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#how am i tearing up at every in the heights song
kashimos-hajime · 1 year
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—𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐚𝐥-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦
summary: he hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when al-haitham dreamed for the first time after the akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.
WARNINGS: archon quest akasha pulses, the kalpa flame rises spoilers! soulmate au if you squint, swearing, mentions of violence, death, injury, minor self-loathing, plot AND lore heavy, angst, fluff, not poly, happy ending!  pairing: al-haitham x fem!reader, minor kaveh x fem!reader word count: 18.1k grind
a/n: written for the lovely @zhongrin​ and her elemental supercharge collab! it was super fun to work on and really inspired me to love writing again because it was just a breath of fresh air. my entry: dendro + dendro + cryo = permafrost 
here are some important notes for this fic to help with understanding it:
tsaritsa is the former goddess of love. the goddess of flowers was a seelie. king deshret reborn was al-haitham. possibly ooc al-haitham (he’s also deaf!) i made shit up about teleport waypoints and about pretty much all the lore surrounding the three god-kings besides what i glimpsed through some books/theories/etc. i was just like fuck it we ball. 
inspo songs: who is she? - i monster, about you - the 1975, awake from a nightmare - hoyo-mix (i recommend you listen to this one especially during kaveh - chat: craftsmanship)
now on ao3 x
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Greater Lord Rukkhadevata - About the Goddess of Flowers
In the place where Padisarahs bloom, two gods speak in the absence of their third. The Lord of Flowers picks these Padisarahs and the Greater Lord watches, entranced in the velvet purple petals that gleam in the sun.
The latter says: “You know the price to be paid if he searches for that divine nail.”
The other says: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t pretend to be a fool. You and I both know that—”
“Rukkhadevata.”
The Dendro Archon is silenced.
At last, the scorned one speaks. She has lost her people, her home. She refuses to die until Celestia is buried beneath her bloodied hands. “There is nothing to be done. Do you think Deshret’s mind sways so easily? He is set on finding the answers he seeks, and I am set on aiding in his endeavours.”
“But you… why? You understand what the Heavenly Principles are capable of, and you still put yourself in their line of fire. Again. Why?”
“Because Deshret asked.”
“I don’t think you understand what he is asking you to do.”
“No? Then, you have no idea of what I am, Rukkhadevata, and you are the one who won’t ever understand.”
Deshret - About the Divine Nail
The sandstorm is brutal, tearing at their clothes, their skin, blinding their eyes and clogging their throats. It had picked up so suddenly, there’d barely been enough time for Deshret to shield her from the first impact before realizing that the storm chaotically revolves around them. Around him. Uncontrollable winds swiping through the eye of a hurricane do not with hold their strength from the Goddess of Flowers, but Deshret, the powerful God-King remains untouched. 
He pulls her in closer to his side. The Goddess of Flowers can barely see straight by the time the divine nail rises to its full height, her withered body barely able to withstand the powerful galeforces that pull at her every which way. 
The divine nail is beautiful, glowing blue, refracting gold, and she can only smile as Deshret beside her raises a hand. He, too, glows, but he glows like the sun, like divinity.
“You’ve done it,” she congratulates through her weeping. The sand burns into her corneas, brands her lungs, but nothing touches her heart, and that is how she knows the reason it is shrivelling in her chest is because she is dying. The god beside her, the one holding her hand, turns, and she can’t help her laugh. “I told you once, though, that you would lose much in this exchange.”
“What?” His hand springs off her wrist, but her body is already disintegrating. It feels like it did when her kind was casted from their old home; her body thinned into a husk of what it used to be. Back then, she had prioritzed saving her mind over every inch of her beauty, yet now… now she doesn’t have the strength to save anything. 
Deshret cannot protect the Goddess of Flowers from a trade conducted by those who rule above gods. “No… no, what is happening? You’re…”
“I hope,” she cuts off cleanly, “that one day, I can love you without any selfish desire. I hope… in another life, another samsara as Rukkhadevata would so fondly call it, I will love you more than you ever loved me.” His eyes widen, and a trembling hand reaches for her face. The Goddess of Flowers smiles. Tilts her head into his palm, and laughs again through the tears that evaporate off her cheeks as soon as they spring off her eyelashes.
He is incinerating to touch—a conduit of swirling sand, an incarnation of the sun. How ironic it is that the hand that once saved her from the sands will be the hand that seals her fate amongst the dunes.
Stepping closer, her flesh burns away when she cradles his face. He is shining so brightly. A brilliant morning star, a genius with a hungry mind, a gluttonous scholar. The God-King of the Desert.
Yet, Deshret does not seem like the god everyone makes him about to be.
Before the Goddess of Flowers, Deshret is nothing more than a man, crying and holding onto her with all his might. 
A soft part of her melts at his expression.
“In all honesty,” she whispers, soft and choked, “I aided you because, in your ambitious vision of the future, I saw the possibility that you could free all of us from the shackles that chain us to the Heavenly Principles. In the end, it was my own selfish nature that led us here, and it is my own doing that marked your path to be one that you will have to walk alone.”
Deshret takes hold of her face, eyes searching, but the goddess withdraws her hands to settle her fingers on his wrists lightly.
“It was not your fault, Deshret.”
“No!” She pulls his wrists away, but he curls his hands into fists, fighting to free himself from her grip. For once, it is impossible, and he lets out a desperate growl, tears glinting upon his cheeks. “Don’t leave me. Don’t… don’t go.”
“Deshret—“
“Stay. Just a little while longer. I will take that divine nail and hammer it into this world, and build you an eternal oasis where I will bring you back to life with the knowledge that spills from its organs.” Lunging forward, his hands find themselves on the sides of her neck, thumbs stretching to trace the lines of her jaw. “I will not lose you. I cannot lose you!”
The ragged storm enflames, the winds grow deafening, loud enough to resemble a constant thunder that echoes in the hollowness of her chest. 
“Don’t worry about that sort of thing, Deshret.” 
Her voice is very weak now. When she swallows, sand shreds her insides and her eyes burn from the strength it’s taking to avoid coughing up iron.
“We will meet again,” she continues. “If Rukkhadevata has a hand in anything, it is the wisdom that pools around all of us, and the knowledge that there will not be an era where we are separated.”
“No, no, don’t go!”
But it falls futilely on deaf ears. The Goddess of Flowers lets go, and steps backward, her knees shaking, her frame swaying from the winds she can no longer fight. 
As soon as her heel tucks into the edge of the unrelenting galeforce, she is ripped away, and the Goddess of Flowers disappears.
Tighnari - Something to Share: Akademiya Days
If one asked Tighnari what he thought of the Artificer of the Akademiya, he would return that inquiry with one of his own:
“Do you mean my thoughts on the Artificer alone, or about her relationship with the Scribe of the Akademiya?”
The truth of the matter is, the Scribe and the Artificer’s history go past colleagues at the Akademiya, past scholars searching for a thesis, for once upon a time, they were students, too.
Paimon isn’t aware of this: “Er… I don’t know. Did they know one another?”
“Al-Haitham wields his practicality like a spear. Nothing could quite faze him or outwit him. Nothing could unsettle him, except for the Artificer. She was a student in his year, but she was a scholar of the Kshahrewar Darshan. They were quite the reliable pair of scholars.” A soft hum. 
“Really? Al-Haitham doesn’t seem like the partner type.”
“He isn’t. I suppose exceptions could be made when it came to her. I met Al-Haitham through the Artificer, actually, when they were working on some sort of prototype translation device for foreigners and she had asked if Sumeru’s scientific names for plants from other nations were derived from their original language.” Tighnari’s ears twitch. “I didn’t know her well back then, but from my brief meetings with her, she was very lively and happy. She didn’t care about the Sages and the politics surrounding the Six Darshans. All she wanted was to study. I think her thesis was to find a way to repair the Teleport Waypoints around Sumeru. It made quite the wave back in our day.”
“The Teleport Waypoints?” Paimon says. “Paimon noticed that they’re guarded by the Corps Of Thirty in Sumeru when in other nations they’re pretty much abandoned.”
“Her hypothesis that they’d been placed by some higher power than the Archons is a banned reference material and only the highest level of scholars are aware of the theory,” Tighnari says, and there’s a far off look in his eyes. “The Corps of Thirty supposedly defend these sites for a historical scholar for the day she comes home, but to be honest,” he adds quieter, “I think they were ordered to defend the Waypoints from the Artificer should she ever return.”
.
Technological advancement in Sumeru had progressed far enough that prototype cochlear implants are, though not a norm, a potential alternative than going through life unaware. The alternative is only made available by the resources of the Akademiya and Al-Haitham’s enrolment there since it’s where he can maintain upkeep with the help of Kshahrewar students who were overseeing this new piece of headgear. 
You are the student assigned ot make sure his top of the line technological headwear didn’t go awry. You spend a lot of time with him, which means, against all odds, the bright, voracious, and laughing sun of the Kshahrewar Darshan has become Al-Haitham’s friend.
He had avoided it at first. Honestly. In the three years they’ve been together as mechanic and project, it took almost a year for Al-Haitham to consider even looking forward to seeing you every Thursday afternoon where you’d fiddle with his settings and write down notes on his condition.
And, yet, when he conceded to the fact that you were a staple to him—a constant in the ever-changing nature of the Akademiya’s cutthroat landscape where scholars dropped at the tip of a hat—he found that he learned more about you in the first month he gave in than he did in the last twelve he resisted. 
Each factoid is like a dash in his head: your thesis is to be about the possibility of repairing the shattered Teleport Waypoints scattered across the nation, and how you’d go about doing it. Your work with Al-Haitham is just a way to investigate how the Akasha terminal and said Teleport Waypoints could work in tandem. Your life goal is for the latter to work on its own some day like it did in ages past and ease travel for those who could not afford to.
“It’s an altruistic thing to do.”
“I’m from Snezhnaya, but I moved here when I was younger.” You’re sitting across from him at the library as you tinker with a device similar to the one on his ears. “I used to go back every summer, but now that I’m at the Akademiya, I haven’t returned because I don’t have time, so the Teleport Waypoints would help with seeing my family more often, too. I’m not all good.”
He doesn’t look up from his book, although above the top of it, he can see your fingers deftly trying to rearrange wires. “Family?”
“Mhm. My father is a researcher here. My mother stayed back home. I grew up in a small hamlet, you know.”
He smiles faintly, flipping a page. “Yes, I know. It’s one of the first things you told me.”
“Oh, well… I didn’t think you’d remember,” you say, and he finally looks up from the pages to find you staring. You don’t look away, and instead, your smile grows as you tilt your head. “You’ve got beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that before, Al-Haitham?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he answers. That’s another thing about you. You always say his name when you speak to him, as if to make sure that he understands you are directing such things to him.
That, and just the way you say his name. Every syllable purposeful, in that voice of yours that edges on melodic. You still have a Snezhnayan accent when you say certain words, including ones of Sumeran origin.
“Well, you do. They’re so beautiful.” Your smile makes your eyes crinkle as you return to your project, and Al-Haitham clears his throat, fighting the red that’s burning his ears. Scratching his jaw, he shakes his head minutely and instead tries to think of anything else.
You like oranges, but have a secret soft spot for peaches. You like reading romance, and you love art. Your father is a member of the Spantamad Darshan, and during his thesis, he travelled back to his homeland and fostered a family, which includes his eldest daughter, you.
The same you he can’t stop thinking of now that he’s stuck on it.
Later, when they begin to pack up their things from the library, in between him slipping a book into his bag and you sliding each tool back into its spot in your case, he asks if you’d like to have dinner with him at Lambad’s Tavern.
“Alright, but I’ll have to drop this off at my work room before I do. I don’t want to damage it,” you answer, tilting your head to your project wrapped in cloth which you’ve carefully nestled into a box.
“That sounds fine. I’ll meet you at the bottom of the tree, then?” he asks and you smile fondly at him, the box in your arms and your bag slung across your shoulder.
“Give me a minute or two,” you say. “I won’t be long.”
Al-Haitham bids you farewell at the entrance to the House of Daena, and you walk off with a bright smile, your figure outlined in a melting sunset gold. There’s not a lot of people outside—most have found shelter in Akademiya buildings or they’re out in the city, trying to maintain a social life as well as a scholar can.
“(Name)!” someone shouts, and Al-Haitham, who’d been walking down the ramp, looks up to see a tall, slim figure bolt past him. Blond hair flashes in the burning orange of dusk as a man runs past, and Al-Haitham twists around to avoid being hit by him as a foul word springs to his tongue.
But then, he realizes what the man had yelled and who the man even is the longer he stares at his retreating back, and Al-Haitham shakes his head.
You won’t be happy with him if he gets into an argument with your childhood best friend of all people.
Kaveh is easy-going, passionate, and empathetic. It is… to say the least, everything Al-Haitham is not. He’s met him once or twice out of pure coincidence, and he’s seen the blond around you more often than not. A part of him dislikes his nature. His whimsical, idealistic view of their future does not fall into line with how Al-Haitham sees it, and borders on idiotic considering that a romantic vision is not feasible in a nation where knowledge seeks to rationalize every existing thing.
The more logical half of him knows that you share all the same traits as Kaveh, and that the real reason behind his disdain is because Kaveh clearly has romantic feelings for you, and you return them.
It isn’t difficult to decipher the nature of your relationship with your “childhood best friend.”
How else would you describe the way his hand wraps around your elbow when other people want your attention and how when he leans to whisper something in your ear, you never fail to laugh and swat at him, your own arm looped through his.
He thinks that sick, logical side of him would pay to see you stumble through your words as you try to explain your relationship with your friend, but he can’t bare to do it. It feels cruel when all you’ve been is patient and kind with him.
“You seem distracted, Al-Haitham,” you intone with concern. You cradle tea in your hands, and cock your head at him, a thoughtful frown playing at your lips. “Is something wrong?”
