#I swear she is now just doing side quest

[misskelley]

What is Tobin doing here?

[coff33andb00ks]

Rule Breaker - Pt 1

max verstappen x single mom!reader

{next}

face claim: none, random pinterest find warnings: cursing, max is broody, jos is an asshole, fluff, barely proofread, idk red bull team aside from Max, Checo, and Horner... (y/n's bestie is named after my irl bestie bc she told me to write this, and y/n's son is not named after Magnussen i swear) Summary: Max has it all...right? Besides, he's too busy collecting trophies and completing side quests for anything else. Until... You moved across a whole ass ocean to start over, uprooting you and your son's lives to become social media admin for cars that drive in circles. word count: 4293 auth.note: hiii new to writing for f1 so I'm posting this in the middle of the night and hiding in bed - feedback greatly appreciated. also this is forbidden love/he falls first/friends to enemies to lovers

"Hey Max, come meet the new social media admin."

On his way out, he barely heard the words. But they registered and he immediately turned, knowing how important it was to have a good rapport with the social media personnel. He only had to meet them, then he could leave and go to the team apartment and… He didn't know. Pass time in his sim until he couldn't hold his eyes open. Maybe he'd go for a run until he was close to exhaustion. Or see if Lando was in the country and they could go out together. It was only when he was about to pass out that he was able to sleep and not be plagued with dreams.

His eyes swept the small office, swiveling to focus on the new face. She smiled, giving him a little wave as she set down her slice of pizza.

"Max, this is y/n. Y/n, this is Max."

"Hello," he said, watching as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

"Hi, sorry." She took a sip of her drink and wiped her mouth again. "Sorry – It's so great to meet you."

She was American. Walking over, he extended his hand. "Where are you from?"

Shaking his hand, she smiled up at him. "Well most recently I was with—"

"No, no, where in America," he corrected.

"Oh! North Carolina. I try to keep the country accent to a minimum but sometimes I slip up." She motioned to the pizza box on the desk. "You want a slice?"

No, he had to leave. His work was done, he didn't need to hang around and kill his precious down time. Besides, his diet was strict for the next few days, what with the race coming up. He had to focus on… Within fifteen seconds he was sitting across from her, holding a slice in one hand. One slice wouldn't hurt, he decided as he took a bite. "How long have you been in England?"

"About three weeks?" She glanced at her watch and nodded. "Three weeks tomorrow. I was staying at an Airbnb until a week ago when I moved into my apartment."

He nodded. "Are you going to be based here or go to the races?"

"Races. Gonna be living the glamorous life of travel and hotels and surviving on caffeine and sugar," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"It's not so bad."

"I'm sure I'll get used to it. You've been doing it for, what, half your life now?"

Shrugging, he took a sip of his water. "More than that, really. Are you saying you don't travel?"

"Not like this. I lucked out with my last job because I was able to do it mostly from home. I think I went up to New York or out to Cali maybe six times total? But I know I can do it," she added when his eyebrows lifted. "It'll just take a little getting used to, especially with a little one in tow a lot of the time."

That surprised him. His eyes immediately moved to her hands, which were completely bare of rings. "A little one?"

Y/n nodded, her eyes lighting. "He's three."

"What's his name?" Max asked. It was none of his business about the boy's father, anyway, so he wasn't going to ask about him. And he didn't even care.

"Kevin." Her smile was both shy and sparkling.

His chest tightened. Kevin, he knew, was one of the most loved children in the world. "What's he like?" The words came out and only after saying them he realized he wanted to know.

"He's… He's Kevin." She laughed. "He asks a million questions and will talk to anyone about anything. He's high energy but has laser focus when it's something that interests him – Like the other day I took him to the park. I expected him to be running around and trying out all the swings and stuff, but he spent an hour crawling in the grass following a caterpillar."

"Laser focus can be good at times," Max told her, earning a warm smile.

"I know. He comes by it honest because I do the same thing when I'm working."

"Will you be bringing him to the races?" Finished with his pizza, he shook his head when she nudged the box towards him and sat back to finish his water.

"Yeah. Not all of them, but to the next few. I already talked to Mr. Horner and Wanda about it," she said quickly, as though expecting him to be upset about her bringing her child to work. "He won't be in the way. My best friend – Ellie, she's his godmother – is traveling with me to Imola and Monaco to watch him for me. But her new job starts the first of June so I have to make arrangements before then."

"Does he like racing?"

"He's three," she deadpanned. "He loves anything with cars or trucks."

"You'll have to bring him to the track—"

"He also loves fart jokes and bugs."

Max blinked at her, snorting on a laugh when she grinned at him. "Fair enough."

"I do have to warn you, though," she said carefully, standing to gather the napkins and throw them into the trash. Closing the pizza box, she used a clean napkin to wipe off the desk. "He likes McLaren."

"It's the orange livery isn't it?" Max sighed. When she nodded, he shrugged. "I'll do my best to not hate him."

She giggled, letting out a snort.

And, for the first time in six months, Max felt lighter.

*-*

"There's my lil doodle bug," Viv cooed as Kevin leapt off the couch and ran towards her. Dropping her purse and work bag, she scooped him into a hug. "Hi sweetheart. How was your day, hm?"

Her son grinned, squeezing her tight. "I fell in poop!"

Viv froze for two seconds and leaned back a little. "What kind of poop?"

"Dog. Yes, it was fresh. Yes, he had a bath. Yes, I washed his clothes," Ellie announced as she came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Your dinner's almost done – How was work?"

Viv kissed her son's cheek and set him down so she could pick up her bags. "I spent the day reading protocols and policies and signing contracts. Oh, and getting my uniform."

Ellie took the knapsack stuffed with team shirts and jackets. "Good thing you love blue huh?"

"No kidding." She glanced over to Kevin, who had climbed back onto the couch and resumed lining his hot wheels along the back. "How was he today?"

"He was fine. You worry too much, mama," Ellie said gently, following y/n to her bedroom. Setting the knapsack down, she took the work bag and reached inside to switch off y/n's work phone. "Ah, ah, you're off now. You don't officially start work until Monday, so they can't expect you to be on call."

"Yes ma'am." Y/n held her hands up in surrender. "I'm gonna change and get him tucked in then I'll eat, promise."

"Perfect. Bridgerton tonight?" Ellie asked on her way out the door.

"You know it!" y/n called after her.

Once she'd changed into sweats and an old t-shirt she went to the living room. "C'mon, doodle bug," she said softly, smiling when Kevin slid off the couch without hesitation. She helped him pack his cars into their cubby, telling him about her boring day at work while she led him to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth. Then to her bedroom, wishing she had been able to afford a larger apartment so he could have his own space. But he didn't seem to mind, and more often than not he ended up crawling into her bed during the night. Something she treasured, because she knew that all too soon he would be "too big" to share a bed with his mama.

Three storybooks and a rambling made up tale about a one-eyed dragon and the princess that saved him from the evil knight later, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and turned off the light. "Good night, sweetheart. Sweet dreams," she whispered before she left the room.

"So I met Max Verstappen today," she told Ellie a few minutes later while fixing her drink.

"Ooo Mr Tu Tu Du Du himself?"

Y/n snorted. "Yeah, that one." The chicken alfredo with a side of broccoli looked so much more appetizing than the greasy pizza she'd had for a late lunch, and she almost felt like she'd cheated on her best friend for ordering takeout.

"What's he like?" Ellie asked, scooping a little more sauce over the noodles.

"He's nice."

"Just nice?"

"I mean, he asked me surface level questions and laughed at my lame jokes? Yeah, nice." Y/n pulled her plate away before Ellie could push more food onto it and sat down to eat. "Everyone's been so nice, Ellie…"

Her friend squeezed her shoulder. "I'm so glad. I have good news, too."

Y/n lifted her eyebrows, unable to speak because her mouth was full.

Ellie sat down, smiling brightly. "I spoke to HR today and Kev will be able to use the daycare."

Gulping down her mouthful of food, y/n gasped. "Oh that's great!" she cried, feeling the weight of worry that had been plaguing her for three weeks lift. "They're sure?"

"Yep, you just have to come in with me before the first and sign a document giving me permission to take him from the premises."

"Excellent, we can go in the morning? I have to go in after lunch to get my kit. Camera, laptop, all that. And Wanda told me to get more shirts so I don't have to worry about laundry while on the road – Oh and I'll be getting our passes."

"Kevin is so excited about Italy. He wants to see the leaning tower of pizza."

"Bless his heart, maybe I can take him one day."

Plans made, she finished her late dinner and did the washing up then changed into her pajamas before settling on the couch to watch Bridgerton. They were rewatching the series so she didn't feel guilty about scrolling her social media, finally biting the bullet and following all of the RedBull people she knew from headquarters.

"You are the bane of my existence… and the object of all my desires."

"Ugh," Y/N and Ellie whined in unison.

"So much nicer than you've had me hard since we met," y/n muttered.

"Let's be real, practically anything is better than that," Ellie agreed.

They finished the episode and y/n headed to bed, keeping as quietly as possible even though she knew her son could sleep through anything. Digging her work phone from her bag, she powered it on to check for any missed messages, smiling slightly when she saw Max had added her on WhatsApp. Adding him back, she was about to turn the phone off again when a new message popped up.

👋🏻

Rolling her eyes, she replied with the same emoji and waited a few seconds before plugging the phone in and turning on do not disturb. She wasn't going to have a late night chat with Max Verstappen of all people. He was probably just being nice, she told herself as she brushed her teeth and did her skincare. Wanda had told her that Max added everyone but rarely messaged anyone aside from Mr. Horner or the engineers.

Besides, she wasn't there to make friends, she reminded herself as she climbed into bed. She could be friendly, but she was there to do a job.

And no flirting with him either, she thought, immediately wondering why the idea had popped into her mind. She would never – okay, she might, if unintentionally. She knew it was a protective thing, knew it was because she had the undesirable need to have everyone like her. But she couldn't do it. Not with him, especially. He'd probably laugh in her face. He was younger than her and probably had a never ending line of gorgeous women waiting to please him.

Before she switched off the lamp she glanced over at her sleeping son. A living, breathing, very real reminder of what she'd gone through just four years ago. And she knew she couldn't go through that again. She wasn't strong enough. She refused to endure that torture and heartache. Kevin needed her, so she had to be strong for him.

Not to mention there was a no hanky-panky clause in her contract?

She had barely closed her eyes when she heard his toddler bed creak. Lying there, she listened to his feet whispering against the rug, smiling in the dark when he slowly slid the covers back.

"Mama," he whispered, and she reached for him. He snuggled close, tucking his head under her chin as she pulled the covers over them.

"Love you, sweetheart," she murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair.

"Love you, Mama."

*-*

"I think it's good, yeah," Max said, eyes scanning the screens of data from the upgrades. "It'll be great for turn seven." Nodding, he listened to the engineers as they went over potential upgrades for Monaco. Once the meeting was finished he grabbed his water bottle and left the room, ignoring the almost immediate phone call from his father. He knew it was his dad without checking, and strode down the hall, intent on leaving and heading straight for the airport to go home. Where he could ignore everything and everyone until Sunday when it was time to fly to Italy.

Rounding the corner, he lurched to a stop as a small child darted in front of him, his giggles echoing down the corridor. The little boy stopped and looked up at Max, blinking slowly.

"Hi!" He waved.

"Hello." Max heard rapid footsteps and glanced up to see y/n iquickly approaching.

"Kevin Scott—"

"I've got him," Max told her with a quick wave, squatting down to the boy's level. "So you're Kevin?"

The boy nodded, light blonde curls bouncing on his head. "I'm Kevin. That's Mama."

"I'm Max. I heard a lot about you."

Kevin's eyes widened. "You know Mama?"

"About this much." Max held his thumb and index finger barely a centimeter apart. He quickly looked to y/n, who was walking up behind Kevin. "I work with her."

"Ohh… She's gonna take me to see cars. D'you like cars Mister Max?" he asked seriously. As though cars were the most important thing in the universe.

"More than I like myself some days," Max quipped, reaching to check the miniature car the boy was holding in his hand. "I drive one like this."

Kevin gasped. "Do you got it here?"

Max chuckled. "We have a lot. Do you want to see them?"

"Please," the boy said, and Max couldn't have said no under any circumstances.

"You have to ask your mum," he said gently. "And maybe say sorry for running away from her?"

Kevin immediately turned to his mother. "Mama I sorry. Can Mister Max take me to cars?"

She sighed, squatting down to fix his shorts. "We've gotta be more careful, sweetheart. And yes, Mister Max can take us to see the cars."

Kevin spun to face Max again. "She said yes!"

Grinning, Max nodded and stood.

"Thank you," y/n said softly. "I'm sor—"

"He's three, yeah?" Max reached to place his hand on the boy's head, gently guiding him closer when he started to wander off. "Don't apologize for him being a child."

She tipped her head at that, then nodded, grabbing hold of Kevin's hand as Max turned to lead them back down the hallway he'd just left. "I only came by to get my kit, and his aunt had paperwork at her new workplace to finish up, so I had to bring him."

"I'm glad you did." Max gave her a gentle smile, using his card to open the door leading to the back of headquarters. "Have you been back here?"

"Only on my tour the other day."

"Just stick with me," he said. They wouldn't be entering the engineer or design areas, only taking the corridor to the garage. Otherwise they'd have to travel all the way to the main entrance and walk around to the back, which would be tedious for her son.

"I'm under contract and signed an NDA, and it's not like I'd know where to go to sell team secrets," she told him. "And I wouldn't even know what I overheard."

"Not a car fan?" he asked, accepting the model car Kevin was shoving at him. Slipping it into his pocket, he guided them along the curving corridor.

"Eh… Kinda? I like racing. I don't understand all the mechanics to it, I just like the adrenaline of watching twenty guys drive really fast. And I can admire good craftsmanship, like a Bugatti or a McLaren, ya know?"

"What do you drive?" Max asked, using his card to open the door to the garage. Met with the faint aroma of rubber and asphalt, he inhaled deeply, catching with it a lighter, more pleasant scent.

"Nothing at the moment. I've been taking an Uber to and from the apartment," she explained. "I'll probably get a used car after my first paycheck."

Max furrowed his brows, stopping on the catwalk. "You haven't gotten paid yet?"

"No? Well, only my signing bonus, and that's gone to household necessities like rent and food. It's fine, Max, I don't need a car right now."

What are you going to do, give her one of yours? he thought, reaching to Kevin and lifting the boy to his hip so he could carry him down the stairs to the main level. Kevin was already oohing and aahing over the neat rows of cars. "It's just me, Brandon," he called, seeing the member of the security team at the other end of the garage. "A quick tour for a new friend, yeah?"

Brandon waved and disappeared around the corner.

At the bottom of the stairs, Max set Kevin down, ushering him to the nearest car. The boy's excitement was contagious, and Max gleefully told him about each one that he'd driven, helping the boy climb into each and press buttons on the steering wheel. Laughing when Kevin made racecar noises, he pulled out his phone to pull up some videos for sound effects. Swiping away the notifications from his dad, he turned up the volume so the engine sounds echoed in the garage, enjoying Kevin's childish glee.

"This one you know," he said, guiding him to the most recent addition. Lifting him into the seat, he squatted down. "This is a car I drove last year, which—" He pulled the model car from his pocket and set it on top of the steering column. "—is just like the one you have."

"Wow." Kevin looked at him with pure awe. "Did you win?"

"I did. And I won the championship too."

"You're a champ-een, Mister Max?" the boy gasped.

"I am."

"Like Lightning McQueen?"

"You could say that," he chuckled, affectionately ruffling the boy's curls. Glancing over at y/n, he paused when he saw she was holding up her phone.

She peered at him over the top. "Is it okay to take pictures?"

"Of course." He had a feeling she'd already taken dozens. He stepped out of the way so she could get photos of Kevin in the car, then lifted him out once she tucked her phone away. "Have you seen the trophies?"

"No. Can we see 'em, Mister Max? Please?"

"You have to ask your mum." Turning, he sent y/n a pleading look as Kevin asked permission.

"As long as Mister Max doesn't mind," she said, rolling her eyes when Kevin squealed yay.

"It's a long walk, do you want me to carry you?"

Kevin squirmed, wriggling so he was piggybacking. "Thank you Mister Max."

His chest tightened, and he reached to adjust the boy's legs around his middle. "You're welcome, Kevin. We do have to make a stop on the way to the trophy case, though."

Next to him, y/n cleared her throat. "I can take him if you've got something to do."

"No, it's fine, a quick stop," Max assured her, motioning for her to go up the stairs first.

"A pit stop?" Kevin asked, giggling as Max jogged up the steps.

"Exactly that. No more than ten seconds," he promised.

Fifteen minutes later, he was squatting down to fix the collar of Kevin's new shirt. "There you go, mate. What do you think?"

Kevin grinned and gave him a thumb's up.

Max looked up at y/n, who rolled her eyes. "He has to be Team Red Bull," he explained with a shrug, adjusting Kevin's new cap with a grin. Thanking the merch manager, he handed over the bag of goodies he'd grabbed and motioned for Kevin to climb onto his back.

"Thank you!" Kevin called, waving enthusiastically as he was carried out.

"Thank you, Max," y/n murmured while they walked towards reception. "But please don't get him anything else."

"I won't," he said softly. "If I overstepped—"

"No, no, it's fine. He'll wear the shirts until they're too small and he'll play with the models until they fall apart. I just don't want him to think he'll get this type of treatment all the time."

"I understand." He nodded. She didn't want her son to be spoiled. Which he found admirable. "…So giving him one of my old cars is out of the question?"

She halted, jaw dropping. "Max!"

"A joke!" he promised, flashing her a grin as he jogged ahead.

"Not funny," she scoffed behind him, and he heard her huff as she ran to catch up. "Those things cost probably a million—"

Max swung around, easily catching Kevin and swinging him back onto his back. "The car for Miami was about sixteen million."

Her eyes widened. "Sixteen—" She pressed her hands together right in front of her mouth. "Million? As in sixteen then six zeroes behind it?"

Nodding, he started walking backwards, amused at her reaction. She was staring at him in shock, and her son was giggling. "It's hard to pinpoint an exact cost, because we reuse some components from race to race. A chassis, or wings, yeah? If you really wanted to know I can pull up the data and get the price for each part—"

"No," she said, shaking her head slowly. "Please don't. I'd probably faint."

"It's an expensive sport, y/n," he reminded her.

"Yeah no shit," she muttered, exhaling harshly. "I've got so much to learn."

"You'll be fine." He'd meant it to come out in an offhand manner. A generic it's okay so feelings wouldn't be hurt. But it came out gently, laced with reassurance and promise. And, before he could stop himself, his mouth opened again. "If you have any questions you can ask me."

"I can Google," she told him.

"I can change my Wikipedia to say I'm eighty-six. Doesn't make it true," he quipped.

To his relief, she laughed. "Fair point. I'll be sure and ask you."

He turned his attention back to Kevin, swinging him from his back to his hip. Reception was empty, and he set the boy down so he could explore the various displays. "He can't hurt anything," he reassured her, knowing she was watching carefully as Kevin ran over to a wing displayed on the wall.

"I just worry," she sighed.

"Why do you sound like you're apologizing?" Folding his arms over his chest, he watched Kevin walk around the large room, drinking it all in. "You're his mother, you're supposed to worry. If you didn't you would have to apologize."

"Thank you."

"He's a good kid, y/n," he said softly.

"I think so too." He could hear the smile in her voice and turned slightly to see it on her face.

Every other time he'd been in this room the weather outside had been cloudy or rainy. He couldn't remember the sun ever shining as he'd stood there to soak in all the history. Until now. It poured through the windows, causing the trophies in the cases to sparkle and the polished floor to gleam. It shone into her eyes, and he could only stare at her as she squinted a little, a tiny dimple appearing in her left cheek.

God, she was lovely.

She glanced at him and his breathing kickstarted. Unconsciously licking his lips, he cleared his throat. "You seem to be doing well, for a single mom."

Her smile faltered and he mentally kicked himself. She looked to Kevin, who was studying the Red Bull logo on the wall, and looked at Max again. "I didn't have a choice."

"I'm sorry," he said automatically.

"Oh he's not dead." She watched her son, her smile gone. "Just dead to us."

"Then I'm sorry for bringing it up." It had ruined the day. Well, alright, not the day but the moment. They'd been having fun, he'd been having fun.

You always fuck up don't you?

His jaw clenched as the angry voice from years ago echoed in his mind.

"It's okay, Max." Her gentle voice cut through the echoes of the past and he forced his jaw to relax.

Nodding, he uncrossed his arms and called to Kevin, taking him by the hand and leading him to the towering trophy case. "Come on, y/n, time to learn some history."

She snorted on a laugh but joined them, and he could tell she was paying attention as he rattled off years and races and drivers to Kevin.

You're going to fuck this up too, the voice sneered.

[sapphossparenoterbook]

It Beats For You

You reunite with Rio Vidal, and discover the origins of her magic.

Rio Vidal x Fem!reader, fluff, mention of death (not main character)

You hadn’t seen Rio Vidal in years. There, of course, were rumours that the woman who had helped you hone in on your magic had died somewhere in Eastern Europe with Wanda Maximoff, and had worked alongside the deceased Scarlet Witch on a power hungry quest for more magic. 

Of course, you’d never believe it, deciding instead to hope and pray that your master and ex-lover would have been wise enough not to side with such a chaotic and corrupt force. Sure, Rio was corrupt, but she knows not to mess with forces like The Darkhold. 

Now, here she stands… in the corner of your grandmother's retirement home room? 

“Rio? What are you doing here?” You ask her. 

She’s dressed in an all black outfit as she turns around, black eyeliner, black pants, black headscarf, black shirt. And you could swear she flinches at the sound of your voice. 

“I’m sorry, I’ve put it off for long enough—I can’t break any more rules for you, Y/N.” 

“What?! What do you mean, I haven’t seen you in years, how have you broken rules for me—?” 

She disappears, and you hear your grandmother's heart monitor die out. 

~~6 months later~~

It’s been months. You’ve scoured your books, the internet, everything. There isn’t a known spellbook or encantation that Rio could have learnt to be able to control death. Except for one thing, she’d managed to overthrow Lucifer and become the ruler of hell. For that to have been true, she must’ve died. 

The only obituary for any woman named ‘Rio Vidal’ in the area was over 100 years ago. Which meant she’d lied to you, the entire time you were with her. 

She was never a green witch, or she was, but before she became the personification of death. The point is, she wasn’t ever a green witch when you were with her-she wasn’t a witch at all. She’d lied. 

You’re writing this all out on an old typewriter you were given by Rio herself, a big ‘R’ engraved on the side of it, constantly reminding you of the original owner, when you hear a voice. Is it in the back of your head, through telepathy? Or was she brave enough to finally show up to your house again?

“Is it really that big of a deal?” You hear her sardonic voice, slightly whiny, mainly just that familiar breathlessness she gets when she’s trying to be funny. Normally with a well-timed innuendo, this time with just pure mockery. 

“I dunno, clearly it’s not important enough for you to be here, just good old fashioned telepathy for me, darling? Who am I kidding, you’d never visit me in a million years–except for when I die” You say, not bothering to turn around. Her self preservation is much bigger than any dregs of love she has left for you. 

Suddenly, you feel your chair being roughly spun around by someone-or maybe someone’s magic. 

“Surprise, milady.” 

“How did you– no, why did you come here?” 

“I was in the neighbourhood! Did you miss me?” 

You look her up and down, it’s a different outfit to the one you last saw her in… a detective's outfit. 

“Saving Agatha?” You ask, lifting an eyebrow and grabbing the dangling detective’s badge around her neck reading the inscription on the gold part. It’s so obviously fake, if the purple witch can’t figure out she’s under a spell with just this little prop, then what’s the point in even trying?

“Yeah… don’t get jealous, baby. I’m sure she’ll leave some for you” 

“Don’t be a dick, she wouldn’t touch you with a 10 foot barge pole, not anymore. And if she does, she’d probably just run off to steal someone’s magic.”

You let go of the badge, letting it swing as you spin back around to the old typewriter. Rio walks around the room, studying how much it’s changed, before thrumming her fingers against the door frame and walking around the other rooms of your apartment. You know she hasn’t left, you’re much more attuned to your magic since she left you, and you don’t need to track the girl through the house. Your magic will do that for you whilst you focus. 

“I can read everything you write on that thing, y’know. I put a charm on it before I left you. All those cringey love letters you’ve never sent me? Read them, baby.” She tells you telepathically from the living room. 

“Well then why didn’t you come back? If you wanted to keep tabs on me?” You think back to her. Suddenly she’s teleported back to your side, looking down at you with this weird look in her eye, an emotion you never thought you’d see on her face. Regret. 

“You thought I didn’t want to come back?” 

“Were there any signs for me to have thought otherwise?” 

She sinks to her knees next to you so that she's level with your face, and reaches out with both hands to gently hold it, thumbs rubbing your cheeks like she used to all those years ago before she left without a trace. 

“I was always coming back, just had some things to do for a while. Promise” She mumbles, leaning down and kissing your cheek. 

“You still could have told me, asshole” You mumble back sighing happily at the familiar feeling of her lips against your cheek. She doesn’t let go, hands moving between you cheeks and your hair as she seems to want to grab at all of you, memorise the things she would have forgotten–the texture of your hair, and skin, the smell of your shampoo that you never change, the feel of the soft puffs of air from your breath on her face. 

She can tell, by looking at you, that you’re doing the exact same, neither of them want to move away, which is a little victory for Rio seeing as she can remember all those times that you wouldn't move from the typewriter for even a second when you were busy back when she lived here with you.

“You changed the bathroom floor?” 

“The grout got mouldy.”

“My eucalyptus?” 

“Dead. I didn’t know I had to move it to a bigger pot.”

“Hmph.That was expensive.”

“Should’ve taken it with you then, I always told you I can’t look after plants.”

“You were supposed to use your magic to listen to it’s every need. It makes it much easier, being able to talk to them.” 

“Well, I didn’t know how to do that when you left…” 

“So you know how to do it now?” 

“Are you gonna keep asking me these stupid questions, or will you move on to anything important?” 

“-Are you single?” 

“Yeah–” 

You’re cut off from your sentence with the familiar feeling of one of Rio’s firm, needy kisses. The ones that you'd learnt long ago not to fight for control, because she’d always beat you in that. 

“I missed you so much, baby” She mumbles against your lips as she pulls away only be a millimetre, as if not wanting to back away too far for fear of you pushing her away. 

“I missed you too, darling.” 

[triptuckers]

the comfort of home - percy jackson

Request: yes! "Hii, I just finished watching both episodes of PJO and I wept as I beheld Sally's maternal love unfold on the screen, knowing it before hand from the books. Thus, I was pondering if you might entertain a request—a tale where a daughter of Hades (angsty) forges a close bond with Percy, and Sally, in her gracious warmth bless her soul, adopts her into their lives because, after all, they're nearly kin, entwined by the delicate threads of almost-cousinhood." Pairing:  percy jackson x hades!reader Summary:  after a typical day for a demigod, you just need a safe space to go Warnings:  mentions of fighting, injuries, blood, throwing up, swearing, angst Word count:  2k A/N: first of all anon are you a writer?????? bro those words..... pls write more !! thanks for your request, enjoy!

you're walking down the streets of new york city, feeling utterly miserable. you're soaked through because of the rain and you're hurt.

everyone knows that demigods don't exactly live a quiet life. especially kids from zeus, poseidon or hades. still, most of the times you're fighting for your life you're on a quest.

not simply on your way home.

but today was different. somehow you brought not one but all three of the furies down on you. you don't even know how, you weren't doing anything.

it was a tough fight, but you stood strong. you couldn't prevent the dozen little cuts that littered your body. you're bruised over and on top of that it started to rain, messing with your sight.

right now you're on your way to your foster home. but it's a slow journey. you're not sure you want to go there. and you're not sure how much the mist hides for them.

sometimes if you got home all bruised you told them you got in a fight. sometimes they didn't spare you a second glance.

you stop in the middle of the street. at this point you've been walking for so long you don't even notice the rain anymore.

you turn around, heading another way. there's one other place you could go. you're lost in thought, and most of the people don't pay you any attention. perks of living in new york, you guess. new yorkers just don't care.

when you get to the familiar building, you feel a sense of calm coming over you. somehow you always found yourself back here. as you walk up to the entrance, someone leaves just as you arrive, so you can slip in the door before it closes.

you walk the stairs slowly because of your injuries. every step hurts and takes tremendous effort.

when you finally get to the right floor and walk to the door, you just stand in front of it. you're fully aware you're dripping rainwater on the floor, but suddenly you can't bring yourself to knock.

why are you even here? you don't want to be a burden.

they've told you that you can always come over, no matter what. but it's late at night, it's raining outside, you're soaked.

you're standing there, debating wether or not to go in, when you hear a voice on the other side of the door.

the person is softly singing along to a song that's playing.

tears well up in your eyes as you recognise the song. you were the one to recommend it.

you raise your hand and knock on the door.

'coming!' says the voice.

moments later the door opens to reveal a woman.

her eyes briefly widen at the sight of you, scanning your body for injuries. then her eyes soften.

'oh, what happened to you, sweetheart?' says sally.

her gentle voice is what pushes you over the edge, breaking down in tears in front of her.

sally pulls you over the doorstep and closes the door. she pulls you into a hug, not caring that you're soaked.

you wrap your arms around her and cry. you let all of the anxiety rush out of you as sally rubs circles on your back and whispers soft words in your ear. you ignore your aching body and allow yourself to just be here in the moment.

after a while, sally pulls back and holds you at an arms length.

'I'm so sorry for dropping in like this, miss jackson.' you say softly.

'y/n, you know you're always welcome here. and I've told you to call me sally.' she says kindly.

you nod. 'is percy home?'

'he's out to the movies with grover. do you want me to ask him to come home?'

'no, he's out having fun. it's alright. could I just..'

'why don't you take a shower first, hm? I bet you're freezing.'

you sigh softly. that does sound good.

'yeah, alright.'

'you go take a shower, then I'll make tea and see if I can do something about that.'

she pointedly looks at the cut above your brow. you totally forgot that was there.

'I don't have any clothes.' you say softly.

'that's alright, just borrow some from percy. he won't mind.' says sally.

'thank you.'

you walk towards percy's room to get some clothes when sally calls your name, making you turn around again.

'you're not a burden, you know that right. we love having you over.' says sally.

you swallow back the new tears that threaten to fall. sometimes you forget she knows you so well.

'thanks.' you say, entering percy's room to get some clothes.

you pick a shirt, sweater and sweatpants form percy's closet before going into the bathroom.

you peel your soaked clothes from your body, hissing when you pull the fabric from your wounds.

turning on the water, you get in the shower, letting the water calm you down. you wash off all of the dried blood, dirt and sweat.

after drying off you put on percy's clothes, his scent surrounding you and comforting you.

you head back to the living room to find sally putting two steaming mugs on the table.

'we still got your favorite.' she says, sliding your mug towards you.

'thanks.'

'drink up, and tell me about today if you want. I'll see if we have some medical stuff left in the kitchen.'

you sigh, thinking back to today.

'I didn't even do anything.' you say. 'I was just walking down the road and I got this feeling I was being watched. I thought it wasn't a big deal but hey, demigod instinct, so I took a turn and went into an alley. sure enough, someone followed me.'

'someone or something?' says sally, returning with the first aid kit.

'someone at first. then the mist cleared and it was one of the furies.' you say. 'at that point I was just so done. I wasn't even on a quest so what the hell was she doing there?'

'how did you get away? you've fought a fury before, percy told me.' says sally, scooting her chair closer to you so she can clean the cut on your forehead.

'I have. it's okay if it's one. but then the other two showed up.' you sigh. 'at that point I was really annoyed. I think it was just annoyance that drove me at that point. they were clearly there because they were bored. they thought "hey smells like demigod, oh look it's the hades kid, let's mess with her."

'well, you're here now. you made it out.' says sally, finishing with the cut on your forehead.

'yeah. thanks again.' you say, sipping your tea.

'you don't have to keep thanking me.' says sally. 'you know you're always welcome here, you're practically family. I know you don't like your foster home. now, do you have any other wounds?'

you chuckle. 'only about two dozen little cuts and even more bruises. I've had worse, it's okay.' you say.

'it's never okay.' says sally. 'you and percy are way too young for this.'

you shrug. 'and yet we have to deal with it.' you say, rolling up your sleeves so sally can clean and bandage the cuts on your arms.

the next hour is spent by sally cleaning your wounds and bandaging you up as she tells you stories. you liked hearing her stories. ever since you first met her, it was one of your favorite things about her. she could tell stories in a way that felt like you were actually there, experiencing them.

just as she secures the last bandage in place, you briefly close your eyes, exhaustion getting to you.

'you can get some sleep, I'll tell percy when he gets home.' says sally.

'it's okay, I want to see him before I go to bed.' you say.

'alright, want to watch a movie of something?'

'movie sounds great.'

sally picks a movie while you sit down on the couch. it doesn't take long for you to doze off, even though you fight to stay awake. the fight with the furies was intense, so sally lets you sleep while she waits for percy to home home.

about halfway through the movie, the door to the apartment opens and percy enters.

'hey mom.' he says, taking off his shoes and jacket and dumping his bag near the door.

as he walks into the room, he notices a familiar sword leaning against the back of the couch. he frowns, he didn't know you were coming.

'is y/n here?' he says, walking over to his mom.

she nods, pointing to the couch.

percy looks over the back of the couch to find you fast asleep, wearing his clothes and your body littered in bandages and bruises.

'what happened?' says percy, walking around the couch.

'the three furies.' says sally. 'she didn't feel like going to her foster home.'

percy kneels before the couch, studying your face. he reaches out and traces one of the bruises on your cheek.

you stir awake from the movement, your eyes meeting percy's.

'hi.' you say softly.

'hey. you alright?' he says.

you nod. 'how was the movie?'

percy chuckles. 'it was good. you would have loved it. heard you got in a fight?'

'yeah. those damned furies.' you say. 'luckily your mom patched me up though.'

'you know my bed is more comfortable than the couch, right?' says percy.

you slowly sit up. 'I know. I wanted to stay awake til you got home.'

'and you did a great job at that.' says percy with a familiar twinkle in his eyes.

you hit him on the shoulder. 'you would have fallen asleep as well!'

sally watches the exchange with a smile on her face. moments like these make her especially happy you met percy.

'come on.' says percy, standing up and holding out his hand for you to take.

you take it and allow percy to gently pull you to your feet.

'thanks again sally.' you say as percy beings leading you to his bedroom to sleep in an actual bed.

'no need to thank me y/n. it's always good to have you around, even if it's like this.'

you and percy both say goodnight to her before entering percy's room.

'so, did you sugarcoat the story for my mom?' he says as you sit down on this bed.

'not really, I just didn't tell her all of the details.' you say.

percy raises an eyebrow at you. 'details like?'

'like how one of them punched me in the gut and I nearly threw up because of it.' you say.

'ew.' says percy, face scrunching up in disgust.

'you would have thrown up as well.' you say.

'but you managed to fend off all three furies on your own?' he says.

you nod, laying down. 'I think I bruised a rib, though. the rest is all small cuts and bruises. no broken bones this time. they looked like they were really fucking annoyed they could be bested by just one kid.' you say.

percy smiles, walking over to kiss your cheek, careful not to touch the wounds on your face. 'that's my girl.' he says.

'you got anything to do tomorrow?' you say, stifling a yawn.

'nope. we can spend the day here.' he says, walking over to the bed an laying down next to you.

'good.' you say. 'I just need to wash my clothes and clean my sword, and I should probably-' 'y/n.'

you look at percy.

'let's just relax tomorrow, okay? come on, you need sleep.'

you nod, moving closer to him.

as you're laying next to percy, feeling sleep get to you once more, you can't help but to feel a deep sense of gratitude.

sally didn't question why you showed up at her doorstep, but pulled you in her arms and sat with you to bandage your wounds and listen to your story.

percy listened to you as well and provided you familiar comfort you needed, telling you to relax.

you just know if something ever goes wrong, you're always welcome at the jackson household.

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rulesHere’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Marit/Max

[were-changing-cake-vaults]

Gem would like to pretend that things are normal around Magic Mountain.

Or, well, that everyone else is normal, and she’s keeping all the weirdness to herself. She’s the one who decided to go a little creepy this season, after all, and as far as she can tell, she’s the only one smelling the rot coming from the river. All her neighbors should be fine, and have only commented that her boat burns a lot of coal fumes that sort of reek. It’s definitely not rot, and things are normal for them, and they are decidedly abnormal for her.

Which is fine! Gem wants her friends safe! Sure, she’s been hearing weird gurgling noises from the flooded caves that line the beaches, but she’s probably just hallucinating. Or maybe Scar is smacking salmon heads on note blocks again, despite living on the other side of the mountain. And sure, Impulse died and came back completely washed of color, but that’s just a demise thing. It’s just the creepy she dragged along with her- Joel’s totally fine, and that’s enough evidence for her.

Well, it would be if not for the fact that the salmon she’s been getting from fishing are starting to look…strange, all sharp-finned and much slimier than normal. And the cod, too, have far too many gills, like gashes down their sides. Grian pulls up a fish one afternoon and Gem swears it’s got six eyes, but Grian only remarks them as “weird patterning” and shoves it right into the furnace for cooking.

He’s been eating a lot of fish, recently, straight from this very river, the one that smells of rot. Caught them all himself. He’s also been fishing a lot- Gem doesn’t know the last time he worked on his base. He keeps trying to dredge up a book. She asks him one day why he keeps going if he’s already got a ton of books from the water, and he sounds haggard when he replies:

“The book, Gem. I’m not looking for a book. I’m looking for the book. It’ll give me all the answers I need. I haven’t found it yet, but the ocean will provide for me. I know it’s the next one.”

Something in the way he looks at her makes her gut twist. His eyes are empty, glossed over, and she knows the joke is that he looks like a cod, but it’s- he’s different, now, washed out and shiny skin, little to no meat on his bones, bags like pits under his soulless eyes. Something about the way he phrased that—the ocean will provide for me—makes her spine recoil back, feet dragged backwards towards her boat. A fear-stricken laugh bubbles up Gem throat as she tries to remember the last time he wasn’t fishing. When was the last time he slept?

Come to think of it, when was the last time she slept? Isn’t there a warning for those who stay up too late?

And when she tells him it’s an addiction, Grian just laughs it off, throws his rod into the sea, and pats the seat next to him. And then there she is, fishing alongside him, like she was always doing. She was planning to do this, yes. More and more of Magic Mountain arrives, plus Etho, who brings along a disc to put them in the mood. It’s a swan song.

The ocean sings back. It gives her an image of a great tall lighthouse, cherished by watery angels, who dance around it. It gives her the size, the colors, the materials to recreate it in verse. She smiles. It tells them all to knock another hermit off the list of survivors. She grins.

