#seeing people say that it makes them happy when i write him speaking arabic just makes me so !!!!!! like i love it!

[bunnyscryptarchived]

Stop ✋🏻 stop 😭😭😭 im reading your jason fic and i was flabbergasted with the arabic 😮‍💨😭 im so confused is he arab !??!!! i know ppl sometimes say hes hispanic but i never thought I'd read about him speaking arabic 🫢 ngl whenever i encounter arabic in fics it makes me so happy 😭💗 thank you

so in my little universe i hc that jason learned arabic during his time he was with talia and ra’s. talia taught him a few phrases while under her wing cause i love the idea of them having a mother-son relationship. a lot of my arab moots also do hc that jason is lebanese or jordanian and i love that sm too! plus arabic and urdu are the true languages of love to me and i view jason as a very romantic person (at least in my made up world) so it just fits!!

[onskepa]

Hello! It's my first request and you are also the first writer I will request. Can you do a neteyam and a human girl but she is an arab girl? They are together XD

He calls her yawne, sevin and any other nicknames but she just calls his habibi

It'd be so cute when she'd be calling him habibi and he's so confused because he knows this is not english. But he asks his father and finds out this is another language from earth.

Maybe she can speak a bit of arabic to him?

Helloooooooo sweetie!! This one took me a bit longer than I thought. I went through the Arabic dictionary to understand the basics and make sure what I am putting is right. But hopefully this turned out lovely!!! Enjoy!!

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

حبيبي

When dating someone, the first stage is always the awkward stage. Being shy and nervous around your lover, especially if you are a teenager. Cuddling while being tense, not knowing what to say, eye contact. The whole thing. But the awkward stage isn't forever, as the couple gets more comfortable with each other. Pet names is the next stage. It confirms how one sees the other, a sign and wording of love and deep care. And there are normal pet names like: pooki, honey bun, babe, sweetie, etc. And there are unique pet names that are unique to their own. A little bond just for them. Those hold more special meaning that average pet names. 

And that seals the relationship and opens a clear path to a stronger, loving bond.

Neteyam ran as fast as he could to the human base. Excitement filled his veins, it was complete! A new hijab made from the finest of fibers his forest could ever offer. And the finest hijab is to belong to his loving new lady. 

Things were starting to settle in their new romantic relationship. Was tense and a bit awkward in their starting days but now they are closer than ever. Understand the traditions and cultural heritage his lover has, who is Arabic, he did his best to understand it all. 

When getting to know each other, his Yawntu talked about what her country was like back on Earth. Told him stories, myths and legends. And most of all, the language. To neteyam, writing in Arabic was difficult, and speaking it was just as challenging. But he welcomes new things. He can understand English well enough, so that has become their common language to speak. Of course his Yawntu puts effort in learning na’vi so that she may converse more with the village. 

Opening the door to her room, neteyam enters and smiles at his beloved. There she was, reading a book. Looking up, the human girl smiled at him with hearts in her eyes. They meet in the middle as they embrace each other in full warmth. 

“I missed you ma’sevin” Neteyam says in a cooing manner. His sevin hugs back, replying “I missed you too wasim”. Neteyam’s ear twitched, he didnt understand that word but from the way she said it, must be a loving pet name. 

“Wasim, what does that mean sevin?” Neteyam asks kindly, happy to reply she answers. “Wasim means handsome”. Now this made his tail curl in a playful manner. “Handsome? You see me as a handsome young man, sevin?” he teases while leaning in closer to her face. His dear love couldn't help but blush at his little act and gorgeous smirk. 

“W-well, you call me pretty, i-it's only fair I call you handsome” she stutters out. 

“Dad, why do humans speak more than one language?” Neteyam asks one day as he helps his dad weave something together. Jake pauses momentarily, giving a moment to think before answering. 

“Well son, back on Earth, humans aren't able to connect in a way that na’vi do. Even back then, there was not much to communicate with each other. People living in different areas on Earth developed their own cultures and communities. Even developing new languages”. 

A small moment of silence between them before neteyam asks again, “And how do they develop language? How are they able to make it sound so different from each language?”. Jake scratches his chin a bit and mutters “should have paid attention to history class…” 

Neteyam tilts his head in confusion. Jake waves his hand in a dismissive way. “Forget that” 

Pausing at their craft, they get more comfortable in sitting. 

“Why the sudden interest?” Jake asks, trying to understand neteyams' curiosity for something about humans. 

“Ummm…well there is a human I began to talk to, she stands out a lot from the others you know. She wears a cloth around her hair and wears more clothing and speaks an odd language” neteyam answers. 

“I see. And this girl, are you friends with her?” Jake asks, observing his son as he moves and behaves. 

Scratching a bit on the back of his head, neteyam replies “You could say that. We have been getting to know each other. But she is so cool! Her accent is different but amazing, she showed me a bit of how to write in her native language. It is hard. Oh, and…” 

Jake observes how animated and happy neteyam is as he explains the details of his new friend. Chuckling a bit to himself, jake knows his son won't be silent if given the chance to mention the human girl. It is nice, to see neteyam be happy and express himself more. 

“Your friend seems very nice, but you forgot one important thing, what is her name?” he asks. 

“Oh, her name is…”

“Here, I hope it's perfect for you, I can still make adjustments” Neteyam says as he offers his newly made hijab. The girl grabs it gently and looks at it in awe. “Oh habibi, this looks and feels wonderful, here let me put it on”. Taking that as his cue, the boy turns to give his little lover some privacy to change her hijab. A minute later he turns around. 

“How does it feel?” he asks a bit nervously. Getting a good feel of it, the girl smiles so happily, “wonder, perfect, the colors are truly beautiful. And the material is so soft yet firm. The feel of the forest. The smell….I know that smell very well” she teases, giving him a flirt smirk. 

Neteyam couldn't help but blush at her words. 

   “أنت تعرف دائمًا ما يجب أن تقدمه لي، ومع ذلك أشعر كما لو أنني لم أعطك ما يكفي مني." 

The way the girl spoke was lovely, the curl of the sounds and how it rolls of her tongue was so intriguing. Yes he may not understand everything, but it only pulls him in more to hear the girl's language. 

“Im sorry, I cant understand what you said. '' Neteyam apologies. The girl giggles a bit, holding his hands. Looking up at him, dark eyes meeting his bright ones, “I can teach you if you like. We can speak it together, and I like to hear my language coming from you”. 

His tail thumps against the floor, feeling happy and excited. Smiling widly, he agrees. So, the girl brings out a clean notebook and a pen. “Alright, lets try something simple” she suggests. Nodding, he sees her write a simple sentence. 

أحبك

“Alright, this one is easy, repeat after me, 'uhibuk “ His love instructions. Listening to her words closely, he repeats. 

“'Uhibuk”

Aaaaaaaaand that is it for this one! I hope I got the arabic words right. Had to google it. Until next time! see ya!

wasim = handsome

habibi = my love

  " “أنت تعرف دائمًا ما يجب أن تقدمه لي، ومع ذلك أشعر كما لو أنني لم أعطك ما يكفي مني."  = You always know what to give me, yet I feel as though I have not given you enough from me.

'uhibuk = I love you

[little-fairy-forest]

Out of contect but can u make a reader who isnt god with japnes w iida?(like mabye arab?🚶‍♀️)(im arab btw)

☘hi sweetheart! I'm going to just make this a foreign reader to be more inclusive of that's okay :) (I myself am not from japan also)

Iida x foreign! s/o

Iida x gn!reader, fluff, romance

He could tell by your accent when you spoke Japanese you weren't a native speaker, but he could understand you

When you told a few people you were speaking too you were from (home country) Iida was intrigued, he became curious about you

Midoriya took up most of your free time writing notes about heros from your country and how things are run hero wise there also, Tenya got annoyed he wasn't able to speak to you yet

Iida was able to talk to you during lunch when you got one of your favourite foods from your country, you needed to feel a little bit at home since your so far away

Tenya asked to try some, you were happy to see someone intrigued to try something from your culture, normally people would keep to themselves

Tenya enjoyed the dish, asking if you can give him a recipe to see if he can make it himself. You offered a general recipe (no one gets your family special recipe ;))

He has heard you speak to friends over the phone in your mother tongue, he was curious also about simple phrases to learn to say to you each day

Now your met with a "good morning L/n" in your language each day. It warms your heart to hear people speak your language, it helps you feel more at home

Your other classmates have also learned small words to say to you aswell, Iida has gone as far as to purchase a dictionary in your language and a whiteboard

Each day there will be a new word for his classmates to learn :')

He orders snacks and treats to get delivered to the dorms for you to enjoy, he is curious what sweets you have compared to japanese sweets

U.A decided to host a cultural festival and invite the parents/ guardians of the students. Everyone wore tradition Japanese clothing, from kimonos to Yukata.

You decided to wear your countries traditraditional clothing, yeah you stood out, but Iida was quick to inform people where you were from, why you wear the clothing you do, the meaning behind it etc

He basically gives them a history lesson

Your surprised at how much he learnt, you ask him when he was alone about why he knows so much, you presumed he must of visited there with his family

"I wanted to make you feel as if you were at home, sorry if I was being disrespectful l/n! I apologise–"

You cut him off and said you were grateful someone took the time to learn about your culture...it made you feel

Special

Maybe you could get use to being Iida's special person...

You would ask Tenya for help with your Japanese, sometimes the teacher would go to quick for you to understand everything.

Iida was more than happy to help you study! He got flashcards and everything ready for you to learn

Iida enjoyed the study dates sessions you both would have also gonna daily basis.

You got your grades up very quickly. You thanked iida profusely as he helped you get your grades up

"Well a date would be nice as a thank you" Iida was smooth

Awe, Iida and yourself are now going on cute little dates around Japan to see historical sights as you learn more about Japanese history...🤧

Thank you for reading!

-> Masterlist

[margarethx]

Sambucky writing prompts

Because I have a lot of ideas and no ability to focus on writing any of them right now... so I might as well share. Feel free to use any of these. You can tag me or send a link if you want to. (Unless it's ”a story about poor, sad Bucky... and Sam is kinda there to help” type of fanfiction, bacause I love Sam too much to read something like that.)

Let's go!

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1. Both Sam and Bucky are trained to be Winter Soldiers at the same time. On one of the shared missions they accidentally form a connection which helps them with slowly getting their memories back, so they can escape together.

2. The Winter Soldier is sent to kill one Samuel Thomas Wilson, but for some reason he just cannot do it. (Or he almost did and regrets it immediately.)

3. Bucky's a mechanic that Sam called to help with repairing the boat and he works very slowly on purpose to have an excuse to see Sam more often.

4. Sam can actually talk to birds (as he should!) and they start to be annoying always asking about his dating life.

5. Sam is a literal angel. That's the prompt. (And canon.)

6. Sam and Bucky go on long, separate vacation. But they somehow end up in the same country, the same town, and the same hotel. Probably the same room too. What a surprise...

7. Bucky knows a lot of things about Sam and Sam is sure he never told him about any of that. Turns out Bucky migh have done some research between 2014 and 2016 when Sam was looking for him.

8. Sam discovers that Bucky had something to do with picking the designs for his new superhero suit.

9. Bucky finally tries to bond with Redwing and Sam does a very bad job at pretending he’s not amused.

10. Bucky has to deal with a painful realisation that Sam is not a supersoldier and that no matter how strong he is he'll always be more likely to get seriously hurt on their missions.

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

11. When they are frustrated Bucky starts to speak Russian and Sam responds to him in Arabic which doesn't solve the initial problem, but at least it's funny. (Bonus points if one of them - or both - pretends to not now the language the other one's speaking.)

12. Bucky has a terrible reputation and looks dangerous, so everyone prefers to avoid him, but then he meets Sam who just makes fun of his edgy persona all the time... and Bucky for some gay reason lets him. Everyone else is just very confused and worried about Sam’s safety. (Probably some University/High School AU.)

13. [It’s more like an art prompt, but whatever.] They both have long hair now. No plot. Just both of them being in love and appreciating how handsome the other one looks.

14. Since both Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan exist in the MCU canon I’d love to see Sam and Bucky’s reactions to their actors being on screen when they watch movies together.

15. Bucky didn’t have much experience with dating since 1940s and he thought he’d be the awkward one once he and Sam get together, but it turns out Sam was never in any relationship, because he was too busy and neglected that part of his life.

16. They both have the canon skills/powers, but only one of them is a superhero. The other is “their” villain. So still enemies to lovers, but a different flavour.

17. Sam always had the ability to talk to birds. He just... forgot to mention it before to other people, including Bucky. So the power-reveal is quite unexpected.

18. Sam and Bucky literally hate each other – it’s not just their canon-like amused annoyance. But then they start to learn what happened to the other one in the past and the feelings slowly shift from hatered into something else. (Might be a No Powers AU)

19. Sam thinks that Bucky misses the 40s. Well, he’s wrong.

20. Sam is a regular civilian (who never met Steve). He finds Bucky right after he escaped HYDRA and helps him go back to normal life. (He might know who he’s helping or not.)

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

21. Bucky learns about Riley, but he doesn’t learn it directly from Sam.

22. Sam and Bucky come back after the Blip, see each other, and try to deal with the situation together, no knowing what has just happened.

23. Bucky explains to Steve why he won’t go back to the past with him. It’s  mostly because of Sam, obviously.

24. A story about Sam and Bucky growing apart between Endgame and tfatws and how they dealt with feeling like they’re losing yet another person so soon. (And about them coming bact to each other again.)

25. Sam and Bucky learn how other people around them see their relationship. It doesn’t really mirror how they see this partnership themselves.

26. A classic role-swap. Sam is the Winter Soldier. Bucky’s the Falcon. Their personalities stay exactly the same.

27. Sam and Bucky try to tell someone who knows almost nothing about them how they met. (They lie or they don’t.)

28. Bucky deals with people who are openly against Sam as the new Captain. Sam deals with people who think Bucky should be locked up for being “with” HYDRA in the past.

29. Sam is still The Falcon and later Captain America, but Bucky’s a regular person who also happens to be Sam’s huge fan.

30. Dr. Raynor said she heard a lot about Sam (presumably from Bucky). But what exactly did Bucky tell her?

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

31. Only one of them died after the Snap. The other one has to live for five years, hoping they’ll be able to reverse it.

32. The first time Sam and Bucky saw each other: scared, feeling exhausted, really happy, genuinely laughing, truly angry, crying, completely resigned, flustered, shy.

33. After being frozen in Wakanda Bucky lost all memories related to Sam. Sam has to decide whether he should use the opportunity to start the relationship over or let Bucky know about their less-than-ideal beginnings.

34. Sam accidentally gets super-serum. Bucky helps him with adjusting.

35. Bucky accidentally loses super-serum. Sam helps him with adjusting.

36. Sam used to visit Wakanda when Bucky was frozen and talked to him a lot, even when Bucky couldn’t hear him. (Well, couldn’t he?)

37. They have a conversation about Steve, but it’s Sam telling Bucky stories from their friendship (how they met, what they did as fugatives, how Sam feels about Steve leaving without saying goodbye).

38. Sam and Bucky use time travel (because they survived the Snap or for other reasons) and they see the past versions of themselves alone or interacting with each other.

39. Sam and Bucky are stuck in Soul Stone together. The problem is that they cannot really hide their emotions or memories as well as they would be able to as real people.

40. After disappearing in the Snap Sam gets a chance to talk to Riley. They know Sam will eventually come back to life, but they still can spend time together and get some closure that will help with moving Sam’s relationship with Bucky forward.

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

[youneedasoultraveller]

Is the popular headcanon that Nicky was illiterate, stupid and barbaric fitting in the stereotypes about Southern Europeans / Mediterraneans ? I’m guessing it’s from the American part of the fandom that’s choosing to not respectfully write Nicky since he is white while being virulent towards anybody that doesn’t perfected and accurately write Joe because he is MENA.

Hello!

Mind you, I am neither a psychologist, a sociologist nor a historian, so of course be aware these are my own views on the whole drama.

But to answer your question, yes, I personally think so. It definitely comes from the American side, but I have seen Northern Europeans do that too, often just parroting the same type of discourse that Anglos whip out every other day.

There is an abysmal ignorance of Medieval history – even more so when it concerns countries that are not England: there is this common misconception that Europe in the Middle Ages was this cultural backwater full of semi-barbaric people that stems unfortunately not only from trying to (correctly) reframe colonialist approaches to the historiographies of non-European populations (that is, showing the Golden Age of Islamic culture, for instance, as opposed to what were indeed less culturally advanced neighbours), but also from distortions operated by European themselves from the Renaissance onwards, culminating in the 18th century Enlightenment philosophes categorising the Middle Ages as the Dark Ages.

Now this approach has been time and time again proven to be a made-up myth. I will not go into detail to disprove each and every single one misconception about the Medieval era because entire books have been written, but just to give you an example: there was no such a thing as a ius primae noctis/droit du seigneur; people were aware that the Earth was not flat (emperors, kings, saints, etc, they were depicted holding a globe in their hands); people were taking care of their hygiene, either through the Roman baths, or natural springs, or private tubs that the wealthier strata of the population (and especially the aristocracy) owned. The Church was not super happy about them not because it wanted people to remain dirty, but because often these baths were for both men and women, and it was not that in favour of them showing off their bodies to one another. Which, you know, we also don’t do now unless you go to nudist spas. It was only during the Black Death in the 14th century that baths were slowly abandoned because they became a place of contagion, and they went into disuse (or better, they changed purpose and became something like bordellos). And, lastly, there was certainly a big chunk of the population that was illiterate, but certainly it was not the clergy, which was THE erudite class of the time. It was in monasteries and abbeys that knowledge was passed and preserved (as well as lost unfortunately often, such as the case for the largest part of classical literature).

So what does this mean? According to canon, Nicolò was an ex priest who fought in the First Crusade. This arguably means that at the very least he was a cadet son of a minor noble family (or a wealthy merchant one) who was part of the clergy. As such, historically he could have been neither illiterate nor a dirty garbage cat in his daily life.

Let’s then talk geography. Southern Europe (and France) was far, far more advanced than the North at the time and Italy remained the cultural powerhouse of the continent until the mid-17th century. Al Andalus in the Iberian Peninsula, the Italian States,  the Byzantine Empire (which called itself simply Roman Empire, whose population defined itself as Roman and cultural heirs of the Latin and Greek civilisations): these places have nothing to do with popular depictions of Medieval Europe that you mainly see from the Anglos. Like @lucyclairedelune rightfully pointed out: not everyone was England during the plague.

Also the Middle Ages lasted one thousand years. As a historical age, it’s way longer than anything we had after that. So of course habits varied, there was a clear collapse right after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, but then things develop, you know?

Anyway, back to the point in question. Everything I whipped up is not arcane knowledge: it’s simply having studied history at school and spending a few hours reading scientific articles on the internet which are not “random post written by random Anglo on Tumblr who can hardly find Genoa on a map”.

Nicolò stems from that culture. The most advanced area in Europe, possibly a high social class, certainly educated, from Genoa, THE maritime superpower of the age (with…Venice). It makes absolutely no sense that he would not be able to speak anything past Ligurian: certainly Latin (the ecclesiastical one), maybe the koine Greek spoken in Constantinople, or Sabir, or even the several Arabic languages from the Med basin stretching from al Andalus to the Levant. Because Genoa was a port, and people travel, bring languages with them, use languages to barter.

And now I am back to your question. Does this obstinacy in writing him as an illiterate beast (basically) feed into stereotypes of Mediterranean people (either from the northern or the southern shore)? It does.

It is a typically Anglo-Germanic perspective that of describing Southern (Catholic) Europeans are hot-headed, illiterate bumpinks mindlessly driven by blind anger, lusts and passions, as opposed to the rational, law-abiding smart Northern Protestants. You see it on media. I see it in my own personal life, as a Southern Italian living in Northern Europe for 10 years.

Does it sound familiar? Yes, it’s the same harmful stereotype of Yusuf as the Angry Brown Man. But done to Nicolò as the Angry Italian Man (not to mention the fact that, depending on the time of day and the daily agenda of the Anglo SJW Tumblrite, Italians can be considered either white or non-white).

Now, the times where Nicolò is shown as feral are basically when he is fighting (either in a bloody war or against Merrick’s men) or when Yusuf is in danger. Because, guess what, the man he loves is being hurt. What a fucking surprise.

Nicolò is simply being reduced to a one dimensional stereotype of the dirty dumb angry Italian, and people are simply doing this because they do not seem to accept the fact that both he and Yusuf are two wonderfully complex, flawed, fully-fledged multidimensional characters.

So I am mainly concentrating on Nicolò here because as an Italian I feel more entitled to speak about the way I see the Anglo fandom treating him and using stereotypes on him that have been consistently applied to us by the Protestant Northerners. I keep adding the religious aspect because, although I am an atheist who got debaptised from the Catholic Church, a big part of the historical treatment towards Southern has to do with religion and the contempt towards Catholic rituals and traditions (considered, once again, a sign of cultural backwardness by the enlightened North).

I do not want to impose my view of Yusuf because there are wonderful Tumblr users from MENA countries who have already written wonderful metas of the way Yusuf is being depicted by non-MENA people (in particular Americans), especially (again) @lucyclairedelune and @nizarnizarblr.

However, I just want to underline that, by only ever writing Yusuf as essentially a monodimensional character without a single flaw, this takes away Yusuf’s canon multidimensionality, the right he has to feel both positive but also negative feelings (he was hurt and angry at Booker’s betrayal, allegedly his best friend, AND HE HAD EVERY RIGHT TO BE – and I say this as a Booker fan as well).

I have not been the first to say these things, it is nothing revolutionary, and it exactly complements what the MENA tumblr users in the TOG fandom have also been trying to say. Both of us as own voices people who finally have the chance to have two characters that are fully formed and honest representations of our own cultures, without stereotypes or Anglogermanic distortions.

And the frustration mounting among all of us comes from the fact that the Anglos are, once again, not listening to us, even telling us we are wrong about our own cultures (see what has happened to Lucy and Nazir).

What is even more frustrating is that everything in this cursed fandom – unless it was in the film or comics – is just a bloody headcanon. But these people are imposing their HCs as if it were the Word of God, and attacking others – including own voices MENA and Italians – for daring to think otherwise.

I honestly don’t expect this post will make any difference because this is just a small reflection of what Americans do in real life on grander scale, which is thinking they are the centre of the world and ignoring that the rest of the world even exists regardless of their own opinions on it.

But still, sorry for the length, hope I answered your question.

