#disintegrating into the wind as we speak

[lil-inky]

Whiteboard doodle dump weehooh!

And some…spicier doods under the cut 🤫

poggers 😶‍🌫️

[shisasan]

Picking a single favourite quote might be an impossible task so which quote (or quotes) do you seem to come back to more often than others?

Picking a single favorite quote might truly be an impossible task because there are so many brilliant writers out there whose words have deeply influenced my life. These extraordinary souls have breathed new life into me when I was ready to give up on everything. Without any particular order, these quotes are not intended to enlighten or educate anyone but offer a brief insight into the words I turn to for comfort, inspiration, or understanding when I'm not at my highest self.

I'll begin with my most dearest Hermann Hesse, whom I like to call my Alpha and Omega. He transformed my life from a young age, opening mysterious portals to other worlds and making me feel deeply understood, embraced, with a true sense of belonging. His writing not only awakened my mind to new realms of thought and emotion but also offered immense solace and companionship through his exploration of the human spirit:

"A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal, and sterile life."

"I have always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions."

"We have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness."

Rainer Maria Rilke, a beautiful and tender infinite soul, whose writings deeply resonate with the complexities of the human condition and the relentless quest for understanding:

"I am dark, I am forest."

"I grow strong in the beauty you behold. And with the silence of stars, I enfold your cities made by time."

"Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

Novalis, who occupies a cherished place in my heart for his poetic and deeply insightful exploration of life and love.

"We are eternal because we love each other."

"I often feel, and ever more deeply I realize, that fate and character are the same conception."

"Sometimes with the most intense pain a paralysis of sensibility occurs. The soul disintegrates—hence the deadly frost—the free power of the mind—the shattering, ceaseless wit of this kind of despair. There is no inclination for anything anymore—the person is alone, like a baleful power—as he has no connection with the rest of the world he consumes himself gradually—and in accordance with his own principle he is—misanthropic and misotheos."

Egon Schiele, whose intense and raw portrayal of human emotion and beauty has deeply moved me, revealing the unfiltered essence of the human experience.

"I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds. I want to gaze with astonishment at moldy garden fences, I want to experience them all, to hear young birch plantations and trembling leaves, to see light and sun, enjoy wet, green-blue valleys in the evening, sense goldfish glinting, see white clouds building up in the sky, to speak to flowers. I want to look intently at grasses and pink people, old venerable churches, to know what little cathedrals say, to run without stopping along curving meadowy slopes across vast plains, kiss the earth and smell soft warm marshland flowers. And then I shall shape things so beautifully: fields of colour…"

Anaïs Nin, a force of nature and embodiment of feminine strength, whose deep exploration of inner life and boundless creativity has left an indelible impression on me. Her work continues to inspire and challenge me to embrace the fullness of my inner world:

"She was colour, brilliance, strangeness."

"I have the power to multiply myself. I am not one woman."

"Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous."

"I can only connect deeply, or not at all."

Carl Gustav Jung, one of the most brilliant psychiatrists, psychologists, psychotherapists, and empiricists in history. Jung's exploration of the collective unconscious and shadow self has offered me invaluable tools for self-awareness and personal development. His legacy continues to inspire and guide those seeking to understand the depths of the mind and the path to self-discovery.

"A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them. As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being. Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves."

"People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own souls. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious."

"The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the maddening genius with profound understanding of human nature and morality:

"If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself."

"People speak sometimes about the 'bestial' cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."

"People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones."

"I exist. In thousands of agonies—I exist."

"If there is no God, everything is permitted."

Virginia Woolf, a literary giant whose deep introspection and exploration of the human condition have left an indelible mark:

"No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself."

"What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one."

"I want to raise up the magic world all around me and live strongly and quietly there."

"Reality? Reality has never been enough for me."

Mikhail Bulgakov, a masterful writer and playwright, another troubled soul who faced censorship and persecution in his lifetime, with immense talent and a deep soul, fascinated me with his imaginary worlds that blend reality with fantastical elements, feeling both familiar and boundlessly expansive:

"But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light?"

"Kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, no, terror is useless, whatever its colour – white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system."

"Everything passes away - suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence. The sword will pass away too, but the stars will remain when the shadows of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the Earth. There is no man who does not know that. Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars? Why?"

"There are no evil people in the world, only unhappiness disguised as evil."

And then there is indispensable Franz Kafka. Although I have shifted away from his writing in recent years and no longer resonate with it as much, he was a dear friend and frequent company during my darkest, loneliest, and most challenging times. His work, full of raw honesty and insight, offered a kind of companionship that felt both intimate and enduring:

"The way he can risk everything and risks nothing, because there is nothing but truth in him already, a truth that even in the face of the contradictory impressions of the moment will justify itself as such when the crucial time arrives. The calm self-possession. The slow pace that neglects nothing. The immediate readiness, when it is needed, not sooner, for long in advance he sees everything that is coming."

"I, for the most part silent, had nothing to say; among such people the war doesn’t call forth in me the slightest opinion worth expressing."

"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet." Of course, there are many more authors who deserve to be on this list, but I chose these because they have touched my life in ways that are both unique and deeply personal. I hope that at least some of you will read to the end and find a bit of inspiration and insight in these quotes, just as they have given me. If you’ve made it this far, thank 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!!

[comicaurora]

These have been pent up for a while, so there's a whole list lol. Some are Aurora, some are not.

1) Can lacrimas carry out multiple purposes at once? Or will they blend them? I'm assuming that this is possible, considering that the automaton in the ruins was using a lacrima as a brain

2) Has anyone tried to make tools or weapons out of lacrimas? I'm talking like chisel that needs no hammer. Or maybe a Fire lacrima on a bow that sets your arrows on fire

3) Can you engrave runes on lacrimas to make them affect themselves?

4) Where can I read more about the Twins? If I'm not wrong they're the creator gods, aided by the Light dragon and the Void dragon to create life, but I might be getting a wrong read on that

5) Since we see Erin successfully become the first Void mage, does that now mean there's potential for him to make a Void lacrima? The dragon probably won't allow it, but still

6) What exactly does elemental corruption of each element do? Fire literally burns you up, as we saw in Arc 1. I can infer that Life likely makes you a chimera. Void corruption makes you a cave crawler. But what do the other one do? Does Earth make you a statue? Does Wind disintegrate you, Thanos style?

7) Now onto the non-Aurora questions, is your art vector or raster? I believe it's vector, but it's always better to confirm

8) What are your opinions on reading into the environment and the character design to infer things about the character themselves? In any type of media

9) Have you played Baldur's Gate 3?

10) Do you have any music that you'd recommend? I've listened to every song I liked so many times that I hate them now.

11) I'm new to Tumblr, anything that I should know? You don't have to answer this one if you don't wanna. I think I know some of the basics already. Reblog what you like, and avoid the terfs, right?

You might be able to tell that I like the idea of the lacrimas a little bit. Just a teensy bit. The artificer in me definitely isn't obsessed. I appreciate any answers you can give :3

Cheers!

Ooh, lots of stuff!

Yes, it's possible. A lacrima can be engraved with multiple spells, set in a casing engraved with commands, or some combination of the two. Typically, all spells engraved directly on a lacrima will activate at once when the lacrima is "switched on", but a spell can be quite complex, and conditional activations are possible - "if-then-else" statements, basically.

Yes, magic items exist.

Generally no. If the lacrima is disrupted or broken, the spell generally stops functioning, so a self-affecting lacrima will run only as long as it takes for the lacrima to distort or break.

There's an extra lore page about them!

He probably could if he wanted to (and the Dragon allowed it) but Void energy is very dangerous, so he likely doesn't want to.

Each form of elemental corruption agitates the presence of the element in the mage's body. Earth corruption can damage or alter bones, encourage unhealthy petrification of soft tissues, etc. Wind corruption can have physical effects but it often most obviously produces breakdowns in the person's ability to speak or understand language. Lightning damages, numbs or intensifies a person's physical senses.

Raster, I draw with CSP's digital pens. I've only very briefly experimented with vector art - I don't like how it simplifies the lines.

I think it's a fun school of analysis but, like all literary analysis, it runs into trouble if it tries to lock down exactly what the writer was thinking or intending (which is an objective fact that one can be incorrect about) rather than trying to analyze the story on its own and what meaning might, intentionally or unintentionally, be factoring into it.

Nope

don't trust my taste in music it's 90% nu metal and sonic OSTs

Like what you like, reblog what you want, generally it's considered dubious form to add a comment to a reblog unless you have something profound to contribute (commenting in the tags is fine), steer clear of discourse and callout posts and generally the sectors of the site that are constantly on fire, blocking someone for any reason is 100% fine

[silverynight]

Feral

When the kakushi arrive at the scene, it's still chaos; the parts of the demon left are disintegrating under the sunlight.

There's a baby, a little pup secured on a rock and a very feral omega, making sure nobody touches them.

They have never seen Kamado Tanjirou like that before; his eyes are white, but he's not acting sweet and confused like the other times his inner omega takes control of him.

"Tanjirou-san?" One of them tries, getting closer, but the omega growls and bares his teeth as he moves right in front of the pup.

He's protecting the baby.

"You're hurt. We just want to help!" Another kakushi says, just to be snarled at by the redhead.

He's bleeding.

"We won't touch the pup!"

Tanjirou growls at the mention of the pup; he takes the little one in his arms, without looking away from any of them, and nuzzles against the tip of the baby's nose, making him giggle.

They don't know what to do or how long the feral state is going to last; Tanjirou is a very strong slayer, there's no way any of them can manage to tie him up and take him to the butterfly estate.

How do they make him go back to normal?

"Nice! You got rid of the thing with your bare hands, huh?" Despite being a tall and strong alpha, Shinazugawa doesn't make any sound until he speaks. He startles a few kakushi because of that.

Tanjirou answers with a growl and the wind hashira grins in response.

He looks like he's enjoying this.

"He's–"

"I know he's feral," the white haired alpha cuts the kakushi off. "It's okay. I'll take care of this."

The kakushi don't like where this is going, but it's not like they have any other choice.

What surprises them is that he leaves his katana on the ground, but flexes his knees like he's about to jump; his hands are curled slightly like he's ready to use them.

"If any of you touches my sword, I'll kill you."

The omega notices the change in the hashira's demeanor, and he snarls as a warning. He leaves the pup back on the rock and prepares to attack the alpha.

Tanjirou doesn't recognize Shinazugawa, although they're not sure if it would change a lot if he did; rumor has it those two had a long talk and a fight a few weeks ago and now they're kinda friendly towards one another, but they're not sure if that's true.

Just a month ago, Shinazugawa seemed to hate having the omega around.

"Tanjirou!" The alpha smirks. "Show me what you're capable of!"

And then he jumps at the omega who immediately attacks back. Their "fight" is not very difficult to follow, even for the kakushi around; they're not using breathing techniques or anything, mostly because Tanjirou's rational thoughts are gone and they have realized that Shinazugawa doesn't want to hurt him.

He's just trying to pin the omega to the ground, making him submit, but it's quite a challenge considering Tanjirou's inner omega probably believes he's protecting his pup.

However, Shinazugawa is still a hashira and a prime alpha.

Finally, the wind hashira gets the omega pinned against the ground, and it looks like the fight is almost over when the baby starts crying.

They have no idea where Tanjirou gets his energy from, but he growls again before headbutting the alpha above him.

Shinazugawa ends up on the ground too and even though there's a clear red mark on his forehead now; he grins like he's having the best time of his life.

Tanjirou rises from the ground with a jump, but something happens then... he blinks a couple of times before freezing on his spot.

Then the kakushi notice the protective scent the alpha is releasing.

"What... happened?"

Everyone around releases the breath they were holding before they notice Tanjirou's pretty eyes are no longer white, but their usual shiny red.

However, Tanjirou is still a very caring omega who loves taking care of little ones so the first thing he does is to check on the crying pup. He cradles the baby in his arms, nuzzles against their face, and hums a lullaby for them.

"Is he alright?" A kakushi asks.

Tanjirou nods, looking at the pup with so much love already, anyone would think they're his.

"She's fine, just hungry."

It's a little girl then.

That's when Tanjirou notices that everyone has recoiled significantly, right before he sees Shinazugawa rising from the ground.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt any of you?"

The kakushi assure him he didn't, and the wind hashira just laughs.

"Like you could do something like that," the alpha snorts, red mark visible on his forehead.

