#haider wazim

[atypicalacademic]

Stitches, Neat and Clean

The Arcana

Title from "Unraveling" by The Crane Wives

(There's a bunch of context in the upcoming chapters of Starfire which necessitated fics of their own, so-)

Words: 2.6 k

Warnings: mentions of illness, grief, survivor's guilt

Relationships: Asra Alnazar x Haider Wazim

*

If the business of mending has to start somewhere, let it be in a healer's kitchen.

*

Haider shuddered awake from the same nightmare, habituated enough to the shattering horror, the rush of crushing grief by now that he needed less time than he once did to shiver at the edge of the bed with the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes until his tears slowed.

Wiping his eyes pointlessly at the sleeve of his kurta, one hand still clutching to his prayer beads, he made his slow way into the kitchen. Manju ribbitted anxiously from somewhere behind him, hopping to her perch on his shoulder. Mechanically, he drew up a pot of warm water, rummaging through his cabinet for the kind of tea that would send him back to sleep.

He had always been a creature of habit. Two measures of the leaves, and water, a pinch of powdered berry to complete the spell- these things would not startle him. The slow boil of the water, the bubbles popping at its surface, his own shadow against the wall as he lit a single lantern by his window. These things were safe. These things he had left to keep.

The knock on the door, too, did not startle him. There were enough of them now- people seeking a remedy for sleeplessness, for nightmares, for paranoia and compulsions that kicked in with more force than they had before. Used to seeing lives bleed out from beneath his hands, an echo of far older nightmares-

Umma. Coughing blood so hard that her brittle ribs snapped, brown skin bleached to a deathly pallor, golden-brown eyes swallowed by sickly red. Vaapa’s trembling arms too weak to hold her-

He was only too eager to help.

Another knock- shy, tentative.

Haider hurried to the door and swung it open.

What startled him was this. Cast by the dull glare of the lamp and nothing else in the moonless night, distant enough to be an illusion, but close enough to touch- a familiar pair of violet eyes that found his among the shadows.

No. It can’t be.

There was no reason for him to come looking for Haider- not in the dead of the night, not like he once had, what felt like so long ago, before Haider had gone and ruined, ruined what they had. Before, standing across from each other in the same room, looking into the same lovely eyes that stared back at him now- he’d said terrible things, unforgivable things, things he’d never thought before and things he never should have-

“Haidi?” Asra’s voice was so small. He was shifting from foot to foot in the way he did when he was a moment away from backtracking, leaving, no, no- when he was caught between lingering and leaving. Every shadow that the plague had cast, reflected in every crevice of his city, seemed to have gathered in the tired circles beneath Asra’s eyes. Haider’s heart burnt, wrung out as though with a phantom fist.

Even if this were a dream, he did not deserve it.

Even if this were a dream, he could not drive Asra away. Not again.

“Asra.” He breathed, stepping aside, nearly knocking over one of his plants in his haste to let him in. Asra caught it before it could sway, steadying it with a gentle hand. In the light, without the shadows blanketing him, Asra looked even smaller. There was a sallowness to the bronze of his cheeks, his shoulders curled inward as though they could barely bear the weight of his scarf. In Haider’s dreams, he had never been so tired.

But it was him, his snowy hair falling in wild curls to his forehead, incense-smoke clinging to his skin- Asra, dear, and here, and home.

“Are you okay?”

Asra sniffed, and shrugged.

Fair enough.

“Come in,” Haider said, wincing at the memory of the of course you’re leaving, of course you are he’d snapped at him. “Sit.”

Without a word, Asra propped himself on to Haider’s couch, not sprawling across it as he’d done before, but winding his arms around himself, hugging his knees. Haider let his hand hover over Asra’s shoulder, and let it fall to his side. To touch him now would be to answer his own longing. Selfish. He couldn’t help, however, letting his voice do it instead, keeping it gentle, keeping it warm, letting it hold him close. “What’s wrong?” He asked. “Can I help you?”

“I-“ Asra swallowed hard, shivering from something other than the cold. “I think I-“

Sinking down to the couch beside him, Haider waited, letting his hand drift to the space between them, there for if Asra needed to take it.

“Haidi, I think I-“ He winced, struggling with the words before letting them dissolve into the air. “It’s Balam.”

“Balam?”

Haider hadn’t heard the name in while. He hadn’t heard her voice in nearly a year- or seen her stride into the restaurant in that brisk way of hers. He’d begun, when he thought of her, to assume the worst, that she had been one of those familiar faces that had been stolen away by the plague when he hadn’t been looking. Back then, he hadn’t had the time, or the ability, to process them- his spirit numbing with the unfathomable grief as body after body after body coalesced into the same, open wound.

Now, with every passing day, a new name offered itself into this more particularized litany of losses.

Asra took a shuddering breath. “She’s- she’s sick.”

Sick?

A ghostly wave of relief, that she was still alive, though it quickly faded when he saw Asra’s shoulders begin to shake.

“What happened to her?”

Asra wrung his hands in his scarf, his breaths coming quick and ragged.

“Okay, okay.” Haider inched closer, his hand ghosting over Asra’s back. “Take your time. I’m listening.”

Shaking his head, Asra whimpered into his scarf. Fragile- as though a wind would snap him in half.

“Can I touch you?” Haider whispered. “I’ll just take your hand. But I won’t if you-“

At Asra’s desperate nod of assent, Haider wasted no time- slowly, a prolonged beat between his movements, he took Asra’s hands in his broader ones, rubbing rhythmic circles over the back of his palms.

The pain in Haider’s chest spiderwebbed through his ribs. He knew these hands as he did his own- every line and callous, every pulse of energy in Asra’s aura- he knew him so well, Asra had trusted him to let him know him, and Haider had let him go. Hurt him.

Haider fought his own tears. Not the time.

Pouring his own hurt into the strength it took to hold Asra’s hand and not to pull him closer, Haider let him speak. Even in the stillness of the night, Asra’s words were too quiet, as though he were speaking from some great distance. The bare bones of the story, too, was spoken in that softness, with nothing but the ceremony of a tender thing snapping painfully, delicately in the dark.

He knew there was more.

He knew there was more.

“So-“ Haider squeezed his hand, once. Asra squeezed back. “Noone knows what happened to her? None of the neighbors, no one?”

If he really had found Balam the way he said he did, catatonic and sick and devoid of memory- an injury like that was not impossible- though even in the midst of a plague, that was no passing accident. There was no way Asra himself, who was frighteningly determined when pushed into action, would not have scoured the earth and the realms for the answer, either.

Asra’s fingers twitched in his, and for a moment, Haider worried if he had overstepped again, pushed too far, had demanded an answer before Asra had been prepared to give him one. But a healer’s instincts were far too loud for him to ignore, to be able to let this go without knowing what was needed of him. When Asra shook his head, Haider sighed.

There was that look in his eyes again, the evasion, the way he shifted in his seat as though it took all of his strength to not run away to somewhere where he would have to relinquish no answers, surrender no secrets.