Blinking, Al-Haitham finds you looking at him with those wonderful and warm eyes, and that logical side of him vanishes—a rat scurrying from the sunlight and back into the dark.
“No. No, I was merely thinking of something,” he dismisses, poking at the food he’s barely touched. The tavern is loud—almost too loud. His head aches with the amount of thoughts that swirl around, clattering in cacophony. It’d been stupid to suggest this place when he’s so tired from studying. Archons, he wants it to stop now. To get up and run, to curl up with a book and a warm fire, to tell them to stop, everyone, please, for the love of the Dendro Archon, shut the fuck up—
You laugh, and set down your cup of tea, reaching over to grab his wrist and squeeze gently, and his world goes quiet. It zeroes in on you, and the softness of your palm betrays the calluses on your fingers, a strange juxtaposition against his wrist.
“I know it’s hard,” you utter teasingly, “but I want you to stop thinking tonight. Nothing about studies, or labs, or anything about any kind of dictionary.” He smiles at that as you stroke your thumb over the back of his hand. “Just you and me, and this food.”
“Duly noted,” he mutters, and you smile again, returning to your own supper. But he cannot. His eyes do not stray, and his shoulders sink into his body, invisible weight sloughing off his skeletal frame.
All Al-Haitham does is watch you eat, rice slipping between two perfect lips, lips he knows, lips he could draw, and he’s not even close to resembling an artist. A mouth he can paint without seeing the reference, eyes closed, asleep, unconscious. A mouth he has dreamed of before, and he wonders just how he can tell you that, now, the reason he can’t stop thinking is because he’s thinking about you.
Collei - About Technology: Lockboxes
“What do you wanna know?” Collie asks brightly. “Oh, this is the Artificer’s seal! How do you have this?”
“We found it in the Balladeer’s chambers. It was addressed to Al-Haitham but we can’t seem to open it.”
“That’s probably because you need his permission to open it. Most of her work is password protected, so I guess that means including this. Top secret stuff. Master Tighnari received a few cases back before I knew him, though they’re still in his quarters.” She sighs. “Apparently, all her work is more valuable than a lot of the stuff the Sages hold, according to Master Tighnari, because she went missing and there is no way to replicate it.”
“I thought Tighnari didn’t know her well,” the Traveler mutters to themself quietly, before asking, louder, “Missing?”
“I don’t know much about what happened, but she went missing five years ago after an expedition went wrong. Apparently, a huge snowstorm overtook the desert and she was swallowed up by the sand. The rest of her team came out fine, but her and some other Spantamad scholar just… died in that snow. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen! So much snow it almost completely covered the sand dunes.”
“That’s strange,” intones Paimon. “It’s so hot and dry here, wouldn’t the snow just melt?”
“It seemed like a freak incident,” Collei agrees, “but the Sages were scrambling to figure out why. The Akademiya was in a flurry that whole season before it died down.” Her eyes fall to the box the Traveler holds again. It has a flat surface, with no keyhole, yet it’s sealed shut, and Collei hums. “Maybe, they’re just blueprints and stuff to keep safe. That’s what Master Tighnari has in his boxes. Or, maybe it’s a secret treasure!”
“It could be,” the Traveler answers. “But I haven’t been able to find Al-Haitham.”
“He’ll show up,” Collie assures confidently. “He always does.”
.
As a member of the Haravatat Darshan, Al-Haitham is capable of speaking nearly every living language in Teyvat and a handful of dead ones. It’s required for him to graduate alongside a well-founded dissertation. He wrote his own on the developing dialects of sign language across the regions, which he recited in front of his professor entirely in sign language.
A bit much, but Al-Haitham is nothing if not thorough.
He already has a reputation in his Darshan to be no nonsense, borderline rude, and a lone wolf, but brilliant, and the future of the Akademiya. A prodigy with no morality of the common sort, Al-Haitham walks the Akademiya grounds knowing that there are few who can shatter the earth beneath his feet. 
If the Sages are right, the current Scribe should be stepping down soon, and he could take that position easily. All access to so many projects would be granted, and he wouldn’t be short on resources for things he’d like to study. It’d also grant him more time to pursue his own endeavours. The desert is sorely understudied, but the rumours of a Divine Knowledge Capsule floating around the black markets, too, piques his interest.
Al-Haitham is a scholar without equal.
“Al-Haitham, there you are.”
Yet… in front of you, he’s nothing more than an awkward boy who doesn’t know what to say.
In the years since they’ve been mere fresh-faced students, you’ve graduated, too. Now, you work as a Dastur, leading expeditions with your father. Al-Haitham’s met him multiple times, but he’s been returning to Snezhnaya recently according to you. You’ve even overtaken some of his smaller projects.
“That’s not any of your responsibility,” he had pointed out in quiet Snezhnayan when he had come across you returning late to the city from an expedition to Avidiya Forest. Mud had ruined your shoes, and you looked up at him, moving to dump your bag on the ground. He had caught it before it could crash to the ground. Your eyes glinted, pleased, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.
When his arms wrapped around your waist, you had seemed to melt into his body. Your fingers found purchase in his hair, and your nose dug into his neck as you sighed.
“Well, it’s my father,” you murmur in your mother tongue, strangely beautiful against his skin. It was one of the first languages he challenged himself to learn. You are much more subdued when you speak in the dialect of your homeland, yet no less beautiful. An everlasting snowflake in the middle of a rainforest. “He is most important to me, and I must do what he asks.”
He walked you home that night without you even asking.
Your smile is impossible to refuse, your laughter one of the few sounds that can bring him to a sane state of mind. A scholar without equal means a mind that never sleeps, and when Al-Haitham has enough of it all, he seeks solace in your mouth and your hands; your fingers carding through his hair, your lips whispering against his ear.  
A solace, no doubt, Kaveh receives nightly considering you two live together now on the stipend the Akademiya provides. Al-Haitham’s thoughts have driven him to stay up late on his most exhausted days, wondering what you did when you parted from the dinners they’ve scarcely scheduled and you returned back to that small house you shared with your childhood best friend. 
What do you and Kaveh even do every night anyway? Dinner, and conversations over what? The arts and poetics that Kaveh constantly waxes, whether or not you’re around? 
You plant yourself in front of him to stop in his tracks, and Al-Haitham’s eyes dart from your face to your neck against his will. 
Clear. It’s always clear.
“I’ve been looking for you,” you say.
“Have you?” Flippant. A bag hangs off your shoulders, and a shorter cut of the uniform drapes off your frame. Against his will, his heart sinks. “You look like you’re packed for another expedition.”
“Mhm. I’m going out into the desert for a month, maybe two. There’s a Teleport Waypoint near the Mausoleum of King Deshret that’s been displaying some abnormal levels of energy, so it might be a breakthrough depending on the cause.”
“You think there’s a Ley Line disorder?”
“Or maybe King Deshret’s risen again,” you comment blithely. Al-Haitham’s eyebrows shoot up at your boldness of stating such a blasphemous thing in the centre of Sumeru City, but you don’t seem bothered. “There have always been stranger things. Either way, I want to check it out.”
“I suppose so. Will Kaveh be accompanying you this time?”
“Kaveh? No. No, an architect and an artist has no place in the desert when he could be here.” You avert your gaze and you fight the stuttering in your voice. Al-Haitham bites his tongue. “Scholars from the Spantamad Darshan will be, though, considering the Ley Line aspect of the situation. It’ll be nice to spend time with my father again. He returned just recently, did you know?”
“I was made aware,” he says. He saw your father early yesterday morning, and they’d exchanged words, but you don’t need to know that Al-Haitham speaks to your father on a semi-regular basis. “Well, then, I hope your exploration is fruitful.” 
“Of course it will be. It’s me leading the expedition,” you tease, winking, and he can’t help the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. Your smile softens into a fonder, more genuine one, and you take hold of his hand. In Snezhnayan, you utter: “I wanted to see you before I left.”
“I’m happy that you made that effort to,” he murmurs in the same, inclining his head. You squeeze his fingers, before letting go, and Al-Haitham’s gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth. It’s still smiling, still warm, still those same lips that have haunted his dreams. He lets out a silent sigh and raises a hand to rest atop your head. In Sumeran again, he says, “I will await your return then, Artificer.”
“What a silly title.” A displeased expression overtakes your face but nonetheless, you clutch his bicep and duck from his hand and begin to make your way past him, trailing your fingers down his forearm. He turns to prolong the contact, his fingers tracing your veins. “Now, I don’t want to go, knowing you’re waiting for me to come back.”
“Don’t get too cocky,” he warns. They are at each other’s fingers, and he curls his digits, locking you in place for only a moment. “I might not be here when you come back.”
“Please,” you snort, but your expression betrays how happy and excited you are. “See you later, Al-Haitham.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” he agrees, and you giggle, waving one last time before turning around fully and running off to wherever you’re needed. Al-Haitham’s smile doesn’t fade as he watches you go. His heart warms whenever he’s near you, and now that you’ll be disappearing for a few months, he’s determined to keep that fire inside him burning low and bright.
He loves you. He knows that very well by now. Loves you without rival, without equal. Very few things can even think to challenge the spot you have in his life, although he is sure he does not have some sort of equivalent seat in your halls of life.
Why would he sit there when you have so many more acquaintances? Better-tempered ones, kinder ones, ones that aren’t ruled by selfish ambition, who actually have the initiative to tell you how they feel because they are not bogged down by the arguably controversial opinion that love is nothing more than an obstacle.
“Al-Haitham, the Grand Sage Azar wishes to speak with you,” an attendant says, and Al-Haitham is forced to look away from you. The scholar frowns at the request, but nonetheless, he follows the man to the House of Daena.
When he returns home from his meeting with the Grand Sage, Al-Haitham wants nothing more than to rip his brain out, strip it clean of memories. For the first time in his life, he curses knowledge, and the consequences it has inflicted on him
But a box sits waiting for him, a note attached to the top of it. By the intricate lock system on the front baring no keyhole, but a scanner that illuminates when Al-Haitham’s finger brushes against the box, he knows who it’s from.
Cyno - About Cold Cases
“The Artificer?” Cyno asks in the dying minutes of the feast in his honour. Crossing his arms over his chest, his brow furrows. “Why do you want to know about her?”
“We heard there’s a lot of mystery surrounding her, but if she’s such an important figure in the Akademiya, why didn’t she ever come back?”
“So you know she’s missing.” Cyno sighs. “I’m not sure if this is information I’m legally allowed to reveal to you as an outsider, but it’s you so I suppose I could make an exception. Her belongings were seized and her quarters were raided after her disappearance five years ago. The Eremites posted around the Teleport Waypoints are to assure that she doesn’t come to tamper with them.”
“Why? Is she a criminal?”
“No. The Sages put a stop to all of her research after it became clear she was extremely close to unlocking the full potential of the Teleport Waypoints. Whether or not it was fear that she would use that knowledge and surpass them is unclear, however she was well-liked by the public. Much of her work during her time was contribution to the public. Improving different aspects of our nation.”
“So, why… do you think the Sages had a hand in her disappearance?” the Traveler asks.
“I had my suspicions during the investigation which were only further supported once I was made the General Mahamatra and granted the ability to investigate past open cases.”
“As the General Mahamatra, you would probably know more about the circumstances surrounding the situation,” mutters Paimon. Cyno’s lips twist into a dismayed scowl.
“It was only the beginning of Azar’s need to retain power in Sumeru.” A resigned exhale. He glances around, but the place the Traveler has led him to is secluded and quiet. “I suggest you never reveal that you are searching for the Artificer to Al-Haitham. Talking about her is… a touchy subject.”
“The reason we wanted to find her is because of this box we found addressed to him.”
“A box?”
“Yeah! It must be something she hid from the matra before she disappeared.” Paimon flies around to the Traveler’s shoulder. “We wanted to ask Al-Haitham to open the box, but he’s been distracted by something else recently.”
Cyno hums, lips twisting into a frown. “From what I remember, the conclusion drawn from the investigation was that a freak snowstorm had caused her and another scholar to go missing. It went on for a month or two past their initial end date, so their resources eventually dried out, especially with being unprepared for that sort of weather. However…”
“What is it?” the Traveler asks.
“Well, why was she and a Spantamad scholar the only ones who went missing? The other members of the expedition emerged from the snowstorm cold but relatively unharmed at Caravan Ribat. Furthermore, there was a great shift in the area surrounding the Teleport Waypoint in front of the Mausoleum of King Deshret, suggesting that the Teleport Waypoint had somehow been used. I’m not quite sure of the efficacy of which it operated, but considering that there was no trace left behind, it’s possible that the snowstorm covered up the Teleport Waypoint tapping into the Ley Lines, and transporting the two scholars into some other place to escape.”
“So, in the end, she was successful in what she was trying to do,” the Traveler muses. “The Teleport Waypoints aren’t effective everywhere in Teyvat, though.”
The General Mahamatra shakes his head. “No, not to my knowledge.”
“Thanks, Cyno. This was a really big help,” the Traveler says, turning. Paimon flies in front of them, her hand scratching at her head. “I should leave you to your celebration. Sorry to bog it down with work.”
“Wait, Traveler. There’s one other thing that you should know. The investigation was preceded by an assignment issued by the Grand Sage to none other than Al-Haitham.”
.
Outside the Mausoleum of King Deshret, an expedition bustles around their camp. Scholars measure the Teleport Waypoint, use devices to take the temperature, and scribble down every observation in a small radius to ensure that the conditions are ideal.
You’ve retreated to your tent. The heat’s getting to you, and you feel exhausted as you set down your tool on your work bench, finger running down another manuscript to make sure everything is perfect.
Snezhnayan catches your ear and you turn around to see your father approaching, the tent flap closing behind him.
“You think it’ll work this time?”
