#endeavour song fic

[hoistersao]

Struck by Lightning (a tododeku fic)

This fic is extremely self-indulgent and it's also the first fic I write here on Tumblr. angst is at an all-time high in this one, but Todoroki and Izuku are traumatized kids in canon and I like making characters suffer, what did you guys expect? also! the song part of the fic begins at "Izuku paused as mix-matched eyes met his, smiling slightly at the sight of his best friend" └──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────┘

Deku always smiled, deku was a crybaby, and deku never got angry or actually upset. Deku smiled in the face of danger, deku was a hero and could do nothing wrong, and deku's only dream was to be a hero, but Midoriya Izuku wasn't Deku. Midoriya Izuku screamed and cried in anger, Midoriya Izuku smiled rarely, Midoriya Izuku did everything wrong, and Midoriya Izuku didn't want to be a hero, not anymore.

Endeavor's son was cold and rude, Endeavor's son hated talking to others, and Endeavor's son never cried or showed emotion in general. Endeavor's son had a perfect past, and Endeavor's Son would be a great hero, but Todoroki Shouto wasn't Endeavor's son. Todoroki Shouto tried to be kind, Todoroki Shouto cried and yelled like any normal person, Todoroki Shoto had anything but a perfect past, Todoroki Shouto never wanted to be a hero in the first place.

Midoriya Izuku and Todoroki Shouto tried to make others understand that they weren't who they thought they were, but no one seemed to understand. No matter how hard they tried... ⛈️ ⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ⛈️ Izuku walked through the dorms, ignoring the greetings sent by his classmates as he walked. The green-haired boy didn't think he could look them in the face, not right now. "I'm sorry young Midoriya, but you can no longer handle one for all...I'm afraid you must give it up."

the boy grits his teeth, the words of his mentor repeating in his head no matter how much he tried to push it away and into the dark space in his head where he pushes everything he doesn't want to remember. But he can't. He lost One for All, he lost the one thing that kept him together and the opportunity to become a hero. He was quirkless, again... his mind flashed to the doctor who originally 'diagnosed' him, making tears spring up to his eyes as he moved even faster to get to his dorm.

As soon as the door closed behind him Izuku let the tears free, sliding down the down as sobs rocked his body, the boy curled in on himself, hands wrapping around his knees and head lowering as his sobs echoed throughout the room. A drop of water hit the window, followed by more, and soon the rain accompanied the sobs that rang through the room, the constant tap tap tap washing over Izuku, the boy's sobs slowly diminished into the quiet sniffles easily overpowered by the sound of heavy rain against his window. the greenette flinched at the crack of lightning that echoed from outside, sighing softly the boy slowly stood up, legs sore from sitting in that position for so long. ... Izuku paused as he went to walk towards the showers, the sound of rain hitting the roof making him turn and instead walk towards the roof, it had been so long since he laid under the rain, and yes maybe it was a bit dangerous to go lay on a roof that had several electrical wires while there's a thunderstorm outside but who was going to stop him? The boy hummed quietly as he made his towards the door that led to the rooftop, he smiled when he finally made it to the roof, rain soaking into his clothes as he stepped out, only when he looked to the side did he notice the duo colored boy who was up there with him. ⛈️ ⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ⛈️ Shouto glared at his phone, the message seemingly mocking him as frustrated tears welled up in his eyes Todoroki Enji' ' I have found you a wife. I hope you show up to family dinner, if you don't there will be consequences. ' The mix-matched-eyed boy growled before shutting his phone off, throwing himself on the bed, and taking deep breaths to keep himself from hyperventilating. Shouto slowly relaxed into the mattress, closing his eyes and taking a few more deep breaths before getting up again with plans of getting water and completely ignoring the text before the tap of rain hitting the window made him pause, the boy had always enjoyed just sitting under the rain whenever he was upset, the memory of his mom smiling down at him as they danced in the rain made him the corners of his mouth tick up into a smile before nodding to himself and making his way towards the roof in hopes to enjoy the rain. ⛈️ ⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ┊ .┊ ┊⋆ ⛈️

Izuku paused as mix-matched eyes met his, smiling slightly at the sight of his best friend It's storming out, maybe you should come inside And tell me why you don't wanna be alive

"what are you doing here Shouto?" the smaller boy spoke, trying to grasp why his friend was also here, he didn't think the other boy enjoyed the rain, it never came to his mind but it would be great to have something in common. If you don't respond, I'll put my shoes on And lay down on the pavement next to you When he didn't receive a response he simply smiled, the boy was probably also here because he was upset, and sometimes it's best to just have someone there than someone to speak to, so he decided to sit down next to Todoroki who paused for a moment before a small smile outlined his face. If we get struck, at least we'll make the news The news when the sound of lightning reached his ears again, Shouto couldn't help but wonder- "Hey Izuku?" said boy hummed in response "Do you think if we died, hit by lightning, we'd make the news?" Izuku paused before smiling, small giggles leaving his mouth "Oh yeah, definitely! I mean imagine it-" What a way to go out Something this town will forever talk about The two kids who were laying down And struck by lightning in front of your house "-the press will never let UA live that down! Two 1-A students struck by lightning at the rooftop of UA High! god! I can already see it! what a way to go out huh?" Shouto hummed, nodding in agreement "Yeah, I can see it." In the mud, sinking down Thinking of everything I have to think about You shut me up, look at the clouds As lightning struck

Shouto couldn't help but forget the thoughts that plagued his mind as he spoke with Midoriya, the boy pushing those thoughts away like a freight train, the small but genuine only he got to see playing on his face, he looked up at the clouds as lightning struck again, the sounds of the storm becoming nice background music. What a way to go out Something this town will forever talk about The two kids who were laying down And struck by lightning in front of your house And kids out on the playgrounds Years from now will say, "Did you ever hear about The two kids who were laying down And struck by lightning in front of your house?"

Shouto continued to listen in on Izuku's rambling "Oh! do you think future students will talk about us if we did die? Will they tell stories of the two students who were struck by lightning on UA's rooftop?" Shouto could only hum, he didn't have the answer after all, maybe if they did die they could be able to find out "Yeah, good point!" oh, had he said that out loud? Izuku chuckled "Yeah, you did! don't worry I do it a lot too!" Maybe on a sunny day You might have some things to say But if you don't, that's okay Izuku wondered if another day Shouto would speak his mind freely like that again, maybe, but if he didn't Izuku would speak enough for both of them.

What a way to go out Something this town will forever talk about The two kids who were laying down And struck by lightning in front of your house Izuku and Shouto kept talking, oblivious to just how bad the storm had gotten until they heard the spark of electricity and looked up just as a bolt descended right where they were sitting, neither of them had time to react before the electricity moved through them, making them both cry out in pain before everything went numb, the last thing both students saw was each other, small smiles playing on their faces from their last moments together. A few wires started sparking, with electricity, buzzing their passed-out bodies with even more electricity. And kids out on the playgrounds Years from now will say, "Did you ever hear about The two kids who were laying down And struck by lightning in front of your house?" The two boys were found that morning and after tons of procedures were pronounced dead.

As lightning struck And struck by lightning in front of your house "Midoriya Izuku and Todoroki Shouto died of a Lightning strike on the rooftop of UA High."

The end.

[amusingmorley]

I think that Summer Moved On by a-ha would be such a good fic prompt song.

The lyrics are imbued with such melancholy and regret and longing.

Summer moved on

And the way it goes, you can't tag along

Honey, moved out

And the way it went leaves no doubt

Moments will pass

In the morning light, I found out

Seasons can't last

And there's just one thing left to ask

Stay, don't just walk away

And leave me another day

A day just like today

With nobody else around

Friendships moved on

Until the day, you can't get along

Handshakes unfold

And the way it goes, no one knows

Moments will pass

In the morning light, I found out

Reasons can't last

So there's just one thing left to ask

Stay, don't just walk away

And leave me another day

A day just like today

Stay, don't just walk away

With nobody else around

Reasons can't last

And there's just one thing left to ask

Stay, don't just walk away

And leave me another day

A day just like today

Stay, don't just walk away

With nobody else around

Summer moved on

[smilingsolemnly]

*me listening to Laplace's Angel by Will Wood* okay but what if todoroki shouto snapped

[cuddleprofiler]

AN AFTERNOON AT HOME - A rare noon where you & Hotch are home

Word Count: 1.8k approx

Genre: Fluff

A/N: Thanks @ssa-dado for giving the idea that ended up being the inspiration for this fic. Positive Criticism is welcomed.

The aroma of food distracted you from your interesting book, making you get lost in the amazing aroma coming from the kitchen of your and Aaron's shared apartment. You swear this man has magic in his hands! The level of cooking he achieves can put even the most brilliant chefs to shame, including his own brother, Sean. You have been to many restaurants around here and in your hometown, but aside from your parents, no one has come so close to touching your heart with their cooking.

You closed your eyes and inhaled the scent, and before you realize it, a smile has automatically graced your face. What you didn't realize was that Aaron was watching you, alternating between stirring pots and stealing glances your way. His eyes sparkled at the sight of your soft smile before he returned his focus to the task at hand.

Slowly, you stood up, eyes now open. After placing a bookmark in your book, you moved toward the kitchen where your dashing boyfriend was preparing lunch. You stood at the threshold, marvelling at the man who was the Unit Chief of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, responsible for profiling notorious killers. He often maintained a serious demeanour, grumpy and stern in his professional life—but look at him now.

Moving into the kitchen with such ease, he bounced on his steps as he danced to the soft music he had set up. The volume was perfectly set for a cosy afternoon with your loved one. While he was busy, he bobbed his head lightly to the rhythm of the song.

His dark brown hair, always kept neat and perfect, now had some unkempt strands that bounced with him, making him look younger. They moved rhythmically with each motion, catching the light and adding an effortless charm to his every step. The tousled waves flowed around his face, framing it with a playful energy that was rare in your professions. Also, his stress-free demeanour always made him look young.

You tiptoed into the kitchen, as quietly as possible, aware of his big ears that could hear everything within a hundred meters. You stood right behind him and snuck your arms around his waist, burying your face in his back.

“So, what are you making for lunch?”

Your voice came out slightly muffled and soft, but Hotch understood you perfectly.

He turned you around gently and hugged you, burying his head in your hair and inhaling the fragrance of your shampoo that made you uniquely you. He smiled into your hair. When he pulled back lightly, still keeping his arms looped around your lower back, you looked up at him.

“It’s a grilled cheese sandwich, egg salad, sushi, and tomato soup—your favorite,” he said proudly.

He lifted you onto the counter while continuing his culinary endeavours. You frowned and shot him a playful glare. Feeling your gaze, he looked up and returned your glare with an innocent smile. You couldn't help but smile back at his antics. If anyone from the team saw this side of him, you’d definitely have to call an ambulance—for Pen and Morgan, without a doubt!

“You should have made your favourite too,” you said, pouting at his habit of putting you first.

“My favourite is you. Besides, I can eat anything,” he replied cheerfully.