[trouble-in-space]

Hi! I'd like a stranger things & the outsiders ship pls!

zodiac is cancer I prefer men (no one under 19 pls) I like many different types of music like rock/pop/indie/alt! my hobbies are cooking drawing writing and playing d&d listening to music and reading fantasy books and tarot cards! I like magic n I like collecting random weird stuff from time to time like useful junk or rocks/gems or even flowers about my appearance Im an arab girl so I have black almond shaped eyes I have bushy eyebrows and I got curly black short hair with bangs I have a small cut scar on my upper lip and have two beauty mark on both my cheeks I have slightly higher cheek bones and have wide full lips I'm short n have a big chest I got hip dips I wear sharp eyeliner and dark eyeshadow i wear lots of jewelry n earrings and piercings (like nose rings) my sense of fashion changes a lot so one day I'm a rock punk chick and other I look like a hippie or a witch and sometimes I look preppy If I feel like it! I also wear dark traditional dark henna and have tattoos constellation on my arm n back with a crescent moon on my nape

Some personal stuff! I have ADHD and on the spectrum! so i talk a lot and fidget I need people to be upfront with me cuz I won't get it until you say it I'm sensitive to sound and touch and I'm an emotional person I'm told that I'm super smart and sassy Im also very kind and understanding but ruthless and cold when I'm angry I think I'm funny but I have a strange n dark sense of humor also I ramble a lot about my interests so I infodump a lot but I get insecure about it and stay quiet so I won't annoy anyone or say something I'm not supposed to say... Im not good with people but I'm good with art and writing so I use that to relate or empress people I don't mind being alone I like my own company but I wish I can speak without feeling scared that I might say or do something inappropriate or weird or cutting someone off it's exhausting to not fidget or fiddle my hands or move around and I don't always look people in the eye not out of disrespect but i get distracted a lot but sometimes I can still hear the person even if I don't look at them! Im lazy and sleep a lot but if it's something I care about I get passionate and excited and make weird happy sounds! and jump a lot!

here are some characters I kin to help u understand me more!

(Wanda maximoff/Bruce banner /will byers/jinx from arcane/entrapta from shera/Phoebe buffay/princess bubblegum/Anne Shirley/ Klaus from the umbrella academy) I hope this helps! thank you!

Hi love! I love your style btw!<3

Stranger Things:

I’m getting Steve Harrington vibes! (i’m pretty sure he’s like 19-20?) He would love you’re personal style and the duality of it. He’d ask you to teach him how to cook, it would quickly become his favorite thing to do with you. If he’s out somewhere and sees like interesting jewelry or something else that reminds him of you. he’s 100% buying it for you. Steve’s best friends with Robin so he’s used to rambling and infodumping, he always enjoys listening especially when it’s you. He understands and respects your insecurities and shyness(referring to when you said your not good with people) and he’ll help you work through them but only if you’re comfortable with that!

The Outsiders:

Darry! He’d just adore you! The Curtis house will be covered with your artwork. You’ll often catch him staring at your henna and tattoos, he just finds them so beautiful. He’s always upfront with you because communication is key to him. Sometimes he might be a little to forward/mean about things but he’ll always come to his senses and comfort you. He’s a quieter person compared to the rest of them so he’ll make sure the boys quiet down some when you’re around. His favorite thing in the world is to see you get excited about something you’re passionate about!

I hope you like these!!<33

[twst-headcanon]

Hii 🙃 May I request some headcanons for Ace, Deuce, Idia, Malleus and Leona with a s/o who loves stuffed animals and takes them everywhere?If it’s possible could you do a bonus reactions when their s/o uses the plushie to kiss them? Make it as fluffy as possible please >//< By the way I love your writing 💕

Heeyyyyyy !! So here is (finally !) the answer for your request ! Mod Amy helped me writing this I hope it’ll meet your needs !! It was fun to write and I might have get overboard at moments tehee~~~. Also thank you for your kind words, it makes us more confident and fired up !! Anyway enjoy reading !! ~Mod Ebi

Warning: Sweetness overload (or so I think), if you get cavities we won’t be responsible for it !!

S/O who loves stuffed animal and takes it anywhere.

Ace:

Well he was surprised at first. « Eh ? A stuffed dog ? Isn’t that a bit childish ? » Ace for the love of whoever you want please think before speaking. And the moment he saw their tense face, he immediately told himself « oh shit I fucked up » yes you did.

Poor boy felt really bad and apologies but the more time he spend with the plushie, the more he grew attached to it. “I’ve only had this smol cutie for a day and half. But if anything happened to him, I would kill everyone in this school and then myself.” They even became besties. « If it wasn’t already yours, I would have already adopt this ball of floff. » Sorry Deuce, your spot was taken.

Ace wouldn’t ever admit it but it brings him comfort to hug it when he sleeps during class using it like a pillow. It’s a wonder how the teachers never scold him about that.

And because he likes to hold it, he uses Grim as an excuse « You already have to hold Grim, let me hold my little puppy ! » and thus, he carries it around on his shoulder -No worries he won’t let it fall when if his life is at stake.-

If you use the plush to kiss him, he’ll give the dog many smooch back ! Until he sees his love a bit envious, that’s when he drown them in kisses too !!

Deuce:

What a cute bunny !! Does it have a name ? For how long did you have it ? He decided that from now on, he’ll to hold it his heart ! It’s just so lovely ! Like them !!

However his lover might not mind the way people talks about them carrying a stuffed animal but he does. He tried to warn them threaten them gently not to, but it didn’t work. What could he do to show some support...

OH !💡! He just got an awesome idea !!

A few days later when Deuce comes to his lover, he shows them a package. “Look at what my mother send me !” It was an old hare plushie. “This was mine when I was still an infant. I asked her to send it back to me. That way not only we match but your plushie won’t be alone anymore !”

Because he thinks his lover and their plushie are alike, he tried to sew a spade pattern under the eye of his hare (at the same place he have his.) Unfortunately he can’t sew for shit and had to ask help from Trey.

Once they use the bunny to kiss Deuce, and he asked he in return “A kiss ? I see then who would you a kiss back from ? Me or my hare ?” Ask for both and both you’ll received !!!

Leona:

At first he didn’t care that much about it. As long as they didn’t ask him to carry this lion plushie, our favorite lion shouldn’t have be bothered about it. Shouldn’t have.

Aha well too bad for him, because a big surprise he never thought would ever happened hit him in the guts.

This plushie was ☆*:.｡ everywhere ｡.:*☆.

During class sitting between him and his chosen one while they brush it.

During lunch “No Leona I won’t feed you, what if I stain my plushie ?”.

During your napping quality time, cuddling the stuffed animal instead of him.

... This has to be a joke. Who’s the boyfriend here ? Leona Kingscholar or that damn plushie ?!

No, wait a minute l! There is NO way his pride would let him to be envious of a fake lion ?!!?!?

BUT THEN HE SAW IT. His lover. Kissing. The toy.

OK THAT’S IT. LEONA HAS ENOUGH.

“Oi ! Stop that right now.” Leona ? What is it why do you look so upset ? “Put this damn plush down. Why do you keep pamper this thing more than me ?”

“... Leona. Love. Are, are you jealous ?” “Haa ?! Of course not what makes you think so ?”

He totally is. You can hear Ruggie wheeze in the background.

“*chuckle* Oh Leona if you were envious you could have say so ! I guess I’ll just have to correct that.” FINALLY.

But the only thing they managed to do, is make the smaller lion kiss him.

“Grrr you got this all wrong. Let me show you what I meant earlier.” And Leona swept them off their feet to kiss them like there is no tomorrow.

Idia:

*Gaaasssp* A STUFFED CAT ! IT LOOKS SO FLUFFY !!!!! HNNNN HIS HEART IS SOFT. Can he hold it too ? Can he pet it ??

He is totally on board with his lover carrying a plushie around. Usually cats flee before him, thanks to it he could try and train how to interact with felines !

Oh ! Maybe he should also tell how admirative he is of them ! Idia is aware that people can be mean, and for his lover to hold always with them without minding other’s thoughts ! How could he not fall even deeper in love ?

Now, your plushie have two person gushing and pampering it ! And when Ortho saw you he couldn’t help but to say : « You looks so cute together !! Like a family !!! If Idia is the father and you the other parent, does that mean I am « ojitan » ? »

Idia.exe has stopped working. ORTHO COULD YOU PLEASE NOT BROKE YOUR BROTHER LIKE THAT ??? HE IS BLUSHING SO MUCH HE LOOKS LIKE OVERHEATED.

-Not that any of you mind that, rather his comments made the both of you really happy-

If they use the plushie to kiss him, Idia will at first blush hard -his hair might as well turn a bit red- but he’ll use the plushie to kiss them back *indirect kiss !!!!!*

If he feels more bold, Idia would even turn it to a snuggle session and kiss them on their head and lips.

Malleus:

He might not show it, but Malleus found that little bat plushie extremely cute ! Unlike some he understands that you like to carry it around, regardless of if it’s a memory, if it helps you relax or even if there is no reason.

If anyone dares to make a bad comment about it, he’ll make sure remember their face. -But let’s face it who would dare to do it knowing that Malleus is their boyfriend.-

In a way to support you, he presents you his tamagotchi !! “Now like this, we know each other’s friends. They could even be friend don’t you think ?”

If you ever need it, Malleus would hold your stuffed bat for you (like if you need to go to the bathroom or whatever.)

During time like this, while you are not aware or watching, he’ll groom and talk softly to it, admiring it like he admire gargoyles.

“My friend I have a request. Please for the times I am not around, could you protect them for me ? Here is a little charm that would guard you if anything happen. I’ll count on you.”

If they use the plushie to kiss Malleus, he’ll chuckle and gently kiss you back. “Fufu did you perhaps wanted to start a Chinese whisper game ? Every loving gesture, I’ll lavish it a hundred times more back to you.”

((So I am not sure about the name “Chinese whisper game”, it’s called “téléphone arabe” in french but I’m not sure if I got the right translation here.))

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Kenna (Ivar’s PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Kenna: to know (a person), to feel (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This one correlates to somewhere before chapter 29, it is the scene I promised in Ảγαπάω where the reader gets...tipsy.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: The usual, mentions of alcohol, a tipsy reader. This is a more light-hearted chapter than usual, hope you don’t mind!

A/N: It’s been a while since I’ve posted an Ivar PoV! Hope I haven’t lost it lol

Alternate titles to this were aptann (”an evening” in Old Norse), dýrr (”dear, valuable” in Old Norse) and I have too much fun writing Ivar’s brain shortcircuit (”the truth” in English).

Thank you for reading! I love you!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​​ @heavenly1927​​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​​ @xbellaxcarolinax​​ @pieces-by-me​​ @angelofthorr​​ @samsationalwilson​​ @peachyboneless​​ @1950schick​​ @punkrocknpearls​​ @ietss​​   @itsmysticalmystery​​ @revolution-starter​​ @chibisgotovalhalla​​

To him the music is foreign, the men are, the languages exchanged are. But Ivar notices in all the chaos that isn’t Viking or Greek or Arab, but a strange blend of all of it, you seem the most at home.

Some of Hvitserk’s trusted merchants from the Mediterranean are leaving for the winter, and it was only appropriate to grant them a feast to thank their work and the time spent here.

An Abbasid man is sitting on one of the tables, his knee marking the rhythm of a song his countrymen are playing with their strange instruments. A shieldmaiden sits next to him and with an instrument that looks like two bells joined together starts trying to learn their music, earning cheers and laughs.

Ivar notices you cover your mouth with your hand, eyes shining in joy as you watch.

The man sings, and it sounds joyful and celebratory even if Ivar cannot understand a single word he speaks.

It seems you do, and it seems the Abbasid knows so, because the man gestures to the whole room with his hand, before pointing to you and singing something that makes you smile in a way only Ivar was able to before.

It irks him more than it should, even as your weight leans on his arm and you remain at his side, that that man made you so happy with but a few words.

He wants to know what those words were, he wants to know what he said.

Before he can ask you a woman in colorful clothes approaches with her dark eyes set on you and a welcoming smile on her lips. You greet her with once again words Ivar cannot understand, but the woman shakes her head.

“I’m…learning. Norse. Please.” She nods for emphasis, and Ivar watches your smile become even warmer at the woman’s words.

When the woman -finally- takes her eyes off his wife and greets him with a bow of her head, Ivar only motions for her to take a seat, which she does.

Next to you.

He doesn’t know how to feel about these people’s fascination with you.

With a hand on your chest you tell the woman your name, and she answers with the same. And in between fragments of the language Ivar doesn’t understand, you engage in conversation with her, laughing and smiling and forgetting he is sitting right there.

He resents the part of him that so easily grows frustrated when he sees someone else win easily the affection he had to fight for, but he cannot help it.

You did tell him that you are more of yourself with him than anyone else. And, he gathers, softness is what they all want from you, so it is what you give. But he wants all of you, and he knows that in all your fire and your arrogance you give him exactly that. Ivar dares believe any softness you share with him is much more than any you grant the others, because it is always accompanied by that uneven smile on your lips, that emotion written in your eyes, that particular cadence of your voice when you say his name.

It still bothers him, he won’t deny it. How easily you embrace Freydis, or how freely you laugh with Hvitserk, or how light and gentle you are as you share stories with the woman that sits next to you.

Still, he stays silent, keeping his eyes on the woman that doesn’t seem to be intimidated, who seems not even interested in acknowledging he is there.

Hvitserk takes a seat next to him and starts talking about how the preparation for Strepshire fares, and it distracts him for long enough that the night progresses, the people grow drunker and louder.

Your little gaggle of women with whom you continue to share laughs and stories grows larger too, and Ivar notices you drink much more mead than you use to as you talk and get to know them.

He is arguing with his brother about some pointless detail of the city when Hvitserk’s eyes focus behind Ivar, on you and the women, prompting him silently to turn his attention to them and you.

“Him,” One woman asks, pointing towards Ivar, “Your work.”

“No, I won’t be blamed for that.” You reply without hesitation, and Ivar rolls his eyes.

“Very funny.” He deadpans. Your smile when you turn to him is devious, and he hears Hvitserk laughing somewhere at his side.

As if in apology, or because you notice the way Ivar grits his teeth and narrows his eyes, you intertwine his fingers with yours, bring the joined hands to your lap before you return your attention to the Arab woman.

She turns almost sheepish at her mistake, and motions for her hair, explaining without words.

“Ah,” You accept, but still shake your head, “No, I’m only familiar with war braids. I could never make them look so pretty.”

Ivar turns once again to you, and tries finding your gaze but you are focused on explaining with too many hand gestures how you braided your mother’s hair.

He feels Hvitserk lean closer to him, almost shoulder to shoulder.

“Did…did she just call you pretty, brother?”

____

You call for his attention silently, in a manner you’ve taken a liking for it seems. Your chin rests on his shoulder, your breaths testing at the skin of his neck, your tantalizing lips so close if he would just turn his head...

He feels your eyes on his, out of the corner of his eye he can see the wide smile on your lips.

“What.” He asks, unsettled by the way your focus seems to be solely on his face.

“You’re so handsome,” You mutter dreamily, “I am a very lucky woman, aren’t I?”

That surely makes him pause, and Ivar clears his throat. He focuses his eyes on the horn of mead in his hand, tries thinking on what he can say to that.

A pathetic and weak part of him preens at the praise, and he almost wants to ask to hear more. The same warm rush of something runs through him at the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, you want him as much as he wants you.

When you lift your hand as if to touch his face, Ivar doesn’t think before he lifts his own hands and traps yours, stopping you. After a moment he realizes what he did and finds himself stupidly missing the touch.

But you don’t seem to think much of it, and instead put your joined hands under your chin and smile at him.

Months ago Ivar learned you don’t truly realize how much you talk, how much you share. And he learns now that you talk and share even more when you’ve had too much mead.

“When we met, across…across that battlefield, you were covered in blood,” You chuckle, breathy and light as if you weren’t speaking of war and death, “So was I, I think.”

“You bit off a piece of a man’s arm.” Is what Ivar offers as response, and he can still recall you in his mind, eyes fierce and determined, a scream of rage bubbling past parted lips, your teeth sinking into weak flesh and the blood dripping down your lips.

Almost impossible to believe that the same woman he saw drive an arrow into a man’s eye with nothing but her hands, her hands covered in blood and a snarl on her lips; is the same one that sits at his side with big eyes honest and set on his, her fingers intertwined with his own and her lips pulled into a soft and gentle smile.

“You spared my life,” You continue, after a breath questioning, “Do you think the Gods made you?” You laugh again, still light but almost daring when you turn your eyes to him, “Or were you bewitched, Ivar?”

“Alright,” Ivar grunts, releasing your hand so he can stand up and once he does offering it to you again. “That’s enough.”

When you take his hand and stand up as well, Ivar starts the trek to your room, trying to ignore the warmth you send through him still with just the touch of your hand, or the way you almost make him falter when you skip a few steps to walk right beside him and press a kiss against his arm, as high as you can reach.

“You drank a lot for someone so-…”

“Don’t say small.”

“Small. But I can’t say I am not entertained seeing you drunk.”

You giggle. Ivar stops, and turns around only to catch you looking at him with your free hand over your mouth and your eyes shining in mirth.

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you giggle before, and it makes him smile against his own will.

Adorable wouldn’t be a word he ever thought he’d use to describe his wife, but this night surely makes a good argument for it.

Still, he leads you both to your room and watches from the door he closes behind him as you go through the motions of preparing for bed with a lightness to you that he hasn’t seen before.

You seem to remember something, because you turn to Ivar and walk to him with certain steps, your eyes set stubbornly on his.

“Oh, and I am not drunk.” You argue, smile still blinding. Ivar sighs, and when you refuse to turn around, reaches around you and starts working on the laces of your dress. He knows he’s closer to you than he usually gets to be, but you don’t step away like you usually do. And if you do notice he is close enough he almost feels your chest pressing against his, he will blame it on needing to reach around you to get the laces of the dress.

“What are you, then?” He asks, if only to humor you. And to get your slightly intimidating, even if very much wanted, attention off of him.

Your smile almost hints at sadness when you grant him a gentle caress of his cheek, your hand soft and warm. His hand freezes on your back.

It still makes him tense, makes something in his chest pull tight, when you touch him like that, when you look at him like that.

“I’m happy.” You confess, stealing the breath from his lungs. He cannot help searching your eyes, waiting for you to hide behind something, to retreat somehow, to take this from him.

But you offer a shrug, hopeless and a little scared.

Ivar stays still as your eyes flicker to his mouth, breaths stopping when your hand falls to his shoulder.

You use your hand on him to find purchase, and stand on the tips of your toes.

You press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, a barely-there touch that still makes his eyes fall shut, still makes him feel like for a moment he loses control of everything, still makes him want. And Ivar feels the wood of his crutch creak under his hand as he forces himself not to chase after your mouth, your touch.

“Goodnight, Ivar.” You whisper, your smile uneven and your eyes a little clearer.

He nods, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, and he likes to think he repeats the sentiment back to you before you silently walk to bed and slip under the furs.

He stands there for a few moments too long, unable to take his eyes off you, warm and safe and happy -you said you were, and you don’t lie, you’d never lie to him and…Gods, you are happy with him, a part of him doesn’t still believe it- on the bed you share with him.

And he cannot help the pang of bitterness, of anger, of resentment at Fate and the Gods and it all.

Because you are there, and since the beginning you always were everything he’s ever wanted, and now you’re warm and his in the bed you share and…and it isn’t enough. It is still not what he wanted.

Because even if he isn’t seeing things, even if it is true that sometimes you’re as close to giving in as he is; he is still living on borrowed time, he is still no better suited to fight for you than that Greek fool that he saw Hvitserk kill.

Because he knows what your choice will be when the time comes, when Stithulf dies. Or…he thinks he knows.

You said you were happy. Here. With him.

It is childish and pathetic to feel hope, he knows this. But as he moves back to the main hall where the feast still goes on, he finds himself unable to ignore it, or get his heart back under his control.

____

This isn’t my best work but then again to me none of my work is my best work lol. I hope me not being sure about this chapter is just my insecurity and not it actually being off, idk.

Hope you liked it! Thank you so much for reading!

[rotzaprachim]

Kalimat/كلمات

Yusuf al-Khaysani/Niccolò di Genova, 3.3k, teen, AO3 LINK

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic.

(I've tried pretty hard to make this at least historically feasible but I'm very sure this is just. Jam packed with mistakes. As is the Arabic langauge stuff- I got booted from the class due to dyslexia. I also hope the representation of Islam and Islamic culture is accurate.) 

Languages drop from Joe’s lips easily. Nicky struggles with survival phrases in lingua francas- What Hurts in Dari and Can you breath- nod yes in Swahili and How can we help in French, but Joe can easily lose himself in the sea of a new language’s words and come up swimming, not just stringing together sentences but swallowing poetry, drama, and music. In Ughyar, Bosnian, Zapotec, Spanish, Tamil, Sylheti, Albanian. The shelves of his books line their lives. That is important to Joe, that people be seen not just as they always seem to be in western news reports - as the bodies in the ruined city- but as poets. As storytellers. As humans who struck fire with language that will survive and burn anew.

Joe recites Khachatur Abovian to calm the fractured nerves of a former schoolteacher ripped from his home while he and Nicky rush to forge passports and visas for the teacher and his wife and his seven children to make new lives in America. In a post war displaced persons camp he speaks Yiddish, reads Sholem Aleichem and Avrom Sutzkever from paperbacks pulled from the fires and then decades later in the dust of Baghdad, Arabic and al-Sayyab. And he listens, listens even more than he speaks. He listens to stories upon stories of war and loss and human suffering with his ears and his eyes and heart and a clasped hand that says, I do not claim to know your pain but I have felt my own.

Nicky sets arms and delivers babies and administers vaccines and sorts endless boxes of quinine tables and bandages. He speaks with his hands, mainly, and his bedside manner is different from Joe’s. He learned long ago to keep lollipops in the right pocket of his jacket. The first language Nicky learned to speak was the sea and the second was the wind, and spoken words come to him slower, with less agility, blending into occasionally archaic jumbles. He means to ask an assistant for an antiseptic wipe at one point, has to dig through his mind through the piles of once vital vocabulary bleached useless by time, military jargon for battles lost nine hundred years ago and colloquial derja words for plants and crops gone extinct under the tides of modern monocropping, and comes up sputtering, asking if anyone, perchance, has a neckerchief?

The linguistic stumbling of an unlettered genovese sailor versus a middle class trader’s son who learned to love the written world on his mother’s lap.