“I’m sure, Papa,” you answer, lifting the core you’d been inspecting. They’ll insert this into the base of the Teleport Waypoint in a few days time once the Spantamad scholars are able to locate the source of destabilization in the Ley Lines. 
Archons willing, the core will be able to detect the Ley Lines running beneath the structure and channel energy back up into the Waypoint, and they’ll be able to go home in a blink of an eye.
There is one thing that you think separates you from the other scholars at the Akademiya, and it is not this groundbreaking technology you’ve crafted with your own hands. 
It is the higher purpose that fuels you to study. Not just for the sake of knowledge, or to find something new, something exciting.
“It’s our last chance. If we fail, the Doctor will have his way with me. I haven’t been useful enough, and he has no patience for people who waste his time. Little Star, I refuse to go back to Snezhnaya alive.”
The Fatui Harbingers. The fingers in your bones feel brittle after toiling for years and years for them to the point where you’re not sure that these hands are your own anymore. Maybe they belong to some unseen mind you don’t even know, but fear all the same.
All your work has only ever been for the Doctor, but maybe… maybe this way you and your dad can somehow find your mother and your siblings, find a secluded corner of this continent and hide from the Doctor for the rest of your days.
“Thank you,” your father murmurs, and you lower the core back into its box. Closing it, it lets out a little beep, and you drum your fingers against the top of the lid, sighing. “Little Star.”
“It’ll be fine,” you whisper, letting out a long breath. It feels like it takes the soul out of you, and you plant your hands against the table, letting your head drop. “We’ll be just fine.” 
A hand settles between your shoulders, and you let your father guide you closer towards him. His chest is warm, and when his arms embrace you, it feels like home. Turning into him fully, you wrap your arms around him and press your cheek against his chest, feeling like a small child again.
“You’ve worked so hard for my sake. I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”
“The fact that I’ve managed to save your life, Papa, is reason enough to do anything.” You withdraw, and smile at him. He sighs, eyes scanning your face. “The Doctor will be pleased enough by this progress, right? I… it might not be a permanent solution, but he’ll think it’s enough of a relveation that he won’t kill you?”
“Don’t think like that.”
“I can’t help it!”
He flicks your forehead, and you separate, wincing. Rubbing your brow, you send him a glare. 
“That Al-Haitham won’t want you to be so pessimistic.”
“Dad!” Heat flashes over your face, and you whirl around, busying yourself with cleaning up your work bench. Your father laughs, leaning in beside you. “Al-Haitham’s just a friend.”
“I never insinuated anything more than that,” he teases. “But I’m sure you two are closer now than ever.”
“Papa!”
“You ought to stop giving him the wrong impression, if he’s just a friend. Living with Kaveh, playing house,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s going to realize that you and that silly boy are together.”
“We are… not… together.” You could strangle your father. Returning the manuscripts to your own box, you don’t quite close it yet. You’ll still need to do one last check to make sure the winds from the desert haven’t swept anything underneath anything else. “Kaveh and I are just friends. We just like living together.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll never understand then why you don’t pursue Al-Haitham.”
“You don’t have to understand anything,” you complain, exasperated. “Al-Haitham’s not interested in that way with me, Papa. Besides, I don’t have any time to foster a romantic relationship. Save that for when we’re in the clear.”
“Who knows? Maybe he can accompany us.”
“Father!”
“Artificer! The Scribe of the Akademiya has arrived looking for you.”
“The Scribe?” you murmur, frowning. Immediately, all that teasing evaporates like smoke, and your brow furrows. Your father’s expression is identical. “What would Abbas be doing here at his age?” 
“Perhaps there’d been urgent news?”
“They would’ve sent a messenger, wouldn’t they? Or even the General Mahamatra if it’d been serious.” You sigh. “It’d be better if you weren’t in here when I receive him. It could be something bad.”
“Are you sure?”
You nod. “You can send him in.”
Your father departs, and he chats with whoever is outside, but you can’t let yourself eavesdrop. Your anxiety is biting at your frayed nerves. You haven’t slept well in days.
The day that will seal your fate comes closer and closer, and you can’t think of anything else. Your head hurts, and you grab your canteen, taking a sip and hoping it’ll help with the ache. 
What will you do if the Teleport Waypoint works? Will you leave the Akademiya entirely? The Doctor might ask you to stay, and further develop and streamline the process for whatever plan the Harbinger is creating, but with this technology, you could run. Leave it all behind.
You absently brush your finger over a stick of charcoal. You’ll have time to think about it, you suppose.
The tent flap opens, and you let out a sigh. “Scribe Abbas, I’m surprised you—“
And whatever words you had, whatever had been autopilot motoring off your tongue, die.
“Al-Haitham?” Surprise shoots through your system. Your heart skips a beat when you see him, and that uncomfortable rhythm pounds against your ribs as he smiles faintly at you. He looks the same. Always the same. “What? What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you,” he admits, and you can’t help the silly smile that rises to your face. “I would prefer to speak with you in Snezhnayan. I know that your mother tongue goes unused often. I don’t want to get rusty either.”
“Oh.” That heat comes again to your face in a crashing flood. “Of course,” you comply. “But I don’t understand why you came all this way just to speak with me. Couldn’t it wait? I would’ve been back in the Akademiya in a few weeks.” Your mind scrambling for more words to say, your eyebrows knit together. “Wait. Scribe. You’re the Akademiya’s new Scribe?”
He nods. “Yes. I was promoted last week.”
“That’s excellent news!” you exclaim, coming closer and grabbing him by the wrists. His eyebrows rise but you tug him towards your bedroll. Sitting, you tug him down and tuck your knees beneath you. “Tell me everything. Wait, do you need anything? Food, or water?”
He chuckles, letting his bag slide off his shoulder, and you soak him in again. His beautiful eyes, the sweep of his downy grey hair. It has always reminded you of a dove’s soft breast. Fluffy, and attached to a body that can fly anywhere it’d like.
You card your fingers through that crop of hair fondly, pulling it away from his eyes and brushing the longer bits behind his ear.
“No, I don’t need anything more than your time,” he answers, taking your hand and pulling it back down to rest between them. “I was apparently Azar’s first choice to be the new Scribe. Abbas wanted to retire.”
“He is getting old,” you admit. “But I hadn’t realized. You don’t know how happy I am to hear this, you know.”
“I think I know.” His voice makes your eyes widen. You’d never heard it like that before—so unguarded, so softly spoken. Your eyes dart to his and your chest squeezes at the way he stares at you. Had he always looked at you like that, or is that a desert mirage manifesting itself in your tent?
You smile, letting out a scoff. “You have no idea how much I care about you, Al-Haitham.”
“More than Kaveh?” he asks off-handedly, and you blink. 
“Well, that’s not fair. Kaveh’s my oldest friend.”
“I think it’s more than fair,” he says. “But, I know I’m no rival of his for your affections, so I won’t pursue you on the topic any further.” Arguments build up in your mouth but he only pushes onward: “Are you making headway with the Waypoint? I saw some of the scholars crowding around it but you’re still in here.”
“The Ley Lines have been stable as of today. I was doing some final additions to a device that would activate the Waypoint, so we are,” you say warily. “The new blueprint I drafted before I left seems to be the most promising.”
His eyes drift over to your work bench before he nods. “I see. May I go look?”
“Yes, of course.” Rising together, you’re shocked when he leads the way, their fingers still entwined. Never before have you tempted physical touch for this long. You’re always aware that he’ll be overstimulated, or uncomfortable, or even just not in the mood to be touched, but you guess he’s amiable today, because he lets you sidle in close next to him—close enough that their arms are pressed together.
A sharp tug at your heart makes you sigh. You hadn’t the time to factor him into your future yet. You’ve thought about Kaveh—what he’d do if you left. You’d tell him, of course, where you’d be going. Why. How. You’d explain everything to the blond with the sincerest apology you can front it with.
After all, Kaveh won’t be able to afford the house they live in on his own stipend if you have to leave, and you can’t just leave your truest companion out in the cold like that. 
Kaveh. Your heart aches for him. You love him so much, but it’s never been the way he wanted you to. 
Glancing at the man beside you tracing a finger along your drawings, something inside you wilts. 
“Al-Haitham… I have a favour to ask you,” you speak suddenly. He’s silent, leaning against the work bench. Their hands are still interlaced in beween them, and you look down at his fingers, long and nimble. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, and you swallow.
“You know I don’t believe in favours,” he intones, not taking his eyes off the paper.
“I know, but this is something I have to ask out of our friendship.”
“Alright.”
You let out a breath. “If something happens to me, you’ll take care of Kaveh, won’t you? Give him a home if he needs one.”
“Why should I care about him?” he mutters apathetically and you smack him. His eyes finally meet yours and you glare at him.
“Al-Haitham.”
“Besides, why would anything happen to you?” he continues. “You’re one of the smartest scholars the Akademiya has right now. If you follow their rules, it’s nearly impossible for them to expel you.”
“Well, I know that’s what the Sages think, but there’s just a lot of things that are unpredictable.”
“Like King Deshret resurrecting?” he asks, and you scowl.
“Why do you always remember the things I say?” you complain. He smirks.
“You were the one speaking blasphemy.”
“You’re impossible,” you mutter dismissively, and you let go of his hand, moving away, but he grabs your elbow before you can stray far enough. “What?”
“I was teasing. Of course I’d look out for Kaveh. He might not like that very much, though. I don’t know if you’ve realized, but like others, he can barely stand me.”
“Well, I’m not asking you to become his life partner. I just… I care about him deeply. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to him.”
“Fine. I’ll do it,” he acquiesces. “But I won’t do it happily.”
“Oh, shut up. You love to tease him.”
“That is true.”
“Oh, you said you wanted to speak with me, though, Al-Haitham,” you remember. “This can’t be all you wanted to talk about. The promotion’s great and all,” you add hastily as he turns to you fully, frowning, “but a letter would’ve sufficed.”
He doesn’t answer straight away, and you frown. He simply stands there, searches your face for answers you don’t know the questions for, and you’re shocked by the tight pain that screws up his forehead. He smells like the desert and sweat, but you don’t mind it. You’ve grown used to Al-Haitham in all sorts of states—grown used to the space he’s carved into your heart hurting from how swollen it gets in his presence.
You love him so much, too. In the way that he doesn't want you to. The irony is not lost on you, but you don’t know how on earth you’ll survive not seeing him anymore if the homeland keeps you there.
“Al-Haitham,” you whisper as his eyes dip to your mouth and linger there. Your lips tingle, and you swallow, his name trembling the second time it escapes your tongue. “Al-Haitham?”
“Hm?” he hums, gaze finding yours again and you realize that he wanted you to notice him staring. Your mouth runs dry, and he tilts his head, face tender, and sad, if you can trick yourself into believing it. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I’m just… I’m happy to see you. Honestly, I am.”
His eyes are an oasis. “I’m sorry,” he utters softly, and you frown.
Your heart shivers in your throat. “What for?”
You learn only a second later what it is. Soft lips press against your own and your eyes widen in shock as hands cup your jaw, holding you there for a moment longer before pulling away. A horrible blush stains Al-Haitham’s entire face, and he looks away, stepping back with shaking hands.
Your eyes fall to those fingers that had just held you so gently, watch as they roll into quivering fists, and a sharp breath leaves Al-Haitham as your own digits touch your lips.
“What?” It is all you can muster to say.
His ears are bright red as he ducks his head. “That was what I wanted to speak to you about.”
“Well, there wasn’t much speaking,” you stammer, and he looks up at your tone. 
“I apologize. I don’t… know what came over me, but the truth of it is, I came here because I wanted to confess that I’m in love with you before anything else happened between us that could ruin my chances,” he says slowly, deliberately. He clears his throat. “The kiss was… supposed to be what happened after if I had luck on my side.”
“Luck on your side?” you echo.
“If you loved me back,” he clarifies, “which I’m not sure you do.”
There is one thing that you think separates you from the other scholars at the Akademiya, and it is not that you’re the smartest Kshahrewar student they’ve had in years, or that you’re working for the Fatui against your will.
It is that Al-Haitham, against all odds, against reason and logic—the very values of which he has built himself up on—loves you. 
When you told your father you didn’t have the time for romantic relationship, it was not because of that entirely. Your father, after all, had been a scholar who fostered an entirely family on the job, and there are tons of families with members in the Akademiya. It’s hardpress to find someone who doesn’t know of someone in the Akademiya.
It was because you love someone already, and you didn’t want to get your hopes up. And it isn’t Kaveh, as much as you had wished for years and years that it would be. Maybe it would’ve saved them all some heartache.
Oh, but the heart wants what it wants, just as the brain chases what it desires.
“Al-Haitham,” you murmur in a soft breath, “would you kiss me again?”
The Scribe’s—internally, you laugh fondly at the idea that he has that sort of authority—eyes light up, and he approaches you cautiously, his hands flexing and waning. 
When his fingers slide along your jaw, this time you’re ready for it. Your eyes slide shut, your hands find the lapels of a chest you wish you were more familiar with, and when a soft mouth presses against your own waiting lips, you take your time to enjoy it.
Kaveh - Chat: Craftsmanship
Kaveh is a slim, tall man with blond hair. The Traveler doesn’t know him well, but they find him just as he’s about to enter his house whilst they’re looking for Al-Haitham, and he is polite enough to invite them in for tea when they accost him.
“Woah, we’ve never been in Al-Haitham’s house before!”
“I assumed not. We don’t have many guests over,” Kaveh says to Paimon. “Most of the interior decoration was by me.”
“I heard you were an architect.”
“Yes, I still am. The Palace of Alcazarzaray; have you ever seen my magnum opus?” At the Traveler’s nod, he smiles wryly. “I actually just returned from a project in the desert, and coming back to this whole mess in the Akademiya has been disorienting.” He places a tray of tea on the table and sinks down onto his seat. “What did you want to speak to me about?” The Traveler explains briefly, and his eyebrows rise as he raises the mug of tea to his mouth. “You know of the snowstorm? Cyno told you. I see.”