“But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

“When I cook, I promise to make all your favourites,” you said after a moment.

Aaron snorted. “I appreciate the sentiment, honey, but I’m not letting you cook in my kitchen. No way.”

“Why not?” you asked, confusion lacing your tone.

“Do I need to remind you of all the disasters you’ve caused in this kitchen?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m pretty sure even criminals wouldn’t have suffered as much in jail as you have in this poor kitchen,” he added playfully.

You lightly swatted his chest.

“Ow! That hurt,” he said, feigning injury while dramatically rubbing his chest.

“It was meant to,” you replied with a laugh.

You took the plates after he set them up perfectly, as he liked to do. Sometimes, it was hard to reconcile this version of him with the serious professional you saw at work, but you both craved this normalcy in your lives.

Sometimes, cases hit too close to home. The relentless stream of tragic news can overwhelm even the strongest souls. After hearing the details, all you felt was a chilling numbness settling in your chest, growing into something deeper than you cared to admit. It often left you drifting away from your surroundings into a darkness that expanded with the horrors you had witnessed.

In those moments, you longed for a sense of normalcy like that of civilians, something to ground you. You yearned for good memories, moments that could lift you from the shadows. You gently shook your head when you felt Aaron sit next to you on the couch.

“You really love this movie,” he remarked, glancing at the screen.

“Not more than you.”

“You must have seen it at least a thousand times,” he said, waiting for you to queue it up so you could begin lunch.

“Yeah, but it’s just so good.”

“Even if she's a bit?”

“Yeah—no, not that part! But the way Laney and Zach look at each other and care for one another just melts my heart. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME!” you exclaimed enthusiastically.

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing lightly.

After finishing lunch, you and Aaron settled back on the couch, watching the remainder of the movie while cuddling. He ran his fingers through your hair, tucking stray strands behind your ears. Your fingers clutched the fabric of his t-shirt as your head rested on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Hey, I’ll be in my office for a bit,” he said, attempting to extricate himself from your hold.

“Today is a day off, Hotch. Relax! You always stress over these things,” you replied in a playful tone, refusing to let him go.

“Don’t call me Hotch at home, sweetheart.” He chuckled at your habit of using his last name at home and his first name at work.

“It slipped! I swear it’s second nature to call you that.”

“Then it should be something you call me the least.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“How about ‘My Man’?” he teased, knowing well that you had saved that name for him in your phone.

“How do you know about that?” you asked, puzzled, as a smile grew on your face seeing his. No one knows about this except the girls who saw it on girls' night when you were too drunk to hide it. They have teased you since then mercilessly.

“I have my ways.”

When he came out of the office, or “cave” as you liked to call it, he was met with a mesmerizing sight. He smiled softly and moved toward you to observe your beautiful and happy face more. He would be lying if he said he could get enough of it. This lifetime will be less for that, he mused in his head.

You were lying on your side, breathing softly. Curled up on the couch, you looked peaceful, your soft features illuminated by the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Your hair cascaded over the cushions in loose waves, a few strands falling delicately across your face. You looked so free that it warmed his heart. The gentle rise and fall of your chest added to the serene atmosphere.

He placed your hand, which was falling off the sofa, on your stomach and moved you to be more comfortable. He then got under the blanket covering you and slid his arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer to him. He kissed your cheek as you turned around and nuzzled your face into his chest, inhaling his intoxicating scent and falling asleep, thinking about him.

When he woke, the room was dim, indicating it was late. He glanced at you, still sleeping peacefully.

“Honey, wake up,” he said, running his hand gently up and down your forearm.

“Wake up. It’s evening!” he tried again, knowing how much you loved to sleep.

“I’m tired.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, I want to sleep.”

“Get up! You can sleep later,” he urged, offering a compromise; otherwise, you might miss dinner.

You resisted getting up, but Aaron wasn’t letting you go. You tried shifting in the other direction, but he always pulled you back. You also didn’t like the cold sensation that came with moving away from him.

“Don’t give me that grumpy face. You say it’s my job to do that.”

“Aaron…”

You slowly opened your eyes, and the first thing you saw was Hotch, his chocolate brown eyes looking sleepily at you. His hair was a tousled mess, strands sticking out in all directions, creating an unruly halo around his head. The usually sleek locks were now slightly tousled and frizzy, giving him a charming, boyish look. A few stubborn curls fell across his forehead, remnants of sleep clinging to the tips, adding to his dishevelled appeal.

You smiled brightly and kissed him on the nose; he looked so cute that you couldn’t resist. You kissed him again and again on the nose and cheeks until you heard his rare laughter ringing out, making you laugh in joy as well.

Now, after dinner, you both lay on the lawn, stargazing. Well, you were stargazing while Hotch’s whole focus was on you. You shared facts about constellations and stars, drawing from your own knowledge and Spencer’s insightful talks.

“And that’s Procyon. It’s located in the constellation Canis Minor,” you said, pointing at the sky.

“You know, love, Spencer told me it was known as the Dog Star of Canis Minor in ancient times, complementing Sirius, the Dog Star of Canis Major,” you added, rambling excitedly about your love for stars.

“It’s amazing how everything has such meaningful names. What do you think?” you asked, turning to him. You expected him to be looking at the sky, but instead, his gaze was fixed on you. You could feel your breaths mingling, making you a little dizzy. Your eyes locked, and with every second, you felt more lost in the depths of each other's eyes.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he finally said, his gaze unwavering.

“And?”

“And the moonlight highlights your already captivating features.”

“And?”

“I want to kiss you,” he admitted, a hint of longing in his voice.

“What’s stopping you?” you challenged playfully.

Under the soft glow of outdoor lights illuminating both your faces, Hotch leaned in and captured your lips. The kiss was tender and soft, a reminder of the life you shared outside the chaos. It felt like a gentle breeze heralding the beginning of winter. He cradled your face as your hands danced along his jawline, leaving you both grinning as if you had uncovered something extraordinary. In that moment, you were wrapped in intimacy and joy, cocooned from the outside world, envisioning an infinite future together.

[fayesia]

I was wondering if you can do a fic for Mike schmidt.

The reader is constantly teasing mike innocently and most often no so innocently and one day he's had enough and just f*cks the reader so hard and multiple times where the reader tries to stand up they fall and can't walk for either a few hours or days.

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

You loved teasing Mike. It wasn’t your fault, he just made it so fun to do, the way he reacted, the things he would do to you.

That’s why this weekend since Abby was away at her aunts you started off the morning with a nice breakfast for the two of you. Except the only thing you had on was your underwear and an apron that read ‘kiss the chef’ as you pranced around listening to your favourite songs, barely noticing when Mike halted in is steps behind you. His hands wrapped around your waist laughing into the side of your neck after you screamed in shock of his presence.

You grumbled, pushing him away after his rude interruption of your morning dance session, questioning if he wanted his eggs sunny side up or down on the floor. His laughter continued as he helped grab some plates and set the table watching you like a hawk as you placed the eggs onto them. He pulled you close as you wrapped your arms around him, “god, what’d i do to deserve you”, letting out a breathy laugh you wiggled out of his grasps prompting him to eat, which he did. uncomfortably. hunched over, unable to sit properly due to a certain issue in his pants which you chose to ignore.

After breakfast you took a shower and got ready for the day, taking advantage of the warm spring day, you opted for a nice summer dress that wrapped around you perfectly and flared out as you spun. continuing your endeavours of teasing you decided to be a little risky and not wear any panties leaving you bare apart from your dress. Heading back through the house you cleaned up the kitchen and living room as Mike was busy reading a book about dreams and their meanings on the couch.

He briefly looked up at you when you were loading the dishwasher and then once again when you were wiping the coffee table in front of him. Bending low to wipe one side giving him a more than nice view of your risks taken this morning, and then once again bending over the other side providing him a good eyeful of your breast.

It seemed he had had enough as you stood up straight again and he slammed his book shut throwing it next to him, before coming face to face with you.

“i’ve had fucking enough of your teasing this whole morning and don’t think you can just get away with it”

you squeal and attempt to run from him but before you can even make it to the bedroom door he has you in a fireman carry and slaps your bare behind, before placing you down on the bed. Your grin isn’t even hidden and you know he’s giving you hell for doing this on purpose. He’s quick to remove your dress, bending you over his lap and running his hand across your ass, feeling the smooth skin and digging his fingertips into your flesh.

your face heats up from the stark contrast of how clothed the two of you are but you only get more hot when his fingers fun across your pussy. He smack the skin in between your thighs and ass in quick successions leaving you gasping each time, “you fucking wanted this didn’t you, did that all on purpose cause you just wanna be fucked, well i’m gonna fuck you, so much you won’t even be able to walk tomorrow”

You expected to get a rise out of him but not this much.

He feels your wetness drip from your inner thighs onto his jeans, wasting no time to have you cowgirl on his lap with his cock in you. The girthy intrusion wasn’t something you were prepared for but the pain from the stretch is quickly cancelled out by the tip of his length hitting the best spot in you. Your warm wet walls are welcoming, wrapping around Mikes members and reminding him of why he fucking loves being inside of you so much.

He lifts you up off his cock while you mewl at the feeling of emptiness, bending you over the vanity dresser in your room he grabs a fistful of hair so you can watch yourself fall apart on his dick. His pants and your moans are loud and heard from everywhere in the house and the feeling of his balls slapping against your clit has you going over the edge.

You expected him to cum soon after but no he carried you back over to the bed and pushed you face down into the sheets, entering two fingers into you rubbing your wetness on you before slapping your pussy and then thrusting deep in you. The overstimulation was too good for you to say no and so you just lied there all fucked out while Mike continued plowing into you. His hands grabbed onto your breast pushing you back against his chest allowing his cock to hit a whole new different spot inside of you.

You were practically dumb on his cock and he knew it as he left kisses along the base of you neck and rubbed at your clit. Until you came on his cock once more, this time he too released inside of you, his cum practically overflowing from your pussy as you tightened around him like a vice, watching it dripping down from your pussy to the base of his cock.

Pulling out slowly he watched as more of your mixed cum pooled from your fucked out hole. You whined as his fingers collected the dripping cum pushing the white globs back into you, your hands were pushing Mikes away and you watched with hooded eyes as he cleaned his fingers with his own mouth before pulling you into a heated wet and messy kiss.

The two of you curled up, bathing in each other presence until you woke up the next morning looking over next to you to find the sheets empty. You assumed Mike must’ve either gone to the job centre or was still somewhere in the house and as you prepared to slither out from the warm covers your mind raced back to last night as your face warmed up.

Smiling to yourself you went to stand up only to fall onto the floor with an echoing thud, putting in no effort to get up. Mike quickly came jogging into the room coming to halt when he saw you. Questioning if you were alright and helping you get up, soon after absolutely folded in laughter at your explanation of why your legs have out.

Fuck, you knew his pride would never let you forget about this for the next few days.