Tanjirou notices it too, but knows Shinazugawa well enough not to make a comment about it.

"Thanks for helping me snap out of it," the omega mumbles instead, a little bit embarrassed.

"It was my pleasure," the alpha smirks, and they can tell he absolutely means every single word.

"What happened, Tanjirou-san?"

The omega presses a kiss to the pup's forehead that makes her giggle; he pulls her against his chest like he wants to protect her from a non-existent threat or perhaps just the memory of it.

"Wait, are you hurt? Let us–"

"That's not his blood," Shinazugawa cuts the kakushi off, still smiling and looking at the omega like he's the most beautiful thing in the world at the moment.

"I arrived too late," Tanjirou mumbles then, face twisting with guilt and regret, even though everyone around is sure none of what happened is his fault. "The demon had killed this little one's entire family, and when I saw him trying to reach for her, I completely lost it. I... I don't remember the rest that well..."

Judging by what they found when they arrived, it was a brutal fight. The demon probably suffered quite a lot.

"I think we can find her a home..."

Tanjirou takes a step away from the kakushi who says that, before pressing the little one protectively against his chest.

His scent changes slightly and they just know that the omega got attached to her.

"I'm going to keep her," Tanjirou says, almost fiercely, like he's daring them to tell him not to.

Nobody does that; they like the omega too much to say something that could hurt him.

"I'll help you take care of her," Shinazugawa says then, surprising everyone; he doesn't seem the type to have fatherly instincts, but he's still releasing that protective scent from earlier. So maybe he does have those instincts after all.

"Really?" Tanjirou blinks in surprise, but he doesn't look opposed to the idea. He even lets the alpha get closer to the pup.

Shinazugawa reaches out, trying to touch the pup's forehead with his fingers when she moves her tiny hand and wraps it around his pinky.

The alpha looks almost in shock, but he doesn't move his hand away.

"She likes you!" Tanjirou says, absolutely pleased. His scent turns really sweet out of the sudden; he seems happy with the alpha, and when Shinazugawa realizes that, he lets out a loud alpha purr.

"You know you should... I mean, I think it'd be better for her if we smell like mates," the wind hashira says after a while, unable to hide the attraction he feels for the omega.

But of course, Tanjirou doesn't notice.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah..." Shinazugawa clears his throat, turning slightly pink for a moment. "At least let me scent you."

The omega nods and tilts his head slightly to the side, exposing his beautiful throat.

Shinazugawa stares at it for a moment; his lips part in awe, and they all can see his sharp teeth. For a second, it looks like the temptation to bite and mark is too strong, but the alpha manages to control himself before he nuzzles against Tanjirou's neck.

They both purr when their scents finally mingle.

Tanjirou still smells good, even though there's another scent surrounding him, like a neon sign they have only seen in the Red light district, that tells other alphas to back off if they don't want to get teared apart.

Shinazugawa looks way too pleased.

"Come on, let's get this little one to the butterfly estate," the alpha says as he carries Tanjirou in his arms. "So you can feed our pup."

The omega blushes at his words, but nods and doesn't even try to walk on his own; he must be tired or perhaps he feels more safe in the alpha's arms since he's busy carrying the pup.

Maybe it's both.

"Those two are going to end up mating, right?" A girl asks her fellow kakushi.

"It certainly looks like it."

Which means there's going to be trouble because Shinazugawa looks like the possessive type and Tanjirou is way too popular among alphas.

Although they're sure the baby is going to be very happy with her new parents.

***

Patreon

[thescarletnargacuga]

BLOODED SKIES

A HARLEQUIN AU ONESHOT

AU credit @iamespecter @tadc-harlequin-au

A/N: created in tandem with Ziku's incredible poster!