It took Nicky a human life time to master spoken Arabic, in a few of her many varieties, with her tricky mazes of roots, more decades of listening and stumbling through conversations and gentle corrections than the average human mind could take before his own readujsted to the beauty of a world described through roots with all things connected to each other.

It took him another life time again to master fusHa, the complex turns of phrase and imagery and unwritten short vowells, and a brush and then pen always felt far more alien in his hands than a sword did. (Although the precision of a pen prepares him well for the precision of a scalpel, and that, perhaps, is the instrument with which Nicky writes history.)

A thousand years ago, in the same city who’s people Joe and Nicky will die again and again for to try and pull from the ruin, the man then Yusuf wrapped his hand around the hand of the man then Niccolò and guided him through this mysterious world of written letters. Alif-ba-ta-thaa and then nun-qaf-waw-lam-alif,

اسمي نقولا

For the first time, Niccolò wrote himself down.

The script contained other mysteries and hidden trap doors. The disappearing mem that could get swallowed by lam and alif and the mysterious shape-shifting ta marbouta and the categories of sun and moon letters that lent the marks on a page a tangible quality, the burning Mediterranean sole that Niccolò’s people marked their years by and la luna by which Yusuf’s people knew their own time by.

When they had reached their first truce in the battlefield and had to learn how to say things beyond various threats and claims of the name of God, they’d each had to remake the world in a new image, relabel everything they’d thought they’d known. Shams, the enemy man had said over and over again, pointing up, and Niccolò hadn’t known if he meant “sky” or “blue” or “above” or “God” or the color “blue.” Niccolò had drawn a line in the sand, the past running to the future and tried to map out the different tenses of his own language he didn’t fully understand himself, only knew how he’d use them in a sentence. He’d hatched an x in the middle for now, drawn two little stick figures and two blobby horses, us he’d said in zenaize, then future, right of the men, past, left.

“Ahhh,” the man who Niccolò now knew as Ana Ismee Yusuf, nodded. He stood up and pointed right. “Lelshar’.” To the left. “Lel’arb.” He smiled and Niccolò thought it might be worth dying, just to see again. “Si, si. Io capiscooo.” He stretched his syllables out in a deadpan imitation of a puffed-up Genovese noble, and Niccolò laughed himself.

Several lifetimes later and Niccolò tries to label his world anew again in writing. Yusuf writes out words in large, blocky script on pieces of scap paper, marks the harakat around the words carefully in red ink. He tacks باب to the door and سَرِير to their bed and even أنا to himself. He holds up a piece of paper to the sky outside, the sun blinding their eyes momentarily before they repair. الشَّمس, the first word. Yusuf even attempts to stick قِطّ onto Amira, the sharp eyed street cat who’s wormed her wait into their household. The scratches that earns him heal quickly.

It takes Niccolò far longer than he wants anyone to know before his mind properly started to see a word and see it as a word, something more than a collection of letters but a thing that existed, definitively, in God’s world. بَيْت, what he and Yusuf have now had in Basra, Palermu, Fustat. مُحيط, like the Mare Nostrum. فَتاة, a girl like like the sister he left behind.

And then the door was opened, and Niccolò could read, or at least, understand this process of reading for himself, and more than that, he could see this part of Yusuf, so crucial to the soul he nad come to love and this heart he now held in his own. Yusuf loved words, and books, and writing, he loved his Book as the word of God to his prophet and he loved his books as connection to the mother who had first taught him suras and his father who wrote in three languages, and, he had once gold Niccolò in the quiet safety of their bed, in the night, with the first boy he had ever loved, the other star pupil at their madrassa with whom he would lie composing lines of poetry under a lemon tree.

Niccolò thought of Yusuf reading in the small, cool courtyard of the house in Damascus that would for this lifetime be their home, his mouth moving silently in prayer as his fingers followed reverently over the verses. He thought of Yusuf moving elegantly through the world, his speech dry and witty or educated where his own felt blunt, trading jokes and barbs back and forth in the tea house and the market. But mostly, Niccolò thought of Yusuf writing, face still with all the steady focus and silent reverence of prayer, bent over a carved rosewood writing desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows setting his curls on fire. And his hands, so strong, so reliable, moving unerringly across the page, line after line of the script that Niccolò once feared and mocked because he feared but which he now knew could contain all the beauty of the world.

He practiced by writing to the those he loved but no longer walked the world.

Oum, today sun bright. I see roses in market. I think of you, when I see roses in market.

Abba, in house of God happy I know you are, happy makes it me.

Maria, to read you will love, i know. Your son man now. Good i know. Peace to you.

Niccolò burned the letters in a fire and hoped God would make it so his 'aa'ila could read them. Yusuf and Niccolò were both young in the business of being immortal. They had not learned to shoulder the pain of it yet, so they faced the loneliness, together and alone. Niccolò thought that he saw the appeal of letter writing, then, imagined a world in which he could have written his family from the Holy Land, told them that no matter how many infidels he killed to cleanse this world for the Cross he felt no closer to holiness himself, told them that the one he killed and killed and killed again he had found holiness in, told his parents that their son died and died and did not die. That he missed home, the rocky shores and fishing villages of Liguria, but that he missed them more, because his family was his home, even if there were things about him that he hid in the darker parts of himself because he knew they would never understand.

His sister’s grandchildren- or maybe her great-grandchildren, he wasn’t quite sure- were still alive, probably, but there wasn’t a way they’d respond well to the idea of a relative who’d have been forty years past death even without war sending them letters written in the alphabet they’d been taught to hate, if they could read at all.

With the ashes of his letters, he lets his family go, and prays God looks kindly upon them, and shows them mercy, and grants them peace and understanding. Every century or so, he’ll check in, he vows, even from afar, because he owes Maria that much. He hopes her son or his son or his son has not wasted his life to die in a war on foreign soil like he did, or that her daughter or her daughter or her daughter has not been left a widow.

Yusuf’s family still lived in Tunis. His sister Maryam took over the trading business after his death and made the al-Khaysani family a great name and funded many hospitals and houses of learning. News of her death reached Palermu weeks after the burial, and it was one of the few times in their long, long lives that Yusuf had to walk for months alone, to process a grief as large as the world. He let the waves of the sea and the sand of the desert swallow him again and again, and when he did not die, he rose and lifted his head to the sky and swore he would make the world as good as she wanted it to be. In every city they go to with a cathedral or even a baked mud church Niccolò lights candles for Maria and for Maryam. Santa Maria, madre de dio, they’ll pick up one day, in a language centuries off from existing. You know she is named more times in our book than yours, Yusuf told him in one one of their many cycles of death and coming back, when Niccolò called out for her, bleeding out on the sand.

When Niccolò found Yusuf again they stood with their hands clasped at her grave outside the medina and then they prayed and set off again. New cities, new tongues, new people. To avoid suspicion, they alter the sounds of their names to match the sounds of the city. Yusuf and Naaqid. Giuseppe and Niccolò. Nikolai and Iosef. Every death is shorter.

Yusuf forges the documents and the names, barters and trades, even makes several seperate respectable fortunes as a merchant of cloth and then spices before even claims of pomegranates doing wonders for one’s health start to wear a bit thin and they have to fake their deaths again. He writes, and though home quickly becomes what they can carry, he keeps sheaths of poetry in tiny, perfect script in his saddlebag, recites long poems as they make camp in the desert. Some were written by and for men like them. Others Yusuf tweaks the gender of, chooses inta over inti. Every time they die they leave a generous waqf behind.

Niccolò takes care of the horses, and then he tries to take care of people. He learns as much of these strange healing arts of the east as he can from Yosef, and then from a doctor in Basra and a Jewish apothecary in the city of Fustat. It is not blasphemy to try to know the body, he is deciding, it is not sacrilige to try as hard as one might to save a life. At some point, the knowledge goes beyond what he can remember or what a diagram can tell him, and so it’s in Damascus that Niccolò decides, even with his previous failed attempts at the aliph-baa, to ask Yusuf to teach him how to read.

And he does. It takes time, years, before he can, before he feels more man than child with a pen in his hand and he does not smear ink across the page. And there are limits. He is never a poet. His language is always more practical than- and this is a word that will not exist for centuries but that colors his memories even still- than romantic. For him heart is a thing of muscles and chords that powers a life. He reads and takes notes on Al Razi far more than Abu Nuwwas or al Muttanabi. Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine astounds him just as Ferdowsi’s perfect schemes of monorhymes entrance Yusuf. His sentences do not flow into rivers like Yusuf’s do. They build squat, strong houses. They encode information that Niccolò can leave behind when he dies, only to return to a century later and find that have been added on to by scholars after him, the foundations for someone else’s palace. Sometimes, the things he thought were true are completely washed away in the flood of some new discovery, and he prays and begs the forgiveness of all those he caused unnecessary pain in his ignorance.

But even in his clumsiness, the power of words surges through. Yusuf’s words and his love of words surges through to Niccolò in the years of learning, until Niccolò loves words too, just as Niccolò’s love of the sea and her many tempestuous moods and promise of infinite freedoms filters through to Yusuf. Yusuf translates texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and just as with Mary and Maryam centuries ago on a battlefield, Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling.

And Yusuf’s love of words surges up into Niccolò’s love of Yusuf too. It took him about three weeks after their initial truce to realise the man was soft, which then took him a few decades to find more endearing than annoying. That he liked sweet things and flowers and goddamn useless hobbies like calligraphy and drawing complex borders of tulips and interlocking knots along the borders of his writing papers. And he knew he was a good poet, to his own ears, that he fit words together nicely. But being able to read Yusuf’s poems, even the unwritten snippets he leaves scattered around the house, often unfinished, is something else entirely. A glimpse into being seen, by the person who sees him best. But God above, he doesn’t think anyone alive has had their eyes compared to the beauty of the sea after the desert quite so many times, or wrung as many turns of phrase from the has the double meaning of عَيْن.

“The world,” he says one night as they sit and watch night descend softly upon the City of Jasmine. It’s a city to make even the woman who will come knocking at their door in a matter of decades feel young and insignificant, and even the colloquial name suits Yusuf’s pretensions annoyingly well. Steam from cups of tea curls into the evening air. The smells of horse shit and rosewater both on the air. The calm cradle of the evening after the maghrib prayer. “You see it …” He does not know how to end it.

“How, then, do I see the world, hayati?”

“You see the stars above a battlefield. You see the stars and then the fields that will grow again after the ashes are tilled into the soil. You see stars as gems, and the windstorms of the desert is the finest music, if you would believe your poems.

“And you are angry that I have seen the good in the world? I would not call the man who came to a foreign land to kill the infidel and came to spend a hundred years learning best to save their lives a man who does not see beauty in unexpected things either.”

“You are-”

He looks for a word, any word in his mind that has learned so many. Unchanging would not be right for the man who once killed him so many times and learned Greek and Latin to read him the words of the Apostles as they were written, who has accompanied him on pilgrimages to Antioch and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. He has changed as much as Niccolò has. No, it’s something-

“You are looking at me as you look at your patients.” Yusuf reaches out and brushes back Niccolò’s hair. He kisses his forehead. A kiss from Yusuf, no matter how chaste or how many, still sends lightning through his body.

“As if you were ill?”

“No. You look with such focus upon the world, with so much kindness about how to help it heal.” For a time whose number has since gone beyond count, their hands interlink. “We cannot save the world, but we can save some, and by saving some, we can save the world. We will work to repair what is broken.”

“I have found the cause of your affliction.”

“What do you consider me afflicted by, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

The word romantic is still more than six centuries out, although they’ll soon wander through Europe during the heyday of the romance, and Yusuf will even write a few himself in Occitan and Provençal. For now, though, the word carries the implications of Roma and the waning Basileion Rhomaion to the north, to the al-Rum rite of the Damascene churches he now celebrates the Eucharist in, the river of his faith turned down a different course. For now, though, the word romantic remains firmly in the future. No, it’s something else he thinks of.

“Hope. You have a most serious case of hope.”

“And what do you suggest as remedy, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

Niccolò pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and deep and hot and sweet and bitter from the tea. He loses himself in the warmth of his body, his hands in the curls of his hair, and he thinks how blessed he has been by God that this is the man he has been destined to spend forever with.

“Albi, I do not think there is one. I think you have been cursed with an incurable case of hope.”

[burnedbyshoto]

One last unpopular opinion cause I need to get it out. tell me if I’m wrong pls. Whitewashing POC characters is 100% wrong. Why is it okay to change the race or ethnicity of a POC character? I’m talking about stuff where one of the characters isn’t Japanese anymore and they’re mostly black or occasionally some other race. If they’re making a dark skinned Japanese version I get that. But why change race/ethnicity. Isn’t that wrong too? What’s your opinion on this? Not trying to start shit I swear

I guess... hm, I will try to break down my thoughts and opinions on this. i’m not claiming i’m right, i’m merely stating this as someone who literally over thinks literally everything and anything I can. please let me know if i’ve said anything wrong or offensive as i’d like to correct it because i’m not trying to offend anyone here.

when it comes to anime specifically, westerners have this very quick ability to start saying that these characters are white. as we are all damn well aware, anime is created mostly by asian creators (japanese creators to be exact) and are often depicted to be happening in japan or in some fantasy land where terms like white, black, asian reallt don’t apply. there are some anime that take place in america, & we have anime like yuuri on ice that has multiple different countries represented, but i’d say for the most part all characters are japanese.

issues come into play when, typically seen as white people on twitter who are able to pass easily as anime characters appearance simply due to skin tone color and hair color. personally, I think anime tends to throw in funky hairstyles and hair colors and eye colors not because they’re trying to claim characters as white but because japan is a largely homogeneous country and with that they tend to have similar attributes (in which I mean hair type, eye color, and hair color). the lack of color diversity can lead media to look especially dull, for lack of better words, so mangaka & anime creators make these characters have every colored hair, eyes, and sometimes make them bipoc in the world and hair type to create visual contrast, engagement, and highlight important characters.

however, we westerners are quite self centered & think if a japanese character has blonde hair and blue eyes it makes them white! meaning that should white people cosplay this blonde hair and blue eyes character it’s okay! and due to racism, whenever poc individuals — especially black cosplayers — attempt their own version, they’re attacked with how the character isn’t whatever race the cosplayer is and are overall scum bags. the character isn’t even white the mass majority of the time either so I don’t understand the anger they have over that detail except they’re racist pigs.

now, about the race bending, I think it’s because we westerners want to see ourselves within these characters. they’re like headcanons, if you will. just like you might headcanon bakugou to eventually become hard of hearing or deaf, or how you headcanon that midoriya izuku will lose all his limbs and need a robot arm and legs, these are just personal headcanons that make the character more tuned to how everyone wishes them to be.

now this is a western issue so i speak largely for america.

the underlying issue, I think, is racism. white people, whether they like it or not, have a social advantage over everyone. things will always sort of be for them, look like them, accept them. white people will never have to wonder if the newest movie coming out will have a poc lead because they tend to have it be white people. white people never have to worry about if their foundation color is in stock or even exists in the first place because the system makes it so that it’s there for them, or if not, it’s just two blocks away. white people don’t have to worry about if they will see a face that looks like them on all forms of media because european standards are whats it. we are curated in a society where we should want the lighter hair, the lighter skin, the lighter eyes, the button nose, and thin figure. & I understand that beauty standards and ideas are shifting, but if you’re unable to see that people used to shame, put down, and harass other people for having such traits before (and even still right now harass people for having the features they want as well), I guess you’re one of the naive few.

now, because in western countries, not being able to see yourself in any characters on the tv shows (with real people or animated), some people choose to simply take it into their own hands. so they take their favorite characters and decide that they’ll give it a spin to make it look like them. I don’t think anyone really bends the race and goes “damn they should really be fucking latino, what a waste they’re not!” because I really don’t think anyone’s that...intense???? that’s not the right word, but I can’t seem to find it rn. it’s simply for fun and to show other people who also don’t see themselves in these forms of media a way in!

most importantly, I think, is that when characters are turned into different ethnicities it’s other people who come out and say they’re doing it wrong & taunt them with how they would feel if they turned someone white. if i’m being especially honest, most anime characters could definitely be white in my eyes had I never known it originates from japan simply because of the way they’re drawn. they’re putting down people who are simply expanding their creativity and wanting to see a familiar face because western media continues to fail in serving its largely ethnic population.

personally, I don’t think we westerners have the right to demand more black, latino, arabic, whatever characters in anime because the fact is japan owes us nothing. we should be demanding and continuing to harass america to include poc characters because we aren’t involved in japan. (& i’m not saying that japan should just continue to serve only pure japanese characters because they do have their own intermixed population that isn’t just of japanese decent, but I think if they want us to aid their voices i’m here for it, but I won’t be the one demanding anything from a country that isn’t mine when it comes to this form of media. )

so, to me, the reason why it’s okay for poc to change the race but not white people is because racism in america lol. white people got it good on screen & the fact that it really really bothers some people is a bit scary considering the stats on how many movies and tv shows involve main white casts.

my unpopular opinion to all this, however, is I really dislike latino!sero because the spanglish people use for him makes me think that no one writing him is actually any type of latino & i’m sorta tired and a bit offended by the sexy latin lover thing. plus it sorta seems to me that my fellow latinos only use that trope because white people think it’s hot & since they carry more weight then they think; creators keep it up to seem cool or whatever idk. so it’s not my cup of tea as a mexicana 😗✌🏽

edit:

I also think when people race bend characters to other forms of poc it’s a positive expression and something done to make people happy! but typically when the characters are bent to be “white” it’s done as an attack in a way towards poc people & not done because they want to be included in a world, ya know?

[221bshrlocked]

Follow Your Heart

Pairing: Ardeth Bay x Reader

Words: 12,609. Please do not hate me. I put markers to where you can stop and continue later

Warnings: Some pining. Little bit of angst. Definitely some fluff. And as you should know by now, smut. Unusual dirty talk in the sense that it is more romantic than dirty. Hopefully it gets you going though.

A/N: I have not written anything in so long and I apologize that this is not what you expected (aka Bucky or Steve) after the on/off hiatus. I am genuinely surprised considering this is the longest story I have written. I’m trying my hand at something completely different and since there are a few of us out there thirsting for Ardeth Bae Bay, I hope you like this. And shout out to @mss4msu for literally handing me the Middle Egyptian and Hieratic on a platter because Lord knows I still suck at this and she is a genius. Also, Happy Birthday friend, you know who you are. Lastly, refer to this for an in depth disclaimer for this fic.

~I~

It was a quiet day, one of the few since you’ve arrived with Evy on the site. You weren’t one to tag along with her or her husband, but you couldn’t pass a chance to visit a place like Luxor, not when it was your professor’s favorite city. Being one of Sir Gaston Maspero’s students, you’ve heard all about the temple, this side of the Nile even, and you’d always wanted to come to it, not just for research purposes but to enjoy the magic that was Egypt. 

You always envied Evy for living in this place for so long, even wished you were favored by the librarians and professors like her, but she was much more charming, beautiful even. You were the cousin no one paid mind to, apart from the Professor of course. He had always favored you amongst the others and you didn’t mind it, not when you were learning about the greatest civilization in the world. You had always wished to be more connected to this land but sadly, you weren’t. Your only connection was the knowledge of the languages and the culture, not a parent you could always speak of during parties and galas. 

Looking up from your notebook, you placed it aside and sipped from your afternoon tea, eyes searching the landscape in front of you, hoping the sands and waves would tell you something, anything about the place you were in. It has been years since you’ve spoken with your Professor, wishing he was here with you, telling you all the secrets whispered to him by the stones. He always had a sense of things around him, and he once told you that you had that same instinct but you brushed it off. If you did, it hasn’t made itself visible yet. You’ve been here for months now, without a new find or anything to write about back home. 

But like Evy, you weren’t one to give up so easily, constantly searching for the impossible. A breeze flew through your hair, your skin shivering for the first time in a long time. The summer was close to ending and while it was unbearably hot during the day, the night could be even deadlier. You drank the rest of your tea and were collecting your notebooks when a few papers flew away. Immediately, you ran after them before they fell in the water, managing to catch all but one. You were about to jump in the water when a hand flew and grasped your wrist, pulling you back before you stepped any further.

“Wha-”

“The waters are not safe in these parts of the country.” Your eyes shifted back and forth between the man’s own dark orbs and his hand. He finally let go, staring at you as he passed and went into the water to collect your page. You hoped it was soaked enough that he wouldn’t see what was in it, sighing in relief when he came back out with what used to be a sketch.

“You must be careful. We do not need anymore incidents around here.” He threw the wet paper in your hands before walking away from the hill, yelling something to the men working around the temple before getting on his horse and leaving. You sighed before throwing the page away, hating how you somehow always made a fool out of yourself in his presence. You had not expected to see him today. Rick and Evy weren’t around so he had no reason to be here, or so you thought. You walked back to your tent to wash up before dinner, telling the men it was time for them to go home. 

"في أي وقت تريدننا أن نأتي غدا يا انسة؟" 

Miss, is there any specific time you wish us to come tomorrow?

One of the men yelled out to you, wiping the sweat from his forehead and waiting for your response. Your Arabic was that of a child’s and although you loved practicing it with the men and the people in the village, you hated how it came out like that of a toddler’s, sometimes grammatically incorrect and other times completely wrong. But you struggled through a response anyway, smiling at them before replying to the leader of the workmen.

"يمكنكم الراحة غدا وسأخبركم لاحقًا."

You can rest tomorrow and I will let you know later when you can come in.

They put their tools near your tent and left, thanking you and bidding you a good night. You were aware of the position you were in and at times, truly disliked it. You thought of maybe giving them a week or two break but you weren’t sure how that would go with your superiors back in Oxford. Once everyone had left, you brought food and water to your guards and asked them to take the night off. Both of them turned to each other and thanked you for the opportunity but told you they would remain nearby. When you realized they would still do whatever they wanted, you thanked them and left back to your tent.

You left them chatting about some wedding coming up and went back to your tent, shutting all sides before stripping down and showering. You were thankful for the men’s expertise on setting up this tent. They left you a place near one of the palm trees, closed from all sides so you could wash up quickly if you needed to. It was your favorite part of the day, standing in the middle of the desert and surrounded by the ancient air. Finishing up quickly, you left your hair down to dry naturally, wrapping yourself in a night robe before walking out of the little room. As soon as you looked up, you almost squealed, hand clasping at your chest for air. 

“You nearly gave me a heart attack.” Your words were a mix of anger and fear, body refusing to budge from its place until the figure in front of you said something. When he continued to stare at you, you cleared your throat and moved to pour some wine for yourself. “I thought you had left.” You turned around and saw he was still staring at you, his eyes following the droplets of water falling on your shoulders. 