Before turning to join the group on their quest, Gem looks into the water one last time. Staring back is a well-kept woman with long, shiny red hair.

There is a book in her hand.

[roosterforme]

Aim for the Sky Part 5 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley is thankful every day of the year, but over Thanksgiving weekend, you and the Nugget give him even more than he anticipated. When he takes you back to the scene of the crime for your first wedding anniversary, he shares more of his notebook with you.

Warnings: Fluff, smut, cum play, swearing, pregnancy

Length: 5000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

"Why is it so crowded?" you whined, pushing a shopping cart behind Bradley as he wound his way through Costco on Monday.

"Because everyone is doing the same thing we're doing," he said as he grabbed whichever turkey he could get his hands on. "Shopping for Thanksgiving dinner."

You were exhausted and tired of getting jostled around. You were getting close to the end of your second trimester, and you felt like you could curl up in the shopping cart and fall asleep. Today was also the first day of your annoying new routine of visiting the ladies' locker room after work to change out of your maternity tent. At least you got to talk to Phoenix for a few minutes. She even made a fuss over your belly and called you cute. But there was no way you were leaving base in your new uniform.

When you looked down at yourself in your stretchy tank top, even you could tell that your sore boobs looked bigger. You caught Bradley eyeing them up so frequently, it was almost comical. When you called him out on it, he would grunt some sort of response while his cheeks turned pink. And every time you let him take your bra off and do as he pleased, he was a rock hard, needy mess almost instantly. But he was also gentle and tentative, almost bringing you to orgasm with his mouth on your breasts alone.

You moaned softly, and he turned to look at you with wide, brown eyes. "Excuse me?" he asked, eyebrows shooting up. "You okay back there?"

"Yeah," you whispered breathlessly. "You know how much I love my Costco Daddy." Now you were thinking about the time you earned a spanking during one of your shopping trips, and you didn't know how you were going to make it home when your husband looked so fucking good in his uniform.

"What did you call me?" he asked playfully, his hands coming up to his narrow waist as you slumped against the cart and whined.

"Costco Daddy." This time you said it loud enough that a few people turned to see what you were talking about, but you didn't care. 

"I guess we should hurry up then," Bradley remarked casually, but that was pretty impossible to do when the store was as crowded as it was. You watched Bradley fight his way through the produce area so he could grab carrots and sweet potatoes, wearing a little smirk on his face the whole time. You tried to push him with the cart when he was taking too much time picking out a can of cranberry sauce, and he just chuckled but didn't budge at all.

"Roo," you whined softly.

"This is the last thing we need to get," he said, and then he made things even worse by standing behind you with his hands on your belly while you waited in line to pay.

His lips were soft on your ear and the side of your jaw as you gripped the shopping cart. His body was pressed against yours as he asked, "Is she moving around right now, Sweetheart?"

He'd been on a quest to feel the baby doing her somersaults, but he came up empty handed every time. "I think she's sleeping," you told him as his big palms moved around slowly. "You'll feel her soon. She loves it when you're around."

Bradley let his chin rest on your shoulder, and you were treated to his deep, needy sigh. You had no doubt where he was looking as the line started to move up and his thumbs grazed the undersides of your breasts. "As soon as we get home, your shirt is coming off."

"You're obsessed, Roo."

Even when it was your turn to pay, Bradley kept his eyes on you as he loaded up the cart again. The two of you walked to the far side of the parking lot where he insisted on leaving the new Bronco so it didn't get dinged up. Then he got you buckled in while he unloaded everything into the back, but you surprised him by climbing right onto his lap as soon as he was in the driver's seat.

He let his hands settle on your hips with a big smile on his face as you straddled his right thigh. "I don't know what you're planning on doing here, Baby Girl, but it's not quite dark out yet. Not that I mind. I know how much you like it in public."

But you started rubbing yourself against his leg, and he got quiet, his smile remaining intact. You tried your best to keep some space between his upper body and yours while you rubbed your pussy against your husband with two pairs of uniform pants between you. The friction was delicious, and Bradley leaned back in the seat with his hands still on your hips as you whispered, "I couldn't wait until we get home."

He helped guide you along as the rolling motion as you rode him brought you closer to where you needed to be. "I can wait until we get home," he rasped. "But when we do, I want you on your knees with those tits covered in my cum."

"Bradley!" you whined as his hands eased up your sides, grazing your breasts, goading you on faster.

"Take your time," he whispered, and you could feel how hard he was getting. But you didn't even need more time when he looked and smelled so damn good. Your hands settled on his insignia pins and name tag as you ground down harder and moaned his name.

He let you collapse against his body as you came, whining about how horny you were all the time right now until your orgasm started fading away. Then his hand slid down and squeezed your butt and he whispered, "Let's get home. Now."

Bradley helped you buckle in again, and then he took your hand in his as he started quickly driving home. When he needed both hands, he set yours down right on his hard length. You were still in a daze as you stroked him, working him up and making him throb. He grunted your first name which brought you back down enough to unzip his pants as he turned down the block toward the craftsman.

"You still want me on my knees?" you asked a little breathlessly as you got your hand around him, and Bradley's deep chuckle in response gave you goosebumps.

"There is only ever going to be one answer to that question, my love."

You were practically drooling at his words as he parked in the driveway and carefully withdrew your hand from inside the fly of his pants. Then he hopped out of the Bronco with his pants unzipped and his shirt an untucked mess before helping you carefully down onto the driveway. He gave you one of the sweetest kisses of your life which surprised you before he laced his fingers with yours and led you up the walkway at a leisurely pace. 

Once the front door was unlocked, he leaned in, kissed you one more time, his hard cock brushing your pregnant belly through his pants. "Yes, Baby Girl," he rasped. "I still want you on your knees."

You couldn't help but smile as you held his hand a little tighter, and he helped you get into position to give him exactly what he wanted. After he shut the door, you yanked your shirt and bra off and listened to him groan so loudly, Tramp briefly ran into the living room and back out again. After you got Bradley's pants and boxer briefs down around his boots, he lasted about thirty seconds between your lips before he was panting and stuttering.

"B-Baby Girl. Sweetheart." You let him jerk himself off, coating your chest in cum, just like he'd done in the garage last week. Just like he'd done in the shower two days ago. Then you let him play with it, making an even bigger mess before he helped you get cleaned up.

You had the distinct feeling that if you wanted anything in the whole world right now, all you'd need to do is ask him for it while topless, and it would be yours.

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

"I'm trying my best," Bradley growled. The turkey he randomly grabbed at Costco on Monday while you were a horny mess was huge, and it didn't really fit in your fancy baking dish thing.

"How am I supposed to stuff it?" you asked him, pouting in your sports bra, underwear, and I Love Meat apron. He was about an inch from telling you he didn't even care about the turkey and wanted to stuff you instead, but he knew you'd make a face at him since company was coming over. Not that he thought Jake Seresin counted as company. Now if your parents were here today, sure, he'd be on his best behavior. But Jake? Nope.

He shoved the turked into the baking dish and said, "That's as good as it's gonna get. Stuff it, and I'll lift it into the oven for you." 

He kissed your cheek and retreated to the bedroom where he wanted to go over his list one more time, just to make sure he knew what he had to do before Saturday. As he pulled the sheet of paper from his nightstand drawer, he sat on the edge of the bed. He had to find a way to sneak a cake into the house tomorrow and hide it from you. That was going to be challenging. There was also the matter of hiding all of the flowers if he decided to pick them up ahead of time.

"Shit," he muttered, remembering he needed to get the non-alcoholic champagne down from the torn apart attic sometime tomorrow. Maybe you wouldn't notice him messing around up there if he did it later when you were in the shower.

"Bradley!" you called out, your voice echoing down the short hallway. "Come here!"

He was on his feet instantly, heart pounding as he let the paper fall to the floor while he raced for you. "What happened?" he called out, panicking even more when he saw you doubled over as he reached the kitchen. "What happened?" He had his hands wrapped around your biceps, heart climbing up into his throat. You finally looked up at him as you gasped and started to untie your apron.

"She's moving so much right now," you told him, and it took him a second to realize you were smiling as the apron hit the floor. "Maybe you'll be able to feel her."

"Oh," he gasped, relief flooding his system even as he sank to his knees in front of you. When he placed his big hands on your belly and looked up at your perfect face, you slid his hands further to your right side. Bradley leaned in and kissed your wedding rings as you guided him along, and that's when he felt her.

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah?" you asked, voice laced with giddy excitement. "You felt the kick?"

"Yes," he whispered in amazement. Then she did it again, and he scooted himself a little closer, pressing his lips to the spot next to your belly button. "Hey, little Nugget." He was met with another thump that left him smiling. "I love you."

You laughed as you ran your fingers through his hair and let him rest his cheek against your soft, warm skin. "She's doing somersaults now," you told him, and he could feel something like a soft squirm against his hand. "She gets really excited when she hears you."

"Is that true?" he asked softly. "I get excited when I even think about you." He stayed there for a very long time, letting you adjust his hand placement over and over so he could feel her, and he never wanted to let go. He thought about taking you to bed so he could lay next to your belly, but he was afraid his daughter might get too cozy and settle in for a nap.

Bradley was running his nose along in a little pattern where the baby was kicking when you eventually removed your fingers from his hair and said, "I need to start peeling the potatoes."

"I can do that," Bradley replied, and he felt another hard thump. "You're right, Sweetheart. I swear she knows it's me," he whispered, looking up at you again.

"She absolutely does, Roo."

After that, he had his hands all over you. When you left the kitchen to finally get dressed, he went along, too. When you went back to the kitchen to check on the turkey, he stood behind you with one hand wrapped around you. If you found it annoying, you didn't say a word about it, thankfully. When Jake, Cat and Jeremiah arrived, Bradley had his arm slung over your shoulders as you walked to the front door.

"Is she moving around right now?" he asked softly.

You smiled up at him. "I think she's snoozing. I'll let you know when she's back at it again." Then you pulled the door open, and his peaceful little bubble felt like it had been burst as Jake walked in carrying several pies and some coleslaw.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Angel," the blonde said before kissing your cheek. Bradley rolled his eyes as Jake headed for the kitchen with a little grin on his face. A split second later, Cat came in, and then Bradley had his arms full of Jeremiah.

"He might need his diaper changed," Cat told him before she followed you to the kitchen as well. "Now let me finish cooking everything while you rest," she told you with a smile, and Bradley was happy someone who knew what they were doing was here to help you now. And he supposed that the next best thing after feeling his own baby kick was getting to hang out with Jeremiah. 

Jake was digging around in the refrigerator, and he pulled out two beers before nodding at Bradley. "Let's go see how the playset is looking, old man," he said, opening one of the cans and handing it to Bradley.

The playset was almost done, and Bradley would have probably worked on it a little bit more today, but he got so distracted following you around everywhere. "You know, I'm not that much older than you," he told Jake as he carted Jeremiah over to look at the slide.

But Jake didn't seem to be in a teasing mood any longer as he looked at Cat's son in Bradley's arms. "You know... you never really told me how you did it."

"Did what?" Bradley asked, watching two little hands reach out toward the can of beer before he touched the rope ladder instead.

"How you got Angel to marry you. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes."

Bradley glanced back through the sliding glass door where you were sitting at the kitchen island while Cat started to boil the potatoes he'd peeled for you earlier. "You know, if you're going to be an asshole, you can just go home. I'll drive Cat and Jer back to Hondo's later."

"Shhh," Jake told him. "You can't say bad words in front of him. He's learning how to talk now."

"Sorry," Bradley whispered to the little boy who was all smiles. Then Jake's words really started to sink in as he studied Jeremiah's dark eyes and sipped his beer. "You want them to be your family."

Jake was pacing around the patio, rubbing his temple with his fingers. "Of course I do. But she won't go for it. Every time I bring it up, she has some sort of excuse. Last night, after I told her how much I love her, she tried to tell me that I'll grow tired of them and want my freedom."

"Damn," Bradley muttered. 

"What did I tell you about the bad words?" Jake snapped. 

"Sorry." Bradley watched him pace while he thought about how he proposed to you in a dirty storage unit surrounded by cardboard boxes and ugly antique furniture. "I don't know how I got her to marry me, Jake. All I know is as soon as I was holding the engagement ring, I needed it to be on her finger. Like suddenly there was no time to waste."

Bradley knew Jake would be a good dad. He obviously loved Jeremiah. But their conversation was cut short as you poked your head outside and said, "Roo? Will you come help me set the table?"

"I'm coming, Baby Girl."

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

Thanksgiving dinner turned out fantastic with some help from Cat. You saw how comfortable the other woman looked in the kitchen, so you just sat down and let her work. And while everything was delicious, nobody batted an eyelash when you made yourself some carrot sticks to dip into hot sauce. And then you covered your turkey in hot sauce. And you dipped your stuffing in hot sauce.

You were helping Bradley clean up before dessert when you said, "Oh! She's kicking again!"

He basically tossed everything into the sink and came running for you with wide eyes. "Where is she?" he asked softly, and you placed his hands for him. A second later, after you kissed the few silver hairs at his temple, he turned his head to smile at you while he said, "There she is."

"I want to feel the baby," Jake said, as he carried more dishes into the kitchen. The way Bradley pulled you in a little closer to him was almost comical; it wasn't like Jake of all people was going to hurt you.

"Just one little kick," Bradley insisted, and you reached out for Jake's hand. But as soon as he was touching you, the baby stopped her round of somersaults.

"I don't feel anything," Jake drawled, moving his hand slightly.

You shrugged and said, "She really seems to like Bradley's voice the most."

You watched your husband absolutely strut back into the dining room with a pie in each hand after that. And he was still grinning as he ate three slices. Even after your company left for the night with containers of leftovers, he looked smug. As soon as he got you snuggled up in bed, he propped his head on his elbow next to your belly and whispered, "You like Daddy's voice the most, huh?"

She seemed to respond by squirming a little bit, and you had to roll your eyes. "Of course she does. So do I."

He smiled up at you before kissing your belly and pulling your shirt down. "I'm going to try to finish the Nugget playset tomorrow, and then Saturday is my favorite day of the year."

"Our anniversary," you whispered with a yawn.

"The first of hopefully a hundred."

You were sound asleep before you could respond. Most of Friday was spent feeding Bradley little snacks while he worked in the yard and shopping online for nursery decor.

"Oh, this looks really cute," you said with a smile as you held up your phone. He came running over to see what you found, only to be annoyed by the U.S. Army themed baby bedding. "It was a joke!" you insisted before switching tabs to the one you actually liked. "This one is not a joke."

Bradley's face lit up as he looked at the pastel airplanes and soft blue and white clouds. "That's perfect," he whispered. "Just what our little girl needs."

"It's kind of expensive."

He just shook his head as he continued to look at your phone screen. "The Nugget wants it."

You were afraid that was going to become his new mantra. The baby had a full nursery worth of items purchased by the end of the day. But Saturday was a different story. When you woke up late and stretched, you realized you were in your bed alone. On your anniversary. Upon further inspection, you realized Bradley wasn't even home at all.

"What the fuck," you muttered to yourself as you stood in the kitchen. Your intention had been to make him stuffed French toast and coffee. You were even going to arrange some fruit in the shape of a heart on the plate, but now that he wasn't here, your idea just felt stupid. You got the fruit out anyway and dipped it in hot sauce for yourself instead, and after polishing off almost an entire carton of raspberries, you heard Tramp run for the front door.

Bradley rushed in wearing snug jeans and one of his tropical print shirts. His aviators were perched low on his nose, and he was holding a bouquet of yellow roses with a smile on his face. You were still wearing his ratty, old shirt, and you didn't even wash your face yet, but he took you gently in his arms and kissed you like you were the most incredible thing he'd ever seen.

"Happy anniversary, Baby Girl," he muttered against your lips. His body was warm from the sun, and he smelled fresh and delicious, and you melted into his arms. 

"Where were you? I was going to make you breakfast. Well, lunch I guess at this point."

Bradley cupped your cheek gently in his hand and said, "I had to get a few things ready for this afternoon."

"Right," you said, perking up a bit. "You said we're going back to the scene of the crime."

"We sure are," he confirmed, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "And I just want everything to be perfect for my girls."

You moaned softly. It was actually impossible to be annoyed with him when he was so sincere with pink tinted cheeks and flowers in his hand. "I'll make you some French toast," you whispered, and of course you ended up arranging the fruit into a heart. And of course you sat on his lap while he devoured two servings of the meal you made for him. 

"When are we going to the crime scene?" you asked as you brushed his hair back from his forehead.

He rubbed your belly and checked the time. "We can leave pretty soon. Go for a drive maybe? Then I'll surprise you with how romantic I am."

You kissed his nose and said, "I'm not even sure exactly what the scene of the crime is. That could be a lot of different places actually. Maybe the parking garage at the airport?" you asked with a raised eyebrow. "Or my old apartment?"

Bradley shook his head. "I don't think I could get Maria and Bob to stop fucking long enough for us to stop by there." You burst into laughter as he added, "But you'll find out shortly."

You let him keep his secrets as you finally got yourself ready to go out. You managed to squeeze into one of your sundresses, but you paired it with a zip up sweatshirt just in case it got chilly later on. When Bradley helped you into the blue Bronco and buckled you in, you asked, "Why does it smell so good in here?" The backseat and tailgate areas were covered with sheets and blankets so you couldn't even see anything, but it smelled sweet and flowery. 

"Don't worry about that yet," he rasped with a satisfied little smile on his face. "Just let me show my wife how much I love her." 

When he started the engine, he had already queued up the enormously long playlist of songs that reminded him of you, and you got to listen to him singing softly as he drove up the coast a little ways while the sun dipped lower in the sky. It was the perfect November day with a few clouds and warm air, and you held his hand while he started to head south again just as your stomach growled between songs. 

"You're hungry," he remarked, and you started hoping he had something planned involving food. "I made dinner, and we'll be there soon."

"You made dinner?" you asked, panic lacing your voice. "What did you make? Is everything okay?"

Bradley started laughing as he turned left. "Okay, made is a strong word. It didn't involve actually cooking anything, I'm sorry to say. But I wanted it to be edible for you."

You sighed and eased back in your seat, and that's when you realized where you were and what he had planned. "Roo," you whispered as the parking lot came into view. There were some orange cones lined up at both entrances, and when he pulled up and hopped out to move them, you read the permit attached to one of them.

SPECIAL PRIVATE EVENT

CITY OF SAN DIEGO

NOVEMBER 28

Then he hopped back in, pulled into the narrow parking lot that overlooked the cliffs beach, and he backed into a parking spot. He looked at you as he shifted into park and said, "The scene of the crime, Baby Girl. You stole my fucking heart."

You loved him so much, it was hard to put into words. "I wonder how many times I've kissed you since then," you whispered as you crawled toward him. "Since the first one, right here in this parking spot."

"Millions, probably. Could use a few more though." He was grinning as he patted his lap, and you were there in an instant. "Happy anniversary."

His words were muffled by your lips, and even with your growing belly, you seemed to fit perfectly against him. Bradley's big hand ran up your thigh and underneath your little dress, fingers stroking your skin with reverence as he parted your lips with his and tasted your tongue.

"I love you, Bradley."

The loud growl of your stomach left him laughing even as his hand made its way up to the lace trim of your underwear. He patted you on the butt and popped his door open. "Let me feed you and the Nugget dinner."

You eased yourself down onto the pavement, and Bradley followed you. When he opened the back door and pulled the blanket off the seat, you found a picnic basket, a cooler and a bakery box. When he dropped the tailgate and helped you climb in so you were overlooking the ocean, he pulled a sheet away to reveal probably hundreds of colorful roses, but most of them were yellow.

Tears filled your eyes as he ran around and unpacked dinner which consisted of carrot sticks, hot sauce, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. "I made your sandwich to your exact preference," he promised, also procuring a bottle of non-alcoholic pink champagne from the cooler. "And this is even safe for the Nugget."

You tried not to cry as you sat amongst the sweet smelling flowers with your sandwich in your hand and music playing softly. Bradley hopped in as well, and you felt the Bronco dip slightly as he settled in next to you with his own sandwich. He kissed your cheek just as the sun hit the horizon. You turned so your lips met his briefly before you said, "I'm obsessed with you."

"I'm obsessed with both of you."

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

The sun had set, and you were laying with your head in Bradley's lap, skimming the Nugget notebook which he'd brought along for a very specific reason. You read some of his musings out loud, often laughing at what he had written in there. He let his fingers drift along your belly while My Girl played from the front seat speakers, and he hummed along, occasionally pausing to feel his daughter kick.

Eventually his hand was under the fabric of your dress again, skimming along your embroidered Mrs. Bradshaw underwear, making you gasp softly before continuing up to your belly. You and he were alone in this parking lot where you got married, which was already pretty secluded on a regular day, but the permit ensured he could touch his wife like this to his heart's content.

The soft purple sky was pretty, but it had nothing on you as you looked up at him with wide eyes. "You wrote down some baby names," you sighed softly.

"I did." This was the reason he brought the notebook along. This was something he wanted to talk about when there were no other distractions except for him and you. "What do you think of them?" he asked, heart beating a little faster as he thought about his unborn child.

You read each of the girls' names softly out loud, and of course he still liked all of them, but when you got to his favorite, you read it and paused. "Rose." Bradley nodded, and you smiled, reaching to run your fingers along the plethora of soft petals that filled the back of the Bronco. "I think you like that one the most."

Bradley swallowed hard, holding his hand in place with his palm covering your belly button. "Rose Bradshaw. Yeah, that's my favorite one."

"I like it, too," you whispered, biting your lip with your eyes closed as you set the notebook aside.

"Yeah? You do?" he asked hopefully. "Because it makes me think about how we listened to the song together. Roses. Before you fell in love with me."

You started to sit up, and he helped you. "I remember. You played it for me on the piano," you told him with a smile. "That was the night at the Hard Deck when I scared the other girls away from you, because I was so jealous. I wanted you all to myself."

Bradley's heart felt lighter than air as he collected you in his arms. "I was already falling in love with you," he promised. "You just took a little more coaxing."

As your lips ghosted over his, you whispered, "Rose. Rosie. Yeah. I love it."

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

Okay, so that's a throwback. I love little Easter eggs and throwbacks! The Nugget has a name! Thanks for reading! Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 6

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

@solacestyles

@daisyhollyxox

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@horseslovers2016

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@magicalmorg

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@ughthisisntright

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

@daggerspare-standingby

@nessjo

@trickphotography2

@lyn-js

@marve2014

@furiousladyking

[itsbeeble]

Take My Soul, Take My Heart

SUMMARY: Seonghwa is a monster, this he knows. He is a monster, but he just can't help the obsession he has with love. You have taken his soul, staked your claim on his heart, and now he wants all of you

GENRE: smut, angst

PAIRING: pirate!Park Seonghwa x afab!reader

WC: 6,571

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

PERM TAGLIST: @winterchimez @juyeonszn @flwoie

FIC TAGLIST: @sanaxo-o

18+ MDNI AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

WARNINGS: jesus christ yall im wishing you luck with this fic fr, lots of plot, violence (like a lot), many mentions of blood, weapons (knives, swords, guns), threats, swearing, alcohol, seonghwa is lowkey obsessed with love, Seonghwa and reader are both a bit psychotic, they kill a man (actually many men), bad depictions of pirates arrrrghhhhh, manipulation, murder, mentions of brothels, actually there are some scenes in a brothel so yeah, p in v sex, marking, oral (f and m receiving), poorly done dirty talk i fear, unprotected sex (please wrap it irl), this is actually kind of vile, mayhaps future hongjoong x reader but who knows, not edited so pls lmk if i forgot anything or if anything looks dumb as hell

A/N: HEYYYYYYY how y'all doinggggggg. thank you to @deobienthusiast for beta reading this IT TOOK ME SO LONG BUT RAAAHHHHHHH SHE HELPED MEEEEE. I've been wanting to do a pirate fic for so long but i never got around to it BUT HERE WE AREEEE PLEASE ENJOY AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKED IT PLSPLSPLS

Seonghwa learned a long time ago that love was nearly impossible with his life style. 

No matter his charms, no matter his will, no matter how he fucked, no one would stay. Not once they found out who he was, what he’s done. The crimes he’s committed are enough to sway those that he swore he would protect as he worshipped them under the light of the moon, above the swaying waves. Love, however, is nothing to him compared to the power he feels when on the ocean.

It was a choice hat he made a long time ago. A promise, really, that he made to Hongjoong the moment he’d stepped onto the wooden planks of the Blue Bird. He gave up the idea of love when he first drew a blade, when he felt the first drops of blood hit his skin and stain his clothing. The blood of men and women who threatened his crew, who threatened his lovers, who threatened him. He’d grown accustomed to the metallic stench, to the warmth of the red liquid against his skin. He practically bathed in it, relished in the feeling of it. 

Seonghwa doesn’t understand it, this feeling in his chest. This burning to be worshipped and loved. He cannot comprehend the longing, the desire in his stomach and in his heart. The longing that never leaves, lingering at the corner of his mind and at the tip of his tongue. Love is nothing compared to the power he feels with the weight of a blade in his hand, the metal of a gun at his hip. Love is a hindrance, love is nothing compared to the feeling of his weapon cutting through the air, through the flesh and bone of those who wrong him.

Seonghwa is soaked in blood still as he steps off the ship, his boots leaving wet footprints against the dock. Had the color of his clothing not been violently stained in the color, it could have been mistaken for the salty water that pushes and pulls against the rocky cliffs around him. A shoulder brushes against his, a hand pressing back against his chest to stop him in his tracks as Hongjoond looks up at him. That stern look is in his eye, one that the first mate had grown used to over the years.

“You know what we’re here for,” the captain’s voice is raspy. “Do us all a favor and don’t get distracted by any…side quests, if you will.”

Seonghwa’s tongue runs over his teeth, his shoulders rolling back and one of his hands coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. 

“When do I ever get distracted?” Hongjoong’s eyes are weary with travel, flicking from Seonghwa’s head down to his toes.

“Not what I meant, Hwa.”

“He means,” Wooyoung comes from behind the two, squeezing between them and throwing his arms around their shoulders. “Don’t fuck anyone. You know it never ends well for either party.” 

Seonghwa’s lip curls at the younger crew member’s words but he manages to hold his tongue. 

“Leave the man alone, Wooyoung.” San chides, pulling the cook back by the collar. “It’s not his fault he becomes blind when it comes to women.” Both men laugh, and Hongjoong folds his hands behind his back. 

“And this is funny to you two because…?” the captain’s eyebrow arches, his eyes glittering with a warning. 

“Well, I mean,” San stands a bit straighter. “Shouldn’t he know by now that ‘love’ doesn’t work with our lifestyle? Women find us, they fuck, take a bit of gold, and run off or try to kill us before the sun rises. Sometimes both at the same time. Love isn’t something that works with us. We’re blind to it, or it is blind to us.” 

Seonghwa pushes Wooyoung off his shoulder, his lips drawn into a thin line. Suddenly the bloody clothing that clings to his body burn like fire, uncomfortable and scratchy. 

“I have things to do,” he states with an eerie calmness. “I’ll be back by sundown.”

You take notice of the man the moment he steps into the tavern. Maybe it was his delicate features. Maybe it was the way the tavern went quiet with something similar to awe or fear or both. 

Or maybe it was the blood staining his clothing and dripping onto your freshly cleaned fucking floor.

You can barely hold your tongue as he approaches your counter, your jaw ticking and your eyes narrowed. His own, like that of a fox, are darting from person to person as if measuring how long it would take to strike them down. In a bar full of pirates, he is one of few that came alone. 

When his eyes land on you, he straightens his spine. I am powerful, I am a god, fear me. His body language is screaming the words, but you’re screaming right back.

One wrong fucking move and I’ll have your ass on the ground with a bullet between those pretty eyes before you can blink.

His lips twitch up into a smirk, yours deepen into a scowl.

“You got blood on my floor.” 

“I apologize.” 

“You don’t sound genuine.” 

He leans against the counter, eyes searching yours curiously. A glove-covered hand slides a gold coin toward you, your heart jolts. 

“I am sorry.”

“Apology accepted, gorgeous.” Your painted red lips curl into a delighted smile as you snatch up the coin before curious hands wandered a bit too close. “What can I get for you?”

“Mead, any will do.” His eyes seem to be searching you, sizing you up, and his tongue runs over his teeth. You do as he says, all too aware of his eyes watching you and staring you up and down. You weren’t a fool. You knew of your…features and what drew customers in. Men, women, you couldn’t care less so long as it got you what you wanted. Gold. Silver. Fuck, even copper would do sometimes. There was hardly a level you wouldn’t stoop to if it meant paying back your debt. 

You turn back to him, a mug of honey wine in one hand. He still watches you, curious and unashamedd of how how examines you. You let him, knowing deep down that you were doing precisely the same in order to ignore the man under your counter. 

“Anything else, gorgeous?” You lean forward, tongue dancing across your red lips. He watches the motion and smiles coyly. 

“Information.”

You kiss your teeth, arms folding on the counter as you watch him glance around the bar. “On?”

“A man going by the name of Socha.” 

Your body stills, fingers curling into tight fists. You feel eyes burning into your skull, and the gun barrel pressing into your hip grows tighter.

“I know of no one by that name.” 

The man searches your gaze, and you can’t find yourself wanting to look away. You want so desperately to scream out. He’s here, you want to tell him, there is a gun against my hip and a room filled with his crew all around you. Help me!

“Are you sure?” The man leans closer to you, tilting his head and bringing his lips close to your ear. “There’s a reward in it for you if you tell me where he is.”

“I know of no one by that name.” You repeat. “I would greatly appreciate it if you left my bar now, sir.”

He pulls back from you, pursing his lips briefly before returning to the malicious smirk. “If you change your mind, find Seonghwa on the Blue Bird.”

You don’t move a muscle until the door he entered through is shut. The tavern returns to its original volume, and the gun against your hip lowers. Your fists unfurl, and the gold coin hits the ground. 

Socha rises from beneath your counter, lips spread in a vile grin and a stench that makes you want to gag. 

“Maybe you’ll be useful after all, barkeep.” He leans in close to you, raising his gun to brush stray hair out of your face. Your throat tightens and your eyes squeeze shut, every muscle in your body screaming to run. “Loyalty isn’t something we take lightly on the Skylark.”

“I understand,” you choke out, praying to anyone who might listen that the gun leaves your temple. “Thank you for the…opportunity to prove my worth.”

Seonghwa doesn’t appreciate liars.

He also doesn’t appreciate the fact that the captain of the Skylark had decided to take an innocent woman hostage at his favorite bar in his favorite city. 

It was obvious what had been happening. Sure, it was typical for a port city to be filled to the brim with pirates, especially at the local taverns. What wasn’t typical was for the tavern to be filled to the brim with pirates wearing clothing the color of drying blood, a symbol that the Skylark crew had taken in the early days when Socha spilled blood across the ocean for miles and miles, his clothing stained so dark it looked black. 

He wasn’t stupid. He saw the fear sparking in your eyes the moment he said Socha’s name. Now it was time for him to wait for you to come to him. 

“You seem so sure that this barkeep will show her face.” Yeosang sits on the steps leading to the upper deck, twirling a curved blade between his fingers.

“She was terrified. Socha was there. Whether she wants to or not, she’ll be on this ship tonight with information we need.” 

Seonghwa leans against the railing, steadying himself against the waves that crash against the side of the ship. He’d changed out of the bloodstained clothing hours ago, washed the dried liquid off of his skin and let it run into the ocean. The sun is beginning to set, casting a golden light against his face that he soaks in with delight. The warmth of these last rays clings to him, and it’s when the sun has finally set below the horizon that he accepts that you will not be coming to the ship this night. 

“Maybe you need to do a bit more convincing than just giving a woman gold,” Yunho stomps up the stairs from the lower deck, a crate in his hands and a grin on his lips. “Maybe that’ll get you something in a brothel, but that was a woman working in a tavern. She knows better.”

“Shut up, Yunho.” Seonghwa spits out, whirling on his feet and stalking toward the gangway with burning ears and a boiling hot temper. 

He was pissed. He had truly believed that you’d show up. Was Socha still holding you in that tavern? Were you afraid of him? Were you afraid of what might happen if the captain found out? Were you loyal to the Skylark?

Seonghwa huffs, his hand finding the hilt of his sword again as he makes his way into the port city. It’s busier now that the sun is down, the streets crowded and filled with vendors of all sorts. Weaponsmiths, farmers, beggars, thieves. The streets became alive with everyone under the stars. It made it more difficult to maneuver quickly and quietly, but Seonghwa knew that he would only draw attention to himself if he moved any faster than he was. 

A delicate hand grabs his elbow and faster than the brothel worker could blink, there’s a dagger against her throat and her back is against the wall. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted with shock. Seonghwa drops the blade just as fast as he’d drawn it, his eyes lit with annoyance. 

“Care for a step inside?” Her tone, despite her previous shock, was sultry and enough to draw almost any many in. 

“I am not interested in what you have to offer.” Seonghwa begins to pull away, but her grip tightens. Her eyes are desperate now, and Seonghwa allows himself to pause.

“I believe you will be very interested to know that someone has paid good money to speak to you,” she speaks quickly, tugging at his arm to guide him to the door. “Please. Step inside. They will guide you to where you need to be.”

Against all that tells him to turn the other way and run, Seunghwa listens to the woman. She steps to the side, that seductive look plastered back onto her face as she guides him and other patrons into the building. 

The stench of sex is heavy in the air. It’s thick and nearly overwhelming his senses. Or, perhaps, it is the burning incense that overwhelms him. The smoke provides a haze, distracting him from the naked bodies all around him. Scattered across th4e ground, in chairs, on tables, in rooms that are only covered by a loose, sheer cloth overe the doorway. He avoids looking at anyone he can, but then his eyes find you. 

You’re tucked away in the corner farthest from him, your eyes watching his every move. His head tilts, tracing your body with his eyes. Nearly bare like the women around you, covered only by a shear cloth seemingly lined with gold. You tilt your head up, practically beckoning him toward you.

He follows you, putting up no fight against the primal urges inside of him that tell him to pin you against the wall and take you right there. 

His steps, careful and calculated, weave through the bodies on the floor, following you into the darkest corners of the brothel. You don’t let him get close, no matter how he chases you. It’s like a game to you, and you’re winning. Seonghwa lets it happen. 

“I’m sure you understand why I brought you here,” you murmur, your voice hardly louder than the sexual noises around you. A private room in the very back of the building and secured by a wooden door. “I had to speak to you where we could be…private, able to speak freely.” 

Seonghwa, for a long moment, doesn’t say a word. He watches the way your hips sway with every step, watches how you bend forward to light each candle. 

“You said you wanted information,” you speak again, coming to stand directly in front of him. Your breasts brush against his ribcage, your hands reaching for his. “I’m prepared to give you it.”

“In exchange for a quick fuck?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head at you. You only smirk.

“I had to bring you somewhere logical. Pirates love brothels almost as much as they love my bar. Besides, if anyone comes stomping in here, at least they’ll get a good show, won’t they?” 

You push Seonghwa towards the large fur-covered mattress with more force than he’d expected. He stumbles back, letting himself fall back until his spine meets fur. You’re quick to crawl over him, sheer fabric coming loose and allowing your breasts to come free. 

“Why are you looking for Socha?” You ask him, hips rolling down against his. Seonghwa stifles a groan, relishing in the feeling of your grinding hips and the way your nails digging into his chest. His hands grip the flesh of your thighs, squeezing tight enough to leave marks. 

“Why was he in your bar?” the pirate counters, eyes drooping in a lust filled haze. You click your tongue leaning down and nipping at the lobe of his ear. 

“I asked a question first.” Your lips trail kisses down his neck, a trail of red lipstick following you, and Seonghwa feels air brush against his chest as you undo the buttons of his shirt. “Answer me, gorgeous.”

“He has something of mine,” he says, annoyingly calm given the circumstances you have him in. “I want it back.”

You roll your hips down with more force, leaning back to admire his sculpted body. You shouldn’t be shocked. He’s a pirate after all. One with a gorgeous face, gorgeous body, and you’d be willing to bet his cock is equally as perfect. Your mouth waters at the thought, your body sliding back so you have easy access to his cock. 

“What does he have?”

Seonghwa sits up, leaning back on his hands as you work at his pants. A lazy smirk is plastered on his face, one that has your stomach churning and pussy dripping with need. 

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts. “My turn to ask a question.”

His hips lift as you start pulling his pants down, exposing his half-hard cock to your eyes in the dim candlelight. 

“Ask away, gorgeous.” Your hands inch forward, reaching for his cock in an act of near desperation. 

“Why was Socha and his crew in your bar?” Seonghwa watches as you wrap a hand around him, a breath of air hissing out of him as you stroke him gently up and down. Your eyes lock with his as you lean down to spit on his cock, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from losing his composure. 

You shrug at his question, letting a bit more spit drip from your mouth as you pump his now fully erect cock. “They wanted drinks, I suppose.”

“Bullshit and you know it.” Seonghwa grunts, letting his head roll back. You smirk, letting your free hand slip down to cup his balls. 

“Tell you what,” you dip your head down and place a kiss to his tip. “Let me please you, and if you aren’t satisfied I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“And if I’m satisfied?” He asks, reaching a hand to tangle his fingers in your hair.

“You take me with you out of this godforsaken city.” 

Seonghwa’s breath, for the first time, stills. He searches your eyes for something, anything to tell him what might be happening. 

“You…you want to come with…with me?” 

He’s confused. Why on Earth would someone like you want to come with him? “You have a life here. People who care about you, guaranteed safety. Why would you—”

“I have nothing here.” You spit out, leaning up to look him in the eyes. “I have misery and shame and misfortune. I do not care that I will not be safe with you.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Then we will make the choice later.” You kiss him gently, leaving him aching for more of you. “Let me satisfy your needs, Seonghwa.” Your hand pushes at his chest, urging him to lay back. 

“I don’t even know your name,” Seonghwa’s head hits a pillow, letting his gaze settle on the ceiling above him. 

“Do you need to?” He can feel your lips trailing down his chest, nipping at his skin and leaving marks he knows will not go away. 

“It would be nice to know who I’m speaking to.” Who I’m fucking.

“I suppose,” your lips touch his hip, right beside a trail of hair, and he can feel the way they curl into a grin. “You can call me Y/N.” 

Seonghwa can’t get a response out before your lips are wrapping around his cock. His fingers curl into the furs beneath him, fighting the urge to buck his hips into your mouth and force you to take as deep as you can. You could probably handle it, but he knows he needs to exercise restraint for himself if anything. 