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

[deepperplexity]

🎄RICKMAS 2024 - a daily prompt challenge for all who love Alan Rickman and the characters he has portrayed 🎄

Welcome to this year's RICKMAS event! You all know the drill by now, but if you're new here, I will give one prompt for each day up until the 24th of December to do with as you wish — make it the theme of the fic/drawing/song/edit/etc., make it a feature, or simply mention it in a corner. It’s all good no matter how you choose to create with these prompts and all creative things are welcome!

Everyone is welcome to join in the fun and if you do one, eleven, or all prompts is completely up to you! I’m hosting this lovely event to allow fans of Alan Rickman (any of his characters) to connect and share some love, joy, and warmth through December. Let’s build our fandom universe and community further and interact more with each other!

This year’s tag is rickmas2024 — make sure to tag your work with it so we can all find your posts darlings and I’m hoping that even more darlings join in the fun this year - by creating or indulging in the creations while spreading it all to share the joy!

On to the promptlist! This year we are having a theme of depth and perhaps a bit more weight to each prompt than the earlier years - I endeavour to keep this event exciting and inspiring now that we are on year five (holy moly!) I decided to go a different route with the exception of prompt 24 (it's always Christmas Party) which I hope you'll love - and be wholly inspired by! *Drumroll please!*

✨RICKMAS 2024✨

December Moon

Secret Watching

A Treat

Darkest Night

Open Doors

Wrapped Tightly

Quiet Wishing

Never-ending Consequences

Unwanted Solitude

Lingering Touch

Out Of Reach

Missing Mirth

To Belong

Deceptive Kindness

Decorative Obsession

Thoughtful Gifts

Truthful Longing

Secret Visitor

A Helping Hand

Wrongful Perceptions

Heartfelt Confessions

Shivering Certainty

Eve Of Revelations

Christmas Party

Good luck everyone and I hope December will be good for you and amazing for this community of ours!

Lots of love, and jolly holiday wishes, Plex

DON’T FORGET TO TAG WITH rickmas2024

Creator taglist: @evans23 , @snowblossomreads , @smilingformoney , @theheartwants-what-itwants , @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky , @slyckman , @mamawolfsmith87

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Want to be tagged in my writing? You can tag yourself HERE! Or tell me and I’ll gladly tag you! 

(Posted: 2024-11-01)

[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!!

[shmaptainwrites]

𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐈 [𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍]

PAIRINGS — Violet Bridgerton x fem!seamstress!Reader

SUMMARY — Madame Delacroix expands her business with a French seamstress and Violet is the first customer.

WORD COUNT — 6.2K

WARNINGS — 18+ NSFW MDNI, it’s just gay sex guys idk what to tell you, French dialogue used throughout (minimally but context helps explain)

NOTE — I feel obligated to tell you that this fic is in part inspired by a song I listen to on repeat, although I don’t think the French guys that wrote it realized it would be the catalyst for a sapphic fanfic

Lady Violet Bridgerton was never one for last minute endeavours. That wasn’t to say she didn’t appreciate a little spontaneity every now and again, but surely she preferred when things were planned and she was prepared. 

So it shocked her, of all things, that she could be the reason for her own unpreparedness. In reality, her family’s circumstances — with Francesca’s departure to Scotland, Anthony and Kate’s travels to India, and Colin and Penelope’s honeymoon — were the real cause of her scattered brain, but she still blamed herself of course. 

It was with a very apologetic look that she entered the modiste, hopeful that Madame Delacroix might be able to fit her in for a last minute appointment so that she could have a dress made for an upcoming ball. 

“Unfortunately, I will not be able to help you, Lady Bridgerton,” the seamstress said and Violet cursed internally, “but I have a colleague who has just arrived from France to help me since business has been so-err plentiful.” 

“Oh!” Violet was pleasantly surprised, blinking her eyes a few times, thinking something was better than nothing at this point. “Would she be able to see me?” 

“She is just getting settled, but I am sure she can make some time for a very loyal customer who I am sure has been just as busy as me recently,” Madame Delacroix gave Violet a friendly smile which was bashfully returned. 

She asked Violet to wait for a moment, going to the back where Violet could hear some quiet chatter before Madame Delacroix returned with you by her side. 

“Lady Bridgerton, this is Madame Bisset.” 

Violet had to remind herself to move her head up and down in a polite nod, her eyes glued so intensely to yours. She wouldn’t be surprised if her mouth was slightly agape like that of a fish, but she could have sworn she’d never seen anything as beautiful in her entire life.

“I have a space upstairs,” you explained. “It is still a little messy. I hope you do not mind.” 

“I-” Violet’s voice came out strained and she coughed and cleared her throat. “No, that will not be a problem.” 

“Perfect, right this way, Madame,” you motioned for her to follow you, going into the back of the shop, climbing up a set of narrow stairs until you reached the top, revealing to Violet another workspace she hadn’t seen before. 

Like you had already mentioned, it was a little rough around the edges, fabric was still pouring out of boxes, a few mannequins were tucked away in the corner, but there was a nice carpeted area in the middle of the room with a raised platform and a large mirror.

“Um, Madame Delacroix said you came from France recently,” Violet found herself beginning to talk. 

“Yes, I arrived just one week ago,” you explained. “I heard there is quite the market for dress making in London and I was looking for a bit of a change.” 

“I hope you enjoy it here,” Violet smiled. “Lord knows the ton cannot get enough of a good modiste.” 

“That is what I am relying on.” you chuckled, and motioned for her to step up on the platform. “Now, what is it you are looking for, Lady Bridgerton?” 

“Just an evening gown, for an upcoming ball,” she said, finding herself unable to break her gaze from you, watching as you brought out a measuring tape and looked through some boxes of fabric. 

“Any preferences?” you asked. “We just had this lovely fabric come in, I think it would look quite stunning on you.” 

Once you had found it, you pulled it out of the box with a smile and came to drape it over Violet’s shoulder so she could see it on herself. You smoothed out the fabric along her front and she almost felt herself stagger back at the gentle and light pressure over her chest and midsection. 

“What do you think?” 

She blinked a few times, like she was trying to get her eyes to work again, taking in the blushy pink fabric with darker pink paisley embroidery. 

“Yes, it’s quite nice,” her voice came out a whisper. 

“Perfect,” you smiled. “Then I will take your measurements and you can be on your way.” 

Measurements. Violet wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make it through that. 

There was something electric about your touch, even when your fingers were simply hovering over her, she could feel sparks sending signals to her heart, beating faster until she could hear it pounding in her ears. 

Violet had always known attraction to be strong and forceful, but this was bordering on violent. 

She watched as you adjusted the measuring tape in your hands, first starting with the length from her shoulder to her ankle. You worked with much concentration and diligence, and for that Violet was grateful, because it meant that maybe you wouldn’t notice how each time she felt your hands against her she would have to centre herself and remind herself how to breathe, repeating the words in and out over and over again in her head. 

Eventually, you needed to take the measurements for her hips and bust and Violet knew if she didn’t distract herself somehow she might faint. 

“Um when will I-uh need to come in for adjustments?” she asked, just as your hands wrapped the tape from around her back to the front of her chest. 

“Currently you are my only customer,” you said. “I believe two days will be more than enough time for me to finish. After the adjustments are done I can have the dress sent to Bridgerton house if that is agreeable.” 

“Oh, um, no there is no need for that,” she shook her head. “I can pick it up. The home is quiet nowadays with most of my children off in every corner of Lord knows where,” she chuckled nervously. “It’s nice to get out of the house and get some fresh air, perhaps get some tea, go for a stroll.” 

“Yes of course, whatever suits you, Madame,” you nodded your head. “And I believe we are finished for today.” 

Violet gave you a sheepish smile and stepped down from the platform. 

“Thank you, Madame Bisset. I am not normally this-uh disorganized,” she explained. “I promise next time I will plan things much better.” 

“Lady Bridgerton, I love what I do, really it is no trouble. Come any time to see me.” 

Violet lightly chewed on the side of her bottom lip, looking down at her feet, her hands moving to her stomach, perhaps to remind herself that she was standing. 

“I will keep that in mind,” she nodded and wished you a final goodbye before walking down the stairs and exiting the modiste, grateful now for the air outside more than she thought she had ever been in her life. 

—

Two days later, Violet returned anxiously for her alterations. When she entered the modiste she was surprised to see you already downstairs, looking through some drawers for something. 

You heard the ring of the shop bell and looked up from where you were hunched over, a welcoming smile gracing your face. 

“Lady Bridgerton,” you greeted.

“Madame Bisset, it is good to see you.” 

Her mind drifted back to the image of you moments ago, bent over an open drawer. It certainly was good to see you. 

“Did I drop in at a bad time?” she asked. 

“Not at all, I was just getting some lace for the hem of the dress and around the sleeves and neckline. I thought it might be nice to try, no?” 

Violet nodded, she would simply say yes to anything that either gave her an excuse to be with you longer or to come back more often. 

You led her upstairs to your workspace again, and this time when she entered she realized it was noticeably cleaner and more organized than last time. 

Boxes were replaced by racks of fabrics and shelves had been uncovered to host a myriad of little things, all of which she was sure you’d find use for in due time. 

“Should I help with the dress, Madame?” you motioned to her outfit and Violet gulped. 

“Y-yes, I suppose that would be…necessary,” she nodded her head and you moved to close the door for the workspace and lock it to ensure privacy while Violet stood up on the slightly raised platform in front of the mirror. 

You had come to stand behind her, your fingers carefully fitting themselves between her sleeve and shoulder, helping her slip one arm out at a time before pulling it down slightly over her chest and guiding the fabric to the ground so she could step out of it. 

It was something she’d done in front of other women countless times, but never had she felt this vulnerable and exposed. She looked down and saw the hairs on her arm stand on end, only to be followed by a slight jolt when she felt your hand against her corseted waist.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized with a chuckle. “I just need…” your voice trailed off as you looked down at her feet and she realized she needed to step out of her dress. 

A rosy colour quickly made its way onto her cheeks as she stepped out of her dress so you could hang it up for her and bring the new dress for her to try on. 

She stepped into the pink fabric and tried to make sure her body made no involuntary movements as she felt your hands graze along her sides, helping each bare arm slip into a sleeve, now finally covered again. 

“Hmm,” you stood in front of her and analyzed the way the fabric fit. “It is a little loose here, no?” you asked, tightening the fabric around her chest slightly so that it was more in line with the shape of her corset. 

“I suppose, maybe, yes,” she nodded, “I-I’m sorry, but do you have any water?” Violet asked.”I-I’m feeling a little parched.” 

“Oh of course,” you nodded, letting go of her dress and walking to a pitcher and some glasses you had set to the side, filling one up for her before bringing it back. 

She tried her best to drink it graciously, but there was nothing more she wanted to do than down the whole glass in one shot. Once she was finished, you took the glass from her and set it aside, picking up the lace you had brought up with you, to present your suggestion.

“I was thinking maybe we can put it around the hem of the dress, like this,” you showed her, bending down and lifting the skirt just slightly to tuck some of the lace under it so it was peeking throughout the bottom. 