For the night, Haider chose to let him have it. A cocoon of mystery behind which no one could reach him. It was the closest thing to rest that Asra could recognize.

“If it hurts her that much to remember, even the simpler things,” he said gently, careful to not let the edge of his words rise into questioning. “Then it’s got to be a magical injury.”

Asra looked away, abruptly. Clouded amethyst eyes fixed on the curtains fluttering against their frames, he nodded. “And I couldn’t fix it.” He wrenched his hands away, looking down at them like they’d betrayed him.

What are you good for? Haider remembered demanding of himself, watching numbly as another stretcher was hauled away, another cart piled with old friends lumbered into the distance, another stack of Doctor Devorak’s frenzied scribbles tossed to the flames. What are you good for if you couldn’t save them? Any of them?

And worse, the same venom he turned towards Asra, in the end. Fine, then. Leave. You’ll have nothing left to come home to.

No wonder he’d lost him. No wonder he’d lost all of them.

“I’m sorry.” The words spilled like liquid, of its accord. Selfish. For him to drag his useless guilt into this, expecting Asra’s forgiveness, of all things, when he hadn’t even helped.

Haider fell silent, stemming the tide of his own apology, furious with himself, and rephrased it. “I meant- she’s your friend. I know how-“ He took a shuddering breath, feeling all of fifteen, stopped at gates to the sickhouse, his satchel falling to the sand with a resounding thump- his world had ended then, as he stood there, empty handed. “I know how it feels.”

“How it feels for me?” Asra’s breath caught on another, heartbroken sob. “She’s in pain. All the time. I keep trying to help, and I keep- I just keep-“

Haider caught him by the waist before he fell apart again, pulling him to his chest, hating how his heart soared at the touch, at Asra’s warmth nestled against him, even now. Even like this. He ignored it, now prepared to push it away, dipping his voice to the cadence he’d perfected standing at his mother’s side, healing.

“You’re not to blame. Do you hear me?” Safe, steady. He pulled away when Asra stopped shaking so, lifting his chin to meet his eyes. “I’m sure you did your best, with whatever you had. It wasn’t you that hurt her. This isn’t your fault.”

Asra froze, too quickly for it to have been simple disbelief. This, too, he chose to ignore.

“Thank you,” Asra’s eyes were far away again. “But I think it is.”

Haider tilted his head, questioningly, only to be met with more silence.

“How-um-“ Asra’s palm skated over his, and Haider jolted at the subtle lines of his magic, the pale lavender of Asra’s aura mingling with his own. “How have you been holding up?”

Haider forced a wry smile. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with me.”

Asra muttered something in Zadithi, and laced their fingers carelessly together. It was Haider’s turn to look away, at anything, everything, save for the truth of it; that he hadn’t slept a full night in months since it had ended. That he took to wandering the canalways at dusk, searching frantically for any sliver of crimson come to haunt him again. That he had felt so many lives slip away like sand between his fingers that he feared his own had forsaken him, as well. That sometimes, he hoped, wished, that it had.

That he ached for a relief he hadn’t earned.

“I just want to go back.” Asra murmured, violet eyes damp with fresh tears. “Make it so that none of this ever happened.”

Haider found he couldn’t speak, the words burying serrated edges in his throat. Asra ran his free hand down his back, and Haider fought the urge to pull away before his body could betray him, before he could lean into his touch, take even more from Asra, take what was never his to long for.

He opened his mouth again, to tell Asra that he knew, he understood, tell him empty, useless things, measured, practiced words of comfort that meant too little, too late.

What he said instead, again, was, “I’m sorry.”

Asra said nothing, only shifted his head against Haider’s chest. “It’s alright.”

It wasn’t. None of this was alright, the least of all, he realized, with a shock of shame, that he hadn’t even begun to make amends.

“Asra..” He ignored a faint, dismissive mumble at his chest. “Before we..you know.”

Left. Fell apart. Said things to each other we couldn’t take back. Not now, not ever.

“I shouldn’t have said it. Any of it.” He willed his tears to remained where they belonged. He was the last thing Asra needed to have to shoulder. “It was cruel, and wrong, and- “

“Not wrong.” Asra cut him off, pulling away. “I shouldn’t have left.”

The vicious ache in Haider’s chest turned into a terrible, howling emptiness. “No.”

“No?” Asra’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile.

“No, I was wrong. I was angry, and scared-“ And he had wanted Asra to stay. He had wanted to be chosen. Over the town, over the world, no matter how many claims of honor and selflessness he had wrapped it in, he could no longer deny the greedy, wounded creature he became when he was forced to face his own grief. “And I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I should’ve respected your choices, as you would’ve done mine.”

“Oh, yes.” Bafflingly, Asra scoffed, easing the gesture’s callousness by leaning against him again. “Because I was a paragon of good behaviour, then.”

The bitterness felt falsely light in Asra’s voice, rife with the stirring of old ghosts.

“I was still wrong.” Haider argued, lamely.

“I’m sorry, too.” Asra scrubbed a tear-tracked cheek against his sleeve. "I wouldn't-.” His voice thickened, his arms circling Haider’s waist, his head nestled against his broad shoulder. “I wouldn’t have known how to live with myself if something happened to you.”

Haider muffled an anguished sob against Asra’s pale hair, letting his fingers bunch the fabric of his tunic until he felt his nails dig into his own palms. Not the time. Not the time.

“I forgive you, you know.” Asra said, as he parted.

“You don’t have to.”

Again, that small, fading smile. He’d missed Asra’s smile. He’d missed his laugh. The way his name sounded like music in his voice. “But I do.”

Haider didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t, until he’d proven to himself that he could be trusted again.

“I’ll do everything in my power for Balam.” Haider promised. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

I won’t let you down again. I can’t.

Asra blinked, rapidly. “Oh. Thank you.”

“I’m a healer.”

I’ve never stopped loving you. Not for a moment. I’ve never felt more alone than when the door slammed shut behind you, never slept a night without telling the emptiness where you were that I never meant any of it.

For a moment, it looked as though Asra would protest it, but he only nodded. The candlelight haloed his fluffy curls, an unnameable softness in his brittle gaze. “That you are.”

[into-the-daniverse]

Exist For Love | Jamil x ??? (ft. Camia, Leon, Alec, Asra, & Nadia)

In which, Jamil celebrates another Heartsong Festival with his friends and family, and also prepares a gift for another special someone.

A day late for Valentine’s Day, but inspired by the most recent tale! Jamil, my biggest romantic, would never pass up an opportunity to shower his loved ones in gifts, so I just had to write something for him and this event.

(I was also able to make this into a bit of a split timeline series, so surprise to those tagged at the end. I hope you enjoy! 💖)

Title: Exist For Love by AURORA 2.3k words (total series count: 8.3k words)

Normally, Jamil was awake by the time dawn came, sitting in Camia’s rooftop garden with a cup of coffee or tea, or preparing breakfast downstairs. But today was different, and he slipped from the bed he shared with his friends long before the sky lost its quiet darkness, careful not to disturb either Camia or Leon. He had no spell to cast to keep his actions silent, but he was still able to tiptoe around the shop without waking them or Alec and Asra, and he put his plan into motion.