WARNING: nightmare imagery

~~~

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The music box was wound back. The key twisted until it could go no more. The music box sat open and played its beautiful melancholy tune. The music carried softly through silent halls.

Pomni opened her eyes. She stood in the center ring of an empty circus tent. Like the one we met Caine in but...it looked new. The tent was vibrant and the lights glowed bright. The only thing that seemed out of place was a single small golden sprig growing out of the ground. A single glowing leaf broke free and drifted away on unfelt wind.

Pomni watched the leaf fly towards the tent entrance, beyond which was darkness. She felt compelled to follow. Before she stepped beyond, she heard a whisper. Someone distant, yet familiar. "Don't go...please..."

She turned, but the circus was still empty. If a bit more dilapidated than the last time she looked. The colors were faded. The lights were dim.

After one more look around, she went beyond the threshold. Deep in the shadows she heard more whispers she did not know. A music box mixed with a long single tone sounded before silence.

Darkness gave way to pinks and violets. She stood on the surface of glass calm water. Pomni felt at peace here. At rest. The golden leaf flew around her, joined by a few others. They danced around like fireflies, illuminating her curious face.

The leaves moved faster, more erratically. The gold being juxtaposed with red veins. Suddenly, they shot up into the air out of sight. Pomni stared straight up, watching the leaves vanish into the ether above. After a moment of silence, the sky fractured.

The deep purple hues broke away to reveal a deep blood orange that burned into her. The water beneath her feet dried to cracked earth. Buildings and machines of war erupted from the ground around her. They emerged, rusted and fell apart rabidly. Some of these machines looked like people. Mannequins that could walk and talk. Their bodies disintegrated before her, reaching out in vain.

Pomni tried to back away, but something held her. A thin, near invisible string was around her wrist. She tried to pull away but her other wrist was restrained. Then her neck. Her legs. The bell around her neck felt heavy. Looking up, a ghostly hand marionettes her movements.

Her body moved without her say, no matter how hard she fought it. As she struggled, she heard more incoherent voices. Commands and questions and guesses. One word stood out to her. "Directive." Then thunder rolled through the sky. The sounds of machinery breaking. The strings loosened

She felt in control again, but barely. She tried to keep moving, nearly stumbling over a large broken crown. A soft squeak of a child's teddy bear toy came from underfoot, as she tried to avoid the hammer half buried in the ground. A broken blue charm laid to the side with the fragments of a porcelain mask and the ruined remnants of multiple arms.

Pomni couldn't speak, she could hardly breathe. She was being controlled and condemned and confused.

The broken and scorched earth floated apart like pieces of debris and space. She was isolated with the multitude of items at her feet. From the items, oozed a gelatinous black substance. It coagulated and crawled across the ground like vines.

Pomni had nowhere to go, and she was afraid. The black veins stuck to her and climbed her body. Simultaneously, she began to sink into the ground. The items around her closing in. The black veins restrained her more than the strings ever did. Her legs were immobile as she sunk to her knees. She could not lift her arms as the black veins connected her wrists to the heavy items.

The ghostly hand above her tried to pull her back. She felt its resistance but the veins were stronger as she continued to sink. The veins climbed her neck, making their way to her bright hazel eye. She gasped, seeing flashes of faces and places of a time gone by. A city not ravaged by time or war. A warm hand to hold. A man's whispered love.

She sank up to her chest. Her eyes stared wide at the sky, invaded by it. Consumed by it. Body and soul. Only her head remained above the swallowing earth. The ghostly hand never gave up, choking her. She was pressed in on all sides by the littered items mixed with the black veins.

As the world around her went black, she jolted awake. Her legs kicked out at open air as she oriented herself. She was in her room, sitting in a sofa chair. It was near sundown, the sky a rich mix of violets, reds and oranges. She took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She had no words for what just happened, not even an expletive.

A gentle knock at her door broke the silence. "Pomni..? You in there?" Caine's voice gently asked. "Haven't seen you in a few hours, been awfully quiet. May I come in?"

When he didn't receive an immediate "Fuck off," he entered. Seeing her so still, worried him. "Hey...something wrong?" He moved over to her, sitting on the ottoman in front of her.

"I...don't know..." Pomni slowly answered, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Caine wanted nothing more than to pull her into him. Tell her everything was alright. He leaned forward, matching her pose. His hands lightly clasped together. "Is there anything I can do?" His fingers twitched towards hers as she moved.

Pomni sat upright and ran her hand through her hair, taking out her ponytail. Her longer back hair draped over her shoulders. "I don't know." She gazed into his concerned eyes. She really didn't know if he could help her or even understand what she was feeling. Not that she was ready to share. She had to think on things more.

Caine couldn't resist anymore. Pomni was in some sort of distress, even if she wasn't outwardly showing it. He carefully reached out and took her hand. "Whatever you need, I'm right here."

She felt it. The warmth. Still so new to her. She closed her hand around his to feel more of it. It was rather nice. She was looking so closely into his eyes she completely missed the fact that the key crank on the back of his head was missing.

[svquincy]

HOME IS WHERE...?

The Underworld-- where the past is always close behind. Too close for Odysseus’ comfort. Here, he’s haunted by the memory of the hundreds of men who died under his command. One in particular he doesn’t dare wish to face again. Despite this, he perks up when his ears recognize a familiar tune. 

"This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms..."

"Polites…?" He looks around for a moment, trying to find the source of the voice. Soon, his eyes lock in on a blurred figure in the distance. He can’t see any of the figure’s facial features, but he’d recognize that headband flowing in the wind anywhere.

"Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart..."

"Polites, I'm here!" Odysseus makes his way toward the melodic voice, but finds that no matter the distance he treads, the figure appears no closer than before.

"No matter the place--"

"Can't you hear me? It's me, Odysseus!" His stride quickens, desperate to reach his lost friend, but every step he takes is futile.

"--we can light up the world, here's how to start..."

"Polites, please answer me!" He can’t tell if his misty eyes are from the fog blocking his line of sight, or from a desperation deep within. It seems that no matter how much he tries to disperse the haze before him, his vision remains clouded.

"Greet the world with open arms, greet the world with open arms..." The voice fades away, and Odysseus finds himself standing all alone.

"Polites..."

A gust of wind blows past, filling the silence around him. For a while, he can’t bring himself to move, frozen in place by the reality of his isolation. 

"... Captain?" That familiar voice eventually speaks once more, from behind Odysseus, putting an end to his solitude. There’s a softness in that voice that he recognizes instantly. He turns around, surprised to find himself now face to face with his old friend. Here, even amidst all the fog, he can see every detail so clearly now.

"Polites?" 

"Captain, is that really you?"

"Yes...! Yes, it's me! I'm right here!" Odysseus reaches out his arms to grab hold of Polites' shoulders, but all he manages to grasp within his fingers are the disintegrating vapors of a fading spirit. His short-lived smile quickly descends into a solemn frown, disappointment etched all over his face.

"I... I can't see you..." Polites' eyes wander, searching for the sight of his dear friend, but all that fills his vision is abyssal nothingness.

"What do you mean?"

"It's all just darkness here. There's no light anywhere. No... nothing." A silence falls among the pair for a moment. "Captain... I'm scared."

"I know... Death is terrifying."

"Death? So... you mean..." The words of explanation are on the tip of Odysseus' tongue, but his tightly pursed lips forbid them from escaping. "Right, of course," Polites continues with a feigned smile, understanding the truth of his situation without hearing another word. "Your silence speaks volumes, my friend. How did it happen?"

"The Cyclops." Odysseus swallows hard as flashes of splattered blood and panicked screams come back to mind. "It was quick. You didn't feel any pain," he lies. The memory of Polites reaching out for Odysseus as he lies in a pool of his own blood nearly makes him expel the contents of his stomach.

“So then… if you’re here…” Polites’ mind immediately goes to the worst possible scenario, but Odysseus is quick to put him at ease.

“No, no, I’m not…” Dead? “There’s no need to worry, my friend,” he tells him, offering his most sincere smile, though it’s tinged with sadness, knowing Polites will never be able to see it.

“Thank the Gods for that,” Polites smiles back anyway. “You still have to make it home, after all.”

“Home…” Odysseus’ voice trails off. “Home without you isn’t really home anymore, is it?” Though Odysseus’ remark is solemn, Polites still smiles brightly.

“My friend… You’ve lost so much…” Odysseus can almost feel a comforting hand on his shoulder. “But you have to keep going until you make it home. We're all rooting for you." Before Odysseus can respond, the visage of Polites begins to dim. "Wait... Polites, please, don't go!" Odysseus reaches for his friend, but his efforts are in vain. "I'm not going anywhere." Polites places a hand over Odysseus' chest and smiles. "I'm always going to be right here." Before long, the spirit of Polites vanishes for good, leaving Odysseus alone once more.

[xn4vyl1c1ousx]

How did we get here? when i used to know you so well..

cw: angst?, kinda occ, word vomit, implied past relationship with bakugo, pro hero!bakugo x villain!reader (kinda), ends with a cliffhanger

wc: 789..

♫ ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| …

notes: okay this is probably gonna be booty cause i kinda just put stuff down, i hope it isn’t too bad if anything needs fixing don’t be afraid to tell me, i might not make a pt 2 to this cause idk what else to write after it, uhhhh that’s it :p

now playing: Decode - Paramore

back to navi..

“Get out of my way!” the sound of explosions was heard throughout the city. buildings were falling everywhere and dust clouds replaced them.

cars, busses, and street signs suddenly ripped up from the ground and swirled around in the air.

“what the hell is going on?!” Bakugo spoke out loud, looking around for anyone as he ran towards the center of chaos.

all the others were around trying to help people out of the fallen building. Midoriya, Kirishima, Mina, Tsu, Tokoyami, and Bakugo were all running to the source. rough screams were heard as a car came crashing down onto the road, right in front of bakugo. it all happened so quickly, but fortunately, he was quicker.

with an explosion he launched himself over the car and continued running. the sound of his boots was barely audible over the sound of rushing air and car alarms blaring through the wind.

Midoriya hopped around from building to building , getting ever so close to the source of chaos. Just as he was within reach of whoever was the cause of this, he was swung back by a forceful wind. The force of the wind ended up sending everyone flying back, including Bakugo, who was sent straight towards Kirishima.

Kirishima couldn’t move fast enough causing Bakugo to crash into him, sending them tumbling. “PAY ATTENTION, HAIR-FOR-BRAINS!”

“i’m sorry bakubro! you came outta nowhere!”

the wind suddenly picked up in speed, sending everyone flying into the air agian. “What the hell?!” bakugo’s voice fell upon deaf ears as everyone became separated. the wind around them almost cutting their exposed skin from the sheer speed and force.

As bakugo looked around, he spotted you in the center. your eyes met his, a sudden shiver ran down both of your spines as a realization came to both of you.

How did you end up in this situation? someone who oh so desperately wanted to be a hero, becoming a villain. a puppet for the LOV. Your facial expression said it all. It was him who caused your sudden change.

Suddenly, bakugo was thrown away from the chaos. his body flew through the air, making him set off blasts to try and control where he was going. yet it was all in vain. his body slammed against a building, sending all the air in his lungs out.

“Wait! guys it’s them! it’s y/n!” he yelled out as he finally regained his breath.

no one could hear him. despite his harsh and loud voice, the wind muted him.

he watched as Midoriya somehow made it to you and collided against you. a sharp gasp ripped from your chest as the pain of his punch radiated from the place of impact.

no one could see you, they only saw the monster that they thought you were. he watch as mina came next, sending her acid toward the quirk enhancers on your wrists, causing them to disintegrate. then went kirishima, grabbing you and holding you down, making it impossible to move.

tokoyami grabbed Tsu as she fell from the sky, holding her up so she wouldn’t hit the ground. they safely landed in front of you and the other 3 hero’s.

bakugo watched from afar, his body unable to move. was it from the injuries? or was it that he knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop what was going to happen to you.

“let me go!” you yelled as you thrashed around in kirishima a grip, his quirk activing, causing it to be even more difficult to move.

“we got you now, there’s no escaping.” Midoriya spoke, his voice full of victory.

you looked up at them. the world froze. no one moved, too stunned to speak. it was you. it was really you.

it had been years since your disappearance. and now here you were, conspiring against them, attacking them, and being in the most dangerous villain group of all japan. it was still you.

“y/n?! but why? you? why.. why would you turn back on us?” mina’s voice shook, full of hurt, betrayal, and anger.

you stayed silent, kirishima grip on you faltered enough to let you send a strong wind, knocking them all back.

“it’s his fault. if you really want to know why i’ve chosen to backstab you all, ask him. ask bakugo.”

and with that, you sent yourself into the air with a flick of your wrist, right into a purple portal in the sky.

you disappeared yet again, this time right in front of them.

The five hero’s turned to look at bakugo, who still kneeled on the ground. frozen and with a look of pain and guilt on his face.

just what did he do to let this happen?

General Taglist for all my works (comment or send an ask to be added)

@sunolls

[katyawriteswhump]

Omega Found, Omega Lost pt 2

Title: Omega found, Omega lost; Chapter: 2/5; WC: 2031; Rating: M, getting on for E; Tags: Steddie, Omega Steve, Alpha Eddie, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, foreplay. For whumptober 2024, day 6 prompts: not realizing they're injured, unhealthy coping mechanisms, "It's not my blood."