Your nails dig into his thighs, leaving little red crescents in his golden skin as you take him. He can feel your throat constricting around his cock, trying desperately not to gag as his tip hits the back of your throat. Your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft as you pull yourself off of him, kitten licking the tip before taking him all the way back down again. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and Seonghwa can feel tears hitting his skin. Or, perhaps, it’s spit dripping out of the corners of your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and swallow around him. 

Finally a pitiful groan is pulled from his lips. 

Deep and gravelly as if he’d been holding it in for far longer than his body wanted him to. Your eyes peer up at him, your tongue laving at his balls and your hand pumping up and down while your mouth is occupied. Seonghwa’s hips jolt, little drops of precum leaking from his tip in an endless stream. His back arches as your mouth returns to his aching cock, your pace fast and harsh as you swallow around him and suck as you pull back up, urging him to cum faster. 

His back arches off the bed, his jaw drop and hollow moans pouring from his lips. One of his hands finds your hair, holding you in place as he begins to piston his hips up. Your eyes widen, your hands flailing briefly to find purchase on something, anything to keep you somewhat upright. You’re gagging now, unable to help it as Seonghwa’s cock punches the back of your throat. 

You like it, though. You like how rough he is with you, the way he lets himself lose control and become blinded by his own pleasure. His hands yank at the strands of your hair, and a moan escapes you. The vibrations run down his cock, and suddenly Seonghwa’s hips stutter and thick, white hot liquid is spurting down your throat. You try pulling off of him, the liquid coming out too quickly for you to keep up with, but Seonghwa forces you back down, forces you to take all of it down his throat.

“That’s it,” he coos, breathless and mocking. “Take it all. Take everything I’m giving you.” The snide comments pull a whimper out of you, and you allow yourself to relax just enough to swallow all of his cum. 

When he finally releases you and allows you to pull off, there’s droplets of cum running down your chin. Your cheeks are burning, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and you’re pretty sure your hair is a knotted, uncontrollable mess. 

He’s smirking down at you. I am powerful, I am a god, fear me.

You raise yourself up, slotting your lips against his. You are powerful. I am not afraid of you.

“Are you satisfied, then?” You murmur, letting one hand come up to cup the back of his neck, the other slipping down to soothe the ache in your dripping pussy. Seonghwa kisses his teeth.

“You think my cock down your throat is enough to satisfy me, darling?” Your breath hitches at the vile nature of his words. It isn’t as if you hadn’t heard that before, however he says it so…condescendingly. As if you were a fool to assume that he would be done with you just yet. 

“Are you not…satisfied?” 

“I’ll make you a deal, darling,” The tip of a blade rests under your chin and your stomach churns, however it isn’t with fear. No…this is something else entirely. This is…lust? No…it burns too sweet to be lust. “Take me to Socha, kill him yourself, and fuck me in his bed while my captain kills the rest of his crew, and then I’ll be satisfied. Do we have a deal?”

“Will you let me come with you?” Your eyes gleam, and Seonghwa jerks your head up to kiss you. ‘Kiss’ being a very loose term. With his blade against your throat, he shoves his tongue into your mouth, and you push yours against him just as hard. Teeth clash, biting at each othe harshly in a motion that’ll leave you both bruised and bleeding. 

“I’ll let you come with me.” 

You weren’t expecting them to trust you. Hell, you half expected to be shot dead the moment you stepped onto the Blue Bird. Hongjoong stairs you down with curiosity and doubt in his gaze, but he says nothing as the crew argues over whether or not to trust you and your word. Or, rather, Seonghwa’s word. 

“You think we can trust her?” Mingi is eyeing you up and down, his lips curled into a sneer. “She’s a barkeep, she’ll say anything for some gold and a quick fuck.” 

You bare your teeth right back at him. “Is that not what a pirate is? Roaming the seas and sticking their cocks into the first hole they see and grabbing as much gold and ale as they can carry?” 

Mingi is far larger than you are, but you are not afraid. You cannot be afraid if you wish to be on this ship for the rest of your days. You cannot be afraid of the men Seonghwa sails with and commands. 

“And what of Seonghwa?” Jongho, the quiet one in the corner, chimes in. “Do we not trust him? Right hand of our captain, are you doubting that he has our best interest in his mind?”

“I think that he slept with the first person he saw and immediately became blind to reality.” Mingi snaps back. “How long before this one leaves you? How long before you decide you’re sick of her and throw her overboard?”

Your heart drops to your stomach and your head whips to look up at Seonghwa who has gone still beside you.

“What is he talking about, Seonghwa?” Your hand pulls from his, but he grabs it right back.

“He is speaking nonsense,” he snaps, eyes glaring at Mingi. “I know exactly what I am doing. I know who I can and cannot trust. She is loyal to us, not to anyone else.”

“And you got all that from having your cock down her—”

“Enough!” Hongjoong’s voice rises over the others. All it takes is that one word for all to go quiet, their gazes on him as he rises from his seat on the table. “Seonghwa is my right hand, if he says that this woman is to be trusted then she will be trusted by us!”

“But—” Mingi tries to argue but a pair of dagger-like eyes hone in on him. 

“Do you want to be on slop duty?” Mingi’s face goes green and the eyes are trained back on you. “And you— are you so certain that you want to join us?”

“I am certain, Captain,” you tell him, dipping your head into a nod. “I have never wanted anything more.”

“Then it’s settled,” Hongjoong declares. “We kill Socha at sunset tomorrow.”

There’s an odd sense of safety that you feel while you approach the Skylark. You can hear the chatter of the crew from the edge of the gangway, but you know that a crew of your own is watching and waiting for your signal. 

Your signal, of course, being Socha’s body being dumping into the harbor. 

“Hey! Look who it is!” 

A hand clamps down onto your shoulder and you grimace at the first mate’s disgusting smile. 

“Little miss barkeep came to pay us a visit!” The crew erupts into cheers, some calling for a drink and some calling for you to give them a show. Bile rises in your throat at the sounds they make. Suddenly the blade up your sleeve feels a lot lighter in your hand. “How can we help you, little miss?”

“I need to speak with Socha.” Your voice holds steady, thankfully. 

“Socha isn’t expecting you today.” The first mate clicks his tongue. “I’ll take a message.”

“This is urgent,” you argue. “I have information on the Blue Bird’s crew.” 

The first mate barks out a laugh, throwing his head back as he bellows. The crew joins him, and your cheeks begin to heat up. 

“You think we give a fuck about that measly little crew?” The first mate cries.

“What are those dumb fucks going to do to a crew of 80 men?” Someone across the deck cries. “We have ten to their one, they can try but they won’t fucking get past the gangway.”

“Now, now gentlemen.” A deeper, gravelly voice to your right grabs everyone’s attention. Socha leans against a railing closest to his cabin, lip curled at you in what looks like disguswt. “The little miss has information for us! We should hear her out.”

“Socha,” you breathe out andhe clicks his tongue. 

“I don’t believe we have rewarded you yet for your…loyalty, have we?” He’s five steps from you, almost close enough to stab him. His hand reaches for you, and you take it. Two steps, only a bit too far from the edge of the ship. 

“Can we…can we speak a bit more privately?” You look at him through your eyelashes, lips pushed out just a bit. “It’s a little loud out here.”

“Of course, little miss.” Socha’s hand on the small of your back makes you want to light someone on fire. It disgusts you, and the bile begins to rise in your stomach again as he guides you to his quarters. He lets you in first, keeping his eyes on your swaying hips the entire time.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you spin around to face him. 

He’s one step away.

The knife in your sleeves drops into your palm.

You raise your blade to strike him.

A gunshot.

Both of you go silent, your bodies going still. There’s something wet soaking your skirts, you stumble back. Your eyes raise to the man behind Socha.

The captain hits the ground, blood pooling around him. Blood stains your cheeks and your white shirt. 

There’s commotion outside the cabin. 

“I had it handled, Seonghwa.” Your eyes narrow, and your lover barks out a laugh.

“I know, darling. But he would have shot you the moment he saw that blade.” A body hits the door, wood beginning to splinter as Seonghwa takes the two steps he needs to reach you. Blood soaks the bottoms of his boots, but neither of you care. His hands come to cup your cheeks, blood smearing across your skin as he brushes over your cheekbones with his thumbs. 

“You did wonderfully, my love.” He murmurs, and you find yourself beaming. “I think, however, you still have part of your deal to hold up to.”

“His cabin is a bit far,” your lips are brushing his and you lift your head just a bit to try and kiss him but he tuts at you.

“A deal is a deal, my love. I will not be fucking you near a dead body.” His nose curls and he kicks Socha out of the way. 

“Fine. Have it your way, gorgeous.” 

You take his hand in your own, swinging the door of the captain’s quarters open to reveal the end of a blood bath. Hongjoong is watching from the upper deck as the other six members of his crew dump bodies into the harbor. You catch his eye as you move through the masses and down to Socha’s cabin and he gives you a small nod. 

You did well.

I know I did. You keep your head high, a proud smirk on your lips before you disappear with Seonghwa hot on your heels. 

Seonghwa’s lips are hot on your neck, his hands dancing over your body grabbing at everything they can. Airy moans pull from your lips, an addicting sound that has Seonghwa afraid that you may be a siren. He cannot get enough of you, cannot pull away even if he tried. 

In the center of the room, the two of you stand bare and ready for each other. A pile of clothes surrounds you, a bed behind you and a desk covered in papers in front of you. 

“You’re fucking addicting,” Seonghwa growls, grabbing at your hair and yanking your head back to bare your neck for him. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.” 

You can’t respond, hands shaking as they grab at Seonghwa just as harshly as he’d grabbed you. Your nails scratch down his chest, his back. Into his hips to try and force him closer to your body, but he keeps himself just out of your reach. 

“Mingi was right,” Seonghwa grunts as he spins you around, pinning you against the desk and throwing everything that was on it to the side to make way for you. He shoves you back, pinning your shoulders against it. “I became blind to reality the moment I saw you in that fucking tavern. Addicted to you the moment you spoke to me.”

His lips reattach to your skin, making their way down your throat, past the valley of your breasts and down to your navel. His hands grip the flesh your thighs, forcing your thighs apart to make way for him. You’re dripping for him, you can feel the liquid pooling at your center, dripping down your thighs and onto the desk below you. 

“Fuck, I will never go a day without looking at this pretty pussy.” 

Seonghwa’s hand rubs against your folds, spreading them and rubbing your slick around for a moment before pulling back.

Smack!

The sting is almost unbearable, your back arching as you wail and Seonghwa’s hand cracks down on your pussy once more. 

“So pretty for me, love when I get rough, hm?” You can barely hear him. Hell, you don’t think he can hear himself in this lust filled haze. “You’ve taken my soul, taken my heart from its confines. You have to pay for that, you know?” 

You whine when his lips touch your cunt for the first time. Soft at first, kitten licks and little kisses against your clit that quickly become harsh sucks and nips that have your back arching and legs thrashing over his shoulders. It’s easy for him to pin your body down, making heat growing in your stomach as he eats you like a man starved. His long tongue dips into you, digging in as far as it can go before Seonghwa drags it up to swirl around your clit, drawing figure-eights with the tip of it and making your body writhe before he repeats the process. 

A knot begins to form in the pit of your stomach, and you cry and beg for Seonghwa to please please please, faster, more more, god please. Fat tears roll down your cheeks as he focuses his attention on your puffy clit, digging his tongue into it and listening to the way you scream his name. Your back arches one final time before you’re coming undone beneath him, your body quivering and your hole clenching repeatedly. Your hands find purchase in his dark hair, yanking at the strands for some semblance of a grasp on reality. 

You don’t get long to recover before Seonghwa is flipping you over and pinning you down again, face down against the desk. You can practically smell your own cum, and you try to push yourself up just a little bit. 

“You’re not trying to get up, are you?” Seonghwa’s lips are right next to your ear. “You know what to say if you want me stop, darling.” His lips nip at your ear and you whine desperately, finally caving and letting your arms drop. “Good girl.”

His hands rub against the backs of your legs, massaging them gently before spreading them open once more. 

“You ready for me?” His hand traces along your dripping folds, waiting patiently for your response. 

“Please, Seonghwa,” you whine. “Please fuck me!” 

So he does. 

The stretch burns as he pushes in, but he’s quick to soothe you, kissing your shoulders and down your spine so, so gently compared to what you know he’s going to do to you. Your walls clamp down on him like a vice, trying desperately to push him out but pull him in at the same time. 

“So tight,” he groans, biting into your back as he finally sheathes himself inside of you completely, engulfed by the warmth of your walls and somewhat reluctant to pull out again. “Fuck, you feel so good around me, darling.”

“Hwa,” you moan out, hands clawing at the desk as you try to push back against him, trying to get him deeper inside of you. “Please, please move!” 

His hips begin moving before you can finish your statement. He sets a fast, brutal pace, each thrust punching the air out of you and leaving you wailing his name. You scramble to find purchase on the edges of the desk, holding tightly so as to not slide off. Seonghwa grabs at your shoulder with one hand, the other gripping your hip as he slams his hips against yours. His cock reaches places you never believe one could, brushing against a spot inside of you that has your vision going white with pleasure, your hiccuped moans becoming nearly silent screams. The knot inside of you draws tight again, and Seonghwa is practically throwing you over the edge as your body seizes up once more.

“Fuck,” he grunts out. “Cumming again already?”

“I— I can—can’t help it!” You hiccup. “Feel—feels so—so good!”

“Yeah, I bet it does,” Seonghwa grunts, letting his head fall back and his jaw fall open as your fluttering walls force him closer to the edge than he wants to be. “Fuck, don’t wanna cum yet but this pussy feels too good.”

His body folds over yours, one of his hands slipping down to find your clit. Cries of overstimulation pull from your lips, your body shaking as he continues to rail you into the desk. Seonghwa’s hips begin to stutter, and the moment he feels your walls flutter around his for the final time, he’s cumming. He breathing is ragged, quiet whines pulled from his lips as your pussy clenches around his cock. 

You can barely move as he pulls out of you, your body covering in sweat and cum. Seonghwa runs a hand over his face, catching his breath and brushing his hair back. 

“You alright?” He crouches near your face, tracing a finger along your cheekbone while you recover. “Here, let me help you.” 

Seonghwa is quick to lift you up, shushing you when you whine, and carries you over to a surprisingly luscious bed. He sits against the wall, your body curling into his as you both recover. The steady rocking of the waves against the ship seems to calm you, your breathing evening out until you’re fast asleep in his lap. 

He’s almost asleep himself until the door of the captain’s cabin swings open and Hongjoong barges in. 

The captain’s eyes fall to you briefly, and Seonghwa swears he can see his tongue running over his lip before Hongjoong’s eyes are back on the right hand. 

“We gotta get going, soldiers from the upper city are on their way down to find out why there’s bodies in the water.”

Your body stirs, eyes fluttering open quietly and Seonghwa grins. 

His heart and soul belongs to you now. You, the first and only one to not run from the monster he’d become. 

“And so it begins.” 

© itsbeeble. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[lis-likes-fics]

Shades of Red

Pairings: Jonathan Crane x hero!Reader Word Count: 11.4k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, oral (m! and f!receiving), fingering, switch!reader, switch!Jonathan, biting, scratching, multilple orgasms, creampie, p in v sex, riding sex, slight praise kink, slight begging kink, slight degradation, swearing... A/N: I just really love writing for Jonathan Crane. Any Cillian Murphy character in general. Why is he so cunty? Just so good. Anyway, I hope you like it! Thanks!

It's busy tonight. The building has been filling with guests all evening, packed to the brim with men and women here for business and pleasure and everything in between. That's why you're so glad to be in here, tucked away in one of the private rooms of the club. Though less glad that you sit across the lap of a sleazy gang boss that you honestly find quite disgusting.

He has one arm wrapped around your waist and the other resting on your upper thigh. He's whispering in your ear, his lips so close to your skin that they brush her cheek every now and then.

The door opens and the both of you turn to see who is interrupting—for you, fortunately. A sly smirk slips onto your lips as you lay your eyes on a handsome face.

He smiles back at you, watching you through glasses, his unbuttoned shirt displaying his chest to you in his version of laid-back. It's a good look on him.

“Why, hello, Miss Cherry,” Jonathan Crane greets you as he closes the door behind him.

Benjamin looks at him and sits back, his hand still caressing your thigh as he sighs.

You chuckle lightly, licking your bottom lip as you do. “Hello, doctor,” you purr, beckoning him closer with nothing but a look. “I missed you last night.”

He walks forward, standing in front of you as he sets his finger under your chin. “Forgive me, angel,” he says, glancing at Benjamin. “I had business to take care of.”

He sits in the chair next to the sofa Benjamin takes up, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “Speaking of,” he sighs, “I think it's best you run along while Mr. Liste and I have a talk.”

You raise an amused brow, your attention shifting when the man in question speaks. “Nonsense,” he says. “She'll behave herself, won't she?” His hand lightly smacks your side and you nod, finding his touch particularly repulsive but being unfazed anyway.

“Of course.” You smile between the two of them, shifting your gaze to Crane. “Anything that makes you happy.”

Benjamin reaches inside of his suit jacket, pulling out an expensive cigar to set between his lips. You reach inside, pressing your hand against his chest as you pull his lighter out. You move slowly, sensually, in your quest to light the end. He thanks you with a grin, and you look at Crane with half-lidded eyes and a permanent smirk.

Crane stares for a moment. “Very well,” he concedes. He points at you with somewhat of a warning finger, tilting his head to the side. “But you have to promise me you'll keep this between the three of us.”

You feign surprise, setting a manicured hand over your chest with a soft gasp. “I won't tell a soul. Promise.” You raise two fingers in boy scout's honor and kiss them.

Benjamin laughs heavily. “That's a good girl.” Your skin crawls. “See? What’d I tell ya?” He hums, sitting back again as his hand continues to stroke you. “So what have you got for me?”

He shrugs, clasping his hands in his lap. “That entirely depends on what you have for me, Mr. Liste.”

He takes in a long breath, holding it for a moment before allowing a puff of smoke to gather in the air around your head. You hold your breath and stifle your tears before they can start.

“Give us a show, little cherry bomb,” he grins, patting you before you stand. You stalk to the wall, turning up the knob that controls the volume until you hear a song playing through the speakers. You go to the small platform in the middle of the room and take a hold of the pole, their eyes glued to your body, the skimpy clothes adorning you leaving little to the imagination.

Once you've begun dancing, they sink into their conversation, and you listen closely as you entertain.

“Shipments made it to the port last night,” Benjamin says as he flicks cigar ashes onto the floor carelessly.

Crane raises an inquisitive brow. “And you didn't tell me then?” You could feel the disdain from here.

Benjamin doesn't care as he shrugs. “Well, Johnny, me and my guys have decided we're gonna hang onto it a little while longer.”

Crane does his best to keep his anger seething and not explosive. He gets a better message across by staying calm. “That wasn't part of our deal.”

“Yeah?” Smoke billows from the butt of his cigar. “This is good stuff we've got on our hands. There are plenty of other interested parties who would double—even triple the fee you're offering.” He shrugs, letting out a heavy sigh. He looks away from you and points to Crane with his cigar. “Why should I give it to you?”

Crane stares at him, unblinking, his expression the same as when he walked in…perfectly cordial. “Let's just say,” he leans forward onto his knees, clasping his hands, “I provide traitors with worse consequences.”

And you believe that…

You've seen what it looks like in that godforsaken prison he runs.

“Let's just say…” he rolls his eyes, “if you can't outbid any of my potential clients, you're wasting my time.” He takes a smoke and looks back at you, admiring the way you move, raking his eyes up and down your body. Your skin feels like syrup, thick and slimy and sticky and gross.

“Besides, betrayal insinuates we had some trust going on between us.” He chuckles at the notion. “I don't trust you, you don't trust me. That's that.”

Crane sighs, looking away from him to look at you. When he drinks you in, you don't feel so slimy and gross. You wink his way just for the fun of it, just to tick Benjamin off just a little bit.

Benjamin clears his throat. “I want my money by tomorrow night at twelve. If you can't get me that, consider your shipment gone.”

There's a long pause as they watch each other, daring the other to give in, to concede and accept an offer. You see something change in Crane’s eyes as he sits back, humming to himself as he nods gently.

“Where shall I meet you?”

You're ready to listen when Benjamin turns to you, his gaze so demeaning as he speaks. “I'm gonna need you to cover your ears for this one, sweetheart.”

You smile, raising your hands to your ears to cover them. When he's sure you've been deafened, his lips form a word you have to piece together with your knowledge of shipment docks in Gotham. Chesterport.

He pushes off his pants, standing and making his way toward you as he sets a hand on your back, cueing you to remove your hands from your ears. You step down from your platform to join him on the floor.

“Thank you, Cherry,” he smiles. He turns to Crane, letting his cigar hang from his lips. “Twelve o'clock or it's done. You got me?”

You can make out the smallest smirk on his lips as he nods slowly. “Twelve o'clock.”

Benjamin chuckles heartily. “Good boy.”

You just know Crane hated that. Part of you finds it amusing. But you'd find it more amusing if you knew he wasn't going to do something insane over it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Benjamin says, his face inching toward yours. You don't move, but it's clear he won't kiss you. He's big and powerful but he knows the rules. “You and I need a little one-on-one time.”

You chuckle lightly. “Of course, sir,” you murmur. You turn a seductive eye towards your Jonathan Crane, winking at him as you walk. “Buh-bye, doctor. I'll see you soon.”

He nods his head, his eyes dark with an unclaimed desire. The power you hold over these men is a delectable kind of knowledge. “Cherry.”

Blowing a kiss, you spin on your heel and walk away with Benjamin. He's going to pay for a lap dance, and then he's going to leave to take care of the rest of his business. Just as he always does. It's a more fortunate fate than it would have been if certain rules weren't set in place to keep the dancers here as safe as they can be in this godforsaken city.

And once he leaves, you can follow suit to get ready for a midnight appointment tomorrow at Chesterport.

~

Don't judge.

Living in Gotham is dangerous and fucking expensive. Saving it doesn't pay the bills.

If you have to swing on a pole and show a little skin for some extra bills to pay for rent, that’s what you’ll do. And, sure, being a vigilante in this city means you know the Bats. You bumped into him on your second mission, and he laid down the ground rules of you remaining a crime fighter from the very beginning (with plenty of threats to keep you in line with said rules). Over time, you’ve become close and you can honestly call The Batman your friend, but that doesn't mean he's paying your bills either.

Is it because you told him not to? Possibly. But you even it out by making him provide the needs for your weapons and other protections. He's a philanthropist, he wasn't going to let you get away without some financial support. (But it looks weird being funded by the Bruce Wayne when all you are is some stripper down at a popular and dangerous club in Gotham.)

The city won't thank you for helping to save it, but the men sure thank you for winking their way and making them feel a little good-looking every now and then.

So, yes, sneaking into the Wayne Manor isn't unusual for you, and he's never surprised to see you when you randomly appear in the bat-ridden cave.

“Why do you need a gas mask?”

You kick your feet as they dangle off the side of his desk where he tries to work—more improvements on his suit, it seems. Alfred is somewhere in here, but you suppose he's busy for the moment.

“Because Crane is up to stuff,” you shrug, picking up a precision knife and twirling it in your hands, “and that toxin of his is not something I want to have to deal with.” You had a go at it once before…it didn't end pleasantly.

Bruce taps through his tablet, looking at all the designs he has stored in it as he examines said mask. “When do you need it?”

You smile, looking as innocent as you can. But he's fallen immune to your charms by now, no matter how convincing you're trying to be. “Tonight?”

He sighs, shaking his head at your ridiculousness. “Why can't you just make your own?”

You roll your eyes. “Because I'm low on supplies with all of my bomb tech and mine won't be as good as yours anyway. Oh, and you're my supplier. So you're supposed to supply my needs.” When he raises a brow at you, you pout. “You don't want me getting hurt, do you?”

He huffs lightly, looking down at his tablet and murmuring to himself. “Seriously considering it.”

You know he's joking, but it's fun to screw around.

“Shut up,” you say. “It's because of me you have an extra load off your shoulders.”

He shakes his head but doesn't disagree. It's quiet for a moment as he thinks. “I'll give you mine—temporarily—while I make yours for future purposes.” He tilts his head. “Not that there should be one.”

You hum. “We've already had this discussion—and no, I'm still not going to quit.” You hop off the desk, walking around it to meddle with his things. “Besides, Crane is my best patron. What would he do if his favorite hero disappeared?”

Bruce brushes you off and ignores your activities, used to your antics. You have an air around you that drips with seduction and sexual debauchery that he has become immune to by now. So even when you run your finger down his shoulder and linger, he remains entirely unfazed.

He walks off, and you follow as he leads you to the wall of all his different techs. He pulls his mask from one of his suits, similar to that of a medical face mask, but this one is made of metal with respiratory tubes to prevent the user from suffocating.

He doesn't give it to you yet. “Where will you be again?”

“Are you going to crash?” you complain. “I can handle myself.”

He chuckles lightly, it's just a breath through his nose. “I am fully aware of your capabilities.” He shakes his head. “I have my own things to deal with, this is just as a safety measure in case you need backup.”

“Which I won't need.”

You reach for the mask, but he puts it out of your reach.

“Cherry.”

Your lip curls. You always find it amusing when he calls you that. He never uses your real name, always the stage name. It's always fun to hear him say it, so you throw him a bone.

“Chesterport dock at twelve.”

He studies you for a moment before slowly handing you the mask, which you snatch up as you turn on your heel to leave.

Don't get hurt.”

“Never do.”

He shakes his head and gets back to work.

~

Underneath the movement and conversation of the men at the port, the water sounds peaceful. It's easy to hide in a place like this. It's dark, full of giant containers that you can take cover in.

You're practically twiddling your thumbs as you wait there, the past near hour almost as boring as watching paint dry as these gangbangers do nothing but laugh loudly, play cards, all the stereotypical activities of criminals before any real activity happens. You're checking your watch for the hundredth time—a quarter to twelve—and feel a yawn arising in you. You stay later at the club, but this is just boring.

You almost chuckle as you consider taking a brief nap…like that would go over well.

“See? I knew you'd deliver, Johnny Boy.”

You perk up at the sound of Benjamin's voice. You look down from your hiding place, your eyes landing on Dr. Crane as he arrives with a group of goons behind him. He looks as sophisticated as ever. You enjoy looking at him.

He comes to a stop, staring at the man as he thinks to himself. Silently, he tilts his head slightly toward his shoulder and one of his guys steps forward with a briefcase. Benjamin does the same, and his meets the other.

They hand over the case, shoving the playing cards to the side as they set the case on a crate to open it up. Upon the first glance, Benjamin's face screws up in annoyance and disgust.

“What is this?” he scoffs. “This isn't even half of what we originally promised.”

Crane shrugs nonchalantly, clasping his hands in front of him as he sighs. “Your promises weren't kept,” he says, “why should mine be?”

Benjamin's angry now, and it honestly amuses you to see him so peeved as you continue to peer in on the confrontation. “Because I'm a powerful man with a lot of powerful friends.”

Crane’s brows furrow and he turns to look around himself. “Funny,” he hums. “I don't see any.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, the air thick with suffocating masculinity (though a lot of it drips from Benjamin, as Crane doesn't necessarily need masculinity to frustrate him). Then Benjamin starts to laugh, throwing his head back as he takes it all as some sort of stupid joke.

“Alright,” he says. “I'll give you one last chance to deliver the money. And because you're being such an ass, Johnny, make it quadruple.” He takes a threatening step forward, to which he goons follow.

Crane and his guys don't move an inch.

“Otherwise, I'm afraid it will have to get a little messy.” His hand comes to rest on his gun, where it sits on his hip.

“Well,” he sighs, rubbing his hands together, “that's too bad. Because, you see, Benji, I don't do business with filthy men who don't keep to their word.”

Crane snaps his fingers and another man walks up to him, holding a briefcase that he opens. You brace yourself, unhooking one of the explosives from your weapons belt. You watch as he pulls out a pair of black gloves, slipping them onto his hands as he speaks, taking his own scarecrow mask into his grasp. “So I'm afraid it will have to get a little messy.” Behind him, you watch his few men put on masks of their own. You follow suit.

“And my name isn't Johnny…” he says as he gazes at Benjamin through the worn holes of his mask, “it's Dr. Crane.”

Bored with the stalling, Benjamin rolls his eyes and pulls his gun from his holster. Everyone braces, fully ready to start making bullets fly as the tension raises to meet a climax. Just as guns are clicking with the disabling of the safety, everyone pauses at the ominous sound of clink, clink, clink against the concrete ground.

It rolls, and all eyes watch it until it comes to an inevitable spot. At the sight of a giant red ‘RR’ painted on the front, they panic.

“It's Ruby Red!” Benjamin barks. We're compromised. Go!”

It’s too late to move as the bomb explodes, a loud boom! covering every inch of the dock as the sound echoes off the water. Smoke arises from the destruction, and everyone scrambles to their feet to run in different directions, disoriented from the blow.

You hear Crane’s voice over the commotion of coughs and grunts. “Get the cases!” he orders, and his men go to listen as they rush toward them. Benjamin's men follow suit, standing to rush toward them.

But you're quicker.

Another bomb explodes right on top of the cases. They burst open, a good deal of the contents destroyed. The men who are covering their ears to be rid of the ringing in their brains look around, conflicted on their next course of action.

Clearly, Benjamin is not amused. “Get what you fucking can!”

They listen, as if they haven't learned their lessons by now. They move, you bomb. And you do. Jumping down from where you'd been hiding this whole time, you land easily and toss another. It's perfectly nonlethal—you make sure of that—when that one goes off. It, at the very least, gets rid of a few insubordinates who run the other way after deeming three bombs a bit above their pay grades.

There's so much going on and not enough time for a lot of the people involved to process. When Crane and his men approach the cases after Benjamin and his men flee, he lays his eyes upon the bright red explosive and its green painted stem and is almost amused.

“Cherry bomb.”

“Take cover!” one of the men yells as he runs the other way, the others following in quick haste. Crane turns calmly, spying you standing just outside of the fray. He watches you reach for a trigger and leaps out of the way, ducking down to take cover as you set the bomb off.

The sound would have been deafening if you hadn't been standing as far as you were. There's smoke everywhere, some debris covers the ground. You walk past all the groaning men as they try to get their thoughts in order, checking the smoking cases and ensuring all the drugs have been properly destroyed—and they have, but just to be sure of it, you push the rest off the dock. Job well done, you'd say.

You turn on your heel, smiling underneath your mask. You think he's cute, standing like he is with a couple of his guys pointing guns at you. It's sweet.

When you toss the next bomb, they shoot it, honestly assisting you. It does what all bombs do: it explodes. Only this time, a bout of smoke covers the expanse of the air and it lingers. It sets over everyone and makes it easier for you to make your little get away as you hear boots stomping away as the rest of these “brave” souls escape.

“Long time no see.”

You turn, amusement coloring your face—though he can hardly see it between Bruce's mask and your masquerade-esc one of your own. You tilt your head as you take in the sight of him watching you closely. You walk nearer to him, but don't allow him too much pleasure of your up-close and personal company.

“You were behaving.”

He hums, shrugging a shoulder. “I wouldn't say all that.” He examines your little mask, and you can practically see his hidden smile. “Ooh,” he says, “smart girl.”

It’s your turn to shrug, “I know a thing or two.” You reach for your belt, unhooking the pair of cuffs resting there. “So are you gonna turn yourself in or do I have to do it myself?”

Crane hums. “I have other plans.”

“Alright then.” You sigh, playing with the cuffs as you peek at him through the mask. “I'll do it myself.”

He chuckles. You make the first move, stepping forward and pushing away his hand when he tries shooting you. You're hurt, honestly, as you disarm him and kick his gun away. With being so close, you have the advantage because you're faster than him. Every blow he makes is easily dodged by you.

When you turn on your heel and run, he follows after you as you climb on top of a few small crates, just to turn right back and jump onto him. It's easy for you to swing around his body until your legs wrap around his neck, taking another round before letting him slam into the ground with the strength of your throw. You land on your feet, allowing the cool night air to hit the skin of your bare arms and thighs. If only you hadn't had to wear so much protection, the breeze would have felt so nice.

You jangle the cuffs once more. “Last chance to settle down.”

Crane groans as he pulls himself up from the ground, his muscles sore already from the exertion of the fight. He pulls his mask off, revealing his pretty face as a deep sigh leaves him. He looks up at you with those cold blue eyes, examining your body from top to bottom as he does. His gaze lingers on your thighs, the supple flesh seemingly alluring to him.

“Actually, I was thinking something a little more…” you watch him reveal one of your cherry bombs to you, already lit as the sparks go down the stem of it, and he looks up at you and smiles, “...explosive.”

You already know that Jonathan Crane is mentally insane, but it's always interesting to see him prove it.

“Fuck,” you mutter, glancing at the missing space on your belt. “Well, bye.”

You grip a smoke bomb and set it off before his can blow, the both of you escaping just in time for the blow to take over. As Crane stands from his ducked position and he waves away the smoke to clear it up, his coughing subsides when he spies no sign of you anywhere.

But the memory of the cherry-shaped birthmark on the inside of your thigh is ingrained in his mind.

~

“Cherry.”

You turn slowly to keep from disturbing the tray of glasses in your hand. Spotting the origin of the call, he tosses you a key card.

“Room three.”

You sigh gently, passing the tray to another employee as you turn to make your way to the private rooms. You fix your hair on the way, renewing your lipstick as you come up on the hall.

You swipe the card, walking into the third room to set it up for your patron. You're waiting on the large sofa for all of two minutes before the door opens again. You smile at the sight of your customer.

“Why, hello, Cherry,” Crane smiles, closing the door softly behind him. He's not as fancy today, a button down that he has neglected to button all the way up and a pair of black slacks to match. It's a nice look on him, paired with his tousled hair and framed glasses.

“Hello, doctor,” you greet, your mood suddenly rising at the prospect of some alone time with your favorite criminal. “Do I have an appointment with you tonight?”

It’s been a couple of nights since you last saw him. He's been busy, you presume.

“You do,” he nods, walking into the room. You stand to meet him on the way. His eyes rake over your body, appreciating the sight of the dark red adoring your tiny skirt, your bralette, your lipstick. “I love that color on you.”

You hum gratefully. “That's kind of the point, isn't it?” It is your namesake, after all.

His hands land on your hips, grazing the bare skin they find with appreciative fingers. “What kind of red is it?” He hums, allowing his eyes to take you in. “Scarlet, rose…ruby, perhaps?”

You don't react, smiling at him as you ignore the heavy beating of your heart. Parting your lips, you let out a gentle chuckle. “Cherry.”

“Ah,” he nods, smirking. “That makes sense.”

Placing your hands on his chest, you begin to slowly walk him backwards toward the sofa. “What would you like, doctor?”

He falls onto the cushions with a little bounce, staring up at you with his piercing gaze. His hand cups the back of your thigh, caressing the skin thoughtfully as you stifle the shudder threatening to break. He smiles. “Dance for me.”

You nod gently, examining the expanse of his face. Jonathan Crane is a man of microexpression. He doesn't often let on what he's thinking, and he isn't partial to freely telling. You've always found yourself watching him too closely, waiting for a subtle change, anything to give away what he's really thinking. You take your bottom lip between your teeth, just the slightest nip before you let it free again.

“As you wish,” you whisper.

You break away from him, turning up the dial for the music to play, and walking toward the mini stage and its pole, just waiting for you to join it. You take hold of the cold steel, locking eyes with the man staring back at you, his gaze intense and unyielding. You like this little game between you, this game that pools so much heat within you.

He doesn't let a single movement go unnoticed as you dance for him. Every sway, every dip, every swivel is appreciated in his eyes, and you enjoy the attention at its fullest. He shakes his head, sighing to himself as he praises you.

“I love the way you move,” he says. “So smooth and graceful.”

You giggle lightly. “Why, thank you.”

“A beauty like you deserves to be praised,” he replies, leaning back with an arm thrown over the back of the sofa. He thinks to himself, nibbling his bottom lip and watching you closely.

“Well,” you turn back around, practically hugging the pole as you bend down low to your knees, “I'm feeling praised.”

You stand back up, slowly, sensually, never letting your gaze wander from his own. “Good.” His voice is nearly a purr.

There's a moment where he finds himself lost in the sight of you. He doesn't speak, he doesn't hum. His eyes stay glued to your figure, mesmerized by the spell of your hips swaying in the mood lighting.

He strokes his bottom lip, tilting his head up at you. “There was an explosion the other night at the dock,” he says. “Did you hear?”

You hum, “Here and there, the patrons talk.” You glance over your shoulder at him, “Which one?”

“Chesterport.” Again, you hum. “They say that Ruby Red crashed. Some of her bomb casings were left behind.”

That's one of the only downsides to your bombs. The casings. You don't flinch. “Was there something going on?”

He tilts his head, smirking. “This is Gotham, sweetheart. There's always something going on.”

You shrug. “Then it's probably not that bad.”

Your answers intrigues him. He furrows his brow, “I've never asked.” He sits up, leaning forward curiously. “What do you think about this vigilante, ‘Ruby Red’?”

You're treading on dangerous waters now. If you blow your cover to him, things could end really badly for you.

“You've never needed to ask. It's not really a topic of discussion here.” You turn to him, your dance never halting for a moment as you bend down, your hands on your knees as you roll back up to your full height. He never looks away, relishing in the intensity.

“But what do you think?”

You don't let any silence linger. You say the first thing on your mind and hope it's good enough to pass. You've always had a cunning tongue, you're sure you can get by well enough.

“I think that if she keeps busting the criminals of Gotham, then I'm going to run out of clients.” You chuckle lightly, “Same for the fucking Batman.”

His brows raise in surprise. “So you want her to stop.”

You shrug. “I want her to stay away from you.” You send a wink his way. “You pay me best.”

He sets a hand over his chest. “I thought we had a real connection, Miss Cherry.”

“We do,” you hum. You break away from the pole, stepping slowly over to him as you bend down to rest your hands on the back of the sofa, caging him in. Your faces are inches apart. You tip his chin up slightly with the very tip of your finger. “You, me, skin-to-skin, money-to-palm.”

He sighs gently when you let go of him, shifting your dance into his lap. “Naughty girl,” he tuts. “I thought I wasn't allowed to touch.” Just as he says it, he smooths a hand down your side.

“That's never stopped you before,” you chuckle. “You know you can touch, darling, you're just not allowed to fuck me.”

He hums regretfully. “Such a pity,” he says. There's another pause. “Have you ever been told you look like her?”

Shit.

“Like who?”

“Ruby Red.”

“No.” You look at him, raising an innocent brow. “Why, do I?”

He shrugs. “There's a resemblance.”

You turn it back on him, “So you've seen her before?”

He seems proud of that fact. He leans in slowly, catching your own chin this time. “Up close and personal.”

You love this little game of yours. You close more space, your voice low. “I thought she only got up close and personal with the bad boys.”

“Am I not?” he asks.