“Oh,” Violet raised her brows as she looked in the mirror. “I actually quite like that.” 

“So do I,” you nodded, standing back up, “And I thought maybe the arms…” 

You tried the same thing with the sleeves and, again, it suited the look of the dress. Lastly, you placed it around the neckline, moving to hold it up from behind her so she could see. 

Violet thought at that moment it was probably better not to breathe at all considering if she did, with the restriction of her corset her heaving chest would be quite obvious. 

“Mmm, je n’aime pas ça,” you shook your head, your voice soft and close to her ear. 

“I-I’m sorry?” 

Violet had spent most of her younger years learning French, but for some reason, the entirety of the language had escaped her. 

“I do not like the lace here,” you switched back to English, removing the lace and pulling the fabric a little tighter around her bust, pinning it in place with the pins from your pin cushion. “It is better like this.” 

“You think so?” she asked quietly, feeling herself swallow harshly after she finished speaking. 

“I know so, Madame,” you nodded. “Why would one hide such perfect skin?” 

Violet looked in the mirror at what you were referring to, her chest littered with freckles and spots. 

“I hardly think it is perfect,” she shook her head. 

“It would be like covering a starry sky with clouds,” you offered. “One cannot gaze at the stars and wonder about the universe on a cloudy night.” 

Violet chuckled nervously and looked down at the floor for a moment.

“Madame Bisset, I think you mistake how many people are gazing.”

“You would be surprised,” you gently placed your hand on her arm, rubbing up and down in a reassuring motion. 

She could feel the fabric of the sleeves move against her arm in response to your touch and it caused a warmth to spread in the pit of her stomach. 

You moved to grab a container with a few more pins and began seeing where adjustments needed to be made and dealt with the fabric accordingly. Violet felt herself easily growing restless, her fingers fiddling around with the small bits of thread sticking out of the end of the sleeves. 

“So, um, where does the name Bisset come from? What I mean to say is what area of France?” she quickly clarified. 

“Bisset does not belong to a region,” you explained. “It means one who weaves.” 

“Oh, how fitting,” Violet hummed. 

“It is not my real name,” you admitted. “Just something I picked up for work.” 

Violet bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to let her curiosity get the best of her, but when she heard your quiet chuckle from behind her, she tried to turn her head to look back at you. 

“What is it?” 

“It is okay, you want to know what my name actually is,” you said. “You can ask.” 

And so she did, and for the first time she heard your name. She tested it in her own voice, like she was savouring having your name on her tongue, burned into her mind. 

“Mine is Violet,” she said quietly. 

“Violet,” your French pronunciation of her name made her feel a shiver behind her neck, or maybe that was simply your breath against her skin. “Un nom joli pour une personne même plus jolie.”

Violet blushed at your admission, and you grinned. 

“So you understand me then?” 

She nodded her head. 

“Then what did I say?” you teased her a little, while adding a few more pins, now along the length of the sleeves. 

Violet looked at you as if to ask if you were really going to make her say it out loud, and when you didn’t seem to back down she caved. 

“You said that it was a beautiful name for a beautiful person,” she said before pressing her lips together. 

“Close,” you looked up at her. “A beautiful name for an even more beautiful person.” 

“You flatter me too much,” Violet shook her head. 

“In my experience, a dress is only as beautiful as the person wearing it,” you said. “It is always a pleasure to make something for someone who shines just as brightly as the fine fabrics and silks. Even more so when they believe it.” 

You put in the last pin and looked content with your work. 

“I should have this ready by tomorrow,” you told her. “You still wish to pick it up?” 

“Yes,” she nodded with a smile. 

“Alright, let me help you change so that you can be on your way.” 

Carefully, you helped Violet take off the dress, conscious to make sure none of the pins pricked her, and after she stepped out of the dress, you put it on your work table, getting what dress she came with and helping her slip back into it. 

“I will see you tomorrow then, in the afternoon, in case anything comes up,” you said and she smiled. 

“Tomorrow afternoon it is, Madame.” 

“Au revoir,” you gave her a small wave and again, she held her hands against her stomach. 

“Au revoir.” 

—

Violet wasn’t sure she’d ever gotten so many compliments on a dress as she had on what you’d made for her. There was something new and cutting about it and much to her surprise, it became very hard to book an appointment with either you or Madame Delacroix afterwards. 

News had spread to the rest of the ton of you and your talents, and everyone wanted a piece. 

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that Violet managed to get herself in for another appointment, needing a dress for a wedding along with a few odds and ends she thought with all this uncertainty she may as well get done now.

When she arrived at the modiste, it was overflowing with people. She never thought she had seen it so busy and she wondered if it was really all from that simple pink dress. Although the dress itself wasn’t necessarily simple, it was elegant in its style, its function, and of course, it had a certain je ne sais quoi.

“Lady Bridgerton,” you grinned, seeing Violet enter the shop. “I believe I have you to thank for all this business. Both Genviève and I do.” 

“Oh, I didn’t do any of the work,” she shook her head. “I simply wore it.” 

“And you wore it well, which is half of the battle,” you chuckled. “Come, I am always happy to see my favourite customer.” 

Violet’s heart warmed when you called her your favourite, a sense of pride overcoming her. Still out of all of the young debutantes and busy mamas, she somehow remained at the top of your list. 

When you arrived at your workspace, closing the door behind you and walking further inside and let out a small breath of air, a bright smile came over your face. 

“How can I help you today?” 

“I need a dress for a wedding,” she began, “along with a few other things.” 

“Such as?” you pressed. 

“Some clothes for the country, a few dresses for home, and some new night clothes. I was thinking perhaps a robe and a nightgown or two.” 

“Madame, you are keeping my hands busy,” you smiled. “Now I already have the measurements I will need for the dress, so we can pick fabrics, then maybe I can show you some things I have already made in case something catches your eye and we can make alterations and then fill in any gaps after.” 

“Sounds splendid to me,” she nodded. 

“Parfait,” you grinned and clapped your hands together. “What colour are you thinking for the dress you will wear to the wedding?” 

“I usually stick to blue,” she said. “It was the colour my late husband’s family used a lot, but…” she paused. 

“You’re thinking of something else,” you put your hands on your hips. “Purple.” 

“How did you know?” she looked at you a little astounded, a small chuckle coming past her lips, lacing her words with a certain playfulness. 

“A suspicion,” you shrugged with a teasing wink. “Now light or dark?”

“Light, it is getting warmer outside after all.” 

You rummaged through some things and pulled out a few swatches of fabric for her to choose from. 

“They are all nice,” Violet chewed on her lip while trying to decide. “What do you think?” 

You took a long look at the collection in front of you and then looked up at Violet, sizing up each swatch to the woman in front of you, fabricating the dress in your mind’s eye until you figured out which one you liked the most.

“This one, I think.”

You held out a simple silky fabric for her. 

“I can add something to it, a design, some beads,” you said. “But I like this colour on you.” 

“I will leave it up to you,” she said. “I am sure I will be happy with whatever you make. Surely, the rest of the ton is.” 

You chuckled and placed the fabric back down. 

“Now some of those other things,” you motioned for her to follow you. 

You showed her a few dresses to see what ones she might be interested in taking with her to the country. Some were made with simple cotton for days spent resting inside the house in the off season. Once she had decided which she liked, you set them aside to make sure they were properly fitted for her. 

“And nightclothes?” you asked. “What about something like this?” 

You pulled out a particularly sheer gown, probably meant for someone on their honeymoon, or maybe at the very least with someone to share it with. 

“Um,  I am not sure I am the right fit for that,” she chuckled nervously, knowing her resolve with you already wore thin, hoping you would accept her reasoning and move on to something more modest. 

“Why not?” you asked.

“I am a widow, Madame, I wouldn’t have anyone to wear it for,” she said truthfully. 

“You could wear it for yourself,” you said. 

Violet tilted her head and blinked, “Myself?” 

“Ben oui,” you nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Who said you have to wear something for someone else?” 

Violet chewed on her cheek. She supposed she wasn’t really wearing anything for anyone but herself at the moment. 

“It is okay to wear something that makes you feel beautiful even if you are the only one to see it,” you reassured her. “If you do not think you would feel beautiful in this, now that is something different.” 

Violet pressed her lips together. It had been so long since she had worn something other than a simple cotton nightdress, but there was something alluring about wearing something that matched her desire, even if she would end up being the only one to see it. 

“And the fitting for this?” she asked. 

“We could do it right now, if you wish,” you said. 

“L-Like for alterations?” she looked at you wide-eyed.

“Mhmm,” you nodded, draping the dress over your arm, ignoring her surprise. 

She looked between the dress and herself a few times, contemplating whether or not she should do it, or more, whether she could handle it. 

Wearing it for herself was one thing, but wearing it in front of you was something else. 

She nervously scratched behind her ear, thinking in her mind that it might be best to pass on this for the moment, but when she opened her mouth to speak, she said,

“Alright then.” 

You smiled and turned to go back to where you would do the alterations and Violet blinked hard, processing what had just left her mouth. 

“Are you coming, Madame?” 

Violet looked over at you and nodded, slowly walking over to the platform. 

Similar to before, you helped her out of her dress, and she stood in front of you again in her corset and undergarments, but this time after her dress was placed off to the side, your fingers nimbly worked on the laces on her back, deftly loosening the material and unravelling it until it was loose around her. 

Violet, not quite ready to let go, held it up from the front, noticing her breathing becoming shakier by the second. 

“I can take that for you,” you extended your hand out for her corset and she swallowed thickly. 

It took her a few moments to remember how to work her hands again, carefully peeling the material away from her chest and handing it to you, unsure of what to do with her arms before deciding her best option was to cross them over her chest. 

When you returned, you came to stand in front of Violet, the nightgown in your hands, ready to help her put it on. You looked down at her crossed arms then back up at her blue eyes and her cheeks flushed before moving her hands and lifting them above her head so you could slip the fabric over her. 

The hem of the dress stopped at her knees, much shorter than anything she was used to wearing. The slight blue colour almost enhanced the sheerness of the fabric and Violet tried to take it all in, running a hand down her midsection, noticing how she could see her bellybutton.

She tried not to focus on how she could feel your gaze burning into what felt like her very soul. 

“What do you think of the fit?” she asked quietly. 

You pursed your lips. 

“I like how it fits around here,” you ran your hands along both sides of her waist down to her hips. “Less, up here.”

Your hands migrated to the fabric barely covering her breasts and she could have sworn she let out a small squeak, feeling your fingers brush against her. Her suspicion was confirmed when you spoke. 

“Everything alright, Madame?” you looked up at her. 

“Fine,” she whispered. 

“T’es sûre?” you murmured, stepping a little closer and adjusting the straps over her shoulders. 

“Mhmm,” she almost whimpered, pressing her lips together and looking up at the ceiling. “I’m fine, it is just a little chilly up here,” she said. “You know when you get cold, you um…you feel things more.” 

You nodded your head. 

“That is not to say it was cold before, I am just cold now because-” 

“Tais toi.” 