Chapter 1 on tumblr Chapter 1 on AO3

Chapter 2: "It's not my blood"

Steve nestled deeper into Eddie’s chest, beneath the soft, fake-fur collar of Eddie’s jacket. His hands burrowed up under Eddie’s coat, clawing Eddie’s t-shirt. He wanted to drown in Eddie’s musk, which was thick as roasting chestnuts and tangy as cola-bottle gummies… 

…and sure as heck more addictive. Steve was hooked, inhaling Eddie deep into his lungs. The pain in his leg subsided to a dull throb, subdued further by a floaty liquidy feeling, and by the gentle vibrations in his own chest.

Yup, he was purring.

His purrs fell into rhythm with the steady thud, thud of Eddie’s heart. His every Omega instinct wanted to burrow even closer. He curled his right knee into Eddie’s lap. Heck, he wasn’t even that cold anymore. Wind lashed the cheek he hadn’t gotten plastered to Eddie, which made Eddie’s heat even more delicious.

Then Eddie started to pry himself away. Steve’s purrs disintegrated into a needy whimper.

“Listen to me, Sweetheart.” Eddie cupped Steve’s face in his hands. “I need to take a peek at that ankle. Hold tight.”

Steve blinked at him. Nodded. Up close, Eddie stunned him—Jesus, those lips!—and the instant he moved away, Steve shuddered violently. He glanced at his own hands, clasped in his lap. They were scratched and bloody, and he couldn’t quite remember why. 

Eddie’s scent, his closeness, had fogged Steve’s head right up. He gawked at his foot, beside which Eddie now squatted. At the dark stain in the snow around.

Too much.

“It’s not my blood,” he mumbled.

Eddie squeezed his shoulder, “Whatever, Babe,” then returned his attention to rolling up Steve’s trouser leg.  He threw back his hood and pulled a bandana off his head. He folded it into a strip to use as a bandage: “Gonna murder whoever left this trap.”

Steve trembled, supporting himself shakily on his elbows, while Eddie bound up his ankle. Okay. So maybe he was hurt, because the pressure of the binding forced little cries from him, which he tried to muffle. Snatches of what’d happened filtered into his brain fog, and the distance between he and Eddie reignited the pain further.

Steve started to sniffle again. 

Also, to feel ashamed about it.

It wasn’t like he’d been raised to be an Omega. His mom had always assumed he’d be a Beta, like his dad, and pushed him hard in sports and shit—into being a Jock. All in the faint hope he’d turn out Alpha, like her, after all.

What a fucking disappointment he was. Ugh, and now Eddie could see how pathetic he was too.

A cold knuckle against his cheek startled him. Eddie said, “Hey, did you seriously come romping out without gloves?”

“Uh… no… I… Look, I’m not a total moron.” Sure about that, Harrington? “They’re around here somewhere.”

As Steve floundered, Eddie spotted the soggy mittens in the snow. He wrung them out then slid them back onto Steve’s hands, speaking soft and low:

“What the heck were you doing, playing solo out here?”

Steve groped for the answer. “I was searching for Henderson. Turned out he was safe and I… okay, yeah, I was being a total moron.”

Eddie seemed scarily cross for a moment, brows knitting, then he shrugged:

“Listen up, there’s an empty cabin nearby. We can shelter there, till this storm quits partying. Sound good?”

Steve nodded, and let Eddie manhandle him to his feet. 

“Okay, Sweetness?”

“Yeah, fine. M’fine.” I am now you’re here, Alpha. “Stop fussing, dude.” Never let me go!

Steve’s every sense reeled giddily. He leaned heavily on Eddie, and they started off through the snowy forest. Steve slipped and stumbled, and his fear and doubt seeped back, underpinned by spikes of fiery pain from his ankle.

He’d been attracted to Eddie since before he presented as Omega. Nevertheless, there were reasons his parents disapproved. By the time Eddie half-dragged, half-carried Steve up the steps of a dark shack, Steve’s skin crawled with gooseflesh, and not just because of the cold. Should he try to run? His brain fog had cleared, but he’d no way gotten the strength. He felt wobbly, frighteningly helpless.

And completely dependent on an Alpha he probably shouldn’t trust. Who had no pack loyalty. Who might belong in a Video Nasty for all he goddamn knew.

Eddie guided him through the gloom to a low wooden bunk, and sat him down on its threadbare mattress. Then he bolted the door and went to kindle an old-fashioned wood-burning stove with his lighter.

It blew out a couple of times. Eddie snapped, “C’mon, you son-of-a-bitch,” and Steve bit his lip to the point of pain.

Rogue Alpha. Unmated Omega. Dingy cabin where nobody can hear you scream. Like Hopper said, You do the math.

He could fuck you raw, knot you, fill you with pups and leave you dying of rejection sickness… and that’s a better case scenario. I mean, how did he even find you? Was he out there hunting for random lost Omegas?

The latter seemed unlikely somehow, and… Oh Jesus, now they were out of the weather, Eddie’s scent bowled him over afresh. How could something that smelled so right be wrong?

Because he’s basically using it as a date rape drug?

Steve lay down flat on the bunk, arms crossed on his chest, not knowing what to think. 

“Let there be light,” said Eddie, as a soft, lambent yellow washed across the room. Eddie returned, perching close and stroking Steve’s dripping hair from his eyes.

“Okay, Babe. We need to get you out of those wet clothes. Get us both out of them, I guess.”

Steve opened his mouth. Shut it again, noticing how hard his teeth chattered. Oh, and how Eddie’s fingertips trailed delicious tinglings across his brow. His own fingers curled, forming needy, smarting fists, and his fears scuttled back into their dark corners. Those vibrations in his chest started up again, vying with his shivers, and his voice hitched on a needy squeak:

“Yeah, I guess.” 

Let’s get naked, Alpha!

...

So there Eddie was. 

In a tumbledown cabin that barely kept the weather out, in charge of a cute Omega, who was cold and hurt. And squirming to get naked.

It wasn’t how he’d envisaged this evening would turn out, but hey, he’d blast through. Which was easier when he focussed on the physical aspects of looking after Steve. Rather than torrents of decidedly un-Alpha self-doubt.

Steve was currently trying to get his own sweater off over his head. He’d gotten one arm caught, whacked the other against the wooden wall, and was now trapped with the garment over his face. 

“Chill, Babe. I got this. Skin a bunny, huh?”

He peeled the shirt off. Now he had a shirtless Steve, staring up at him with huge, befuddled, scared eyes:

“Skin a bunny?” said Steve. “Like, what the fuck?”

“It’s something my old granny used to say.” To be fair, he could see that Granny’s old-school saying howled of predator and prey. Then again, she’d been an old-school kinda Alpha. “Don’t fret. I, uh, don’t eat bunnies?”

“Not a freakin’ bunny,” mumbled Steve, fumbling apart his own fly. Eddie draped a scratchy blanket around Steve’s shoulders from the front. He helped him peel his sodden jeans off, careful not to unsettle the bandage.

He then used the blanket to dab Steve dry and, yeah, it slipped a couple of times. Eddie would’ve enjoyed the display more—damn, he’d kill to sweep his tongue down that trail of soft hair beneath Steve’s navel.

He couldn’t. He mustn’t.

Steve bruised easily—his wrist was already mottled purple-red from where he’d bashed it against the wall. His hands were bruised and cut where he’d pried the trap from his leg, and Eddie half-wished Steve had waited. Then Eddie would have taken the hit on his already guitar-callused hands.

That guilt only brought him home to yet another alarming question.

How he’d found Steve in the first place.

Because he’d smelled him, when Steve had been at least a mile away from the trailer. That kinda link reeked of soulmates. Eddie knew it, and there was no way he was ready for that.

And why had his gut told him to bring Steve here, rather than to a hospital?

Yeah, they’d have had to travel further through the storm, and Omegas were delicate. Steve certainly seemed to be. But this place had no food, only a couple of crappy blankets. The stove was low on dry fuel, and he’d yet to locate a tap for clean water. And while Steve’s injury didn’t seem too bad, what if blood poisoning set in?

Great protector you’re turning out to be, Munson.

Worst of all, Steve was now doused in Eddie’s scent. The whiff of woodsmoke from the crackling fire did nothing to conceal any of it. While Eddie could still sense the Omega’s blood and fear, Steve also exuded pheromones that set Eddie’s body raging.

As he stripped, with his back to Steve, he was already nursing a semi. He left on his boxers, even though they were slightly damp. He forced himself to think of sucky things—those hideous mould spores Gareth bred on his socks!—as he lay down on the bunk. Spooning himself behind Steve, he pulled a dry blanket up over them and draped an arm over the Omega.

Who emitted a small noise that resembled a chirrup: “Eddie, I feel drunk… Why do I feel drunk?”

“Blood loss makes your head all fuzzy. Maybe I should check—“

“It was only a scratch.”

“No, Hon—"

“I can’t be hurt, Eddie. I’m fiiiiiine. Honestly, never better.”

Jesus, Munson. Why is the truth so difficult? SAY IT! “Yeah, that’s probably something to do with my scent.”

The scent I doused you in.

Heck, too late to hit reverse gear? He got back to snorting the forbidden fruit, nuzzling behind Steve’s ear, dangerously close to that mating gland. Aaaand, now he was salivating.

He pulled back, his arm still over Steve but with his face to the cobwebbed ceiling. “Look, I’m not a doctor. I’m not an expert on any of this. Just try and rest, Babe.”

“Okay, Alpha,” whispered Steve.

He resumed gently purring.

Which was literally crack cocaine to Eddie. He re-buried his nose in Steve’s damp hair, and littered soft kisses up and down Steve’s nape. He cuddled and warmed Steve, running his hands over Steve’s body, going with the flow. Jiving with it, because beneath his touch, Steve’s body seemed to melt, go pliant. Steve sighed and purred ever louder.

Eddie’s nuzzlings evolved into licking.

He could taste his own scent, mingled with Steve’s sweetness, and…

Okay. Whoops. Ouch?

He’d gotten a full-on erection nestled against Steve’s ass, which felt plump, round and totally lush. Hold on… hadn’t he left Steve’s underwear on him, like his own? Because Steve’s butt was butt-naked now. Where the heck did his panties go?

Oh SHIT.

Steve’s purrs grew fierce. His hips jerked back and his ass-cheeks clenched in a sudden spasm, almost as if trying to capture Eddie’s cock. To suck it from behind Eddie’s thin shield of fabric and inside of him.

Deafening sirens wailed in Eddie’s brain:

You deflower a high-class Omega, protected by strong pack leaders? They’ll gnaw your limbs off then carve your heart out with a spoon.

Plus, he suspected life would be far from peachy for Steve.

With an effort that wrenched through him, Eddie shimmied his hips aside. His erection now slapped Steve’s thigh, rather than that mega-inviting cleft.

Steve mewled like a lost kitten. “Alpha! Need! Neeeeed!”

“No, Baby. We can’t. You’re hurt. You’re not thinking straight.” His palm stroked soothing circles on Steve’s chest, which shook with uneven breaths. Steve’s down was thick, but so, so soft. Eddie’s dick dripped and ached. And Steve started to cry again, fidgeting and rocking himself so he could scrub his butt against Eddie’s steel boner.

“Pleeeeease,” Steve whined suddenly. “Eddie! Fuck me, fill me. I need you so bad.”

His anguish hurt Eddie’s heart, but… Jesus, Munson. Restraint! You deal Es and Wizz without doing them. You can’t… DO… him.

...

Chapter 3 can be found here on tumblr

tags: @wheneverfeasible @mugloversonly @ellietheasexylibrarian

@strawberryyyenthusiast @stripey82

If anybody else fancies reading more chapters, which will be posted at intervals throughout the month, I would be happy to tag :)

My endless outpourings of Steve whump can be found on AO3 here :)

[goodnightmemes]

THE TUDORS SEASON TWO SENTENCE STARTER (PART TWO)

s02e06 - s02e10

❛ Will you come to my bed tonight? ❜

❛ You are marrying into a great family. You will do it, whether you like it or not. Do you understand? ❜

❛ Something's going to happen to me. ❜

❛ Don't talk like this. Nothing is going to happen to you. ❜

❛ I'm unable to give a King a son; a son to be the living image of his father. ❜

❛ It's all right. Everything is going to be all right. Please don't cry. I love you. I'll look after you, I swear. ❜

❛ I like you and enjoy your company. But you have a reputation: you gamble and you whore. You sail close to the wind. God forbid it should ever blow you onto the rocks. ❜

❛ I have no doubt what so ever that Your Majesty's reign will always be remembered. ❜

❛ Are you amusing yourself at my expense? ❜

❛ I swear to you it will never happen again. I love you too much. I have no right to ask you to believe me. But it's true. ❜

❛ Is she one of your mistresses? How many do you have? What are their names? ❜

❛ Here's the truth: you must shut your eyes and endure like your betters have done before you. ❜

❛ How can you say that to me? Don't you know that I love you a thousand times more than [name] ever did! ❜

❛ Don't you know that I can drag you down as quickly as I raised you? ❜

❛ This is lucky you have your bed already, madam, because if you did not, I wouldn't give it to you again. ❜

❛ Listen to me. You're the Queen! For the love of God, act like it! ❜

❛ At least seem happy. Not a heap of misery! ❜

❛ It's been tasted. It's not poisonous. ❜

❛ I am not "your dear". I am nobody's "dear!" I am a woman and I demand equal respect for my ideas! ❜

❛ Why are you here? To see the degradation that we have been forced to? ❜

❛ You may kiss me. Then you will leave me alone. Forever. ❜

❛ Anyone can see that the King is not so much in love with her as he used to be. ❜

❛ All this time and you're still in love with her! ❜

❛ Let me look at you. There you are. I have not seen you for so long. An eternity. And here you are! ❜

❛If I had a son, it would bring about a golden world. ❜

❛You ought to be careful, or I will have you cropped at the neck. ❜

❛ I did not bring you up to have opinions or to express them or to quarrel with those closest to the Crown. ❜

❛ I am carrying the King's son. We are on the edge of a golden world! ❜

❛ I'm certainly aware there are some at court who would like to see the queen replaced. ❜

❛ I was married before and I must confess, I rather like the liberty of not being married again. ❜

❛ You have just come from another's bed. No. Do not deny it. ❜

❛ Sometimes, my love, I think that with you I'm already condemned to live in purgatory. ❜

❛ His heart is very weak. I don't know if he will come back to us. ❜

❛ In such a crisis, all could disintegrate. So the centre has to hold, and we must hold it. ❜

❛ You know, I cannot think whether it would be a bad thing or a good thing if he died. ❜

❛ As Lord Protector, you would ipso facto...be King, ❜

❛ Though you are still a young man...you're not as young as you used to be. ❜

❛ I'm so happy you're well. I was so alarmed, so afraid. ❜

❛ It was a mistake to think I could behave like I used to. In any case, those carefree days are gone. ❜

❛ In the future, I won't see you unless your other family members are present. I just had to see you now. ❜

❛ What is this? Just when my belly is doing its business...I find you wenching with Mistress [name]! ❜

❛ You've lost my boy. I cannot speak of it. The loss is too great. ❜

❛ I see now that God will not grant me any male children. ❜

❛ You have no one to blame but yourself for this. ❜

❛ Because the love I bear you is so great...it broke my heart to see you loved others. ❜

