yourself letting go of what no longer serves you and embracing the potential for growth and healing. With the support and collaboration of others, you’ll rebuild and take meaningful steps toward your goals. This is a time of renewal, where the struggles of the past give way to hope, blessings, and the promise of a brighter future. Accept these blessings and allow yourself to move forward, leaving behind the dark times to embrace the opportunities and light ahead.

[kata-the-bee]

Broken Adjustment

Lore under cut. And by lore, I mean a whole damn short story-

It had been barely a week since he had arrived. A once proud worm god now nothing more than another face in the flock. House arrest had done nothing helpful to his mental health, but it was a necessary evil. Others would recognize him. How could they not? The size surely would be a point of confusion and disbelief, but the antlers, the leaves, the wounds, they all matched. At least there was one who knew, and he was the only thing that made this new purgatory bearable.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had only been a decade since the Old Faith fell, a decade that the youngest was trapped. His family remained between life and death, but Leshy was alive here and now, the first saved from the nightmare of death constantly relived. Thankfully, none of the flock knew of his presence as the Lamb was careful to bring the worm back under the cover of starlight. They quickly ushered the worm into a home and ordered him to stay for his safety. The Lamb would figure out a better plan soon, or at least they hoped. Hiding a fallen god in a randomly chosen house certainly wasn't a great plan to begin with, but at the time it was their best option.

Leshy had lashed out at everything with raw fury at the time. There was no rhyme, no rhythm, just pure emotion surging through biting and clawing at whatever furniture was closest. He was exposed, humiliated, and stripped completely of the last sense that had barely been sustained for a millenia by a crown he no longer had. Damn the Lamb! They were to blame for this! Things were perfect until fate reared its ugly head and scattered its cards!

There was one small grace, however, amidst the oppressive nothingness around. A yellow cat, one the Lamb had cautiously trusted to keep a secret. Sitri would recognize Leshy, that was a fact, but if anyone could keep it hushed it would be him. He had already survived Leshy's presence once. What's one more time? Someone had to watch the worm, and the Lamb did not trust him to be alone without supervision. Sitri was perfect for that task and was brought to be reunited with the emotional and blinded fallen bishop.

The yellow cat filled his new role as a caretaker quickly and without question. None for the Lamb, at least. Leshy was apprehensive to the idea of being watched over, but this cat? Familiar. A solemn comfort that he could grasp onto when the world was crushing, painful, and a void. The shift in power dynamic between the two was palpable, awkward, unsettling, but Sitri pushed past it for the sake of his duty. He would be there for Leshy, getting whatever the worm could ever want or need. Within reason, of course. First, however? Gathering comforting items. The transition to this form and location was surely jarring, but small things could make it smoother.

Sitri slipped away to gather one thing he knew would be the most important.

Camellias.

The signature red flowers of Darkwood would be a familiar comfort, surely. Sitri stole away to the fields to collect the youngest buds. Gathering what he could, he soon returned to the house to plant them in whatever space they could fit into. A stray pot picked up on the way would look nice on the windowsill while most of the others could be planted in the exposed soil between the newly broken floorboards. The Worm listened and could smell the change, but he was much too guarded to ever express gratitude in any capacity. That was alright for Sitri. He wasn't doing it for a thank you, after all, but it wasn't all duty either.

The next several days were dedicated purely towards making Leshy comfortable. The bed was pushed towards the innermost wall to be the most in the shadows. Sunlight was agonizing to Leshy's leaves, which were only accustomed to the shade of Darkwood. Perhaps that would change over time. Perhaps not. For now, however, curtains and strategic furniture placement were in order. Food was delivered only, same with water, all by yellow paws so as to not risk Leshy's presence getting exposed before a solid plan was made. Sitri even asked the Lamb to swap his secondary job of refining materials to learning medical. Someone would have to tend to that wound, after all.

That wound.

That gaping mess of torn flesh and empty sockets.