Violet blinked. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” you looked up at her and placed a finger under her chin. “I said tais toi.” 

Despite Violet’s shock that you had essentially told her to shut up, she found herself speaking still.

“Really?” she began. “You won’t even use le vous poli?” she asked, referring to your less polite and more informal grammar choice. 

“Why would I use that when everything I want to do to you is very, very impolite?” you whispered, merely millimeters away from her mouth, your breath mingling with hers. 

Violet wasn’t sure what overcame her, she grabbed your hands, placing them over her breasts, her mouth agape as shaky breaths fanned over your face. 

With that permission, you brushed your thumbs on top of the fabric, over her nipples, her whimper deliciously clouding your senses, encouraging you to do it again. 

“If you are really so set on wearing this for someone,” you gripped her tighter, eliciting a surprised gasp, your lips travelling closer to her ear. “You could wear it for me, ma belle.” 

Violet hummed and leaned her head against yours, feeling you move along her until your foreheads were pressed together, noses brushing against each other. 

“We shouldn’t,” Violet breathed. 

“We shouldn’t,” you shook your head, still moving closer until you captured her lips with yours. Her hands found their way to your waist, narrowly avoiding your pin cushion, pulling you against her, your thumbs still gently massaging over her breasts, content hums and soft moans echoing in your mouth as you kissed her. 

When you pulled away, you pressed your forehead against Violet’s again, your eyes shut. 

“You have another appointment don’t you?” Violet whispered and you nodded and she had to bite back the whine that wanted to escape. 

“Come back tonight,” you murmured, your hands moving to hold both sides of Violet’s face, a reassurance. “Two doors down.” 

“W-What would I tell my carriage driver?” 

“Pick your most discreet one,” you whispered, pressing your lips to hers again in a much softer kiss. 

She nodded her head and when you pulled apart further and she opened her eyes, she could see you smiling back at her and she thought if you were so certain, maybe everything would be okay. 

It wasn’t until much later in the evening when Violet was standing outside your door, waiting for you to come and open it, that the reality of the situation fully set on her. She was caught in such a haze before, her stomach swirling with an all consuming nausea that was almost delightful. 

She felt her arms wrapping around herself tighter, nervously looking around to make sure there were no unwanted eyes watching her, until she heard the door open in front of her, bringing her attention back to the present. 

You were quick to wordlessly take her hand and bring her inside, closing the door behind you. 

“You are tense,” you remarked, holding her hand in both of yours, gently massaging its back with your thumbs. 

Violet was unsure of what to expect, but she did know wherever this led, she wanted to follow it, to chase that staggering violent feeling until she couldn’t take it any more. 

“I just didn’t want anyone to see,” she whispered. “I am fine.” 

You smiled. “Bien.” 

You helped her take off her cloak, biting your bottom lip when you saw what she was wearing underneath. 

“C’est jolie,” you hummed. “But I think I am more excited to see what is underneath.” 

Violet chuckled nervously, feeling a certain heat come to her cheeks. She let herself be pulled into you when you took your hand in hers, melting into the kiss that followed, allowing you to lead her through the hallway and into what she assumed was a bedroom. 

Her suspicions were fully confirmed when she felt the back of her legs hit a plush mattress, making her fall back, only to be gently lowered the rest of the way by you, now leaning over top of her. 

“W-Wait,” Violet whispered.

“Hmm?” you looked at her patiently. “Ça va?”

“What happens next?” she asked. 

“Do you want me to explain it to you?”

You tilted your head to look at her and she nodded. 

“First I take this off,” you murmured, working at the series of ribbons in the front of her dress that kept it tied shut. 

She watched as you undid each one, single handedly, revealing more and more of her bare skin until your hand came and fully pushed both parts of the fabric aside, leaving her exposed in front of you. 

“Then I listen,” you kissed her jaw. “Your breathing, your body, it…tells me things.” 

One hand moved to cup her breast and she sighed. 

“Like that,” you smiled. “And I follow that, I see where it takes me.”

You pinched her nipple between your thumb and pointer finger and she arched slightly into your touch. Carefully, you twisted it between your fingers, your mouth trailing its kisses down her neck and chest, until eventually your mouth replaced your fingers, tongue swirling and teeth grazing against the soft and sensitive flesh. 

Violet let out a breath of air, a whine caught in the back of her throat as she arched further into you, her hand coming to hold your head against her. 

With a gentle kiss, you paused your mouth’s movements, taking your hand from where it rested against her waist, dragging it across her stomach. 

“Next,” you began, “No, it is too vulgar in English,” you shook your head. 

“Tell me in French,” she begged. “Dit-le moi, s’il vous plaît.” 

You smiled and kissed her breast again. 

“Since you asked so nicely.” 

Your finger trailed a little lower, now tracing lines across the base of her stomach, the skin there soft and stretched from many pregnancies, and oh so precious. 

“Je prends mes doigts,” your fingers moved even lower, the blood pumping to Violet’s head so fast she thought she might faint. “Et je les appuie ici.”

“Oh!” she moaned, her head turned to the side, your thumb firmly against her, massaging in slow tantalizing and tortuous circles.

“Mais, je préfère les mettre comme ça.” 

Violet gasped, your name on her lips as she felt your fingers inside her, beginning a slow and steady pace that her body seemed to match with the movement of her hips. 

“Is this good, or do you want more?” you asked her, not stopping the movement of your hand and fingers. 

“More, please,” she breathed. 

“En Français, ma belle.” 

“S-S’il vous plaît.” 

“Bien sûre,” you smiled and increased your pace, fingers carefully searching until they found the intense response they were seeking from Violet. 

“There,” she nodded her head, eyes squeezed shut. “Mmm.” 

She pressed her lips together so tightly you could have sworn they went white. 

You listened to her instructions, continuing to work at that spot, leaning over top of her, feeling her breathing pick up with each fan of warm breath over your face. You pressed a few kisses to her jaw, your ear right next to her mouth, listening intently as breathing turned into moans that didn’t stop. 

You could feel the heat radiating off of every part of her, clouding your own senses, encouraging you further to push her over that edge, eager movements guiding her until her mind went blissfully blank, her back arched towards you while you slowed your hand, her breathing much more ragged than before until you carefully removed your fingers. 

Wiping them carefully on the sheets next to her, you then took her face in your hand, pressing a slow kiss to her lips. 

Violet hummed into your lips, like she wanted to say something so you pulled away, watching her finally open her eyes once more. 

“Can I?” she whispered. 

“Can you what, chèrie?” 

“Do that for you?” she asked. “Teach me.” 

You grinned, leaning down and capturing her lips in another kiss. 

When you pulled apart this time, she pushed herself up on her forearms, watching as you moved to sit next to her. She knew the first step, her hand brushing against the sleeve of your nightgown, pushing it off your shoulder, studying how your skin felt against her fingers. 

You took your arm out of your sleeve and waited for her to do the same with the opposite side before tugging the sides down until the fabric pooled at your hips. 

She leaned in to kiss you, guiding you to lie back on the mattress before her hands came back to the fabric, pulling it completely off of you. 

She took a moment to admire you in front of her, feeling that same intense pull towards you as she did when you had first become acquainted. 

With her lips against yours once more, she hooked her fingers around the top of your underwear, pulling it down as her lips detached from yours so she could finish the job. 

She leaned over top of you, her brown hair falling in waves on either side of her head, the soft fabric of her robe-like dress, creating a curtain around her, but her body still on full display for you. 

You couldn’t help but reach out and snake a hand around her waist, your thumb brushing back and forth in small motions. 

“Tell me,” she whispered. “What do I do next?” 

You moved your hand up from her waist tracing along her side and down her arm, until her wrist was in your hands. 

“You can touch me here.”  

You placed her hand on your breast. “Or here.” 

Your hand moved hers lower, only hovering over your core. 

“Or anywhere that feels right when you listen.” 

She nodded her head slowly, your hand finishing its guidance as she watched with bated breath, your eyes closed anticipatorily, small shaky breaths coming past your lips as her fingers made contact and you finally let go of her wrist. 

Violet tucked some of her hair behind her ear with her free hand before letting herself feel and explore you. 

She paid close attention, listening to what sounds filled the air, a small smile coming to her lips when you moaned her name. 

She moved so her thumb replaced her fingers, continuing to brush against that spot that seemed to make your face twist and contort in beautiful ways she’d never seen before. 

Violet became curious, her other hand moving to cup your breast, brushing her thumb over your nipple, noticing the new reaction it had brought, a groan and a plea for more. 

Both of her thumbs worked in tandem on different parts of your body, pulling your focus in two directions, back and forth with no end in sight.

Violet was entranced by you, squirming slightly under her touch, the fact that she was the one making you feel this way, like you had no control. The only thing possible for you to do was let her know how much you wanted, no, needed her. 

“Violet,” you whimpered. “Please, m-more.” 

Violet smiled devilishly and leaned down, her lips ghosting your ear. 

“En Français.”

“S’il vous plaît, Violet, mon Dieu,” you groaned before she increased the intensity of her ministrations. 

Her hand moved from your breast up to your face, holding it up so she could kiss you as her thumb worked against you, a warmth spreading in her stomach as you moaned into her mouth, your hips meeting her touch until you were gripping onto Violet for dear life as the only hope of reminding yourself you were, in fact, still on earth. 

She stopped a little more abruptly than you would have liked, still thrumming with pleasure, and holding her close. 

“Was that right?” she teased and when you finally looked up at her, grabbing her chin with your thumb and forefinger, pulling her down in a kiss, your last words, a mutter against her lips. 

“Tais toi.” 

TAGLIST —

@paola-carter @madde11 @thesamesweetie @cherrysxuya @philocalistwrites @mako-mermaids2021 @oh-mydarling @courtneyteal @amethyst-bitch

[minminyoonjii]

Ultimate Masterlist

💜Rules and Guidelines

💚Announcement and Clarification

💛Scenarios/Fic Requests [x]

Stray Love Haven Series Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: MLM/MLF Short Summary: A Stray Kids Kink Book with 31 Days' worth of plot

Time Out Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Bangchan/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Two idiots in love who couldn't tell the difference between platonic pet names and romantic pet names

Silent Cry Genre: Hurt/Comfort|Angst Pairing: Stray Kids Ot8/Gender Neutral! Reader Short Summary: You had a rough day, wanting nothing more than to sob your heart out alone but what if the eight men in your life felt it

Monster Under My Bed Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Tentacle Monster/Bang Chan/Lee Felix Short Summary: Stress was catching up to Chan and he wanted to relieve himself, somehow tentacles joined the mix and so did Felix

Phobia Genre: Angst|Psychopath AU|Flash Fic Pairing: Stray Kids Ot8/Fem! Reader Short Summary: You had a crush on Chan but your best friend Minho seems to disprove your liking. A night out of clubbing, swirled into weeks of terror.