❛ It's true what they have whispered. I shut my ears to them, but now I know it to be true. ❜

❛ I will treasure this all my life. And if they ever open my grave, they will find it again, right next to my heart. ❜

❛ You have overreached yourself. Believe me, you have placed yourself in very great danger. ❜

❛ Do you assume I no longer possess the power to crush you? It would be an easy mistake to make. ❜

❛ The king cannot satisfy a woman. He has neither the skill, nor the virility. ❜

❛ We have come so far. No one is going to be allowed to destroy us. No one. Do you understand? ❜

❛ I think we should drink a toast to new beginnings and to new friendships and to a mutually beneficial future. ❜

❛ If your master wants to deal with me, he must first apologize for all his ill treatment of me in the past. ❜

❛ Princes are different from us and are not to be easily understood. ❜

❛ It's come to my notice that some acts of treason and other offenses have been committed by those we loved and trusted. By members of our own court. ❜

❛ I want to tell you in this slippery world, you represent for me all that is innocent, everything that is good, unsullied, uncorrupted. ❜

❛ If anything should happen to me...will you promise to care for my daughter? ❜

❛ Please. For the love you bear our child, have mercy. ❜

❛ After everything we've been to each other. After everything we were. Please. One more chance. ❜

❛ My enemies have poisoned the air with their horrid lies. ❜

❛ I pray God will help me, for there is no truth in these allegations. ❜

❛ Sometimes, in order to defeat evil, one must learn to consort with the devil. ❜

❛ When am I to die? ❜

❛ My lady, I am obliged to tell you that your marriage to the king has been declared null and void. ❜

❛ Tell them to ready the horses. But tell no one of our destination. ❜

❛ I hear you say I will not die before noon. I am sorry for it, for I thought to be dead by that time and past my pain. ❜

❛ Yes, I heard the executioner was very good. And in any case, I have only a little neck. ❜

❛ Have you ever killed someone? What did it feel like? ❜

❛ I would really like to see someone die. Can I go to the execution with you? ❜

❛ I want her dead. I want it over with. Finished. Go and do it or, by God's blood, you will join her. ❜

❛ I swear to you, from tomorrow, everything will be different. We will be young and merry as we used to be. ❜

❛ If you would take my advice for what it's worth find a rich man to marry who is too stupid to know anything about politics. Then perhaps - unless you die in childbirth, which is likely...or the plague, which is almost inevitable - then you will be happy. ❜

❛ Forgive me. It's just that I so much want a new beginning. A renaissance. Sometimes it is hard to be reminded of things. ❜

❛ Tell me, was it all worth it? ❜

[dreamdepot]

Dreams of the Kingdom - Chapter 25: The Fifth Sage

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AO3 Wattpad or below!

Unlike the other Thunderhead Isles, Dragonhead Island was the eye of the storm – quite literally given the architecture. The island was almost serene above southern Hyrule. “After all of this, I think you and I should just enjoy these islands. It’d be a relaxing date… provided we don’t need to fly on that again.”

“Aww come on,” Link replied. His latest flying creation lay in a heap at the edge of the island; you had barely made it before the wing disintegrated beneath your feet. “It’s not that bad, and we can always use the Purah Pad now. Think about it, we could bring some food, have a picnic, maybe fly around the skies, or we could go to one of those with the pools and have our own private swimming hole.”

“I’d like that.” You looked out on the horizon. You still wore the Charged set, enjoying the warm wind wrapping around you and rustling the thin robes. “It’s crazy how big and yet how small Hyrule looks from up here.” Just then, you had an idea and scribbled something down in a pocketbook. You snapped it shut, shoving it into your pack.

You slid down the vines into the sublevel of the island, following Link as he slashed through some old roots to a massive stone door, the draconic herald of the Zonai carved on the face. The symbolic eye was etched with two hands, making the purpose clear. “Ah, one of these,” Link muttered, getting ready to plant his feet.

Before he could, you reached up, placing your own hand on the left side. “But wait, it tests your strength and saps your health!” Link said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You say that like I’d let you do that to yourself. Nothing says it has to be one person.”

Link relented, placing Rauru’s hand on the other side. Together, you pushed, and the runes slowly lit up. You could feel your energy drain slightly, but instead of exhausting you, it almost invigorated you, like a runner’s high. The dragon’s eyes lit up, and the door trembled. With a rumble it swung open. You couldn’t wait to see what was on the other side. It could be the temple, Mineru’s laboratory, maybe the secret stone! It could be-

An owl mask.

“Not exactly what I expected,” you said, walking up to inspect the Zonaite mask with Link. He tapped the activation sigil. At first, only a small pinprick of light appeared on the mask, but then the floor parted underneath you, revealing another level to the island and a hidden launch bay for Zonai wings. The mask rotated on its pedestal, shooting a beam of light towards the Dueling Peaks. “Looks like Tobio’s Hollow, but there’s nothing there? Just a bunch of old statues.”

On the contrary…

Both you and Link jumped at the disembodied voice.

Link and Prince [Y/n]… Take this. Follow the light.

You lifted the mask – surprised at how light it was. “Please build something a little more stable.”

“No promises,” Link said, leading the way down the ramp.

“Link. My knight, my love of my life. I swear you’re going to be the death of me.”

“I mean, technically speaking…”

“Not helping your case.”

==============================

The flight was, thankfully, much better. No sooner had you landed did the massive owl-like statue shook, lifting to reveal yet another ramp, this time leading to an underground platform. You placed the mask into the pedestal on this platform and it began its slow descent down into the Depths. “If only all chasms were like this,” you muttered. You and Link both quickly changed out of your armor into protection more suited to the Depths. For you, that was the Depths set, which made you look like a rather grim figure but protected you from gloom. For Link, it was the Miner’s set, illuminating the dark and giving you quite a nice view of your boyfriend’s chest and arms.

Link and Prince [Y/n]… chosen protectors of Hyrule… You must hurry, there isn’t much time.

The voice came through a bit clearer this time. “Glad we changed behind the eyes,” Link joked.

My name is Mineru. I am the Sage of Spirit. I am happy to finally meet you both. Unfortunately, I no longer have a body. Without a physical form, we cannot yet speak face to face. But, there is a way. We are traveling to the Construct Factory. Surrounding the facility are four storehouses. I would ask you to visit each of them and assemble a body for me. This is my request to you.  

The platform sunk lower and lower into the Depths, finally coming to a rest at a massive Zonai facility, the largest you had seen yet. As Link activated the nearby Lightroot, you carried Mineru’s mask to the center of the facility.

It’s funny, you look different and yet I can still see Sheik in you.

“He’s the one who sent us to find you.”

Of course. The sooner that you can build me a body, the sooner I can help you stop Ganondorf. Time is not on our side.

“You can say that again.”

Link returned, using his Ultrahand to lift Mineru’s mask into the mold for the massive construct body. As he did, the lotus-like shell closed around her. “You get the feeling…”

“We’re being watched?” You finished. Both of you drew your weapons, matching Silver Lynel Greatswords Link fused for the two of you. “Okay, we know you’re here, come out!”

“Kyeh-heh-heh! I should have known someone as tricky as you could find me.” In a burst of smoke emerged the one and only Master Kohga. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my nemesis! The Prince of the Wild!”

“Kohga… I thought you were in the southwest?”

He stamped his foot, pointing at you. “I was, but you didn’t follow me! You’re really rude, you know, a nemesis is supposed to chase after the other. I got bored and came here, and good thing too! I found this factory and here I will upgrade our ultimate weapon for our Lord Ganondorf!”

“I was… a bit busy?” You weren’t sure what to say in response to that. “Ganondorf, uh, has a lot going on.”

“Well of course, he’s our great Demon King! The unbeatable Ganon! But you’re MY nemesis!”

“I beg to differ, but whatever peels your banana.”

“Gross,” Link muttered.

Kohga trembled with rage. “How dare you… I will have my revenge – starting with this factory! Yiga clan! Procure those parts so that I might improve our ultimate weapon to surpass the petty Prince!”

A whole platoon of Yiga appeared behind him. “Yes, Master Kohga!”

Your grip tightened on your weapon. “Link!”

“Way ahead of you, you get the east side, I’ll handle the west!”

The two of you ran in opposite directions as you charged for the first storehouse. A Yiga Footsoldier appeared by your side, barely having time to draw his bow before you slashed him. You dove with your paraglider into the storehouse, but a Yiga Blademaster was already ahead of you. Using his Earthwake technique, the room shook, dropping a glowing case with what appeared to be a construct leg inside. “A pleasure defeating you, Prince.” He rumbled, lashing the container up with ropes. Two more Blademasters appeared to carry the case away.

You clashed against his sword, driving him back against the wall, but you knew time was tight with the two Blademasters there. With a quick parry, followed by a flurry rush, you knocked him back in time to fling a bomb in his direction, just as the others were carrying the case out the door.

“Get back here!” You shouted. You thrust your left hand forward, feeling the Band of Hylia grow warmer. Suddenly a metal claw appeared embedding itself in the part’s case. With barely any effort, the chain grew taut and pulled you up to them. “What the…a hookshot?!” you looked at your hand, seeing a glowing blue device in your hand for a moment before disappearing. “Okay, it’s not the Triforcem, but this I can definitely work with,” you grinned.

“No fancy toys will save you from us,” the Blademasters growled. One slammed his fist into the ground for another Earthwake, sending a ripple of energy through the ground. As the wind tore from the earth, you rode the updraft with your paraglider.

“Funny, I was gonna say the same thing to you.” You focused, thinking of your travels. “Fire Rod!” The magic red staff appeared in your hand – much larger than the one you saw with the Four Links, and thrumming with much more magic power. You swung the staff, summoning a wave of fire that formed into a wyvern, racing across the room after the Blademasters.

“What the- what is this!” One shouted, fleeing the fire.

“Fall back!”

The fire licked the sides of the room but fell to a simmer as the Blademasters retreated. “Oh, I can get used to this,” you snickered. “Titan Mitt!”

The Fire Rod disappeared, replaced by a glowing set of gauntlets over your hands, letting you easily heft the case with one arm. You quickly ran back to the factory. The container dissolved as you got closer, and the lotus shell opened around Mineru to let you slide the leg inside.

Suddenly, you heard screams and an evil cackle. You instantly drew your sword again, but you weren’t expecting who the evil cackle came from. Over the hill came a horde of Yiga, fleeing in fear as a vehicle with a spiked front and Zonai cannons came rolling after them. Your boyfriend stood atop the death machine. “RUN! RUN COWARDS! THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR ATTACKING US!”  

Most of the Yiga gave up and beat a hasty retreat, while others peeled off to run to the remaining storehouses. Link brought the vehicle to a stop in front of you. “Hey cutie, like my ride?”

“I thought we agreed no war machines?”

“You said no war machines. I promised nothing, especially if it means keeping you safe.” Link looked way too pleased with himself as he unloaded a case with a construct arm.

“I… later,” you muttered. “We’re talking about this later!”

“You can run, but I know you think it’s cool!”

You shook your head, running towards the next storehouse where a group of Yiga Footsoldiers were struggling to move another case. “Okay, let’s see how you guys like a taste of my crossbow!” You shouted, thrusting your band forward.

Nothing.

“Crossbow?” Only a puff of smoke shot out of your hand. “Oh, you’re kidding me.”

“Now’s our chance!” One of the Footsoldiers yelled. “Get him!”

Five of them tried to dogpile you, but they weren’t fast enough for your sword. You easily knocked them back, catching their sickles and disarming them. “Oh, come on, you guys used to be a challenge!”

“HYAH!” One shouted, leaping towards you. You easily deflected his kick, sending him flying into his cohort. You picked up a dropped sickle, flinging it towards the others before charging at the last one with your own sword. In mere seconds, the fight was over, and they retreated under cover of their smoke bombs.

One, however, remained, guarding the case. “S-s-stay back!” The Footsoldier trembled, his hand stuffed in his bag. “I’m armed!”

“Then draw your weapon,” you muttered. His voice seemed a bit familiar. “Oh, hey! You’re the guy I knocked off the cliff over in the Akkala Depths, right?”

“KYAAAH! HE REMEMBERS!” The Footsoldier shrieked. Suddenly, you felt something small bounce off your chest as he disappeared in a puff of smoke. “FORGIVE ME MASTER KOHGA!”

“Guess reputation is a good thing.” You picked up the odd toy he threw at you. It was a marionette, carved to look like… well you weren’t sure, other than it looked like a middle-aged guy in green tights. You tossed it aside, turning towards the case. “Now how to move you…” You looked around at the discarded Zonai devices, mostly rockets. You then looked back at the marionette and snapped off the strings. “This might be my dumbest idea yet.”

You tied the rockets down and held onto the case for dear life, kicking the device. They burst to life and before you could take a breath, the case – and you – shot out of the storeroom and across the rocky depths, bouncing and bounding to a stop right at the edge of the factory. “Ow…”

Link knelt next to you. “You know, you didn’t have to try and show off.”

“I wasn’t!”

Link just laughed, picking up the case for you with Ultrahand and carrying it over to Mineru. With the final piece gathered and placed into the machine, it buzzed to life – ribbons of energy connecting the pieces. With a grinding noise, the machine rumbled and extracted itself.

“Finally,” Mineru muttered. “Thank you, only task rema-”

“Damn it, damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!” Kohga roared, reappearing behind you. “Useless soldiers can’t put up a decent fight. FINE! You managed to steal the last parts for your construct, but I’ve already got enough for my own. Sure, it might not be as great or whatever, but Yiga ingenuity always defeats dorks like you! I’m gonna steal that shiny rock I saw. I’m gonna power up mine, and then Lord Ganondorf will be forever grateful!” With a series of secret ninja hand forms, another flying machine appeared. Kohga leaped aboard with a cackle. “Chase me if you dare! Mweh-he-he-he-he!”