“I’m sorry if it’s a touchy subject.” 
“It’s not. It just reminds me of someone.”
“The Artificer?”
“I… yes. She left Sumeru during that storm years ago.” Kaveh sighs. “We grew up together in the same hamlet. Childhood best friends.”
“Wow! Paimon didn’t know that.”
“You said you were looking for my esteemed roommate,” he prompts dryly. 
“Well, if you know the Artificer well,” the Traveler says, “could you tell us where we could find her, too?”
“What makes you think I would know?”
“You said ‘left Sumeru’ instead of ‘missing.’”
Kaveh looks away, the light in his eyes dimming. “You’re as perceptive as Al-Haitham said you were.” He doesn’t speak for a moment, simply choosing to stare into his tea. 
“Of course I know where she is,” he utters at length. “I loved her with all I ever had. I warranted more than her leaving without a goodbye.” It’s said in a tone that does not offer an opportunity for further dialogue down this route. “Traveler, what do you want?”
“We just want to return this box to Al-Haitham,” Paimon answers as the Traveler procures it. “It was sealed within the Balladeer’s construction chamber, but it looks super important. And a part of Paimon is wondering how it even got there in the first place if she’s gone supposedly missing all these years. If it belongs to her, maybe she could help us. We heard she was studying the Teleport Waypoints and that they’re some sort of… out-of-realm kind of technology? Paimon’s still a bit fuzzy on the details…”
But Kaveh had stopped listening roughly two sentences ago. His gaze fixes on the box in the Traveler’s lap. “It’s hers, you’re sure? You… have her seal?” With an assenting nod, he takes the box gingerly, running his hand over the craftsmanship reverently, and the Traveler averts their gaze in respect. Kaveh’s fingers trace the edge, and he sighs softly, rubbing his temple with the same hand. “She isn’t missing. She returned home to Snezhnaya,” Kaveh answers at length after a hard internal fight, letting his hand drop. The Traveler can see it in the way this great architect clutches onto the box until his knuckles pale, and his breath comes shaking. “There, she worked under who I believe is the Fatui Harbinger, Dottore.”
“The Doctor?” Paimon whispers, horrified. “She was a Fatuus?”
“No, she wouldn’t. Despite those horrid people giving the rest of Snezhnaya a bad name, she was the best person I knew.” Kaveh’s voice softens wistfully. “Her mind far surpassed many of those who call themselves scholars now, but I don’t think any of us realized that she was being blackmailed by the Fatui behind the scenes.”
“That’s awful…” the Traveler murmurs, fists clenched tight in their lap. Kaveh sets the box down tenderly, and he raises his eyes warily to the blonde before him. “So she’s dead? Did the Fatui kill her?”
“No. No, they wouldn’t kill an asset.” At this, the colour drains from Kaveh’s face. “From what I understand… she gave her body to the Doctor’s definition of science in exchange for her father’s life. I only saw her twice since the snowstorm. Once, when she returned to Sumeru City after she departed for her homeland, and once again two years ago, and she was more machine than human.” Guilt, and a heavy tinge of regret seeping into his voice and face. “In other words, I have no idea if she’s still alive.”
“How is that possible? That she could survive all that human testing and not go mad,” the Traveler murmurs, setting down their mug. Their stomach turns over at the scenarios running through their head. “Thank you, Kaveh. Maybe I should leave the box with you, considering Al-Haitham will return, one way or another.”
“I’ll look after it,” he promises. Together, the two rise, and Paimon flies towards the box, inspecting it one last time as if it’ll hold clues they’ve missed. 
The Traveler sighs, and picks up their backpack. “We’ll be off, then. Al-Haitham still has questions we need answered.”
“Questions about…?”
“Well, Cyno told us of an assignment that Al-Haitham was given that sent him into the desert according to his report afterwards, but never about what exactly happened,” Paimon informs. Kaveh stiffens, his jaw clenching and a terrible scowl crosses his face. Flying back to the Traveler, the companion continues, “If Al-Haitham can give us answers about what exactly happened—”
“The Artificer bears a Cryo Vision,” Kaveh interrupts coldly. “And do you know, Traveler, what the Tsartisa used to embody before she was consumed with the vengeance that rules her hand? Her nation?”
The Traveler pauses mid-step, lightning shooting down their leg and freezing them to the ground. The icy anger that overtakes Kaveh’s body, seizes his entire body into a husk of hollow fury plated by brittle wrath, makes the Traveler swallow, arms tensing. The architect has tilted his head away, blond hair curtaining the darkening expression consuming his face. It makes him monstrous, unrecognizable from the amiable man that had been in his spot only seconds before.
For a moment, the Traveler is unsure if they should be the one to speak—to answer a question they’re hesitant to answer. The air cracks but Kaveh saves them from the terrible decision only moments later after a harsh breath, and a soft, bitter laugh. It sits in the Traveler’s throat like sour melon seeds.
“I know Al-Haitham believes that I dislike him because of differences in beliefs, menial things like personality clashes,” he whispers scathingly with an age-old contempt, “but the truth of the matter is, he is the reason my best friend has disappeared, and I won’t ever forgive him for it, no matter how many favours he grants me. I know he doesn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart—it’s because she asked him, and he thinks this is even close to honouring her.”
“Kaveh…” Paimon floats forward, but the Traveler grabs her hand, holding her back. The floating companion looks back at them, but they shake their head.
“Most people see Al-Haitham as someone who’s callous, coldhearted, and dishonest, but I’ve seen him grieve her more plainly than anyone else. He mourns her even now, carries that guilt like a thousand weights without a single complaint. And it infuriates me,” he grits out softly, fists clenched by his sides. He tilts his head back, and inhales shakily. A sharp amber gaze meets the Traveler’s, and Kaveh lets out a short, horrible laugh. “I’m guilty of actually… caring about him despite what he’s done. It’s why I told him a few days ago that she sent me a note that she’d be leaving Port Ormos by the end of the week.”
The Traveler understands, and without another word, they race out the door.
.
The day before they’re supposed to complete their first trial on the Teleport Waypoint had been a lazy one—consisting of well-placed naps on your part so you could be prepared for the long day ahead of you tomorrow. Al-Haitham had been your steady companion through it all, letting you show him around camp and describing your work just in case he wants to report back to the Sages. 
“They’re not concerned, are they?” you had asked, and he had shook your head. Your father also wanted to speak to Al-Haitham, and you had surrendered your partner for anyone else looking for your attention. Penultimate observations of variables were taken. Meals, prayers, and stories were exchanged.
Al-Haitham kissed his name into your neck, your cheek, your lips throughout the day, waking you up from your naps and corralling you to your next one with punctuality only expected of him. You can still feel him even as you bid him farewell that night. 
He frowns, brushing the back of his fingers down your cheek, before taking hold of your jaw and tilting your head towards his lips. It’s a brief kiss, but familiar, and you can’t help but smile into it.
“I’ll see you when I come back?” you murmur against his mouth, and he nods, eyes dark and downcast. He’s not happy about leaving just like you, but there’s something stronger in his stare, the downturn of his mouth that’s occupied him when he thinks you won’t noticed. It feels almost like regret. Pulling back, you take hold of his hand. “Alright, Scribe, lighten up. I’ll be home soon, and we can talk about all of this.” You squeeze his fingers. “I promise.”
“We… we will need to talk,” he insists, and your brow furrows. He brings your hand to his lips with both of his own, and reverently presses a soft kiss to the heel of your palm. “I’m sorry.”
You curl your fingers over his hands and push them down, shaking your head. His somber attitude in the wake of what could be the happiest moment of your life is ruining your mood with a growing bud of worry, but you can’t let him know that. So you paste a smile on your face and simply squeeze him. “Don’t be sorry. Just go.”
His eyes linger, but you only shake your head minutely and he lets out a long exhale, his shoulders falling. That lost little frown still possesses his mouth, and there’s a permanent wrinkle in his brow that must’ve been there for the past few hours. 
He woke up before you, and you’d found him outside sitting by the fire on his own. It’d been a strange scene, and he looked lost in his melancholy—book all but forgotten in his lap, his eyes staring sightlessly into the fire. The sun had barely risen, but now you’re starting to wonder if he slept at all if the puffiness of his eye bags and the lethargy that he’s been trying to hide all day is anything to go by.
A part of you is nervous that it’s because he didn’t want to sleep next to you and had to seek refuge, but you rationalize that when you had called his name, he had returned to you without argument and a kiss to your crown.
The troubled gaze still lingers now, even with the dusk approaching. He had said it’s best if he sets off now so he can get back to the Akademiya and make use of the cooler temperatures. He’ll spend most of this week travelling, and you know he’d rather not miss the beginning of another work week. However, you can’t help but let the thought that there’s more than travelling at night in the desert that bothers him.
You wanted this farewell to be sweet and temporary.
Except now, it feels more and more permanent, and the sweetness of it has suffered for it.
“Al-Haitham, don’t go doing anything irrational or stupid or… unthought of in these last few weeks,” you mutter, and his head raises just as you slither your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. His bag nudges against your side, just another reminder that he’s leaving, before he’s pulling back again, and his hands on your back rub up and down. You sigh and kiss him quickly.
His eyes flutter shut, and he presses his forehead against your own before whispering softly, “I’ll do my best.”
With that, he pulls away, and you grab hold of his hand. Together, they walk out of the tent, and you observe the activities occurring around camp. Most of the scholars are talking and bonding around the fire. Your father’s feeding the Sumpter Beasts, but he’s speaking to another Spantamad scholar you think he’s been taking to as a mentor figure. Rafiq, you remember his name as.
Humming thoughtfully, you let go of Al-Haitham’s hand as Rafiq looks over and you smile. He nods to you, and you note his eyes darting over to your companion, but he doesn’t appear to be watching as they approach.
“Father, Rafiq,” you greet politely. “The Scribe will be leaving our encampment, now.”
“Already? You won’t stay another day?” your father complains, and Al-Haitham has at least the decency to look sheepish as Rafiq quickly finds the Sumpter Beast the Scribe had ridden from Caravan Ribat, saddling the animal quickly as he can despite the low groaning protests.
“Unfortunately, the Akademiya calls,” he answers dryly. “The Scribe has no shortage of work.” Your father frowns, and glances at you, but you shrug. “I hope all goes well tomorrow. With luck, I’ll see you by the end of next week.”
“We’ll have to catch up, one-on-one,” your father says, leaning over nefariously and obviously eyeing you. You cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes as Rafiq returns, rope lead in his hand. You take it, giving the Sumpter Beast a quick pat on hard ridge. It lifts its head into your palm in response, and Rafiq crouches down to feed it an apple. 
“The Sumpter Beast is ready, Scribe,” Rafiq says, rising, and this time when they meet eyes, your eyebrows twitch together at the way Rafiq gulps and glances at you. He must be intimidated. You smile reassuringly as Al-Haitham clips his pack onto the saddle and takes the lead from you. Fingers brushing, you fight the heat rising to your face and the way your smile grows in pleasure.
“Goodbye,” he whispers, and you tilt your head at him. 
“I’ll see you,” you answer. He nods before clasping hands with your father in a firm shake. You can’t help but roll your eyes again but they let go soon enough before Al-Haitham swiftly presses a final kiss to your mouth. You blink, eyes widening, but before you can even question it, he turns to mount the Sumpter Beast with a soft grunt and picking up the reins and flashes you one final (sad) smile. 
You return to your tent, your bedroll feeling suspiciously more empty now that he’s gone. Sighing, you tuck yourself in for a sleep as restful as you can make it and wake up too soon by the hands of the last watch who was instructed to as soon as signs of the sun rising were visible.
You get up and prepare yourself, although the apprehensive feeling in you does not do anything but swell. Walking to your work bench, you go to the box containing all your documents and let it scan once you place your palm atop of it, your Akasha terminal connecting to the device within. With a soft beep, it unlocks.
You’d given one similar to this prototype to Al-Haitham before you left. You smile and wonder if he’s opened it yet. It’s a bit different than yours, only requiring a fingerprint and a connection to his Akasha Terminal rather than a full scan, but you muse if that’s what had prompted him to come here after all this time. Maybe he finally realized the depth of his feelings with such a hard-earned gift.
Presently, you open the box and reach inside. Your smile dissipates as soon as you do. Nothing touches your fingertips except for the bottom of the box, and you lift the lid fully. Empty.
Huh. Maybe your father (the only other person with clearance) had already retrieved the needed documents while you slept. You wouldn’t put it past him to give you just a few more moments of rest. Sighing, you instead pick up the second box which contains the core. Strange he didn’t take this with him, but you dismiss the thought. 
You’re entirely too protective over the device. Besides, this is your moment of crowning glory.
You leave your tent to a frenzy. The sky is not quite clear—a few clouds spot the sky. Your father’s one of the first awake, too, and he’s running a hand through his hair as he takes the temperature of the air and writes it down. Another Spantamad scholar is measuring Ley Line energy through a device puncturing the ground, their Dendro vision winking in the growing light. Placing the box on one of the tables set up near the Waypoint, you sweep your gaze around the site.
You mainly search for the Kshahrewar scholars. As you walk around to make sure everything is going smoothly and if anyone has any questions on the way, you frown when you realize that none of the scholars from your Darshan are present. Approaching your father, you ask him quickly if he’s seen them.
“They’re awake,” he answers distractedly. “Some of them had gotten breakfast. Perhaps they’re still going over their notes.”
“I suppose,” you say doubtfully. They need the entire day to workshop this as effectively as possible and monitor any fluctuations. The entire operation is running late. It’s the only thought that’s ruling your brain as you glance around.
Still, no one. Perhaps you should check on them in their tents, just to make sure…
Before you can move: “Artificer!”