Your voice is a whisper. “A little bit.” You break away from him again.

He takes in a deep breath. Thinking. “Can I tell you something?”

You wink at him. “Anything you want, my darling doctor.”

“I was at that dock that night,” he confesses. “Chesterport?”

“Were you?” You feign surprise. “Were you misbehaving?”

He doesn't reply immediately, watching the expressions on your face as you continue on. He smiles, tilting his head. “Well, I wasn't behaving well.”

“Good. I find it boring when you do.”

“I saw her…” He grabs your arm, though not roughly. He takes your arm and pulls you back into him so you stand between his legs. He maneuvers your hands onto his shoulder, setting his own on your waist. You lean into him, wrapping your arms closer. “Up close and personal. I spoke to her, actually. You know what she told me?”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“ ‘You were behaving.’ ” He smiles, staring at your face. “That's what she said.” You still don't flinch. You can't. Anything you do could tip him off, but you have a feeling that your efforts will prove to be futile. He is insistent. “You know,” he narrows his eyes, “you sound a lot like her, too.”

Well, it's too late to change that.

You raise a brow, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Oh, so you think I’m Ruby?”

“I think it'd be quite the reveal,” he shrugs. “You definitely picked a great work spot if you were her. You're surrounded by criminals of all kinds, you get good intel. Hell, you were here just the other night listening to my conversation with Mr. Liste. I mean, who else would have figured out when and where we were meeting?”

“Okay,” you laugh gently, licking your bottom lip, “even if I was Ruby, how would you figure it out? Because I sound like her?”

He licks his lip this time, sighing gently. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your thigh, loving the feeling of your skin under his palm.

“When I saw her,” he begins, “she did this thing where she put her legs around my neck—scandalous, I know. When she had me down, just for a moment, I saw something…” He hooks his hand behind your knee, lifting it up to his side. Your heart plummets to your stomach, but you ignore it in favor of being partial. “It was something…on her upper thigh, on the inside.” His hand smooths under your skirt, slowly, slowly pushing it up. “A birthmark.” He pushes it all the way up, the expanse of your flesh and the slip of your panties revealed to him. “Like a cherry.”

He looks down and pauses at the sight of your bare flesh, barren of any mark, any blemish—just smooth, clear skin. Stopped in his tracks, he hums as he looks back up at you.

You raise a brow, lifting his chin. “Are you done?” you wonder, letting your hand fall back to his shoulder. “A few inches more and you would be past the touching rule.”

He tilts his head, his other hand reaching toward your leg. You reach a hand down, forgetting yourself as you grab his wrist and drop the smile from your face. Your eyes lock, and he grins. You know he's won as you drop your hand.

He wipes the makeup from your skin, the cherry birthmark showing itself in all its splendor. His hand lingers as he stares up at you. His triumph is subtle. There isn't much he needs to say. He leans back, brushing your knee.

“Hello, Miss Ruby.”

You stare at him for a while, planning your next course of action. You could kill him, but then you'd have to face Bruce—and you don't want to do that at all. You could knock him out, claim he broke the “touching” rule, but he'd just let the cat out of the bag. Then you'd be dead.

So instead…you smile. You smile at him and show how impressed you are by his investigation. “Smart boy,” you praise, mirroring his words from a few nights before. “The one time I don't cover it, you find me out.”

He shrugs. “I know a thing or two.” He sighs, examining you from head to toe. He taps his fingers on your thigh. “Now what is to be done about you?”

You let out a long sigh as you lower yourself into his lap, moving closer so that your bodies are practically pressed together. You keep your arms around his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck.

“You keep quiet,” you smile, “or I put you behind bars? Maybe I'll even throw you in one of your little cells at Arkham.”

His own hand smooths along your thigh, coming up higher so it strokes the round of your ass. “Sweetheart, you are in the middle of a nightclub run by one of the biggest bosses in the city.” He cradles the side of your neck like he'll kiss you. “Do you really think you’ll have the upper hand when they learn that one of their favorite dancers is also one of the city's pesky avengers?”

Your face doesn't change, but your heart is beating so quickly. You think he can feel it with the way he holds you, his hand right over your pulse. The danger you would be in if anyone ever found out is dire…

“All I would have to do is offer to take you in, ensure you never cause problems again. They would release you to me, and I could do…” you swear you can see his eyes rolling back, feel his body shuddering at the idea of such a thing, “...whatever I wanted.”

You refuse to admit the things his words are doing to you.

“I could make you crazy. I could make you…absolutely deranged,” he suggests. “I could visit you every single day, turn your mind to mush, have my way with you as long as I wanted.” He breathes in deeply as he removes his glasses, resting the tip of it between his lips as he sighs heavily through a grin. “You would beg me to do things to you that would make a good girl blush.”

You could almost feel your thighs shaking. The anticipation of his threat—his promise—is sent straight to your core as you try not to clench around nothing. He'd surely feel it with the way you sit atop him. The very idea has your heart beating even quicker, but you don't show it. Not even for a moment. You can't show such a weakness to him, he'd never let you live it down.

So you simply hum and shrug a nonchalant shoulder. “But you won't.”

“Won't I?” He sets his glasses down and leans in, so close to your lips yet so, so far all at the same time. His eyes pierce your soul, they dig deep until you can't control the slightest shiver rushing up your spine. “You'd be ruined. Even worse, I could give a heads up to the cops. You'd be on the run from both sides of the fight.” He chuckles, “I could make things…extremely difficult for you.”

He licks his bottom lip between his teeth. Just thinking about it makes his blood sing. With a sigh, he seems to calm himself. “Or…I could make things rather easy. Beneficial, even. It would be nice having someone like you in my pocket to get rid of my competition when I need it. And it'd be nice for you to have someone like me to deliver information to you when you need it.” He pinches your chin lightly. “This could be a very mutually benefiting relationship.”

When he stops, you raise a brow at him. “But?”

“But,” he agrees, “if we decide on this, I require some assurance.” He shrugs. “Attention, if you will.”

Your lip rises in a smirk. “You want me to fuck you?”

He hums. “Decisions, decisions.”

You roll your eyes to keep from clenching your thighs. Shaking your head, you glance away as you feign disgust. “Ugh,” you groan. “You're such a man.”

Completely unbelieving, he questions, “And you don't want me?” You turn back to him. “You're telling me that you don't wish we could do more than just…touch?” He raises a hand to your cheek, hovering his lips over yours as he teases you. You try not to react, but it's hard. “Do I not attract you?”

You steady your breath. “And what makes you think that I do?”

There's a moment of silence where he just…watches you. The amusement glints in his eyes and you know you've screwed up…again.

“Do you know why a cat's eyes expand so much when they look at their owners?” he asks. “Like little dimes.”

You chuckle. “Because they love their owners. This is not that.”

He disregards your answer. “Well, some of the science is a little more practical. In the dark, pupils will expand to let in more light in order to allow our brains to take in more information. When looking at someone you find attractive, your eyes will expand in the same manner—to take in more of them, to gain more information.” He strokes your cheek. “Every time you look at me, sweetheart, your eyes grow ever so slightly. Right now…” he smiles, “dimes.”

You don't want to hear this. “Listen, Jon–”

“You lick your lips a lot in order to draw my attention to them, to raise my attraction for you.” He tilts his head, and you have to fight the urge to lick your lips as you do the same, forgetting your smile as you stare darkly at him. You don't appreciate the way he picks you apart like this, things so hard for you to change. Mental, psychological things.

“You mirror me.” You straighten your head as soon as he says it, which only makes his smile grow. He's so proud of himself. You want to prove him wrong but you keep proving him right. “You adopt my mannerisms in order to create a bond between us. When you look at me, your body–”

“I think I get it,” you interrupt quickly. You've heard enough.

“Oh…” he pretends to pout. “Don't feel bad. You did try so hard to hide it. But you forget, I've dedicated my life to studying these kinds of things.”

You look away from him, thinking quietly to yourself as you contemple on your course of action. You really don't have much of a choice…

Bruce could protect you, you're sure, but you'd still be in a lot of danger. They would never stop looking for you, none of them, and you know that one day they would.

You sigh, “So I either fuck you or spend the rest of my life running from both the law and crime.”

He tuts to himself, too proud of himself to hide his grin. “Decisions, decisions.”

You really have no choice. On the bright side, you're getting laid.

You collect a big breath, letting it out in a heavy sigh as you release your inhibitions and give in. This should be fun, at least.

“I'm warning you,” you say, “I'm a scratcher.”

He smirks. “I'm a biter.”

Your lips crash together as you grip his hair between your fingers, pulling roughly as the both of you join in a fierce kind of passion that leads to flushed skin and heavy breaths and trembling limbs. It's the kind of passion that burns anything in its wake and leaves you questioning in the morning whether or not you regret the night before.

Immediately he lives up to his word as his teeth sink into your bottom lip. You moan into his mouth, moving his head back as you lift onto your knees to tower over him. The lust is fast, and the urge is strong. He grunts against your lips, pulling you closer to his body as you both devour each other in rough, carnal desire.

It sets a fire within you knowing that you’ve managed to turn the calm and composed Dr. Crane into just another man desperate to give into his lustful cravings. He’s no longer the esteemed doctor you know him to be…now he’s just Jonathan… and that’s a sweet reward you’ve already grown a tooth for.

You grind into his lap, sighing at the way his growing erection feels rubbing into you. A choked sound erupts from his throat as he grabs your waist, moving your hips against him. Your moans fall from your lips, a deep sound in your chest meant to encourage him.

You place a hand over his, gripping it to pull it away as you remove yourself from his lap. Sinking onto your knees, you look up at him through hooded eyes You undo his belt with quick fingers, caught in the heat of the moment. He watches you with kiss-swollen lips, his breath unsteady as you look up at him through hooded eyes. Your hand strokes his lap, moving closer and closer to his crotch before the palm of your hand is massaging him.

He groans, and you can feel his cock twitching in his pants. Eager to set him free, you release him from the confines of his slacks and take him in your hand. A breath escapes you at the sight. Half-hard, he’s well-endowed, and the tiniest part of you feels guilty at the way you feel your need for him rising within you. That part of you is quickly squashed by that same need as you massage the head of his cock with your thumb and he lets out the most delicious sound.

You inhale the heady scent of him, there’s something so expensive and male about him. As you dip your head down, you drag your tongue along the underside of his cock and listen to his quick breath. The dribble of precum that lands on your tongue is a welcomed taste that you immediately endorse as you wrap your lips around the head of him. When you suck, Jonathan’s a goner, reduced to little grunts and tiny puffs through his lips. You’re guessing he doesn’t get laid much.

But a man of his temperament? You suppose he doesn't need to.

He’s hard by the time you’ve taken him down to your throat, your lips brushing his pelvic bone as the slightest gag tickles your throat. You moan as you come up, suckling around him before letting him slip out with a pop. Through grunts, Jonathan shakes his head as he looks down at you. “Come now, sweet girl,” he says. “You shouldn’t play with your food.”

It amuses you that he refers to himself as food. You were pretty sure this whole time he depicted himself the predator and you the prey, but you’re sure there’s an insinuation in there that still leaves him in charge. Either way, you just let a deep chuckle bubble in your chest as you take him again. His hand tangles in your hair, flexing there as he holds you with no real intent to guide you. Yet.

You bob your head up and down his length, keeping your rhythm slow and measured to tease him without actually teasing. And he lets you for a while, watching you with blinking eyes as you suck around him. When he’s fed up, his grip in your hair tightens. “You can do better than that, Cherry.”

You take his words for what they are and suck harder. His jaw clenches as he inhales sharply through his teeth. His gasping hand urges you on, guiding you up and down the length of him to feel his rising pleasure. You move faster, forgetting your teasing for the sake of the heat between your thighs. It grows as you listen to his irregular breaths, as you feel him twitch in your mouth. Your hand snakes between your thighs and teases your clit through the fabric of your cherry red panties.

Between your laving tongue and his tightened grasp, you make quick work of building him up. When you swear he’s on the verge of losing the remainder of his control, he pulls you off of him with the same sultry pop as earlier. He leans his head back and catches his breath, licking his chapped lips as his hand flexes in your hair.

A grin spreads over his lips as he lolls his head to take you in once again. “You’re something special. I knew you would be,” he says. “I wonder if your little cunt is as tight as your throat.”

His words send shivers down your spine, but you’re good at pretending they don’t. Or, at least, if he notices it, he doesn’t say anything. You slowly rise to your feet once more, crawling back into his lap in an attempt to kiss him again. As you lean in, his hand meets your throat as he keeps you away from him. He eyes you, a predatory gaze in his eyes watching your bated breath, your dark eyes, your fluttering lashes.

Without a word, he maneuvers you to lay on your back, his hand still wrapped securely around your throat as he spreads your legs wide. You bring a hand up to his arm, gripping it as you allow your nails to dig into the skin. He smirks, bringing a hand between your thighs and teasing the fabric covering your pussy.

He groans deep in his throat, chuckling to himself. “You’re so fucking wet. All from sucking my cock.” He presses his finger against your clothed clit and a tiny gasp leaves you. It’s a delicious sight. “You’ll do perfectly,” he says mostly to himself.

Another shudder runs down your spine, but this one is more perceptible. A dark chuckle arises from his chest as you watch him smooth his hands over your body, slowly, slowly stripping you of your clothes. Your tiny skirt being pulled down your legs, your decorative bra in all its lace being unhooked from your chest. He sighs contently at the sight of your bare breasts, one hand reaching up to cup you before he kneads the doughy flesh in his palms.

You moan at the feeling, your eyes fluttering closed as you arch your back against him. His finger flicks and circles your nipple, shooting an election shock straight to your core. Your clit pulses, needing him so badly to pay attention to it as he does your hardening nipples. His other hand brushes down your skin and dips beneath your panties, if not to give you what you want, then to remove them from your body. And he does, very, very slowly as he distracts you with his hot tongue on your sensitive nipple, his mouth latched on like he's starving.

What you're doing is dangerous. If anyone were to catch you, you would both end up in a lot of trouble—you probably more than him.

You could say he made you do it—technically he did; although considering your willingness, it probably doesn't matter. You could say he forced you down and ripped your clothes off, told you he would hurt you if you screamed. That would mean he broke the rules, he would be punished according to Gotham fashion.

But he could just as easily spill your secret on the table. He could tell everyone who you were, and that's more dangerous than being fired for having sex with a patron.

There are so few decisions, all with terrible outcomes that could lead to a very difficult life for you.

But you don't have the time to think about that when his mouth latches onto your pussy. Your back arches and your eyes squeeze shut as he licks into you. Your parted lips gasp for breath as his tongue plunges deep inside of your hot cunt. A deep groan shudders within you, and you bury your hands in his hair in an attempt at pulling him even closer.

He mumbles something against your soaked folds, pulling back with a sigh. “Fucking delicious,” he praises, diving back in with the drive of a starved man.

His fingers prod at your opening, pushing inside of you and filling you with the thickness of them. They curl and you curl with them.

You wrap your legs around his head and dig your heels into his back. When he sucks on your clit, you're a goner. Every lick and suck only grows your need for him, for this awful man who you cannot allow to cloud your judgment. But it's far too late for that. You roll your hips against his face, needing more but only receiving what he gives you—the deep coaxing of his fingers, the insistent licking of his tongue, the cruel sucking of his lips.

Your legs twitch as you near that desperate release. It's becoming too much. You need it so badly, you can almost taste it–

You whine when he pulls away from you, licking his lips as he pulls away. “You're so needy,” he chuckles. “As much as a needy whore as I thought you'd be. You know, this job suits you almost as much as plain prostitution would.”

You ignore him because he's annoying. You unhook your legs from his shoulders, moving to sit up with a hand on his chest. For the moment, he lets you lay him back against the arm of the sofa.

“I think it's unfair that I'm naked and you're still fully clothed,” you say, reaching for his buttons.

He hums. “Then you should fix that…”

You straddle his hips as you undo his buttons, taking your time in unlooping each individual one as more and more of his skin is revealed to you. You smooth your hands over the expanse of his chest, leaning forward to take his lips between your own. You sigh against him, your hands grasping his sides, and you can't help the way your nails dig into his skin and drag.

A strangled moan erupts from his throat, his head knocks back at the feeling. He reaches up to grab your arms, cupping your elbows as he grinds his teeth. A heavy breath escapes you, and you reach your hands down to undo his belt. “And you call me the whore,” you quip, a devilish smirk curving your lips.

Jonathan chuckles when you unzip his pants, lifting his hips to help you pull them down until he's completely bare, save for his shirt hanging off his shoulders.

You smirk, leaning down to ghost your lips over his. “I think I should make you beg.”

He raises an amused brow. “Do you now?” He leans forward as you shift away from his face. “And what makes you think I'd beg you for anything?”

“I just want to hear you say it.” Your lips barely brush his, pulling back when he pushes forward, pushing forward when he pulls back. “It's not a big deal. I just want you…to beg me…to fuck you.”

The pauses are where kisses should be. But you don't give them to him. You stare at him, your eyes taunting and your lips swollen from the abusive kisses they'd been granted earlier.

The more time you spend staring at him, the more intrigued he becomes by you. He could not have come across a better business partner…

“Fine,” he shrugs nonchalantly. You feel his cock twitch at the lips of your pussy, wanting so badly to be inside of you. He licks his lips, taking in the smallest breath, “Please, Miss Ruby…” he says as his hands find your waist. “Please fuck me. Please wrap that pretty little pussy around my cock and ride me like the good girl you are.”

You smirk as you shudder, his dominance over you mixing with his—albeit weak—begging for you creating such a sweet cocktail on your tongue.

“See?” you whisper, finally bending down to close the gap as you wrap your lips up in his. Pulling away, his teeth hold onto your lip before he lets it slap gently against your bottom teeth. “That wasn't so hard, was it?”

He grabs your hips and pulls you down, his perfectly aligned cock thrusting all the way into you in one fluid motion. Your moan is sudden, a trembling thing that makes your eyes flutter and your lips part so prettily. He grunts as he leans his head back. You can see the veins in his neck, his clenching jaw. You curl your fingers around his shoulders as you hold on tightly to them.

A quiet curse drops from your lips as you roll your hips on top of him. It's a deep roll, one of those movements that require your whole body to complete. He fills you with himself, and you can't help the shudder that comes from the way he encourages your hips.

Lifting up just barely to the tip of his cock, you drop yourself back down and allow a louder moan to fall out of you. Already drunk on the feeling, you chase it in quick succession, rising and falling and rising and falling until you create a steady rhythm full of the sounds of slapping skin, the slickness of your arousal mixing with his. It's easy to become addicted, it's easy to succumb to the feeling that is only this forbidden kind of pleasure.

You're a hero (of sorts), and he's a villain. You're not supposed to be riding his cock in the middle of a nightclub, moaning his name as he moans yours.

Your hands grasp eagerly at skin, each sudden spike of pleasure forces your nails to dig into his awaiting flesh. The groan he gives is nearly a whimper as he twitches inside of you.

When you look up, your eyes are caught in the reflection of a mirror across the room. The sight of your bodies moving together, the grinding, the thrusting, the grasping—your head is swirling with intoxication.

“Your thighs are shaking so much,” he huffs, his hands tightening on the meat of your thighs. He pushes you further down, and you nearly choke on your own breath.

Your eyes flutter at the mirror, stuck to the sight. “That's good, baby, keep doing that,” you moan, spurring on his desperation.

You actually whimper when he presses the pad of his thumb to your clit. In tight, quick circles, he builds you up as you continue to ride him. Your moans rise, high and breathy and way more pathetic than you intended for them to be.

“Jonathan,” you gasp. The roll of your hips becomes more demanding, short and quick. You're not going to last long like this. You squeeze your eyes shut, “Just a little harder.”

“You're so,” he huffs, “good for me.”

You know he hates it, but you're so blissed out that you can't bring yourself to care when you moan out to him. “Jon, I'm gonna cum.” You drop your head, gripping on tight and thrusting your hips. “Fuck, you're gonna make me cum.”

He doesn't seem to care either, his fingers still going on your clit. “I'm not going to let you cum until you beg me, sweetheart.”

It doesn't matter if it's supposed to be an indignity. Blissed out or not, you couldn't care less about begging him for anything. Your job was the pleasing of (usually) men. Even though you're not really supposed to be fucking them, there are other ways for them to take their pleasure without touching you.

So the words tumble effortlessly from your lips as you continue to grind. “Please, baby. Please let me cum, I need it,” you gasp, your words urgent and full of the need that's driving you.

His thumb rubs faster, rougher, keen on making you fall apart above him. That's all he wants right now, to feel you fall apart from the pleasure he gives to you.

When you do, it's with a muffled shout. Yes, the walls are thick, and yes, it's unlikely someone would hear you, but you don't want to take that chance as the pleasure raids your body. It soaks into your bones and leaves you trembling. You tighten around his cock as he groans, watching your eyes glaze over with the intensity of your release.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your lips part as you gasp for breath. Your hips stutter in their quest to draw out your orgasm for as long as you can as your thighs shake.

“Fuck.” The sound is nearly a sob, still struggling to come down from your high as you let out a couple more rolls. As you look down at him, your mind slowly coming back to you, you can't help your smirk as you stroke your hand over his chest. “You did so good. I'm so proud of you.”

Jonathan ignores the tiny swell of pride at your praise, sitting up to kiss you in that hungry way he seems to love. He pulls out of you as he continues to sit up, moving you backward until he's got you laying on your back. You look up at him, your hands playing with the hair at the base of his neck. Your limbs are heavy, your legs still twitching with the aftershocks of your release.

“Now that you've had your fun…” he says, as though he didn't enjoy watching you above him, riding his cock and telling him good he was making you feel. His teeth graze your jaw, nipping you as he does, “...it's my turn.”

You're still sensitive from your fresh release ,but you don't think he cares. It doesn't matter much anyway. You've concluded that this man is as good with manipulating bodies as he is with manipulating minds.

He takes your leg, spreading you wide to open you up as he pushes his cock back inside of you. You both sigh when he buries himself to the hilt, but you don't have time to relish the delicious stretch because he's already fucking into you, thrusting into you fast and rough, like this is his last chance to do it.

Your eyes squeeze shut, the oversensitivity pickling at you before it melds into the white hot pleasure of his cock. He fists the arm of the couch by your head, his knuckles white and his jaw clenched.

His hair falls over his forehead, sticking to the sheen of sweating coating his skin as his erratic breaths pass through his plump lips. A rough thrust has you whining his name, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and finding purchase at his back. He ruts into you like there’s no tomorrow, his grunts and groans fading in your mind as you lose yourself in the pleasure.

“Fuck, you're so tight,” he grunts. “I expected you to be well used, sweetheart, but this cunt feels fucking new.”

You know he's calling you a whore, but you really don't care. It brushes just right and sends tingles through your body, tingles that are drowned by the crashing waves of his desperation. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you still.

You feel Jonathan's tongue dart out to lick a slip of your skin, and your breath shudders when his teeth graze at your flesh. It feels nice, the way he uses his teeth to mark you. His breaths pass as moans in your ear, and you can't help but to hold him closer, your nails sitting idly in their burrowed spots at his back.

On a rough thrust, he slips up as he clamps his jaw around your shoulder, nearly growling as he loses against his need to sink his teeth into you. The sudden pain that spasms from his bite shoots through you, and you can't help but to moan at the feeling. One of your hands flies to his hair, tangling in his dark locks and pulling lightly. “Fuck, yeah,” you sigh. “God, that feels so good, baby.”

He pulls away from your neck, though his thrusts never let up. He pins you down as he fucks you, reaching a hand out and bringing it down hard on your ass. You gasp at the feeling of his harsh slap, but it only elevates your pleasure until you're seeing stars.

He smacks you again, but your little cry turns into a whine as his thumb meets your clit. He's close. You can feel it. He clenches his teeth and presses his forehead to yours as he continues to fuck into you. Your head swarms with the taunting of a release, your breaths mingling and your mixed arousal smearing all over your skin, dripping onto the couch beneath you.

“Fuck, Jon. Baby, I'm gonna cum again.” You can't stop the words from coming out of you. They're heavy and demanding, they crave attention just like the rest of you.

His nose nudges your neck, inhaling your scent and muffling his higher pitched grunts. “Gonna cum in you, Ruby,” he huffs. “I'm gonna fuck my cum into this tight little pussy.”

His sloppy thrusts support his claim, replacing the measured pumps of his cock into an erratic rhythm that takes you too long to catch up to. You wrap your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. “Please,” you gasp. “I'm so close.”

His hips continue to snap into your own, shoving in hard and rough, reaching so deep that you think you'll be feeling him for days. The pad of his thumb on your clit continues to build you up, bringing you higher and higher until you can no longer control yourself. The coil in your gut snaps and sends you spiraling, your vision blurry and white as you gasp until you can no longer breathe. Jonathan's grunt is more of a whimper as you rake your nails down his back, certain that you're leaving your mark on him as he'd left his mark on you, trading his purple bruises in for angry red lines in his flesh.

A whiny kind of moan tears from your throat as you grind your hips into him, urging on your release. Jonathan moans as your walls spasm around him, clenching so tight. Your cry gets caught in your throat, the blunt head of his cock still pounding inside of you as you fall apart.

He uses you to his own end, his blinding release catching up just to spill inside of you, painting you in white. With a growl, his teeth sink into your shoulder again and they don't let up. The sharp pain mixes with the pleasure until it's all a blur behind glazed eyes.

It takes a while before the pleasure wanes enough for him to loosen up. “Good girl,” he coaxes, lost in the aftershocks of a powerful orgasm. Your legs shake and your jaw ticks as you continue to milk every last drop of his cum, ensuring none of it goes to waste.

Your breaths sound loud in your ears, both of your heavy sighs mixing together as you settle. He pets your hair, pulling away from your neck and watching you through lust-blown eyes. With as much strength as you can muster, you lean forward and push your lips against his. The kiss is just as demanding as the first few, but not as focused, your exertion adding to the laze of it.

With one last rough thrust—and a surprised cry from you—he pulls out of your full pussy. You whine at the empty feeling he leaves you with, especially when he lifts his weight off of you to stand. When he does, his eyes shut as he winces at the pain he finds in his back. Nevertheless, he stands to his feet and stretches his back, sighing at the few pops he finds in the process.

You lay lazily on the couch, an arm draped over your eyes as the other hangs off the cushion. You feel good, after a lazy stretch of your own (also accompanied by a few satisfying pops), you feel loose and limber.

Jonathan leaves you laying there as he redresses himself, taking time in buckling his belt, in buttoning his shirt, in adjusting his hair. You lounge on the couch, shifting onto your stomach and watching him through hooded eyes. You're dripping between your thighs, the air smells like sex, and you're going to have to take a very long shower after this, but you honestly couldn't care less.

You're going to have to figure out how to weasel out of this (temporary, if you can help it) deal of yours, but that's a thought for later. Right now…you're content.

He comes to stand in front of you, looking down as he reaches for his glasses. Placing them on the bridge of his nose, he smiles at you. “I look forward to seeing what we will be desecrating next, Miss Cherry.”

There's an insinuation in his words that alludes to the world outside of this club, ie…he knows where you live and he has no problem showing up to renew your deal. It's an issue and it erupts goosebumps all over your skin, but you feel too good to think about it.

You reach an arm out, wrapping it around his waist and pulling him forward. You open a button near his waist on his shirt, pressing your lips to the bare skin underneath. Then you look him in the eyes as you button it once more. “I will be seeing you, Dr. Crane.”

He chuckles, turning on his heel and walking toward the door. You look after him and hope you're not totally fucked.

Cillian Murphy taglist: @lyarr24​ @runnning-outof-time​ @goblinjnr @kmc1989 @shelbyisms @weepingwitchofthewest @cl-0-vr @thoticious @sinarainbows @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @bernelflo @dragonslayersupremacy @alurafairy @pietroxreader @darkcastle167 @neonpurplestars89 @motopoppp @mrkdvidal1989 @thegen3sisark @niktwazny303 Tag yourself here...

[breadbrobin]

Hi idk if you’re taking reqs but I’ve been reading your posts about Luke Castellan a lot and I think I’m getting obsessed- So could you make a fic/shot about a Luke Castellan x daughter of Apollo reader where they’ve known each other since childhood and they’re kind of like frenemies (friends and/or enemies) and one day he ends up getting badly injured after a quest so she has to take care of him in the infirmary for a week, but ever since that happened he’s been trying to get injured just to go and see reader at the infirmary again?

Sorry if that wasn’t clear, and this is kinda inspired from another fic you made about Luke and daughter of Apollo:)

But if you ever make something like this I would really appreciate it if you tagged me!

two hearts

luke castellan x reader — percy jackson and the olympians

[fem!daughter of apollo reader]

summary: (as above)

warnings: canon typical mentions of violence, kissing, flirting, a couple of swear words, blood, idiots to lovers a lil bit too (can you tell it’s my favourite thing)

word count: 3.5k

(hiiii hello hi!! sorry this took me so long to get out, but here it is!! thank you so much for the request i had a lot of fun with this one (3.5k words of fun apparently). hope you enjoy it!)

———————————————

if someone had told you luke castellan was going to be gone on a quest when you arrived at camp for the summer, you wouldn’t have spent the whole drive to camp preparing to deal with his annoying ass.

you hiked up half-blood hill and over the boundary, noticing the distinct tension in the atmosphere. something was off.

when luke hadn’t come to see you as you dropped your bags off in the apollo cabin, or when you stopped into the infirmary, or even when you walked past the hermes cabin, you were clued in that something was up.

“where’s luke?” you asked chiron curiously.

“he is on a quest, child. sent by his father,” he smiled down at you warmly. “do not worry about him.”

“i’m not worried,” you bit your lip. “just curious. that’s all.”

and that was that.

it was weirdly boring being at camp without luke’s constant snarky comments. ever since you’d both gotten to camp when you were younger, he’d been a persistent thorn in your side. maybe it was because you both were new around the same time, or because you didn’t like it when he hovered around the infirmary, poking his quick fingers into buckets of bandages and medications. whatever it was, he seemed to enjoy irritating you. and you apparently enjoyed it more than you thought.

monotonous days: breakfast, archery, infirmary, training, activities, dinner, bed.

sleepless nights: nightmares of quests and dragons and a bright white scar.

you sighed one night, waking up from yet another dream of flashes and brief images. your siblings were sleeping around you, a couple of them snoring, and you sat up.

the air on the porch was cooler that night, especially for summer time. you wrapped your sweatshirt a little tighter around yourself and leaned on the porch railing, peering out into the darkness. you just needed a minute, really. you sat down on a chair and relaxed.

you woke up abruptly.

at first, you were confused as to why.

then you saw the figure on the hill.

it was a camper. the hint of orange in the full-moon light told you that much. they were stumbling down—no, they were rolling now.

you stood up and dashed back into your cabin, grabbing your to-go first aid kit. you then turned and ran towards the obviously injured figure. there were only three people it could be. and where were the other two?

you reached them quickly, dropping to your knees beside them and rolling them over.

luke.

it was luke.

the air rushed from your lungs. he was here. he was back. he was alive. you’d never felt such an overwhelming emotion before. it drew slight stinging tears to your eyes.

his eyes were barely open but he gripped your arm with a strength you didn’t think his weak body could still possess. “y/n?”

“just hold on, luke,” you whispered. there were injuries all over his body. you hardly knew where to start. “just hold on.”

“they’re gone,” he said absently.

you looked at him, but didn’t stop trying to help. “who’s gone?”

“everyone,” he stared up at the moon.

you bit your cheek and looked over your shoulder. one of your brothers had gone on that quest with him. “wake up!” you shouted. “someone come help!” you turned back to luke. “okay, luke. you’re gonna be okay.”

his cheeks were hollow. it was then that you noticed the way his eye was swollen closed and a dark red angry cut traced its way down the side of his face. you gasped and turned his head gently to see it better.

“not looking good, huh?” he murmured bitterly. “guess i won’t be getting any modelling contracts soon.”

“we’ll see about that,” you muttered. “stay awake, yeah?”

“you’re not the boss of me,” he grumbled, but kept his eyes open as help finally arrived to get him to the infirmary.

he’d had more injuries than you’d originally thought. it was like he’d been attacked by half of the monsters in greek mythology, honestly, based on the peppered burn holes in his shirt, the cuts and scrapes on his arms and knees and the gashes littering his abdomen. oh, and not to mention the gaping spear wound in his right shoulder.

after working all night with some of your siblings and chiron in the infirmary, he was finally stable. finally, he’d be okay.

you volunteered to stay with him to keep an eye on him for the first few hours, though your eyelids were drooping with sleep.

you held his hand. it felt like the right thing to do.

he didn’t stir.

it was strange, being around him without him talking. since you were fourteen, he’d rarely managed to shut up around you. incessant talking and waving his hands around, explaining some new thing he learned in sword fighting or some joke one of his brothers made. it was both infuriating and entertaining. you loved and hated it, just like you loved and hated him.

sitting in silence with luke castellan felt like the world was turning on its head.

a couple of hours passed. you didn’t let go of his hand. not even as you slipped into a dream—a memory, really.

you were fifteen, and it was raining. it had only been a few months since you got to camp. things were still fresh and somewhat unknown. what you did know, though, was you could never get a moments peace anymore.

“y/n?”

you rolled your eyes. of course it was luke. “what?”

“where are you?”

you supposed you were hidden pretty well. sitting among the reeds at the bottom of the lake was one of your favourite places to be. it was cooler there, but even in winter it wasn’t cold. your feet could sit in the water if you wanted them to and the reeds blocked you from the wind and outside attention.

when you didn’t respond, you could hear him coming closer anyway.

“that’s fine, don’t tell me. i’ll find you anyway.”

and he did. he always did.

there was some theory about that, you realised as he sat beside you, the tiny space between the reeds barely big enough to hold both of you. some theory about a string of fate tying people together. some greek myth about people originally having four arms, four legs and two hearts, and when zeus split them down the middle, those people spent the rest of their lives searching for their other halves. drawn together by fate and reconnected always. you arm was pressed against his arm and your leg against his leg, and maybe it felt so right because you were cold and he was warm. not because of some silly soulmate theory that didn’t even make sense. because there was also the idea that maybe he’d put a tracker on you, but you had no idea where he would have gotten that. or maybe you were just bad at hiding.

“i’ve been looking for you,” he said.

you tilted your head in confusion. “what? why?”

“well,” were you mistaken, or were his cheeks kind of red? “i kinda hurt myself at training today. and the people in the infirmary told me to grow up and get over it. but honestly, it really hurts and i just wanted to know if you could heal it.”

you rolled your eyes. “always needing something, huh, castellan? is it so much to ask for you to just want to see me?” you hold your hand out and he extends his sword arm, revealing the cross-muscle cut on his forearm.

“i do want to see you,” he protested. “honestly. it’s not my fault that i’m also coincidentally injured whenever i want to see you.”

you couldn’t stay mad at that smile. “coincidentally, huh?” you handed him a small section of ambrosia from your pocket as your fingers ran over the cut, whispering a prayer to your father. you watched as the skin knit itself closed again, leaving not even a scar on his arm. you pulled back with a smile. “there. done. good as new.”

“thanks, doctor. don’t know what i’d do without you.”

“die a horrible death and be left permanently disfigured? to the point where we’d do a closed casket funeral just so we don’t have to look at your ugly face?” you tilted your head with a teasing smile.

he elbowed you. “shut up, loser. you know you love my face.”

and as you woke up, feeling his hand tighten around yours, you realised you kind of did. there was gauze over the cut on his eye and cheek, covering half of his face. and yet, he was still annoyingly beautiful.

“something on my face?” he mumbled as he saw looking, finally awake. “except for this thing, of course.” he gestured to the gauze.

you smiled wanly. “i’m glad you’re awake.”

“missed me?” he half-grinned.

you snort and drop his hand, patting the back of it and standing up to check his bandages. “you wish.”

he was silent as you checked his bandages and reapplied the few that were loosening. then, as you left to go and get the next person to keep an eye on him, he spoke up. “i missed you.”

you paused in the doorway, a small smile growing on your face. you looked back at him. his eyes were earnest and soft. he looked younger like this. “i’ll be back a few hours. we’ll have dinner together.”

you did have dinner together. in fact, you had almost every meal together for the first few days.

it was quiet, mostly. you didn’t ask him what happened and he didn’t tell you. you knew he’d already been interrogated by everyone else. he didn’t need that from you.

annabeth came and joined you a couple of times, chatting about some new architectural design she’d learned about or a new move she’d learned in training.

you realised how alike they were. family in every way that mattered, regardless of blood.

it didn’t take long for luke to start getting annoying again though.

once he’d been in the infirmary for four days, he regained most of his usual personality. and that meant bad jokes, incessant talking and poorly-timed, half-hearted flirting.

“the sun makes your eyes glow,” he said one day. he’d never had much of a filter, so it wasn’t too out of the blue, but it still caught you a little of guard.

you fumbled the supplies in your hand. “sorry, what?”

he was sitting up on his bed now. his wounds were almost healed. two more days and he’d be out of the infirmary. you didn’t know if you were one hundred per cent happy about that.

“your eyes. they glow in the sun.” he repeated.

you paused, glancing over at him. “thank you…?”

he nodded and leaned back, his eyes staying on you.

that was only the beginning.

within five hours he’d complimented your eyes, your skills, your smile and your kindness. multiple times. it got the point where the other two patients in the infirmary had stopped taking you seriously, just complimenting you instead. that’s where you drew the line.

“okay, luke, you need to stop. this is too much,” you said. you were checking his remaining wounds and nodding happily at them.

“what, am i flustering you? are you blushing?” he teased.

you were not blushing at all, you decided. whether it was strictly true or not was between your brain and your cheeks, not your honesty. “you’re annoying me,” you grumbled. “like, a lot.”

“you know you’ll miss me when i go back to my cabin,” he leaned back on his pillows, a smirk on his lips. it warped the scar on his cheek more than you expected, and it made your heart clench every time.

“if i miss you, you have permission to annoy me for the rest of my life,” you grumbled. you definitely wouldn’t miss this.

finally, he was out of the infirmary.

finally, you could work in peace.

finally, you could— oh, what the hell?

“good morning!” luke said as he waltzed into the infirmary. “i’ve injured myself.”

you looked him up and down as you walked closer. “you look fine to me. what did you do?”

“i fell of the rock climbing wall and hit my head.” he turned his head to show you the small trickle of blood above his ear.

you sighed and led him to a bed. you handed him ambrosia as you used a wet cloth to clean his head. “you were meant to take things easy for the first few days.”

“i did!” he protested. “i was only like, twelve feet up!”

you pursed your lips and shook your head. your hand was under his chin now, stopping him from turning his head to look at you. “taking it easy means no rock climbing at all, dumbass. you’ve been out of here for half a day and you’re already back!”

“maybe i like it in here.” he shrugged, pouting slightly, looking up at you.