Out of all the holidays and celebrations he had grown up with or discovered during his travels, the Vesuvian Heartsong Festival had always been one of his absolute favorites. A day devoted to showering his loved ones with gifts and praises? He couldn’t think of a day better spent.

Before the sun’s first rays had even ghosted over the horizon, Jamil had decorated the interior of the shop from top to bottom with colorful streamers, heart-shaped pillows and fuzzy throws on the couch, heart-shaped garland wrapped around the railing of the stairs leading up to the next floor. He had started brewing coffee just as the sun peeked up and was able to turn and hand Camia her own cup just as she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said, giving her a warm smile.

She laughed through her nose, taking the cup from him. “You know, every year I think I’ll beat you awake—”

Jamil laughed. “And every year I just get up earlier.”

Smiling, she rolled her eyes. “I can’t stand you.” Taking her cup with her, she started walking back towards the stairs. “I’m going to water my plants. Don’t you dare finish making breakfast without me.”

“I haven’t even started yet!”

She waved at him over her shoulder before disappearing, and he heard her walk towards the stairs to her garden. Once he was sure she was out of earshot, he hurried to pull out all of the ingredients he would need to start breakfast. He had picked up bread from Selasi yesterday to dip into eggs, fry, and cover with powdered sugar and berries. He had some spiced sausage and fish to roast, and eggs to cook, and just as he started boiling water for tea, Camia returned.

“Jamil.”

He looked up and saw her standing in the doorway of the kitchen with her arms crossed over her chest, a pout on her face. “Hey, everything’s still cooking!” He gestured at the pans still sizzling around him. “You only said not to finish before you came back.”

Shaking her head, she bumped him with her hip at the stove, taking over the eggs from him as he started on the tea.

A few moments later, they both heard Alec’s door open upstairs, and she ran across the hallway into their room, where Leon was assumedly still sleeping. Not for long, Jamil thought with a quiet chuckle, and from the look on Camia’s face she was thinking the same. Neither of them could make out exactly what Alec was saying, but they could hear Leon’s dramatic moan of protest well enough.

While Alec wrestled with Leon to drag them out of bed, another set of feet came down the stairs, and Jamil turned to look as Asra entered the kitchen, white, curly hair going every possible direction, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Ah! Good morning,” Jamil said, holding out a cup to Asra, who took it with a grateful smile. “Surprised to see you up so early.”

“Well,” Asra interrupted himself with a yawn. “You know what Allie’s like today.”

Jamil did know, as they all did. While he considered himself to be the most romantic person he knew, Alec was probably a close second. Though she never managed to wake up as early as he did, she was just as excited about the day as he was. And judging by the growing sound of her arguing with Leon as they came down the stairs, this year was no different.

“I’m going to throw your gift in the garbage, you pest,” Leon grumbled, their hair loose and in their face as they were practically dragged into the kitchen by Alec.

Alec rolled her eyes, a wide grin on her face as she took in the dishes around them. “Oh, shut up—look! Breakfast is done!”

Before Leon could retort something about not being able to look, Jamil took their arm to lead them to the table, distracting them with a quick kiss on their cheek. They pouted slightly, but gave in, sitting down with Asra on their left, Jamil on their right. Camia and Alec helped bring the food to the table, Camia sitting next to Jamil, and Alec next to her, and then they all dug in.

The food was, of course, delicious, and Jamil tried not to look too proud when it was all cleared away. They all spent a few minutes chatting away and cleaning up, but once the kitchen was spotless, Alec pushed them all into the back room to exchange gifts. She claimed a spot on the floor, Asra next to her, and the other three sat on the couch.

This was probably Jamil’s favorite part. Not even seeing what his friends had gotten for him, but the looks on their faces when he handed them their gifts.

He gave Camia the newest book from a romance series she had been interested in for years—that he had been reading behind her back—and she laughed as she handed him the same book, both of them doubling over against each other on the couch.

“I think we’ve known each other for too long,” he said through tears, and she just continued to laugh, shaking her head at him.

Next, he gave Leon their gift—a new dress he had been working on for a while, a soft green that looked very nice with their skin and their dark eyes, and the fabric was something Leon had picked out themself one day at the market. Their eyes sparkled once they felt the dress and realized what it was.

“I almost completely forgot I picked this out!”

Jamil chuckled. “I thought you would, but better late than never.”

“It’s never late coming from you,” they said, and handed him their gift—small silver hoop earrings that he put on the second he opened the box they were in.

Alec was hard to get to sit still for her gift, but once she did, she almost screamed when he pulled out a new set of bangles, and she immediately put them on, giggling as they jangled around her wrists. She gave him some new colored charcoal, which he was immensely grateful for, as he had been out of his for quite some time.

Last, but not least, was Asra, and when Jamil pulled out a multicolored shawl, Asra and Alec yelled at the same time.

“I figured you needed something to match that, uh, colorful hat of yours,” Jamil explained, as Asra pulled the shawl from him excitedly. Alec groaned dramatically, covering her eyes.

“Jamil, you’re enabling him and his awful fashion sense!”

Asra stuck his tongue out at her, spinning around in his new shawl, a bright smile on his face. “He just likes me better.”

As the two of them started to bicker, Jamil laughed, standing from the couch. By now, the sun was steadily rising in the sky, and the sounds of the city outside were getting louder by the minute. He was still in his sleepwear, which was really just a pair of old pants, and he went back upstairs to change for the day.

Humming a waltz softly to himself, and listening absentmindedly to the noise from downstairs, he fished out a light pink sherwani with darker pink and green flowers woven over it, and matching pants and slippers. He ran some oil through his hair and his beard that smelled of jasmine, sandalwood, and vanilla, and pulled up half of his hair, a few strands falling out to frame his temples as the rest still sat on his shoulders.

When he came downstairs again, Camia whistled at him, Leon stretched across her lap. Alec and Asra were back in Alec’s room, judging from the sound of their voices, probably picking out their own outfits for the day.

“I haven’t seen that in a long time,” Camia said, and Jamil nodded.

“It’s hard to find an occasion for it, but today will do.”

Camia opened her mouth to say something else, but a knock at the front door stopped her. Jamil glanced out the front window, seeing the back of a palace carriage waiting in front of the shop.

“Ah, that’ll be for me.” Jamil smoothed down the front of his sherwani. Before walking to the door, he went over to Camia and Leon, pressing a quick kiss to each of their cheeks. “I love you both, I’ll see you tonight.”

“Say hi to Dia for me,” Leon said, and Jamil promised he would.

It was still early enough that the streets weren’t too busy as Jamil rode in the carriage to the palace. He smiled as he noticed the decorations in the square, the marketplace, streamers hung down alleyways and store fronts. He caught glimpses of lovers holding hands in the streets, of families heading to the market to celebrate, and his heart swelled.

He reached the palace in no time at all, and was led to a salon, where his cousin was waiting, though not without stopping a few times to say hello to people he knew throughout. Before even opening the doors to the salon, he could hear music drifting down the hall, Nadia’s graceful piano playing bringing a soft smile to his cheeks.