Turning, you spot a Kshahrewar scholar running towards you. Her brown eyes are wide, and she looks frightened to death as she runs her hands over her braid, tugging a bit hard to be a nervous habit.
“What’s the delay?” you ask irritably. The sun’s burning orange sky stains your corneas even when you close your eyes, and you squint against the rays as Amina skids to a stop before you, her face shining with sweat.
“All our manuscripts, the blueprints for the modifications of the Teleport Waypoint…” she trails off and dread begins to grow like a virus at her expression. The Spantamad scholars nearby pause in their work to watch, and behind, you see the other scholars of your Darshan running up. You are rended to the bone at each of their expressions. “It’s all gone! All our work, our notes, even the most personal things like our diaries have been stolen!”
“What?” your father shouts, storming over. Immediately, your heart drops and a chisel digs into your skull and cracks it in two. Your world goes dark as he continues to interrogate the young scholar, but a buzzing begins to whine in your ears as you stare at Amina who is frantically trying to explain herself. Your focus leaves, and your mind swirls as a flash of green later, your father has seized the poor young woman by the arms and shakes her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
He swears loudly in Snezhnayan. You cannot move. Letting go of the scholar, he turns to look at you, and all the colour has drained from his lips. His eyes are wide, his breathing sharp and rapid against your face. Suddenly all you can see is your father’s eyes—they fill your whole world with their colour, their shrinking, frantic pupils. “Little Star?“
But you can’t speak, because, for some reason, that horrible gut feeling that’s been bothering you since you woke up and found Al-Haitham outside yesterday morning, that tingling sensation that something is wrong, the nagging in your heart… it all returns in full force. Your heart wrenches into a rotten twisted ache and you want to fall to your knees, let the hurt of the stone against your bones distract you from everything else.
And it is not the thought that your father is going to die that first swarms your brain. Not even the second. No, that comes third. 
The first thought is that your father isn’t the one who extracted your papers from your box.
The second is that wish you weren’t smart. Not that you had never joined the Akademiya, no. You wish your brain didn’t work as fast as it does. You wish you didn’t see the whole picture, that you never knew which edges of the puzzle piece aligned perfectly and what slightest adjustment could be made for something to work like a well-oiled cog and handle. You wish you had no intuition, no fine-attuned sense. 
No memory, no heart, no brain. 
No emotions, no human fallibility. 
Humans make mistakes. They’re emotional creatures. You’ve always embraced that that is what makes life very much worth living, but that you has died in a matter of moments. You look out at the desert where, less than twelve hours ago, Al-Haitham disappeared beyond the dunes.
You had left the box open. After he had kissed you, you had spent the rest of the night on your bedroll, just dozing and speaking and rambling about all sorts of things, completely unaware. Unthreatened. It was not even a thought in your head in the heat of his arms. After all, how can someone you ask such stupid (unfailingly human) questions be untrustworthy? How could he ever hurt you? 
“When did you start liking me? Did you know how much I liked you? Yes… Kaveh does have feelings for me, but he understands I could never… I promise. Oh, you thought my feelings were my obvious? As if!”
“Rafiq has disappeared, too. I can only assume that he’s the one who took them. We haven’t seen him since sunrise, but we thought he was just exploring below the bridge,” are the first words that pierce through the dim, blurry fog that has surrounded your brain and sedated you to the point of debatable mental presence.
You blink, and look up. Your father is staring at the scholar who had spoken. A Spantamad scholar who only stares back at his leader with sympathy. All the others have gathered around them, but your movement catches everyone’s eyes. When you lift your head higher to take in those waiting eyes, you cannot help but feel numb.
“We weren’t stolen from,” you finally say at length. Your father returns to your side, his hand clutching onto your elbow, and you meet his eyes dully. “The Akademiya has confiscated all our research. They’re sending a message, loud and clear.”
He understands immediately, and you silently curse him. The hatred is sudden, pitiful, and undeserved, but you can’t help it. Where else could you have gotten your mind from? “No… no… he wouldn’t. He couldn’t do such a thing to… to you, of all people…”
A terrible, overwhelming sensation swarms your body like locusts. Your blood burns with the fury of a thousand suns, and you stand beside this Waypoint outside the buried resting site of a dead god, unable to do anything. Clouds that have gathered above you begin to darken.
Your mind rends at the memories from that night that seems like a lightyear away now. The way he had brushed your arm, the deliberate trailing of his fingers down your shoulder. He had kissed you, touched you, listened to you speak all the while knowing what he was here to do. 
It wasn’t to see you at all. Was it all… 
Was it all some ploy he had to make you a fool? A lovesick, blind fool whose heart is hanging on strings, tugging at every which way Al-Haitham wants it to. He doesn’t know what you’ve sacrificed to make sure that these Teleport Waypoints would work all the way from Snezhnaya to here. How much blood and flesh and sweat and time you’ve given up for the sake of family.
All that drive. All that ambition. All that desire.
Gone, like sand grain in the wind. Never again will you see that speck of nothing
Al-Haitham has made you a failure, and that is one thing you cannot… You cannot stand.
“What happens now, Artificer?” a meek voice asks. You don’t answer immediately and instead push through the crowd and you cannot look away from the dune your lover has disappeared behind. Lover. How stupid of you to think that word could suit your tongue. “If all of our research has been confiscated, I… we can’t just give up, can we?”
“Now?” you echo numbly. The clouds above you begin to swirl into a storm, and you cannot help the incredulous scoff, the noxious feeling of that smile curving your mouth. It’s bitter, and it makes you want to retch your rations onto the dirt as a crack of thunder sounds in the distance.  “Now, I think my father and I must return to our homeland and answer for our failure. The possibility we return is nigh zero.”
“Homeland? But… the rest of us—“
“The rest of you will return safely back to the Akademiya.” A gust of wind sweeps over you, and your eyes burn before it can touch your face. A shuddering exhale leaves your lungs in a death rattle sort of way, and it must mean something. That your heart has withered away and is nothing more in your carcass chest. That in this silence, Al-Haitham has declared you dead to a world he wants to create for himself.
“The rest of you should leave,” you breathe out, shoulders falling. The winds grow stronger as you let your head hang, blink and let the tears fall to the dusty tile beneath your boots. “The expedition is over. You won’t be paid much, so you should do your best to collect your wage before any sort of fees rack up for this expedition.”
“Artificer, there’s a storm—”
“Prepare to leave. You won’t have enough time if you dally around me any longer,” you intone listlessly, watching as the gales pick up the sand around your feet, swirl against your pants, rip at your clothing, and you squeeze your eyes shut, more burning tears streaking down your nose, into your grimacing mouth as you try to hold in the sob that clutches your heart. 
You want to pull your hair out, to scream, to do anything more than just stand here and watch as the work that carries your father’s life is carried farther and farther away.
Then again, Al-Haitham could’ve burnt all your manuscripts. Sunken them into an oasis never to be found again. 
Desecrated your work with something as simple as a flick of his wrist. 
Destroyed your entire life without a care as to what it would mean for you.
Were all those years meaningless to you? You wanted to know. Was your betrayal a price I had to pay for you to ever consider loving me? Or do you not consider this a betrayal at all, but just a trade between two scholars vying for the validation of the ones above us?
Blinding pale blue lighting cracks, and the thunder that follows is deafening as a column of light shoots through the dark storm that gathers over Sumeru’s desert as it did thousands of years ago. Sudden and loud, it sends the scholars scurrying. Your father stumbles back, calling orders in your stead, and you cannot speak. 
Clutching onto the front of your scholar uniform, you pull so hard you feel the threads stretch against your back, and your breath comes short and sharp, lodging into your intercostal spaces. 
Tears stream down your face and your mouth is dry, full of cotton, as you pant for air, bending over and stepping back, trying to find your footing on even ground. Heat blustering all over your face, your heart pounds in your ears and your hearing leaves you the moment you look up, trying to peer through the sandstorm and your tears. Blinking, you let out a low hiccuping sob of pain but even that is cut short by the knife that sinks into your heart.
Fingers splayed across your chest rip the buttons from the seams, tear your uniform apart in an effort to make space for your lungs to move. Running your palms over your face, you let out a raspy shout and clutch onto your scalp, trying to just breathe. The winds buffet against your head, the temperature in the desert sinking lower and lower as the rising sun is swallowed by the storm. 
How you wish you could rip your own brain out by the stem. Give up your body in the name of science, and rid yourself of this infernal contraption they call a heart. What have you done?
Voices inside your head scream louder than anything else: No! No, no, no! This can’t happen to me!
And that is when the third thought blasts into your chest like a gunshot. It leaves a wider hole than it entered through, and the shrapnel lodged in your body poisons everything. Out of every human emotion, it is guilt that tastes the most foul.
Howling squalls scream back at you as your entire world is consumed by this storm that turns white and grey. Flashes of pale blue lighting flicker at the corner of your eye, and you spin around, the shadow of a man making you crumple to your knees. He stands there for a moment, before he is blown away, and your squeeze your eyes shut, baring your teeth in a restrained sob. 
None of it is real.
None of it was ever real.
“Al-Haitham!” you scream in vicious Snezhnayan above the crackling thunder. Your throat tastes like iron. “I will never forgive you!”
You let out a screech that comes from the pits of your soul and it only dies into a loud, unhinged wailing cry that you cannot restrain any longer. Your bones chatter from the sudden onslaught of snow and brutal, slicing winds, but your fingers have numbed to any sort of sensation as you claw at your chest, your throat, pull them into tight fists that cannot do any more. Cannot tinker anymore—invent anymore.
Useless.
How could your father ever think that he was useless when you sit here, unable to do anything to save him?
A flash of lightning blinds you before the entire world pauses. The winds fade into a dull roar, the blazes of the storm cease into muted foggy glimpses of lighting, and the thunder rumbles like a heartbeat. Raising your head, you feel a soft breeze caress your tear-stained cheeks, and in the distance, you hear people screaming. People begging for help.
The world hasn’t stopped for them. Why has it for you? Are you dead? Do you… have the past few minutes been wiped into your mind? Looking up, the black clouds part and you see a moon that should not be visible at this time of day. Snow falls delicately and a pillar of lunar light shoots down through the hole, illuminating each snowflake that fall so slowly, so unhurried in their descent to the earth. 
You raise a hand to the moon peeking through, hoping for some sort of benevolence from the gods, but when you only serve to cover it from your sight, the edges of the round orb spilling between your fingers, you know it’s a stupid endeavour.
This moon is not the tender one it is in Sumeru. It is cold, and judgemental, and silent, and as the storm begins to swell around you once more, you bow your head to the Tsaritsa’s brutal judgement, letting your hand fall. You take hold of it with your other hand, cradling your palms to your chest when something hard meets your fingers. Jerking your head back, you stare blankly at the item that has appeared.
A Cryo Vision rests in the centre of your hands. 
You curl your fingers over it, feeling the newfound power of the element stream through your system. It sings with unbridled fury, as if the Tsartisa herself has wielded your betrayal, crafted it into a sword of permafrost that burns your hands, and you let out a soft breath.
To your surprise, it mists in the quiet, snowy air, and you let out a terrible sob, keeling over this Vision that means that something inside you has broken hard enough that it is worthy of being noticed by the husk of the Goddess of Love. 
That this… this is enough to be seen as other-worldly. As a kin.
A rattling scream echoes across the dunes, empties from your lungs into the remains of a lost civilization. The storm ignites, sending a rippling shockwave through the dunes. The buffeting winds crash into the stone. The snow begins to fall in earnest, and it mounts around you, covering the ruins you’ve studied so intimately. 
Ice spreads in thin spiderwebs from underneath you, crawling over the stone at a lecherously slow pace, and your heart rends. 
Hollows. 
Wilts like a dying flower. 
Crumbles to nothing. 
Disappears in the howling gales of a snowstorm, and for a long time, no one comes to you. 
No one will come.
No one can save you from your fate.
And so the storm rages on, and it will rage on until you feel nothing at all.
Al-Haitham - About Al-Haitham: Love
The only reason he knows you’re in Sumeru is because of Kaveh. The only reason he finds you is because of Kaveh. 
Al-Haitham curses that. Hates it more than anything that he’s in debt to a man who would’ve treated you far better than he did. Kaveh would’ve never betrayed you for the Akademiya. For all the romanticism and idealism Al-Haitham can’t stand, perhaps those are the things that would’ve saved you from ever leaving the safety of the city.
When he first sees you after five years, you are standing on the dock, speaking to the Snezhnayan engineers that must’ve been behind the Balladeer’s chambers and helping them load their ships with their supplies and technology that they must’ve scavenged to bring back to their country. He’s not sure if they’re all Fatui—not sure if you’re one of them, too—but you speak so quietly he cannot hear. They must not be, considering they aren’t arrested by the Dendro Archon’s command nor did they flee with the Doctor.
You’re clad head to toe in Snezhnayan colours, not a drop of green on you, and there’s something new on the harness that crosses in an x at your back when you turn around. It is pinned there, glinting pale blue in the sunlight.
A Vision.
He had never known you to have one. You’re also… bulkier in a way. More muscular, taller. Your hair is cut differently, too, and when you move to lift something that seems much too heavy, you do it with remarkable ease. But it’s you.
He hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when Al-Haitham dreamed for the first time after the Akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.
“I will be there when you dock,” you say loud enough that Al-Haitham can hear from where he hides at the mouth of the entrance to Wikala Funduq. “The Teleport Waypoint isn’t far from the harbour, and I’ll be able to sort out travelling arrangements before you all arrive. It’s short-notice, so I can’t guarantee the best, but I’ll try my hardest.” 
Peering around, he notes you surrounded by the engineers, but they begin to dissipate a moment later. Some leave the pier, while others board the boats, and you remain there, turning around to look out at the sea, hands planted on your hips.
Al-Haitham seizes his chance.
He walks out of Wikala Funduq, and as soon as his boots touch wood, you turn around.