When he continued to remain silent, you sipped from your glass and sat opposite of him. “I’m assuming Rick and Evy are coming soon then?” 

“What makes you say that?” His response was laced with sarcasm and you hated how he sounded, how he always treated you. Perhaps it was the heat finally getting to your head or the long hours in the field, maybe even the wine, but you’ve had enough.

“Seeing as you are never around unless they are, I thought they would be coming. We both know you are not here out of interest…” Your words trailed off and you looked up, surprised to see his demeanor change, however, not for the better. Without any hesitation, his frowning expression followed you as he stood, walking towards your chair and leaning down enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“Never ask your guards to leave.” His eyes darted to your lips but for a moment, watching the wine stain them a dark red before he pulled away and growled something in Arabic you didn’t quite catch, walking through the little opening in the tent and leaving you a mess. You downed the rest of your drink and crawled under your covers, finding it impossible to sleep now that you were so close to him. The man did things to you ever since you met him and you hated it. Somehow, you were always like a dog in heat whenever he was around. You weren’t sure what it was that was attractive about him; between his nearly black eyes and plump lips, and his dominant yet kind personality, you were sure there would never be another that would catch your attention. 

But it was just your luck that he absolutely despised you, constantly calling you out whenever Evy and Rick were around or, when they weren’t, ordering you around like you were a child who couldn’t care for herself. You wished you could know what it was that made him regularly angry with you but you opted to thinking it was because you were a complete outsider that, like her cousin, dug around in places where she didn’t belong. You chose to fall for a man that couldn’t stand you, a man that had every reason to not like you or your family, a man who could have any woman in his bed should he ask, a man whose sole purpose was to keep Egypt's secrets hidden from the curious eyes of the world. 

A man who went by the name of Ardeth Bay.

~II~

It had never occurred to you that the day would come when you could speak with a living being who belonged to an ancient tribe. While the modern Egyptians you interacted with were descendants of the ancients, whether of the Coptic or Muslim traditions, it amazed you that one of the least known tribesmen were among you to this day. In any text you read, administrative and personal, you could always find hints of the Medjay’s presence. In the royal letters, they were those who protected the deserts of Seth, the Pharaoh himself, and sometimes even the borders of the country. In the personal ones, although rarely mentioned, they were described as ones who never carried out much interaction with the population, always keeping to themselves or helping out wherever they were needed in a village before leaving. They patrolled the lands at times, making sure there were no Hittite or Akkadian spies seeking to destroy Pharaoh. 

Now, the chieftain of the Medjay was another story. He was constantly mentioned in any type of literary texts. Most of the times, he was mentioned by name and on behalf of his people. He was the most important of the Medjay for obvious purposes. You continued scribbling absentmindedly in your notebook, not paying attention to what it was you were writing down. You fell out of your haze when you heard a commotion in front of your tent. Looking at your watch, you jumped out of your bed when you realized you’ve been idle for an hour, quickly putting on your robe before exiting the tent.

“Is everything alright?” You saw the two guards arguing with a few women from the village, immediately walking up to them to see what was wrong.

“There is nothing to concern yourself with Miss.”

“Please, tell me.” You saw the two men look at each other before nodding at the women. 

"يريدونك ان تحضر حفلة زفاف صديقتهن الليلة."

They want you to attend their friend’s wedding tonight.

The women stood there in silence until you decided and although you wished to go, you weren’t sure you would be welcomed, especially if the bride and the groom did not know. You struggled with what you wanted to say and hoped you would make sense to them. 

"انا اتشرف لكن هل تعرف العروس أنكم طلبتن مني؟" 

It would be my honor, but does the bride know you came and asked me?

They smiled at your broken Arabic and nodded in unison before telling you that she was the one who asked them to come and invite you. They told you she would have come herself but she was preparing for the wedding in a few hours. You told them you would be more than happy to come and laughed when one of the younger girls jumped and hugged you before kissing both of your cheeks. The men did not look pleased at your decision but said nothing, telling you that one of them would stay on site while the other accompanied you to the wedding. And when you tried to tell them there was no reason to do so, they told you it was non-negotiable. 

So you left back to your tent to dress more properly before making the regular morning rounds, grabbing your notebook and heading to the other side of the temple where you have yet to excavate. You had asked permission from the townspeople first, and although you thought they would not grant you access since the mosque built on the site was still in use, they surprisingly agreed as long as you didn’t damage any part of the prayer house. You found a bolder near the mosque and sat on it, sketching the grounds first before going anywhere near the mosque. 

You stayed there for hours, losing all sense of time when your thoughts strayed away from the place to something, or rather, someone else. Flipping through the pages, you stopped and looked at the page you were invested in during the morning hours, shaking your head at how pathetic you were. Near the portrait you sketched of him instead of the one which fell in the Nile were hieroglyphs. You never knew that day dreaming would include writing in a dead language and you laughed a little, not because of what was on the page but because of how clever your mind was even when it was idle. 

                                                      𓇯𓂠𓍑𓇌 𓏥

“ḥry mḏꜢw.” You whispered to the monuments, tracing the lines of his features and wishing you had a better understanding of the man that was Ardeth. He was a living marvel in every sense of the word. And although you were attracted to him because of his intelligence and past, you couldn’t deny how handsome he was, probably the most beautiful of men you’d ever had the pleasure of looking at. You’ve only ever seen his face and hands, and as much as you hated to admit it, they were the fuel of your evening activities far too many times. And whenever he haunted your dreams, you always woke up heaving and sweating, knowing very well what your dreams were about. 

So busy continuing your sketch of him, you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching you until it was too late. For the third time in less than twenty four hours, Ardeth crept up on you, standing a few feet away behind you and ignoring your obvious distress before approaching you.

“You have got to stop doing that.” You said humorously but stopped smiling when you realized he was in a foul mood once more.

“Why are you going to the wedding?” He ignored your previous comment, crossing his arms and waiting for you to reply.

“I thought it would be rude to decline the invitation. I have never gone to an Egyptian wedding before and I have a feeling I will not get a second chance again.” Your tone came out more aggressive than you intended but you didn’t care. 

“And the guards? Had I not told you last night to never ask them to leave.” Ardeth took a step forward and part of you felt a twist in your stomach at his proximity, not because he would hurt you. No, he would never do that. But because you were barely over what transpired the night prior. 

“Last time I checked, I was the boss around here, not you. Now, I understand your position and hold great respect for it, but if you think you can walk around ordering me simply because I am a woman then it is best you don’t come around unless Rick or Evy are here. I don’t need to listen to you and you know this very well. If you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for a wedding.” You stood up and took one step forward, not seeing the giant rock in front of you. You prepared to hit the ground but no such thing happened. Instead, you felt a pair of arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding your body against a solid chest. Looking back, you felt Ardeth’s hands tighten around you as soon as you made eye contact with him. His eyes were dilated, the beautiful brown barely visible, jaws clenching when he saw your parted lips. He let go instantly, looking away and leaning down to pick up your notebook before you asked him not to.

As soon as he flipped the notebook to dust the sand off, he saw his portrait and the hieroglyphs written at the bottom, blinking confusingly a few times before handing you back the notebook and excusing himself. You wished the Nile could just flood and take you away from here. Not sure what to make of his reaction, you went back to your tent, aggressively opening the flap and throwing your things on the bed. You noticed something on the chair and picked it up, looking around to see who could have possibly come in here.

Walking outside, you saw the two guards drinking tea under a tree. Approaching them, you asked if they saw anyone go into your tent. When they told you that one of the women came back with clothes for you to wear, they accompanied her to your tent to make sure she placed it inside and took nothing. You thanked the two of them and walked back, studying the familiar gown you saw everyone wear in the village. You were glad they had given you one, not because you had nothing to wear but because you were afraid you dress might offend them. Quickly washing up, you put your hair up and put the long silky black gown on, twirling around in front of the mirror before putting your heels on and leaving. 

It was around five in the afternoon by the time you finished. You walked out and made your way to the guards to let them know you were ready. But when you got there, you saw them talking to Ardeth, bowing their heads to him when they saw you standing there and leaving. For a second, you thought he was going to argue with you and ask you to stay but as he approached you, you saw the almost reserved gaze he held. 

“Both men will stay here tonight and I will escort you to the wedding.” He said calmly and although you preferred this side of him, you couldn’t trust his sudden change of demeanor. 

“Are you serious?” Ardeth looked up at your question and you could pinpoint the moment he felt guilty but you chose to ignore it. “You do not wish to be in my company.” He said, more as a statement than a question and you hated how you denied him immediately.

“No no, that’s not what I said. Nevermind, we should probably leave. I don’t want to miss anything.” You turned around and refused to look back until you had reached the streets of the village. You realized you didn’t know where the wedding would be held but you saw some families walking towards the main church and thought to follow them. As soon as you arrived, you saw the girls from the morning standing outside. You smiled when one of them saw you and ran to welcome you in but as soon as she saw Ardeth, her eyes widened and she said something in Arabic that you did not recognize. 

And then something you’ve never seen before happened, absolutely taking your breath away and causing you to swallow the lump in your throat before approaching the other guests. Ardeth smiled at the young woman and asked her to not tell the elder of the village that he was here. You watched as he interacted with her and waved to her friends, telling her that he would rather enjoy the evening with everyone than have the attention on him. She smiled at him, telling him she will make sure no one will tell any of the administration that he was here before leaving to join her friends. 

You wished you could ask him why he said this but you thought it best to leave him alone. No need to start arguing from now. The night was young and you wanted to enjoy every moment of it. 

~III~

The ceremony was longer than you thought but you didn’t mind it. You enjoyed the hymns they sang, surprising Ardeth when you had picked up one of the books and followed along with the Coptic. You could tell he was staring at you but you ignored him, wanting to commit this to memory. When they finished and the priest announced them as man and wife, all the women began ululating and although it took you by surprise, you were glad to be a part of this. They were all so joyful, following the newly wed outside to the street as they walked to the giant tent and stage in the middle of the town. 

Not thirty minutes later, everyone was dancing and singing along with the couple. You watched as musicians played and danced around the woman and her husband, laughing when he picked her up and twirled her around. You forgot Ardeth was there and continued to watch everyone celebrate the two, but Ardeth was very much aware of your presence. 

Unbeknownst to you, he has spent months in Luxor, watching you and making sure nothing out of the ordinary took place but more importantly, making sure you were safe. He begrudgingly listened to Evy when she told him she knew his secret. He had tried to lie but Evy was clever, telling him that there was no shame in admitting the feelings he had for you. Ardeth told Evy that he could never be with you because you did not think of him the way he thought of you and up until a few hours ago, he thought Evy was lying to him when she told him that he was mistaken. 

When he saw the sketch you had of him, along with the hieroglyphs of his name and his title, he changed his mind. Maybe, just maybe, the feelings were mutual, but even then, he has been nothing but rude and condescending ever since he met you. Perhaps this was more out of curiosity than anything else, because in his mind, no woman as intelligent and beautiful as you would think of him that way. He was not from the ordinary population. This was even excluding where he came from; surely you would want to marry someone who held the same customs and traditions, perhaps even faith, as you. Why would you look at him, a man who was living proof of an ancient people, whose culture was completely different from yours, who might not give you everything you would wish for?

Ardeth was brought back to reality when he saw you standing up and leaving. He was about to follow you when he saw who it was you were approaching, sitting back down in the back along with a few others and watching as you went to the bride and the groom. 

When the young woman saw you, she tapped her husband on the shoulder to get his attention. The man thanked you for coming and told you that his wife aspired to be as kind as you one day. You were taken aback by the response, thanking the two of them and taking a small bag out of your purse. 

You told her you didn’t know what was proper to be given as a gift. She had declined it at first but when you opened it and showed it to her, both of them were surprised and asked you if you were sure. You didn’t know how to convey why you were giving it to her so you looked around to see if anyone who understood English could help you. As soon as you looked towards the back, you saw Ardeth staring right back at you. Swallowing your pride, you motioned for him to come, clasping your hands together to tell him you truly needed his help. He was next to you within moments, asking you what it was you needed.

“Could you please tell them that, as I understand, the blue scarab brings luck and keeps the evil eye away. And I wish for their marriage to always be happy and that they never struggle in anything.” You watched as he took the golden necklace, his eyes holding your gaze before he turned to the bride and told her what you said. She was surprised and said something back, her husband agreeing with her. 

“They are telling you that you are right but they could not possibly accept this.” Ardeth smiled at the couple and translated to you, watching as your expression frown in confusion. He thought it the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.  

“Why not?”

“It is made of gold and lapis lazuli Y/N, this would be the most expensive thing they own and they couldn’t take something as precious from you as this.” You almost gasped when he called you by your name, and you stopped yourself from asking him to say it again, knowing this was not the time or place for such a confrontation. 

“I know. But I want them to have it. Please, try to tell them again.” You placed your hand on his hand to turn it their way and Ardeth couldn’t help the blush that crept on his cheeks. He asked them again, telling them you knew very well what it was and that you really wanted them to have it. The couple looked at each other and back to you before taking the necklace and thanking you for it. The young woman hugged you tightly and kissed your cheeks, thanking you once more before asking her husband to put it on for her. 

You went back to your seat and sat down, waiting until a few moments passed before thanking Ardeth for helping you.

“It was nothing.” Ardeth replied, smiling again and watching as you timidly looked away, busying yourself with something other than the handsome man next to you. In that moment, everything clicked in his mind. The bickering, the shy demeanor, the quietness whenever he was around. You didn’t do these because you disliked him but because you thought of him the way he thought of you. Maybe not completely in the same way because he thought of you in such a manner that wasn’t allowed for him. Not unless you were his own to do such things with. 

You saw some of the workmen dancing around, one of them stopping when he saw you sitting next to Ardeth. He approached you and asked you if you would join him, to which you declined insistently, telling him you would only make a fool out of yourself. When he asked again and saw the way Ardeth clenched his jaws, he stopped, knowing it was unwise to anger a Medjay. You followed his gaze and saw the way Ardeth was staring at him, your heart fluttering for a moment at the thought of him being jealous. But no, that wasn’t possible. 

“Perhaps it is best if you take a week off?” You asked the man and he looked at you strangely, asking you if he understood you correctly. 

“Yes, a week. Don’t worry, you will be paid.” You smiled when he jumped and kissed your cheek before running to the other men and telling them they had a week off. You turned to look at Ardeth but he was nowhere to be found. Looking around, you didn’t find him anywhere, mind reeling back to see if you had said anything to offend him. You waited around for another hour and when he never returned, you excused yourself, bidding the couple a good night before walking back to your tent. But you were stopped by one of the girls, telling you that it was custom in their village for everyone to sit, even for a minute, with the palm reader on weddings. You never believed in these matters but thought why not, following the girl until she brought you to the older woman. 

“Sit down my dear.” The woman took your hand and pulled you down until you sat across from her. 

“You speak English?” You hadn’t meant to sound surprised but you have never met someone her age that could speak English.

“A little. I learn quickly.” She winked at you, opening the palm of your hands and drawing patterns across the lines. She remained quiet for a long time before putting your hands down and looking at you. “You have a long life ahead of you, a bright one too.” She said nothing else and you didn’t know what came over you but you asked her anyway.

“Is there love in this life?”

“There could be.”

“What do you mean?” Before you finished your question, the woman was bringing out a small piece of paper, handing it to you to see your reaction. When you opened it, you read the few lines written in Coptic and turned to look at her once more. You knew what it was. You had seen something similar at your time in Oxford when Professor Maspero brought you his findings and although you didn’t believe in such things, you were not one to tempt your luck. “Thank you, but I think it is best if I leave.” You handed the paper back to her, watching as she smiled and nodded your way.

“To be wise at such a young age. May Allah bless you and keep you safe my child. And to answer your question, there is. And you will not need such charms to make it so, for the one you seek has always had his eyes set on you and no one else.” You didn’t have time to say anything before the woman was standing up and walking away, leaving you more confused than before. Silently leaving the festivities, you made you way back to the excavation grounds, your legs leading you to the shores of the river rather than your tent. There was no way you could sleep after hearing the old woman’s words.

~IV~

You returned to the same spot you always sat in to watch the sunset every day, looking up at the sky and marveling at the many stars and constellations so visible at night. But your mind quickly returned to the old woman’s fortune; did she mean what you thought she meant? It couldn’t have been possible that she knew your feelings, let alone Ardeth’s. But she was so sure of herself.

You dug into your purse and pulled out your notebook, returning to the familiar page once more and passing your fingers over his name.

“You know, I never thought of how my name could mean something else.” You turned around when you heard Ardeth call behind you, not bothering to tell him that he almost made you drop your notebook again. When you said nothing, he continued.

“May I join you?” He asked and you could tell he was fully expecting you to tell him off. But when you nodded and motioned for him to sit next to you, he did so quietly. 

“What do you mean?” You asked him, not bothering to hide the page from him anymore. He silently asked if he could see your notebook and pencil, and you handed them over. He traced his callous fingers over his name in hieroglyphs, reading them out loud and smiling at you.

𓄿𓂋𓌗 𓂞𓇌𓏏𓏛 𓃀𓇋𓄿𓎡𓅄𓅆

“Ꜣr dı͗t bı͗k…”

“The one who makes the driving away from the falcon.” You repeated after him, watching as his smile brightened even more so than before. Then you saw him scribbling something down right next to the last part of his name. 

𓃀𓇋𓄿𓈅𓏤𓈐

“bı͗Ꜣ? As in path?” You asked him, trying to see what his name would mean now.

“The one who makes the driving away from the path,” he whispered, then pointed to the tattoo on his forehead and his cheeks. He watched as the meaning of his name dawned on you.

“The one who makes the driving away from the path of the netherworld through maat.” You responded, smiling when he nodded at you and told you he preferred your interpretation better.

“Why?” “As I see it, it was our role to protect Pharaoh who was the manifestation of Horus on earth. It makes sense that my name parallels the old ‘job description’...to drive away Horus from his demise and being taken into the underworld.” He handed you back your notebook and looked towards the river, watching as the waters softly hit the shores.

“Do all the Medjay have those as well?” You asked, hoping he found no offense in your curiosity. 

“No, just the chieftain. But all of us hold names that correspond to an element of our past lives.” He continued, turning to look at you once again and hoping he could find it in himself to apologize for all the times he disrespected you. You met his gaze before looking away immediately. It was hard to maintain eye contact with him, his eyes making you feel as if he was staring into your soul. Then you felt his hand rest on your own in the sand, looking down and seeing his fingers clasping yours harshly. Your heart was beating against your chest and you hoped he couldn’t hear it. 

When you turned to face him again, he was already staring at your lips, and you couldn’t help it, licking them and mirroring his actions before leaning in towards him. Ardeth didn’t want to move, afraid he would break this trance between the two of you, but when he saw you moving towards him, something completely otherworldly took over. 

He let go of your hand and cupped your cheeks, pulling you towards him and taking your lips aggressively in a hungry kiss. You gasped into the sudden motions, hands fisting in his clothes to hold onto him so you didn’t fall over. Ardeth took this as a sign of submission, pushing you down on the sand and cornering you between his arms. When you moaned against him, he snuck his tongue past your lips, exploring your skin like it was a new oasis. His hands crept into your hair before rolling down your form, holding onto your waist and squeezing you against him to feel every inch of you. 

You didn’t know what to do, torn between pushing him away to ask him about the sudden change of heart and begging him to take you to your tent and have his way with you. When he felt your nails dig into his shoulders, he pulled away, his breath fanning over your cheeks and his eyes memorizing your blissed out facial expression. When you finally opened your eyes, you had already regulated your breathing, pulling your hands away and keeping them to yourself. You hoped he would understand and move away, and when he didn’t, you looked anywhere but him.

Ardeth finally understood what you were silently asking him, moving away and sitting up slowly. Before he could say anything else, you were standing up and running away to your place. He knew calling after you wouldn’t do him any good so he sat by himself for a while. When the night air turned colder, he stood up and was about to go to the other guards when he saw your notebook lying on the ground. 

Picking it up, he dusted the sand off and made his way to your tent. The Medjay saw him approaching and stood up, greeting him before returning to their posts. 

“wḏi.” The command passed his lips angrily, and the two subordinates knew not to question him. They stood up and walked back to the village, leaving Ardeth standing outside your tent. He had spent hours committing to memory the pass of your tongue against his, every smooth touch of your skin against his rough fingers. Without thinking much of it, he walked into your tent to place your notebook on the nightstand, telling himself to not look at you even for a moment. 

But his self control flew with the breeze, his eyes turning back and seeing your naked figure under the thin covers. He could tell you were naked, for your entire back was exposed to his gaze. Gently, he reached over and rolled the cover until you were shielded from his eyes. You looked so beautiful in your sleep, hair forming a halo on the pillow. He knew this was wrong but he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. Slowly, he traced the blush on your cheeks up to your hair, brushing the few strands aside to take a closer look at you.

“A-ardeth…” His name spilling from your lips pushed him back to reality, pulling away and exiting the tent immediately out of fear of himself. He bit his tongue to distract himself from the familiar ache creeping into his groin whenever you were around. It was much worse now however, because he knew what his name sounded like when you moaned it in your sleep. Sitting near the fire, Ardeth removed his knife and picked up a large tree branch, cutting away to distract himself from the sleeping figure not twenty feet away from him. 

Unbeknownst to him, you were very much awake when he entered your tent. For a moment, you were afraid it was not him but when leaned over to cover your body, you could smell his scent, one that you were more familiar with now more than before. You knew he would not try to force himself on you and when he brushed your hair, you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your throat in the form of his name. He was gone a moment later, leaving you a mess beneath your covers. You wished you could bring him back to your bed, tell him you ran away because you were afraid of offending him by asking him to do something that may not be acceptable in his culture and not because you were refusing him. 

You slept knowing the old woman was truthful in everything she had told you, and Ardeth laid awake through the night thinking you ran away because you did not want him. 

~V~

You woke up earlier than usual, making yourself exceptionally presentable before exiting the tent. You walked out prepared to face Ardeth and try to make small talk so he doesn’t feel awkward but he was nowhere to be found. You hated when he did that and he seemed to do that a lot around you. You saw the two guards, who you now knew were Medjay, standing around and talking. When they saw you, they bowed their heads before returning to their conversation. 