As soon as he pushed open the doors, she glanced up at him, looking radiant in the morning sun.

“Jamil, good morning.”

“Good morning, Nadia.” He closed the distance between them in a few strides, wrapping her in a warm hug. She let out a noise of surprise, but laughed, and hugged him back. When they let go, she shifted on the piano bench, gesturing for him to join her. He did, nudging her shoulder playfully, and she nudged him back. They both started to play a piece together, neither focusing too much on accuracy, and Nadia turned her head to him.

“How has your day been so far?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “It’s been great. I’m glad we’re able to spend some of it together.”

“I’m glad as well,” she said, smiling. “I know I am in quite high demand these days as Countess, but you’re no easier to get a hold of at times.”

Jamil laughed. “I wish I could disagree with you. But that’s what today is for, isn’t it? To spend time with those who matter most.”

“It is.”

They fell into conversation, still playing at the piano, until they finished their piece and moved to sit on the couches in the salon. Here Jamil was able to pull out the gift he had brought for her, tucked away in a small traveling bag—a few delicate tools for her machinery that she had been lamenting the loss of for months.

Nadia was thrilled, and she marveled over the quality of the tools for a long minute before remembering to give Jamil his own gift. With a clap of her hands, a few servants walked inside the salon, carrying an extremely large canvas.

“Dia, I won’t be able to carry this back to the shop,” Jamil said, shaking his head with a smile.

She waved her hand, and the servants began to flip the canvas so he could see what was on it. “I hardly expected you to. I will have it delivered to the shop. I just wanted you to be able to see it first, and for me to see your reaction.”

Jamil barely heard what she said and didn’t catch the satisfied look on her face as his jaw dropped open when the painting was revealed to him.

It was of him—him, Camia, Leon, and Alec. It looked like a memory, a snapshot of a moment, the four of them performing together in the town square. Sunlight filtered around them, faces artistically blurred as if they were in motion. Jamil could almost hear the song they could have been playing, the sound of the crowd around them.

“How…?”

“I had an artist at one of your more recent performances.” He could hear the smile in Nadia’s voice. “They were instructed to capture as much of the moment in the moment as they could, and then the rest was done from memory. I hope you, and the rest of your friends, enjoy it.”

“Oh, Dia, I love it,” Jamil whispered, swallowing back tears. “They’re all going to love it. Thank you.”

Nadia stood, gesturing to the servants to leave, and they did, but not before leaving the painting propped up for Jamil to stare at. “You’re welcome. It was very hard to keep this a secret.” She leaned gently against his arm, and he smiled, still looking at the painting.

“I can’t imagine.”

They heard a clock chime, and Jamil jumped slightly, wiping at his eyes.

“Gods, I hadn’t realized I had been here for so long already.” He glanced out the window at the sun already high in the sky.

“And here I thought I had managed to dodge the predisposition to engage in long-winded talks that runs in our family,” Nadia said, dryly, and Jamil laughed.

“No, unfortunately that’s impossible to get around, Countess,” he teased.

They hugged once more before he left, and he accepted her offer of taking another carriage back into the city, especially as it had only gotten more crowded since he arrived. As he told the driver his next destination, a warm feeling started to grow in his chest. Now, he only had one more gift left to give, and it was the most important one of the day.

✨Timeline Split✨

@atypicalacademic​‘s Haider — Everybody Needs A Home

@asras3rdeye​‘s Oz’mandias — Ocean In My Veins

@valhallanrose​‘s Tamryn — When I Take Your Hand

@sunrisenfool​‘s Valeriy — Everything Good In Life

[the-melting-world]

HIROOOO! @hirodraga 😭😭😭 This ship already yanks on my heartstrings so much, but you took it to a whole new level! You captured Ozy and Haider's dynamic so perfectly. The bashful flirting between them, Haidi's genuine warmth and Ozy's playful nature. I'm SCREAMING!

Every time I imagine Ozy and Haidi growing closer, I'm going to be thinking of this phenomenal piece. It just has my whole heart. Thank you, Hiro.

The wonderful Haider Wazim belongs to Kani @atypicalacademic. Our bois! Look at our bois!!!!

[vampiresuns]

Can I ask for a...smut prompt 96 for Haidelius? 👀

Prompt 96. “I had this dream and- fuck- you couldn’t keep your hands of me.”

Of course you can! Here’s 1k words of very chatty foreplay.

🍋 Minors DNI.

Snowy winters in Vesuvia were rare. Cold on itself not so much, but enough cold for snow to fall was another story. 

Cold came into Anatole’s bathroom through the open Juliette balcony, though the room was warm. Hot stones kept it that way. The water in the bath — smaller than those of the Palace but still spacious — steamed enough to make both Anatole’s and Haider’s hair curl in some places. His magic kept it warm, and he was sure Haider was doing his share about that too. 

Sat down, Haider was tall enough for the water to reach just above his waist. Anatole sat on his lap, looking down between them. He turned his eyes up to meet Haider’s, that beautiful mahogany brown he adored to have on him. The sound of water moving anticipated Haider’s hands finding Anatole’s hips. 

“You know, I was once in a gallery in Venterre that had a statue of two lovers holding each other very similarly.” 

“Did you?” Haider said, Anatole following each movement of his lips with his eyes. 

“Hmmmhm, I was 15, 16? Hit me with the strongest wave of Oh, to be held by another man that way. I don’t like statues of living people that much, but imaginary people? Or the stuff of legends? Bless the hands of sculptors.” 

“Should I be jealous?”

“Of which? Sculptors or Statues? Because I do believe your hands are better.” 

Anatole found one of said hands, kissing its fingertips. Haider ran them over Anatole’s lips, trying to memorise the softness of them. 

“Of the Statue.” 

Anatole pretended to think. “No,” he said at last, moving to catch Haider’s lips on his. “You’re much, much better.” 

They kissed in the water, Anatole’s arms around Haider’s neck and his fingers tangling into his soft hair. Haider’s own settled around Anatole’s waist pulling him closer until there was almost no space between them. Each kiss was more heated than the one that came before, until their cheeks took on a light blush; both from the warmness of the room and the intensity between them. 

“I had a dream like this,” Haider said, voice coarse.

Anatole pulled his lower lip with his teeth. “A dream-dream or a fantasy?”

“Both. It’s always both when it comes to you.”

“Then I’m listening, if you want to share.”

Anatole’s mouth moved to Haider’s neck, leaving a string of carefully placed kisses along it. Some had more teeth, others more pressure, some left his neck entirely to land on his shoulder line or his collarbone. 

Haider huffed, his breath warm on Anatole’s cheek, hissing and groaning softly with some of the kisses. 

“Don’t let me stop you, if you want to share, I’d love to hear.”

“You’re a terrible tease.”

“And so are you, Haidi, my love, and you don’t see me complain.”

“Oh, you complain, alright.” 

Anatole leaned down to kiss over Haider’s heart. “Are you telling me or not?” 