The most peculiar shade of purple bewitches Al-Haitham. It’s a colour he is certain he’s never seen before, but an itchy part of his brain tags it as something he should be familiar with. A purple he should attribute to something else, something beautiful.
Your lips part, and a soft near-silent sigh escapes you as an entirely concoction of emotions racks through your face. Your eyes are not your own, yet they’re set in your face, and they widen like your eyes used to at the sight of him.
So it must be you. “(Name).”
You stiffen, arms falling limp at your sides, yet he cannot do anything but let out the breath he can’t recall ever holding and forgoing any sort of decorum, any sort of remembrance of who he is in the standing of the Akademiya. He is not the lone wolf scholar, the Akademiya’s Scribe, the Acting Grand Sage.
He is just a boy who is in love with you even now, even still, and his face crumbles into pure relief as he walks towards you in a daze, his feet dragging along the pier. You stare at him warily, and there are Snezhnayan workers who watch. Some even reach for a weapon, but at your barely raised hand, they fall silent.
“Al-Haitham,” you say, measured, soft, shaking, still your voice. You’re trembling in front of him. He is falling apart at the seams. When he nears, he can finally take in your finer details: the unnatural purple of your eyes, the mechanical optical rings of your irises, the way your pupils dilate  and shrink unnaturally as if sizing him up, inspecting him. “How did you know?”
“Kaveh told me,” he answers, and a sharp twinge of pain and betrayal flashes through your eyes before you blink, turning your head away. He’s surprised you haven’t frozen him to death yet, and he tests his luck further by reaching to touch your arm, but you only jerk back with a heavy step.
“How much did he tell you?” you ask roughly, eyes flitting from his fingers to his hand. 
“Nothing. Only that you’re here. That… you were leaving.”
“Did he tell you how he doesn’t even recognize me anymore?”
That silences him for a beat. “No.”
“I see. Well, I suppose you have questions?”
“Aren’t you upset with me?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve forgiven you,” you say, “then no. I haven’t. I won’t ever forgive you.”
“I’m sorry.” This time, when he says it, you understand. You didn’t five years ago, how he kept apologizing. You look away.
“Perhaps we should find somewhere more private,” you suggest quietly. “I don’t have any interest in entertaining your apologies. It’s in the past and we’re both… different people now, so I’ll answer your questions, and then we can see what happens next.”
“Fine.”
“I have a place nearby that we could talk.”
You begin to stride past him, but Al-Haitham, never one in the last five years to have the last word, feels himself act before he can think. “(Name), wait—“
When his fingers stretch to touch your hand, he feels a hard surface where you should be flesh, and your wrist twists unnaturally to free itself from his grasp. His blood runs cold at the way your hand rotates itself back to a more anatomically correct position, and you clutch it with your other gloved hand. 
“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Just follow me.”
He nods, burning, but he’s not sure with frustration or guilt.
You lead him to a hotel room that’s hidden but overlooking the pier. It’s a small place, but quaint and barely furnished. Picked dry mostly, except for a backpack resting slouched against the wall and some other knick knacks—a pen, a notebook you close as you walk past it.
You pull a chair at the table by the window out and sit down. Al-Haitham can see the water from the glass, and as he approaches, you lean on the table by your elbows and gesture with your hand to the chair across from you. He seats himself, and glances around the place.
“The last five years. Where have you been?” he begins.
“Snezhnaya. When you left, the one thing you didn’t take was the core of the Teleport Waypoint I created. My father and I used it and managed to successfully teleport home.”
“This whole time you were there?”
“Not exactly. I roamed the world for a while. I went to Mondstadt and Fontaine, but that was only a year or two ago.” You look down at your hands. “When we returned, the Doctor had been furious that I lost my research, but he blamed it on my father. He was… technically my supervisor.” As if realizing something: “Though, I don’t suppose you know all of that. With the Fatui blackmailing me, and… and everything.”
“I had gathered as much only recently,” he answers. “I went to the Balladeer’s chambers after he was defeated. I thought I could recognize your work, but… I was unsure.” Swallowing, he shifted uncomfortably. “All these years, I thought you had died in that snowstorm and that it was my fault.”
“Some would say I’ve had a fate worse than death,” you remark, acerbic and unsurprised. “If you had known, do you think you would’ve done what you did?”
“I think I would’ve been more aware of the consequence.” He shakes his head. “I would’ve been honest, even. When I received the assignment, I thought the worse. Betraying you was an impossible task, but they assured me you wouldn’t be punished, so I followed through with it with utmost secrecy. I thought you’d just come back to the Akademiya, and we’d have a huge fight, and somehow I could convince the Sages to allow you access back to your own work as long as there were restrictions placed.”
“Restrictions? None of my work was ever illegal, though.” Your eyebrows furrow, and Al-Haitham thought you were angry, but you only look at him in a strange, morbid curiosity. You’re only searching for honesty. “Unless…”
“They suspected your father’s loyalties had been swayed. The objective of the assignment was to take your materials away, bring you and your father back, and put you on trial. You would’ve been innocent, but your father…”
“He never did anything wrong.”
“I know that,” he replies coolly, “but Azar saw your father as a threat. Saw you as a threat. You were a public figure with a strong will of your own, inherited from your father. I doubt he could’ve put you under his control. Honestly, if you’d been here, do you think that entire situation with the samsara would’ve gone on as long as it did?”
“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I don’t know much about anything anymore, I think.”
For some reason, and Al-Haitham has weathered many storms before, during, and after their friendship, this is what makes his heart shrivel.
“What do you know?” he asks softly. You peek up at him from underneath your eyelashes, and a tired face stares back at him. 
“I know that I loved you,” you reply. “I don’t know if I still do. Looking at you now makes me feel something, but it’s not a good thing.”
“Do you hate me?” 
“I don’t know. It’s over now. I hated you for a bit,” you allow, “but to be honest, I’m just exhausted. This whole ordeal. The Doctor. I finally have the chance to leave his service. I could, but I have obligations to other people. To be honest, I have a half-baked plan, but I’m not sure if it’ll work.”
“Are you returning home to Snezhnaya?” he asks, afraid to even put himself in this position of wanting something from you again, and you frown. 
“Kaveh insists I stay here to be safe,” you tell him. “He misses me. I miss him. Travelling Teyvat, all I could think about is how much he would appreciate the different types of architecture around the world.” You shrug. “But… he doesn’t really recognize me as a person. It’ll take some time for him to get used to the fact that I’m more machine than human.”
“You’re still you,” he assures immediately and you arch an eyebrow. 
“How do you know?”
“Because you haven’t killed me yet when I deserve punishment for what I did to you so you must have a heart,” Al-Haitham answers steadily. “And I know you could strike me down if you wanted to. Don’t lie to me.”
“Al-Haitham…” Your mouth moves but you don’t speak, and he nods, understanding.
“My opinion shouldn’t matter, but I would like you to stay.” He cringes at even recommending it. “I know I have no right to ask this favour of you.”
The corner of your mouth twitches. “I thought you didn’t believe in favours.”
“I don’t.”
They sit in silence. You draw your hands towards you on the table. He steeples his fingers and looks out at the port to give himself something to do. The quiet isn’t amiable, but not openly hostile. Al-Haitham never thought he would be able to do this again. To sit across from you had been a long forgotten wish, and he doesn’t want to ruin it now, so he waits for you to start again.
“Did you ever open the box I gave you before I left?” you ask after a while. You’ve been tracing the woodgrain with your finger, and Al-Haitham has been watching you do it. You lift your hand back up and rest your chin in your palm to look out the window.
“I did.” A hard swallow. “How did you find such a collection of journal entries? They must’ve been rare.”
“Ruin diving and desert exploration,” you explain briefly. “At the time, you said you were interested in that catastrophe the oldest historical biographies mentioned, and when I had come across one of the journals detailing first hand experiences of a scholar during that time, I had to find out if there was more I could find and translate. Those six entries were all I could find at the time being.”
“There were more in the House of Daena’s collection. The entire anthology was called A Thousand Nights. A lot has been lost to time, so the rarity of these journals is high,” he says, and at last, you give into a faint smile although you still don’t look at him.
“You found more?”
“Yes, although the ones you gave me are stored safely in the box.”
“Not turning in precious material to the Akademiya? How rebellious, Al-Haitham,” you intone. You finally tilt your head towards him, and your smile has his heart racing. “Al-Haitham, you know of my feelings for you. What about yours?”
“Are you asking if they’ve changed?”
You nod. 
“Why does that matter?”
“I don’t know. Because I doubted it for a very long time. I thought that someone who loved me wouldn’t dare to do the things you did to me, but that’s an idealistic of the world I don’t have anymore. I don’t exactly trust you right now,” you tack on quickly, “but right now is honesty hour, isn’t it?”
“Seems like it.” He thinks on it for a moment. He could very well lie. It’d probably the easier choice for you to not possibly feel obligated in some way to his feelings. You wouldn’t have the burden of knowing that his love is unfaithful, nor would the chance to tempt it be there. 
And you’d believe whatever he says. Whether or not you know it’s the truth, you’d probably force yourself to believe it and he would, too, and they could leave all of this… them, their past, their present, and their potential future, too, in the sand.
Honesty hour. 
Is that what you called it?
“I did love you,” he admits when his moment is up. “I grieved you for a long time. I knew it was my fault that you had died and debated if my cushy job was worth surrendering the one person who could actually stand me and, against all odds, loved me for who I was. Those hours in your camp before I stole the documents made me feel the most helpless I’ve ever felt in my life and I hated it.”
“And now?”
“Now?” He ponders over this. “As soon as Kaveh told me you were here, I ran just to see you myself because I couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to see you when I had the chance. I… you’re not the same. I understand that. I understand my part to play in this, and I know that what I feel should not influence your decisions. I ask that you don’t consider them at all.”
“Al-Haitham…”
“I do love you. I’ve loved you for years, but it feels… longer than that somehow. Maybe I don’t make sense, but even when I couldn’t dream, I could still see you in my sleep.” Your stricken face makes him blink, and he fights the burning in his face and ears by looking down. The tightness in his sternum only aches more. “I don’t want your forgiveness, but I do love you.”
You are quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, unexpectedly, you say, “There’s a box”—and he jerks his head up, confused “—that I hid in the Balladeer’s chambers. I’m not sure if it’s completely destroyed by now, but only you and I have clearance for it.”
“What’s inside?”
“All the things that reminded me of you in the past five years. Things I wrote about you. Blueprints for your hearing aids. Collectibles I thought you’d like. I don’t know. Just a bit of everything, honestly.” His eyes widen. You don’t seem to notice, or you don’t let it deter you. “When I told you that I wasn’t sure if I loved you still, it’s because I’m trying not to love you. It’s very easy to convince myself I don’t when I never see you. But I see you and I feel disgusted.” 
You chuckle a bit, almost nervous. Al-Haitham isn’t quite sure of what to say. Grasping at straws, he opens his mouth to speak but you shake your head.
“To be honest, I never gave myself a chance to let my love for you die,” you whisper. “The disgust comes from remembering what you did, but it’s so overwhelmed by everything else. The longer I sit talking to you, I just feel like everything’s the same.”
“But it isn’t.”
“It can’t ever be, Al-Haitham” you agree. “But I’m willing to pretend. Just for a little while.” You look down at your hands, and slowly pull your glove off. A plate of silver metal catches the sun rays and Al-Haitham’s heart lodges right up in his throat at the cylindrical fingers that tug at your other glove revealing skin and a hand that he recognizes. “I thought it would be best if you saw it.”
“Does it… feel different?”
“Yes. I don’t… feel much the same way anymore, but most of the work was internal. Injections, a heightened metabolism, tinkered senses. A new leg. My eyes, obviously.” You gesture to your pupils, but they seem more natural the longer Al-Haitham watches. “My Vision gave me even more durability and he couldn’t kill me because of how useful I was to him, but I was the next best thing to a perfect subject.”
“Your father, then?“
“He’s alive. It was either him or me, and I gave myself up in an instant,” you answer. “I don’t regret that much of my life.”
He reaches forward tentatively for your flesh hand, but your mechanical hand comes into contact with him first, warm against his wrist. It’s almost like you’re still alive there, but the texture is too smooth, the edges where the metal plates too sharp to be human, and he looks down at the hand that touches him.
This is who you are now. This is who he’s made you.
“I want to move my family away from Snezhnaya, Al-Haitham,” you tell him in the lowest tone you can muster. Al-Haitham’s eyes meet yours, and a soft, pleading expression has taken over your face. “I know you’re the Acting Grand Sage, and that you have duties to the Akademiya, but—“ and he hears it for what it is.
I want there to be a chance for us.
“I would give you anything I could in a heartbeat,” he swears immediately. “If you need asylum, I’d be more than obliged to grant you your request. I—“ But nothing comes out. What his words cannot say, he hopes the silence can. I love you. I will help you in any way I can. I love you. I miss you. I love you.
I’ll find you.
I love you.
“You have beautiful eyes, Al-Haitham,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. When metal touches his smooth cheek, his eyes flutter closed, and a soft amused hum leaves his companion. “I think I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”
Cupping your wrist with his own hand, he turns his face into your palm. It smells like nothing, yet there is a hint of your scent clinging to your sleeve that slowly seeps into his nose. His lips kiss the ticklish part of your hand, and your mechanical hand reacts like your normal flesh one would—your fingers curl against his face, and your thumb strokes underneath his eye.
He smiles. “Yes. Yes, I’m certain you have.”
Buer - About Samsaras
The Traveler reaches Port Ormos by nightfall a few days later. By then, it’s too late and they’re too exhausted to even think about trying to find the man they search for. For all intents and purposes, he could be gone, but it doesn’t hurt to ask around on their way to their room.
They ask the owner of the hotel, Shapur, manning the concierge, who briefly mentions seeing the Acting Grand Sage walking with a woman renting a room in the hotel by the water. She had the most distinct purple eyes. 