“Quickly!” Mineru shouted, kneeling so you and Link could climb on. “We’ve got to stop him before he gets to my secret stone!”

==============================

To call the Spirit Temple a true “temple” was generous; Mineru’s laboratory was large but very straightforward, more or less consisting of two rooms. “Ugh, remind me later to create an improved form that’s more suited to agility,” Mineru muttered as she stomped up the stairs to the platform.

“Big battle construct has its advantages though,” Link countered. The platform rumbled down to the lower floor, which was coated in gloom. Mineru’s secret stone was safe for now. You rode Mineru across the gloom, when suddenly the floor parted, and another construct emerged, with Kohga riding its back. This construct was corrupted, filled with gloom, and looked as if it was barely holding itself together.

“Heh, this is where I stop you once and for all, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

Your eyes darted over the battlefield. On all ends you were hemmed in by barbed wire, and nowhere on the floor was safe. “Link, I’ve got an idea. Help guide Mineru and fuse more weapons to her. I’ll take care of Kohga.”

Link nodded. “Be careful.”

You perched on Mineru’s shoulder, drawing your Royal Bow as Link fused Flame Emitters to Mineru’s arms, giving you some extra damage against the corrupted construct. Flames passed through Kohga’s shield, giving you the perfect opportunity to shoot the moment he dropped them.

The ninja master flew off, crashing into the gloom. Wasting no time, you leaped off and ran across the toxic floor. “Remember this?” You taunted.

“No, wait please!” You granted him no mercy, slashing at his backside with a spin attack.

Kohga broke free soon enough, and leaped back to his construct, putting up another shield and summoning his infamous steel balls. You ran back to Mineru for cover, and for the gloom to pass off your armor. Link, meanwhile, covered with his own shock arrows, sending bolts of electricity between the steel balls, zapping Kohga with every pass.

“You’re both infuriating!” He shrieked, charging with the construct. As it grew close, you shoved your sword into its rickety body, locking its arm to its torso. “Not fair!”

You swung your leg up, kicking Kohga in the face and knocking him off his mount. You drew your sword out, just in time for Mineru to slam her fists down, shattering the failed machine. You turned to Kohga, sword drawn. Link peered down at him with his bow aimed directly at his head.

“You think you’re so clever… don’t you,” Kohga growled. The three of you closed in as the gloom dissipated from the floor. Kohga leaned back, crossing his arms and laughed haughtily. “Bold of you to assume that you have me cornered. That may have been my weapon for Lord Ganondorf you destroyed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have other tricks up my sleeve.” He pointed at you. “That’s right [Y/n], my nemesis! It’s time to bust out my serious moves! A brand-new technique I came up with in the deepest darkness of the darkest Depths! It will… destroy you!”

He clasped his hands together, the arcane Yiga runes floating behind his back as the final weapon appeared. “BEHOLD! The secret ultimate ultra-special weapon of the Yiga Clan! Tremble in fear before my unstoppable Kohga Rocket!” The weapon wasn’t so much a “weapon” but rather a long stick with a spiked ball at one end and about twenty Zonai rockets hastily tied on the other. “That’s right, tremble in fear, you Prince of the… er, Stupid! My genius even scares me!” He leaped forward, and with a creak, the rocket tilted downward… a little too much. “Fly Kohga Rocket! Fly and-”

Suddenly, the rocket ignited, slamming into Kohga and flying him around the room. “Th-this wasn’t supposed to happeeeeeeen!!” His body ragdolled at the front as it zipped up the platform shaft and out of the temple. “I’ll be back! I’ll have my reveeeeeenge!”

For a moment, the three of you stood in stunned silence. Mineru was the first to break it. “I did not expect such strange characters in your time.”

“He’s one in a million, I assure you,” you said.

Mineru turned and approached her secret stone, which fused to the new body. As she did, her spirit emerged, addressing you with grace. “Thank you both, I didn’t anticipate such opposition when I placed myself in stasis.”

Link crossed his arms. “No one did. Ganondorf changed everything. We’re lucky [Y/n] was around to see the problems and to go through time to fix things.”

“I did have a lot of help though,” you said.

Mineru swapped out her arm attachments for fresh ones, while a Servant Construct appeared and checked her new body over for any lasting damage. “In that case, it’s best we don’t hesitate. Ganondorf likely knows I’ve awakened, which means he’ll be on the move.”

“So where are we headed?” Link asked.

“The Temple of Time.” Both turned to you, Link in surprise, Mineru more in interest. “Sheik said that’s where the entrance to the hidden path is; only thing is that we needed Mineru to open the way.”

“That you did,” Mineru said, merging once more with her construct body. You could hear the smile in her voice. “To the Temple of Time then. I assume you have a way through your Purah Pad’s travel network?”

“Way ahead of you,” Link said, pressing the location, and teleporting the three of you across Hyrule.

==============================

Despite the Sheikah Shrines being dismantled – a bit too excitedly by Purah and Robbie – several of the travel waypoints were repurposed, one being set at the Temple of Time. The three of you materialized at dusk, much to the surprise of a few Bokoblins and Aerocudas. None of them stood a chance against the three of you. “Might take a moment to find it,” Mineru said. “The temple wasn’t built in my time, and nothing quite looks the same.”

“Why pick a place that wasn’t even built yet?” You asked.

“Zelda was adamant about making sure it was set here for you. She said it’d be protected, and it would be somewhere you’d know.”

“Fair point,” you said. You looked up at the crumbling roof of the Temple of Time. To think, at one point, you could’ve been married in this beautiful cathedral to Link. Closing your eyes, you could just imagine it – you and Link walking down the aisle, Sharpe playing the organ, the Champions and Zelda in the front row…

You stopped yourself there, looking at Link instead as he watched the tree line for any other approaching monsters. “No,” you said to yourself. “There’s a new future here for us. Once Ganondorf is gone, once Hyrule is safe…” You couldn’t help but imagine Link’s face when you proposed… you could only hope that the custom ring from the shop in Gerudo Town would be finished soon.

“Found it!”

You and Link ran to Mineru, who stood in a small courtyard between the twin staircases that led to the temple proper. Mineru pressed against the column and the cracked windows swung open. “This is it!”

You stared at the window that seemingly led to nothing. Link answered for you. “Um… Mineru, are you sure?”

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but trust me, this is the way in. I just didn’t expect so many changes to it.” She pushed one of her arms inside the opening, which vanished before your eyes. “Believe me now?” She pushed her body the rest of the way in, disappearing into thin air.

Link shot you a confused look but followed Mineru into the strange void. You took a deep breath and followed. Your stomach flipped as you crossed the veil, feeling the window shut behind you.

As you pushed through the strange doorway, you were suddenly surrounded by natural light. On the other side was the Temple of Time, just far grander than the one you remembered. Light streamed through the stained-glass windows onto the polished marble floors. Each of the windows depicted different parts of Hyrule’s history. For a moment, you lingered before one, very clearly depicting your Link holding the Master Sword aloft and surrounded by the four Champions.

“Prince [Y/n], this way,” Mineru urged.

You followed, finding yourself before a massive fresco depicting Din, Nayru, and Farore creating the Triforce, which shone high above the land. “It’s changed a bit since I was last here,” Mineru said. “Before it was a simple room, but it seems it has grown, just as Hyrule has. I imagine the Sages of Hyrule’s history continued to grow and change the temple to suit different needs. Perhaps it was some sort of safehouse in another era.”

“Even I know the stories of the true Temple of Time,” Link murmured. “Makes sense if you’re hiding something here – who’d ever find it outside time?”

“Hide it where time is all happening at once,” you finished. You wanted to stay longer just to explore, but you knew you needed to hurry. Part of you half-expected to see Time here, but only the three of you seemed to be around.

Mineru stood before the fresco, pushing against parts of the wall. Little by little, different bricks seemed to sink back by a hair. Like a puzzle box, each part slid into place, until Mineru revealed a simple doorway below the Triforce. “This is it – the way to the Shadow Temple.” She pushed the door open, revealing a dark portal.

“Fitting, but not exactly welcoming,” you muttered. “Okay, so what do we do?”

“This is where we part, temporarily.”

You turned to her; eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

Mineru slumped slightly. “I’m sorry, I can’t follow you. One of the trade-offs of preserving my body like this… the path to the Shadow Temple was designed to only allow certain people entry. My construct body would be destroyed if I tried to cross the threshold. It’s likely your sage aspects will not work either. Once you unlock the temple, I’ll be able to join you.”

“Okay then,” Link said, unfazed, “what do we need to know about this place?”

“I worked with Sonia and Zelda to create it – or rather they did most of the work. Zelda was determined to make it as difficult as possible, so that she could be sure only the two of you would survive. Whatever you do, stick to the shadows and do not go into the water. If you run into trouble, I placed several Zonai devices inside to help you.”

You took a deep breath, wondering just what your sister created. “Alright then.”

“One more thing. Zelda made a rhyme to guide you. Follow the Tears to the Horned King. Strike him down to reveal a wond’rous thing. Let the guards slumber night and day. Return home to find the temple way.”

A pit was quickly growing in your stomach, realizing just what you were about to enter. “Zelda…how?”

“We’ll be okay,” Link said, taking your hand. “Ready?”

“One sec,” you said. You pulled your pocketbook back out and ripped out a page. “Mineru, while you’re waiting for us, could you please take this to Outskirt Stable northwest of here? Just follow the road out of the Great Plateau. This message is critical.”

Mineru took the scrap of paper. “I can, but people might not react well to my new form.”

“I promise, it’s worth it. Just give it to the stable hand and tell him the Prince sent you.” You turned back to Link, taking his hand. “Ready, my love.”

==============================

Crossing the threshold felt like plunging into a cold lake. The air was still, smelling faintly of flowers. Hyrule was eerily quiet, there was no sound of life anywhere around you, not so much as a cricket chirp. You shivered, opening your eyes. Light seemed to be inverted. It wasn’t night, but it wasn’t day. It was as if Hyrule itself glowed ever so slightly. You stood at the entrance to the Temple of Time – restored to its former glory – but the exit behind you had disappeared. “Nowhere to go but forward,” you muttered.

You and Link walked quietly down the steps of the Temple of Time, your footsteps feeling as loud as cannon shots in the unsettling world. As you looked out across the Great Plateau, you could see all of Hyrule, frozen. Specifically, it was Hyrule as it once was, before the Calamity. It was the Hyrule from your childhood.

Your bodies glowed in the surreal light. Link looked around nervously at this twisted version of your home. “Babe, where are we? It reminds me of the Trial of the Sword. It’s like it shouldn’t exist. Everything feels wrong.” He was right. It was a Hyrule you once knew, but too perfect. The trees were a little too green, their leaves almost copied from each other. The bricks you walked on weren’t individual stone, they looked more like a painting – flat and uniform.

You swallowed hard. Your skin tingled in the strange energy of this place. “The blood of Hylia flows through my family, but I never thought Zelda would be capable of something like this…” You turned to Link, trying to mask your trepidation. “It’s like Sheik said, The answer is nothing but silence. Link, we’re in the Silent Realm, Zelda’s Silent Realm.”

==============================

A/N: I can’t believe we’re already in Chapter 25. Back when I started outlining this story, I thought it’d take forever to reach Mineru, yet here we are.

That means it’s time for something a bit different. After this story wraps up, I’ll be taking a bit of a break – this is the longest story I’ve ever written, after all! But I do plan on continuing to write. The problem is that I’m having some trouble deciding on the next story, beyond that we will be taking a bit of a break from Hyrule in the next one. I have three choices I’d like your input on. I’ll be doing a poll on my Tumblr for the next story. Your choices are:

Monochrome Redux (Adrien Agreste/Chat Noir from Miraculous! and (eventual) Miraculous Holder Reader) – A handsome hero catches your eye and you catch his, but does duty come before love? And doesn’t his heart belong to Ladybug? In a Paris turned upside down, anything can happen. (This would be rewriting and finishing the unfinished “Monochrome” from 2019).

Falling Stars (Leon/Dande from the Pokemon series and Pokemon Breeder Reader) – Can Leon see he lives in a castle of sand? Can old friendships be repaired and an unrequited crush from childhood grow into something new, or is the Unbeatable Champion lost in the glitz and glory?

Super Royal Assistant! (Bowser from the Super Mario series and Executive Assistant Reader) – Working for Princess Peach as her official assistant seems like a dream job, until you realize how much you have to deal with a certain Koopa King. Why does he keep kidnapping you with your boss anyway?

I have more information on each option, including a quick summary here. Please leave a comment or shoot me a message with your preferred option. The poll will be open until November 29, and the results will be announced in the final chapter of this story. I appreciate your help!

Next time: We conquer the Silent Realm and find the Shadow Temple.

[glamphantasm]

OMxWhumptober Day 4 - Magic, Hallucinations, Sensory Deprivation

I dare not claim with any certainty what is real anymore, though my fingers tremble as they trace the cold stones of the tower floor. My mind is a shattered thing, a fragmented mirror reflecting a darkness too deep to understand, and somewhere within that fractured reality, the shape of Solomon lingers, the one whose name I fear to whisper even in my most fleeting thoughts.

This tower, this suffocating prison, has no end and no beginning; it is a labyrinth, not of walls and rooms, but of the mind, a place where time does not move, where memory disintegrates like ash scattered by an unseen wind. I kneel now in the dark, my body shaking with every breath, but I cannot tell whether the trembling is born of the cold air or the madness that has wormed its way into my very soul.

"You’re still alive in my head," I murmur to the void, my voice weak and foreign in my own ears. But who am I addressing? Solomon, or some ghost of my former self that lingers in the corners of my consciousness, a shadow of what I once was?