You didn’t bother to look for him, going about your day as you normally would have and hoping you could be productive instead of thinking about him. You continued recording mounds of interest in your notebook, walking around the area near the mosque and straying away from the major area to the west of the temple. You never came to this part of the grounds, knowing Professor Maspero had already discovered the Chapel of the goddess Mut. There was no way he would’ve missed anything, he was a thorough man. But in your attempt to not topple over the rocks, you skipped a step and fell on your face on top of what used to be a column in the hypostyle hall of the temple. 

“For god’s sake,” you whispered to yourself, looking for your pencil and dusting off your pants. You cursed under your breath when you saw your pants have ripped at the knee. Resting on the column, your eyes passed through a relief that seemed oddly familiar. Ignoring the pain in your legs, you tried to wipe the sand as much as possible from the relief, eyes widening in surprise when you realized what the relief was.

Frantically standing up, you picked up your notebook to mark where you were on the site before discarding it again, kneeling down and dusting off as much as you could without damaging the column. 

There, engraved in large letters, was a Coptic inscription surrounding a cross that was most likely carved over a hieroglyphs. You almost screamed at the sheer luck, marking the area before running to your tent to grab your tools. The guards saw you running around frantically and were about to ask you when they saw you jumping out of your tent with your small kit. They knew not to disturb you when you were working. 

You returned to the column and brushed away from the column before grabbing a shovel and removing the rubble from around the column. You’ve never had to do this much work in your years of excavations but you didn’t care, this was far more rewarding than anything. You looked like a wild woman by the time you cleared the column, sitting down to sketch as many of the reliefs as you could. The Coptic would have to wait, you had no energy for this today. 

When you returned to your tent, the two guards saw the state of you and asked if anything happened to you. You explained what took place and told them that dinner was on you, giving one of them money to fetch food from the village. The men thanked you and told you they would tell you when the food was here. 

You went back in to bathe, knowing you looked like an absolute mess of a woman and that you should not be in their company in such a manner. You were about to unbutton your shirt when someone walked into the tent.

“That was quick. You must’ve been truly hungry to-” The words died in your throat when you turned around and saw Ardeth standing at the entrance. You said nothing, silently kicking yourself for not returning sooner and cleaning up. The last thing you needed was to look filthy in front of him. But none of this compared to the way he was looking at you, like a predator ready to devour his prey. 

His eyes softened, however, when he saw you the state of your knees and the dried blood on the beige pants. Without thinking much of it, he stepped towards you, kneeling down to inspect your skin.

“What happened?”

“I- there was a…” You couldn’t think of a coherent sentence, the feeling of his warm hands wrapped around your legs too distracting. “I was just walking around and quite literally fell upon a new discovery. Did you know there was an old church built in this temple?” Ardeth ignored your rambling, asking you to sit down on the chair while he fetched a clean cloth and some water. You didn’t dare argue with him, silently taking a seat and rolling up your pants for him. He came back with a small amphora filled with cold water and a cloth. His blood thrummed in his ears as soon as he saw your skin. And although he tried to hide himself, you couldn’t help but smile at the blush that crept across his cheeks. 

Gently, he sat down and held your calves, cursing himself for thinking he could do this without making a fool out of himself. 

“You should be more careful Y/N.” There it was again, your name whispered so softly and causing you shake. Ardeth felt goosebumps erupting on your skin, barely holding back the smile of pride at being the cause of such a reaction. You nodded, not trusting your voice just yet. He was tender in every touch, slowly dabbing the wet cloth around the inflamed area before treating the other knee in a similar fashion. Like the previous night, something took over him and he couldn’t hold himself back, leaning down and kissing your knees, telling you to watch the wounds when you washed.

When Ardeth looked up, he saw the frenzy swimming in your eyes, and he could only smile at you when your lips parted to attempt and thank him. 

“I will wash this for you.” He raised the blood stained cloth and you tried to stop him but he insisted, telling you it was nothing. When he left your tent, you were sure your heart was close to jumping out of your chest. It was such a minor touch but it boiled your blood, knowing what his lips felt like on your skin yet again. Shaking your head, you went to the corner of the tent to wash up quickly, your heart already leaping at the thought of seeing him again. 

But then something broke your trance. God you could not never have the heart to refuse this man if he asked you to have him, but you also couldn’t bear it if you were to tempt him to do something that went against his culture, even religion. Come to think of it, your knowledge of the Medjay’s religious beliefs was minimal. You had spent a long time with them when you were with Evy and Rick, seeing many of them walking into the mosque in their village during the day to pray. But you also saw your two guards walking out of Mass on Sunday morning numerous times, singing some of their hymns as they walked back to their post. 

Either way, you could not possibly be the cause that Ardeth strayed from his beliefs. You had respected him far too much to tempt him or place him in an unpleasant situation with whatever religious leader he knew. You were very much aware of your position, not just as a stranger to the culture and religions but also as a woman that did not care for the rules revolving around physical relationships. It was one of the things that had many men and women of your social circle angry and whisper about. You only had one or two affairs with men but you still valued yourself, just not in the same way that women of your society did. You did not care for the limiting rules set upon you by the Catholic church or English culture. Thankfully, neither did your parents, always telling you to follow your heart and not care for what anyone thought of you. You were only Catholic by name after all, not by belief.  

But you couldn’t apply this advice now. You cared what Ardeth thought of you and you did not want him to think you were “easy,” neither did you want him to see you as a prude. So you reeled back all thoughts of approaching him, wanting to give the two of you some time to test the waters. You took your time in the bath, slowly washing yourself to make sure the wound did not bleed again. It was an hour later when you emerged from the water, wrapping a towel around yourself before rubbing another around your hair. 

But when you emerged from behind the wooden screen, you saw Ardeth walking in to place the urn and cloth near your bed. When he turned around, his body went tense, hands shaking at the sight of you and eyes blinking slowly. Neither of you moved for a few moments. You waited to see what he would do, chest rising and falling when you saw the way his eyes took you in. You saw his adam’s apple bob up before resting back in its place and you thought, ‘20 seconds of courage.’

Throwing the hair towel away, you walked up to him, standing a few inches away from his rigid torso. 

“You are treading on dangerous grounds Y/N.” Ardeth whispered, his nose flaring when the scent of lavender hit his senses. He was losing every ounce of control coursing through his veins and he wished you would step away before he did something he might regret. Slowly, you reached your hands towards him to cup his cheeks, watching as he shut his eyes to control himself. You saw his jaws clenched tightly, fists cracking from how harshly he was holding himself back. Leaning forward, you brushed your lips against his own before pulling back.

“Tell them to leave.” That was all Ardeth needed for confirmation, setting the animal loose and wrapping his arms around you before devouring your lips. His hands fisted in your damp hair, pulling your neck back so he could lay kisses all over your skin. You moaned loudly against him, causing him to clamp his hand on your mouth in fear of the men hearing you. Reluctantly pulling away, Ardeth told you to remain in your spot until he got rid of the two guards. You barely held yourself up when he left you to walk out of the tent. 

You could hear him ordering the two men, and telling them to not return unless they saw Horus. Both men responded their agreement and left, and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed because they probably knew why their chieftain ordered them so aggressively to leave. 

Ardeth walked back in and tied the knots of the entrance, walking around all sides of the tent to make sure there were no visible windows or holes or even entrances for anyone to disturb the two of you. When he came back to you, he saw you looking at the ground, arms set at your sides shyly.

“You do not owe me anything Y/N, certainly not your body. I can leave now if you wish me to.” It broke his heart to tell you such things but he never wanted to force you to do anything you did not wish to do. When you looked up at him and blinked, he knew your answer. 

And before he could do anything, you were loosening the knot of the towel, letting it fall to the floor to leave you naked to his eyes. Ardeth was having a hard time, in more ways than one, maintaining his nerves. His heart skipped a beat at seeing you bare in front of him and he knew there was no holding back anymore when you looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

"يا اللة."

My god.

~VI~

As soon as he whispered those two words, you were on him like the water clinging to your skin, not caring about any consequences to your actions. Ardeth embraced you with as much passion, swallowing your cries when his hands got bolder with every pass over your skin. He was a much more aggressive lover than you thought and perhaps it was due to the sexual tension between the two of you in the past few weeks. 

He pulled away and you noticed that he held a direct gaze, not a playful expression in sight. You whined at the loss of his lips and if he were any other man, Ardeth would have smiled and felt a sense of pride for having this much of an effect on you. But he wasn’t another man. He was a starved man and you were exactly what he yearned for in decades. Ardeth couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this strongly to another woman. The last time he was in a relationship, be it physical or emotional, was so long ago that he couldn’t remember who it was. He was a young boy who thought being with a woman would make him a man but he knew soon after it was not this simple.

His lips sucked at the juncture of your neck and noticed you biting your lips to prevent any sound from escaping past them. His fingers squeezed your waist and brought you closer to him harshly, a part of him knowing he should slow down and cherish every inch of you in a perhaps gentler manner. But you were finally in his arms, and he couldn’t bring himself to hold back, not when you were so responsive to his mean and quick touches. He bit down a little harshly on your clavicle and a part of him wished it was to hear your noises and not to mark you as his, but he would dwell on that later. When you finally moaned against him, he eased the hold he had on your hips and pulled away to take you in. “Do not silence yourself Y/N, your sounds belong to me,” he gasped when you visibly shuddered against him, his hands shaking when he felt your nails dig into his arms. “Sweet music to my ears…”

You didn’t know what came over you but no sooner than his hoarse request were your moans loud enough to be heard from the river. He continued his assault on your flushed skin, nipping and licking every inch of you until you surrendered yourself to his hands. You tugged at his shoulder, fisting your fingers in his robes before reaching for his turban. Loosening the scarves away from his head, you watched as his hair fell down past his cheeks and framed his handsome features. Ardeth looked up and saw the way your eyes gazed at him and he felt relief wash over him because he was not the only one who felt this unbearable need.

You leaned forward and Ardeth thought you were going to kiss him but then you pulled his hair and exposed his neck for you, sucking on his adam’s apple and feeling his shaking hands wrap around your entire body. “My heart aches for you Y/N-” Ardeth couldn’t help the growl that flew past his vocal cords, his hands shaking violently when you continued to bite his throat time and again. He wasn’t sure if he was this sensitive because it has been decades since he was touched in such a manner or if it was because you were the one claiming his body. “It yearns for you when the sun rises each morning and- ahhh by the gods woman...and craves you when it sets past the Nile.”

If it were any other woman, Ardeth was sure she would be turned off by his words. They weren’t seductive in any way, but he knew you. He knew your preferences, your likes and dislikes, perhaps already understood what you desired after even though he has not been an hour in your bed. Somehow, however, he sensed your appreciation for the sensual and romantic words he uttered and he continued to test both his resolve and yours with every affection he emoted. And he was right to think so because within minutes, he had your body willing and ready for him. You should have expected him to have such a sinful tongue and you rubbed your thighs when Ardeth moaned shamelessly at your equally-aggressive hands. He was more vocal than any of your previous lovers and you found that you enjoyed it immensely.  

“Ardeth, please just...take these off. I need to feel your skin. I want to touch you, kiss you, look at every inch of you.” Ardeth smiled at your lack of patience, not warning you as he leaned down and carried you to the bed. He laid you down gently before standing over you, shaking his head when he saw the way you grabbed at your breasts to seduce him.

“You are a vixen, the most beautiful my eyes have seen.” Ardeth licked his lips as he looked you over, undoing his robes slowly to fill his mind’s eye with you. You arched your back and moaned when you saw his bare skin through the robes, not caring that you were being forward when you grabbed his robes and pulled him towards you. Ardeth stepped confusingly towards you, hissing when he felt your hands palm him through the black material.

“Y/N, I- I thought your hand would calm this heat I feel for you, but- oh gods, ahhh you- you have done little to quench this fire.” His words went straight to your core and you began to pull at the clothes until they pooled at his feet. Before he could step out of them, you were leaning forward and kissing his hard member, hands kneading and teasing the base until he was panting mess above you.

“Ahhh gods, my love you’re- you are truly talented.” Ardeth tries his hardest to focus on your blissed-out expression but he fails as soon as he feels the palm of your hand close around the tip of his erection. He manages to open his eyes and look down just in time to see you lick the protruding vein ending right below the head and he almost loses himself right then and there. As much as it pains him, he fists his hand in your hair and pulls you off of him before pushing you down on your bed and standing once more. He holds a dangerous and warning gaze and you understand why he silently asks you to not touch him again. You shamelessly look at him as he moves around, watching the way his muscles flex whenever he pulls an article of clothing off aggressively. 

You almost giggle at how quick he is but you hold back, afraid of making him think you are laughing at him. His mind freezes when he stands up and turns to you, unable to look away from where your fingers are. Ardeth raises a curious eyebrow, slowly kneeling down on the bed before approaching you like a lion waiting to devour his prey at the proper time. He is almost angry at the way your eyes challenge him but he chooses to think past the brave aura, gently parting your thighs wider so he could take a better look at the motion of your fingers. He growls, silently chuckling when he sees your legs shake at the sound. You stop your actions altogether and suddenly realize just how dry your mouth is.

“Do not stop on my account Y/N,” Ardeth’s voice is deeper than normal and you whine at his self-control. You had thought he would take you as soon as his guards left but he proved to be a more patient man than you thought. “Ardeth please, please-” You stop breathing when he leans down between your parted thighs, licking your navel and blowing air on the wet skin until you reach for him. Slowly descending down your body, Ardeth holds your gaze and squeezes your buttocks before whispering against your heat, “unless you want me to stop, you will be patient. Remove your hands.” You obey him instantly, letting go of his shoulders before pulling on the bed sheets violently to have some semblance of control.

He hums in approval and returns to the task at hand. A part of him wished he would be gentleman-like with you, but his mind was losing the last bit of control and he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. Shutting his eyes, he leaned down and licked your core once, twice to open you up for him. As soon as you threw your head back in pleasure, he did what his mind dreamed of doing to you for months, years even. Not caring for how filthy it must have looked, let alone sounded, Ardeth poked your wet lips with his nose and took a long whiff of your scent, groaning when the sweet smell swept straight to his groin. Your eyes shot open and glanced down at him immediately, gasping at the obscenity of his actions. Ardeth was afraid he scared you but when he turned his attention back to your heat, he saw proof of your arousal leaking down your thighs.

He smiled and glanced back at you, maintaining eye contact as he licked you dry. You were embarrassed but for a moment, moaning his name over and over again as he pleasured you until you could no longer feel anything but him. 

“Ardeth, ahhh pl-please Ardeth I-” he didn’t let you finish, sucking on your wet core vigorously before pushing down on your lower abdomen to keep you still for him. As soon as you felt his fingers part your sensitive core, your hands fisted in his long locks and pulled on it. You had expected him to cease his actions or ask you to be patient again but the opposite occurred. Ardeth coated his fingers with your pleasure before pushing them against you, exploring your body with his quick digits while he continued to nip and lick at the protruding bundle of nerves. He was slowly driving you mad with his ministrations and you managed to keep whatever control remained because the last thing you needed was for the whole village to know what is transpiring in your tent. 

But then he curled his fingers inside you and increased pressure once, twice, three times until he felt your back arch off the bed. You couldn’t hold back anymore, clenching around his fingers as he brought you to the utmost pleasure and when you begged him to stop, he refused, wanting to coax another petite mort out of you before he pulled away. Ardeth raised himself just in time to see you let go once more, his eyes taking in your features before slowly descending down your body. Your skin was glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling rapidly with every breath you took and Ardeth almost lost his mind when he saw how perky and flushed your breasts were. When he saw how spent you looked, he pushed his fingers inside you one last time before taking them out and rubbing your thighs to soothe you. You fell back onto the bed, hair disheveled and lips parted from how hard you were breathing. As soon as you managed to look at him, Ardeth took this chance and licked his fingers dry before slowly ascending your body.

He left a trail of kisses on your skin, occasionally nipping an area he found desirable and you smiled when he came face to face with your breasts. You couldn’t hold back the scandalous moan that emanated when he leaned down and took a pert nipple between his teeth, fondling the other until you felt pleasure from the pain of his touches. 

“I- I’m sensitive there Ardeth,” your attempt at warning him did little to nothing, only edging him further in his actions until you were a mess beneath him again. “All the more reason to devour you Y/N. You torment me with your moans. Your whispers of my name...in the name of the ogdoad, forgive me. Do not reproach me for losing myself in your beauty. If you choose to deny me this, then send me away this instance for I cannot...will not hold back any longer.” You were overcome with warmth at the intensity of his words, knowing it must be hard for him to say such words given the nature of his quiet personality, let alone the position he was in. “You fill me with desire from head to foot Y/N. My love shall never be veiled again.” He continued his assault on your breasts and you continued praying his name when you felt his shaft leaking on your belly. You weren’t sure what you wanted anymore, but you were absolutely certain of one thing: Ardeth was the last man you would allow in your bed because you knew in your heart that no one else was capable of loving you as much as he does, not just physically, but emotionally. 

“I have wanted you for so long, and I- ahhh god your tongue drips of sin, and I pleasured myself at night, imagining how you would touch me, h-how your skin would feel against mine, how rough you would be when you lose control, and-” you took a deep breath, holding back what you wanted to say for fear of making him think you were ill-mannered. But he has not once held back from you this night. As a matter of fact, Ardeth has done the opposite, voicing his desires proudly before stealing orgasm after another from you. You found courage through his actions and whispered to him what you have wanted for so long. “And I dreamed of feeling you so deep inside me, giving you pleasure with avidity until you stilled my torments.” You wrapped your legs around him, not giving him a chance to contemplate on your actions before gyrating your hips into his verge until you felt him rub against your damp core. 

Ardeth shuddered in your arms, his surprise turning into firm touches as he wrapped one arm around your back while the other hand smoothed down your hips. He leaned down and captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his hand pushing your lower back into him to control the motion of your hips. He could feel himself nestled between your thighs, moaning and sucking on your tongue when he sensed how dripping wet you were for him.

“You drive me mad woman,” Ardeth smiled against your mouth before reaching up and pulling on your hair to get more access to your neck. He bit down wherever he could as he felt your desire drench his thighs. You would tell him later that you preferred nothing more than feeling his chest slide against yours, not because of how toned and muscular it was but because of how rough it was to the touch. The friction his chest hair caused was painful yet it ignited a fire within you instantaneously. 

“Please, please just-”

“What do you need Y/N, I will give you anything.” Ardeth was breathing just as harshly as you, if not more. He gazed into your eyes, watching the brewing storm erupt as he rolled his hips against you. You dug your nails into his back, the other holding onto his hair when you couldn’t take it any longer.

“I need you, Ardeth, I need you now. Please, I- I burn for you… need to embrace you,” and for good measure, you stretched your hand between your bodies, grabbing his painfully hard member and rubbing it between your parted lips. “Let me embrace you, let me quench this radiating fire.” You pronounced each word with a rough pass over your core and Ardeth prayed your name until he couldn’t take it anymore.

He grabbed your wrist aggressively, slamming it above your head and pushing you down until he felt your submission and before you could whine again, he was spitting in his hand, proud of the response he received from you at the sudden and audacious action. He stroked himself a few times before lining himself up against you, slowly pushing past your slit into your heat until he felt completely engulfed by your silky walls. You ceased to breathe as you felt the intrusion reach deeper, refusing to tell him to stop because even though he was filling you to the hilt, you still craved him. 

Ardeth could barely hold himself above you, his arms threatening to give out beneath him from the immense pleasure. He wasn’t sure if you were purposely clenching violently around him or not, but all he knew was that he has never felt such satisfaction in his life. And he silently cursed you for feeling so tight and inviting because he knew very well no other woman would compare to you. Neither in your intellect and wittiness, nor your beauty and perfection. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought because he never thought he would have the neural capacity to applaud your brilliance when he was this deep inside you. 

You didn’t know why he was laughing and you hoped it wasn’t because you didn’t live up to his expectations. You loosened your hold on him and he noticed, gazing down at you and seeing the inquisitive expression you held. Brushing your hair aside, he refused to look anywhere but your doe-like orbs as he soothed the slight hint of panic away from your skin.

“You have, without a doubt, utterly ruined all women for me Y/N,” Ardeth claimed shamelessly before pulling himself out, and refusing to move until he made sure you were content. When he saw you release your breath and throw your head back, he thrust back in a little vigorously than intended. Before he could apologize for his lack of patience, he heard you faintly whispering for him.

“Ardeth, d-don’t hold back. Take your pleasure, please. I- I want you to ruin me...ahh god, want you to brand my soul.” You pulled him down to you, kissing the corner of his mouth and licking his jaw, enticing him until he lost all self-control and took from you what you dreamed of giving him ever since you laid eyes on him in the desert long ago. At your request, Ardeth lost himself, moving in and out between your thighs without remorse. He hummed against the juncture of your neck, the grip he held on your hair getting tighter with every passing minute. You turned your head to the side, sighing and moaning his name as he roughly drove himself into you. 

You bit his wrist, causing him to lose his balance for a moment before growling and thrusting into you. “If- ahhh gods, if one time will not suffice to quench your fire, I shall do it again to satisfy you. You have bewitched me body and soul Y/N, m nb pt I surrender myself to you.” You felt a sudden flare of lightning strike across your abdomen as soon as he spoke in his native tongue, unintentionally clenching harder around him and causing him to scream into the night air. Even though he spoke little in his language, you couldn’t help but imagine him continue to do so as he brought you to the utmost pleasure. Ardeth noticed your responsiveness to his words and he felt pride deep in his lungs at the thought of knowing he was the cause of such a reaction. 

His pace began to falter, knowing very well he could not last any longer because of how perfect and velvety you felt around him. He set a punishing pace nonetheless, wanting to feel you fall over the edge with him. Taking hold of your chin, he turned you to face him before claiming your mouth again, not caring that he might draw some blood from his aggressive actions. The only sounds heard in the tent were your moans, and his skin slapping against your own. It drove him mad hearing your arousal seep down your thighs with every pass of his verge past your slit. 

“sttyt nṯr ꜥꜣ, come with me, please Y/N, come for me. Now!” For god knows what time that night, Ardeth bit down on your skin, somehow managing to thrust into you harder than before until you couldn’t control your own body. He felt your orgasm before you had the chance to tell him, shuddering against you as he released himself deep inside you. You arched your back against him as waves of pleasure coursed through your body, the intensity of your gratification terrifying your heart. You never realized you were capable of feeling such things and yet here you were, in the arms of the man you never thought you could get close to until a few hours ago.

As you opened your eyes, you saw dilated pupils staring right back at you. It seemed comical that you felt naked under his potent gaze and actually attempted to cover yourself. His grip on you hardened, silently telling you to never attempt such a thing again.