“maybe i find you really annoying and ban you from coming in here,” you countered.

“you can’t do that,” he gasped.

“watch me, castellan.” you prodded his cheek mockingly. “don’t mess with me.”

his smile wasn’t exactly the response you were looking for, but you found that you didn’t mind it all too much.

luke came into the infirmary almost every two days for the next two weeks.

there was always some new injury that he couldn’t ignore, that he needed to have you heal. he only came in when you were there though, like he knew your schedule off by heart.

he probably did.

his sheepish smile was becoming a fixture of your days and you couldn’t help but smile a little brighter when you saw it. you couldn’t stop your heart from beating a little faster either, and it was annoying.

in the years that you’d been at camp, luke castellan had driven you up the wall. did you hate him? did you love him? how did you love him? how a friend loves a friend? how a doctor loves a patient? how a lover loves a lover? how did you hate him? why? why anything? why nothing? the questions only got worse.

“another minor injury?” you sighed, hearing his footsteps entering the infirmary. you didn’t know when you memorised the sound of his footsteps, or the rise and fall of his breathing while he slept, but you did.

“uh, not exactly…” the weakness in his voice made your stomach drop.

you turned around to see him clutching a bright red wound on his inner arm. he looked pale. that wasn’t a good sign. the blood was still seeping past his fingers. also not a good sign.

you gasped and pulled him to a bed immediately, pushing him to lie down and placing hard pressure on the wound. you could feel him reaching into your pocket and fishing around for ambrosia. once he found some, he ate it quickly and sighed in relief.

“what the hell happened?” you exclaimed.

he shrugged with one shoulder. “sword training.”

“were you training against the fucking terminator?” you took in the other minor cuts and bruises. your voice was unfairly shaky. you didn’t want to get close to losing him again. even just the thought made you feel sick.

his eyes were soft when they looked up at you. you almost dropped all of your anger right there. “i got sloppy,” he said nonchalantly. “i’ll be fine once i get back to normal.”

“this is an artery,” you said. “you could die.”

he didn’t look all that upset or shocked. “i won’t die, baby. i won’t.”

your stomach gave a pitiful lurch at the nickname. “save your energy.”

“is that your doctorly way of telling me to shut up?” he teased.

“yes, it is,” you nodded. “now, shut up while i help you.”

he looked at you like you were hanging the stars in the sky, not tending to him with hands red from his blood.

no one had stopped talking about luke since he got back. the first failed quest in years, with two of the three members dying and the third one permanently scarred by a dragon. not a good ratio.

you often saw luke sitting alone now, and when he was nowhere to be found, you knew where he was.

maybe there was something to the strings of fate theory, you thought as you found him and sat down beside him among the reeds. they were taller now and more dense, but the two of you had carved out a little spot for yourselves over time. your limbs were still pressed against each other though. that was one thing that would never change.

he was turning something over in his hands. a repetitive motion.

you tried to make sense of what it was, but couldn’t.

“it’s a dragon claw,” he spoke up. “the one that did this.” he pointed at the still-red scar on his face. that was why you couldn’t get rid of that one. magic scars never really went away.

you stayed quiet.

“peter distracted the dragon just in time for me to get my sword back. i got the cut, but when i turned back he was getting thrown against the mountainside.” he shook his head bitterly. “he didn’t stand a chance.”

you stared at a dragonfly on a reed in front of you. “knowing my brother, he just would have been happy to be there. and happy that you’re alive.”

he smiled, but it looked forced and bitter. “yeah. he spent the whole time talking about how lucky we were for this opportunity, and how he was so excited to explore beyond camp… and gianna was the same. they were just…” he was fiddling with his camp beads now.

you watched his movements slowly. it was like he’d never been gone, but also like everything had changed. there was a new tension in the air around him. you weren’t sure if it was you or him.

“don’t be resentful,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

“what?” his eyes turned to you. “what do you mean?”

“don’t resent yourself and the gods for this,” you said, leaning a little closer to him and looking away. the dragonfly hadn’t moved—like it was listening. watching. “peter and gianna made their choices. they’re in elysium now. that’s about as good as it gets.”

he pressed his lips together and nodded. “i know.”

maybe there was something to the two hearts theory too, because you could tell he didn’t. he didn’t agree. he didn’t want to. you slipped your hand into his. “you know i’m always here for you, right, luke? i mean, you annoy me—a lot—but you’re still, well, you. and you’re important to me. i’ll always be there for you. if you want to hold hate in your heart, then be my guest. i’ll just have to hold more love in mine to balance you out.”

he was watching your connected fingers as you spoke. his hands were calloused and hard, but yours were softer. less time spent training and more time spent healing. “love for who?”

you, you thought. you didn’t speak.

he turned to look at you. you were already looking at him. “love for me?”

you swallowed tightly. “luke…”

he leaned in closer, until his lips were moments away from touching yours. one wrong move and you’d touch. or was that the right move? was the wrong move pulling away? leaving him alone—again? that didn’t feel fair. but nor did your pounding heart and your flushing cheeks, and maybe you were blushing now, but that didn’t mean you had to like it.

then you gave in. that string that connected your souls was pulling you too tight. your lips brushed against his softly at first, and before you could think to move any further, his hand was gripping the back of your neck and pulling you closer, and his lips were pressing against yours with the passion of years of built up tension. you’d never hated him at all, you realised. you loved him the whole time. sure, he was irritating. he was chatty. he was pushy and annoying and never stopped bothering you. but you’d missed his bothering, and you’d missed his smile, and when he pulled away to take a breath, you missed his lips with a fiery need that bubbled up from deep down inside you.

“guess i’ll be annoying you for the rest of our lives then, huh?” he said softly, chest rising and falling against yours.

your eyes were still closed, reeling from the kiss. “wasn’t that a given anyway? i wouldn’t want it any other way, personally.”

when he kissed you again, you decided that the theory about two hearts was, in fact, correct. you met as two, seperate halves in a fucked up world that had you grow up far too fast. you grew as two, finding your places at camp, finding your people, but always finding each other first. you met now as one. four arms, four legs, two hearts, meeting in a tumultuous display of love and desire. and that’s how you wanted to stay. your limbs locked with his, your hearts pounding in sync, your every feeling, every emotion, every sensation making your very soul hum with joy. you’d found him, finally, after years of your hearts waiting for this moment. finally, your two hearts were one again.

[larluce]

Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU

Tagging @aceauthorcatqueen , @fallenxjas , @smileytrinity ,@lucifertookmyshoe , @an-entity-i-think , @thecornerofbelu , @griffonskies , @odinjm , @cinnabon-sweetroll-tiramisu , @thelady-mary , @bennedict , @nightninjaboy , @st8-of-grace , @star-rie , @error-username-not-available , @dogberryrowan , @jamieweasley13 , @tansyuduri , @tercais , @robynnemrys , @evadne01 , @serasvictoria02 , @hairdryerducks , @hopeaha , @curiously-lazy , @ harriettesthings This is not one of your requests, but it's important I swear!

LINKS TO THE OTHER PARTS OF THIS AU HERE: PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , PART 10 , PART 11 , PART 12 , PART 13 , PART 14 , PART 15 , PART 16 , PART 17 , PART 18 (You're here) , PART 19

In "La morte of Arthur"

Merlin and Arthur walking side by side and some Knights behind them hunting in the woods.

Merlin: (feeling nauseous and still in pain after they killed a deer for the third time)

Arthur: (asks probably for the million time, very concerned) Are you sure you are alright?

Merlin: (nods) Just a bit of a headache, it'll pass (gives him the spear)

Arthur: (not quiet believing him, but lets the matter be for now and pays attention to his sorroundings again)

Questing Beast: (roars from afar)

Merlin: (recognising it, whisper yells alarmed) Arthur!

Arthur: (recognises it too) We have to go.

Knight 1: But it could be a boar, sire!

Arthur: Is not a boar.

Questing Beast: (appears and roars louder)

Arthur: (shouts) Run! Now! (takes Merlin's wrist and starts running)

All knights: (run)

Questing Beast: (chases them)

Merlin: (trips in the middle of the race, cause his body is still aching) Ow! Damn it!

Arthur: (lifts him over his shoulder quickly and keeps running)

Merlin: What the-😨😳 Arthur!😡

Arthur: You can thank me later! (runs faster)

Time skip. After they informed Uther of the Questing beast and he sends Arthur to kill it.

Arthur, Merlin and the knights just before leaving.

Arthur: (talking to his knights) You've seen the foe we face. It is a creature of nightmare. But you're the best knights of the realm. (thinking) For now. (says) We can and we will kill it before it harms another citizen of our kingdom. For the love of Camelot!

Kinghts: For the love of Camelot!

Morgana: (comes out running down the stairs, yelling) Arthur!

Arthur: (concerned) Morgana, what is it?

Morgana: You cannot face it!

Arthur: (holds her wrists gently and whispers) You had a dream?

Morgana: (nods, still very upset) Please, Arthur! I have seen terrible things, you cannot go!

Arthur: I have to go. I promise everything will be alrigh-

Morgana: (desperate, shouts) No! I will not let you go!

Arthur: Morgana-

Morgana: Merlin will die!

Arthur: (pales)

Merlin: (thinking, shocked) Well, that's new.

Knights: ...

Arthur: (gets close to Morgana and whispers) Alright we won't go. But I need you to help me.

Morgana: (confused, whispers) What?

Arthur: You are very, very ill, Morgana.

Morgana: (understands and starts screaming like she's gone mad) NO! The monster! Is here! Just above us!

Arthur: (playing along) Morgana, what are you talking about, there's nothing there. Morgana!

Morgana: It's going to kill us! It's going to kill us all! (faints)

Arthur: (catches her) Morgana! Morgana! (to Merlin) I can't leave her like this.

Merlin: (nods in understanding and turns to Leon, whispering with begging eyes) Leon?

Leon: (gets the message and speaks up) Sire, I can lead the troops for you. We already know what we're looking for. We can manage.

Arthur: (nods) Be careful. (carries Morgana)

Merlin: (changes Leon's sword and Arthur's excalibur places with magic and aproaches Leon to whisper) Whatever you do, don't let it bite you. (goes back with Arthur while he carries Morgana back to the castle)

Time skip. Uther scolding Arthur.

Uther: You abandoned the mission?! 😡

Arthur: My knights are taking care of it. I couldn't leave Morgana in the state she was in.

Uther: It was just another nightmare of hers. Since when do you hear what she says?

Arthur: I always listen to her! (thinking) And I should have listen to her more before. (Says) And it's not her nightmare that worries me. She has fallen ill. I can not in my good conscience leave her alone when... (stops)

Uther: When what?

Arthur: When we almost lost her last time.

Uther: (relaxes his features) I know you care for her, but you have a duty to this kingdom. You can't just-

Arthur: Did you leave my mother alone when she was ill?

Uther: (hardens his features) It's different.

Arthur: Why? Because she's nothing of me? Because she's just your ward?

Uther: Arthur!

Arthur: (raises his voice) Well you may not consider her family, but I do! And I won't leave her!

Uther: You-

Merlin: (enters suddenly and bows) Excuse my imprudence, your Majesty, but Lady Morgana is asking for Ar-I mean the prince.

Uther: (dryly) And why didn't her maidservant come to tell me that?

Merlin: Gwen is still trying to calm her down, Sire. Lady Morgana is... pretty out of herself.

Uther: (looks at Merlin sternly, but then turns to Arthur and sighs) You can go with her. But if the troop comes back unsuccesful you'll go with the next.

Arthur: Yes, sire (bows and leaves with Merlin)

Time skip. In Morgana's chambers. Gwen with Morgana in bed, hugging her, while Merlin and Arthur are sat beside Morgana in the edge of the bed.

Morgana: Thank you for staying. For moment I thought you wouldn't believe me.

Arthur: You were right about Sophie. May as well be wary. (Puts a hand on her shoulder, comforting) What happened in your dream?

Morgana: (sighs) Nothing is really clear. But I saw the beast and then you laying motionless on the ground and... and then Merlin but in a different place and he was screaming so loudly before he... (stops herself, unable to say it) I don't know what happens before or later. It's all messed up. (With unshed tears) And I hate it! I hate this freaking condition!

Merlin: Don't think like that. You just saved our lifes!

Morgana: Did I really? What if my nightmares aren't just about the near future but the distant future? What if what I see is inevitable?

Gwen: My lady... You should tell them. About the other nightmare.

Morgana: (shakes her head in fear) No.

Arthur: (concerned) What? What is it?

Merlin: (just as concerned) You can trust us. Is it about the beast?

Morgana: No, it has nothing to do with that.

Merlin: Another danger? Is someone else in danger?

Arthur: (realises) Is it about you?

Morgana: (a couple of tears run down her eyes)... I... I don't know. (snuggles more against Gwen)

Gwen: Want me to tell them for you, my lady?

Morgana: (nods)

Gwen: She saw herself inside a pit or a well. Chained by the wrists.

Merlin: (thinking) Could it be the time she was captured? But that's several years in the future. Why would she dream that now?

Gwen: She also saw an old man. She thinks he's the one who put her there in her dream.

Arthur: (thinking, serious) Sarrum. This is when Sarrum imprisoned her. Why is she dreaming this?

Gwen: In her dreams this man tortures her and he... (stops, hesitantly)

Arthur: What? (thinking) Is this about how he repressed her magic? The white dragon? Does she already know she's a sorceress? Why is she so upset?

Morgana: (with a trembling voice but firmly) He forced me, Arthur.

Merlin: (brings a hand to his mouth, eyes wide) Oh, gods!

Arthur: (confused) Forced you? Forced you to what?

Gwen: (gives Arthur a sad look)

Arthur: (realises, in denial) No... no, you can't mean that!

Morgana: (looking smaller than ever) It felt so real.

Arthur: But...(thinking) That's not what he said he did. He never mentioned...

"Not that her time with me was entirely wasted" Arthur suddenly remembers Sarrum's words that day and the sick smile on his face while he said them. "At night you could hear its cries. They were even more heartbreaking than Morgana's".

Arthur: (devasted) No...

Merlin: (holds Morgana's hand, holding back his tears) That you dream it doesn't mean you can't prevent it. Just like you stopped us to go to our own deaths, we can surely avoid this from happening. (thinking, guiltily) I didn't know you sufferred so much, Morgana. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. (says) We won't let that happen. We'll protect you. Right, Arthur?

Arthur: ...

Merlin: Arthur?

Arthur: (filled with fury) I'm going to kill him. (stars leaving)

Morgana: Wow! Wait! (gets off her bed quickly and follows him) Arthur!

Gwen: (runs after Arthur too) Sire!

Merlin: (puts himself infront of him and stops him by the shoulders before he crosses the door) Arthur! You can't kill a man for something he hasn't comitted!

Morgana: (grips Arthur's arm) Merlin is right. I appreciate your concerned, really. But are you mad?! We don't even know who he is!

Arthur: (still struggles to get outside, whispers with a broken voice) I drank a cup with him.

Merlin: (shouts, while struggling with Arthur) Gwen, close the doors!

Gwen: (closes the doors)

Morgana: (pulls his arm harder) Arthur, stop! (puts herself infront of Arthur) There's no man to kill. It hasn't happen. I'm here and I'm fine.

Arthur: (gets back to his senses) Yeah... yeah you're right. I'm sorry I don't know what came over me.

Morgana: (guilty) Maybe I shouldn't have told you, The last thing I wanted is for someone else to be tormented by my nightmares too.

Arthur: No, (holds her face, fondly) for now on, I want you to tell me everything you dream, alright? Even if it seems irrelevant.

Morgana: (nods) Alright

Arthur: (Thinking, while he kisses her forehead and hugs her) I let you down. I let them hurt my sister. I'm sorry.

Merlin: (looking at Arthur strangely and very concerned cause while he's happy Arthur is more understanding of Morgana this violent reaction was so out of character of him) ...

Time skip. Leon in the throne room with Uther and Arthur, who has Merlin by his side.

Leon: (destroyed inside) They are all... dead.

Uther: Are you sure the beast is gone?

Leon: (nods) I managed to slay it.

Uther: Then their sacrifice was not in vane.

Merlin: (thinking, filled with guilt and sorrow) But it could have been avoided. There weren't supposed to be these many deaths. Oh, gods. Did this happen because I wasn't there? Because Arthur wasn't there? Is this my fault?

Uther: Rest assured you'll be rewarded for your service, Sir Leon.

Leon: I don't really believe I deserve it, sire.

Arthur: Those deaths are not on you, Sir Leon. (sighs) I'll deliver the news to the families. It's the least I can do.

Merlin: (returns excalibur to Arthur with magic subtly)

Uther: (to Arthur) You better get to that. (to everyone) You are dismissed.

Arthur: (leaves)

Merlin: (follows Arthur)

Leon: (stops Merlin in the hallway) Merlin, can we talk?

Merlin: Sure (turns to Arthur) Arthur-

Arthur: It's okay. I rather do this alone. I'll see you in my chambers. (squeezes Merlin's shoulder fondly and then leaves)

Merlin: (turns to Leon) Do you need something?

Leon: You noticed too, right?

Merlin: (nervous) Wh-what exactly? (thinking) Please don't say magic, please don't say magic.

Leon: Arthur. Something is wrong with him.

Merlin: (relieved) Oh... What do you mean?

Leon: Apart from suddenly leaving a mission? Did you notice how he reacted when I mentioned the casualties?

Merlin: (remembering, thoughtful) He... he didn't react at all.

Leon: Exactly! Don't get me wrong. He still offered to deliver the bad news and I'm sure he'll make sure the families of the fallen are compensated. And I know he normally restrains himself from showing emotion when he's around the king and his knights but...

Merlin: But?

Leon: I grow up with him. Even when he tried to hide it you could see the pain in his eyes when a brother in arms passed away. He never got used to it… Well, I thought he would never got used to it, but now when I looked at his eyes... they were hollow.

Merlin: (Remembering some of Arthur's kills like in the trap they set for Tauren and when Arthur came to Ealdor to kill Kanen and his men) I see what you mean. I thought it was only with the foes, but... (doesn't know what to think)

Leon: Yeah, I'm worried too. I was wondering if maybe something happened to him that I'm not aware of? You're the one who spends more time with the prince after all.

Merlin: (shakes his head) I'm as in the fog as you are.

Leon: Well, maybe we're just overthinking it.

Merlin: (smiles, unsure) Yeah... that must be.

Time skip. Arthur talking to Kilgharrah.

Kilgharrah: (complaining) You've been significantly reducing my numbers, young Pendragon.

Arthur: Sorry if I want to save as many innocent people as possible. Don't worry, there should be at least 250 when the time comes. More than enough for your revenge.

Kilgharrah: Do you think those you killed were not innocent?

Arthur: They were bad people.

Kilgharrah: Or people who just made a mistake. People who also had families.

Arthur: You are the least that has right to judge me.

Kilgharrah: That's true. The thing is, young Pendragon, my scruples do not matter. I am not the one who is going to become king.

Arthur: I will be a good king. I already have been. I am the Once and The Future King.

Kilgharrah: A king who put his love over his kingdom and his people and continues to do so.

Arthur: Which side are you on?

Kilgharrah: Yours, once and future king. I'm just worried.

Arthur: About what?

Kilgharrah: That your reign will not be different from Uther's.

Arthur: What are you talking about? I'm going to legalize magic.

Kilgharrah: Altering the order of factors does not always alter the end product.

Arthur: I didn't come here for riddles (sighs). Morgana is having visions.

Kilgharrah: She's a seer. It's expected.

Arthur: How far in the future can she see?

Kilgharrah: Once she trains her habilities, as far as she wants. Now... not really much. Just the inmediate future.

Arthur: But she saw events that are far yet to pass!

Kilgharrah: Which ones?

Arthur: That doesn't concern you. But they happen around 8 years from now in my timeline.

Kilgharrah: (thoughtful) Interesting...

Arthur: What?

Kilgharrah: It could mean nothing, just as it could mean everything. Past and future coliding, how interesting.

Arthur: (very done) You're useless. I don't know how Merlin put up with you. (leaves)

Kilgharrah: (shouts as he leaves) Yet you keep coming back, young prince! (laughs)

Meanwhile, Morgana and Merlin talking in a hallway.

Morgana: I feel awful so many people died, but I can't say I regret you and Arthur didn't go. I wouldn't trade you for anything.

Merlin: Me too. If Arthur's life was at risk, (thinking) And I know it was. (Says) I wouldn't let him go either even knowing this was going to be the other outcome.

Morgana: Then I hope you can forgive me.

Merlin: (confused) What? Why?

Morgana: (guilty) I might have... lied a little about my nightmare?

Merlin: (shouts) WHAT?!😨

Morgana: I mean, I did see Arthur dying and you screaming and all, but I think... you weren't actually...dying? 😅

Merlin: (angry) Morgana! 😡 How could you lie about something like that?!

Morgana: I had to! Arthur wouldn't have stayed if I didn't.

Merlin: Of course he would have! He already believes you. You didn't have to-

Morgana: Oh, please, Merlin. Do you really think Arthur stayed just for me? It wasn't until I told him your life was at stake that he decided no to go.

Merlin: That's not true! He cares and he trusts you and you lied to him, Morgana! How could you?!

Morgana: (between bewildered and concerned) That's the only reason you're angry? Because I abused of Arthur's trust?

Merlin: You think that's not bad?

Morgana: Yeah, but I would be more upset about the fact that someone make me believe I was going to die, rather than focus on the "you lied to my friend" part!

Merlin: Oh... Oh, right. That was bad too.

Morgana: (sighs) Merlin. I'm really glad you love Arthur so dearly, truly.

Merlin: (protests) I don't-

Morgana: But sometimes it also worries me.

Merlin: (confused) ...What?

Morgana: You love so much and yet you have so little love for yourself. It's like you are not aware of your own value.

Merlin: I'm just a servant.

Morgana: You're not just a servant to me and definitely not to Arthur, but even if it was that way, you still matter. Don't forget that.

Merlin: (smiles softly) Alright.

Time skip. Merlin and Arthur in another hunting trip, this time alone.

Merlin: (whimpers a little after Arthur kills a rabbit)

Arthur: (turns to Merlin, very done) Okay, that's it. I'm taking you to Gaius

Merlin: What?

Arthur: Is obvious something is wrong with you. You're always in pain.

Merlin: I'm not- (cuts himself and suddenly pales as he looks what's behind Arthur)

Arthur: (looks behind him, but there's only an old tree. Turns back to Merlin) Merlin?

Merlin: (whispers to himself, eyes watering while he walks backwards) It died, it just died.

Arthur: (confused) What?

Merlin: (trips and faints)

Arthur: (runs and catches him just in time) Merlin? Merlin! (shakes him, frantic) You, idiot, wake up! Merlin! Fuck... (lifts him in his arms and runs back to the castle)

Time skip. Right after discovering Merlin's connection to trees. Arthur goes to Kilgharrah.

Arthur: (urges) What's wrong with him? Why can he feel the pain of trees?

Kilgharrah: You know that better than anyone, young Pendragon.

Arthur: No! That doesn't make sense. This Merlin was not bewitched by the Sidhes!

Kilgharrah: Indeed, but you are two sides of the same coin. Even though you can't see one, it doesn't mean they are separate.

Arthur: Stop talking in riddles and tell me what's wrong with Merlin!

Kilgharrah: There is more than one possible explanation, but the most likely is unfortunately the most worrying of all. That would also explain why the witch saw events that are far yet to pass.

Arthur: What?! Tell me!

Kilgharrah: It could be a reminder.

Arthur: Reminder? Reminder of what?

Kilgharrah: That you're running out of time, young prince.

Arthur: (pales) Wha-what... What do you mean?

Kilgharrah: I mean exactly what you think I meant.

Arthur: (full panic mode) No... No! That's not what the druids said would happen if... Merlin cannot... I'm supposed to have more time!

Kilgharrah: No one really knows the consecuences of doing such a ritual, Young Prince, cause it was only done once succesfully. As I said before, It could mean nothing as well as it could mean everything. Which means Emrys new condition could be harmless as well as-

Arthur: It could grow worse. (sombers his expression) I won't let that happen. I know what I have to do.

Super time skip. Sometime around series 2. Arthur knocks the doors of Morgana's chambers.

Morgana: (opens) Arthur? (concerned as she sees Arthur's serious expression) Why are you here so late at night? Did something happen?

Arthur: (Nods) Can I come in?

Morgana: (moves aside and Arthur enters and then she closes the doors) What is it?

Arthur: I need to ask a big favor of you.

Morgana: Of course! Anything.

Arthur: (pulls out his mother's ring and puts it in Morgana's hand gently)

Morgana: (very confused) Arthur?

Arthur: Would you marry me?

....

BOOM! You didn't expect that, did you?

As I mentioned in a previous analyses I've made, I think Morgana being abused by Sarrum was implied in the series. It was also pretty common to do that with woman prisoners at that time.

What do you think is Arthur's plan? I want to read your theories :D

[andieperrie18]

Watching her fall in love

A/n: DISCLAIMER, I just wanna clear out that I HATE Mikio, OR LOATHE him. The man died too quickly for my liking. But I am currently at an emotional but productive mode in my Mizu x Reader fanfic. I needed to vent some writing. I just needed to write somethings to hurt myself, so now I would like to share my pain. I kept this one vague but clear cause certain parts would likely be in the fanfic. So please bear with its corniness and i do hope you enjoy and share some thoughts at the comment section how to make Mikio's suffering a bit more satisfying

Pairing: Mizu x Reader

Series: Blue Eye Samurai

You know she deserves to be happy. There was no reason for her to continue her vengeance now that her mother was actually alive and now has been encouraging Mizu to leave your debt and settle down with the man her mother had found that will surely provide for her.

Not that Mizu was not cared for in your home, with a small dowry left by your deceased father and the a simple home on a piece of land from your husband who worked tirelessly to own for your future before circumstances decided to rob you of the life that you could’ve had with him let alone have a child of your own.

After coming to terms with things, you swear to never love any other man than your husband. But the tides of fate didn’t really like that.

You were on your way home when you found a wounded Mizu on your way. Lucky enough, your place was near when she came stumbling in your arms clutching her bleeding side. In your home, you treated her, fed her and provided her all the necessary things to hasten her recovery despite her constant attempts to deny any more further gestures.

Your persistence rivaled hers and she can’t really do anything than just accept it if she wants to continue her quest for revenge. But she days go by and she can finally function properly, the closer she has become to you. Of course you already knew that she was a woman, tending to her wounds did require you to have her lay bare before you while under unconsciousness. But her eyes, a part of  her body that she has come to hate as it was the most visible defect of how she is immediately considered as a monster. You were no stranger to being cast aside so you know how to provide her the right words and comfort.

From that point on, she’s been your constant company either at your small plantation or someone to share food on the dining table. With her harsh childhood and upbringing, Mizu’s cold exterior was very hard but once you do reach her,  she is as gentle as a spring water bathing you in in cold warmth under a harsh sun.

“You know that I’ll leave as soon as I reach recovery,” she said with a frown as she sat across from you from the entryway. The evening was  young but the skies were burned by a millions suns from eons away and the full moon lingering among them. You looked at her as she did as well, there was a hint of sadness in her icy blue eyes.

“I know, and I will not force you to stay, if this path is what you need to find peace at the end of your road, then do so. Just know that when you’re ready  to find your peace, my doors are open to your company,” you offered a smile, one that she did return. One that had you marveling at it all throughout the night.

You haven't come to terms with your feelings with Mizu for quite a while and believed that you really cared for platonically. She has found a great friendship with you and you to her.

As a ‘friend’, you were lucky enough to be there at the small ceremony. Mikio didn’t want anything to do with her and denied any act of consummating their union. But Mizu didn’t worry much as you have provided a great company. Cracks to your resolve showed when you had succeeded to provide Mizu an opportunity to create connection with her husband. You had encouraged her to try approaching the man and keep in mind how persistent he is with that one particular horse he has been taming for days in your observation. Soon, Mizu was having a small conversation with Mikio while you watched.

Watching Mizu’s rough demeanor crumble so easily in his presence was infuriating, an emotion you quick to shut out. Guilt tripping was made easier upon having small conversations with Mizu’s mother who Thanked you for being there for Mizu and helping her create a relationship with Mikio. 

“Now that she’s out of your hair, you can finally find a husband as well, your still you my dear,” Mizu’s mother trails, but your attention was on the couple emerging from the green hills riding a horse along the orange horizon. Your eyes on Mizu, laughing, so free. An expression you never once got from her.

The final realization of your love for her was followed by a tsunami of heartbreak as you watched her capture her husbands lips in a kiss by a big tree that you came passing by. You watch her submit to his touch, lifting her legs off the ground and press tender kisses on her neck. You hid by a tree, back against it. You stare up the orange skies as you feel every thing inside you tear itself apart.

A/n: I Just needed to feel pain.

[joelsgoldrush]

come back same time and place the next night

prologue / 3k words

pairing: dad's coworker!joel miller x f!reader

raiting: 18+ (minors dni)

series summary: your chances of hooking up with your dad’s soon-to-be coworker are low, but never zero. turns out the two of you have a lot more in common than you thought, especially when you find out he’s going to be staying at your house for a while. you know what they say: if you can’t beat them, fuck them.

series warnings: no outbreak AU, dad's coworker!joel (idk if that's a thing but yeah), lots of feelings (angst/fluff), age gap (reader is 23, joel is 50), no use of y/n, i'm not good at choosing names for side characters sorry for that, some chapters will include smut 18+ and i'll let you know at the beggining of each part

warnings for this chapter: soft!dom joel, oral (m receiving), dirty talk

A/N: HELLO AGAIN i'm back with a new series!!! first of all, i just wanted to say THANK YOU bc of all the love you gave my previous post. i'm so thankful for all the likes, reblogs and comments, you truly made me feel incredibly happy. tbh i used to have a hard time figuring out whether i should start posting my own creations or not, and the support you showed me made me realize that it was definitely the right call. so yeah tysm for that and i hope you also enjoy this new project of mine :) i juIt have one final left and then i'll have a couple of weeks to relax and work on this series! also english isn’t my first language so if you come across any mistake please tell me!

here's my masterlist in case you want to read my other works :)

“Sneaking out of my house / I must be out of my mind / I’m running out of excuses / We’re running out of time / You say the love will come and go / We’ll learn how to ride the ebb and flow / You’ll always leave before the light / Come back same time and place the next night.”

You take another sip of your drink, alcohol making its way through your throat. It leaves a trail of burning kisses down the inside of your esophagus, and you make an effort not to swear as the sensation settles heavily on your chest.

Stacy looks around the bar for a while, her knee impacting rhythmically against yours ever so slightly. Next thing you know, she’s snorting, her blonde hair falling like cascades over her collarbones. “I'm afraid you, my dearest friend, have lost your good judgement. There isn’t a single hot guy in this bar.”

“That’s not true,” your fingers pinch the pink straw floating on your glass, a lipstick stain adorning it. You’re not exactly sure, though. The truth is you aren’t looking for somebody tonight, at least not right now. “Give me a second.”

Scanning your surroundings, you try to concentrate on your quest: finding a new hobby for Stacy. And by hobby, you mean a man she can simp over for the rest of the night. Once you’ve examined the room multiple times without success, you feel… slightly disappointed. 

Just when you’re about to agree with her, this pretty waiter comes on the scene, placing a martini under your friend’s nose. “Here it is. Hope you enjoy it.” 

Oh.

Stacy giggles at him. It’s that specific kind of giggle you know very well. “Thank you, but I didn’t order this.”

“Don’t worry. This one’s on me,” the hot-waiter answers, giving her a smile that’s all white teeth before disappearing between the mess of sweaty bodies on the dancing floor. 

You look at her, because you already know what she will do next. She wiggles her eyebrows in your direction and takes hold of her purse, not without previously drinking almost half of the cocktail she got for free. 

Her forehead furrows in a funny way. “It’s not very good. He’s lucky he’s cute.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” you tell her, ignoring her words. “I’m being serious.”

She leaves and you’re left alone, though you don’t mind the lack of company. The beating of your heart seems to sync with the pounding music from the pub. There’s this one girl doing karaoke, but nobody seems to be actually listening to her. You wonder if she’s aware of it, although she appears not to, because her tone gets even more high-pitched every time she gets to the chorus of the song.

After some minutes, you decide to give Stacy’s drink a try. She wasn’t wrong: the taste of it is absolutely awful. Some muscle in your jaw twitches as you cough a little.

“Is it that bad?” 

You turn to your side, looking for the owner of that unknown voice that startled you. A man stands beside you, pointing out the martini. Leaning in closer to him, you hand him the drink. “Why don’t you try it yourself?”

His cold fingers brush yours gently when he takes the glass into his hands. The straw vanishes between his lips momentarily, and then he proceeds to chuckle. “You’re right. It’s… definitely somethin’ else.”

This must be your lucky night. When was the last time a guy this good-looking approached you? He jerks his thumb toward the empty chair in front of you. “Are you waitin’ for someone?”

You can't help but smile. “Not anymore.” 

The attractive, charming stranger sits down, and you seize the opportunity to take a closer look at his face. You’re not sure of his age, but he’s older than you. He seems to be in his early 40s, the hair on his beard starting to get a bit gray. It’s subtle. If you weren’t such a perfectionist, perhaps you wouldn’t have seen it. But you did, and if possible, it just makes him come across as even more appealing to you.

“If you don’t mind me askin’, why did you order that drink?”

“Well, I didn’t. It was a gift for my friend,” you rest your chin on your palm, giving a half shrug. “She’s with the guy that gave it to her. The blonde girl over there, with the white tank top? That’s her.”

His eyes follow your gaze, finding Stacy just a couple of meters away from where the two of you were talking. She raises one of her hands in greeting, the boy from before attached to her hip like a lost puppy in the middle of the road.

“She seems nice,” he murmurs once he focuses his attention on you again. 

“Yeah, she is,” as you finish that sentence, you feel your phone vibrating in the pocket of your jacket. “Excuse me.”

It’s a text from Stacy. Said message reads: 

whose dad is that??? he’s hot af

You laugh at her occurrence, and he tugs at his shirt collar. “What happened?”

“She texted me: whose dad is that?” staring at him, you lift an eyebrow. “Do you have any children I should know of?”

The stranger seems to hesitate before replying. “No, I don’t,” you watch him lick his lips. “Why? You’re not into dads?”

He's cocky. Good thing you like cocky.

Time flies. You learn some things about him: he’s from Texas (the southern accent gives him away) and works as a contractor (just like your dad, you think, which is funny.) When he reveals how old he is, he seems to look for any sign of discomfort on your features. “I’m forty-five.”

“Twenty-three,” you retort with your own age. He glances up to the ceiling, and you give a bitter laugh. “Is it a problem for you?’”

“Shouldn’t I be the one askin’ that to you?”

You flutter your eyelashes at him. “I don’t mind.” If anything, you like him more. However, there’s one mystery left to bring to light. “What I do mind is that we’ve been here for almost an hour and you still haven’t told me your name.”

He leans back in his chair. “Let's play a game.”

“Be careful. I’m really competitive.”

“You have three chances to guess my name. I’ll just give you my initial. You gotta do the rest, deal?”

What were the odds of guessing it? I should take the risk, you think as you find yourself already nodding your head. “Deal.”

“It starts with the letter J.”

“Jack,” it’s the first name that comes to your mind. For an instant, you believe you’ve won, but then you catch him smirking. “It’s not Jack, isn´t it?"

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Keep tryin’.”

“Josh?”

“Ice cold.”

“Joe?”

Something you're unable to even distinguish glows in his eyes. “I’m givin’ you one more chance.”

“So I’m close?” you ask him, probably too enthusiastic. He doesn’t say anything else, so you go on. “Is it Joel?”

He places a hand on top of his shirt where his heart is, pretending to act relieved. “Fuckin’ finally.”

You punch your fists into the air. “Yes! I knew I was gonna get it.” A sincere smile takes place on your face. “What’s my prize?”

“Well,” he inches forward, his pinky nudging your wrist, that mere touch giving you goosebumps. “You could give me your number and go on a proper date with me.”

God knows you want it. Rising from your seat, you tuck a lock of brown hair behind his ear. “I was thinking of something else.”

That’s how you end up in the ladies restroom, your back flushed against the wooden door as Joel presses his clothed knee between your legs. You moan into his mouth without thinking if there are any other people outside waiting to use the bathroom. Joel draws in a long breath, grinning as he takes in the sight of you. “You wanna put on a show for the others? I'm not one to judge."

“I want to suck you off,” your hand is dangerously close to his crotch, your nails ghosting over his zipper. He seems to be having an internal fight with the last brain cell he has left, but then he detaches himself from you, unzipping his jeans. The sound of his belt hitting the floor with a thud is what finally leads you to fall to your knees.

He’s big. You can tell his size from your position, a wet patch forming into the fabric of his boxers. Playing with the waistband of his boxers for a mere second, your self-control attempts to falter. You grab him by the base, stroking it experimentally. Joel fights back a groan, urging you to take him. “Come on, sweetheart. I don’t like t’beg.”

But you do, that’s the thing. “Please,” you whisper, hoping he’ll hear you. His eyes find yours and suddenly it clicks. A lightbulb goes on in his head. He curses under his breath, directing his dick towards your open parted lips, and your eyelids get heavy as the taste of his precum invades your tastebuds.

It’s not your fault he has an amazing dick.

You begin to bob your head, taking more and more of his length with every one of your short movements. Slick must be already staining your own panties, but you can’t get yourself to care about that insignificant detail. Not now, when Joel’s hips thrust deeper into your mouth, his tip brushing the back of your throat and making you gag. It's dirty, and you should probably be ashamed of getting caught by a bystander. All your worries are swept away from your mind the moment he decides not to keep quiet. “Fuck, baby. Knew you would put that gorgeous mouth to good use. Attagirl, takin’ me so well.”

A stupid whine gets lost somewhere in your vocal tract. Intertwining your fingers with his, you locate his wandering hands on your hair, wishing he'll take the hint. He does, and grabs a handful of it, pulling you off his cock. 

“You really like this, don’t ya’?” Joel smears your lower lip with your spit. “Were you thinkin’ about this while we were talkin’ back there?”

“Y-yes,” you try to take him in your mouth again, but he doesn’t allow you to, his iron grip on your nape getting tighter the more you fight against it.

Then he lets you have it. “Bet you get off on this too,” his voice drops an octave, and it sounds so nasty and intimate you’re on the verge of crying. With teary eyes, you swallow around his length. 

You lose track of time. His bare thighs tremble and the only noise you can hear is his heavy breathing. “F—fuck. I’m close, where do you want it?” Mumbling something you can’t even comprehend with his cock still in your mouth, his thrusts begin to lose finesse, thick fingers holding you where he needs you the most. “So good, baby. Lettin’ me have you like this. Fuckin’—“

He’s about to come.