My Love Genre: Fluff|Romance Pairing: Lee Minho/Han Jisung Short Summary: Minho saw a goddess rush past him, taking his breath away. Only to see the same goddess sit on the swing next to him

Sticky Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Tentacle Plant Monster! Park Jimin/Human! Jeon Jungkook Short Summary: Yoongi kept Jungkook in charge of his wild plant. He warned him about the consequences but Jungkook undermined the warning.

I'm A Charmer Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Stray Kids Song: Venom/Stray Kids Song: Charmer/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Have you ever wondered what it's like to fuck a humanoid version of your favourite song? This is that unhinged fic.

Mini Log Series Genre: Fluff|Ddlg/Mdlg Pairing: Bang Chan/Lee Felix/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Domestic scenes of Chanlix and their little. There will be praise, there will be punishments and most importantly, there will be tooth-rotting sweetness.

Check Up Season Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Doctor! Lee Minho/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Medical play with heavy tension. Lee Know wearing glasses and a doctor's coat is very attractive.

Limousine Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: 3Racha/Short Fem! Reader Short Summary: You pissed off Chan so they fucked you behind a moving vehicle and confessed their love.

Winter Flowers Genre: Hurt/Comfort|Fluff Pairing: Kim Seungmin/Lee Minho Short Summary: Getting stuck on a ski lift isn't ideal, especially if you have acrophobia. Enemies to friends to lovers, a 2Min classic.

Stray Kids Scenarios Series Genre: Undetermined Pairing: OT8/Reader Content: Tucking You In|First Time: Calling Them by Their Title|Pillow Fort|Nightmare|When They Notice You Crying During Sex|Lost My Way|Types Of Spankings|Sneak In|Types Of Aftercare|When You Start Being Bratty|9th Little Member|When You Feel Sick|When They Get A Nightmare|Fussy Diaper|Second Chance

Mirror Genre: Fix-it Fic|Hurt/Comfort|Angst Pairing: Father! Seo Changbin & Son! Bang Chan Short Summary: Coming out is never easy but imagine coming out to your adult son. Changbin just wants to explain to his child why he divorced his mother and left for ten years.

Monster On My Ceiling Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Tentacle Monster/Lee Minho/Hwang Hyunjin Short Summary: Hyunjin wanted nothing more than to get railed silly by Minho but before anything could've happened. Our tentacle friend from Chanlix's endeavours joins in.

Adore You Genre: Fluff/Slight Angst/Smut Paring: Fem Dom! Reader/Bang Chan/Lee Minho/Hwang Hyunjin/Lee Felix Short Summary: Hyunjin had a rough day, so you decided to make love until his brain turns fuzzy.

Champagne and Cigarettes Genre: Fluff/Smut/Abo Pairing: Virgin! Reader/Bang Chan Short Summary: Jisung has been courting you for months, you already knew everyone in the pack and tonight's the night you become a pack member. The only problem is that you didn't know what you signed up for.

Sweet Little Unforgettable Thing Genre: Fluff|Smut|Age Regression Short Summary: It's the few days before your actual period where you just want to get railed. You got overwhelmed and ended up slipping into little space. What are your responsible CG's going to do?

Nightfall Genre: Fluff|Hurt/Comfort|Slight Angst|Age Regression Short Summary: Snow covered the backyard, and you wanted to play in it. Nightfall came, and the members promised you could play more the next day but why wait until that morning when you could play while they were asleep?

Sanrio Carnival Sanrio Carnival Visualizer Genre: Fluff|Domestic|Age Regression Short Summary: You were a big fan of Sanrio characters. Varying from the mainstream to the niche. One day, your caregiver bought tickets for the Sanrio Carnival. Tons of prizes were won, and many characters were seen. What did you do? Who did you see? 

Monster In My Closet Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Tentacle Monster/Kim Seungmin/Yang Jeongin Short Summary: Seungmin wanted to tease Jeongin into a pile of mush when slick pooled up to his ankles, holding him down.

Threeway To Heaven Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Bang Chan/Lee Felix/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Raves were something your best friends go to frequently and this time they wanted you to join them. Things don't go as planned when you get served a free shot.

Topline Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin/Fem Dom Leaning! Reader Short Summary: You drove home thinking it was just another day. Hyunjin wanted to try something new to spice things up, who else to ask except his beloved members to help him out?

Teacher's Pet Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin/Fem! Reader/Lee Minho Short Summary: Mr. Hwang's course has always been a pain in the ass for your GPA so he decides to confront you on it, but you couldn't hold back from snapping at him. Mr. Lee heard the commotion and wanted to lay some advice.

Moral Of The Story Series Genre: Hurt/Comfort|Angst Pairing: OT8! Straykids/Fem! Reader Short Summary: When a poly relationship starts turning cold, with regret, fear, and betrayal tying the strings of fate.

I Need You Genre: Fluff|Smut Pairing: Fem! Reader/Lee Felix Short Summary: Dance practice ended early and Felix had pent up energy. Carving is a strong emotion to deny when it comes to handsome men who can't stop holding you against them.

Chasing That Feeling Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Lee Minho/Bang Chan/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Movie night snacks are always essential. Who knew bumping into a wall would lead to this?

Guilty Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin/Lee Felix/Fem! Reader Short Summary: What's a little bit of teasing, when you're dating two most sexually driven men with the sheer need to ruin you.

9th Little Member Series Genre: Hurt/Comfort|Fluff|Age Regression Pairing: OT8/Reader Short Summary: You always felt that being a little was troublesome for the group. Hiding it was the only option you had. But you forgot one thing, your members can see through everything. Kidult|Tea Party|Otter Chaos

I'll Be Your Man Series Genre: Smut/Fluff Pairing: OT8/Fem! Reader Short Summary: A Stray Kids Smut Book with a crazy twist

Stray Heart Untold Series Genre: Fluff|Hurt/Comfort|Smut Main Pairing: Bang Chan/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Hero/Villain, betrayal enemies to lovers plot with world building and live writing ARG. Cause of writing: The 2023 5 Stars Trailer - Bang Chan.

Your Fault Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Bang Chan/Fem! Reader Short Summary: All you wanted to do want watch a movie. You warned him, you told him it was slow. It's all his fault that his cock took over his brain.

Mommy's Home Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Lee Felix/Fem! Reader Short Summary: There's nothing a good old-fashioned BJ can't fix, especially when you're stressed.

Double Trouble Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Seo Changbin/Bang Chan/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Princesses always had the right to feel full. It's not wrong to beg your boyfriend for another set of dick.

Into It Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Seo Changbin/Bang Chan/Han Jisung/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Needy men equal to multiple orgasms. It's not your fault that they like dragging every last bit of pleasure from your body.

All In Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: OT8/Fem! Reader Short Summary: Birthday Babies deserve a thorough pounding, including you. There's no escape once you're in.

Empty Mind Genre: Fluff/Smut Pairing: Seo Changbin/Han Jisung/Fem! Reader Short Summary: What better way to melt your studious mind with a hard throbbing cock fucking you.

[vodkabodies]

Invisible String

Summary: An endless search for a remedy comes to a halt when Harry realizes he’s been tied to it, to her, all along.

Pairing: Harry Styles x Musician gf

WC: 475

Warnings: If you're NOT a fan of romanticrry, this is not the post for you ;)

A/N: Can you tell I’m a sucker for fluff? Here’s a little ‘thank you’ for the love you’ve given over my previous post <3 This is a really short one but still, enjoy!

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You were there all along, hidden in plain sight. At award shows, at after parties, even at our mutual friend’s wedding ceremony. Sometimes I wonder, what took us so long, then? For years you were always just a friend of a friend, an artist under the same record label, and now you have your own mugs in my kitchen cabinet and a side on my bed that will always smell of you.

Whenever I get lost in my thoughts like this though, as if by instinct, a connection only you and I are tied to, a brush of your fingers through the curly strands of my hair always wipes the questions away. As I lay here, sulking in your gentle yawning and the scent of your shampoo, there wouldn't have been a more perfect time than now. Not seven years ago when you were getting out of a toxic relationship, and I from a boy group I’ve been in for years to pursue my own endeavours.

We were meant to cross paths, eventually. At the perfect place, and at the perfect time.

I was scheduled for a meeting the very night of your opening show. I ran into my good friend, your manager at the time, who was on his way to support you. At that very moment, I received a call that our meeting was postponed. He invited me to join him instead, and so I did. With no intentions of coincidentally meeting my twin flame that same evening.

Ever since then, it’s been you.

As if tied to an invisible string, distance from you started feeling like hell. Like being pulled by rip currents, away from the safety of the shore.

I started to fear that every song I'll ever write from that day onward would be about you. And how you snorted a laugh when my voice pathetically cracked the moment I introduced myself to you, your hands that fit perfectly in mine as you shook it, and that voice, the one that grew a bed of flowers over the barricades that disabled me from running directly to you, the same one that now hums me lullabies.

You are the cure to my sleepless nights, the remedy for my mundane days, and extra lonely drives. I, a hopeless romantic, an artist, the product of loving and losing, has fallen deeply in love with you in a way that only words can explain, and only lyrics can describe. 

I’ve written about finding no antidotes for curses, been convinced that loving someone else in the past was the cure, and thought another person had it all along. But it was you. Not a pill I could swallow, an action I could do, or something someone could possess. All along I was tied to the one I’ve spent lifetimes searching for.

“You are the antidote.”

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A/N: Hope you guys caught all the references I snuck in here. If you did, feel free to comment them below! I appreciate the support and feedback for my first work <3 More to come! (possibly a new fic??) As always, thank you for reading!

Twitter: @vodkabodies

[hwaightme]

Feverish

(masterlist) (join taglist)

🌡️ pairing: hongjoong x gn!reader 🌡️ genre: the fluffiest fluff, established relationship, sickfic 🌡️ summary: as you come down with a cold, hongjoong is right there to lift you back up again, be it with soup, song, presence, or all at once. 🌡️ wordcount: 2.4k 🌡️ warnings/tags: questionable editing, proper use of face masks, hongjoong in a kitchen making things, him being a worried and loving boyfriend ready to give you the world, producer joong, he is the medicine actually, discussion of illness and various symptoms, fever, fatigue, distancing 🌡️ a/n: love you @legohwas <3 this was why I was being all cryptic asking about mango milkshakes~ apologies if the lil piece is chaotic and if I disappear into the void ruminating it... but imagine a serenading Hongjoong ahah<333 Thank you so much everyone for likes, reblogs, comments notes, they are always appreciated, much love!

🌡️ perma-taglist: @doom-fics @/legohwas @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @mystar1024 @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt

🌡️ cannot be tagged: @hjoymyluv @memoriesofwoo @ate-ez

A heavy stillness had settled in your bedroom, so palpable, in fact, that you believed if you dared to undraw the blackout curtains which were working wonders to protect you from the city’s night lights, that you would be able to see its every fibre. Perhaps there was this benefit to you being severely under - or even squashed by, the weather; for the first time in far too long you were allowing yourself to lie still, gaze at the ceiling in the semi darkness while swaddled in the sheets and throws and nearly drowning in the pillows which you had gathered from all around your apartment as soon as you had come home from class.