“What have you done to me woman? Not even I had any control over myself.” He whispered before smiling and leaning down to kiss you passionately. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer to you, feeling the muscles of his back shift under your touch as he moved to pull himself out of you. Ardeth fell to the side, reaching for the covers before bringing you to him. You laid beneath his neck, pushing your thighs around his legs and chuckling when he warned you with a huff. Ardeth tried his hardest to think of anything but your hard nipples teasing his chest and he realized he could never be able to not think of you as long as you were in his embrace.

~VII~

“This is not the time, and perhaps I should have inquired before...this...but I wanted to apologize if I caused you to do or say anything against your ways.” There was no other manner you could state what you wanted to tell him and you hoped he wouldn’t be offended by your boldness. You sighed when you heard him chuckle for a second, turning your gaze to him to study his facial expression.

“The chieftain of the Medjay is seldom a follower of any religion besides the old one. As far as I know, he can only belong to the old traditions and it is not our custom to hold such things as taboo before marriage. If anything, it is I who should apologize for being incapable of stopping this before it escalated.” He played with your hair, and you couldn’t help but shiver at the seriousness of his voice. 

“Why?”

“You often wear a cross around your neck and I could only assume you are Christian.”

“I was raised one but never believed in any of it. There are too many similarities between the Ancient Religion and Christianity, and do not tell my family any of this, but I genuinely believe Christianity stole its stories and beliefs from your religion. If I were to ever follow a tradition, it would be the Ancient Egyptian one. Horus knows I swear by his name all the time.” You never expected to hear Ardeth laugh this loudly but he did so and you couldn’t look away from the beautiful expression he held. The sound was so pure you almost begged him to do it again. Both of you remained quiet for a few minutes, and he occasionally smiled when you continued to draw patterns on his chest. 

After a while, Ardeth broke the silence and surprised you yet again. “I have spent many nights imagining what it would feel like to have you naked and willing in my arms, and now that I am here, I cannot fathom how divine you are.” You blushed under his gaze and Ardeth knew he would do everything in his power to see that blush creep down your breasts once more.

“bı͗ꜣyt.ı͗, my heart belongs to you.” You continued to stare at him, and he sighed in relief when you graced him with a shy smile. Slowly, you sat up and cupped his cheek, tracing the hieroglyphs on his handsome features before touching each one with your lips. You could feel him smiling against your neck and sighed when his grip tightened around your waist. 

“And mine is yours, wbnnı͗.ı͗.” Ardeth couldn’t help himself, grabbing your neck and pushing you down to kiss you before wrapping his arms around you to keep you as close to him as possible. You laid your head back on his chest and shut your eyes, the feeling of tranquility slowly washing over you as you focused on the beat of his heart. Finally, since decades, Ardeth felt content, knowing he would never allow himself to embrace another woman and would fight an entire army before he lets another man touch you. You remained in each other’s arms for the duration of the night, letting the sounds of the Nile lull you into a deep sleep, knowing that everything was, at long last, as it should be. 

Tagging some people who expressed excitement at the idea of this fic:

@feelmyroarrrr @thorodinsvn @oplunket16 @vvigilantes @the-rookie-97  @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @buckylokihoes @redqueen1221 @kuronekotsiigan @sai-kida134 @wonderwolfstrash @commissioner23 @valeks-princess @libbymouse @taliaalghuldeservesbetter @ruby-white-rabbit​ @jamdropx35​ @dramadreamer14​ @tnupsweetpie​ @jessicahoppes @la--petit--croissant @kandomeresbitch​ @pleasantdreamqueen​

[jazzywazzy89]

Some Takeaways for the Episode

I wanted to give some initial reactions to the first episode. Long post.

Sam: I loved the little details we got about him as a person. Him being multilingual. The fact that he repairs Redwing by himself because it glitches whenever anyone else touches it. The way he carries himself as a leader, a brother, and a civilian. His determination and his love for his family. He is also very steadfast, poised, and still has that humor in the face of adversity given the interaction with the banker. Even in his frustration with his situation there is this calm determination about him that just makes you want to trust him and get behind what he’s doing. But also there is a fierceness that comes through when he is passionate about something, and so I feel like once he takes on the mantle, which he will in spite of how the episode ended, it will be amazing to see.

We also learned that is grief over his father’s passing was what caused him to enlist and to fight and thinking about that as a coping mechanism, but then the grief over Riley seemed to cause him to want to be on the ground if CA:TWS is anything to go by. But there is what feels like a chasm between him as his sister because of all of there losses and because of her being used to handling things on her own even before the “blip”, but I am looking forward to seeing their relationship develop because in spite of the tension and the push back from Sarah there is clear love there that Sam has for her and she has for Sam. It is also interesting to me that Sam is trying so hard to hold onto to his family’s legacy but gave up the shield because he didn’t feel like he could live up to Steve’s which causes another person (who for some reason reminds me of Joffrey from Game of Thrones) to take up the mantle.

 In terms of his work with the military and the mention of living without borders, I am wondering how this will play out. Because I feel like, from what Spellman and Skogland have been saying about everyone believing their heroes, even the villains, we are going to get a situation similiar to Black Panther in that the audience is going to understand and relate to the perspective of the villains and we are going to see all sides and there is going to be some level of understanding by the end that leads to a middle ground of some sort. From the looks of it I feel like the development will be worth the wait. I also loved that Sam is continuing to reach out to Bucky even if he is being ignored. That he’s still connected to Rhodey ( IT WAS SO GREAT SEEING THOSE TWO ON SCREEN TOGETHER AGAIN) and that he still takes pride in the fight he fought at Steve’s side even though the word has changed in a lot of ways and his views and the views of those around him have changed as well. Also loved loved loved his dynamic with Joaquin so far, but I will save that for Joaquin’s section because I LOVE HIM! Anyway, I am loving what they are doing with Sam’s character so far. 

Mackie has such strong presence and such great chemistry with the actors he works with and it shows. Even the newer relationships and dynamics surfacing seems so genuine and natural and I just....whew...I am so proud and happy with the way he has brought Sam to the screen.

Bucky: I love that they are writing Bucky as a grumpy old man and I love that his best friend right now in Yori is an old man, and after the nightmare/flashback sequence, I figured out who Yori was as soon as he said his son was dead. I like that we are seeing Bucky deal with the aftermath of all the death he was responsible for in a real way, regardless of his state at the time he was still in there as Spellman said and he’ll always be haunted. It is playing out beautifully onscreen and I love that they are going with having him figure out what he wants to do now that he has the freedom to make that choice. 

His dynamic with his therapist is so interesting. She takes no shit from him and can read it. I think it makes sense that she’s former military as well. It kind of adds another layer in how she may relate to him and his struggle. They have an interesting back and forth which plays out well and we got to see more Bucky’s personality come out as a result. I am wondering how Sam gets involved with the therapy considering she clearly knows who Sam is outside of the whole Avengers things because she pointed out his texts when she went through the phone. Which means Bucky must have mentioned him at some point which, I want to know what was said.

The date was cute but I don’t know if anything will come of it because he was still very guarded during and how it ended. But he showed up and he is friends with Yori, whether or not it started as part of his amends journey, so it is clear that he is still looking to connect with other people, just trying to figure out who and how. Which I am sure will lead him back to Sam, especially given that someone else was announced to have taken that mantle. There is an ease that is present around Sam and his family that in the previews that Bucky doesn’t have yet around anyone. I am looking forward to seeing his journey to that point.

Seb is bringing some great acting to the table and I am here for it. 

Sarah: I LOVE SARAH! Her dynamic with Sam is so...I don’t know, they just feel like real siblings. They play off each other sooooo well and I just adore they way they go back and forth even in the tense moments. I can understand her being wary of trusting Sam at this point and seeking help. She’s used to doing it on her own. She lost her parents. Her husband. And Sam, in a some ways even before the “blip”, then to have to accept a world without him completely after five years, I completely understand her push back to his presence.  She’s a single mother trying to keep a business afloat, and that is not an easy feat. But there is also a lot of love and hopefulness there and there’s is a vulnerability to the way that Adepero Oduye plays her that allows us to see that closeness between her and Sam that is still present even with the grief and the tension plaguing their current relationship. Her kids are so cute and she just seems like such a good mother and I can’t wait to see more of her. 

Joaquin: I LOVE HIM! I feel like he is going to fit right in with Sam. They just vibe and he just admires Sam so much. I couldn’t stop smiling through all of their interactions and when he asked Sam to speak in Arabic again I just melted. Also, him phishing for information about whether Steve was on the moon was just the cutest. He is adorable but also whip smart, courageous, and ready to fight. He also, already looks to Sam as a leader and I just know I am going to love their bond. (Am I shipping them, probably, but what is new. Mackie has too much chemistry with everyone). They are setting him up as the new Falcon so well and of course he got hurt trying to do what he thought was right the first episode which is so very Team Cap. I felt so bad when he got beat up but he took it in stride and I love how he called Sam right after and basically was showing off his battle scars and was trying to be all cool about it. Those two are going to kill me I swear! I am looking forward to what they are going to do with his character considering they are already away from his comic book arc.

Overall I loved the episode and I am so annoyed that I have to wait another week and will probably rewatch it. I know I should just wait and binge but I am not going to be able to help myself and so I will be here week after week! Hopefully we get to see Sharon pop up soon and some interaction between Sam and Bucky onscreen. But I am glad we got to see their individual arcs here and I want to see more of thier individual journeys.

[elentary]

Black as the devil, pure as an angel

Happy 31st Good Omens anniversary! (i’m late as usual)

A little story about Aziraphale and Crowley popped up in my head and I tried to write it down. 

This is my first story and my first language is not English (so don’t expect a masterpiece out of this): any correction or comment will be appreciated!

(All material related to Good Omens is the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.)

Black as the devil, pure as an angel

London, Monday, 10th May 2021

"Hey, this is Antony Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style"

-biiiiiiip-

"Ah, hello, it's me… ...Aziraphale! Well, ehm, it's been a while since we spoke and I suppose you're still sleeping in this moment because you aren't answering the phone. I just hope you aren't sleeping on the ceiling or on the walls: I'm pretty confident to say that's not comfortable for your backbone and I know for sure you have a perfect soft bed in your room. Also, last time I saw you up there, I almost had a heart-attack and I'd like to avoid it, even if I'm sure I can't die of that since I'm not human, but… ...oh, I wandered off too much with this!

Ehm, I called to inform you that lately the situation here in London seems to have improved and, since some restrictions have been lifted, I thought we could maybe meet again when you'll wake up: my bookshop will be open just for you at every hour! 

 Oh, don't worry if you'll be a bit sleepy: I'll prepare my special qahwah (kahve/caffè) in a jiffy! Well, it's not so special, it's just an old recipe I learnt because… ...oh, not that, it's a secr…. ehm, it's not important at all!

I… I… hope to see you soon, my chuck-… my dear!"

Aziraphale hung up the phone and started fidgeting with his golden ring almost immediately: "I shouldn't have called him: it didn't go how I planned", he muttered to himself. Unsurprising, the phrase "it went down like a lead balloon" popped up immediately in his head.

He had been rehearsing the call for ten days, preparing himself for every possible scenario, but in the end he went completely off-script after a few words, letting his emotions spill too much in his tone. 

But what worried him the most was the moment he let slip the words "old recipe" from his mouth: not for the recipe per se, but because of the little secret behind it. 

"I'm quite sure - he said out loud using a hopeful tone to calm himself - I was able to stop in time, thanks goodness! I’m sure that he won't ask anything even if Crowley notices something, because he'll think there is just a boring story behind it".

While he was heading for the kitchenette to make a cup of tea (there is no problem that couldn't be fixed with a good cuppa), he halted midway and wondered: "Why did I call coffee in that ancient way?"

The reason for that ancient name was very old, pretty much as old as Aziraphale's secret: a little more than four hundred years old.

Venice, 1596

"...and just a cup of qahwah for me" said a guest all clad in black who was slouching on a chair in the most luxurious house of the city. 

The young waiter who was taking the order, looked at him a bit perplexed for the last order. 

"Right, that was Arabic" chuckled Crowley "bring me some kahve or whatever is called here".

"Oh, caffè, here it’s called caffè here, Siór!” [1] , said the young one, ”How much sugar would you like in your cup?” added hasty at the demon's expression.

“I'll have Sade kahve but with a bit of cardamom. Remember to grind finely the beans”.

The waiter was still lost but the other guest at the table helped him with a smile: "He doesn't want any sugar in his caffè, dear" 

“I'll bring everything as soon as possible" said the young man and, after bowing a little, he headed for the counter.

Aziraphale was a bit surprised by what just happened: "It seems you are the meticulous one today: I have almost never seen you so specific with your food or drink order, unless alcohol was involved". He also added: "I just hope you didn't want to mess with the poor waiter".

No, angel, I didn't pull a prank. I have been drinking coffee for a while: but since my last mission in Malta [2] I have been loving it: Altan was the best at making it, but he went to Rome", Crowley said with a sigh.

"The funniest thing - he continued, smiling - is that I was lured to that because I thought it was an alcoholic drink since they called it qahwah, that also means wine. At first I was a bit disappointed but later I discovered it helps to stay awake during boring stuff: it did wonder with every task Hell gives me."

"I tasted some qahwah some times ago but it was too energetic for me… but maybe I should try it to deal with Gabr… ehm, with tedious tasks". Crowley politely didn't mention Aziraphale's little slip but smiled a bit inside.

When the order arrived the angel observed how his partner smelled and tasted happily the concoction humming approvingly: 

"I didn't think you were a coffee connoisseur" Aziraphale joked. 

"It's not so bad for someone with so little experience: you should try it sometimes. If you're done with your food, let's organize our Arrangement. For my report…"

They discussed their work for a couple of hours, drinking coffee. Aziraphale tasted it too (a lot sweeter than the demon) but in the end he still preferred his tea. The angel, however, decided he'd propose another place with coffee, since Crowley enjoyed that drink so much.

Milan, Four years later

"Why can't I have a cup of coffee?" Sulked a very crossed demon who was missing a couple of years of sleep due hellish work. "Lent was over 2 month ago, wasn't it?"

The owner of the shop was distraught: "The priest told us that is not proper now, Sir: the Infidels are using it and - he started whispering - it seems that's a Devil's plant". 

"I'm pretty sure that the Devil wasn't involved in any botanical project, even before Falling, and he has never tried any coffee. Instead, if you are speaking about demons, I am the onl-"

"Why don't we order wine instead this time?" Interrupted quickly Aziraphale before Crowley could say something more compromising. The unhappy demon agreed begrudgingly so several bottles of red wine were shared among them. 

"I'm sorry for your coffee, Crowley. It seems idiotic banning a plant just because somebody else has it".

"Well, they copied the idea from the Boss: God was the first to ban a plant, you and I should remember that easily" Crowley snickered.

Aziraphale started blushing and his cheeks soon were as red as that famous fruit: "ah, it… i-it wasn't just a normal fruit and that was part of God's plan…  I suppose.". That phrase was just commented by the demon with a bemused expression.

"So, Crowley, what are you going to do with this? Are you going to tempt a lot of people to drink coffee?"

"Nah, I'm already too busy with Hell's job at the moment. It would be too troublesome to convince people and especially priests: those at top are the worst."

I'm sure I'll miss the ability of coffee to transform random thoughts into ingenious ideas: humans were experts at using that!" The demon slouched sadly on the chair.

Aziraphale would have missed the improved human genius too but, in his opinion, would have regretted more not seeing his demon's smile but he said nothing. He instead started thinking if there was something he could do and soon became lost in his thoughts.

"...anything there?"

"Sorry, what was that?" 

"I told you I'll go back to Spain tomorrow for a temptation: do you need anything there?" 

"Oh, nothing special, just the usual [3] we can share and those books, if you could be so courteous." Aziraphale happily answered, giving him a neat written list.

"Are you going to stay here long, angel?"

"Oh, no, I'm departing for Rome the day after tomorrow… … I know you don't like it because of the absurd amount of consecrated ground there, you don't need to make a face each time I mention it"

"And every pope makes the problem worse." 

The angel assumed a grim expression: "I have to meet pope Clement VIII for the closing ceremony of the Jubilee"

"You don't seems pleased" 

"The Archangels, especially Sandalphon, think highly of him, but I don't… appreciate him, especially after he burned at the stake messer Giordano Bruno and other poor humans."

Crowley liked discussing the stars and the universe with Giordano: he tried to warn the poor man but he was too stubborn to listen.

"May I reciprocate your favour from Spain? Maybe some wine?" Suggested the angel.

"Only if you're sure the bottles are not blessed - Crowley shuddered - I still remember last time I was wrong".

"Are you sure it will be enough?" 

"I'm sure, angel. Let's party now and forget our troubles for now". 

Unfortunately Aziraphale couldn't party happily because he couldn't forget what happened with the cup of coffee and he thought his favour was too small: he decided he should do something about it! 

Luckily the following morning was more propitious and he found a way to repay Crowly for his favour: he'll find a way to lift the ban on coffee.

The only remaining problem was how to do that.

Rome, a week later

Aziraphale was reading the same line of the missive for the third time in a row at his desk: the angel was too distracted because hadn't found a solution for his "problem" yet. 

"I bet I have the solution under my nose but I can't see it" mumbled the angel touching the pope's sigils on the papers.

"Of course, the pope! - he yelled happily - He is the highest authority for the priests: he could convince everybody that drinking coffee is not bad if he tastes it himself".

"I just need to learn how to make the best coffee ever". A name came back to his mind, the name Crowley gave him: Altan. 

Immediately he used a little miracle to locate him that led him to a small cemetery outside the city and on the grave and there were few sweets with a little cup: unfortunately Altan died 10 years before. The angel bowed a little to pay respect. 

A big Turkish man came next to him and inquired "Did you know my father?".

"I didn't but my... acquaintance considered him a genius and was very fond of his qahwa, ehm, kahve. He'll be sad when he'll know he died." 

"I'm Osmanek. May I ask you what brings you here mister...?

"Oh, I'm Aziraphale. I came here to learn how to make the best coffee ever: I hope his art was inherited by you."

"Luckily it was not lost: I loved to help him make coffee. Before revealing my secrets I have a question for you: are you doing this for your… acquaintance?"

Aziraphale nodded: "I'd like to prepare him some coffee he loves, but at the same time I'd love to see everyone have a coffee whenever they fancy, like in your birthplace. To make that possible, however, I have to let somebody else drink your coffee to.. ..to tempt him saying it's not a bad thing: that person is the pope Clement".

The angel knew what he was asking for and couldn't hold the gaze of the man anymore.

"I understand -he continued sadly- if you don't want to help me since I have seen how much that man has been hurting your brothers and sisters…" The angel couldn't say anything else, overpowered by his memories and bowed his head to hide the tears in his eyes: he has seen too many inconceivable deaths in the name of faith

Osmanek observed Aziraphale for a little moment: he was sure there was no lie in his words. "No, - he smiled - I can't leave you after you poured your heart out: I'll help you and your friend to tempt the Pope." 

"Oh, oh, thank you! - and the angel added hastily - But he's not my friend, we barely know each other!"

The man started smiling brighter than ever and guided him to his house.

Immediately after they arrived, Osmanek offered his guest a cup of his special kahve with few sweets. Aziraphale tried just a sip of coffee and he was immediately in love: "Now I know why Crowley likes it so much: it's so scrumptious even without those sweets!"

"I call this Altan kahve in honour of my father: I will teach you how to prepare it for your fr… aquietance but I ask you to not give any of this to the pope. For him, I'll give you another tasty recipe" 

"Oh, I agree with you: the pope doesn't deserve that perfection!" 

Osmanek patiently taught Aziraphale everything he should know: how to roast and grind the beans, how to use the small pot "cezve", the ratio perfect between coffee and water, how to boil and froth the concoction and  which flavours could be used.

In the beginning everything felt so difficult for Aziraphale and he failed a lot. However the angel was very stubborn and, thanks Osmanek's tips and teaching, he was able to make an excellent cup of coffee in a couple of days.

"I hope this will be good enough" mumbled the angel.

"Trust me, it will be too good for the pope", he chuckled. "Now let's see how good you are with Altan's coffee. I'll give you a final tip: imagine you are preparing some coffee for your acquaintance and not me".

"Why…?"

"If I'm right, it will taste better"

Still perplexed and a bit nervous, Aziraphale went into the kitchen and, following the last advice, he prepared meticulously the dark drink, flavouring with cardamom and finally pouring it in two kahve fincanı, a dark one and a light one. The smell seemed quite promising.

Osmanek took the darkest cup and, after smelling the aroma, he tasted it. After a few seconds, he smiled "In my native Country there is a proverb that says the coffee should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love but for your coffee this doesn't sound right". He put the empty fincanı on the table.

"I think - he continued - the Italian expression suit it better" 

"I'm sorry but I don't know it" the angel was starting to worry he messed up something even if the man was smiling fondly.

"Il caffè deve essere caldo come l'inferno, nero come il diavolo, puro come un angelo e dolce come l'amore.". [4]

The angel took his courage and drank his coffee: in his opinion, it wasn't perfect as Osmanek's but it tasted like something Crowley would enjoy and that was the best feeling ever. 

The angel couldn't stop smiling: "Oh, I am so grateful to you! But I don't know how I can repay you for this"

"Your happiness is enough: I'll bring you everything you need".

Aziraphale didn't agree with him so he performed some miracles and blessings. 

Osmanek came back with some coffee beans, flavours and utensils. There were also three kahve fincanı: two were familiar (the dark and the light ones) but the other was new (and very flashy).

"Oh, that's for the pope: I have always hated that cup and I hope it'll break when that man wants coffee most"

"Oh, that cup will do that, I can assure you" the angel promised with a mischief smile.

Aziraphale finally bid farewell, still thanking Osmanek profusely.

Two months later was the time to put the plan in action: the pope was in the library at 2 a.m. and he was getting tired but he had a lot of work to do. Aziraphale approached him: "I may have the right solution for your Excellency: it's a healthy concoction that promotes wakefulness and wonderful ideas. It was discovered b-"

"I don't care, - interrupted the holy man - give me that drink and let's hope it works".

"God gives me strength" whispered under his breath the angel while preparing some coffee that suited the pope's taste.

When the cup of coffee was ready, it was given to Clement VIII: he grabbed it and started drinking absent-mindedly. The smell and the taste were so good that he woke almost immediately. 

"Librarian, what is this?"

"As I was saying, this is coffee" 

"Why has nobody given me this miraculous drink? The taste is divine and it works perfectly!"