“—good girl.”

It all happens so fast you have to remind yourself to gulp down his cum, hot and sticky and just Joel’s. You patiently wait for him to come down from his high, nuzzling his happy trail. He helps you stand up, kissing you and tasting himself on your tongue. As soon as he tries to sneak a hand into your panties, getting closer to your aching cunt, you recognize your phone ringing in the distance.

Groaning, you stretch your arm, answering the call. “Hello?”

“Well, hi. This is awkward.”

You frown. Joel mimics you. “I’m sorry, who’s this?”

“I’m calling you from Stacy’s phone. We were making out and then she told me she was feeling sick, so I took her outside… and now she’s throwing up,” the boy on the other side of the line explains to you and you detect a hint of agitation in his voice. “She asked me to contact you.”

“Oh, God. Hot-waiter?”

“Yeah, she also said you were probably going to call me that,” he seems to move his phone away from his ear, and then talks to you again. “She’s not passed out, but she shouldn’t stay here.”

Does he actually think you’re going to leave her alone? “Can you tell me where you are?” you suggest him while Joel tucks himself back into his boxers.

“Next to the parking lot.”

You hang up after telling him you’ll be there in five minutes, and you feel Joel’s lips on your neck, a sigh spilling from you. His teeth nip at your sensitive skin. “You gotta go?”

Humming, you smooth down your skirt, facing the mirror and observing your reflection, some leftover mascara sticking your eyelashes together. He appears right behind you, his broad frame becoming more visible this way. “Stacy’s throwing up. I have to take her home.”

“Do you have a car?” 

“No, but I’ll call an uber. It’s no big deal.”

Joel puts his hands on his hips. “I brought my truck. Let me help you.”

Of course he has a truck. 

“Joel, you don’t have to,” you massage the back of your neck, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. 

“It’s the least I can do,” tilting his head, his lips catch yours once again. “Consider it my way of thankin’ you, since I cannot return the favor.”

It shouldn’t feel like this. You weren’t used to doing this kind of thing on a regular basis, but you’re more than sure that men don’t treat you this way after sucking them off. Still, you accept his offer since it means you’ll get to spend more time with him.

He walks you out and helps you get Stacy on her feet. As she sees Joel, she spreads her arms wide, hugging him. “Oh my God! It’s the hot dad!”

“Sweetie, you have like— puke all over your clothes,” you tell her, so Stacy chooses to hug you instead. “She gets pretty sensitive when she’s drunk.”

“I can tell,” Joel opens the back door of his truck, jerking his head in the direction of it. “Get her inside while I start the car.”

It all goes pretty well from then on. He asks you for Stacy’s address and you give it to him, the palm of his hand resting on top of your left thigh. Stacy gets comfortable in the back seat, yawning. “You two look like my parents before they got divorced.”

“That’s a really nice compliment,” you mutter with irony as Joel laughs by your side, rubbing his chin.

Soon after that, she falls asleep. Joel parks his car right in front of Stacy’s porsche. He glances over his shoulder, making sure she’s still sleeping before his seatbelt’s off and he’s grabbing you by the jaw, leaning in for a kiss. The fucker’s a very good kisser, you notice throughout the night.

“Are you gonna give me your number?” he murmurs against your mouth, his hot breath mixing with yours. 

“It depends. Will you call me?”

He tells you he will, and you prefer to trust him as you watch him save your number, a smiley face next to your name.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Joel doesn’t call you.

You don’t want to admit it, but it’s starting to get to you. He did sound honest. Why the hell did he treat you like that if he wasn’t planning on calling you? Why did he insist so much on getting your number?

Men suck. Joel sucks, you decide after a whole afternoon of staring at your phone, waiting to receive a text from him. Given the situation, anything would make you feel better.

Hey! It’s Joel, from the bar. I’m so sorry for not calling you. I forgot to tell you I’m married and have three children, two cute little puppies and a cat. Anyways, what a great night we had! Take care!

Okay. Perhaps not anything.

You’re home, sitting on the couch while you watch a meaningless TV programme. It consists of answering random questions, and if you get them wrong, you fall down some dark tunnel that only God knows where it takes you.

Normally, during a night like this, you’d be studying or perhaps at Stacy’s. But tonight, your father had asked you to actually stay. He didn’t tell you why he specifically needed you there, and you didn’t bother to ask him.

Out of the blue, you hear the doorbell ring. None of your parents seem to be on the first floor, so you walk to the door, opening it. 

You choke on your own saliva.

Joel’s here. Joel, who didn’t call you. Joel, who looks absolutely good with his hair slicked back. 

“Did I ever tell you where I lived?” the tone of your voice falters, your legs suddenly feeling wobbly.

He can’t believe it either. “No. I must have the wrong address,” keeping his eyes fixated on the box of chocolates dangling from his hand, he straightens his back. “What are you doin’ here?”

“I should be asking you that,” you hiss, your pupils flared with anger. “Why the fuck are you at my house, with a freaking box of chocolates, when you couldn’t bring yourself to call me?”

Then, you hear the sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen. It’s your dad. He contemplates the scene with a smile. “I see you’ve met my daughter. Trust me, my wife and I taught her better manners than this. Don’t know why she didn’t invite you in. Food’s almost ready!”

You’re about to short-circuit. Definitely not a joke.

“Sweetheart, this is Joel Miller. Remember I told you last week that someone from the company was coming over for a while? Well, this is him,” your father chuckles, expecting you to come up any kind of answer.

Joel’s faster than you, intending to shake your hand, those same calloused fingers that he had used to touch you in that dirty bathroom now playing dumb. “Nice to meet you.”

If he wants to pretend you don’t know each other, then so be it.

You squeeze his hand without measuring your strength. “Oh, the pleasure’s all mine, sir.”

Turns out that your chances of hooking up with your dad’s soon-to-be coworker were low, but never zero. 

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

tags: @spurz :)

[ahoycaptainautumn]

Fated Mates Part 3

Synopsis: you, a vengeful vampire slayer, cross paths with the devious and handsome Astarion. Instead of a stake through the heart, Astarion finds something he thought impossible for vampire spawn. A mate.

Astarion learns more on vampiric mates while you do odd jobs in town. Scraping up enough money your merry gang gets to rest well tonight. Though there’s only one problem, there’s only one bed.

It took another two days before your merry band finally made it to the first town. More hours of Gale’s snores and sleep talking of magical items. Or the way Karlach randomly set fire to something now twice in her sleep. Wyll played some tune non stop on a ukulele you swear just to annoy you. Not to mention the bickering and fighting when they were awake. After getting no sleep you demanded to the group that you would all pitch in and do some odd jobs to afford a stay at a tavern for a night. Anything to give you a chance at relaxation and a soft mattress. Everyone agreed to meet at the town square at the beginning of sundown. The hours before that were up to each entirely.

You first went into the town square in hopes of finding someone to offer you an easy quest for a fee. Perusing the marketplace you find a dressmaker eager to find someone for help.

“My my my! You’re perfect for the job! I was just in need of some help, thank the Gods! I need you to run to this store and grab the fabric on hold for Marteen, then meet me at my shop after the market closes.” He hands you a wrinkled piece of paper with the name of the shop on it. You nod your thanks and head out to said shop.

Astarion immediately abandoned the idea of doing some side quest and instead goes to find the local bookkeeper. The town was quaint in size but he hoped large enough to have some of a selection on what he was looking for. 200 years as a vampire and still his knowledge of vampirism was slim to none. Most of it from passing mouths. Fellow spawn were more than likely in his similar predicament and just as naive to the ways of the vampire world. Anyone higher on the food chain wasn’t keen on educating. Here and there in his travels for prey he heard whispers of things. Knowledge of vampire mates was mostly rumor, common gossip with no real evidence. Astarion had only met one other vampire to have met his mate. At the time the bond seemed weak to him. A cause for a future exploitation. A bother. He never believed himself to be plagued with such nonsense and had not thought to ask more of it. Astarion made his way up the old brick library steps and into the establishment. Years of neglect were evident in every crevice of the place. Spiderwebs littered every corner and shelves of books were caked with years of dust. Astarion tried his best to hide his disgust and made his way to the front desk. An old human woman sat slouched in her chair dozing off. Astarion cleared his throat, waking the woman. She fixed her overly large glasses before squinting up at Astarion. He gives his most award winning smile in return.

“How can I help you stranger?” She croaks.

“I was wondering if you had anything on a special type of creature? A vampire perhaps?” Astarion asks nicely. Her bushy brows furrow in confusion.

“Sorry, things of that nature need special clearance given by the governor. Something about too many impressionable kids trying to bite one another.” She waves her hand away as she finishes talking. She goes to turn away from him as Astarions hand darts across the desk. His thumb and forefinger caress the old woman’s chin as he gently turns her head back to him. Astarion leans close, breath mingling with the librarians. With his best bedroom eyes Astarion pleads once again.

“Please dear? I swear I shan’t be more than a moment.” The woman’s face lights up beet red as she flusters under his touch.

“I mean- I- well I mean- if if if you really won’t be more than a second than I guess it’s okay.” She stutters out.

“Perfect. Just point me in the direction, love.” Astarion purrs. The woman scuffles from behind her desk and grabs a set of keys from her pocket. Astarion follows as she leads him further into the library towards an old vault door. With a turn of a key she guides him to the shelving labeled V.

“Please don’t be long, my boss will be around any moment!” She giggles behind her wrinkled hand. Her blush still evident as she walks away. Astarions face drops back to a resting neutral once she’s out of sight and he makes his way through the novels. There are only a few books pertaining to vampires. His fingers slide over titles of “How to Properly Slay a Vampire” and “Vampire Bites for Medical Use”. None contain anything about mates. A growl of frustration leaves him before he’s manically ripping through books across the shelves. Books and scrolls fly through the air before Astarions rage stops in its tracks. Mid throw Astarion reads the title of the small book in his hand. “Mates in Five Different Species: Fate Driven Partnership”. Astarion just about rips the book open before he hears the patter of the woman’s footsteps coming closer. He rushes out the door and slams it behind him. The woman jumps at his sudden movements just outside the chambers.

“You have been so lovely, thank you. I must go, good day!” Astarion shouts over his shoulder before dashing outside. The woman’s shriek at his mess is the last he hears as he makes for the door and rounds the corner. Finding a secluded alleyway, Astarion makes himself comfortable on top of a wooden crate and cracks open the book.

Vampiric Mates:

Vampire mating is a rarity within the species. Only about an average of 31% of vampires have mates. Of that 31% only 3% of their mates were non-vampire in manner. Courtship of mates in vampires comes within three stages: sight, taste, consummation. The beginnings of the mating correspond with the first mutual stare between the partners. Mating is then felt in its entirety with a touch of either lips or genitalia. Finally, the mate bond is accepted for eternity with consummation of the partnership.

Astarions eyebrows shoot up as he reads. He had already completed two damned steps without even realizing.

Though the “feeling” of a mate may differ slightly from vampire to vampire, similarities are shown throughout each recorded mating. Feelings of a something similar to a cord “tightening” is usually the most common sign. Feelings of falling, fainting or loss of emotions momentarily have also been recorded. It is believed to be innate to each vampire to recognize a mate once seen.

Astarion thinks back to the shared bargain kiss you had made a few nights earlier. The feeling of a band wrapping and tightening in his core. The way he felt his stomach drop. He had thought himself nauseous from not drinking enough but in reality he knew he was denying it. Denying the feeling he felt with that first look. Something so ingrained biologically he couldn’t shoo it away. He flips to the section labeled “Vampire Mates: Other Species Mate”.

Mates of a vampire not already afflicted with vampirism upon meeting may be at a disadvantage. Though similar feelings may be present they will not be as strong as they are for the vampire mate. The mate also may not feel the same feelings of possessiveness and aching as the vampire mate will. Non vampire mates may not inherently realize what has happened without further education.

Astarion reads the last sentence several times over. You didn’t even know. He could continue on this little adventure and you would never be the wiser of what was unfolding between the two of you. A large part of Astarion was glad, gleeful even, to not have to worry about this further. But a small, quiet and forgotten part of his brain felt remorse at the thought. Astarion was about to continue to read through the entire section before he noticed the beginnings of the sunset. Realizing he would be meeting back with your party shortly, Astarion leaps from his seat on the crate and moves through the alleyways. He knows if he shows up empty handed you won’t let him hear the end of it. He knows your still deciding on whether or not you want to plant your stake right into his heart anyhow. Moving through side streets and back alleys Astarion moves with grace between drunks and gamblers. Swift and nimble, his hands dip into their pockets and empty them of any useful change. With a bit of money to his name, Astarion takes a main road back to the square. Though an image to his right stops him in his tracks, you.

A bit earlier -

Fabrics in hand, you huff down the street to Marteens shop. The fabric store was on the very outskirts of town. Nothing more than an old witch with a spindle, calling it a shop was a bit excessive. Though the lady was kind enough, you spent far too much time to get there as well as listen to the old woman gab as she got your order together. You finally step up to Marteen’s Dress Shop and softly knock on the door. Large floor to ceiling windows show the interior from the front. Mannequins dressed in beautiful floor length gowns adorn the left and right side. A small podium sits in the middle awaiting a blushing bride to try on her future gown. Marteen opens the door and beams at you.

“Please come in, come in!” He waves you in. He helps unload the several bits of fabric from your grasp. Luxurious rolls of dark blood red fabric, black lace, and golden trimmings leave your hands. You help bring everything else into the shop. Marteen unloads the rolls onto a long table next to the front podium. You stand next to him admiring the cloths.

“It really is beautiful.” You whisper, more to the fabrics than the man. He smiles at you as he grabs a mostly made dress from his back room. The same fabric is made into a long gown in his arms. A tight black bodice corsets the top as gold accents the sides. Crimson fabric layers on top of eachother at the bottom as it bellows out into a sweep gown.

“Before you go, could I ask you one more job? I’ll throw in a few extra coin!” Marteen asks.

“Sure, what can I get you next?” You ask.

“This dress, it’s for my daughter. It’s nearly complete save the sleeves and a bit of patching in the back. You look about her size, mind being my model? I’d ask her, but it’s a bit of a surprise.” You really hadn’t expected that. It had been a very very long time since you worn something so exquisite. Back before your parents had been murdered. Back when your father threw elegant balls for nothing more than to fill the manor with good company and better wine. Back before life became what it is. You shake the thought before they take hold.

“Sure why not.” You shrug.

Cinched into the velvet fabric feels like a dream against your skin. Marteen expertly sewed beautiful bell bottom sleeves with black lace endings onto each arm. Gold is hemmed in the sides to accentuate your curves. Flowing black ribbon ties in the bodice tightly. Marteen smiles broadly, proud of himself. You do a small twirl at his command and watch the fabric flow with your movements. You can’t help the giggle that takes over you as you sway.

“It’s perfect! Absolutely perfect!” Marteen glows.

“It is! It’s absolutely perfe-“ your words die half way through your throat when through the front glass you see a gawking Astarion. Shame and anger sweep over your momentary glee. You clench your hands and jaw as you stare him down. A smug look takes over his face as he watches you. Marteen comes and looks over your shoulder.

“Oh, is that your betrothed?” He asks innocently. You can’t help the sarcastic laugh that leaves your lips.

“As if! Never in a million lifetimes.” You reply coldly, eyes narrowing. Marteen gives you a puzzled look.

“By the way he looks at you in that dress, I would have thought otherwise.” Marteen tosses over his shoulder.

—

Astarion had good intentions, brilliant and easy intentions. Seduce you, con you, but never fall for you. To overcome the illness of being mated. He was determined, arrogant even in his belief that this mating was nothing more than a silly joke from the universe. He could get over a few fleeting feelings, he had endured much worse in centuries of slavery and solitude. But those resolutions all but melt away at the sight of you. He watches you twirl in a dress fit for a vampiric queen. Blood red accentuating your body, long fabric flowing with your movements. An easy smile gracing your lips. That familiar coil in his chest begged his attention once again. An ache fills his long canines to sink into the soft nape of your neck. All he could do was stare at your form, the way your lips looked so mesmerizing in that easy smile. An animalistic urge shook him with the thought that that smile should be for him, not some gown maker. The thought vanished as quickly as it comes as you find his stare and match it with a look that could kill. Gods, this was going to be harder than he thought.

-

Redressed, you collect your payment and meet Astarion out in the front of the shop. He gives you a fake saddened look.

“Here I was out doing honest work and you’re trying on gowns. Really, (y/n) you outta be ashamed.” He tuts at you. You wag your finger in his face.

“I was doing work blood sucker! Besides, there isn’t a way in the 9 realms of hell you did any honest work.” You accuse him. At your words Astarion pulls the money he had collected from his pocket. Your finger stops mid wag as you look at the coins in his hand.

“Now now now, nothing to say little killer? What will the others think when I tell them?” Astarion muses. He starts to make his way towards the center of town. It takes you a moment to catch up with him.

“You are not to tell them anything! Do you hear me, or so help me-“ you threaten.

“Or what, drive a stake through my heart? Last time you tried that you ended up kissing me. Really you need to learn better threats.” Astarion teases. You swear you see red. You just about open your mouth before Astarions face comes smack dab in front of yours.

“Besides dear, we both know you need me more than you want to kill me.” He whispers to you. You stare him down fighting the urge to hit him with all your strength. All it does is make his cocky smile grow bigger. An awkward throat clearing brings the two of you apart as Gale stands in front of you.

“Hmm well if you’re all done with your lover's quarrel, we were going to put our money together.” You want to argue that a lovers quarrel was very very far from the truth but you instead take role. Counting the money together you think you have enough for all of you to grab a bunk for the night. You had spotted an inn earlier and lead the group towards it.

-

The inn was one of the larger buildings in the area. It hosted a tavern on its first floor, home to beer drinking and dinner. The next two stories were dedicated to rentals. Thankfully, there was just enough space for two to a room with a small bed for each. Everyone argued who was going to bunk with you. Given your earlier appearances everyone had already voted you and Astarion to a room. You just about lost your head in front of the kind old inn woman.

“Come on, the lovers can share a romantic evening together!” Karlach teased.

“There is no lovers and there will be no romance!” You seethe.

“Honestly, I mean Gods knows I can do better.” Astarion chimes in.

“Now what is that suppose to mean-“ you turn your attention to the white haired Vampire. He raises his hands in mock defense.

“Aw the lovers are fighting again.” Shadowheart replies. The old woman behind the desk gives a small chuckle.

“Oh deary, I completely understand. You two need a special room. Here darling, on the house. Last door on the right.” The woman gives a set of keys over to you. You thank her for her understanding and set off in the direction she gave you. Astarion is on your heels as you ascend to the rental rooms on the third floor. The rest get together with their designated partner for the night and set off to their rooms for the night. You set the key to the lock and turn it.

“I hope you know I’ll be getting the largest bed, beauty sleep needed and all.” Astarion quips. You don’t have the function to respond as you peer into the room. The room is massive. There’s a beautiful fainting couch overlooking large windows peering into the valley below. Velvet curtains hang in the windows. A fire roars off to the left corner in a stone fireplace. A plush bear rug lines the middle of the space. And right there, dead center, is only one large king bed.

Part one here

Part four here

[alicelufenia]

Killing The Grove But Not Killing Your Friendship With Karlach And Wyll - A Patch 7 Guide

Friendship ended with Halsin and the druids, but not with the two good-aligned companions. As a dark mirror to the KO Method for recruiting Minthara on a good playthrough, this is what has been dubbed the "Murder Method" to recruit Karlach and Wyll on an evil (or at least very chaotic if at one time well meaning) playthrough.

Pictured above: Kagha giving even a good-aligned Tav a reason to side with Minthara, probably.

This is a follow up to my original guide [x], so I will only give the highlights here. The general gist is this: So long as a civil war between the druids and the tieflings at the grove is triggered, AND the tieflings die (completing the Save the Refugees quest), the Raid the Grove quest can be completed without a raid battle.

To explain, there seems to be only two things that cause Karlach and Wyll to leave:

Triggering the raid battle against the tieflings, no matter how many remain from the druids attacking, triggers Wyll to leave and Karlach to lose so much approval she's likely to leave just from that alone.

Speaking with Minthara in the Secluded Chamber and proceeding to the goblin party causes both Wyll and Karlach to leave, but only if they are currently alive when the transition happens.

EDIT: I've gotten reports of people losing Wyll and Karlach upon moving to the goblin party, even if they're dead before hand. So I need to clarify, for this to work they need to be both dead and not in the party. This can be done by getting them killed (by enemy attacks, damage over time like fire, or jumping to their death), then instead of Withers resurrecting them, ask him to collect your fallen companions. This will spawn their corpses in camp (all their loot and gear will stay on them) and remove them from the party list. This will be how you know they are now in his care, and can proceed.

This also means that you don't need them dead before the fighting starts. They can steal the idol, fight Kagha, whatever you want to do to kick off the druids attacking the tieflings. As long as they are dead and in Wither's care before proceeding to the goblin after-raid party, this should work (but as always, have a backup save, and attempt this in Honor Mode at your own risk).

For this test, I had two objectives: Steal the idol without my party members getting caught (so as not to slow down the druids and give the tieflings a fighting chance) and returning it to Mol for the "Steal the Idol" quest reward, and, on the chance Kagha is still alive after the fighting, TAKE THE IDOL BACK FROM MOL. This is critical I think, as every time it's not been in my inventory when Kagha is still alive, the grove seals as soon as we leave.

Once again, because Alice sucks at pickpocketing, I just paid through the nose (800 gold) to buy it back from Mol. I'm sure she's satisfied with the results. It is possible to pickpocket it from her though. I then shapeshifted into a halfling and escaped out the secret exit and waited out the fight.

And that's when I saw Arabella again!

I swear she came running out the secret hole right past me!

She was too fast for me to keep up with Shovel, the druids all ignored her, and she doesn't stop moving in turn-based mode. Still, there she goes.

It's a shame I'm going to have to redo this whole sequence for my main save (I skipped a lot of things I did previously to get this done fast), however now that I know where she appears from I may be able to trigger it consistently. If so, I will report back on whether Arabella shows up later!

Despite Kagha surviving, the grove doesn't seal when we leave the area, and the Emerald Grove Environs waypoint remains. So holding onto the idol was the key here.

Minthy is upset that we started the slaughter without her, but she prepares her raiding party all the same. One long rest later:

Here's something new for patch 7, Karlach has something to say upon finding Dammon's body.

It's genuinely pretty sad, and you've got a couple things you can say in response. Honestly it's been a long time coming.

I'm curious whether this triggers if he dies at Last Light too. Something for others to investigate (I do not guarantee the safety of the inn either on my playthrough :p)

Looks like Minthara took care of Kagha for us. She was even nice enough to leave the loot. No sign of Rath though, so no getting the Sorrow glaive. Just pickpocket the rune off him first, I guess.

For the record, nothing happens when we investigate her secret stash and notes at this point. Oh well!

All the animals are dead except for Topaz! I guess that was his lucky coin after all.

Also something I forgot to confirm last time, the kids' hideout is still empty. So I still say Mol and the others got out. Another point in the favor of doing things like this.

The game still is treating it like you killed the tieflings. Strange, the patch notes said Minthara would have something to say if there were no tieflings left, but it's all the same here. Wow, Larian saying something was added for Minthara, only for it to just not be there? What a wild concept.

Also you can barely see it but Karlach and Wyll here also have their eyes closed, implying Minthara's sharing her mental snuff film and porn movie with them too. Yikes, that's awkward, sorry guys this is. Like, a Durge and Minthy thing, just for the two of us? Didn't mean to involve you, just lie down in fire a bit for me.

Thanks guys, you're the best!

I swear they're both some of my favorite characters! I do this because I love them.

So yeah, make sure Karlach and Wyll are dead and entrusted to Withers before talking to Minthara, as finishing her dialogue moves you to the goblin party, and they'll both ditch if they're alive for it.

You can bring them back once you're actually at the party though.

Also they changed Withers' resurrection animation to be much faster! They were revived before he was done speaking!

They're both chill! And Wyll has new greetings dialogue for higher approval! This is apparently his "Very High" greeting. EDIT: Actually it's his low approval greeting, because the only companion Larian hates more than Minthara is Wyll, sadly. It's a bug that should get fixed soon, but who knows when.

Once again, you probably don't need their approval this high, but it doesn't hurt. Plus hey, I honestly think they'd get along with Alice, so I'm glad they're here this time.

We roll in the hay with Minthara, have a civil discussion over drawn knives, and she gives me her lyre so we can take the mountain pass way to Moonrise. And the camp is just how it should be: Karlach and Wyll still with us, and a huge ritual circle painted in tiefling blood in the middle of camp (because of Durge things, not the goblins).

Keeping Wyll and Karlach post goblin party in patch 7 - Success!

I hope everyone enjoyed this, and it helped you make the most of your evil playthrough. Now you can have all origin characters along for the horrible, horrible ride.

[cuffmeinblack]

Idk if you’re taking requests but I have one and I’ve loved you’re writing for Ominis so let’s go!!

⚠️spoilers ahead just in case⚠️

I was wondering if you’d be willing to write an Ominis x fem!hufflepuff! Reader where they’ve liked each other but it all comes out before the Scriptorium mission. Like he tells the story on why he won’t use crucio and everything but when Sebastian uses the curse on her Ominis is the one to rush to her and help her. I just want fluff and love for this boy he needs more of it!!

I trust you to write this amazingly and please make whatever changes you’d like I’d just want this boy to be loved ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Hold me close

Ominis Gaunt x gn!reader

Tags: angst | hurt/comfort | torture curse

1k words

A/n: Thank you for the request! This is a short little one shot rewrite of the In the Shadow of the Study quest so ⚠️SPOILER WARNING⚠️. Hope you like!

Quite how you ended up in Salazar Slytherin's secret Scriptorium with a couple of Slytherin boys was a mystery in itself, almost as baffling as the one presented directly in front of you. You'd left the cosy Hufflepuff common room only an hour ago, and now here you were, staring at a huge, ornate door decorated with serpents. Salazar Slytherin really liked snakes.

"That must be the voice I hear," Ominis says beside you. " I don't believe I'm about to do this."

Your heart flutters in your chest as you watch him approach the door and take a deep breath before speaking, if it could be called that—a quiet hiss escapes his lips. You jump back in astonishment as the mechanism on the door jumps to life, the eerie green glow of the serpents' eyes illuminating the dim corridor.

"Ominis, you possess a rare ability indeed," you say, marvelling at him.

"Between the two of you, I'm starting to feel left out," Sebastian says from behind you.

"Between the two of us?" Ominis asks. If it weren't so dark, you'd swear he'd be blushing.

"I…never mind," Sebastian mutters.

You know what your friend means, but you squirm uncomfortably anyway. It's true, you both seem to have rare abilities that others might envy. You make quite the pair, though Sebastian was none the wiser of your mutual affection.

It isn't long before you encounter yet another locked door in this infernal maze. The floor is wet, the room smells dusky and damp, and you quickly notice the reason why. Following the scurrying of a rat in the corner, your illuminated wand shines on a skeleton in the corner of the room. You fight to hold back the bile rising in your throat. A scrap of paper draws your eye, slightly nibbled but still more or less intact, laying next to the long-decayed corpse. You reach down and pick it up with two fingers, your face twisting in disgust as you try to read the scrawled words.

"Ominis...your aunt Noctua…she mentions being trapped here. Blocked by an unforgivable curse," you say shakily.

Your gut twists with guilt, knowing that having agreed to talk to Ominis for Sebastian had doomed you all. You had wanted to help your friend, but you should never have agreed to it, and the pain on Ominis' face is more than you can bear.

"Ominis, I know this is the last thing you want to do…," Sebastian started.

"Yes, it is! I thought you knew me better!" Ominis shouted back.

Your immediate reaction is to go to him. You wish you could hold him, comfort him, instead you move slowly to his side, your hand reaching for his but falling short under Sebastian's watchful eye.

"Ominis," you whisper.

"I won't do it," Ominis says, shaking his head and beginning to pace nervously. "You shouldn't either."

"I understand, but it's our only way out of here. I can take it," you say, trying to keep the quavering from your voice. You muster the courage to reach out and grip his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

"Are you going to use the curse on Sebastian?" he asks in a small voice.

"I don't think I can."

Ominis grimaces as you leave his side, walking over to Sebastian by the door, steeling yourself for what's to come. You trust your friend not to prolong it longer than necessary. Balling up your fists, you nod and Sebastian readies himself, raising his wand and hesitating only for a second before expelling the dreaded incantation.

"Crucio."

A crackle of electricity ripples through your body and you see only a red haze before forcing your eyes shut and falling to the floor, gasping for breath. Your nerves are on fire, your very flesh feels as if it's burning as you try to scream but nothing comes out.

"Please, please," a faint voice enters your ears as the pain subsides and you open your eyes, staring at the floor as your vision readjusts to the assault on your retinas, the stones beneath you swimming back into focus. You take a deep breath and fill your lungs, desperately reaching out in front of you, clutching the first thing you feel.

You look up and Ominis is kneeling in front of you, holding your arm and feeling his way to find where you are. You start breathing shakily, trying desperately to catch your breath and feel wet, hot tears pooling in your eyes. Ominis' hands are shaking as they glide up your arms, over your shoulders and brushing your neck, finding your face. He cups your face in his hands, pausing as the tears roll over his fingers, then wipes them away gently. His face is contorted in pain as he asks, "Are you okay? Please, be okay."

"I'm okay," you manage to stutter.

Sebastian seems to be in shock, standing dumbly by the now open door, watching the interaction between his friends.

"I'm so sorry," he groans, leaning back against the wall.

"It's fine, you did what you had to do," you say weakly, attempting to get up off of the floor.

Ominis clutches your arms again, firmly, standing with you and steadying you as you wobble on your aching legs and stumble into him. He doesn't loosen his grip, only pulls you closer, looping an arm around your back and holding your weight.

"I've got you," the soft voice says in your ear.

You rest your head against his shoulder, his hand finding its way to the nape of your neck and gently stroking your hair.

"I…there's a room here…," Sebastian says feebly before retreating behind the door.

Ominis doesn't let you go, the shaking in his hands subsided, now replaced with a tender and assuredly comforting touch. You look up at him, his hands still tangled in your hair, and watch his closely knitted brows relax.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that," he says.

"I'd do it again, for you."

[kashimos-hajime]

—𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐚𝐥-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

summary: he hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when al-haitham dreamed for the first time after the akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.

WARNINGS: archon quest akasha pulses, the kalpa flame rises spoilers! soulmate au if you squint, swearing, mentions of violence, death, injury, minor self-loathing, plot AND lore heavy, angst, fluff, not poly, happy ending!  pairing: al-haitham x fem!reader, minor kaveh x fem!reader word count: 18.1k grind

a/n: written for the lovely @zhongrin​ and her elemental supercharge collab! it was super fun to work on and really inspired me to love writing again because it was just a breath of fresh air. my entry: dendro + dendro + cryo = permafrost 

here are some important notes for this fic to help with understanding it:

tsaritsa is the former goddess of love. the goddess of flowers was a seelie. king deshret reborn was al-haitham. possibly ooc al-haitham (he’s also deaf!) i made shit up about teleport waypoints and about pretty much all the lore surrounding the three god-kings besides what i glimpsed through some books/theories/etc. i was just like fuck it we ball. 

inspo songs: who is she? - i monster, about you - the 1975, awake from a nightmare - hoyo-mix (i recommend you listen to this one especially during kaveh - chat: craftsmanship)

now on ao3 x

Greater Lord Rukkhadevata - About the Goddess of Flowers

In the place where Padisarahs bloom, two gods speak in the absence of their third. The Lord of Flowers picks these Padisarahs and the Greater Lord watches, entranced in the velvet purple petals that gleam in the sun.

The latter says: “You know the price to be paid if he searches for that divine nail.”

The other says: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t pretend to be a fool. You and I both know that—”

“Rukkhadevata.”

The Dendro Archon is silenced.

At last, the scorned one speaks. She has lost her people, her home. She refuses to die until Celestia is buried beneath her bloodied hands. “There is nothing to be done. Do you think Deshret’s mind sways so easily? He is set on finding the answers he seeks, and I am set on aiding in his endeavours.”

“But you… why? You understand what the Heavenly Principles are capable of, and you still put yourself in their line of fire. Again. Why?”

“Because Deshret asked.”

“I don’t think you understand what he is asking you to do.”

“No? Then, you have no idea of what I am, Rukkhadevata, and you are the one who won’t ever understand.”

Deshret - About the Divine Nail

The sandstorm is brutal, tearing at their clothes, their skin, blinding their eyes and clogging their throats. It had picked up so suddenly, there’d barely been enough time for Deshret to shield her from the first impact before realizing that the storm chaotically revolves around them. Around him. Uncontrollable winds swiping through the eye of a hurricane do not with hold their strength from the Goddess of Flowers, but Deshret, the powerful God-King remains untouched. 

He pulls her in closer to his side. The Goddess of Flowers can barely see straight by the time the divine nail rises to its full height, her withered body barely able to withstand the powerful galeforces that pull at her every which way. 

The divine nail is beautiful, glowing blue, refracting gold, and she can only smile as Deshret beside her raises a hand. He, too, glows, but he glows like the sun, like divinity.

“You’ve done it,” she congratulates through her weeping. The sand burns into her corneas, brands her lungs, but nothing touches her heart, and that is how she knows the reason it is shrivelling in her chest is because she is dying. The god beside her, the one holding her hand, turns, and she can’t help her laugh. “I told you once, though, that you would lose much in this exchange.”

“What?” His hand springs off her wrist, but her body is already disintegrating. It feels like it did when her kind was casted from their old home; her body thinned into a husk of what it used to be. Back then, she had prioritzed saving her mind over every inch of her beauty, yet now… now she doesn’t have the strength to save anything. 

Deshret cannot protect the Goddess of Flowers from a trade conducted by those who rule above gods. “No… no, what is happening? You’re…”

“I hope,” she cuts off cleanly, “that one day, I can love you without any selfish desire. I hope… in another life, another samsara as Rukkhadevata would so fondly call it, I will love you more than you ever loved me.” His eyes widen, and a trembling hand reaches for her face. The Goddess of Flowers smiles. Tilts her head into his palm, and laughs again through the tears that evaporate off her cheeks as soon as they spring off her eyelashes.

He is incinerating to touch—a conduit of swirling sand, an incarnation of the sun. How ironic it is that the hand that once saved her from the sands will be the hand that seals her fate amongst the dunes.

Stepping closer, her flesh burns away when she cradles his face. He is shining so brightly. A brilliant morning star, a genius with a hungry mind, a gluttonous scholar. The God-King of the Desert.

Yet, Deshret does not seem like the god everyone makes him about to be.

Before the Goddess of Flowers, Deshret is nothing more than a man, crying and holding onto her with all his might. 

A soft part of her melts at his expression.

“In all honesty,” she whispers, soft and choked, “I aided you because, in your ambitious vision of the future, I saw the possibility that you could free all of us from the shackles that chain us to the Heavenly Principles. In the end, it was my own selfish nature that led us here, and it is my own doing that marked your path to be one that you will have to walk alone.”

Deshret takes hold of her face, eyes searching, but the goddess withdraws her hands to settle her fingers on his wrists lightly.

“It was not your fault, Deshret.”

“No!” She pulls his wrists away, but he curls his hands into fists, fighting to free himself from her grip. For once, it is impossible, and he lets out a desperate growl, tears glinting upon his cheeks. “Don’t leave me. Don’t… don’t go.”

“Deshret—“

“Stay. Just a little while longer. I will take that divine nail and hammer it into this world, and build you an eternal oasis where I will bring you back to life with the knowledge that spills from its organs.” Lunging forward, his hands find themselves on the sides of her neck, thumbs stretching to trace the lines of her jaw. “I will not lose you. I cannot lose you!”

The ragged storm enflames, the winds grow deafening, loud enough to resemble a constant thunder that echoes in the hollowness of her chest. 

“Don’t worry about that sort of thing, Deshret.” 

Her voice is very weak now. When she swallows, sand shreds her insides and her eyes burn from the strength it’s taking to avoid coughing up iron.

“We will meet again,” she continues. “If Rukkhadevata has a hand in anything, it is the wisdom that pools around all of us, and the knowledge that there will not be an era where we are separated.”

“No, no, don’t go!”

But it falls futilely on deaf ears. The Goddess of Flowers lets go, and steps backward, her knees shaking, her frame swaying from the winds she can no longer fight. 

As soon as her heel tucks into the edge of the unrelenting galeforce, she is ripped away, and the Goddess of Flowers disappears.

Tighnari - Something to Share: Akademiya Days

If one asked Tighnari what he thought of the Artificer of the Akademiya, he would return that inquiry with one of his own:

“Do you mean my thoughts on the Artificer alone, or about her relationship with the Scribe of the Akademiya?”

The truth of the matter is, the Scribe and the Artificer’s history go past colleagues at the Akademiya, past scholars searching for a thesis, for once upon a time, they were students, too.

Paimon isn’t aware of this: “Er… I don’t know. Did they know one another?”

“Al-Haitham wields his practicality like a spear. Nothing could quite faze him or outwit him. Nothing could unsettle him, except for the Artificer. She was a student in his year, but she was a scholar of the Kshahrewar Darshan. They were quite the reliable pair of scholars.” A soft hum. 

“Really? Al-Haitham doesn’t seem like the partner type.”

“He isn’t. I suppose exceptions could be made when it came to her. I met Al-Haitham through the Artificer, actually, when they were working on some sort of prototype translation device for foreigners and she had asked if Sumeru’s scientific names for plants from other nations were derived from their original language.” Tighnari’s ears twitch. “I didn’t know her well back then, but from my brief meetings with her, she was very lively and happy. She didn’t care about the Sages and the politics surrounding the Six Darshans. All she wanted was to study. I think her thesis was to find a way to repair the Teleport Waypoints around Sumeru. It made quite the wave back in our day.”

“The Teleport Waypoints?” Paimon says. “Paimon noticed that they’re guarded by the Corps Of Thirty in Sumeru when in other nations they’re pretty much abandoned.”

“Her hypothesis that they’d been placed by some higher power than the Archons is a banned reference material and only the highest level of scholars are aware of the theory,” Tighnari says, and there’s a far off look in his eyes. “The Corps of Thirty supposedly defend these sites for a historical scholar for the day she comes home, but to be honest,” he adds quieter, “I think they were ordered to defend the Waypoints from the Artificer should she ever return.”

.

Technological advancement in Sumeru had progressed far enough that prototype cochlear implants are, though not a norm, a potential alternative than going through life unaware. The alternative is only made available by the resources of the Akademiya and Al-Haitham’s enrolment there since it’s where he can maintain upkeep with the help of Kshahrewar students who were overseeing this new piece of headgear. 