It had been a growing sensation. An inkling, a suspicion, and with every passing hour a sure realisation that indeed, you were catching a cold. Or whatever it could be. Either way, you had crawled home dizzy and fatigued, shuddering from what had turned out to be an alarmingly high fever, and after cautiously peeling your outdoor clothing away to change into cosy pyjamas succumbed to your body’s screams for rest. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you had no idea for how long you had been in bed until you were jolted awake by the turning of keys in the lock of the front door, and a very familiar, albeit highly concerned and timid ‘hello?’. Feeling for your phone, you squinted and fought off the tears that sprung to your eyes from the screen brightness as you attempted to read the time, the action only bringing to a state of shock: you had just spent a precious five hours doing absolutely nothing. A pang of guilt overpowered your throbbing temples; when you had more tasks than the number of heartbeats in a day, including professional, academic and domestic endeavours, having this kind of inconvenience such as an illness was simply out of the question. You cursed yourself, your immune system and the fact that there was no way to be able to schedule ailments or cancel your subscription to them altogether.

“Y/N? You missed our call- Y/N? Y/N are you okay?” you gazed off to the side to see your boyfriend peeking into the room, still in his face mask, beanie and coat, clutching a bag tightly against his chest. 

“Hi Joong… Down with…” you tried to speak, but your voice was still laden with sleep and tiredness that had finally caught up to you. Focusing on the silhouette, you peered in Hongjoong’s general direction, hoping that you looked at least somewhat alive after dozing, and snuggled deeper into the sheets.

“What?” he stepped a little closer, tilting his head ever so slightly. You managed to catch the fast narrowing of his eyes as he most definitely caught onto your state, and the droop in what likely was his adorable shy smile behind the black material. 

“Sorry… it’s just… yeah I’m down with something.” you croaked out, only to throw your face into the pillow you had been hugging, suddenly having found your strenuous staring a little more than overwhelming. 

“Wait Y/N really?” baffled, the man stumbled over his words, and looked for a space to drop the black leather bag, choosing an empty spot by the wall, right at the entrance. Stretching out again, he pinched the end of the beanie to slide it off, revealing black hair, lightly matter and dishevelled from the pressure of the garment.

Hongjoong’s eyes darted over your form while he ruffled his hair, worry growing stronger in his chest as he took note of the items strewn around the room. Your backpack was lying at the foot of your bed, laptop peeking out - it was terribly rare that you would ever come home and not organise yourself. If anything, you would be in the middle of reprimanding him for not putting slippers on and still being in his jacket; but not a peep came from you, and instead you were curled up in the foetal position, blocking out all light, all energy, a barely noticeable tramble rushing through you as you poked your head out again to answer him.

“No, I am just being lazy,” you snapped, your voice muffled by the bedsheets that you kept lifted to cover half of your face. Unusually irritated, you simply wanted to doze off and ignore your condition, hopefully wake up refreshed and be able to go about your day as if nothing happened instead of having your boyfriend subject himself to the risk of catching whatever it was.

“I think it is the universe telling you to catch a break.”

You raised an eyebrow at the statement finding it more than amusing, considering that even when Hongjoong did convince himself or management to stay with you for longer than a couple of hours, give him some time and you would find him in a random corner of the apartment, earphones in, laptop in front of him, an artist lost in his own world. Not that you ever minded, nor wanted that to change; if anything, it was unbelievably soothing, and the occasional clicks on the trackpad or keyboard always ended up becoming your rhythm and motivation as you settled down to work on your own projects. 

But you could not type away alongside him tonight, nor even uphold some banter. You desperately wanted to be snarky in return to his call for your relaxation, wanted to throw a witty comeback his way to point out his own habits, but the words remained on the tip of your tongue as you battled your fever, too tired to care about keeping a civil conversation going. But to Hongjoong, your silence spoke a thousand words; he could practically sense what you were going to say to him, and chuckled, playing with the rings on his fingers.

“I know, I know, but do as I say. And I say rest. I’ll… I’ll call the doctor to arrange an appointment…” he trailed off as he patted his pockets, eventually finding the device and beginning to search through his contacts to find someone from medical staff attached to the company. 

His eyes shot upwards once, twice, over and over again, terrified that your state could get worse at any moment or that you would get stubborn and try to power through and force yourself to work. He was distraught, anxious, even if he would eat pickled onion instead of admitting it openly, out of the desire to keep you as calm as possible. Just as he was about to call, you whispered to him:

“I am an adult-” but your phrase was cut short as he raised his hand.

“Let me take care of you? Please?” you hold a pause, waiting for your senses and your processing to catch up to your surroundings.

“...If you keep the mask on… I am not violent but I will throw hands if you get sick.”

“Alright. Gotcha. I’ll try,” and with a goofy thumbs up, he ambled out of the room, conversing over the phone, returning once to ask you about any other symptoms.

In that moment, when you finally could concentrate on his dark eyes, clouded over with distress and wrapped in a glimmer of affection, you felt nothing but safety. In those fleeting seconds, it was easy to forget your concerns about work, about assignments, about the texts that you most definitely missed. Simply with his serenity, the gestures of his hands as he continued talking about you and then the rocking on the balls of his feet as he relayed to you the doctor’s recommendations and the time of the appointment, you felt your erratic heartbeat slow down. With a satisfied hum you agreed, and shut your eyes, letting his aura envelop you. Perhaps it was for the better that he decided to visit after all. Even when he volunteered himself as the man on dinner duty, you were comfortable - you had made soup yesterday, and hopefully, the toaster was not going to catch fire. You concentrated on his soft footsteps as he moved from one part of the apartment to another; it was easy enough to trace the steps, and you imagined him going from the door where he dropped off his outerwear, to the bathroom to wash his hands, to the kitchen where he would open the fridge and muse what he could heat up.

You were adamant on him not approaching you as much as he could, resulting in Hongjoong pushing the tray with a bowl of warm soup, bread, and oddly paired with a mango milkshake that at least explained a fraction of the crashing noises and a random blast of the blender from the kitchen, every bit like a playful cat. He had the same combination of mischief and enthusiasm in his eyes that did not falter as he watched you take a few tentative spoonfuls. He appeared to glow as you thanked him for the surprise treat, and you could see his mask move to hide what undoubtedly was his precious megawatt grin. But what you could not exactly fight against, not when you could see the long day building up on Hongjoong’s shoulders, was his request to occupy the armchair on the other side of the room in a corner, saying that it was ‘necessary just in case you needed something’, so that he would automatically be on standby and within reach.

It was unusual, letting the hours trickle past like this. Instead of filling every second with something to do, or something to check, or something to plan, you were lying in bed, noticing the time and cradling it in your mind. The ticking of the clock on the wall to your right, furthest from Hongjoong was giving you the impression of grains of sand, dropping down into the palms of your hands only to roll over the palms turned hills to the particles, and continue their fall. Inadvertently, your eyes travelled to your adorable Cromer keeper, still clad in the black mask, face illuminated by the laptop screen. Though he was isolated from reality thanks to his newest pair of airpods and unbreaking focus, you could still read his body language thanks to your brain having grown less foggy after having napped and had a shot of pleasantly sweet and sour mango, the love and effort definitely adding to the flavour.

The furrowing of his brows, the way in which he scrunched his nose and you could see him squint ever so slightly as he felt your gaze rest on him and lifted his head to meet it. The barely noticeable, gentle upward jutting of the chin when Hongjoong wanted you to update him on how you were feeling. How he merely stated, after an alarm which you had not expected him to set made his phone vibrate, that it was time to measure your temperature and see if the medication worked. How as soon as you mentioned water, he did the unthinkable and abandoned his laptop on the coffee table to get you a bottle. Your Hongjoong. The artist, the innovator, the creative genius. A little clumsy at times, unsure of himself and subtly asking for you to confirm if he was doing the right things to help you. So much so, that his enthusiasm approached comical levels, and when you tried to make your grand escape outside of your quarters, he was on full alert:

“Bed rest, hello? What are you doing up? If you needed something I could-”

“Bathroom… Joong… bathroom. I am okay enough to go there.”

“OH. Oops sorry I- I- uh- yeah- ha… ha sorry… I’ll just be right… back… there yeah okay.”

You had to restrain yourself from guffawing, the dull ache in your head reminding you that you would probably need to sleep at least twelve more hours to have a laughing fit and not faint, and instead bit your bottom lip as you openly admired Hongjoong’s growing redness in the tips of his ears, and the lowering of his shoulders as an attempt to appear smaller. It was as if the fever was returning to you once again as you desperately wanted to pat your boyfriend on his head and wrap him up in your arms. Alas, you needed to get better first, for you both - captain’s orders, but it was easy when he was the best kind of medicine. His attentiveness, his patience, his resolve in staying by your side even though you had told him that you would be fine. While you were washing your face, relishing in the sensation of cool water running over your skin, you wondered when it would be appropriate to make the joke that he was currently looking like Hala-joong, and that he should wear the wide-brimmed hat you had hidden in your wardrobe.

Upon your return, nothing changed, just like he said. He was still there, still your precious Hongjoong, still immersed in what you could guess were the finishing touches for a track as he was mouthing the lyrics. You crept back into bed, only one creak alerting him of your presence, but he did not pay it no mind, only sending a wink in your direction as a form of greeting. And you thought that this was how you were going to go back into a healing slumber, until you heard the clicking of the earphones case, and the faint notes of a song, only just beginning - a soothing introduction with a semi-acoustic guitar. As it continued, Hongjoong counted the bars with one hand, and hurriedly apologised to you:

“I was meant to record the vocals but… it felt only right to finish this to the best of my ability now. And uh… stop me if your head hurts.” you rolled your eyes, a smile breaking over your features as you cuddled into the warm blankets, supporting your head so that you could watch your beloved artist and human in his element, sharing his most valuable with you.

He sang softer than usual, careful to not hurt your sensitive eardrums, but the dulcet tones were like the life essence washing over you, lifting you above the spell of illness and immersing you in a total, ethereal bliss. Of course he was going to choose a song that was on theme, on time, lyrically balanced and heartwarming. Of course Hongjoong was going to make you want to weep from the comfort that he was providing. And of course, he was going to respect your wishes and not walk closer to you, but with his voice, with his beautiful rendition of ‘Sleep Well’ by .d4vd from the custom backing track to the added tastefully melodic rap, he carried the love, the care right over to you. Lulling you into a well deserved break from turmoil, guiding you into a better tomorrow. Because how dare a virus be the one to make the love of his life feel feverish, and not him? 