After all these years, it was still agonizing. Death did not spare him his due suffering, nor did purgatory, nor mortality. A constant reminder of thousand year old sins. It ached, it stung, it burned. Some days were better than others and bled less, but it never stopped. It was worse without distractions from the pain, and the lack of yellow cat presence that day was overwhelming. Sitri was taking lessons from one of the medical staff while Leshy panted from the overwhelming pain.

Bandages had been cast aside along with the robes. The pain was overwhelming every remaining sense, and Leshy could no longer stand the touch of the fabrics. All the physical pain, the crushing weight of emotions still raw, and the soul shattering loneliness he was forced to face had made this morning one of the worst he had experienced in a very long time. Blood and ichor poured freely down his face and stained his sheets while he gripped the fabric for any sense of control and grounding.

Leshy was alone, in pain, and desperately trying to stay away from the agonizing light from the window. As the day bled on like the festering wound on his face, so too did his senses bleed away to numbness. The pain had become less overwhelming over hours, but the solitude still remained. When Sitri was there, it was able to be ignored, but without the cat nearby Leshy could truly feel just how alone he was. Even as a god, even when life went to shit after Narinder was sealed, Leshy was never alone. There was Heket still, Kallamar, and Shamura. Now? Just... himself.

Leshy managed to a sitting position after hours of writhing and trembling on the bed and dangled his legs off the edge. He felt so small, so utterly exhausted as he barely managed this upright position. Even when Sitri came to check, he could barely manage to shift his branches. The ex god just sat there naked, his wound still pouring, his willpower depleted. Sitri himself struggled to find the right words to say as a comfort for Leshy. He couldn't possibly comprehend what the worm was going through right now, let alone find some meager saying to try and ease part of the agony. What was once a proud and chaotic force of nature was now nothing more than a hollow shell of what he once was. A husk was all the remained.

Sitri may not have had the words, but the least he could do was be there. And so he sat by Leshy, offering his presence as a reminder that, even now, Leshy still had someone to help fill the hole in his spirit.

He didn't fight it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry for any grammatical errors present, I wrote this one one go. Hopefully it's at least semi coherent! Congrats if you made it this far. Have the posted art as an inks only version instead of ink and markers!

[zipper-neck]

Trans Rules of Engagement

By Florence Ashley

Strong communities make us all safer. As anti-trans movements gain in power and influence, holding space for each other through our flaws remains critical. Yet the very conditions that create our need for community care make it hard for us to care for each other. We are raw, wounded, traumatized, and hypervigilant. We make mistakes brought on by fear and hurt. We lash out at each other when we do wrong, often partaking in pile-ons facilitated by the synchronous nature of online interactions. Whether we realize it or not, we often exclude trans people from community when they need it most.

I have lost count of the number of trans people I have seen cast out of online trans spaces for misdeeds both major and minor—far too often with my help. I sometimes find myself wondering where they are now and whether they are still alive. Because, as Kai Cheng Thom has taught us, social death often means real death for trans people. Trans communities are life-sustaining in a world that hates us so, so much. In a world that wants us dead. We have lost too many people not to stop and think about how we can foster life among each other.

This goal I have for myself—that of fostering life—motivates the following principles and rules for engaging in online intra-community conflicts while preserving the life-sustaining spirit of our communities. Countless times have I failed to heed these principles and ignored these rules. This failure, which many of us share, is precisely why I now want to lay these principles and rules down on paper. If only as a reminder of my aspirations. The principles and rules are meant to be adopted for oneself, not imposed onto others. Their purpose is to foster productive engagement, not create even more conflict and rigidity. I hope that this will be a living document, and invite you to make your own version if you would like. Borrow what is useful, supplement with what is needed, alter what can be improved.

Some, and perhaps all, of the principles I acknowledge are false, hence the need for a living document. Each of my suggested rules have exceptions. In setting them out, I am staking a claim as to the sort of myths and half-truths that are necessary to sustain life in a world that wants us dead. We must treat them as true if we wish to foster life-sustaining communities and survive the hellscape we belabor.