You are the student assigned ot make sure his top of the line technological headwear didn’t go awry. You spend a lot of time with him, which means, against all odds, the bright, voracious, and laughing sun of the Kshahrewar Darshan has become Al-Haitham’s friend.

He had avoided it at first. Honestly. In the three years they’ve been together as mechanic and project, it took almost a year for Al-Haitham to consider even looking forward to seeing you every Thursday afternoon where you’d fiddle with his settings and write down notes on his condition.

And, yet, when he conceded to the fact that you were a staple to him—a constant in the ever-changing nature of the Akademiya’s cutthroat landscape where scholars dropped at the tip of a hat—he found that he learned more about you in the first month he gave in than he did in the last twelve he resisted. 

Each factoid is like a dash in his head: your thesis is to be about the possibility of repairing the shattered Teleport Waypoints scattered across the nation, and how you’d go about doing it. Your work with Al-Haitham is just a way to investigate how the Akasha terminal and said Teleport Waypoints could work in tandem. Your life goal is for the latter to work on its own some day like it did in ages past and ease travel for those who could not afford to.

“It’s an altruistic thing to do.”

“I’m from Snezhnaya, but I moved here when I was younger.” You’re sitting across from him at the library as you tinker with a device similar to the one on his ears. “I used to go back every summer, but now that I’m at the Akademiya, I haven’t returned because I don’t have time, so the Teleport Waypoints would help with seeing my family more often, too. I’m not all good.”

He doesn’t look up from his book, although above the top of it, he can see your fingers deftly trying to rearrange wires. “Family?”

“Mhm. My father is a researcher here. My mother stayed back home. I grew up in a small hamlet, you know.”

He smiles faintly, flipping a page. “Yes, I know. It’s one of the first things you told me.”

“Oh, well… I didn’t think you’d remember,” you say, and he finally looks up from the pages to find you staring. You don’t look away, and instead, your smile grows as you tilt your head. “You’ve got beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that before, Al-Haitham?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he answers. That’s another thing about you. You always say his name when you speak to him, as if to make sure that he understands you are directing such things to him.

That, and just the way you say his name. Every syllable purposeful, in that voice of yours that edges on melodic. You still have a Snezhnayan accent when you say certain words, including ones of Sumeran origin.

“Well, you do. They’re so beautiful.” Your smile makes your eyes crinkle as you return to your project, and Al-Haitham clears his throat, fighting the red that’s burning his ears. Scratching his jaw, he shakes his head minutely and instead tries to think of anything else.

You like oranges, but have a secret soft spot for peaches. You like reading romance, and you love art. Your father is a member of the Spantamad Darshan, and during his thesis, he travelled back to his homeland and fostered a family, which includes his eldest daughter, you.

The same you he can’t stop thinking of now that he’s stuck on it.

Later, when they begin to pack up their things from the library, in between him slipping a book into his bag and you sliding each tool back into its spot in your case, he asks if you’d like to have dinner with him at Lambad’s Tavern.

“Alright, but I’ll have to drop this off at my work room before I do. I don’t want to damage it,” you answer, tilting your head to your project wrapped in cloth which you’ve carefully nestled into a box.

“That sounds fine. I’ll meet you at the bottom of the tree, then?” he asks and you smile fondly at him, the box in your arms and your bag slung across your shoulder.

“Give me a minute or two,” you say. “I won’t be long.”

Al-Haitham bids you farewell at the entrance to the House of Daena, and you walk off with a bright smile, your figure outlined in a melting sunset gold. There’s not a lot of people outside—most have found shelter in Akademiya buildings or they’re out in the city, trying to maintain a social life as well as a scholar can.

“(Name)!” someone shouts, and Al-Haitham, who’d been walking down the ramp, looks up to see a tall, slim figure bolt past him. Blond hair flashes in the burning orange of dusk as a man runs past, and Al-Haitham twists around to avoid being hit by him as a foul word springs to his tongue.

But then, he realizes what the man had yelled and who the man even is the longer he stares at his retreating back, and Al-Haitham shakes his head.

You won’t be happy with him if he gets into an argument with your childhood best friend of all people.

Kaveh is easy-going, passionate, and empathetic. It is… to say the least, everything Al-Haitham is not. He’s met him once or twice out of pure coincidence, and he’s seen the blond around you more often than not. A part of him dislikes his nature. His whimsical, idealistic view of their future does not fall into line with how Al-Haitham sees it, and borders on idiotic considering that a romantic vision is not feasible in a nation where knowledge seeks to rationalize every existing thing.

The more logical half of him knows that you share all the same traits as Kaveh, and that the real reason behind his disdain is because Kaveh clearly has romantic feelings for you, and you return them.

It isn’t difficult to decipher the nature of your relationship with your “childhood best friend.”

How else would you describe the way his hand wraps around your elbow when other people want your attention and how when he leans to whisper something in your ear, you never fail to laugh and swat at him, your own arm looped through his.

He thinks that sick, logical side of him would pay to see you stumble through your words as you try to explain your relationship with your friend, but he can’t bare to do it. It feels cruel when all you’ve been is patient and kind with him.

“You seem distracted, Al-Haitham,” you intone with concern. You cradle tea in your hands, and cock your head at him, a thoughtful frown playing at your lips. “Is something wrong?”

Blinking, Al-Haitham finds you looking at him with those wonderful and warm eyes, and that logical side of him vanishes—a rat scurrying from the sunlight and back into the dark.

“No. No, I was merely thinking of something,” he dismisses, poking at the food he’s barely touched. The tavern is loud—almost too loud. His head aches with the amount of thoughts that swirl around, clattering in cacophony. It’d been stupid to suggest this place when he’s so tired from studying. Archons, he wants it to stop now. To get up and run, to curl up with a book and a warm fire, to tell them to stop, everyone, please, for the love of the Dendro Archon, shut the fuck up—

You laugh, and set down your cup of tea, reaching over to grab his wrist and squeeze gently, and his world goes quiet. It zeroes in on you, and the softness of your palm betrays the calluses on your fingers, a strange juxtaposition against his wrist.

“I know it’s hard,” you utter teasingly, “but I want you to stop thinking tonight. Nothing about studies, or labs, or anything about any kind of dictionary.” He smiles at that as you stroke your thumb over the back of his hand. “Just you and me, and this food.”

“Duly noted,” he mutters, and you smile again, returning to your own supper. But he cannot. His eyes do not stray, and his shoulders sink into his body, invisible weight sloughing off his skeletal frame.

All Al-Haitham does is watch you eat, rice slipping between two perfect lips, lips he knows, lips he could draw, and he’s not even close to resembling an artist. A mouth he can paint without seeing the reference, eyes closed, asleep, unconscious. A mouth he has dreamed of before, and he wonders just how he can tell you that, now, the reason he can’t stop thinking is because he’s thinking about you.

Collei - About Technology: Lockboxes

“What do you wanna know?” Collie asks brightly. “Oh, this is the Artificer’s seal! How do you have this?”

“We found it in the Balladeer’s chambers. It was addressed to Al-Haitham but we can’t seem to open it.”

“That’s probably because you need his permission to open it. Most of her work is password protected, so I guess that means including this. Top secret stuff. Master Tighnari received a few cases back before I knew him, though they’re still in his quarters.” She sighs. “Apparently, all her work is more valuable than a lot of the stuff the Sages hold, according to Master Tighnari, because she went missing and there is no way to replicate it.”

“I thought Tighnari didn’t know her well,” the Traveler mutters to themself quietly, before asking, louder, “Missing?”

“I don’t know much about what happened, but she went missing five years ago after an expedition went wrong. Apparently, a huge snowstorm overtook the desert and she was swallowed up by the sand. The rest of her team came out fine, but her and some other Spantamad scholar just… died in that snow. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen! So much snow it almost completely covered the sand dunes.”

“That’s strange,” intones Paimon. “It’s so hot and dry here, wouldn’t the snow just melt?”

“It seemed like a freak incident,” Collei agrees, “but the Sages were scrambling to figure out why. The Akademiya was in a flurry that whole season before it died down.” Her eyes fall to the box the Traveler holds again. It has a flat surface, with no keyhole, yet it’s sealed shut, and Collei hums. “Maybe, they’re just blueprints and stuff to keep safe. That’s what Master Tighnari has in his boxes. Or, maybe it’s a secret treasure!”

“It could be,” the Traveler answers. “But I haven’t been able to find Al-Haitham.”

“He’ll show up,” Collie assures confidently. “He always does.”

.

As a member of the Haravatat Darshan, Al-Haitham is capable of speaking nearly every living language in Teyvat and a handful of dead ones. It’s required for him to graduate alongside a well-founded dissertation. He wrote his own on the developing dialects of sign language across the regions, which he recited in front of his professor entirely in sign language.

A bit much, but Al-Haitham is nothing if not thorough.

He already has a reputation in his Darshan to be no nonsense, borderline rude, and a lone wolf, but brilliant, and the future of the Akademiya. A prodigy with no morality of the common sort, Al-Haitham walks the Akademiya grounds knowing that there are few who can shatter the earth beneath his feet. 

If the Sages are right, the current Scribe should be stepping down soon, and he could take that position easily. All access to so many projects would be granted, and he wouldn’t be short on resources for things he’d like to study. It’d also grant him more time to pursue his own endeavours. The desert is sorely understudied, but the rumours of a Divine Knowledge Capsule floating around the black markets, too, piques his interest.

Al-Haitham is a scholar without equal.

“Al-Haitham, there you are.”

Yet… in front of you, he’s nothing more than an awkward boy who doesn’t know what to say.

In the years since they’ve been mere fresh-faced students, you’ve graduated, too. Now, you work as a Dastur, leading expeditions with your father. Al-Haitham’s met him multiple times, but he’s been returning to Snezhnaya recently according to you. You’ve even overtaken some of his smaller projects.

“That’s not any of your responsibility,” he had pointed out in quiet Snezhnayan when he had come across you returning late to the city from an expedition to Avidiya Forest. Mud had ruined your shoes, and you looked up at him, moving to dump your bag on the ground. He had caught it before it could crash to the ground. Your eyes glinted, pleased, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

When his arms wrapped around your waist, you had seemed to melt into his body. Your fingers found purchase in his hair, and your nose dug into his neck as you sighed.

“Well, it’s my father,” you murmur in your mother tongue, strangely beautiful against his skin. It was one of the first languages he challenged himself to learn. You are much more subdued when you speak in the dialect of your homeland, yet no less beautiful. An everlasting snowflake in the middle of a rainforest. “He is most important to me, and I must do what he asks.”

He walked you home that night without you even asking.

Your smile is impossible to refuse, your laughter one of the few sounds that can bring him to a sane state of mind. A scholar without equal means a mind that never sleeps, and when Al-Haitham has enough of it all, he seeks solace in your mouth and your hands; your fingers carding through his hair, your lips whispering against his ear.  

A solace, no doubt, Kaveh receives nightly considering you two live together now on the stipend the Akademiya provides. Al-Haitham’s thoughts have driven him to stay up late on his most exhausted days, wondering what you did when you parted from the dinners they’ve scarcely scheduled and you returned back to that small house you shared with your childhood best friend. 

What do you and Kaveh even do every night anyway? Dinner, and conversations over what? The arts and poetics that Kaveh constantly waxes, whether or not you’re around? 

You plant yourself in front of him to stop in his tracks, and Al-Haitham’s eyes dart from your face to your neck against his will. 

Clear. It’s always clear.

“I’ve been looking for you,” you say.

“Have you?” Flippant. A bag hangs off your shoulders, and a shorter cut of the uniform drapes off your frame. Against his will, his heart sinks. “You look like you’re packed for another expedition.”

“Mhm. I’m going out into the desert for a month, maybe two. There’s a Teleport Waypoint near the Mausoleum of King Deshret that’s been displaying some abnormal levels of energy, so it might be a breakthrough depending on the cause.”

“You think there’s a Ley Line disorder?”

“Or maybe King Deshret’s risen again,” you comment blithely. Al-Haitham’s eyebrows shoot up at your boldness of stating such a blasphemous thing in the centre of Sumeru City, but you don’t seem bothered. “There have always been stranger things. Either way, I want to check it out.”

“I suppose so. Will Kaveh be accompanying you this time?”

“Kaveh? No. No, an architect and an artist has no place in the desert when he could be here.” You avert your gaze and you fight the stuttering in your voice. Al-Haitham bites his tongue. “Scholars from the Spantamad Darshan will be, though, considering the Ley Line aspect of the situation. It’ll be nice to spend time with my father again. He returned just recently, did you know?”

“I was made aware,” he says. He saw your father early yesterday morning, and they’d exchanged words, but you don’t need to know that Al-Haitham speaks to your father on a semi-regular basis. “Well, then, I hope your exploration is fruitful.” 

“Of course it will be. It’s me leading the expedition,” you tease, winking, and he can’t help the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. Your smile softens into a fonder, more genuine one, and you take hold of his hand. In Snezhnayan, you utter: “I wanted to see you before I left.”

“I’m happy that you made that effort to,” he murmurs in the same, inclining his head. You squeeze his fingers, before letting go, and Al-Haitham’s gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth. It’s still smiling, still warm, still those same lips that have haunted his dreams. He lets out a silent sigh and raises a hand to rest atop your head. In Sumeran again, he says, “I will await your return then, Artificer.”

“What a silly title.” A displeased expression overtakes your face but nonetheless, you clutch his bicep and duck from his hand and begin to make your way past him, trailing your fingers down his forearm. He turns to prolong the contact, his fingers tracing your veins. “Now, I don’t want to go, knowing you’re waiting for me to come back.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” he warns. They are at each other’s fingers, and he curls his digits, locking you in place for only a moment. “I might not be here when you come back.”

“Please,” you snort, but your expression betrays how happy and excited you are. “See you later, Al-Haitham.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” he agrees, and you giggle, waving one last time before turning around fully and running off to wherever you’re needed. Al-Haitham’s smile doesn’t fade as he watches you go. His heart warms whenever he’s near you, and now that you’ll be disappearing for a few months, he’s determined to keep that fire inside him burning low and bright.

He loves you. He knows that very well by now. Loves you without rival, without equal. Very few things can even think to challenge the spot you have in his life, although he is sure he does not have some sort of equivalent seat in your halls of life.

Why would he sit there when you have so many more acquaintances? Better-tempered ones, kinder ones, ones that aren’t ruled by selfish ambition, who actually have the initiative to tell you how they feel because they are not bogged down by the arguably controversial opinion that love is nothing more than an obstacle.

“Al-Haitham, the Grand Sage Azar wishes to speak with you,” an attendant says, and Al-Haitham is forced to look away from you. The scholar frowns at the request, but nonetheless, he follows the man to the House of Daena.

When he returns home from his meeting with the Grand Sage, Al-Haitham wants nothing more than to rip his brain out, strip it clean of memories. For the first time in his life, he curses knowledge, and the consequences it has inflicted on him

But a box sits waiting for him, a note attached to the top of it. By the intricate lock system on the front baring no keyhole, but a scanner that illuminates when Al-Haitham’s finger brushes against the box, he knows who it’s from.

Cyno - About Cold Cases

“The Artificer?” Cyno asks in the dying minutes of the feast in his honour. Crossing his arms over his chest, his brow furrows. “Why do you want to know about her?”

“We heard there’s a lot of mystery surrounding her, but if she’s such an important figure in the Akademiya, why didn’t she ever come back?”

“So you know she’s missing.” Cyno sighs. “I’m not sure if this is information I’m legally allowed to reveal to you as an outsider, but it’s you so I suppose I could make an exception. Her belongings were seized and her quarters were raided after her disappearance five years ago. The Eremites posted around the Teleport Waypoints are to assure that she doesn’t come to tamper with them.”

“Why? Is she a criminal?”

“No. The Sages put a stop to all of her research after it became clear she was extremely close to unlocking the full potential of the Teleport Waypoints. Whether or not it was fear that she would use that knowledge and surpass them is unclear, however she was well-liked by the public. Much of her work during her time was contribution to the public. Improving different aspects of our nation.”

“So, why… do you think the Sages had a hand in her disappearance?” the Traveler asks.

“I had my suspicions during the investigation which were only further supported once I was made the General Mahamatra and granted the ability to investigate past open cases.”

“As the General Mahamatra, you would probably know more about the circumstances surrounding the situation,” mutters Paimon. Cyno’s lips twist into a dismayed scowl.

“It was only the beginning of Azar’s need to retain power in Sumeru.” A resigned exhale. He glances around, but the place the Traveler has led him to is secluded and quiet. “I suggest you never reveal that you are searching for the Artificer to Al-Haitham. Talking about her is… a touchy subject.”

“The reason we wanted to find her is because of this box we found addressed to him.”

“A box?”

“Yeah! It must be something she hid from the matra before she disappeared.” Paimon flies around to the Traveler’s shoulder. “We wanted to ask Al-Haitham to open the box, but he’s been distracted by something else recently.”

Cyno hums, lips twisting into a frown. “From what I remember, the conclusion drawn from the investigation was that a freak snowstorm had caused her and another scholar to go missing. It went on for a month or two past their initial end date, so their resources eventually dried out, especially with being unprepared for that sort of weather. However…”

“What is it?” the Traveler asks.

“Well, why was she and a Spantamad scholar the only ones who went missing? The other members of the expedition emerged from the snowstorm cold but relatively unharmed at Caravan Ribat. Furthermore, there was a great shift in the area surrounding the Teleport Waypoint in front of the Mausoleum of King Deshret, suggesting that the Teleport Waypoint had somehow been used. I’m not quite sure of the efficacy of which it operated, but considering that there was no trace left behind, it’s possible that the snowstorm covered up the Teleport Waypoint tapping into the Ley Lines, and transporting the two scholars into some other place to escape.”

“So, in the end, she was successful in what she was trying to do,” the Traveler muses. “The Teleport Waypoints aren’t effective everywhere in Teyvat, though.”

The General Mahamatra shakes his head. “No, not to my knowledge.”

“Thanks, Cyno. This was a really big help,” the Traveler says, turning. Paimon flies in front of them, her hand scratching at her head. “I should leave you to your celebration. Sorry to bog it down with work.”

“Wait, Traveler. There’s one other thing that you should know. The investigation was preceded by an assignment issued by the Grand Sage to none other than Al-Haitham.”

.

Outside the Mausoleum of King Deshret, an expedition bustles around their camp. Scholars measure the Teleport Waypoint, use devices to take the temperature, and scribble down every observation in a small radius to ensure that the conditions are ideal.

You’ve retreated to your tent. The heat’s getting to you, and you feel exhausted as you set down your tool on your work bench, finger running down another manuscript to make sure everything is perfect.

Snezhnayan catches your ear and you turn around to see your father approaching, the tent flap closing behind him.

“You think it’ll work this time?”

“I’m sure, Papa,” you answer, lifting the core you’d been inspecting. They’ll insert this into the base of the Teleport Waypoint in a few days time once the Spantamad scholars are able to locate the source of destabilization in the Ley Lines. 

Archons willing, the core will be able to detect the Ley Lines running beneath the structure and channel energy back up into the Waypoint, and they’ll be able to go home in a blink of an eye.

There is one thing that you think separates you from the other scholars at the Akademiya, and it is not this groundbreaking technology you’ve crafted with your own hands. 

It is the higher purpose that fuels you to study. Not just for the sake of knowledge, or to find something new, something exciting.

“It’s our last chance. If we fail, the Doctor will have his way with me. I haven’t been useful enough, and he has no patience for people who waste his time. Little Star, I refuse to go back to Snezhnaya alive.”

The Fatui Harbingers. The fingers in your bones feel brittle after toiling for years and years for them to the point where you’re not sure that these hands are your own anymore. Maybe they belong to some unseen mind you don’t even know, but fear all the same.

All your work has only ever been for the Doctor, but maybe… maybe this way you and your dad can somehow find your mother and your siblings, find a secluded corner of this continent and hide from the Doctor for the rest of your days.

“Thank you,” your father murmurs, and you lower the core back into its box. Closing it, it lets out a little beep, and you drum your fingers against the top of the lid, sighing. “Little Star.”

“It’ll be fine,” you whisper, letting out a long breath. It feels like it takes the soul out of you, and you plant your hands against the table, letting your head drop. “We’ll be just fine.” 

A hand settles between your shoulders, and you let your father guide you closer towards him. His chest is warm, and when his arms embrace you, it feels like home. Turning into him fully, you wrap your arms around him and press your cheek against his chest, feeling like a small child again.

“You’ve worked so hard for my sake. I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

“The fact that I’ve managed to save your life, Papa, is reason enough to do anything.” You withdraw, and smile at him. He sighs, eyes scanning your face. “The Doctor will be pleased enough by this progress, right? I… it might not be a permanent solution, but he’ll think it’s enough of a relveation that he won’t kill you?”

“Don’t think like that.”

“I can’t help it!”

He flicks your forehead, and you separate, wincing. Rubbing your brow, you send him a glare. 

“That Al-Haitham won’t want you to be so pessimistic.”

“Dad!” Heat flashes over your face, and you whirl around, busying yourself with cleaning up your work bench. Your father laughs, leaning in beside you. “Al-Haitham’s just a friend.”

“I never insinuated anything more than that,” he teases. “But I’m sure you two are closer now than ever.”

“Papa!”

“You ought to stop giving him the wrong impression, if he’s just a friend. Living with Kaveh, playing house,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s going to realize that you and that silly boy are together.”

“We are… not… together.” You could strangle your father. Returning the manuscripts to your own box, you don’t quite close it yet. You’ll still need to do one last check to make sure the winds from the desert haven’t swept anything underneath anything else. “Kaveh and I are just friends. We just like living together.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll never understand then why you don’t pursue Al-Haitham.”

“You don’t have to understand anything,” you complain, exasperated. “Al-Haitham’s not interested in that way with me, Papa. Besides, I don’t have any time to foster a romantic relationship. Save that for when we’re in the clear.”

“Who knows? Maybe he can accompany us.”

“Father!”

“Artificer! The Scribe of the Akademiya has arrived looking for you.”

“The Scribe?” you murmur, frowning. Immediately, all that teasing evaporates like smoke, and your brow furrows. Your father’s expression is identical. “What would Abbas be doing here at his age?” 

“Perhaps there’d been urgent news?”

“They would’ve sent a messenger, wouldn’t they? Or even the General Mahamatra if it’d been serious.” You sigh. “It’d be better if you weren’t in here when I receive him. It could be something bad.”

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “You can send him in.”

Your father departs, and he chats with whoever is outside, but you can’t let yourself eavesdrop. Your anxiety is biting at your frayed nerves. You haven’t slept well in days.

The day that will seal your fate comes closer and closer, and you can’t think of anything else. Your head hurts, and you grab your canteen, taking a sip and hoping it’ll help with the ache. 

What will you do if the Teleport Waypoint works? Will you leave the Akademiya entirely? The Doctor might ask you to stay, and further develop and streamline the process for whatever plan the Harbinger is creating, but with this technology, you could run. Leave it all behind.

You absently brush your finger over a stick of charcoal. You’ll have time to think about it, you suppose.

The tent flap opens, and you let out a sigh. “Scribe Abbas, I’m surprised you—“

And whatever words you had, whatever had been autopilot motoring off your tongue, die.

“Al-Haitham?” Surprise shoots through your system. Your heart skips a beat when you see him, and that uncomfortable rhythm pounds against your ribs as he smiles faintly at you. He looks the same. Always the same. “What? What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you,” he admits, and you can’t help the silly smile that rises to your face. “I would prefer to speak with you in Snezhnayan. I know that your mother tongue goes unused often. I don’t want to get rusty either.”

“Oh.” That heat comes again to your face in a crashing flood. “Of course,” you comply. “But I don’t understand why you came all this way just to speak with me. Couldn’t it wait? I would’ve been back in the Akademiya in a few weeks.” Your mind scrambling for more words to say, your eyebrows knit together. “Wait. Scribe. You’re the Akademiya’s new Scribe?”

He nods. “Yes. I was promoted last week.”

“That’s excellent news!” you exclaim, coming closer and grabbing him by the wrists. His eyebrows rise but you tug him towards your bedroll. Sitting, you tug him down and tuck your knees beneath you. “Tell me everything. Wait, do you need anything? Food, or water?”

He chuckles, letting his bag slide off his shoulder, and you soak him in again. His beautiful eyes, the sweep of his downy grey hair. It has always reminded you of a dove’s soft breast. Fluffy, and attached to a body that can fly anywhere it’d like.

You card your fingers through that crop of hair fondly, pulling it away from his eyes and brushing the longer bits behind his ear.

“No, I don’t need anything more than your time,” he answers, taking your hand and pulling it back down to rest between them. “I was apparently Azar’s first choice to be the new Scribe. Abbas wanted to retire.”

“He is getting old,” you admit. “But I hadn’t realized. You don’t know how happy I am to hear this, you know.”

“I think I know.” His voice makes your eyes widen. You’d never heard it like that before—so unguarded, so softly spoken. Your eyes dart to his and your chest squeezes at the way he stares at you. Had he always looked at you like that, or is that a desert mirage manifesting itself in your tent?

You smile, letting out a scoff. “You have no idea how much I care about you, Al-Haitham.”

“More than Kaveh?” he asks off-handedly, and you blink. 

“Well, that’s not fair. Kaveh’s my oldest friend.”

“I think it’s more than fair,” he says. “But, I know I’m no rival of his for your affections, so I won’t pursue you on the topic any further.” Arguments build up in your mouth but he only pushes onward: “Are you making headway with the Waypoint? I saw some of the scholars crowding around it but you’re still in here.”

“The Ley Lines have been stable as of today. I was doing some final additions to a device that would activate the Waypoint, so we are,” you say warily. “The new blueprint I drafted before I left seems to be the most promising.”

His eyes drift over to your work bench before he nods. “I see. May I go look?”

“Yes, of course.” Rising together, you’re shocked when he leads the way, their fingers still entwined. Never before have you tempted physical touch for this long. You’re always aware that he’ll be overstimulated, or uncomfortable, or even just not in the mood to be touched, but you guess he’s amiable today, because he lets you sidle in close next to him—close enough that their arms are pressed together.

A sharp tug at your heart makes you sigh. You hadn’t the time to factor him into your future yet. You’ve thought about Kaveh—what he’d do if you left. You’d tell him, of course, where you’d be going. Why. How. You’d explain everything to the blond with the sincerest apology you can front it with.

After all, Kaveh won’t be able to afford the house they live in on his own stipend if you have to leave, and you can’t just leave your truest companion out in the cold like that. 

Kaveh. Your heart aches for him. You love him so much, but it’s never been the way he wanted you to. 

Glancing at the man beside you tracing a finger along your drawings, something inside you wilts. 

“Al-Haitham… I have a favour to ask you,” you speak suddenly. He’s silent, leaning against the work bench. Their hands are still interlaced in beween them, and you look down at his fingers, long and nimble. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, and you swallow.

“You know I don’t believe in favours,” he intones, not taking his eyes off the paper.

“I know, but this is something I have to ask out of our friendship.”

“Alright.”

You let out a breath. “If something happens to me, you’ll take care of Kaveh, won’t you? Give him a home if he needs one.”

“Why should I care about him?” he mutters apathetically and you smack him. His eyes finally meet yours and you glare at him.

“Al-Haitham.”

“Besides, why would anything happen to you?” he continues. “You’re one of the smartest scholars the Akademiya has right now. If you follow their rules, it’s nearly impossible for them to expel you.”

“Well, I know that’s what the Sages think, but there’s just a lot of things that are unpredictable.”

“Like King Deshret resurrecting?” he asks, and you scowl.

“Why do you always remember the things I say?” you complain. He smirks.

“You were the one speaking blasphemy.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter dismissively, and you let go of his hand, moving away, but he grabs your elbow before you can stray far enough. “What?”

“I was teasing. Of course I’d look out for Kaveh. He might not like that very much, though. I don’t know if you’ve realized, but like others, he can barely stand me.”

“Well, I’m not asking you to become his life partner. I just… I care about him deeply. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to him.”

“Fine. I’ll do it,” he acquiesces. “But I won’t do it happily.”

“Oh, shut up. You love to tease him.”

“That is true.”

“Oh, you said you wanted to speak with me, though, Al-Haitham,” you remember. “This can’t be all you wanted to talk about. The promotion’s great and all,” you add hastily as he turns to you fully, frowning, “but a letter would’ve sufficed.”

He doesn’t answer straight away, and you frown. He simply stands there, searches your face for answers you don’t know the questions for, and you’re shocked by the tight pain that screws up his forehead. He smells like the desert and sweat, but you don’t mind it. You’ve grown used to Al-Haitham in all sorts of states—grown used to the space he’s carved into your heart hurting from how swollen it gets in his presence.

You love him so much, too. In the way that he doesn't want you to. The irony is not lost on you, but you don’t know how on earth you’ll survive not seeing him anymore if the homeland keeps you there.

“Al-Haitham,” you whisper as his eyes dip to your mouth and linger there. Your lips tingle, and you swallow, his name trembling the second time it escapes your tongue. “Al-Haitham?”

“Hm?” he hums, gaze finding yours again and you realize that he wanted you to notice him staring. Your mouth runs dry, and he tilts his head, face tender, and sad, if you can trick yourself into believing it. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I’m just… I’m happy to see you. Honestly, I am.”

His eyes are an oasis. “I’m sorry,” he utters softly, and you frown.

Your heart shivers in your throat. “What for?”

You learn only a second later what it is. Soft lips press against your own and your eyes widen in shock as hands cup your jaw, holding you there for a moment longer before pulling away. A horrible blush stains Al-Haitham’s entire face, and he looks away, stepping back with shaking hands.

Your eyes fall to those fingers that had just held you so gently, watch as they roll into quivering fists, and a sharp breath leaves Al-Haitham as your own digits touch your lips.

“What?” It is all you can muster to say.

His ears are bright red as he ducks his head. “That was what I wanted to speak to you about.”

“Well, there wasn’t much speaking,” you stammer, and he looks up at your tone. 

“I apologize. I don’t… know what came over me, but the truth of it is, I came here because I wanted to confess that I’m in love with you before anything else happened between us that could ruin my chances,” he says slowly, deliberately. He clears his throat. “The kiss was… supposed to be what happened after if I had luck on my side.”

“Luck on your side?” you echo.

“If you loved me back,” he clarifies, “which I’m not sure you do.”

There is one thing that you think separates you from the other scholars at the Akademiya, and it is not that you’re the smartest Kshahrewar student they’ve had in years, or that you’re working for the Fatui against your will.

It is that Al-Haitham, against all odds, against reason and logic—the very values of which he has built himself up on—loves you. 

When you told your father you didn’t have the time for romantic relationship, it was not because of that entirely. Your father, after all, had been a scholar who fostered an entirely family on the job, and there are tons of families with members in the Akademiya. It’s hardpress to find someone who doesn’t know of someone in the Akademiya.

It was because you love someone already, and you didn’t want to get your hopes up. And it isn’t Kaveh, as much as you had wished for years and years that it would be. Maybe it would’ve saved them all some heartache.

Oh, but the heart wants what it wants, just as the brain chases what it desires.

“Al-Haitham,” you murmur in a soft breath, “would you kiss me again?”

The Scribe’s—internally, you laugh fondly at the idea that he has that sort of authority—eyes light up, and he approaches you cautiously, his hands flexing and waning. 

When his fingers slide along your jaw, this time you’re ready for it. Your eyes slide shut, your hands find the lapels of a chest you wish you were more familiar with, and when a soft mouth presses against your own waiting lips, you take your time to enjoy it.

Kaveh - Chat: Craftsmanship

Kaveh is a slim, tall man with blond hair. The Traveler doesn’t know him well, but they find him just as he’s about to enter his house whilst they’re looking for Al-Haitham, and he is polite enough to invite them in for tea when they accost him.

“Woah, we’ve never been in Al-Haitham’s house before!”

“I assumed not. We don’t have many guests over,” Kaveh says to Paimon. “Most of the interior decoration was by me.”

“I heard you were an architect.”

“Yes, I still am. The Palace of Alcazarzaray; have you ever seen my magnum opus?” At the Traveler’s nod, he smiles wryly. “I actually just returned from a project in the desert, and coming back to this whole mess in the Akademiya has been disorienting.” He places a tray of tea on the table and sinks down onto his seat. “What did you want to speak to me about?” The Traveler explains briefly, and his eyebrows rise as he raises the mug of tea to his mouth. “You know of the snowstorm? Cyno told you. I see.”

“I’m sorry if it’s a touchy subject.” 

“It’s not. It just reminds me of someone.”

“The Artificer?”

“I… yes. She left Sumeru during that storm years ago.” Kaveh sighs. “We grew up together in the same hamlet. Childhood best friends.”

“Wow! Paimon didn’t know that.”

“You said you were looking for my esteemed roommate,” he prompts dryly. 

“Well, if you know the Artificer well,” the Traveler says, “could you tell us where we could find her, too?”

“What makes you think I would know?”

“You said ‘left Sumeru’ instead of ‘missing.’”

Kaveh looks away, the light in his eyes dimming. “You’re as perceptive as Al-Haitham said you were.” He doesn’t speak for a moment, simply choosing to stare into his tea. 

“Of course I know where she is,” he utters at length. “I loved her with all I ever had. I warranted more than her leaving without a goodbye.” It’s said in a tone that does not offer an opportunity for further dialogue down this route. “Traveler, what do you want?”

“We just want to return this box to Al-Haitham,” Paimon answers as the Traveler procures it. “It was sealed within the Balladeer’s construction chamber, but it looks super important. And a part of Paimon is wondering how it even got there in the first place if she’s gone supposedly missing all these years. If it belongs to her, maybe she could help us. We heard she was studying the Teleport Waypoints and that they’re some sort of… out-of-realm kind of technology? Paimon’s still a bit fuzzy on the details…”

But Kaveh had stopped listening roughly two sentences ago. His gaze fixes on the box in the Traveler’s lap. “It’s hers, you’re sure? You… have her seal?” With an assenting nod, he takes the box gingerly, running his hand over the craftsmanship reverently, and the Traveler averts their gaze in respect. Kaveh’s fingers trace the edge, and he sighs softly, rubbing his temple with the same hand. “She isn’t missing. She returned home to Snezhnaya,” Kaveh answers at length after a hard internal fight, letting his hand drop. The Traveler can see it in the way this great architect clutches onto the box until his knuckles pale, and his breath comes shaking. “There, she worked under who I believe is the Fatui Harbinger, Dottore.”

“The Doctor?” Paimon whispers, horrified. “She was a Fatuus?”

“No, she wouldn’t. Despite those horrid people giving the rest of Snezhnaya a bad name, she was the best person I knew.” Kaveh’s voice softens wistfully. “Her mind far surpassed many of those who call themselves scholars now, but I don’t think any of us realized that she was being blackmailed by the Fatui behind the scenes.”

“That’s awful…” the Traveler murmurs, fists clenched tight in their lap. Kaveh sets the box down tenderly, and he raises his eyes warily to the blonde before him. “So she’s dead? Did the Fatui kill her?”

“No. No, they wouldn’t kill an asset.” At this, the colour drains from Kaveh’s face. “From what I understand… she gave her body to the Doctor’s definition of science in exchange for her father’s life. I only saw her twice since the snowstorm. Once, when she returned to Sumeru City after she departed for her homeland, and once again two years ago, and she was more machine than human.” Guilt, and a heavy tinge of regret seeping into his voice and face. “In other words, I have no idea if she’s still alive.”

“How is that possible? That she could survive all that human testing and not go mad,” the Traveler murmurs, setting down their mug. Their stomach turns over at the scenarios running through their head. “Thank you, Kaveh. Maybe I should leave the box with you, considering Al-Haitham will return, one way or another.”

“I’ll look after it,” he promises. Together, the two rise, and Paimon flies towards the box, inspecting it one last time as if it’ll hold clues they’ve missed. 

The Traveler sighs, and picks up their backpack. “We’ll be off, then. Al-Haitham still has questions we need answered.”

“Questions about…?”

“Well, Cyno told us of an assignment that Al-Haitham was given that sent him into the desert according to his report afterwards, but never about what exactly happened,” Paimon informs. Kaveh stiffens, his jaw clenching and a terrible scowl crosses his face. Flying back to the Traveler, the companion continues, “If Al-Haitham can give us answers about what exactly happened—”

“The Artificer bears a Cryo Vision,” Kaveh interrupts coldly. “And do you know, Traveler, what the Tsartisa used to embody before she was consumed with the vengeance that rules her hand? Her nation?”

The Traveler pauses mid-step, lightning shooting down their leg and freezing them to the ground. The icy anger that overtakes Kaveh’s body, seizes his entire body into a husk of hollow fury plated by brittle wrath, makes the Traveler swallow, arms tensing. The architect has tilted his head away, blond hair curtaining the darkening expression consuming his face. It makes him monstrous, unrecognizable from the amiable man that had been in his spot only seconds before.

For a moment, the Traveler is unsure if they should be the one to speak—to answer a question they’re hesitant to answer. The air cracks but Kaveh saves them from the terrible decision only moments later after a harsh breath, and a soft, bitter laugh. It sits in the Traveler’s throat like sour melon seeds.

“I know Al-Haitham believes that I dislike him because of differences in beliefs, menial things like personality clashes,” he whispers scathingly with an age-old contempt, “but the truth of the matter is, he is the reason my best friend has disappeared, and I won’t ever forgive him for it, no matter how many favours he grants me. I know he doesn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart—it’s because she asked him, and he thinks this is even close to honouring her.”

“Kaveh…” Paimon floats forward, but the Traveler grabs her hand, holding her back. The floating companion looks back at them, but they shake their head.

“Most people see Al-Haitham as someone who’s callous, coldhearted, and dishonest, but I’ve seen him grieve her more plainly than anyone else. He mourns her even now, carries that guilt like a thousand weights without a single complaint. And it infuriates me,” he grits out softly, fists clenched by his sides. He tilts his head back, and inhales shakily. A sharp amber gaze meets the Traveler’s, and Kaveh lets out a short, horrible laugh. “I’m guilty of actually… caring about him despite what he’s done. It’s why I told him a few days ago that she sent me a note that she’d be leaving Port Ormos by the end of the week.”

The Traveler understands, and without another word, they race out the door.

.

The day before they’re supposed to complete their first trial on the Teleport Waypoint had been a lazy one—consisting of well-placed naps on your part so you could be prepared for the long day ahead of you tomorrow. Al-Haitham had been your steady companion through it all, letting you show him around camp and describing your work just in case he wants to report back to the Sages. 

“They’re not concerned, are they?” you had asked, and he had shook your head. Your father also wanted to speak to Al-Haitham, and you had surrendered your partner for anyone else looking for your attention. Penultimate observations of variables were taken. Meals, prayers, and stories were exchanged.