[skyyknights]

Get to know 9 people tag game

Ty for the tag @onewingedsparrow !! :D

Last song listened to: currently listening to Warrior by Aurora :)

Currently reading: Well… does fanfiction count?? Also I keep meaning to start another LOTR readthrough but haven’t gotten to it yet 😭

Sweet/spicy/savory: hmm…savory. Although I am also highly partial to ice cream and slushies and whatnot…

Current obsessions: Hoo ok… LoZ/LU ofc, Narnia, LOTR, and Endeavour. Also Marvel but mainly just the Spider-Man films atm lol

Relationship status: single Pringle who is ready to mingle

Last thing I googled: “how long did all of the LOTR movies take to film,” because I saw someone on Pinterest claim that it took a single year to film all three of them and I was like “….I’m almost 100% sure that’s wrong” so I was doublechecking lol

Currently working on: the next chapter of TFLB, a Joandeavour fic, finishing my first semester of college, some watercolor, and many other fic wips 😂

Tagging @nocturnalfandomartist @sapphicseasapphire @hero-of-courage @mistresslrigtar @anyone!

[rabbitsonthemoon]

I'm all for the fuck endeavour train but this song fucks harder. Love me some Jonathan Young. His Bakugou song is still my favourite though. It deserves more views, so give them all some love if it's your jam. I love listening to them when I'm writing MHA fic. Maybe someone else will too.

A rabbit can hope he'll make one for Shigaraki and Eraserhead someday.

[judeable-brainrot]

A House in Nebraska (song fic inspired by Ethel Cain (mother))

Cowboy!Art Donaldson x Cowboy!Patrick Zweig | this is a really angsty thing but i’m back in my Ethel Cain era so let me live my life..enjoy!😝

Labored breaths and bed sores, sing it to me all day long | When the aching sound of silence used to be our favorite song | You and me against the world, you were my man and I your girl | We had nothing except each other, you were my whole world

Patrick and Art had always had a peculiar relationship compared to most other men on the ranch. They did ever job assigned as one, making ever endeavour a two person job. They slept in the same cabin, in the same room, in the same bed. And while they garnered funny looks and whispers from the other cowboys and ranch hands, one quick glare from Patrick was enough to silence any actual comments. Other men in the same cabin knew that they were not to disturb their room, no matter what distressing or stomach flipping sounds were heard from the other side of the door. Little would they ever know how deeply they actually felt for one another.

Usually during late nights, they would both lay together in the dark, the light of the moon slipping through the window over their bare bodies. They lay there in each other's arms, breathing in the still western air. No words were spoken, no moans or whimpers or pleas. Just a easy silence blanketed over the both of them as they dreamed and imagined life outside of the hills and plains of Nebraska. A world for just the two of them

Then the day came and you were up and gone | Where you told me even if we died tonight, that I'd die yours

But of course, nothing lasts forever. Eventually, due to a pressure of a promotion and the homophobic environment taking its toll, Art was gone. Left early one morning, no goodbye, no note left behind. Patrick awoke cold and alone and without his home. Sure, the cabin was still standing, but his real home was gone with the wind and he never knew if he would come back to house him. He cried for days, not leaving his bed. He locked the door so the other ranch hands wouldn't barge in to bother him. He lay there miserable, thinking of all their moments together.

Nights together where they felt like the only two people alive. Their first meeting where Patrick made Art laugh so hard and he swore then and there he would hear that laugh everyday for the rest of his life. The last night they were together making love and Art said that if someone barged in and found them out, at least he would die devoted to Patrick. He'd never cum so hard in his life than when he heard those words. And now he was here.

Your mama calls me sometimes to see if I'm doing well | And I'd lie to her and say that I'm doing fine | When, really, I'd kill myself to hold you one more time | And it hurts to miss you, but it's worse to know that I'm the reason you won't come home

Patrick got a few calls from Art's mother, asking where he was, how he was. That meant he hadn't gone home to New Rochelle. He was gone, truly. She asked how he was doing and Patrick would lie and say he was doing good, work keeping him busy. But that was all a facade. He was miserable and every night when he returned to that empty, cold bed, he felt the thought of taking his own life well up so strong it nearly brought him to his knees.

He would sleep but all he could dream of was a vast expanse of field where he stood alone calling Art's name for hours. He felt responsible, like he had driven Art away somehow. He replayed every last interaction, conversation, touch, searching for anything that would help him understand why he had left. But there was nothing. It made him sick.

You know, I still wait at the edge of town | Praying straight to God that maybe you'll come back around | I cry every day and the bottles make it worse | 'Cause you were the only one I was never scared to tell I hurt

Patrick would often ride his mare to the top of the tallest hill in the valley and sit there for hours, the wind whipping against his skin. He would sit there and pray for Art's return, hoping that being so high up would make God answer his prayer quicker. He doesn’t. Patrick turns to drinking, the next best option for drowning his sorrows, but that too isn’t helpful. It’s painful. He gets drunk and imagines Art is there, cooing into his ear to be safe, not get too drunk. His hands on his body, soothing and soft and gentle. Patrick cries every time. He sobs into the pillow that used to be Art’s and whispers all his pain into it, like he used to do with Art. Art was the only one who knew his pain.

And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night | But God, I just hope you're doing fine out there, I just pray that you're alright

It’s close to 3 months when it hits Patrick one day. The sorrowful peace. Art’s never coming back to him. And he feels..better. Okay. A piece of his heart is always going to be missing without him, always. But all he can do is get on with his life and hope that Art is doing alright, wherever he ended up. Hope that he knows that he still loves him no matter what. Hope that he knows that even despite how lonely and broken he’s become, he’s still devoted to him until the reaper catches up to him. Maybe then, he’ll see him again.

[setokaibapetty]

Fic Friday 5 + 1 Roundup: Fake Relationships (ft. Dabihawks)

I was in the mood for some fake dating fics and lo and behold does the Dabi/Hawks 'ship call for lying even when Hawks isn't a spy that Dabi is debating the value of.

When the wolf is at your door (invite him to dinner) (AO3) - "When Fuyumi accidentally crashes a tense negotiation between Touya (aka: Pro Hero Dabi) and a handsome stranger (aka: Villain Hawks), she gets a mightily wrong impression about just what is going on between the two."

How to Fake-Date a Pro Hero: A Guide by Dabi and Hawks (AO3) - "Dabi's younger brother has got a new boyfriend and it pisses his father off to no end. Always ready for an opportunity to drive his father mental, Dabi decides to get a boyfriend too – someone whom Endeavour can't openly hate, but will hate him nonetheless. Hawks is under pressure to go undercover and finds shady part-time hero Dabi, who is rumoured to be working with villains. Seeing a chance to get the bigwigs off his back and cause a media stir, Hawks strikes a deal."

you're the song stuck in my head (and i don't ever want it to stop playing) (AO3) - "So I’m Takami Keigo, also known as Hawks, and—be my boyfriend.” ... "Not like for real,” Hawks hastens to add. “It’s just that—there’s a guy who won’t take no for an answer from me, and I need you to be my shield.”

it's just fanservice (not really) (AO3) - "Or Touya and Hawks go viral from an airport photo, and decide to promote their band and idol careers respectively by doing some fake fanservice with each other. But how fake is it really?"

big reputations (AO3) - "Hawks needs to come out, Dabi needs to promote his debut album, and they make an awful mess of this fake relationship thing."

Bonus: Blood Sport (AO3) - "Hawks works alone. It's what he's best at and what he prefers — other people have only ever slowed him down.

But after the media seizes on the success of an operation carried out by himself and the Cremation Hero 'Dabi', the HPSC decides to capitalise on the hype around the pair. What better way than sending their pet Pro to team up with the Number Two Hero's eldest son in order to root out the mysterious organisation known as the 'Meta-Liberation Army'?

Hawks agrees, admittedly intrigued by the prospect of learning more about the Todorokis. But nothing could have prepared him for the dark secrets lurking at the heart of that family, and the shadows it's cast over them all."

[mytragedyperson]

Dabihawks X super psycho love headcanons

Okay, I was in a music mood and now this song came on and it gave me DabiHawks ideas so, let's go with it.

Song is super psycho love by Simon Curtis.

Hawks actually becomes a villain AU? I think so. Why not?

So, it starts how it did in canon, Hawks is originally trying to join the League to spy on them for the Hero Safety commission.

He meets Dabi and is attracted to him but is also like but he's a villain and nothing's gonna happen

He is wrong

First encounters are the usual mix of threats and sexual tension that i've seen in the few DabiHawks fics I've read. Very much I'm attracted to you but I don't like you as a person, you know.

Hawks manages to join the League

This is when things start to change

Dabi is still suspicious of Hawks but is also horny and attracted to Hawks so he starts flirting with him, but only when it's just the two of them. When they're around the League he teeters between dismissive and insulting. He's either ignoring him or arguing with him.

Hawks is naturally confused but decides two can play at that game and starts returning the same energy

Naturally this results in them sleeping together

What does that mean it's friends, or in this case enemies, with benefits time, with a dash of secret relationship because Dabi does not want the League to know he's fucking Hawks.

Hawks is fine with keeping things a secret too because he doesn't want it to get back to the Hero Safety commission, because this is so not the mission. He was told to infiltrate the League. At no point was he told to sleep with one of the members. In fact, it was strongly discouraged

Meanwhile around the others, they still act like they hate each other. It's only partially an act. They still don't really like or trust each other but the sex is amazing and they just keep accidentally turning each other on, or maybe not so accidentally, and then dragging each other around to fuck.

This is a League of Villains are like family thing as well so at the same time, Hawks is slowly bonding with the League and starts having doubts about his mission.

Also some of the League kinda know or have a feeling something is going on between Dabi and Hawks but choose not to comment because they feel it's safer to just not know.

Anyway this continues for a while and slowly, it goes from enemies with benefits to friends with benefits. They start talking and very slowly, very cautiously start opening up and showing their softer sides.

This is a slowburn because trust is a very big problem.

And then Hawks starts developing feelings for Dabi

Dabi may or may not return these feelings yet, but if he does feel the same, he doesn't tell him.

And they're still pretending to hate each otehr around the League so Hawks feels even more confused and it slowly starts driving him insane.

Every day he cares a little less about his mission and his hero career, starts cring about the League members because he sees them just being normal (or as normal as they can be) people, falls in love with Dabi, starts blowing off hero stuff to hang out with the League, using the mission as an excuse.

Hawks finds out who Dabi is and what happened to him and how Endeavour treated him.

And he loses faith because, if that's their number one, and he's a child abuser and it was covered up

So Hawks returns honesty with honesty and admits his mission and how he doesn't want to go through with it anymore.

They both tell the League everything as well and, while there may be some distrust and negative reactions initially, they end up making up.

Dabi and Hawks get together.

The League exposes Endeavour and the Hero Public Safety Commission.

Todoroki Shouto surprises everyone when he backs up Dabi's story and shares his own experiences with Endeavour

turns out he knew Dabi was his brother all along

Maybe Shouto is the UA traitor in this one or maybe he just loves his brother, and hasn't forgiven his dad.

either way after this changes to the society are rapidly made, any corrupt heroes are rooted out.

The League of Villains do still recieve consequences for their crimes but they also get the help they need in terms of mental health.

And they kill All For One for using and manipulating Shigaraki

Okay I'm about done. If you liked this, my asks are open. Send a song and any character or ship from BNHA or one of the other fandomes in my pinned post and I'll do the same for them. I say ships meaning general relationships, not necessarily romantic ships