"I suppose nobody wanted to offer your Excellency any drink consumed by Muslims. Some people also believe coffee is a Devil's plant. In my op-"

"I don't care: it's too good to be Satan's plant and we mustn't let the infidels have exclusive use of coffee."

Aziraphale was quite happy: it seemed his plan worked out nicely.

"Maybe we could bless the beans or use some holy wate-"

"NO" shouted the angel, emanating some angelic power unconsciously "Please, DON'T". 

For the first time in his life, the pope was scared he felt like a little child in front of a giant warrior.

"Ehm, please - said more calmly Aziraphale - never suggest it again or let somebody do that. Just tell everyone coffee could be drank by anybody".

The pope could only nod affirmatively.

"Right!" 

Now the angel was sure he was successful in his endeavour and soon could have a coffee with Crowley. 

Aziraphale stayed in Rome for another three weeks, just in time to witness a fincanı to break neatly in two, pouring coffee on some important papal documents.

On his journey to London he stopped to Osmanek's house and updated him on what had happened in that time (especially the broken cup).

London, Monday, 10th May 2021, 30 minutes after Aziraphale's call.

In the end Aziraphale made some of his special coffee with his cezve: he was missing Crowley so much.

"What if i woke him up while he just wanted to sleep a bit more?" 

"No, angel, - a familiar voice answered - I want to stay awake with you for a while"

"Crowley" cheered Aziraphale

"Coffee?"

"In a jiffy" and he poured the drink in two old contrasting kahve fincanı.

"So, what's the secret behind this old recipe?" Crowley asked with a mischievous smile.

----------------------Notes----------------------

[1] Siór = mister (venetian dialect)

[2] Malta = Crowley had been at the great siege of Malta in 1565    https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Siege_of_Malta

[3] Usual = local goodies (especially wine and alcohol)

[4] "Il caffè deve essere caldo come l'inferno, nero come il diavolo, puro come un angelo e dolce come l'amore" = "coffee must be hot as hell, black as the devil, pure as an angel and sweet as love"

To write this I took some info from wikipedia about the history of coffee: if you want to learn something more accurate than my story, look here and here.

[bambuwu-writes]

homare and citron being language learning buddies?? YES PLEASE 

[this ended up kinda long, so just so y’all know, it continues after the cut!] also, if you like this, consider sending me asks or requests about anything a3! related! please just reference my pinned post on what i will/won’t write. :3 thank you and hope you enjoy my ramblings~~

As I will be writing about/referencing languages I am not entirely fluent in here, I just want you all to be aware that it is not my intention to offend anyone! I took care with my words, but if I in any way made an insinuation that was not correct/ offensive, please let me know!! I’d greatly prefer being corrected, over spreading misinformation. In terms of my personal language experience, i speak english natively, i have been learning french for about 5 years, i am attempting to teach myself basic japanese [haven't progressed very far lol],and i know a few phrases in arabic, but only verbally/auditorily [i only understand them when spoken]. I'm a bit of a language nerd, and i love learning phrases in other languages!!

You know, I really think citron and homare are language learning buddies!!! Like, citron is so much more intelligent and perceptive than he’s given credit for [citron appreciation post incoming? Mayhaps!!] and homare does tend to use languages other than japanese in his poems. If I'm not mistaken, he’s canonically used english and french words, both incorporated into his work in ways that are [pretty much] grammatically correct! Homare has also spoken about his love for Shakespeare, and while it’s likely he’s been reading translated versions, I wouldn't put it past him to try and learn enough english to read them while referencing a dictionary. 

As for citron, it seems to be canon that zahran is an arabic-inspired language, if not fully arabic. [side note: in arabic, zahran means ‘radiant/glowing/flower’ in most translations and is used as a name] It’s hard enough to learn and speak a language not your own, and knowing that the pronunciation, speaking, and writing patterns of arabic are not very similar to that of japanese makes the fact that citron is fluent in japanese with the occasional slip-up is very impressive!![also, take into account that i think we have evidence enough to say most of these ‘slip-ups’ are kinda on purpose to make the others laugh] If i am remembering correctly, i believe citron has also used words and phrases in english. which is also a really difficult language!!

Now, multilinguals do tend to bond over the difficulties and rewards of learning languages, and I really see this kind of relationship starting between citron and homare when they realise they both like learning languages!! Just, I'd imagine them comparing notes, quizzing each other on vocab and just learning better by doing it together!! I’d like to think that they have movie nights with whatever language they’re focusing on every now and then. I feel like citron would suggest it and homare would jump at the chance to learn new phrases and train his ear to recognise the speaking patterns better so he could incorporate it into his art. It just feels like there would be such a soft, gentle atmosphere as they slowly get engrossed in the film, notepads and pens left to sit on the couch and other members of mankai sitting around the tv screen, following along with the subtitles. Also consider, making multilingual puns >:3. 

(Not exactly part of the hc, but i just wanted to share this because it made me happy!! In english there’s the phrase, “Birds of a feather, flock together.”, meaning people who are similar/have similar interests gravitate towards each other. In french, that phrase is approximately, “Les oiseaux avec le même plumage, s'assemblent a le même rivage”. Which directly translates to, -birds with the same feathers gather at the same river- which has the same meaning as the one in english! Now, the thing that really gets me about these phrases is, 

THEY BOTH RHYME!!!!!! 

I love rhymes and literary devices in any language, but i just adoreee that these two phrases happen to rhyme in both languages!!)

[heyitsani]

I Keep My Eyes Wide Open All the Time Chapter 4

Word Count: 6000

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character death, Mentions of past rape/non-con (eventually)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne/Jon Kent (hinted?)

Summary: The loss of someone important changes all of their lives.

Notes: This.  Is.  Sad.  This is your warning.  I cried writing this and I hope that emotion is conveyed onto the screen for you.  Next chapter still expected Friday!

If you have not read When You Move I Move, this one won’t really make much sense.  So you can read that here: WYMIM

You can also read this chapter on AO3 here

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

He had been on his way to the kitchens in search of Ser Jason when he had noticed his mother hurrying out of the castle, dark cloak thrown over her deep green gown she wore for the day.  It wouldn’t have taken his notice if the manner of dress wasn’t so...common for someone like her.  It was no more elegant than what a commoner of the lower levels would have worn.  And after all the lectures he had sat through of her trying to convince him to never lower himself to the status of the people he was to rule, he found it curious she would be wearing that dress.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” one of the staff members called out as they passed.  He gave a hello back, but kept his focus on his mother.

In a split second decision, he turned and followed the woman out of the castle at a distance.  

“Ser Roy, may I borrow your cloaks?  I will explain the instant I return them,” Damian rushed toward the knight, who was chatting with another man Damian wasn’t sure he knew.  The redhead regarded him for a moment with narrowed eyes before shrugging the black material off his shoulders and handing it over.  “Thank you.  Ser Kyle, hurry,” he called to his personal guard as he quickly tried to get his mother back in his sights.

The guard picked up his pace and caught up to his charge, brow furrowed as they kept to the shadows. “My Prince?”  Damian shushed him when he spoke and kept his focus on his mother. He watched as she weaved in and out of the people milling about in the streets.  She ignored vendors calling out about their goods and seemed to be focused on a particular destination.  

“Hoods up,” Damian told Ser Kyle as he pulled the hood on the borrowed cloak over his head and saw Ser Kyle do the same out of the corner of his eye.  “Keep to the shadows with me.  I am not certain where she is going, but Mother is acting suspicious.”

Ser Kyle kept quiet and Damian chanced a glance at the man who Ser Jason had personally vouched to be his personal guard and found him watching the Queen as she continued to hurry along.  “Ser Todd asked me to keep you safe.  I cannot say for certain this is safe, but I will follow you until I deem it necessary to leave.”

That was good enough for Damian.

“Where do you think she is going?”

“If I had to hedge a guess, I would say The Narrows.  She is not dressed for the upper levels.  But no woman, not even your mother, would travel into Crime Alley on purpose.” That made sense.  And the further into the city streets they got, the more accurate the assessment seemed to be.  But what exactly was awaiting them once she reached her destination?

The lower into the city levels they went, the cooler the air got and the less people were out milling about. It made it harder to blend in with the crowd, but Ser Kyle seemed to know exactly where to go to be sure they stayed out of sight but kept the Queen in their sight.  Damian allowed the guard to take the lead on following his mother and stayed a step behind so the older man could focus.  When his mother glanced around before stepping into an alleyway, Ser Kyle tugged Damian into the alley just before and began looking around.

“What are you doing?” Damian questioned, frowning as the man glanced around the back of the building that separated them from his mother. When Ser Kyle said nothing, but waved him over, Damian finally caught on.  There was a ladder leading to the rooftop and the pair quickly climbed it.

“You must stay quiet My Prince.”  Damian simply nodded and followed the man to the edge before dropping down so they could peek just over roof into the alley below.  The sight of his mother with her hood down was not surprising.  The fact that she was in a quiet conversation with a soldier dressed in the garb from her home country, Nanda Parbat, was.  To the point where he felt Ser Kyle grip his arm and his entire body tense.

Damian knew enough about his grandmother’s home country to know that they were on good enough terms with Gotham to be allowed into the borders, but that his great grandfather was not the kind of man to not keep tabs on all countries he was allies with.

“…You owe him much,” the home language of Nanda Parbat caught on a breeze and Damian could pick up bits and pieces.  “Ra’s does not offer this lightly.  Your son will bow to him.”  That made Damian tense, pulling Ser Kyle’s attention from the pair below to the boy next to him.  But Damian kept his focus on the two and strained to hear more.

“I will hold my end of the bargain.  Or my life is forfeit.”  The solider gave a nod and a bow before turning and walking away.  He watched his mother look at a small vial in her hand before slipping it into a pocket in her cloak and returning the way she came.

Sitting up, Damian tried to sort through what the pair could have possibly been talking about.  What was in the vial?  Why did his mother owe the king of her homeland her son’s allegiance?

“Your Highness?”

Looking at Ser Kyle, Damian frowned and tried to think of an explanation.  But there was none.  Had she even done anything wrong when he didn’t have the whole story?  Not by their word of law.

“My Prince, did you hear anything they said?  I do not speak Arabic.”  Without considering the consequences, Damian shook his head.

“I could not hear,” he lied, though he wasn’t certain as to why.  “We should return before anyone else notices we have gone.  I promised Ser Harper an explanation, but I do not know what kind of explanation this will be considering.”

He knew the older man was regarding him closely, but Damian also knew he could lie with the best of them. His mother had made sure he could play his cards close to his chest.  This was one of the few times her lessons were actually useful.

For once he was grateful.

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

“Damian, come,” his father had said softly as he passed the room where he had been reading one of the books his mother had assigned him.  Since it was an incredibly dull account of the history of Nanda Parbat, Damian was happy to mark his place and follow his father as they headed down the hall.

“Where are we going, Father?”  He questioned, looking up at the man as they made their way closer to the exit of the castle.  

“Ser Jason is to ride,” was the answer he received and the shortness made Damian frown.  He hadn’t heard of any pods coming close.  The last he had heard they were a fair ride away, but he wasn’t the Dragon Slayer.  And only Ser Jason could really say if it were necessary for him to ride.

Bounding down the steps after his father, he smiled at the sight of the Slayer in his armor.  Damian had always loved the gold and red he wore. The fierce strength the ensemble screamed.  “My King,” Ser Jason greeted his father as Damian took the last few steps to reach them. “My Prince,” he said in a tone that Damian had come to recognize as one only used with him.  His fatherly tone Damian had coined it.

“I received word that you are to ride.”

“There have been sightings coming through of a pod of three out near the Ethiopia boarders,” Ser Jason said as he straightened from his expected bow.  A bow that was so pointless in his eyes.  But propriety must stand, or so he had been told before.

“That is a far ride,” Damian said, surprised that the man would venture that far.  He didn’t see the point of traveling such a distance when their lands were not in danger.

But the man nodded and looked down at him with wise eyes.  “It is, but I would rather them not get closer to our lands.  Not whilst we approach the dry season.”  And he supposed that did make sense.  Didn’t make the decision to go so far any easier to accept though.  But Ser Jason was the one who knew how to handle these situations.  And if his father trusted him, then Damian could. Even if his instincts told him something was very wrong with this.  

“You go alone?”

“I do, for now,” Jason answered him.  Damian could tell his father didn’t like that answer.  He had seen that narrow eyed look plenty of times when he was speaking with his mother.  But Ser Jason seemed to find it amusing instead of intimidating.  “I have allies within the lands and can call upon them if the need arises,” he laughed softly, calming Damian’s own nerves that had asrisen.

Then he remembered.

“Will you bring the scale like you promised?”  It had been promised so long ago, but Damian asked each time the man rode.  At this point he didn’t even expect it anymore but enjoyed the laughter it brought to the older man’s eyes.

“I shall do my very best.” Damian let out a soft shout before smiling over at his father.  With a nod from the king, Damian sent Ser Jason one last smile and farewell before he bounded up the stairs to return to his book he had abandoned earlier.

He had almost reached the study when another set of footsteps caught his attention.  “Ah, Nephew!  Where are you coming from?”

“Aunt Cass,” he greeted, stopping so the woman could catch up to him.  “I was saying farewell to Ser Jason.  He is riding after a pod near Ethiopia.”  The look of surprise on his aunt’s face reminded him of his own concerns at the matter.  “He said he didn’t want to risk them coming closer to our lands when the dry season was approaching.”

His aunt hummed and nodded, eyes drifting as she took in his words.  But her reaction unsettled him.  He knew the woman observed much and said little.  She knew far more than most members of the family just because she watched more than she acted.  And he often wondered what kinds of secrets she kept from them all for their own sakes.

He wondered how many secrets she had been told without anyone actually meaning to tell them.

“He is not wrong,” she murmured as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and guided him in the direction he had previously been heading.  “But you are worried, I can see it.”

“It’s so far.  He doesn’t usually go so far.”

“But he told you why he was doing so.”

Damian shrugged.  Sure, the man gave a reason, but that feeling of something being wrong still bothered him.  It still told him there was more to the situation.  “I do not know why, but I feel like that was not the full reason he was leaving.”

But his aunt didn’t say anything, she simply hummed again and walked with him.  He didn’t know if she was waiting for him to say more or if she simply had nothing to add, but he could feel his shoulders tensing with each passing moment.

Once they reached the study he had been using, he stopped walking and his aunt paused with him.  

“You should try not to worry about Ser Todd.  He is the best of the line and he loves your father too much to not return to him.” Nodding, Damian let his shoulders fall and tried to convince himself that she was right.  “But if you figure out why it is you feel this way, then you can always talk to me.”

“Thank you, Aunt Cass.” The woman nodded and leaned forward, giving him a hug before she continued down the hallway, leaving Damian to return to his lessons.  But the nagging feeling in the back of his mind remained.

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

“Thank you,” Damian said softly as he took the letter from his manservant as the tray with his breakfast was sat down on the small table he liked to take his first meal of the day at. At thirteen, he found he appreciated the quiet morning in his room as opposed to the lively breakfasts in the hall with the other members of the family.  

Especially the mornings when Ser Jason was still out on a hunt.  Meals were not the same when one of his fathers were missing.

Sitting on his plush chair, he carefully broke the official seal of the council and opened the letter. He couldn’t imagine what they could be sending to him in such an official capacity at this time of day, but he went along with it all the same.

But the words written on the parchment made his blood run cold.

And the paper hadn’t even hit the floor before he was throwing open the doors to his room and looking for a servant.  “Please, have you seen my father this morning?”  He gasped at the elderly woman carrying a stack of blankets and sheets.

“Yes, My Prince.  I saw him rushing out of the castle not long ago. His personal guard was with him. Barely chanced a glance at anyone as he hurried.  Must have been important,” she told him, and Damian called out a thank you before he ran off in the direction she had mentioned.

He didn’t look back when the sound of someone hurrying along behind him appeared, knowing it would be Ser Kyle since it was his job after all.  He wasn’t sure where his father would have gone, at least not until he stepped out of the castle and realized.

The Sept.

“Your Highness, where are we going?”  Ser Kyle questioned as they continued to hurry, almost running to get to the building Damian knew he would find his father in.  “My Prince, what has happened?”

Pausing in his rush, he turned to face the man who’s heart he was probably about to break.  “Ser Jason has fallen.”  Ser Kyle paled and gasped out a ‘no’, shaking his head.  And Damian wished he could say it was a cruel joke, a whim of a lie.  But he could feel his own heart fracturing and he could only image what his father was feeling right then.  “He has returned for his final rest and I must get to my father.”

The other man was silent, but nodded and they hurried to the Sept.  

When they reached the building, Damian was unsurprised to find his father’s personal guard there, blocking entrance to anyone who might want it.  But the instant Ser Victor spotted Damian and Ser Kyle, his eyes went from hard to incredibly sad, understanding.

“My Prince,” the guard gave a bow and stepped aside so Damian could head inside.  “We shall keep unwanted persons out.”  Glancing at Ser Kyle, Damian watched the other man take a few deep breaths before nodding and steeling himself.  He was so thankful for the two of them in that moment, knowing that his father’s grief would be protected for the time being.  

Stepping into the Sept was always a moment of wonder, even in the saddest of times, the room with it’s colored glass and natural light, was always breathtaking.  In that moment though, Damian couldn’t take in the beauty. He couldn’t revel in the rainbow of colors that graced the floors and the sparkling of the metals embedded in the walls.  He could only see the lower half of a body covered in a red shroud and the back of his father; shoulders low in grief.

“Father,” Damian called out softly, not wanting to startle the man.  Or maybe he couldn’t speak louder if he had tried.  He couldn’t be certain.  He could be certain that he would never forget the look in his father’s eyes when the man turned to look at him briefly before turning back to look at Ser Jason’s body.  “Father, I am so sorry.”  He felt his voice crack on the apology, his own pain breaking through.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting out of his father in that moment, but he didn’t hesitate to take the older man’s hand when it was offered.  Seeking the comfort of his father as well as trying to offer the man some of his own. ��But what could he possibly offer in a moment like this?  What could he possibly do to make the pain less?

“Do you think he knew I thought of him as another father?”  Because of course he had never told the man.  Of course he had never said the words out loud, despite having felt the affection from a young age.  King Richard and Queen Catalina might have been his biological parents but Richard and Jason were his parents in every other way.  How could he not have loved the man his father loved so strongly? How could he not love the man who so obviously loved his father just as much?  Who treated him as though he were of his own blood?

He didn’t look at his father when the man looked down at him.  Instead, he kept his green eyes on the body of the man in question.  “You love him so I, too, love him.  He always had words of wisdom and tales of his travels. I will cherish those.”  But that didn’t even breach the surface of how he really felt.  It didn’t tell of the times they had spent laughing over a snack in the kitchens while the staff bustled around them.  It didn’t tell of the encouragement that the older man had provided while Damian trained with the swords and learned to be the best fighter he could be.  It didn’t tell of the quiet conversations between them in the library when his mother had gone too far.  When she had forced him to cut off the only friendship he had ever cherished.

It didn’t tell of so many things he would hold close to his heart for his remaining days.

“He felt the same for you. He…”  Finally glancing away from Ser Jason’s body, Damian looked up at his father and pressed his lips together to fight tears of his own.  The man before him would never be the same, he knew that with every fiber of his being.  He knew his father would never be the man he was.  “I do not know that I will recover from this loss.  I feel as though the world has been stripped of all its color, all its joy.”  And what was he supposed to say to that?  What comfort could a son give when a love like theirs had been stripped away?

Opening his mouth to say something, anything, he was cut off by the sound of one of the various guards who had apparently come to watch over them.  “Your Majesty, your father is on his way.  His manservant thought you would like the warning.”  

His father nodded and Damian watched him reign himself in, in a way that he had only ever seen his father do it.  It made him frown, heart aching more prominently for the man.  That he felt he had to compose himself for the sake of his own father instead of allowing himself to just be honest in his pain.  But when his father gave him a small, albeit sad, smile, he accepted the action.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“No, my son.  I feel I would be much better should you be willing to remain at my side.” And though Damian felt it would be better for him to step out and let father and son be alone, the squeeze of his father’s hand put an end to that line of thought.  “Father,” the man greeted as Damian spotted his grandfather hurrying down the steps.

“Richard, I am so sorry.” And while Damian had been concerned his father would try to hold it in while the former king was present, he was glad and heartbroken to watch that not be the case.  He watched his grandfather gather his father into his arms and felt the quiet sobs like a knife to his heart.  Never had he seen his father cry.  There had been plenty of emotions he had seen in the other man, but never sadness in this way.  Never sorrow.

Never grief.  

It hurt to watch, to hear. But it didn’t make him want to run, it made him want to come closer, to provide comfort he wasn’t yet qualified to give.  But he did what he could.  He moved closer and grabbed onto his father’s cloak with the hand not still holding his and pressed close.  

And the look in his grandfather’s eyes over his father’s shoulder told him he had made the right choice. That this was exactly where he needed to be right in that moment.  That nothing else mattered.  No one else mattered.

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

He had kept his gaze on his father for most of the meeting and he knew that most of the Council had done the same.  The usually vibrant and cheerful king was dull in his smile and his eyes.  Not that any of them blamed him for his current demeanor.

Not when Damian had spent the entire night up with the man as he cried silently into his pillow.

But the Council had been called and the discussion had been the procedure for the lack of a slayer, despite the body having only been in the Sept for a day.  It almost seemed cruel to expect the king to go through this, but appearances had to be kept.  Or so everyone told him when he had voiced his displeasure at forcing his father through this.  

“The kingdom still needs their king and they do not know the connection between the two men the way those close to him do,” his grandfather had reminded him.  But Damian knew most of the country at least suspected the truth of it all.

“Is there anything left to bring to the table?”  One of the councilmen asked, standing in a spot a few seats down from where Damian sat just to the right of his father.

Pushing to his feet, he drew twelve sets of eyes to him as he took a deep breath.  “Council, I know my presence is technically not one of authority yet, but I would like to bring forth a request regarding honoring our fallen Slayer.”  There were some murmurs amongst those at the table and for a moment he thought he would be denied, but at the clearing of his father’s throat any complaints were kept silent.  “For as long as our history has been told, we have celebrated and honored our royal members with the Feast of the Seven after their passing.  I would like to formally request that we grant that honor to Ser Jason.”

“Impossible.  It has never been done,” one of the older members called out from the far end of the table and Damian frowned, looking down at his father.  The man was already looking up at him, pride and adoration in his sad eyes.  At his nod, Damian steeled himself further.

“We have broken tradition plenty of times in the past,” he pointed out.  “When King Thomas and Queen Martha were taken before their time, the Council granted the Feast to be fourteen days.”