“I had this dream and —fuck—“ Haider tan one of his hands over his face, droplets falling over Anatole’s face. “You couldn’t take your hands off me.” 

Anatole hummed, beckoning him to continue as he now teased his earlobe with his lips. 

“It was one of those dreams you have before you go fully unconscious when you’re trying to fall asleep. I closed my eyes and you were there, sitting on me, leaning down to kiss my eyelids and my lips, and my neck, and,” he paused to clear his throat, “down my chest. 

“Your hands were on my stomach,” Anatole paused to take his own there, kissing Haider’s jaw, “brushing against the hair there.” 

They both shifted. Legs and everything between them rubbing softly, making them hyper aware of their proximity. The ambience between them shifted, a sudden flick of the switch that resembled the way it stormed in Haider’s native Kolkata. The build up of them unheard until it manifested, drenching everything unsheltered. 

Anatole’s touch became more teasing, his kisses targeting those places he knew would make Haider shiver. 

“You’re like a snake toying with a mouse.” 

Anatole wrapped his hand around Haider’s dick, pressing his thumb against its slit before giving him a couple of teasing pumps. 

“Comparing you to a mouse is way too modest, I’d say. Care to tell me how your dream went on?” 

“You kept touching me.” 

“Just touching? Like I’m doing now?” 

Anatole’s hand had resumed moving at a leisurely pace. Water wasn’t the best fluid to have between them. 

“No, more. You fucked me, too.” 

Under the brown tone of Haider’s skin, he blushed. His tongue peaked through his lips as he licked them, Anatole following the moment too. With his free hand, he cupped Haider’s jaw, angling and holding his face. 

“Tell me how.” 

“You rode me. I wanted to be a good boy for you.” 

“Are you sure this was a dream and not you fantasising about me while you touched yourself?” 

“I’m sure, though I have done that.” 

“Good, you should.” 

Haider turned his face to kiss Anatole’s palm, bringing his fingers to his own lips now, kissing and sucking on their tips. His lover hitched a breath, the rhythm of his hand faltering.

“You know, I do have lubricant in a drawer. If you wanted to reenact your dream and then some.” 

Anatole didn’t finish talking and Haider was already saying yes. It won him a kiss before Anatole stepped out of the water to get the lube, water splashing behind him as he did. When he turned, Haider was lying on the floor, propped up on his elbows, taking Anatole in. 

He glistened with water droplets on his skin. They ribonned his body hair, and Anatole found himself biting his lower lip as he took all of Haider in. His cock was half-hard as he smiled at him. 

“You know the floor of your bathroom is pretty comfortable. Care to join me?” 

“Oh, Haider,” he said, though the name didn’t mean itself, but lover instead.

He walked up to him, Haider sitting up to run his hands through the back of Anatole’s legs. He straddled him, and Haider leaned halfway back so Anatole could run his hands over his torso as he kissed him. 

“Is this like your dream already?” 

“Better,” Haider said, “you’re actually here, this time.”

[atypicalacademic]

For Haider, if I had to pick an English song

"We will find the strength,

And the nerve it takes-

To repaint, and repaint, and repaint everyday."

What’s your apprentice’s theme song?

[greyvvardenfell]

Sterling Everstone

26 // she/her // ENTP // 5′ 7″

Birthday: December 1 (Sagittarius sun, Aquarius moon, Leo rising)

Favorite food: Fry bread

Favorite drink: Whiskey

Favorite flower: Water lily

Patron Arcana: Strength

Masquerade outfit: Gecko

Romance: Portia Devorak, Haider Wazim (universe-dependent)

——

With bright magenta hair shaved down to stubble and several piercings across her ears, nose, and eyebrows, Sterling has never minded standing out in a crowd. She was born and raised in Vesuvia, first by a single father and later by her aunt, who owned the artist’s loft Sterling would later inhabit. She lost both of these parental figures in the Plague, but somehow made it through unscathed herself.

Sterling meets and falls for Portia by chance, crossing paths with her in the market while shopping for fruit. The two of them are similarly fiery and adventuresome, tending towards the “let’s just try it!” end of the life experience spectrum. Sterling is much more clumsy and accident-prone than Portia, which really just leads to more fun, but she also has a much looser moral compass with no qualms about minor crimes such as trespassing if there’s no harm done in the long term.

Sterling is very fond of artistic pursuits such as abstract painting and sculpture, and harbors a secret interest in ancient animal life after having lived next to an ocean. She once found a fossilized fish in the cliffs outside of Vesuvia and returned every day until she had carved it out of the stone, and she now carries it with her everywhere she goes as a token of good luck.

[atypicalacademic]

Arcana main 6 babies with this picrew, because I'm predictable 🥺

Balam, Haider, Nurlan, Zurkhi, Kadambari, Sybilla 💞

[atypicalacademic]

Something Just Like This

The Arcana; Pre-Canon

Title from

Basically I've had this idea ever since that paid scene in Lucio's route. Featuring Scourgeling era! Sybilla and Lucio.

Words: 2k

Warnings: blood, references to neglect, starvation.

Sybilla Livsdottir x Lucio

*

He still laughed like a boy, loud and proud and gleeful, echoing through the forsaken cave when she caught his wrist and called him in. But he wasn’t a boy anymore, Sybilla was told, nor yet a man- two summers away from his eighteenth. It all changed at Morga’s whim, really- as did everything else.

He was boy when she wanted him cowed, no longer a child when she wanted him bold, heir when she wanted him displayed to another chieftain as she would a fine pelt.

By Vlaganog, there was nothing in this cold world Morga couldn’t take if she wanted to. Nothing but this cave at midnight, a limping musk bear stalking its perimeter, the name he called her- Lillie- and the way he laughed at the secret they shared.

“Hush, Montag!” She hissed, leading him through the space she’d carved for herself. It was pitch dark, the night outside low and rumbling with beasts. “You’ll bring the bear in.”

“So?” Montag drawled, swinging his longsword, still heady from the hunt. He’d grown taller over the summer past, cut his golden hair short. “I’ll show it what I’ve got.”

Sybilla rolled her eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. She was the better tracker by far, but whatever was stupid enough to come charging at Montag always ended up in ribbons at his feet. He had a laugh for that too, though less like a boy, the kind she’d learnt can chill an opponent’s blood enough to turn them into prey.

They never turned back, even with her eyes open, even as they lay dead, buried beneath the snow. Even if they lived, rolling out from under him at the training field, wincing at his cocky smirk of triumph.

He never laughed at her that way. Nor she at him.

“Well, I’ve got something to show you.” She said impatiently, ducking beneath the icicles bearing down from the cave’s surface. She knew these caverns like the back of her hand.

It was Montag who’d brought her here, all those years ago, when he was small enough that his terror hadn’t hardened into pride, when she was small enough that Ana still lay Sybilla by the fireside, and waited for her to die.

At first, it had been a refuge- somewhere to put down the vice-tight agony that enveloped her body whenever her magic had flared uncontrollably. Montag turned it into a playground, then a meeting-place- it was a kingdom now, where her and her voices dwelled- where Montag was neither boy nor man nor heir, and Sybilla was no witch, bound to no promise, beholden to no threat.