I am, or was, his apprentice. There was a time when the arcane was not a nightmare, when I sought knowledge beneath his tutelage with the earnest fervor of youth. I say this, as though it were decades ago, instead of months. I remember the stars then, their pale, indifferent light filtering through the high windows of the tower, back when I could still look upon them without trembling. Back when reality held firm beneath my feet.

Now, I cannot even recall the shape of the stars.

Solomon has consumed my world, if there is indeed a world left to be consumed. I speak of him as though he is a man — a sorcerer, yes, but still a creature bound by flesh and blood. But that is the trick, isn’t it? The first of his many illusions. Solomon is not a man. Not as we understand men. He is a eidolon given form, a force whose essence stretches far beyond the realms of understanding. It took time to learn this, to feel the truth creeping in through the cracks in my mind. The more I learned of his magic, the more I realized the depths of his cruelty — not just in the torment he inflicted on my body, but in the way he unraveled my sanity, thread by thread, until nothing of myself remained.

The void where I kneel now was once a room. A simple chamber, where we practiced the conjuring of spirits, the weaving of ancient runes. But it has since become something else, something unrecognizable. The edges of reality blur here, warping and twisting in ways I cannot comprehend. I see walls that pulse as if alive, their surfaces shifting like the flesh of some unnameable beast. Shadows writhe in the corners, their movements too fluid to belong to anything mortal. When I blink, they vanish, only to return when I am too exhausted to fight the visions any longer.

Solomon’s voice slithers into my mind, as it always does, a low murmur that echoes through the very marrow of my bones. "You are nothing without me," he whispers. "You are merely an echo of what I allow you to be."

He is right. I have no illusions left about who I am — or what I have become. The days of defiance are long gone, ground to dust beneath the weight of his will. There is no escape from him, no end to the horrors he inflicts. His magic twists my senses, bending the very fabric of existence until I can no longer tell what is real and what is a hallucination.

There were others once, weren’t there? I remember — or think I remember — figures who moved through my life with warmth and kindness. They may have been friends. They may have been my family. But the memories are like fog, distant and elusive, slipping away the moment I try to grasp them. Sometimes I hear their voices, faint whispers in the back of my mind, calling my name, offering me salvation. But I cannot trust those voices. They are too distant, too unreal. I wonder if they ever existed at all.

I am alone in this place. Alone with Solomon.

The deprivation chambers are the worst, though it is difficult to say why they terrify me more than the rest of the tower. Solomon places me in them often — dark, silent rooms where I float in nothingness, where my body feels weightless and numb, and where the boundaries of my mind slowly unravel. It is there that I am most lost, drifting in an eternal, cosmic abyss that stretches far beyond the confines of the tower.

In those moments, I am certain that I touch something vast, something incomprehensible. It whispers to me in a language older than time, its voice an eldritch hum that vibrates through the void. And I — broken, shattered thing that I am — listen. I understand. The universe is not what we think it is. There are forces beyond the stars, beyond reality, forces that laugh at the fragile minds of men.

Solomon knows this. He has touched those forces. He is their conduit, their emissary in this world, and I — I am his vessel.

“You cannot be saved,” his voice echoes in the abyss. “There is no one here, no powers that will come for you. There is only me. Only my will. You will know nothing else.”

My mind slips further with every passing moment. His magic has spread its roots deep into my psyche, warping my thoughts, my perceptions. There is no difference between hallucination and reality anymore. Solomon speaks, but his words are everywhere, filling the dark spaces, pressing into me until I feel my consciousness unraveling. How long have I been in this room? Hours? Days? Years? I do not know.

And then I see the stars again.

They shimmer faintly above me, their cold light piercing through the suffocating blackness of the chamber. But they are not the stars I remember. No — these stars are wrong, alien, their patterns twisted into impossible geometries. My heart races, but my body is too weak, too broken to respond. These stars speak, their voices low and hungry, resonating with Solomon’s power. I hear their promises — promises of freedom, of release from this torment. But their promises are lies. They offer only oblivion, a descent into the nameless void from which there is no return.

The hallucinations blur together. Faces from a past I can no longer trust appear before me — specters of those who once loved me, perhaps. They reach for me, their eyes wide with terror, but when I try to touch them, they vanish into mist. They are no more real than I am.

"You belong to me," Solomon’s voice calls again, and I know it is the only truth left. He is more than my master. He is the gatekeeper to something far worse than death, and I — I am already lost.

I see now that there is no end to this madness. The tower, the void, the stars — they are all parts of the same cosmic nightmare, a reality twisted beyond reason, where time and space mean nothing, where my very soul has been claimed by forces I cannot name. Solomon has broken me, utterly and completely.

And in my brokenness, I see the truth: I am nothing.

I kneel before him, and I weep, but there is no comfort in my tears. Only the cold, eternal gaze of a sorcerer who is not a man, but a reflection of the madness that lies at the heart of the universe.

There are no gods here. Only Solomon.

And I am his, forever.

[darkmaga-returns]

the disintegration of the media cult and its followers

el gato malo

Nov 11, 2024

imagine you are the enterprising head of a would be doomsday cult. you’ve got a great song and dance. it’s atavistic, scary, it calls to action, you’re really packing the public into the tent. but you have a problem: the world is not actually going to end on tuesday as prophesied. obviously, this poses some issues for you: can’t have a doomsday cult when the doom keeps stubbornly refusing to turn up.

or can you?

the reality is that when the end of the world fails to be nigh, you do not actually lose your flock. many of them wind up becoming more rather than less devout. you’re going to lose some, but you can, if you’re clever and take a few elementary precautions, actually deepen the devotion of the devotees and how many you keep and how rapt they become will come down to how well you handle this transition. in the end you’re playing on one key aspect of human nature:

“rubes will happily believe damn near anything in order to avoid admitting that they have been played for rubes.”

in the end, cognitive dissonance is your friend here and you can use it to not only prevent the changing of minds but to bind them more strongly to your doctrine. it comes down to three things:

isolate

alienate

indoctrinate

and that’s it.

you need to be the only one speaking. no outside noise or perspective.

you need to make the outside look hostile, predatory, and menacing.

and then you push your dogmatic payload again as “us vs them” and “only we love you and they carry the awful taint of heresy” and faster than you can say “branch davidian” they are all back in line and rarin’ to go.

it’s culting 101.

[da-bestest-writer]

Unnamed Baki Next gen au. part 1

The main character is Tomoe Hanma

she's Baki and Kozue's daughter, Obviously considering her name and the kind of au this is.

She would probably start the 'series' at around 12-14, and sheltered from the fighting world by her parents. as far as she knows initially is that her father was an amateur martial artist who didn't get to go professional since her mom thought it'd be dangerous.

she knows of her grandfather to a degree, Mostly that her mother doesn't like him very much, While her dad's relationship with him is very comploicated, She's a clever enough girl to realize it was abusive but not to what extent.

Eventually Yujirou comes for a surprise visit for her birthday. And initially seems to be a /mostly/ normal grandfather, Sure he lacks social graces, and he gets really intense about things,, And he speaks like a character from her favorite fighting manga But he's not scary in the slightest.

Baki and Kozue decide to humor Yujiro, and the day goes on as normal, Until Tomoe overhears her father and grandfather talking. "Ya know baki, I was real dissapointed when i heard your woman gave birth to a girl, Even more so when the idiot doctors she trusted so much more or less made her infertile. " Yujiro spoke, Making Tomoe's heart sink a little, Was she a disappointment?"But, She's still my blood, And yours too... I shouldn't be disappointment in her lack of potential, Because as a hanma it's certainly there, But i am pretty pissed at you for not helping her to bring it out."

"c'mon dad, " Her own father starts to speak "It's not like she has to follow the same path we did, She's just a kid. If she wants to pick up fighting she'll do it on her own time, When she's an adult." Tomoe listened intently. "I'm not interested in being the strongest in the world, And i don't need my child to be either. She's Tomoe hanma and she's her own person."

Yujiro leaves it alone at that, The conversation shifts to more normal family stuff, Almost as if they knew she was listening in... \

Later on, When its time to open gifts, Yujiro steps forward with a pair of tickets. "Here kid" Yujiro says with a smirk that would almost be mistaken as dangerous if he weren't her granpa "Two tickets to Androv Dade's title defense match,Tonite at 7:30"

Kozue has none of it, She looks ready to throw hands with her father in law then and there. Fighting is dangerous, And barbaric, she's not letting her kid see such things...

Baki puts his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "Aw, C'mon now, It's not like she'd be getting in the ring. It's juist a way for her to spend time with her grandpa, Nothing more." Though Tomoe can hear some distrusting tension in her father's voice, The subject is left alone for the time being.

Later that night, Yujiro and Tomoe go to the Tokyo dome to watch the fight. And Androv Dade winds up winning the match very quickly.

The arrogant romanian begins taunting the crowd, Saying he has pleanty of gas in the tank and he'd take on any man there. Taking that as an invitation, Yujiro steps into the ring.

"Is this really the world's greatest welterweight? Even the world class punching bags of my day had more talent in their left pinky than you've got! A little girl without a day of training in her life could take you out!"

Dade questions who Yujiro is to say such things, Only for the old, but No less powerfully built man to reveal the dreaded demon back, Flexing hard enough for his shirt to disintegrate. "They used to call me the ogre, When i was a young man. You should be honored to even be standing here with me... I can see the excitement in your eyes. But i'm not the one challenging you. "

He leaps back to the stands, and with ease picked up Tomoe with his hands on her shoulders. "Meet my granddaughter! "

[birb-boyo]

The Chain with My Hero Academia Quirks

Quirks and info about them are under the cut

Time - Mortal Essence

Mortal Essence was something I came up with for my Percy Jackson OC but then I thought of it and was like HELL YEAH so it’s Time’s now

Basically, in my head, god’s have their essence that mortals can’t see or they will die instantly. Like with Semele, Dionysus’s mother, she saw Zeus’s essence and disintegrated immediately

In contrast, a mortal essence is an essence that can make the user have powers on par with gods, or turn the user into a god temporarily

We all know about Fierce right? You know, the war god that can temporarily take over Time’s body? Well, Fierce is Time’s quirk.

Sky - Goddess Guardian

Ok…so maybe he’s the goddess’s guardian but shhhhhhh

This quirk was inspired by Demon Snow, an ability from Bungo Stray Dogs

Basically, Sky has a goddess or an avatar of a goddess who protects him and can and will kill you should he ask her to

He’s best friends with her, don’t worry

I mean, Sun was also in the academy guys, she can and will fuck you up should you try and hurt Sky

That being said, Sun is and isn’t Sky’s quirk

I might say that it’s Farore that’s his guardian instead of Hylia because his girlfriend is Hylia(technically)

Twilight - He technically already sort of has one(Wolfie) but Essence

If you watched My Hero or just know Todoroki’s backstory or you watched Heroes Rising you’ll know that quirks are hereditary

Twilight has sort of inherited Time’s quirk

BUT

He sort of has Malon’s quirk too

Malon has a quirk that allows her to command any animal to do something that she speaks to

But anyway, Twilight’s essence quirk allows him to turn into anything that he has DNA to as long as it is in his system

Plot twist

He can only turn into animals which makes things a little weird for him sometimes

His favorite for in his wolf form(obviously) he enjoys growling at people and he thinks that he looks cool

Warriors - Frost Blades

Warriors is just an ice user. I can sense it in my bones

Frost blades are mostly what they sound like

Blades made out of frost. If he’s mad enough and his quirk loses control, they can be solid ice

How the blades work is, no one but him can hold the blades, without the coldness of his hands, the frost will disperse

Knowing the Captain, he mostly doesn’t rely on them. He’s more like Aizawa, he uses his quirk when he feels like he must

Warriors quirk is mostly lackluster, but trust that he can still very much beat your ass without it

Wild - also technically already has one(bullet time) but Spiritual Connection

Spiritual Connection was thought of because of his whole thing with the other Champions

Wild can see and talk to spirits. He can also use their quirks, if they allow him to take it

Spirits love being around him, and he has probably been suspected of having AFO at some point, but he just has a lot of dead friends

Because why have living friends, when you can have dead ones? :3

Wind - Wind Bombs

Wind deserves bomb rights.

Wind bombs are small cyclones that can and will explode, should Wind make them

He probably blew a kid up once when his quirk first spawned

Parents hate him, but he loves his quirk

It’s a nice warning when you get hit was a wind bomb in your chest (:

Hyrule - Cloned

Hyrule can clone only inanimate objects

You know, like how his sword sort of has a shadow? I don’t feel like getting a picture

But when his enemy gets hit with his sword’s silhouette? Yeah, that’s his quirk

He clones money a fuck too

He’s a rebellious teen probably…idk

Legend - Alteration

Inspired by the whole painting shenanigans in albw

But anyway, Legend’s body is able to adapt to any environment

If he needs to keep up with a long legged person, boom, he has longer legs than they have now and now they have to jog to keep up

Need to get your phone that fell in the crack of your bed? Boom. Thin arm

Need to slip into a crack in a wall to kill that roach, bam, small and skinny

My man is more fantastic than Mr. Fantastic

Four - Mental manipulation

You know how the colors have their respective emotions…but not really…I think