Al-Haitham kissed his name into your neck, your cheek, your lips throughout the day, waking you up from your naps and corralling you to your next one with punctuality only expected of him. You can still feel him even as you bid him farewell that night. 

He frowns, brushing the back of his fingers down your cheek, before taking hold of your jaw and tilting your head towards his lips. It’s a brief kiss, but familiar, and you can’t help but smile into it.

“I’ll see you when I come back?” you murmur against his mouth, and he nods, eyes dark and downcast. He’s not happy about leaving just like you, but there’s something stronger in his stare, the downturn of his mouth that’s occupied him when he thinks you won’t noticed. It feels almost like regret. Pulling back, you take hold of his hand. “Alright, Scribe, lighten up. I’ll be home soon, and we can talk about all of this.” You squeeze his fingers. “I promise.”

“We… we will need to talk,” he insists, and your brow furrows. He brings your hand to his lips with both of his own, and reverently presses a soft kiss to the heel of your palm. “I’m sorry.”

You curl your fingers over his hands and push them down, shaking your head. His somber attitude in the wake of what could be the happiest moment of your life is ruining your mood with a growing bud of worry, but you can’t let him know that. So you paste a smile on your face and simply squeeze him. “Don’t be sorry. Just go.”

His eyes linger, but you only shake your head minutely and he lets out a long exhale, his shoulders falling. That lost little frown still possesses his mouth, and there’s a permanent wrinkle in his brow that must’ve been there for the past few hours. 

He woke up before you, and you’d found him outside sitting by the fire on his own. It’d been a strange scene, and he looked lost in his melancholy—book all but forgotten in his lap, his eyes staring sightlessly into the fire. The sun had barely risen, but now you’re starting to wonder if he slept at all if the puffiness of his eye bags and the lethargy that he’s been trying to hide all day is anything to go by.

A part of you is nervous that it’s because he didn’t want to sleep next to you and had to seek refuge, but you rationalize that when you had called his name, he had returned to you without argument and a kiss to your crown.

The troubled gaze still lingers now, even with the dusk approaching. He had said it’s best if he sets off now so he can get back to the Akademiya and make use of the cooler temperatures. He’ll spend most of this week travelling, and you know he’d rather not miss the beginning of another work week. However, you can’t help but let the thought that there’s more than travelling at night in the desert that bothers him.

You wanted this farewell to be sweet and temporary.

Except now, it feels more and more permanent, and the sweetness of it has suffered for it.

“Al-Haitham, don’t go doing anything irrational or stupid or… unthought of in these last few weeks,” you mutter, and his head raises just as you slither your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. His bag nudges against your side, just another reminder that he’s leaving, before he’s pulling back again, and his hands on your back rub up and down. You sigh and kiss him quickly.

His eyes flutter shut, and he presses his forehead against your own before whispering softly, “I’ll do my best.”

With that, he pulls away, and you grab hold of his hand. Together, they walk out of the tent, and you observe the activities occurring around camp. Most of the scholars are talking and bonding around the fire. Your father’s feeding the Sumpter Beasts, but he’s speaking to another Spantamad scholar you think he’s been taking to as a mentor figure. Rafiq, you remember his name as.

Humming thoughtfully, you let go of Al-Haitham’s hand as Rafiq looks over and you smile. He nods to you, and you note his eyes darting over to your companion, but he doesn’t appear to be watching as they approach.

“Father, Rafiq,” you greet politely. “The Scribe will be leaving our encampment, now.”

“Already? You won’t stay another day?” your father complains, and Al-Haitham has at least the decency to look sheepish as Rafiq quickly finds the Sumpter Beast the Scribe had ridden from Caravan Ribat, saddling the animal quickly as he can despite the low groaning protests.

“Unfortunately, the Akademiya calls,” he answers dryly. “The Scribe has no shortage of work.” Your father frowns, and glances at you, but you shrug. “I hope all goes well tomorrow. With luck, I’ll see you by the end of next week.”

“We’ll have to catch up, one-on-one,” your father says, leaning over nefariously and obviously eyeing you. You cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes as Rafiq returns, rope lead in his hand. You take it, giving the Sumpter Beast a quick pat on hard ridge. It lifts its head into your palm in response, and Rafiq crouches down to feed it an apple. 

“The Sumpter Beast is ready, Scribe,” Rafiq says, rising, and this time when they meet eyes, your eyebrows twitch together at the way Rafiq gulps and glances at you. He must be intimidated. You smile reassuringly as Al-Haitham clips his pack onto the saddle and takes the lead from you. Fingers brushing, you fight the heat rising to your face and the way your smile grows in pleasure.

“Goodbye,” he whispers, and you tilt your head at him. 

“I’ll see you,” you answer. He nods before clasping hands with your father in a firm shake. You can’t help but roll your eyes again but they let go soon enough before Al-Haitham swiftly presses a final kiss to your mouth. You blink, eyes widening, but before you can even question it, he turns to mount the Sumpter Beast with a soft grunt and picking up the reins and flashes you one final (sad) smile. 

You return to your tent, your bedroll feeling suspiciously more empty now that he’s gone. Sighing, you tuck yourself in for a sleep as restful as you can make it and wake up too soon by the hands of the last watch who was instructed to as soon as signs of the sun rising were visible.

You get up and prepare yourself, although the apprehensive feeling in you does not do anything but swell. Walking to your work bench, you go to the box containing all your documents and let it scan once you place your palm atop of it, your Akasha terminal connecting to the device within. With a soft beep, it unlocks.

You’d given one similar to this prototype to Al-Haitham before you left. You smile and wonder if he’s opened it yet. It’s a bit different than yours, only requiring a fingerprint and a connection to his Akasha Terminal rather than a full scan, but you muse if that’s what had prompted him to come here after all this time. Maybe he finally realized the depth of his feelings with such a hard-earned gift.

Presently, you open the box and reach inside. Your smile dissipates as soon as you do. Nothing touches your fingertips except for the bottom of the box, and you lift the lid fully. Empty.

Huh. Maybe your father (the only other person with clearance) had already retrieved the needed documents while you slept. You wouldn’t put it past him to give you just a few more moments of rest. Sighing, you instead pick up the second box which contains the core. Strange he didn’t take this with him, but you dismiss the thought. 

You’re entirely too protective over the device. Besides, this is your moment of crowning glory.

You leave your tent to a frenzy. The sky is not quite clear—a few clouds spot the sky. Your father’s one of the first awake, too, and he’s running a hand through his hair as he takes the temperature of the air and writes it down. Another Spantamad scholar is measuring Ley Line energy through a device puncturing the ground, their Dendro vision winking in the growing light. Placing the box on one of the tables set up near the Waypoint, you sweep your gaze around the site.

You mainly search for the Kshahrewar scholars. As you walk around to make sure everything is going smoothly and if anyone has any questions on the way, you frown when you realize that none of the scholars from your Darshan are present. Approaching your father, you ask him quickly if he’s seen them.

“They’re awake,” he answers distractedly. “Some of them had gotten breakfast. Perhaps they’re still going over their notes.”

“I suppose,” you say doubtfully. They need the entire day to workshop this as effectively as possible and monitor any fluctuations. The entire operation is running late. It’s the only thought that’s ruling your brain as you glance around.

Still, no one. Perhaps you should check on them in their tents, just to make sure…

Before you can move: “Artificer!”

Turning, you spot a Kshahrewar scholar running towards you. Her brown eyes are wide, and she looks frightened to death as she runs her hands over her braid, tugging a bit hard to be a nervous habit.

“What’s the delay?” you ask irritably. The sun’s burning orange sky stains your corneas even when you close your eyes, and you squint against the rays as Amina skids to a stop before you, her face shining with sweat.

“All our manuscripts, the blueprints for the modifications of the Teleport Waypoint…” she trails off and dread begins to grow like a virus at her expression. The Spantamad scholars nearby pause in their work to watch, and behind, you see the other scholars of your Darshan running up. You are rended to the bone at each of their expressions. “It’s all gone! All our work, our notes, even the most personal things like our diaries have been stolen!”

“What?” your father shouts, storming over. Immediately, your heart drops and a chisel digs into your skull and cracks it in two. Your world goes dark as he continues to interrogate the young scholar, but a buzzing begins to whine in your ears as you stare at Amina who is frantically trying to explain herself. Your focus leaves, and your mind swirls as a flash of green later, your father has seized the poor young woman by the arms and shakes her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

He swears loudly in Snezhnayan. You cannot move. Letting go of the scholar, he turns to look at you, and all the colour has drained from his lips. His eyes are wide, his breathing sharp and rapid against your face. Suddenly all you can see is your father’s eyes—they fill your whole world with their colour, their shrinking, frantic pupils. “Little Star?“

But you can’t speak, because, for some reason, that horrible gut feeling that’s been bothering you since you woke up and found Al-Haitham outside yesterday morning, that tingling sensation that something is wrong, the nagging in your heart… it all returns in full force. Your heart wrenches into a rotten twisted ache and you want to fall to your knees, let the hurt of the stone against your bones distract you from everything else.

And it is not the thought that your father is going to die that first swarms your brain. Not even the second. No, that comes third. 

The first thought is that your father isn’t the one who extracted your papers from your box.

The second is that wish you weren’t smart. Not that you had never joined the Akademiya, no. You wish your brain didn’t work as fast as it does. You wish you didn’t see the whole picture, that you never knew which edges of the puzzle piece aligned perfectly and what slightest adjustment could be made for something to work like a well-oiled cog and handle. You wish you had no intuition, no fine-attuned sense. 

No memory, no heart, no brain. 

No emotions, no human fallibility. 

Humans make mistakes. They’re emotional creatures. You’ve always embraced that that is what makes life very much worth living, but that you has died in a matter of moments. You look out at the desert where, less than twelve hours ago, Al-Haitham disappeared beyond the dunes.

You had left the box open. After he had kissed you, you had spent the rest of the night on your bedroll, just dozing and speaking and rambling about all sorts of things, completely unaware. Unthreatened. It was not even a thought in your head in the heat of his arms. After all, how can someone you ask such stupid (unfailingly human) questions be untrustworthy? How could he ever hurt you? 

“When did you start liking me? Did you know how much I liked you? Yes… Kaveh does have feelings for me, but he understands I could never… I promise. Oh, you thought my feelings were my obvious? As if!”

“Rafiq has disappeared, too. I can only assume that he’s the one who took them. We haven’t seen him since sunrise, but we thought he was just exploring below the bridge,” are the first words that pierce through the dim, blurry fog that has surrounded your brain and sedated you to the point of debatable mental presence.

You blink, and look up. Your father is staring at the scholar who had spoken. A Spantamad scholar who only stares back at his leader with sympathy. All the others have gathered around them, but your movement catches everyone’s eyes. When you lift your head higher to take in those waiting eyes, you cannot help but feel numb.

“We weren’t stolen from,” you finally say at length. Your father returns to your side, his hand clutching onto your elbow, and you meet his eyes dully. “The Akademiya has confiscated all our research. They’re sending a message, loud and clear.”

He understands immediately, and you silently curse him. The hatred is sudden, pitiful, and undeserved, but you can’t help it. Where else could you have gotten your mind from? “No… no… he wouldn’t. He couldn’t do such a thing to… to you, of all people…”

A terrible, overwhelming sensation swarms your body like locusts. Your blood burns with the fury of a thousand suns, and you stand beside this Waypoint outside the buried resting site of a dead god, unable to do anything. Clouds that have gathered above you begin to darken.

Your mind rends at the memories from that night that seems like a lightyear away now. The way he had brushed your arm, the deliberate trailing of his fingers down your shoulder. He had kissed you, touched you, listened to you speak all the while knowing what he was here to do. 

It wasn’t to see you at all. Was it all… 

Was it all some ploy he had to make you a fool? A lovesick, blind fool whose heart is hanging on strings, tugging at every which way Al-Haitham wants it to. He doesn’t know what you’ve sacrificed to make sure that these Teleport Waypoints would work all the way from Snezhnaya to here. How much blood and flesh and sweat and time you’ve given up for the sake of family.

All that drive. All that ambition. All that desire.

Gone, like sand grain in the wind. Never again will you see that speck of nothing

Al-Haitham has made you a failure, and that is one thing you cannot… You cannot stand.

“What happens now, Artificer?” a meek voice asks. You don’t answer immediately and instead push through the crowd and you cannot look away from the dune your lover has disappeared behind. Lover. How stupid of you to think that word could suit your tongue. “If all of our research has been confiscated, I… we can’t just give up, can we?”

“Now?” you echo numbly. The clouds above you begin to swirl into a storm, and you cannot help the incredulous scoff, the noxious feeling of that smile curving your mouth. It’s bitter, and it makes you want to retch your rations onto the dirt as a crack of thunder sounds in the distance.  “Now, I think my father and I must return to our homeland and answer for our failure. The possibility we return is nigh zero.”

“Homeland? But… the rest of us—“

“The rest of you will return safely back to the Akademiya.” A gust of wind sweeps over you, and your eyes burn before it can touch your face. A shuddering exhale leaves your lungs in a death rattle sort of way, and it must mean something. That your heart has withered away and is nothing more in your carcass chest. That in this silence, Al-Haitham has declared you dead to a world he wants to create for himself.

“The rest of you should leave,” you breathe out, shoulders falling. The winds grow stronger as you let your head hang, blink and let the tears fall to the dusty tile beneath your boots. “The expedition is over. You won’t be paid much, so you should do your best to collect your wage before any sort of fees rack up for this expedition.”

“Artificer, there’s a storm—”

“Prepare to leave. You won’t have enough time if you dally around me any longer,” you intone listlessly, watching as the gales pick up the sand around your feet, swirl against your pants, rip at your clothing, and you squeeze your eyes shut, more burning tears streaking down your nose, into your grimacing mouth as you try to hold in the sob that clutches your heart. 

You want to pull your hair out, to scream, to do anything more than just stand here and watch as the work that carries your father’s life is carried farther and farther away.

Then again, Al-Haitham could’ve burnt all your manuscripts. Sunken them into an oasis never to be found again. 

Desecrated your work with something as simple as a flick of his wrist. 

Destroyed your entire life without a care as to what it would mean for you.

Were all those years meaningless to you? You wanted to know. Was your betrayal a price I had to pay for you to ever consider loving me? Or do you not consider this a betrayal at all, but just a trade between two scholars vying for the validation of the ones above us?

Blinding pale blue lighting cracks, and the thunder that follows is deafening as a column of light shoots through the dark storm that gathers over Sumeru’s desert as it did thousands of years ago. Sudden and loud, it sends the scholars scurrying. Your father stumbles back, calling orders in your stead, and you cannot speak. 

Clutching onto the front of your scholar uniform, you pull so hard you feel the threads stretch against your back, and your breath comes short and sharp, lodging into your intercostal spaces. 

Tears stream down your face and your mouth is dry, full of cotton, as you pant for air, bending over and stepping back, trying to find your footing on even ground. Heat blustering all over your face, your heart pounds in your ears and your hearing leaves you the moment you look up, trying to peer through the sandstorm and your tears. Blinking, you let out a low hiccuping sob of pain but even that is cut short by the knife that sinks into your heart.

Fingers splayed across your chest rip the buttons from the seams, tear your uniform apart in an effort to make space for your lungs to move. Running your palms over your face, you let out a raspy shout and clutch onto your scalp, trying to just breathe. The winds buffet against your head, the temperature in the desert sinking lower and lower as the rising sun is swallowed by the storm. 

How you wish you could rip your own brain out by the stem. Give up your body in the name of science, and rid yourself of this infernal contraption they call a heart. What have you done?

Voices inside your head scream louder than anything else: No! No, no, no! This can’t happen to me!

And that is when the third thought blasts into your chest like a gunshot. It leaves a wider hole than it entered through, and the shrapnel lodged in your body poisons everything. Out of every human emotion, it is guilt that tastes the most foul.

Howling squalls scream back at you as your entire world is consumed by this storm that turns white and grey. Flashes of pale blue lighting flicker at the corner of your eye, and you spin around, the shadow of a man making you crumple to your knees. He stands there for a moment, before he is blown away, and your squeeze your eyes shut, baring your teeth in a restrained sob. 

None of it is real.

None of it was ever real.

“Al-Haitham!” you scream in vicious Snezhnayan above the crackling thunder. Your throat tastes like iron. “I will never forgive you!”

You let out a screech that comes from the pits of your soul and it only dies into a loud, unhinged wailing cry that you cannot restrain any longer. Your bones chatter from the sudden onslaught of snow and brutal, slicing winds, but your fingers have numbed to any sort of sensation as you claw at your chest, your throat, pull them into tight fists that cannot do any more. Cannot tinker anymore—invent anymore.

Useless.

How could your father ever think that he was useless when you sit here, unable to do anything to save him?

A flash of lightning blinds you before the entire world pauses. The winds fade into a dull roar, the blazes of the storm cease into muted foggy glimpses of lighting, and the thunder rumbles like a heartbeat. Raising your head, you feel a soft breeze caress your tear-stained cheeks, and in the distance, you hear people screaming. People begging for help.

The world hasn’t stopped for them. Why has it for you? Are you dead? Do you… have the past few minutes been wiped into your mind? Looking up, the black clouds part and you see a moon that should not be visible at this time of day. Snow falls delicately and a pillar of lunar light shoots down through the hole, illuminating each snowflake that fall so slowly, so unhurried in their descent to the earth. 

You raise a hand to the moon peeking through, hoping for some sort of benevolence from the gods, but when you only serve to cover it from your sight, the edges of the round orb spilling between your fingers, you know it’s a stupid endeavour.

This moon is not the tender one it is in Sumeru. It is cold, and judgemental, and silent, and as the storm begins to swell around you once more, you bow your head to the Tsaritsa’s brutal judgement, letting your hand fall. You take hold of it with your other hand, cradling your palms to your chest when something hard meets your fingers. Jerking your head back, you stare blankly at the item that has appeared.

A Cryo Vision rests in the centre of your hands. 

You curl your fingers over it, feeling the newfound power of the element stream through your system. It sings with unbridled fury, as if the Tsartisa herself has wielded your betrayal, crafted it into a sword of permafrost that burns your hands, and you let out a soft breath.

To your surprise, it mists in the quiet, snowy air, and you let out a terrible sob, keeling over this Vision that means that something inside you has broken hard enough that it is worthy of being noticed by the husk of the Goddess of Love. 

That this… this is enough to be seen as other-worldly. As a kin.

A rattling scream echoes across the dunes, empties from your lungs into the remains of a lost civilization. The storm ignites, sending a rippling shockwave through the dunes. The buffeting winds crash into the stone. The snow begins to fall in earnest, and it mounts around you, covering the ruins you’ve studied so intimately. 

Ice spreads in thin spiderwebs from underneath you, crawling over the stone at a lecherously slow pace, and your heart rends. 

Hollows. 

Wilts like a dying flower. 

Crumbles to nothing. 

Disappears in the howling gales of a snowstorm, and for a long time, no one comes to you. 

No one will come.

No one can save you from your fate.

And so the storm rages on, and it will rage on until you feel nothing at all.

Al-Haitham - About Al-Haitham: Love

The only reason he knows you’re in Sumeru is because of Kaveh. The only reason he finds you is because of Kaveh. 

Al-Haitham curses that. Hates it more than anything that he’s in debt to a man who would’ve treated you far better than he did. Kaveh would’ve never betrayed you for the Akademiya. For all the romanticism and idealism Al-Haitham can’t stand, perhaps those are the things that would’ve saved you from ever leaving the safety of the city.

When he first sees you after five years, you are standing on the dock, speaking to the Snezhnayan engineers that must’ve been behind the Balladeer’s chambers and helping them load their ships with their supplies and technology that they must’ve scavenged to bring back to their country. He’s not sure if they’re all Fatui—not sure if you’re one of them, too—but you speak so quietly he cannot hear. They must not be, considering they aren’t arrested by the Dendro Archon’s command nor did they flee with the Doctor.

You’re clad head to toe in Snezhnayan colours, not a drop of green on you, and there’s something new on the harness that crosses in an x at your back when you turn around. It is pinned there, glinting pale blue in the sunlight.

A Vision.

He had never known you to have one. You’re also… bulkier in a way. More muscular, taller. Your hair is cut differently, too, and when you move to lift something that seems much too heavy, you do it with remarkable ease. But it’s you.

He hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when Al-Haitham dreamed for the first time after the Akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.

“I will be there when you dock,” you say loud enough that Al-Haitham can hear from where he hides at the mouth of the entrance to Wikala Funduq. “The Teleport Waypoint isn’t far from the harbour, and I’ll be able to sort out travelling arrangements before you all arrive. It’s short-notice, so I can’t guarantee the best, but I’ll try my hardest.” 

Peering around, he notes you surrounded by the engineers, but they begin to dissipate a moment later. Some leave the pier, while others board the boats, and you remain there, turning around to look out at the sea, hands planted on your hips.

Al-Haitham seizes his chance.

He walks out of Wikala Funduq, and as soon as his boots touch wood, you turn around.

The most peculiar shade of purple bewitches Al-Haitham. It’s a colour he is certain he’s never seen before, but an itchy part of his brain tags it as something he should be familiar with. A purple he should attribute to something else, something beautiful.

Your lips part, and a soft near-silent sigh escapes you as an entirely concoction of emotions racks through your face. Your eyes are not your own, yet they’re set in your face, and they widen like your eyes used to at the sight of him.

So it must be you. “(Name).”

You stiffen, arms falling limp at your sides, yet he cannot do anything but let out the breath he can’t recall ever holding and forgoing any sort of decorum, any sort of remembrance of who he is in the standing of the Akademiya. He is not the lone wolf scholar, the Akademiya’s Scribe, the Acting Grand Sage.

He is just a boy who is in love with you even now, even still, and his face crumbles into pure relief as he walks towards you in a daze, his feet dragging along the pier. You stare at him warily, and there are Snezhnayan workers who watch. Some even reach for a weapon, but at your barely raised hand, they fall silent.

“Al-Haitham,” you say, measured, soft, shaking, still your voice. You’re trembling in front of him. He is falling apart at the seams. When he nears, he can finally take in your finer details: the unnatural purple of your eyes, the mechanical optical rings of your irises, the way your pupils dilate  and shrink unnaturally as if sizing him up, inspecting him. “How did you know?”

“Kaveh told me,” he answers, and a sharp twinge of pain and betrayal flashes through your eyes before you blink, turning your head away. He’s surprised you haven’t frozen him to death yet, and he tests his luck further by reaching to touch your arm, but you only jerk back with a heavy step.

“How much did he tell you?” you ask roughly, eyes flitting from his fingers to his hand. 

“Nothing. Only that you’re here. That… you were leaving.”

“Did he tell you how he doesn’t even recognize me anymore?”

That silences him for a beat. “No.”

“I see. Well, I suppose you have questions?”

“Aren’t you upset with me?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve forgiven you,” you say, “then no. I haven’t. I won’t ever forgive you.”

“I’m sorry.” This time, when he says it, you understand. You didn’t five years ago, how he kept apologizing. You look away.

“Perhaps we should find somewhere more private,” you suggest quietly. “I don’t have any interest in entertaining your apologies. It’s in the past and we’re both… different people now, so I’ll answer your questions, and then we can see what happens next.”

“Fine.”

“I have a place nearby that we could talk.”

You begin to stride past him, but Al-Haitham, never one in the last five years to have the last word, feels himself act before he can think. “(Name), wait—“

When his fingers stretch to touch your hand, he feels a hard surface where you should be flesh, and your wrist twists unnaturally to free itself from his grasp. His blood runs cold at the way your hand rotates itself back to a more anatomically correct position, and you clutch it with your other gloved hand. 

“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Just follow me.”

He nods, burning, but he’s not sure with frustration or guilt.

You lead him to a hotel room that’s hidden but overlooking the pier. It’s a small place, but quaint and barely furnished. Picked dry mostly, except for a backpack resting slouched against the wall and some other knick knacks—a pen, a notebook you close as you walk past it.

You pull a chair at the table by the window out and sit down. Al-Haitham can see the water from the glass, and as he approaches, you lean on the table by your elbows and gesture with your hand to the chair across from you. He seats himself, and glances around the place.

“The last five years. Where have you been?” he begins.

“Snezhnaya. When you left, the one thing you didn’t take was the core of the Teleport Waypoint I created. My father and I used it and managed to successfully teleport home.”

“This whole time you were there?”

“Not exactly. I roamed the world for a while. I went to Mondstadt and Fontaine, but that was only a year or two ago.” You look down at your hands. “When we returned, the Doctor had been furious that I lost my research, but he blamed it on my father. He was… technically my supervisor.” As if realizing something: “Though, I don’t suppose you know all of that. With the Fatui blackmailing me, and��� and everything.”

“I had gathered as much only recently,” he answers. “I went to the Balladeer’s chambers after he was defeated. I thought I could recognize your work, but… I was unsure.” Swallowing, he shifted uncomfortably. “All these years, I thought you had died in that snowstorm and that it was my fault.”

“Some would say I’ve had a fate worse than death,” you remark, acerbic and unsurprised. “If you had known, do you think you would’ve done what you did?”

“I think I would’ve been more aware of the consequence.” He shakes his head. “I would’ve been honest, even. When I received the assignment, I thought the worse. Betraying you was an impossible task, but they assured me you wouldn’t be punished, so I followed through with it with utmost secrecy. I thought you’d just come back to the Akademiya, and we’d have a huge fight, and somehow I could convince the Sages to allow you access back to your own work as long as there were restrictions placed.”

“Restrictions? None of my work was ever illegal, though.” Your eyebrows furrow, and Al-Haitham thought you were angry, but you only look at him in a strange, morbid curiosity. You’re only searching for honesty. “Unless…”

“They suspected your father’s loyalties had been swayed. The objective of the assignment was to take your materials away, bring you and your father back, and put you on trial. You would’ve been innocent, but your father…”

“He never did anything wrong.”

“I know that,” he replies coolly, “but Azar saw your father as a threat. Saw you as a threat. You were a public figure with a strong will of your own, inherited from your father. I doubt he could’ve put you under his control. Honestly, if you’d been here, do you think that entire situation with the samsara would’ve gone on as long as it did?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I don’t know much about anything anymore, I think.”

For some reason, and Al-Haitham has weathered many storms before, during, and after their friendship, this is what makes his heart shrivel.

“What do you know?” he asks softly. You peek up at him from underneath your eyelashes, and a tired face stares back at him. 

“I know that I loved you,” you reply. “I don’t know if I still do. Looking at you now makes me feel something, but it’s not a good thing.”

“Do you hate me?” 

“I don’t know. It’s over now. I hated you for a bit,” you allow, “but to be honest, I’m just exhausted. This whole ordeal. The Doctor. I finally have the chance to leave his service. I could, but I have obligations to other people. To be honest, I have a half-baked plan, but I’m not sure if it’ll work.”

“Are you returning home to Snezhnaya?” he asks, afraid to even put himself in this position of wanting something from you again, and you frown. 

“Kaveh insists I stay here to be safe,” you tell him. “He misses me. I miss him. Travelling Teyvat, all I could think about is how much he would appreciate the different types of architecture around the world.” You shrug. “But… he doesn’t really recognize me as a person. It’ll take some time for him to get used to the fact that I’m more machine than human.”

“You’re still you,” he assures immediately and you arch an eyebrow. 

“How do you know?”

“Because you haven’t killed me yet when I deserve punishment for what I did to you so you must have a heart,” Al-Haitham answers steadily. “And I know you could strike me down if you wanted to. Don’t lie to me.”

“Al-Haitham…” Your mouth moves but you don’t speak, and he nods, understanding.

“My opinion shouldn’t matter, but I would like you to stay.” He cringes at even recommending it. “I know I have no right to ask this favour of you.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “I thought you didn’t believe in favours.”

“I don’t.”

They sit in silence. You draw your hands towards you on the table. He steeples his fingers and looks out at the port to give himself something to do. The quiet isn’t amiable, but not openly hostile. Al-Haitham never thought he would be able to do this again. To sit across from you had been a long forgotten wish, and he doesn’t want to ruin it now, so he waits for you to start again.

“Did you ever open the box I gave you before I left?” you ask after a while. You’ve been tracing the woodgrain with your finger, and Al-Haitham has been watching you do it. You lift your hand back up and rest your chin in your palm to look out the window.

“I did.” A hard swallow. “How did you find such a collection of journal entries? They must’ve been rare.”

“Ruin diving and desert exploration,” you explain briefly. “At the time, you said you were interested in that catastrophe the oldest historical biographies mentioned, and when I had come across one of the journals detailing first hand experiences of a scholar during that time, I had to find out if there was more I could find and translate. Those six entries were all I could find at the time being.”

“There were more in the House of Daena’s collection. The entire anthology was called A Thousand Nights. A lot has been lost to time, so the rarity of these journals is high,” he says, and at last, you give into a faint smile although you still don’t look at him.

“You found more?”

“Yes, although the ones you gave me are stored safely in the box.”

“Not turning in precious material to the Akademiya? How rebellious, Al-Haitham,” you intone. You finally tilt your head towards him, and your smile has his heart racing. “Al-Haitham, you know of my feelings for you. What about yours?”

“Are you asking if they’ve changed?”

You nod. 

“Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know. Because I doubted it for a very long time. I thought that someone who loved me wouldn’t dare to do the things you did to me, but that’s an idealistic of the world I don’t have anymore. I don’t exactly trust you right now,” you tack on quickly, “but right now is honesty hour, isn’t it?”

“Seems like it.” He thinks on it for a moment. He could very well lie. It’d probably the easier choice for you to not possibly feel obligated in some way to his feelings. You wouldn’t have the burden of knowing that his love is unfaithful, nor would the chance to tempt it be there. 

And you’d believe whatever he says. Whether or not you know it’s the truth, you’d probably force yourself to believe it and he would, too, and they could leave all of this… them, their past, their present, and their potential future, too, in the sand.

Honesty hour. 

Is that what you called it?

“I did love you,” he admits when his moment is up. “I grieved you for a long time. I knew it was my fault that you had died and debated if my cushy job was worth surrendering the one person who could actually stand me and, against all odds, loved me for who I was. Those hours in your camp before I stole the documents made me feel the most helpless I’ve ever felt in my life and I hated it.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He ponders over this. “As soon as Kaveh told me you were here, I ran just to see you myself because I couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to see you when I had the chance. I… you’re not the same. I understand that. I understand my part to play in this, and I know that what I feel should not influence your decisions. I ask that you don’t consider them at all.”

“Al-Haitham…”

“I do love you. I’ve loved you for years, but it feels… longer than that somehow. Maybe I don’t make sense, but even when I couldn’t dream, I could still see you in my sleep.” Your stricken face makes him blink, and he fights the burning in his face and ears by looking down. The tightness in his sternum only aches more. “I don’t want your forgiveness, but I do love you.”

You are quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, unexpectedly, you say, “There’s a box”—and he jerks his head up, confused “—that I hid in the Balladeer’s chambers. I’m not sure if it’s completely destroyed by now, but only you and I have clearance for it.”

“What’s inside?”

“All the things that reminded me of you in the past five years. Things I wrote about you. Blueprints for your hearing aids. Collectibles I thought you’d like. I don’t know. Just a bit of everything, honestly.” His eyes widen. You don’t seem to notice, or you don’t let it deter you. “When I told you that I wasn’t sure if I loved you still, it’s because I’m trying not to love you. It’s very easy to convince myself I don’t when I never see you. But I see you and I feel disgusted.” 

You chuckle a bit, almost nervous. Al-Haitham isn’t quite sure of what to say. Grasping at straws, he opens his mouth to speak but you shake your head.

“To be honest, I never gave myself a chance to let my love for you die,” you whisper. “The disgust comes from remembering what you did, but it’s so overwhelmed by everything else. The longer I sit talking to you, I just feel like everything’s the same.”

“But it isn’t.”

“It can’t ever be, Al-Haitham” you agree. “But I’m willing to pretend. Just for a little while.” You look down at your hands, and slowly pull your glove off. A plate of silver metal catches the sun rays and Al-Haitham’s heart lodges right up in his throat at the cylindrical fingers that tug at your other glove revealing skin and a hand that he recognizes. “I thought it would be best if you saw it.”

“Does it… feel different?”

“Yes. I don’t… feel much the same way anymore, but most of the work was internal. Injections, a heightened metabolism, tinkered senses. A new leg. My eyes, obviously.” You gesture to your pupils, but they seem more natural the longer Al-Haitham watches. “My Vision gave me even more durability and he couldn’t kill me because of how useful I was to him, but I was the next best thing to a perfect subject.”

“Your father, then?“

“He’s alive. It was either him or me, and I gave myself up in an instant,” you answer. “I don’t regret that much of my life.”

He reaches forward tentatively for your flesh hand, but your mechanical hand comes into contact with him first, warm against his wrist. It’s almost like you’re still alive there, but the texture is too smooth, the edges where the metal plates too sharp to be human, and he looks down at the hand that touches him.

This is who you are now. This is who he’s made you.

“I want to move my family away from Snezhnaya, Al-Haitham,” you tell him in the lowest tone you can muster. Al-Haitham’s eyes meet yours, and a soft, pleading expression has taken over your face. “I know you’re the Acting Grand Sage, and that you have duties to the Akademiya, but—“ and he hears it for what it is.

I want there to be a chance for us.

“I would give you anything I could in a heartbeat,” he swears immediately. “If you need asylum, I’d be more than obliged to grant you your request. I—“ But nothing comes out. What his words cannot say, he hopes the silence can. I love you. I will help you in any way I can. I love you. I miss you. I love you.

I’ll find you.

I love you.

“You have beautiful eyes, Al-Haitham,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. When metal touches his smooth cheek, his eyes flutter closed, and a soft amused hum leaves his companion. “I think I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”

Cupping your wrist with his own hand, he turns his face into your palm. It smells like nothing, yet there is a hint of your scent clinging to your sleeve that slowly seeps into his nose. His lips kiss the ticklish part of your hand, and your mechanical hand reacts like your normal flesh one would—your fingers curl against his face, and your thumb strokes underneath his eye.

He smiles. “Yes. Yes, I’m certain you have.”

Buer - About Samsaras

The Traveler reaches Port Ormos by nightfall a few days later. By then, it’s too late and they’re too exhausted to even think about trying to find the man they search for. For all intents and purposes, he could be gone, but it doesn’t hurt to ask around on their way to their room.

They ask the owner of the hotel, Shapur, manning the concierge, who briefly mentions seeing the Acting Grand Sage walking with a woman renting a room in the hotel by the water. She had the most distinct purple eyes. 

Somehow, the Traveler knows that’s who they’re looking for and they take off again with renewed vigour, and leave Paimon in the dust.

They reach the port quickly. It’s mostly empty, but there are two distinct figures sitting by the water speaking. The moon is their only witness, and when the Traveler steps from around a pillar to observe them more clearly, they can see those purple eyes that Shapur mentioned clearer than day. They glow, even at night, and look almost fake. They’ve never seen eyes of a normal mortal glow like hers do.

Then, Al-Haitham, leaning back onto his arms, pushes himself up, and he extends a hand to his companion to help her up. When he turns, his eyes, too, catch the bright moonlight in a flash of golden divinity.

For a moment, time seems to stop, and the Traveler watches as they, holding hands, begin to walk further down the pier.

“This world is an eternal samsara,” someone comments. Spinning around, the Traveler’s eyes widen at Buer walking from a nearby ramp. When had they fallen asleep? She smiles, green eyes wide and innocent. “Just as there are memories of passed family members living in those of the present, gods never truly die. They are reborn when the time is right, and even alike souls can find one another again.”

The Traveler frowns. “What do you mean?”

“They’re happy. Let’s not disturb them,” she says instead, stretching out her hand. The Traveler takes it, and instantly, they are brought back to their room in Shapur Hotel. Paimon has fallen asleep, and the Traveler sits on their bed. Buer perches herself on the table, her feet not quite making it to the chair. 

“When did I fall asleep?”

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t a long time. I just didn’t want to ruin their reconciliation,” she explains. “I don’t remember them well, anymore, but as I’ve read more ancient texts in hopes of… remembering the more important details that have been lost to me, the times I had with King Deshret and the Lord of Flowers come clearer. Together, we were the three God-Kings of Sumeru. It’s unfortunate you were unable to meet them. They seemed to be my greatest friends.”

“They both died ages ago,” the Traveler says, and the knowledge that comes to their mind is stuck in their throat, chained from being freed. Rukkhadevata and the forbidden knowledge. That must be a secret that stays a secret.

Buer giggles. “Died in the loosest sense of the term. Gods don’t truly die. They may be banished, or lose their memories, but their essence is immortal. Even when they seem to be gone, a seed of them will always remain on this planet, seeking the right time and conditions to sprout.”

The Traveler’s spine shoots ramrod straight, and their mouth drops open. “You don’t mean…”

“Although it’s hard to confirm, I find it hard to mistake the similarities between your friend and mine. Deshret has been reborn,” she says, “not resurrected like the Eremites had predicted. As for the Artificer. Her purple eyes, although artificially made, bear a striking resemblance to those Padisarahs of ages past, don’t they?”

“Like the one in Nilou’s dream,” the Traveler realizes, all of it dawning on them like a flood and crashing wave.

Buer nods. “There are very few coincidences in this world. Be happy for them. Their ending in their last lives was not a happy one and they’ve struggled and toiled in this samsara, too, just for the chance to meet again. Even still, they will have to continue to fight these challenges to persevere.” She sighs, looking down at her feet. “Hopefully in the next one life, they can just be born friends and save each other some heartache, and maybe we can be friends again, too.”

“The Goddess of Flowers sacrificed everything for the price of King Deshret’s divine knowledge,” the Traveler points out distantly, their voice soft and wistful. “He drove himself mad because she was gone.”

“There are some events that must repeat on different scales in each samsara,” the Dendro Archon agrees quietly. “A first meeting, a death, a betrayal. I’m happy that my friends have found one another again, even if they don’t remember, but perhaps that is their pinned, pre-determined fateful event that must happen in every samsara. I don’t know. Irminsul’s powers are beyond even my full understanding.”

“They say she disappeared in a storm.” A sharp chill shoots down the Traveler’s spine as Buer hums, nodding. “And she was never seen again.”

“You’re understanding,” she says, delighted. “This time, though, she came back to him, and this time, he knows the knowledge he craves is not worth losing her love.” Buer smiles cheek-to-cheek. “The rest is up to them, now.”

a/n: reblog/comment if you enjoyed! did you catch all the parallels and foreshadowing? there was as much as i could stuff in, from subtle to unsubtle! i read and watched so many theory threads/videos for this and again this was such a fun collab! 

the prompt was to either make the third person (in this kaveh) a love interest or someone who helps the main couple get together, and i thought why not a bit of both. after all, it is kaveh who was al-haitham’s biggest reason not to confess, and also kaveh who told al-haitham where to find you. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ heheh thank you for reading!!