The cave’s voice had been a whisper then, at the back of her mind, no louder or more significant than her stomach rumbling, than the snow as it pooled about her feet, or the other voices she heard in her sleep- a muted lullaby she’d forced herself to forget, a child crying, high and hungry, again, again, again till it went silent.

Now, it was a tether, threading through the rock, pulling at her feet and hair, whispering encouragements as it had when she’d first begun to practice her magic, hidden from her clan, safe, for once, for a few stolen hours.

“Do you hear it?”

Montag frowned, cocking his head. “What?”

She smiled to herself. She only ever smiled here, in the dark. “Wait and see.”

She pressed a hand against the rock, the healed scars on her palms calling to its crevices. She could hear it breathing, and its low, hungry snarl. She understood. She spoke hunger better than she spoke Scourge.

You’ve returned, my little falcon.

“Uh, Lillie?” Montag shifted.

Sybilla turned around, touched a finger to her lips. He opened his mouth to protest, but fell silent, his silver eyes darting about in search of a threat.

Have you come to feed me?

“I have.” She whispered. She unsheathed the dagger she strapped to her waist, held up her hand to stop Montag as he lurched forward.

What do you have to offer?

She heard its longing crawl through her veins, lifting into the night air in a sigh.

I smell another morsel. Is he for me?

“No!” Her fingers clenched around the dagger, as the cave heaved another tragic sigh. More for more. It reminded her. If you have need for more, little falcon-

Blood for a summoning, teeth for fortitude. Skin for stealth, and a heart- she suppressed a shudder, feeling another wave of the cave’s hunger washing over her. A heart for sanctuary.

“No.” She repeated, through gritted teeth. “You can’t have him.”

“Lillie, what-“

Fine, then. It sounded almost petulant. What shall I have?

She ran the dagger across her forearm, slicing her skin. Her blood poured into the starving stone, and the darkness around her shivered, breath bated. It wound around the voice, binding it, pressing it closer to her skin. The cave hissed in relish, its satiation creeping up her spine, sealing into the cut.

What is your wish, little falcon?

“Light.” Her voice echoed- light, light, light. Strong, clear, it raised goosebumps at the back of Montag’s neck. He tensed, waiting for a fight. “I ask for light.”

There was a moment, taut and charged as the woods on a moonless night, and then there was light.

Warm, golden light, almost liquid in its intensity, flooded from where her blood met the stone. It bathed her in its glow, sharp enough that she had to shield her eyes, and radiated outward, brighter than the weak sun that graced the tundra at summertime, brighter than the fire that spiraled at their stronghold, than the beacons they held aloft as they stalked through the night in search of villages to raze and pillage to keep their winters warm. It was bright enough that it had a sound, ringing through Montag’s ears, making his head spin until it didn’t.

Then it split, into strands of gold as fine as Montag’s hair, spilling color as it weaved through the cave- snow-white, blood-red, then more, as it reflected off crystals of ice in tiny, iridescent rainbows.

It was like the night outside had never existed at all, like she had reached to the sky and pulled the sun down like a cloak.

Satisfied, Sybilla stepped back.

“You did that?” Montag spread his arms, his smile wide enough to touch at the edge of the light, his eyes so bright she could see herself in them. “How’d you do that?”

“Magic.”

When he gave her that look, gleaming like a blade’s sharp edge, his hunter’s gaze all softened with wonder- it chipped at something in her, something like the loathing she fed herself to numb the hunger.

It made her want to look away, knowing it’ll make the anger worse when she left this cave- her skin tingling with magic- how dare they keep her away from this? How dare they make her suffer when she could’ve been strong instead?

“It feels-“ Montag touched a strand of light at his shoulder, followed its path down his arm. He lifted his palms to it, callused already, skin that knew war as child’s play. “Feels like a hug, Lillie.”

Sybilla blinked. “Yeah?” She kicked a pebble at her feet. “What’s a hug feel like?”

Montag cast around, frowning. “I don’t-“

For a beat, they looked at each other, silver eyes meeting pale green. And then his arms were around her, her head pressed against soft fur and the scent of blood. Her first, wild, instinct was to struggle, but his gloved hand settled uncertainly at the back of her head, softly, like he didn’t mean it to hurt.

It didn’t hurt. Clumsy, his arms not quite not knowing what to do, but not careless, either- not like he usually was. Her alarm ebbed away like poison from a wound, replaced with something- need, but different; it didn’t feel like starving, it didn’t feel like knives. But it ached, too, just as it ached to find a scrap of meat after days of nothing but smoke and ice-water.

It was a silly thought, a silly, impossible, useless thought; but she could live like this. She could live like this, and it wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t hate it.

Sybilla held her breath, her heart lodged somewhere near the stupid lump in her throat. What could she do with a touch that didn’t bruise? She didn’t know when or why the tears came, but Montag didn’t seem to have noticed at all. She laid her hands over his chest, loosely gripping the fur and fabric. He was still beaming when she lifted her face to look at him. “Like that?” He said, almost to himself, if his voice hadn’t always carried so. “Like that!”

Like that. Montag didn’t let her go, tilting his head just so he could feel more of the magic’s rush, meeting where her fingers were curled at his chest.

He could see her better in the light, see things he’s sure he’d have noticed if he he’d seen them before; like how many freckles she had, sprinkled across her nose and cheek, all over her face, so dark against her pale skin. Or how her hair, pulled back from her face in a braid so tight he wondered if it wouldn’t hurt her head, was the color of the frozen lake he liked to run by when he woke up. And how her eyes were like a snow leopard’s- he’d only seen one before- and only when he ducked away from it- green and glowing in the dark.

He liked his own face, sure enough, stole every chance to linger by the riverside to see it before he was dragged away by the ear; but hers was- like that.

A branch cracked outside, the unmistakeable sound of purposeful boot-steps, a low growl he was sure was his own name.

They startled apart, and Sybilla extinguished the magic with a whisper and a snap of her fingers. Night returned to the cave like it’d never left, but she found she had to catch her breath again, as though she’d been running for a mile.

“Shit,” Montag shook the snow from his boots, laughing. “We need to go.”

She took off , quick as a deer, beating him to it. “Race you!”

“Hey!”

For the first time in sixteen years, she couldn’t stop smiling.

*

“Was it love?” Haider looked up from a pot of boiling coffee at the fire. (The kind that didn’t make his stomach turn- he’d declared, as opposed to whatever abomination his mentor was capable of brewing.)

Sybilla stared at him blankly, forcing her gaze away from the horizon. It was a clear, moonlit night outside the tent, though the breeze was a little strangled by all her wards. She’d made good progress, even with the kid in tow, and the circuitious route they took past Karanassos, and soon enough, Lucio would-

“Sybilla.” Haider called her attention back, setting the cups down.