Like Blue is usually characterized as angry a lot

Like that

So with Mental Manipulation, Four can alter someone’s emotions or thoughts

It’s that simple

You’re feeling depressed today? Nah. Have some choccy milk and be immensely happy.

Your significant other is making you nervous with how much you want to kiss them? Nah, Four got you, have some more confidence

You think you’re a sane human being? Nah. Go commit arson

So…yeah

There it is

The Chain and their My Hero Academia quirks

Thank you for reading :3

If you have different ideas for their quirks, I’d love to here them in the comments

Anyway, thanks for reading

[lambden]

for the spotify wrapped meme: no 69 for Geraskier or any ship of your choice? listen i just had to go there

unfortunately (luckily??) for you, darling anon, my sixty-ninth song of the year is an anthem for returning to a relationship that has hurt you and falling back in love with them >:3

M, 2.6K words, infidelity (yenralt lol) and some mentions of alcoholism (jaskier lol)

Jaskier, despite his best efforts, is only human. The chattering of his teeth is not something easy to hide, especially not when his travelling companion and only company for months is laying only a few feet away. Jaskier could perhaps mistake his repose for sleep if not for the nearly constant hitching of his breath. The witcher inhales, long and deep, into lungs magically crafted to breathe better and slower than humans. Jaskier shivers, curling and uncurling his toes and rubbing his bony calves together for warmth. The witcher’s breath catches in his system, throat and lungs and chest and body still. Jaskier exhales, a small puff of white air against the clear, dark night. The witcher exhales, two seconds too late— deep, and false, and unless Jaskier is reading the signs wrong, definitely annoyed.

The cold would be easier to stand if he could just fall asleep; surely in the night his unconscious body would find some miraculous and impossible way to retain heat that his conscious self lacks the muscle memory for.

If he falls asleep, the witcher that he met will leave him. Jaskier grinds his chattering teeth together, and closes his eyes tightly, and buckles himself in for a long night of shivering.

Across the campsite, the witcher inhales. Before Jaskier catches his exhale, the edge of his thin blanket behind him rises up into the air, cruelly exposing his already cold back to the night air. Jaskier gasps, then gasps louder as a furnace presses against him. The witcher had moved towards him in stony silence, and he does not speak now either. His legs press into the back of Jaskier’s, thick knees finding the hollows and thick, warm thighs offering support for his frozen ones. His arm wraps around Jaskier’s chest, finding purchase on the breast pocket of his thin jacket and holding on as if he’s likely to blow away. His other arm winds under Jaskier’s neck like a heated pillow for him to rest his head on, and the blanket falls over them both.

“Thank you,” Jaskier shudders, the two syllables disintegrating into many in his cold mouth. He continues anyway. “Thank you, Geralt.”

The witcher makes a grunt like an animal. An animal would not have thought to share its warmth. Jaskier snuggles back into the witcher, and Geralt’s grip around him only tightens. He begins to thaw.

-

“We would save coin if we shared a bed,” says the witcher. His hair is dishevelled from the hunt, hanging loose and dirty around his pale face. He’ll need to bathe for at least half an hour to scrub off all the guts that thankfully only belong to monsters, and then he’ll probably dawdle for another hour in the bath because he enjoys it more than most things.

Jaskier has a twinge in his back that threatens to cause serious damage if not dealt with in the next day, and the last thing he wants is to spend the night bathing and then fucking his witcher. He never enjoys the baths afterwards as much as the ones before, even if it is nice when Geralt waves his fingers below the surface of the gauzy, soapy water to cast his magic fire spell. He just needs a good seven hours of uninterrupted rest.

Those eager, golden eyes fall on him. Jaskier inhales, and Geralt’s nostrils flutter too as if he’s breathing in deep to catch the scent of his bard. Which, really, he is. Jaskier gives in— he is, after all, only human. “You’re taking the bottom bunk, then.”

The witcher laughs, loud and unencumbered. He would never have laughed like that when they first met. Jaskier takes this kernel of information and shoves it deep, deep down inside his heart, like a dragon hoarding something very special to admire later. Then the witcher reaches down to fumble for his coinpurse, and in the process accidentally-except-actually-very-on-purpose fumbles around Jaskier’s trousers.

They never even make it to the inn. Jaskier, despite how his body aches the next day, swears it’s one of the best nights of his life.

-

The flaps on his tent flutter— not in the evening breeze rolling down from the peaks of Caingorn, but from someone trying to drunkenly find the ties holding them together. Jaskier stares across the tent, letting whoever it is struggle. He’s already halfway through a bottle of vintage Toussaint white, and the sourness is beginning to give way to sweetness with each new sip. He can’t even remember why he was angry enough to drink himself into a stupor.

With a triumphant exhale, the witcher unties the opening to Jaskier’s tent, and slides inside without asking. Oh, right. There’s his anger. 

Jaskier doesn’t shy away from Geralt’s questing gaze— he’s drunk too, although he’s had a considerably less enjoyable night. He doesn’t try to summon any composure or lessen his glare, not even as the witcher ties the tent closed again without asking. Not even as the witcher comes to kneel at the end of his bedroll, his hands splayed comfortably out on his thick thighs and his shoulders sitting low and relaxed. Not even as the scent of lilac and gooseberries hits his system— a scent more sour than the dry wine.

Neither of them speak. Barbs rise unbidden to Jaskier’s tongue, but he swallows each and every one of them. Should you be doing this drunk— hypocritical. I thought the dragon hunt was important to you— stupid. Astonishing that an infertile mutant still has enough stamina to fuck two of his lovers in one night— cruel, and bigoted. The dwarves will hear us, you know— as if either of them give a shit.

Geralt’s mouth is warm as ever, leaving a trail of wet marks along the side of his throat. If Jaskier closes his eyes, he can visualize them— like angry, beautiful bruises. Except Geralt doesn’t nip hard enough to bruise, even as Jaskier wishes he would. If Jaskier had everything he wished for, they wouldn’t have chased an insane sorceress up the side of a mountain. They’d be somewhere else. Somewhere coastal, maybe. Somewhere he and his witcher could stand in the surf together, and bruise each other so intimately that the marks never faded.

The witcher reaches between his legs, his aim true as ever. As Jaskier’s head lolls to the side to make more room for the man kissing his neck, he is surprised to find himself blinking back tears. Of course, nothing gets past his witcher; the kisses move up his chin, past his jaw, and onto his cheek. Jaskier laughs, somewhat hysterically. Geralt doesn’t stop kissing him until his lips are pressed right against his wet eyelid. There, he mutters into the salty skin, “Okay?”

“Of course,” Jaskier’s breath hitches. Then Geralt does that thing he really likes with his hand, and his breath leaves him entirely. “Oh— yes, of course, yes! I’m alright.”

“Alright,” echoes the witcher quietly. He kisses Jaskier’s forehead. It feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done. Jaskier steels himself not to hate the man he’s fallen in love with, and not to fuck up a good thing just because his heart sings for a better one.

In Geralt’s arms, Jaskier glows brighter than a candle in the dark summer night. In his lover’s hands he is made immortal.

-

At Bleobheris, Jaskier heals in a way he thought impossible. Old wounds close up; blisters on his heel from walking behind a horse for more than twenty years, and soft spots on his heart from walking behind the horse’s rider for the same amount of time.

New wounds open, ones that hurt much more. He learns of the oppression that he took part in by travelling the Continent and singing anti-Elven slander to anyone who would listen. He learns of more oppression than he could possibly imagine, and he stops thinking of his own life so seriously. He does not choose a higher calling; during the raid, it chooses him. The alias claims him. This new group of wandering souls— the oldest wandering souls— need him, in a way he has never been needed his whole life. When the great oak is raided and his friends and lovers and family are massacred, Jaskier resolves himself not to give in to survivor’s guilt. He knows he was left alive for a matter of utmost importance.

He forms new connections, a new underground community, and in doing so connects with countless others who need him. It is exhausting to have found his purpose. The exhaustion fuels his art; he doesn’t sing Toss A Coin no matter how many coins people offer to toss. His new songs are thinly disguised fuck-yous to monarchs, rallying the Continent against those who would tear it apart from the inside, and hope for a better future. People hate it. People love it. He’s never made any music like this before, and he’s never spent less time selfishly waffling over his own music, either— his nights are spent sleeplessly ferrying refugees to secret meet-up points, and learning new codes and languages spoken only by those in the know. He doesn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.

He celebrates each victory with a bottle, and then one triumphant bottle becomes a bottle and a shot, and soon he’s racked up a tab at most taverns that will still let him play. No matter how far he distances himself from his old life, the last sip around the ring at the bottom of every bottle tastes like death, destiny, and heroics. And, of course, heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak.

The song comes to him after one especially lonely night. Jaskier would love to say he had been planning this song full of empty threats and hollow lies for years, spitefully scrawling lines into his journals between other fantastic romantic affairs. But the affairs would be as false as the rest of the story. He doesn’t write the song, it arrives written; he merely pours it onto the page. What for do you yearn? Good, poetic rhymes. Or at least they would be if he could sing them without his voice cracking.

He knows the song will hurt the witcher, should it ever travel far enough to reach his ears. He knows, too, although it turns his stomach once he’s sober, that songs hold enough power to do serious damage. But even though he convinces himself he’s forgotten the specifics of his decades-long infatuation with the witcher, he cannot, and will never, forget how the witcher made him feel.

Despite knowing it’s wrong, Jaskier plays the song for an eager and wide-eyed audience. Heartbreak, heartbreak, heartbreak. They lap it up. He burns. His voice cracks— he’s only human.

-

Threadbare both at the seams of his sleeves and the cavities of his heart, Jaskier wonders when he stopped feeling the cold. 

He should feel it here more than ever. None of the witchers have put any work into maintaining their drafty fucking fortress atop their frigid fucking mountain. That’s still a word that it’s hard to wrap his head around— not fortress, which he’d always known about, nor mountain, which he has more than enough experience with. Witchers. In the plural. A whole family of them, thicker than any family united by blood and hard-pressed to accept visitors.

Except they had accepted him, for some fucking reason. Bewilderingly, it was likely Yennefer’s doing. And also, he can hardly call them a ‘whole family’ after their school lost more than half its ranks to an insane power-hungry demon who possessed a little girl who looks just like a princess that Jaskier once played at court for.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel the cold; maybe his head is still spinning from the last few days. He had never expected to run into half these people again, and in fact has complicated relationships with more than a few of them, and those relationships have only grown more complicated since his arrival here. He supposes things will get easier soon as he descends the frigid fucking mountain and leaves the drafty fucking fortress far behind him. Maybe once he’s on proper flat ground he’ll be able to clear his head. He’ll have a drink without being worried a demon will kill everyone if he sleeps off a hangover, and he’ll light a fire without his burnt fingers shaking too badly to strike the match.

The real reason he has to leave is more selfish than any he could admit aloud. Even in this place he’s never been, there are too many memories— ones he swore to leave behind when he left his old life. He doesn’t want to see the spitting image of Pavetta bundled up in a wolf pelt, somehow also resembling her adoptive father. He has no desire to remember exactly how mad he used to get at Yennefer, and even less desire to rekindle their strange new friendship. He feels too raw and exposed and sober and vulnerable up here, as the memories dance on the edge of his consciousness.

No. Holes in his jacket or not, he’d better get going.

Hands actually on the lever to push open the courtyard gate, he moves to do so— and is blanketed from behind by a furnace. It takes Jaskier a moment to identify the witcher, and then another moment to identify the embrace as not exactly Geralt shoving him up against the gate, but. A hug. He’s… this is a hug. He’s being hugged, by Geralt.

“I need to go,” Jaskier mumbles, muffled, into the witcher’s broad shoulder. They’ve always been of a similar height; he isn’t sure why he remembered Geralt so much taller. He turns his head to speak more clearly, and he catches golden eyes already watching him intently. “Don’t,” warns Jaskier, even though the witcher hasn’t said a word.

“I need you to stay,” Geralt tells him, firmly but quietly. His tone leaves no room for an argument. Jaskier still reaches for that old familiar urge, for all the anger that brought him to write of burning his witcher. His witcher. He finds his pockets empty, and with no barbs to throw, he’s left speechless. A rare thing, for a bard. Rarer still, Geralt breaks the silence to speak again: “If you go, I’ll follow.”

“You’ll— well— you— you won’t just follow—”

“Yes. I will.”

“You have a child—”

“She can come.”

“I don’t— I mean, shouldn’t she stay? She just went through some severe trauma, and she’s supposed to be safe here—”

“She’s safe with me.”

“Right,” Jaskier huffs. Apparently he does have one barb left in him— he regrets it immediately. What happened to Ciri hadn’t been Geralt’s fault, much as what happened to the Wolves hadn’t really been Ciri’s. But he searches the witcher’s gaze for offence, and finds none. “Why would you need me to stay? Party’s over, isn’t it? Not that I was an integral part of the operation—”

As he’s done a hundred times before, Geralt kisses Jaskier quiet. It should, by rights, annoy him. But just like the previous hundred times, it delights him too much to play on his nerves. How could he be irritated as his heart sings?

Then Geralt breathes him in, deepening the kiss, and Jaskier realizes, oh. The witcher is kissing him, all these years later— after so much hurt between them both, and so many changes that neither one of them could call himself the same man, the witcher— his witcher is kissing him.

Jaskier kisses back. He’s only human.