Principles

1. We are all flawed, traumatized humans at the end of their rope. Many of our actions say more about the conditions we live under than who we are as people.

2. No one is disposable. No one is unsalvageable.

3. Life holds greater value than being right or comfortable. Hurt is preferable to death.

4. No one should be deprived of community.

5. Harm does not require further harm. Punishment does not equate protection or healing.

Rules

1. Do not depart from these rules, unless you have to.

2. Morgan M. Page’s Rule: Try to avoid criticizing other trans people in public. The world does it enough already.

3. Favor in person or private conversations: Addressing someone’s comments or actions in person or privately is typically more constructive and effective. It allows you to communicate more cogently and with more nuance problems in someone’s actions or words and because it is less likely to make them react defensively from a place of trauma or fear.

4. Take your time: Few things require an immediate response. Responding while caught in a surge of thoughts and feelings is often unproductive. Ask yourself how much harm was done, versus how much we are reminded of an earlier harm. Ask whether your response is rooted in misperception or potential biases towards the person due to race, disability, gender, or other marginalized identities. Consider whether their words or actions reflect a different kind of thinking or communication style, a lack of access to education, or limited access to progressive communities and norms. You can respond tomorrow, once you have collected your thoughts, talked to others, and gained perspective.

5. Don’t mob: Be aware of group dynamics. Ask yourself if you are connected to this person and in community with them. Avoid jumping into the fray when others are already criticizing the person. Do not invite others to join in and mob them. Withdraw if others join in, and kindly ask people to stay conscious of mobbing dynamics. Mobbing rapidly grows out of proportion.

6. De-escalate: Focus on de-escalating conflicts. Ask what people mean or want, and why. Ask them for clarification or elaboration if needed. Ask yourself if you know enough about the context of the situation. Distinguish the action from the person, and acknowledge that it is normal to respond defensively or aggressively to public criticism and mobbing. People are traumatized, mentally ill, and are scared of losing the little social support they have. As a result, conflict can trigger a fight-or-flight response in both those who are criticized and who criticize, which leads to escalating conflict and ends in a loss of community. Dropping the conversation to return at a later date is preferable to escalation. Often, I find it best to limit myself to three replies in conversations that aren’t constructive.

7. Respond proportionately: Responses to words and behaviours should be proportionate to their harm, and reflect a need for healing and protection rather than punishment. When we speak from a place of hurt, we can understandably but unfortunately forget the measure and impact of our response. Use language that reflects the nuances and gradations of harm rather than a coarse good and evil binary. Cutting all social support and community banishment are rarely a proportionate response, even for someone who doubles down and does not apologize. Responding proportionately is asking first and foremost what response sustains rather than dissolves life. Especially when it comes to words, it is better to under-react than to over-react.

8. Ensure support for everyone: Check in on those who are criticized and those who criticize them. Remind people that we are all in this together, and that banishment is not how we work as a community. Everyone deserves to have their needs met. Do not shun or reproach people who offer support to those who were criticized or called out. Distinguish supporting a person from enabling their behavior.

9. Hold space for people to grow: Allow space for people to be accountable, change, and move on from previous conflicts. Do not hold past behavior over people’s head, nor dig up past misdeeds to fuel present conflicts.

10. Resolve conflict and harm as a community: We must ask how our communities enable and cause hurt and harm, and find ways to transform the conditions that create them. Holding accountable, problem-solving, and conflict resolution are functions that should be taken up by the collective, not isolated and unsupported individuals.

11. Center those most hurt or harmed: Focus on supporting and empowering people who are hurt and harmed rather than on punishment. Ask what they need to be safe and integrated in our communities, while committing to support for everyone; what they need to repair their relationship to the person who hurt or harmed them. Focus your involvement on bringing people together, fostering dialogue and mutual understanding, and restoring a sense of community togetherness, rather than deciding who is right or wrong.♦