She took a sip of the brew, and wasn’t surprised that he was right. About the coffee, anyway. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, this friend of yours, in Vesuvia. You said he gave you something you can’t put a price on, and that’s why you help him now.” She knew she shouldn’t have told him, but at the time, she’d deemed it better than dropping her more-than-passing acquaintance with the infamous Count Lucio all at once. “I’ve been thinking about it.” Of course he was.

Sybilla regarded her apprentice over her cup. Haider was almost seventeen, alarmingly sweet, worryingly earnest, already stronger in magic than most green magicians she’d known for decades.

The magicians she’d introduced him to had nothing but praise for him, and a word of warning- that he was the kind of healer who’d get himself killed. Two years on the road, and the fresh air seemed to have done him good. He wasn’t crying himself to sleep every single night like he used to.

He was also nosy as hell, and singularly incapable of dropping a subject.

“So,” He tucked his dark hair behind his ear self-consciously, shit-eating grin in place. “Was it love?”

She scoffed. Love? “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, what else can it be?”

“What about courage?” She asked him, lifting a brow. “What about hope? Can you put a price on those?”

“Huh.” Haider frowned thoughtfully, and he brightened, dimpling. “Then he must be a very good man.”

She laughed. “Oh, you have no idea.”

[atypicalacademic]

Hopping on this picrew train with my main arcana gang 💕

Haider, Zurkhi, Balam, Sybilla, Kadambari and Nurlan 😘💕

[atypicalacademic]

🥃 for Haider, Balam, and Sybilla with an extra 🍷 for Haidi please!

🥃: If your OC was in this universe, what would be their favourite show/book/band/social media platform?

Haider: would probably have like, one of those calming silent recipe channels; I think he'd just like YouTube in general, to have something in the background while he works or paints. As such I think he's more of a podcast person than anything else, like I can see him enjoying Welcome To Night Vale, for one. If he's feeling nostalgic, he puts on old Bengali songs.

Balam: Eclectic, her tastes range from the likes of Murakami's Norwegian Woods to the likes of Jeet Thayil's Necropolis. She collects Stuff like a magpie, and doesn't really like to pin down her interests to one thing. Whether it's a sports documentary about a sport she's never played and never will, or ska music she's heard like, Once at a bar, if she digs it, she gets into it.

Sybilla: Horror in all forms; I can actually see her really liking everything from those grainy paranormal activity movies to something like The Magnus Archives. Modern AU Syb was also a huge ABBA fan back in the day, possibly still is. Blasting Dancing Queen at full volume is her idea of self-care.

🍷: What's one of your OC's pet peeves concerning food?

Haider's too much of a darling to criticize someone else's cooking but like, undercooked rice makes him very sad. He also on principle can tell when establishments are trying to cut corners when it comes to food so that makes him angry as well.

[atypicalacademic]

26 + 27 for Haider, Sybilla, and Balam!

26. What does your character’s home look like? Personal taste?

Haider: Tidy, warm, well-lit and crowded with houseplants. Home is Haider's sanctuary, it's his source of strength. He's always adding little touches to it- embroidering a new pillowcase, carving a new wooden jar for his spices (the kitchen cabinets are packed, btw), adding flourishes to the handpainted murals on the walls- they're the favorite fauna and flora of everyone he loves. The house he grew up in before his parents died, by the Catclaw desert, he repurposed into a studio- most of his full-fledged paintings are there, but he has some favorites at his own house in Vesuvia too. And sketchbooks galore.

Sybilla: She doesn't really put down roots, but she does like her luxury. Syb has a bunch of plush suites bought up and down nearly ever major city she frequents. When she doesn't live in them, she doesn't spare them too much thought, and since she doesn't take permanent residence, till much later, in Venterre, there aren't a lot of personal touches to them. Think plush fur rugs and deep green silk sheets, chandeliers and high ceilings, and many ostentatious lamps. But when she's living there with one of her sugar babies, she subtly redecorates it to cater to their comfort. Lucio's the one person allowed to do it for her in return.

Balam: A mess, really. Technically, she lives with Portia at her cottage (or at the Palace with Nahara, ofc), but she does have her lil haunt in the city and it's a mess. Balam doesn't actually buy a lot of stuff As Furniture, so it's more just a jumble of pillows and carpets strewn across the floor. She actually likes sitting on the floor to work, so it does sort of fit. It's still very colorful, because Balam's very fond of color, if only disjointed enough to be rather trippy. The one thing she does like collecting deliberately are pretty painted ashtrays. Contrast this with her sister's immaculate apartment in the Heart District tbh. Thangam never visits Balam there, it'd spike the poor girl's blood pressure and she's only 19.

27. How do they relate to their appearance? How do they wear their clothing? Style? Quality?

Haider: Sticks to one style that works, really. His kurta/sherwani-pyjama, pretty scarves and jewelry has never failed him, and they're versatile enough for any occasion. You can never see him without the henna painted up to his elbows, or the anklets, at least. He's very picky about his fabrics too, be it simple cotton or silk- the man likes his embroidery, he likes his brocade. Haidi likes the way he looks, and dressing up is a routine that grounds him. He certainly enjoys the attention his good looks get him, too, even if he's tongue tied and blushing more than half the time.

Sybilla: Tailored suits, hats and gloves- usually, though not always, in colors like olive green and deep red. She likes to dress more to show off/ intimidate, rather than to look pretty, I guess. Syb likes to present herself as a certain kind of aloof, which she does- when she was younger, and her persecution complex was at its worst, she did a lot of things to disguise herself- like dye her silver hair in many colors, mostly travel with her face hidden- things like that. Even her tattoos are layer of that secrecy- a layer of protection against vulnerability, as it were. Even now, that she doesn't hide, the shininess is it's own mask, it's own security. She doesn't wear a lot of makeup though, she thinks it's a bother. Sybilla's prideful, and confident, but she's not vain in the slightest. I honestly don't think she thinks of herself as particularly beautiful. Growing up, she was a starved, hunted child, and she wanted to be strong way more than she wanted to beautiful. So even now, it's always a pleasant but bewildering surprise when someone sees her as such.

Balam: She never wears anything normally. If it's a sari she'd secure it with tens of dupattas and drape it in ways it's definitely not meant to be draped in- if it's a shirt, it's usually cut up in some asymmetric way. Her anklets are usually mismatched, her bangles are never evenly distributed. She never goes anywhere without her kohl, but by the end of the day, she's smudged it so much she looks like an adorable raccoon. Although she still dresses very East Prakran, usually in a blouse and a wrap-around, she loads up with so many shawls that you can't tell where the outfit starts and ends. It's mostly held together in such a flimsy fashion because she likes showing skin very much. She's also definitely not a dress-for-the-occasion person; time and place is a tyranny her style does not care to accomodate for. I don't think Balam gives a lot of Thought to her physical body unless she needs to (sometimes even then). And enough gays flock to her that she's rather pleased with her attractiveness.