Somehow, the Traveler knows that’s who they’re looking for and they take off again with renewed vigour, and leave Paimon in the dust.
They reach the port quickly. It’s mostly empty, but there are two distinct figures sitting by the water speaking. The moon is their only witness, and when the Traveler steps from around a pillar to observe them more clearly, they can see those purple eyes that Shapur mentioned clearer than day. They glow, even at night, and look almost fake. They’ve never seen eyes of a normal mortal glow like hers do.
Then, Al-Haitham, leaning back onto his arms, pushes himself up, and he extends a hand to his companion to help her up. When he turns, his eyes, too, catch the bright moonlight in a flash of golden divinity.
For a moment, time seems to stop, and the Traveler watches as they, holding hands, begin to walk further down the pier.
“This world is an eternal samsara,” someone comments. Spinning around, the Traveler’s eyes widen at Buer walking from a nearby ramp. When had they fallen asleep? She smiles, green eyes wide and innocent. “Just as there are memories of passed family members living in those of the present, gods never truly die. They are reborn when the time is right, and even alike souls can find one another again.”
The Traveler frowns. “What do you mean?”
“They’re happy. Let’s not disturb them,” she says instead, stretching out her hand. The Traveler takes it, and instantly, they are brought back to their room in Shapur Hotel. Paimon has fallen asleep, and the Traveler sits on their bed. Buer perches herself on the table, her feet not quite making it to the chair. 
“When did I fall asleep?”
“Don’t worry. It wasn’t a long time. I just didn’t want to ruin their reconciliation,” she explains. “I don’t remember them well, anymore, but as I’ve read more ancient texts in hopes of… remembering the more important details that have been lost to me, the times I had with King Deshret and the Lord of Flowers come clearer. Together, we were the three God-Kings of Sumeru. It’s unfortunate you were unable to meet them. They seemed to be my greatest friends.”
“They both died ages ago,” the Traveler says, and the knowledge that comes to their mind is stuck in their throat, chained from being freed. Rukkhadevata and the forbidden knowledge. That must be a secret that stays a secret.
Buer giggles. “Died in the loosest sense of the term. Gods don’t truly die. They may be banished, or lose their memories, but their essence is immortal. Even when they seem to be gone, a seed of them will always remain on this planet, seeking the right time and conditions to sprout.”
The Traveler’s spine shoots ramrod straight, and their mouth drops open. “You don’t mean…”
“Although it’s hard to confirm, I find it hard to mistake the similarities between your friend and mine. Deshret has been reborn,” she says, “not resurrected like the Eremites had predicted. As for the Artificer. Her purple eyes, although artificially made, bear a striking resemblance to those Padisarahs of ages past, don’t they?”
“Like the one in Nilou’s dream,” the Traveler realizes, all of it dawning on them like a flood and crashing wave.
Buer nods. “There are very few coincidences in this world. Be happy for them. Their ending in their last lives was not a happy one and they’ve struggled and toiled in this samsara, too, just for the chance to meet again. Even still, they will have to continue to fight these challenges to persevere.” She sighs, looking down at her feet. “Hopefully in the next one life, they can just be born friends and save each other some heartache, and maybe we can be friends again, too.”
“The Goddess of Flowers sacrificed everything for the price of King Deshret’s divine knowledge,” the Traveler points out distantly, their voice soft and wistful. “He drove himself mad because she was gone.”
“There are some events that must repeat on different scales in each samsara,” the Dendro Archon agrees quietly. “A first meeting, a death, a betrayal. I’m happy that my friends have found one another again, even if they don’t remember, but perhaps that is their pinned, pre-determined fateful event that must happen in every samsara. I don’t know. Irminsul’s powers are beyond even my full understanding.”
“They say she disappeared in a storm.” A sharp chill shoots down the Traveler’s spine as Buer hums, nodding. “And she was never seen again.”
“You’re understanding,” she says, delighted. “This time, though, she came back to him, and this time, he knows the knowledge he craves is not worth losing her love.” Buer smiles cheek-to-cheek. “The rest is up to them, now.”
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a/n: reblog/comment if you enjoyed! did you catch all the parallels and foreshadowing? there was as much as i could stuff in, from subtle to unsubtle! i read and watched so many theory threads/videos for this and again this was such a fun collab! 
the prompt was to either make the third person (in this kaveh) a love interest or someone who helps the main couple get together, and i thought why not a bit of both. after all, it is kaveh who was al-haitham’s biggest reason not to confess, and also kaveh who told al-haitham where to find you. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ heheh thank you for reading!!
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binkszamsstuff · 6 months
Text
All to well
No real happy ending 🧣happy heart break fall!
Waking up in a cold bed, in an empty apartment was a deep burn. It burned you yet the hands of a cold man ripped out your heart. Every day with him was like pure daylight. The soft morning kisses, the laughs, and giggles. His eyes flashed in your mind. You looked for him in dim lit rooms. You had to admit that he was a stranger whose laugh you could recognize anywhere. James Barnes never was one to fall so deeply he told you so himself when the two of you first started to date. Now 10 years later no longer 17, you stood watching your husband dance with another woman. Soon-to-be ex-husband.
You don't know where it went wrong, where, why when your husband stopped loving you. But he did. After 10 years of being together 8 being married, one day he came home and told you the last thing you thought you'd hear. He was never late coming home, he never hid his phone, and right up until he told you he was affectionate and loving. You watched as he twirled her around the dance floor, she was younger maybe 22 give or take. The hurt ever so grueling never subsided, you began to walk to the exit away from him and the ballroom full of people and friends. Just as you stood straight pushing yourself away from the wall you had been leaning on his eyes locked with yours. And for a whole second words he would never tell you were shared. His eyes were smug, sad, and in love all in one. He loved her. You glanced away looking around the room but avoiding his gaze that still sat on you. You walked away. With your dress, and beautiful hair flowing down your shoulders, truly a goddess. Just as your night was about to be ruined, a man stopped you. His dark curls swept back, his glasses perched on his nose and his lips light pink. His height towering over you.
“May I have this dance?”
“I-i yes” you stumbled out shocked a man would look at you like James did.
Frank Sinatra's voice carried throughout the room, it was yours and James’ first dance song at your wedding.
The man glided on the floor with you, you were an excellent dancer. People stopped to watch the two of you dance including James. His eyes watched in sorrow, he thought he didn't want you, he thought he wanted to explore. But hearing the song transported him back to the day he first met you, how he begged you to let him have a chance. To your wedding day how he promised to love you forever and then he meant it. Yet now he realized he always would. He knew his chance with you was over but he would never love the other girls like he did his first wife.
The years swept on, you got married again to the man you met on the dance floor. You loved him deeply yet sometimes your brain would push fantaizes of what if he were James. And old memories rushing into your heart making you forget that things were different and that the man walking through the door getting home from work wasn't him. You loved the other man but your heart couldn't love him like your first husband. Sometimes love isn't enough. Now at 37 years old in the same ballroom just 10 years later you saw him again. His eyes and yours met and they spoke all the words that were stuck in his throat. All the ‘I love yous’ I miss yous’, ‘I want you back, ‘I wish you were her’. The two of you slowly walking towards each other with heartbroken smiles, two hearts that were ripped away from each other finally meeting again.
“I'm sorry” his hand meeting your waist
“I know”
“I love you baby girl” he whispered his eyes taking you in, he continued
“You've grown so much, your not my girl anymore huh.”
“37” you replied trying to hold your broken heart together for just one more minute.
“I’ve been in love with you since I was 18 years old, what am I doing?” he asked ashamed
“You didn't want me James” you spoke tears falling, James placed his hand on your cheek wiping away your tears with his thumb.
“I know and I'm the dumbest man for it” he whispered, his lips locking with yours one last time to savor the hurt and unfinished love.
That night James went back home with his 4th wife and you went back home to your husband.
That was the last time you saw James in person but you knew he watched over you. He was still all over, in the dim light of the grocery store line you'll catch a sniff of his cologne, his laugh, or his voice. You'll be walking in a cafe or the mall and see him, yet in a glimpse, he's gone. One day a lone pink lilly was placed on your door with a note.
‘I remember it all too well. I was there, sacred prayer, it was rare. You remember it all too well.”
This is what inspired this fic (it’s a video)
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levisonlylover · 21 days
Text
Nothing's new.
Inspired by the song
TW: Angst, Self-harm, Suicide, Fighting, mention of Death, Fem!reader x a bit ooc Levi
A/N: feeling angsty, might feel cute later. Probably making this a series
Part 1/2
Slanted words: Levi
Normal words: you
(idk how to describe it, ffs)
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Nothing's new, that's what you would describe it. After every mission, You'd come home either dreaded, injured, or sick. You could see the dead comrades around you, it was tiring. You could just wish that it'd be you every time that someone dies, because you knew that you've served your purpose. Well that's what you thought, It's been years, nothing changed. You try to cope in healthy ways, but it always ends with a blade on your wrist, blood slowly dripping. You were either seen with bandages on your arms, the scouts tend to be worried about you, especially Levi. Levi never admits that you held some sentimental value to him, he thinks it was weak of him. One night, you had enough, You went to that one abandoned building outside the walls, you saw how beautiful the sky was.
"Wow..And here I thought I would never see such beauty."
You said as you exhale, You look at the sky then below the ground, the height was high, but with the amount of experience you had with the ODM gear says otherwise. You took off your gear and jacket and threw it on the ground, for some reason there were tears in your eyes.
"why am I crying? Isn't this what I wanted.."
You muttered under your breath. Before you could take that one leap of a step, you heard someone behind you.
"Stop! Don't you dare take another step..!"
It was a familiar voice.
"Y/N please..! Spare your life."
You looked behind you, it was Levi. Why was he here?
"let's talk, please. Just step off the ledge"
Why was he begging? You step off from the ledge and look at him, when you thought he was calm, you were wrong.
"Levi, why are you-"
Before you could finish your sentence, he instantly yelled
"what the hell..!? Why are you ending your life? Why are you hiding all this pain as if nothing happened!"
Your eyes widened up, you clenched your jaw trying to hold back the tears
"you don't understand Levi-"
"Cut the bullshit, Y/N. Why don't you open up to us? To..me?"
"Because it isn't easy! You know the times I have been used because I keep opening up?! Tell me, do you think you can easily trust somebody after knowing people can use the darkest shit to manipulate you?"
He was stunned, suddenly tears left your eyes. You were breaking down. You were angry, upset, in disbelief. God, Levi felt a sense of guilt and sadness. Almost breaking his cold facade.
"Nothings new, Levi. Everyday we face death, We never know when we will fucking die..or when our own comrades die."
Levi couldn't say anything. It was true, you were facing death everyday with your comrades, not knowing when your last day was.
"Y/N, that doesn't mean you would just let your life go."
After that cold night, Levi took you to his quarters, he may hate the feeling of having people over. But that night, you were an exception. He made some tea and let you open up to him, knowing that your words are safe from him. People keep saying Levi is a cold person, almost having no heart. But you could say the opposite.
"Just because life doesn't go your way. Doesn't mean there's another path waiting.."
"God that was corny, change it!"
You laugh, he lets out a chuckle. How will this end? Will you finally open up, or close off your heart once again till it piles up and pours out.
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nightswithkookmin · 1 year
Note
Hey Goldy
Hope u are doing good cos i am not atall. When JK said Be happy even without us and cried on Live. He Literally cried infront of millions of people. Why did it felt like a Good Bye ? My heart is broken. I am sad. I have never thought about being happy without BTS in my life. I know this day will come when Army will have to learn to live and be happy without BTS but not now not anytime soon. I am not ready but what JK did in that Live has left sadness in my heart. I am happy about Set me free pt 2 teaser and been streaming it. Its going to be Legendry. I am excited for Jimin album but my damn mind keeps thinking of JK and his face with tears rolling down is bothering me. I dont know whats going on with him but i am praying to God that it was just Alcohol and nothing more.
I was bopping my head and sobbing along till I read goodbye
Ma'am step away from the light I will not lose you
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Saying goodbye to WHOMST???
Not me cos he and I are not done
We have JJK1 to promote, stream and get to number one.
Goodbye, chileee I will move into his basement and ship him from there. now both he and I are uncomfortable staring at eachother cos my fat ass didn't fit under his bed.
Jungkook is not going anywhere hajima😫
Like you said, he switched on live television to cry in front of millions of people. If he had somewhere else to go with his angsty ass he wouldn't be here doing al that 🥴
Imagine being his 'girlfriend' and seeing him shed tears and cry himself to sleep drunk in front of million strangers when he could have come to you and cried and be vulnerable with you so you console him
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When I think about all the times Jimin said I was talking with Jungkook, caressing our phones, crying, talking about how I want to be with the members for a very long time- these people have girlfriends my ass
Tae can't relate
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I was expecting this around covid and around the time they announced their Solo careers. Seems he didn't give himself time to take it all in and deal and now it's hitting him hard🥴
I think it's good he is processing pent up emotions and externalizing certain thoughts. There are so many things I want to address from that video but will save it for another blog.
He is at the height of his career and he knows it. He's gonna process that somehow, the doubt the uncertainty, the fear, I just hope it doesn't paralyze him. Suga went through a similar phase as did Namjoon. Every artist goes through this.
People think it's easy to step out of the shadows of a big band as BTS and just catapult into the lime light- they should as Zayne Malik💀
As RM said, it's just too many voices telling you you are no good without your bandmates, too many people tearing your self Esteem apart, telling you you will fail, suddenly you are doubting if that song you made is good, wondering if you will become successful etc
For Jungkook I heard him saying all these, raising all these questions and curiosity about a solo career even before they announced it. I don't think it's easy for him. There's a lot of expectations and pressure to excel. Poor thing.