“Because we were honoring them both.”

“But it was unnecessary as you were honoring them together.  Ser Jason was not of royal blood, but he is one of us.  My grandfather loved him as one of his own children.  Other members of the family have loved him more deeply then they would ever be able to say,” he kept his voice steady, despite building emotion.  Not just for the sake of his father but for his own. Because he loved the man more than he was allowed to admit without casting shame on his mother.  “He was the last of a legacy and he deserves to be honored as such.”

One of the women near the middle of the table carefully stood and looked toward the king with a firm nod before sending a smile to Damian.  “I second.  The Kingdom of Gotham deserves to honor the Last Dragon Slayer and this would allow those who wish to travel into the city to pay their respects the opportunity to do so.”

“I third and call it to a vote.”

Dropping back down into his seat, Damian let his father slip his hand into his smaller one as they watched the council members go through the motions of the vote.  Damian let out a relieved sigh when it passed unanimously.

“Thank you, My Son,” his father whispered, squeezing his hand.  

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

“Grandfather, may I speak with you?”  Damian called out from the doorway of his grandfather’s study.  The older man was seated at his desk, but his attention had been on the window instead of the papers in front of him.  The tired, blue eyes of the older man turned to take in the sight of his only grandchild and waved him in.

“Of course,” he agreed, and Damian nodded, stepping fully into the room and letting the door fall shut behind him as he made his way closer to the desk.  “Is everything all right?”  And the question made Damian frown, wondering how he could answer it honestly.  “Perhaps that is not the right question to ask.  Given the situation.”

Sighing, the young man nodded and dropped down into one of the plush chairs.  “I have a question regarding the pyre tonight.”  His grandfather’s eyebrows rose, but he remained silent so Damian could say his piece.  “I wish to break tradition again.  I know we are giving…that we are honoring him with the Feast of the Seven, but I wondered if I might light the pyre after Father?”

Damian had studied up on and been to enough pyres to know that the acting King and the still living previous kings were the ones to traditionally light the pyre, especially when the person was of the high ranking Ser Jason was.  But there had also been a few moments in time when that tradition had been broken under special circumstances.

“May I ask why?”

“He did not contribute to my blood, but he was still a father to me.  I deserve the right to stand by Father’s side and say goodbye to…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands that he had clasped tightly in his lap.  He hadn’t said his name since he had found out that he had been slain and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to without a deep ache in his chest.  

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly and got himself under control.  His mother’s voice sounded in his mind, telling him to act like the Crown Prince that he was.  To act like a Wayne.  His father had been strong outside of the moment in the Sept the other day and Damian knew he could do the same.

Once he felt like he had gotten himself under control, he looked up to find the former king regarding him sadly.  “Though I thought of Jason as a son, I will relinquish my right to the pyre light. You may say goodbye to your father in this manner, if that is what you really want.”

“It is.”  His grandfather nodded and leaned back in his chair.  

“Tell me how my son is. I have not seen him since yesterday and no one I have asked has either.”  Damian felt a sad smile curl his lips just slightly.  He had left his father to come here.  He had hardly allowed himself to be apart from the man since the Sept.  Despite his mother’s protests and demanding he keep up with his studies, he had not allowed his father to be alone for long.

“He was sleeping when I came here.  I have been close ever since hearing the news,” Damian admitted to his grandfather.  The man looked relieved and pained at the news, a conflicting set of emotions if Damian had ever seen them.  “I do not know how to help him other than make sure he sleeps, and he eats.  I think the Feast will be good, give him something to focus on other than his broken heart.  But until then, he deserves the chance to mourn in his own way.”

“It is good of you to look after him.  That is not a burden a son should have to carry.”  And perhaps his grandfather was right, but Damian couldn’t help but wonder who would carry it if he didn’t?  Who else would his father allow himself to be honest around?  Who else would he trust with this pain?

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

“Everyone is already in place, Your Majesty,” one of the guards spoke softly.  His father glanced back at him before looking to the guard and nodding.  Without another word, Damian walked behind his father with his mother at his side and headed up the steps where the funeral pyre was being held.  And in the short walk, Damian couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of all the people who had gathered to watch.  People who had loved the man in their own way.  Including the women from the local brothel that he had heard Ser Roy and Ser Kyle discussing on the training fields.  

Damian had made a mental note to mention it to his father so they could be sure they were still looked after.  But he had a feeling his father already knew.  Even in the depths of his grief, he was still good at caring for his kingdom.

When his father took his designated seat, Damian came to a stop beside it and stood tall.  With his mother so close, he knew it was expected of him to remain strong.  He wasn’t sure how she would react to him being the second to light the pyre tonight, but he told himself whatever she did or said would be worth it.  She had already proclaimed her displeasure at him having gotten Ser Jason honored with a Feast of the Seven.  This couldn’t be any worse.

“It is no secret that House Wayne has always held the highest respect for those of the Dragon Slayer occupation, but Ser Jason always held a special place in our lives due to the fact that he was the last remaining slayer.  The last of his line and the last of a profession of bravery and strength.” The words of his grandfather washed over him as he looked out over the crowd, taking in each of the faces as they listened.  He watched tears fall and hands clasp together.  He watched whispers and hugs of comfort.  He watched people give to each other what he was not allowed to give to his father in that moment.

“We will honor Ser Jason Todd with the Feast of Seven Days as we do for members of the royal family because he is one of ours.  The doors to the palace and sept will be open to each and every citizen of Gotham to pay their respects and to join us in our grief.”  And despite his mother’s discontent at his actions regarding this, Damian felt his pride swell when he watched the approval of the citizens.  

He hadn’t suggested it for them, he had done it solely for his father.  But he was glad that they approved of the motion all the same.  He was glad to give them something that had been somewhat selfish in its origin.

The movement of his father standing pulled Damian’s attention away from the crowd to the man as he walked toward Ser Jason’s closest friend to retrieve the torch to light the pyre.  The look that passed between the two men was meaningful and Damian knew that Ser Roy was grieving just as much, though in a different manner, for the man they all had loved.  He knew Ser Kyle, who he would find if he bothered to glance back, was struggling with the grief as well.

Something precious had been stolen and they were all struggling under the absence of it.

With a shaking breath, his father stood before Ser Jason’s shrouded body and looked out over the crowd.  “To the last of the Dragon Slayers, to the greatest of the line, to the fallen soldier, and to the man behind the sword. The world is a colder, darker place without the splash of crimson from your cloaks and your sea colored eyes. May those of us who have been left behind honor your legacy and never forget your bravery.  May we never forget your strength and your character.  May we never forget your love and kindness to those who surrounded you.”  

A scoff to his right drew Damian’s eye for a moment and though he couldn’t be certain, he was fairly sure it had come from his mother.  But her stiff posture and blank face gave away very little.  And not for the first time, his mind flashed back to the exchange between her and the guard from Nanda Parbat he and Ser Kyle had witness in the Narrows.

“You owe him much.”

But what did she owe King Ra’s for?

“Damian,” a voice cut through his thoughts, pulling his attention to his grandfather as he stood in front of him.  With a nod, Damian moved forward and ignored the motion his mother made to try and stop him. He knew his grandfather had probably positioned himself between them on purpose, so he could step up behind his father.

No words were exchanged when the older man passed the torch to him, but he could she the surprise in his eyes.  The question as to what was happening.  But Damian ignored it in favor of stepping forward to the pyre to light the opposite corner that his father had started.  And though he was expected to step away from the fire once the act was done, he felt he couldn’t move away just yet.  The heat from the flame warming him, but the sight breaking him with each crackle.  

Ser Jason had said this would happen.  That there would come a time when Damian and his father would have to bury him.  Not because he wasn’t good at his job or that he was reckless, but because that was the way of the Slayer.  Families always buried them long before they joined them. And though he had believed the man, he had hoped beyond hope that Ser Jason would be wrong.  That this once he would be proven incorrect.  

“I’ll take that, My Prince,” Ser Roy said softly as he stepped up next to Damian.  Glancing up at the older man, Damian allowed him to take the torch but still did not move.  There was a beat of silence and Damian found himself waiting, knowing there was something the solider wanted to say.  “He loved you very much, Your Highness.  I know he was never able to tell you how much, but he was not so shy with his words with others.”

With a stilted bow, the solider walked away and Damian felt himself move away from the pyre to stand next to his father and grandfather, ignoring the look his mother was sending him. Because despite knowing she would find some way to punish him, he would never regret his actions as of late.

[therookieking412]

Rouge

I had come to live a penniless existence. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom… and that which I believed in above all things: Love. There was one problem. I'd never been in love.

Just then, an unconscious Arabian fell through my roof, he was joined by a woman dressed as a duck.

“How to ya do!” She smiled, her hands moving quickly to clean the boards and dust off the Arab, and then four heads were peering down at me through the hole in my roof.

They asked me to step in for the Arab while he slept, and then in the next minute the writer quit the story, and I got the job.

“Congratulations!” The Duck said, hitting me on the back, the pianist and the Arab had joined us for… Absinthe.

“Duck, Mr. Cat will never agree-” The Arab began.

“Have you ever written a play before?”

“No, I-”

“The boy has talent!” She spread her arms, her hand hit my face. “Oops!”

“Wait, I- I can’t write for you!”

“Why not?” She pouted, the glass in her other hand had spilled.

“Well, I don’t know if I can-”

“Do you believe in Beauty?” She asked, taking my hand.

“Yes.”

“Freedom?” The Arab asked.

“Of course!”

“Truth?” the pianist said.

“Yes.”

“Love?” Duck asked me.

“Love?” I stared into her eyes. “Love? Love? Above all things I believe in love!”

So, we formed a plan, to convince Mr. Cat to let me write the show.

A plan that involved…

Femio.

And with that, I had my first taste of Absinthe.

We flew to the Moulin Rogue, where it was loud and colorful, where everyone was so very alive, they were singing and dancing, men and women, women and women, men and men.

It seemed like chaos, it seemed like peace.

And I was in the center of it.

Then, everything fell silent, people moved from the center of the floor, the lights dimmed, and I heard a voice, the voice of an angel.

“The French are glad to die for love.”

I could see no one, but then, I out my gaze on the heavens, and there he was, floating in the sky, sparkling under the concentrated lights.

All eyes were on him, and I fell victim to his charms.

I saw Mr. Cat look over in my direction, and then he looked right into my eyes.

I realized that I would do anything for him, I would die for him, I would love him for all eternity.

“The prince is here!” I heard Duck whisper to Fakir.

It broke my concentration, my head turned to scold the girl for speaking out of turn, and then, out of the corner of my eye, pink.

There he stood, his ensemble changed, something feathered and pink, a shining diamond heart sta right above his-

“Sorry, boys!” He shouted over the rest of the crowd. “Ladies choice.” He held out his hand to me and I was too stunned to take it. He pouted and whined, and the rest of the crowd pouted with him.

I opened my mouth, but he grabbed my hand, and pulled me out onto the dancefloor.

The world disappeared, colors flashed around us, but I didn’t see them.

He left me to rise back up into the sky, to sing one last chorus, but something happened, I held my breath as he fell from his perch, I rushed to catch him, but someone else was there, and he was pulled away.

I was escorted to something called the elephant room, to await Femio, when I asked if he was alright, the light woman told me it was nothing more than a dramatic flourish.

I swallowed, something made me fidget, I would see him again, with no one else to interrupt us, no one else would get between us…

I was only supposed to show him my poetry, to get him on board for the play, but… if something else were to occur…

There was no knock, but he stepped out, dressed in black.

A nervousness consumed me, what if I said the wrong thing?

“My- my gift.” I stuttered, I never stuttered!

“Shh! No, no, this is no time for you to tell me about your gifts, this is the time to show me.” He stepped closer, but I turned away.

He wasn’t making this very easy!

“My gift.” His hand was on my shoulder, trailing down my back, and I jumped away. “My gift is my song! And this one’s for you.”

He stopped, blinking as his hand fell to his side.

I took it in mine, and shared with him the poetry I had rehearsed and memorized.

It made him smile, his eyes twinkled in the moonlight. Was this love? Was this the feeling I was meant to write about?

The thing I believed in?

I wanted to kiss him, so badly, but then he said.

“I can’t believe I’m in love. In love with a young, handsome, talented prince.”

“Prince?” I laughed, my lips mere inches from his. “I’m not a prince.”

“You’re not?” His eyes widened, and he seemed to fit the pieces together. “You're not one of Duck's talented, Bohemian, impoverished protégés?”

“Uh-”

“Oh, no!”

There was a knock at the door.

“The Prince! Hide!”

I was frightened, I hid behind a table, and he threw out his robe to hide me further as the Prince came in with Mr. Cat.

Femio did his best to hid me, but the truth became apparent soon.

His eyes… his eyes were a jealous, all consuming, raw pink. He glared at me, and demanded what I was doing here.

“Rehreasing!” Femio smiled. “For a play called-”

“Called-”

“You expect me to believe that you’re rehearsing for a play in an elephant, dressed like that?”

“How’s the rehearsal going!” Duck said, announcing her presence as she waltzed into the elephants head through the window.

“I hope the piano’s tuned!” Penny said, baning his hands on sour notes.

“What’s going on in here?” Mr. Cat asked, and gasped at what he saw.

“Mr. Cat! You’re here!” Femio smiled, moving to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “My precious prince here is interested in investing.”

“Oh, investing!”

“Investing?” The Prince asked.

“In a play!”

“Called Spectacular, Spectacular.” Duck announced. “Our dear boy is writing it!”

All of us moved to improvise a story, one that would interest the likes of a man such as the Prince, a tale of a princess, a knight, and a Prince.

“And in the end should someone die?”

It was luck alone that got us through that encounter, with the Prince promising to invest, as long as he was involved in the process. As long as he saw Femio.

The others celebrated, and my mind was fixated on Femio, I could see him, standing on top of the elephant, leaning out to see the world, and so I went up to meet him.

“Clever.” He said, not turning to face me. “Convincing the prince like that.”

“You deserve better than him.”

“Do I?”

“You deserve the world.”

He sighed, and turned to face me. “No, men like me… men of the night, we deserve one thing and one thing only.”

“Love.”

He chuckled.

“The best thing in the whole world is to love and be loved in return.”

“Pretty words.” He breathed the fresh Parisian air. “What is your name?”

“Autor.”

“And you know mine already.”

“Femio, please- “

“I will be fine, I will simply give the Prince everything he has ever wanted, and he will move on, and so will I.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that.” I was bold, I took his hand. “What you said before, earlier tonight, that you love-”

“That I loved you? I thought you were the prince. It was an act.”

“Was it? I saw the look in your eyes, the way you looked at me. Say it again.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, silly, love-struck boy, you couldn’t pay me enough to say those words.”

“Love comes for free.”

“Everything comes for a price.”

“Not love.” I shook my head, my hand bold as it reached up and traced the edge of his jaw. “Love is oxygen, love is all you need.”

He closed his eyes. “I have loved a thousand times, I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“You won’t.” I took the chance he presented to me, and I kissed him.

Lips as soft as a rose, breathe as intoxicating as wine, for one single moment he was mine, and I knew it wasn’t enough.

We parted and he left me, but I saw it in his eyes, that first spark.

The Moulin Rouge was getting turned into a theater in order to host Spectacular, Spectacular, Femio was our Lead, our Prince, with Duck as his Princess, and Fakir as his knight. Mr. Cat was adamant about being the evil Monster Raven.

A day did not pass where I didn’t see him, where I didn’t speak to him, but I had to be careful, for wherever Femio was, the Prince was also.

He had laid some claim on Femio, and no one else was allowed to be with him, but that didn’t stop me.

And it didn’t stop him from falling madly in love with me.

I knew with every glance he stole to look at me, with every soft smile he gave me, with the flush of his cheeks I knew he was mine.

There came a night, I had planned to meet him, but it was a test, because I knew that he was supposed to see the Prince tonight as well.

I was forcing his hand, making him choose.

Me or the Prince.

He never came, but by the morning, I heard that he hadn’t see the Prince either.

“He was seen by the Doctor.” I heard, as I walked past all the actors. “Coughing up blood.”

I rushed to see him, he was pale, still in bed, but he seemed happy to see me. “I was sick.” He said simply.

I cradled him in my arms, and apologized, I had forced him to choose when I knew it couldn’t be done. If he chose me over the Prince, what would happen to the Moulin Rouge? His home would be abandoned.

“I can’t keep doing this…” He turned his head to the window, the pale light of dawn filtering through. “Choosing you over the Prince, but, Autor… he holds the deeds in his hands.”

“I know, I’ll-I’ll write a song.” I rushed to his side. “And whenever you hear it, or hum, or sing.” I placed my hand on his cheek, he was so warm, something had taken hold of him. “You’ll think of me, and it’ll mean that we love each other.”

I kissed him, his lips hot, I was desperate and sloppy, but I knew it was okay because his hand rested on my cheek, and his lips moved with mine.

“Come what may.” I whispered into his lips.

“Come what may.” He nodded, pressing his forehead to mine.

But… he was right, eventually, the Prince demanded everything that Femio owed him.

We all sat, waiting for the night to end, all of us knew…

This wasn’t what Femio wanted…

We all knew that Femio was selling his body to the night.

“Jealousy will drive you mad.” Fakir said. “If it hasn’t already.”

Duck was sitting close by him.

“In my home, we have a tale about a prostitute, and a man… who fell in love with her.” He stood, there was something predatory about his gaze, he was trying to warn me, while also telling me it was too late. “She sells herself to the night, to other men. There is desire, passion, but suspicion! Jealousy! Anger! Betrayal! When Love is for the highest bidder there can be no trust. And when there is no trust, there is no love.”

“Duck.” I said, my throat dry, my eyes wet. “Why does…?”

She stood, leaving Fakir and coming to me, her hand on my shoulder.

“Why does my heart cry?”

She hugged me, and I saw Fakir roll his eyes.

“The Prince will get what he wants, will you still have Femio once he’s done with him?”

Come what may.

I left, the air stifling, the pitying looks suffocating, but as I walked into the cold night, I walked beneath the tower, where Femio and the Prince were to share dinner, and I saw them, out on the balcony.

Femio’s shoulders were bare, a sparkling necklace around his throat, the Prince kissed his shoulder blades.

“Come what may, come what may, I will love you, until my dying-”

His voice floated over me like soft rain, I stopped, but so did the Prince.

I meet his eyes, and even from the distance I could see the anger swelling inside of them. I watched uselessly as the Prince pulled Femio back inside.

I ran, I ran because something awful was about to happen, and as my hand reached for the doorknob, the door opened, and Lysander was there, holding Femio, his neck neck, dressed in nothing but his underclothes.

Femio was passed into my arms, behind Lysander the Prince had crumpled to the floor.

I kissed his tender temple, I whispered promises that we would run away together, that we would have a good life.

When he woke, he went off to pack his bag, to leave a note of good-bye, and I was doing just the same, my heart fluttering inside of my chest.

Everything was going my way.

There was a gentle knock at my door, and it was Femio, carrying no trunk, and wearing a sober ensemble.

“The Prince came to me last night… he apologized for everything… and promised me everything, that he would make me a star.” There was red around his eyes, I knew had been crying, that he was hurt, but it was a wound he wouldn’t let me mend. “Go home.”

I didn’t want to believe Femio, but when he left, my whole world faded into nothingness.

I sat, alone, in the dark, even when Duck came the darkness did not abade.

The show would go on, and I felt anger like no other consumed me.

It was my play, my story, my love!

I thought Femio wanted love, the love I had to offer, but he was just using me, using me to write him a play, and only when it was finished did he leave me.

And run to the Prince.

I did what I thought I had to do, I sold my typewriter and bought a ticket to Spectacular Spectacular.

The audience was packed, its what I deserved, what my play deserved, and I would never receive any of the glory.

I marched in, and went to the backstage, determined to see Femio, to be the one to get the final word.

I could hear them laughing and cheering, I could hear the applause, and I could hear him, his clear voice as he spoke my words, the words I wrote for him.

It must have been the Knight’s death scene, but as Fakir tried to stop me from getting on stage before falling asleep, I was at the trap door.

I entered, and Femio faltered.

“Ah!” Mr. Cat cried. “The Knight! Though you wear a clever disguise! I can still smell you!”

The audience gasped.

“I have not come to vanquish you, Raven.” I said, I knew the lines by heart. “I have been betrayed! By the Prince!”

The audience gasped.

I refused to say the Knight’s soliloquy.

A proclamation of loyalty and dedication.

“Had I known the truth, I would have stayed far away!”

There was confusion, what truth was I speaking off? What secret was being kept?

“Autor.” I heard him say, lowly, so that only I could hear.

A chill went down my spine, and I could only think of the times he called my name, between kisses during the day, between carases during the night.

But before I could create a grand story for the audience, Duck fell from the ceiling, proclaiming.

“Autor! They’ve got a gun! They’re going to kill you!” She dangled from a rope, and cried once more. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love! And be loved! In return!”

“Come what may!” Femio sang in my ear. “I will love you.” His voice rose. “Until the end of time!”

The Prince stood, “Seize him!”

Femio pushed me to the ground, and there was a rush as everyone tried to run off the stage, or grab me.

“No matter what you say! The show is ending our way!” Duck said, still dangling from the rope.

There was a gun somewhere, it went off, severing the rope just as Fakir walked out onto stage, his arms thrusting out to catch Duck.

I stood to my feet, my hands finding Femio’s.

The gun was in Mr. Cat’s hands and the band started again, Penny’s beautiful score filling the air the knight was supposed to be ripped to pieces, but instead, Femio and I were lifted into the air, and together we defeated the Raven, and the gun flung from his grasp.

The audience cheered and I wondered for the first time if a happy ending would suit my story better.

I smiled, and the world was right, I kissed Femio for the last time.

He smiled too, but soon he grew pale, and cold, he coughed, and fainted.

He blinked rapidly, unseeing. His fingers clawed at me face, and there was nothing I could say, no words came to me, all I could whisper was “Come what may.”

His lips moved, forming the words, but they never reached my ears.

The tips of his fingers traced my lips.

“Come… what… may… come…”

His hand fell and his eyes, oh his eyes stared up lifelessly into the sky.

I cleared the blood that trickled from his mouth and cradled his body close to my chest, I felt my heart tear itself apart, and I couldn’t even hear my pitiful cries as the appalus rose into the air.

Time passed, and my heart healed, my love, all my love, still belonged to him, so I did my best to write a story about a time….

About a place…

About the people…

But above all, a story about love, a love that will live forever.

The End.