[atypicalacademic]

All my arcana babies looked exceedingly cute in this picrew so; Balam, Nurlan, Zurkhi, Haider, Kadambari and Sybilla ❤️

[atypicalacademic]

D - Haidi

S - Nurlan, Balam, Sybilla

R - Sybilla

V - Zurkhi

Q - Rio

Coco!! ❤️🥰

D   :   DATE.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

Haider's a homebody, but he certainly loves whisking his partners away to his studio in the Catclaw desert. It's a quiet spot, and he's very at peace there, content to cook for and paint and dote on and spoil his love in every single way. Also comes with midnight swims in the nearest oasis, and if one is up to it, some looking about for rare desert plants to take back home for his remedies.

S   :   SWEETHEART.   did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?

Nurlan: Yes, her first wife. Aida and her grew up together, they knew each other since they were seven, and they were inseparable until Aida died of the plague. There's always a part of Nurlan that's deeply in love with her, and it's something she simply lives with.

Balam: Oh, absolutely. Her first love, as it were, was a young mermaid off the backwaters in her hometown. It didn't end well, however, especially when Balam left her home to join the navy, and Sharanya was sworn to protect the backwaters. There was no just no compromise to be had, and both of them were young and stupid and thought the other was being selfish, and that was that.

Sybilla: Lucio, though I don't think they were Together in the official sense of the word. Fate and demon deals intervened before they could confess their feelings for each other, but the feelings were definitely there, and they never really went away.

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

Oh, Sybilla wishes she were more of a cynic. She doesn't really do attachments, and definitely doesn't love easily, but when she does, she's there is nothing, absolutely nothing she would not do, no rule she won't break, no amount of murder and sacrifice she won't commit for the person she loves. I think that's why she's on her guard so much against attachments, and that's a very Romantic, you-and-me-forever view to take. Because she knows she's not as detached as she wants to be, and her self preservation instincts scare her away from it.

V   :   VALENTINE.   how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?

Zurkhi: Definitely goes off about the commodification of love or wtv, if we're talking about a modern au, but also is a giant sap deeply in love with the idea of love, so he's not going to let Valentine's Day pass by without a few surprises for his partner, or at least without getting all misty eyed about how fortunate he is to find love.

Q   :   QUESTION.   would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

When he was with Aodh, it's Rio who proposed to them. He's definitely someone who prefers and prizes stability, so it just felt like the natural progression to their relationship. But after they died, he's also just. Done with marraige, never wants to do it again because it brings up too much grief. Nurlan feels the same.

[atypicalacademic]

Ghare Bhaire

Words: 700

Skylar x Haider for @ollifree, from these hand-holding prompts: "only linking the pinkies together, not ready to let go completely" + "brushing against each other, linking fingers together for a second"

No warnings only somft.

*

Ghare-Bhaire (Bangla): home and the world

*

“Do you really have to go?” Haider’s voice was still rough with sleep, his mahogany eyes barely open as he tipped a spoonful of spice into Skylar’s cup of chai, before sliding it across the counter with a sigh. Dawn was barely breaking, the light a delicate, lotus-petal pink where it played off the flowers and vines clinging to Haider’s hand-painted walls. The beaded curtains parted at Skylar’s reluctant assent as he shuffled in, Salsa at his heel, dragging his satchel in one hand while he snaked the other around Haider’s waist.

“I can’t miss another ship.” Skylar reminded him, ducking a little so his horns wouldn’t graze the kitchen cabinets packed to the edge with tinctures and herbs, sugars and spices. Warming his hands over the steaming cup of chai, he leaned down to press a kiss to Haider’s forehead. “And you,” He poked the tip of his nose, “Should be getting some rest.”

“And let you go hungry?”

“I can feed myself.”

Haider laughed, catching one of Skylar’s curls between his henna-painted fingers. “Not like I can.” He silenced Skylar’s protest with a lazy kiss to his lips. “It’s true. You know it.”

Skylar pulled him closer, breathing in the incense-and-bauhinia scent that always clung to Haider’s hair, free from its usual confines and falling in soft dark waves past his shoulders. “Alright, I know it.”

Haider smiled against Skylar’s chest. “What happened to leaving at first light?”

Skylar pressed another kiss to his hair. “It’s still first light.”

Forcing himself out of Skylar’s hold, Haider placed the cup of chai back into his hands. “Drink up. It’s bad luck to leave something unfinished.”

“Huh.”

“Umma said so, all the time.” Haider murmured, busying himself with Skylar’s scarves, wrapping the bright red fabric snug around his magician to keep him from the chill. Salsa nuzzled at Haider’s knee, craning her neck for his attention. He petted her between the ears, not taking his eyes away from Skylar, leaning briefly into a lingering touch at his cheek.

Soon enough, too soon, Skylar would take to the road again, take with him the warmth that had shielded him from the winter’s chill for the months he spent at home with him. As much as Haider never begrudged him that, his wandering and his quiet, fervent curiosity, his heart still sank at the thought of sleeping alone, without Skylar’s soft frame pressed against his, his dark curls between his fingers, his eyes on him, deep and lovely, like twin forest pools in the dim light.

Fortunate, then, that it lives so long, that slow-burning flame in his chest, both his love and his patience, until Skylar returns, as he always does.

“I miss you already.” Skylar said softly.

“Miss my cooking, you mean.”

“Your everything. And more.”

Haider blushed, looking away.

“Sure I can’t ask you to come along?” Skylar perched his elbow on the counter.

Batting Skylar’s chest playfully with his scarf, Haider shook his head. “But then you’ll return to an empty house. We can’t have that.”

“’S that what you’re here for, Haidi?” Skylar set his cup aside to take Haider’s face in his hands. “To bring me home?”

“Among other things.” Haider kissed him again, and rested against the crook of his neck. If he let his eyes flutter shut, he could fall asleep right there. “I’m here to be here.” He said, half-to himself, his beard brushing against Skylar’s neck as he trailed kisses up to his jaw. “I’ll always be here.”

A brighter beam of sunlight startled them apart, and Skylar caught his breath, looking over his shoulder. “Fuck, now I need to run.”

Laughing, Haider followed after him to the door, handing him his satchel with a hurried goodbye kiss. Skylar caught his wrist to kiss his knuckles, green eyes finding Haider’s mahogany ones.

Damn those eyes. Bless those eyes.

“What do you want, hm?” Their hands brushed as they drew away, Skylar pausing to trace the henna-flowers painted onto Haider’s bronze skin. “What do you want, from over the sea?”

As if he needed to ask.

“You, silly.” Haider twined his pinkie around Skylar’s, linking their hands in the narrow space between the door and it’s frame. “Just you.”

[atypicalacademic]

Made my Arcana main six in this rom-com dollmaker uwu

Balam and Portia, Orion and Nurlan, Nadia and Zurkhi, Haider and Asra, Lucio and Sybilla, and Muriel and Kadambari 💞

[atypicalacademic]

🌹☺️

hello!! ^_^ still continually devastated by these two so-

Without a word, Asra propped himself on to Haider’s couch, not sprawling across it as he’d done before, but winding his arms around himself, hugging his knees. Haider let his hand hover over Asra’s shoulder, and let it fall to his side. To touch him before apologizing would be to answer his own longing. Selfish.