I really wish Jimin was free and had time to cuddle him. He just needs to be spooned. He will be fine 🙂
I think sometimes they don't realize the effect their tears have on us. Especially when they're crying and being sentimental and ominous about your career😫
I don't think it's just the alcohol. There's something going on with him. But i think he will be fine. the fact Namjoon told him to be quick and release his album means he has something in the works which is good. I don't want to analyze him too much cos it will take me away from Jimin.
We love him and I'm sure he feels the love.
The best we can do is support him and assure him we will be here for him whenever he needs us.
I feel Jimin is competing with a lot of people for army's attention. I love the competition but it's becoming ridiculous.
Let's stay focused. Let's learn to prioritize.
When we are done with Face, we have all the time in the world to discuss Jungkook's moody phase.
I want to hug you and tell you everything will be fine
Here's something to cheer you up
youtube
If that don't do it try this🥵
youtube
In a few days he's gonna be dropping an MV that's gonna keep all the girlies active 🥺
That still doesn't cheer you up? Crazy😩
Fine. I'll post a full analysis soon😓
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changingplumbob · 14 days
Text
URL Song Tag Game
Thanks to being tagged by @seriallovertrait and @gamyrmaiden I get to bless you all with how eclectic my music taste really is. I'm going to tuck it all below the cut because my username is long.
Quick moment for all my beloved songs that start with s that won't be able to be mentioned 🕯️
Everyone who sees this is obviously tagged but I know not everyone is music mad. For some exact tags... @marcishaun, @sharona-sims, @daedriyth, @simslegacy5083, @aliengirl, @limeysims, @nigmos, @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants (feel free to shorten your username, or not, I'm not your boss), @eljeebee, @calicosimgirl, @mushbop. But EVERYONE is genuinely tagged because I'd put you all in if I could.
So, songs for the letters of my username below! Also including the lyrics I love because who am I if not someone who breaks the rules of tag games? Please don't feel like you have to do this level of detail, it's purely me making more work for myself.
EDIT: Omg and @matchalovertrait tagged me to but I missed it because I took so long doing this 🫠
C Curtains: Ed Sheeran
This one is my, I see the light at the end of my depression tunnel song. It came out just as my mental health was moving into a better place. Obviously I also love Ed Sheeran.
Can you pull the curtains, let me see the sunshine? I think I'm done with my hidin' place, and you found me anyway It's been forever, but I'm feelin' alright Tears dry and will leave no trace, and tomorrow's another day
H Heroes: David Bowie
I love David Bowie! This song is a classic and it always makes me happy.
I, I will be king And you, you will be queen Though nothing will drive them away We can be Heroes, just for one day
A All the King's Horses: Karmina
I am still obsessed with Reign. This song I actually heard and fell in love with before I saw it on the show though. It conveys such rich emotion. Seriously, if you only listen to one song from my post, make it this one. It makes me want to write every time I listen to it.
All the king's horses and all the king's men Couldn't put me back together again
There is a reason I'm still standing I never knew if I'd be landing And I will run fast, outlast Everyone that said no
N Never Enough: Loren Allred
I love musicals, though I'm not as obsessed as some. I really like the Greatest Showman and it has a bunch of great songs. This song always takes my breath away.
All the shine of a thousand spotlights All the stars we steal from the night sky Will never be enough Never be enough Towers of gold are still too little These hands could hold the world but it'll Never be enough Never be enough
G Gold Forever: The Wanted
My boyband phase was The Wanted rather than One Direction. I love Gold Forever, and hearing it gives me all the nostalgic high school feelings. I still can't believe Tom is dead.
Promise me, you'll stay the way you are Keep the fire alive and stay young at heart When the storm feels like it could blow you out Remember, you got me and I got you
'Cause we are butterflies, butterflies, we were meant to fly You and I, you and I, colors in the sky When the innocence is dead and gone These will be the times we look back on
I It Won't Be Long Now: In the Heights Original Motion Picture Cast
I love so many songs from this film, some days I will just listen to the album on loop for hours. This one is a favourite, along with Blackout and Champagne.
The neighborhood salon doesn't pay me what I wanna be making but I don't mind As I sweep the curb I can hear those turbo engines blazing a trail through the sky I look up and think about the years gone by But one day I'm walking to JFK and I'm gonna fly!
N Nothing Left to Lose: Jeremy Jordan and Eden Espinosa
Yes this song is from the Tangled animated TV series. I see no problems. These two are great singers and honestly I could just copy/paste all the song lyrics because it's great.
So I chose To lose my doubts and lose my chains Lose each weakness that remains Now that I have nothing left to lose Nothing left to lose
G Give Me Your Hand: The Ready Set
This is one that gets stuck in my head easily but I actually fell in love with it because the lyric video for it is singing the song in sign language! We love inclusion and accessibility here!
She said 'I love this song I've heard it before and it stole my heart I know every word' She's gonna dance all night night, Till it hurts Singing the best song ever, best song ever!
P Playground: High Dive Heart
I like a bunch of songs by High Dive Heart and was stoked this one could fit on the list! I love it because I'm a senimental sap at heart and the whole song is a nostalgic dream of what made our childhood before we grew up and had to tackle the real world.
That's why they call e'm the good ole days Taking on the world cause we weren't afraid Jumping off rooftops in our skates Cause we didn't know we could break If I knew then, what I know right now I would've stayed on the playground I left my heart in the lost and found I should've stayed on the playground
L Life On Mars: David Bowie
Another Bowie song? YES! When I play his legacy album and get to this one I often have to put it on single song repeat for a while.
Sailors fighting in the dance hall Oh man, look at those cavemen go It's the freakiest show Take a look at the lawman Beating up the wrong guy Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know He's in the best selling show Is there life on Mars?
U Unapologize: Carrie Underwood
I am a romantic so of course I'm going to love this song.
I unapologize I meant every word Won't take back the way I feel about you Can't unsay what you heard
'Cause you heard me right, and I won't try To fight 'em back or hide my feelings for you I unapologize
M Monster Under My Bed: Bebe Rexha
You know that song The Monster sung by Eminem and Rihanna? Well Bebe Rexha wrote it! I love her solo version, not to rain on the rap version obviously, but I love her early music.
In a world so black and white Out of place and out of my mind Woke up and I realized Imperfection is divine
B Babe: Taylor Swift
So I heard the Sugarland version featuring Taylor Swift, loved it, adored the music video! Then Red (Taylor's Version) came out and I learned she actually wrote it? I love it.
I'm here on the kitchen floor You call, but I won't hear it You said no one else We ain't getting through this one, babe I break down every time you call We're a wreck, you're the wrecking ball You said no one else This is the last time I'll never call you, babe
O On Melancholy Hill: Gorillaz
I heard this one first when playing Life is Strange 2 and I love it. The rhythm is soothing to my brain.
Where you can't get what you want But you can get me So let's set out to sea, love 'Cause you are my medicine When you're close to me
B Brave, Honest, Beautiful: Fifth Harmony ft Meghan Trainor
I was never obsessed with Fifth Harmony but during university I did have a rough time and there was a bunch of their singles I'd listen to on loop to lift my spirits. This was one.
You can dance like Beyoncé You can shake like Shakira 'Cause you're brave, yeah You're fearless and you're beautiful, you're beautiful
So whine like Rihanna Go and pose like Madonna 'Cause you're brave, yeah You're honest and you're beautiful, you're beautiful, girl
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spencerreidsworld · 2 years
Text
i think he knows - spencer reid
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synopsis: based on the request "I wanted to know if you could write a one shot about spencer and reader based on the song i think he knows by taylor swift? maybe spencer keeps dropping hints about knowing readers feelings and finally asked her out and their mutual love for each other? i don’t your writing is pretty so you’ll probably do it better than me. maybe throw in some height difference and spicy fluff? thank you <3" from anonymous
warning: smoking, cigarettes (i don't condone smoking cigarettes, just thought it would be an interesting plot device!)
category: spicy fluff, angst, fluff and more fluff
word count: 2.4k+
a/n: thank you so much 🥺 i hope you enjoy it, and i'm sorry it took so long. i hope i did your request justice <3
masterlist / ask/request
I think he knows his footprints
On the sidewalk
Lead to where I can't stop
Go there every night
If I knew anything at all, it was that Spencer knew how I felt about him. I’d follow him blindly anywhere if he only asked me to. It was like I could constantly hear his footsteps, and I could see the prints everywhere that he walked, carpets and sidewalks and tile soaked with this thick black ink that called me to go where he goes. My coworkers teased that I often followed him around like a lost puppy dog; floating around behind him like a cartoon character with my hands clasped at my chest and hearts for eyes. Even if he knew and felt the same way as our coworkers did, he went out of his way to ensure I didn’t feel bad about it. He seemed quite content having me follow him around, hanging off of his every word. He never looked at me with disdain, or annoyance, but only with love and kindness as he always had. Little did I know the rest of the team teased him about as much as they teased me. 
I think he knows his hands around
A cold glass
Make me wanna know that body
Like it's mine
I could sit and watch him as we all sat at our favourite bar for hours. His longer fingers wrapped around a virtually untouched glass of whisky that Rossi had insisted he try, a single ice cube slowly melting and tainting the expensive liquid. The condensation wet the pads of his fingers and I found myself having to tear my eyes away from his hands before somebody noticed. It was shameless the way I stared sometimes, and it was a wonder that he hadn’t called me out yet. It was hard to keep the picture of his fingers and hands out of my mind; how they would feel on my body, the fabric of my clothes, my skin. A shiver tore through my body as I blinked twice, hard, trying to rid myself of the image. 
He got that boyish look that I like in a man
I am an architect, I'm drawing up the plans
“You need a refill?” 
His voice took me out of my cyclical thoughts of infatuation, and my head snapped up as Spencer moved to stand in front of me, towering over where I sat at the table. I glanced down at my nearly empty drink, feeling my face flush as he reached across me to pick it up. Looking back up at him, he watched me expectantly with raised eyebrows and I nodded fervently. 
“Come with me,” he added, holding both our drinks in his hands. I stood up quickly at his demand and immediately stumbled back slightly at our sudden proximity. My nose was practically pressed in between his collarbones, and the smell of his cologne intoxicated me as I took a clumsy step back. He quickly grabbed the fabric of my dress at my waist, steadying me with only two fingers and I felt a shiver run through me again. As we made our way to the bar, I couldn’t help but notice the small shadow of a smirk pass over his face as he led me away from the table. 
I admired him as I walked behind him. There was something about Spencer that was just so intoxicating. He looked so handsome in his sweater vest, the top few buttons of his shirt undone and a loose-fitting blazer with the sleeves rolled up made him look like the professor you have in university that you end up writing fan-fiction about. He was so young, so sweet and innocent, and yet had an air of dominance about him. And god, he was so tall. 
It's like I'm seventeen, nobody understands
No one understands
I felt like a school girl with a crush all over again. I watched him order my drink, leaning down to speak with the bartender over the loud music. His hand was still on my waist, his fingers moving slightly as he moved back to me while the bartender started on our drinks, reaching into his pocket with his other hand to grab a twenty dollar bill. I looked up at him, standing so close to me that I had to lean my head all the way back just to capture his full face in my brain. 
“Are you having a good time?” He asked absently, glancing down at my blushing face. I nodded again.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Are you?”
“I always have a good time with you,” Spencer said with a small smile, pinching my waist lightly where his hand sat. I squealed quietly, reaching down and wrapping my fingers around his to stop him from tickling me. 
“Shut up, Spence,” I laughed, and I felt my heart stop in my chest as he maneuvered our hands so our fingers were locked together. 
“I’m serious, Y/N,” he replied, his tone changing suddenly. 
I looked up at him again, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He reached up again with his free hand and gently pressed his thumb into the crease between my brows, something he had done almost as long as we had known each other. I smiled slightly and tried to relax my brows, but I couldn’t shake the nervous feeling that had overcome my body at his sudden confession. 
We stared at each other in the flashing lights of the crowded bar, trying desperately to read each other’s expressions. He was looking deep into my eyes, scanning for something, but I just wasn’t sure exactly what. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I was scared he could hear it over the thumping music. 
“Y/N, I…” He started, interrupted by the bartender sliding our drinks towards him, and he quickly handed the guy the money he had been holding, clearing his throat and thanking him with a nod. 
“You what?” I asked, tugging at the hem of his blazer urgently as he picked up our drinks. He leaned down until his mouth was near my ear. His hair tickled my face as it fell forward, having to tilt his head down quite far in order to reach my ear. I felt my breath catch in my throat. 
“I know.” He said finally, his lips brushing by earlobe and causing me to shiver for the third time that night. 
And I ain't gotta tell him
I think he knows
I think he knows
I think he knows
“I need some air.” I gasped, stepping back from him and nearly bumping into the people behind me. My mind was going a million miles a minute and I felt like I may faint. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he had said it, but it couldn’t have been long: he was still holding both of our drinks, head tilted towards me as he pulled back slightly with a concerned look on his face. I couldn’t bear to look at him any longer, and I turned quickly, scanning for the nearest escape. I spotted the exit to the small smoker’s pit in the corner of the bar and began making my way towards it as quickly as I could, ignoring Spencer calling my name behind me. 
It felt deafeningly hot, suffocating, and I couldn’t breathe until I broke outside into the fenced area full of people smoking cigarettes and vapes around me. 
Despite the harsh smell of tobacco around me, I was deeply relieved to take a deep, heaving breath of the cold outside air. To say I was terrified was an understatement. I knew exactly what Spencer had meant when he told me he knows. I had no clue what he meant exactly by it, if he felt the same way, if he was rejecting me, or why he had even decided to tell me at such an odd time. 
“Can I bum one of those?” I asked a woman as I made my way further into the pit, and she nodded, shaking one out of her pack and handing it to me. 
“Need a light?” She asked, reaching up with her lighter to help me. I wasn’t a smoker by any means, but with the amount of stress I was feeling, and the fact that I had abandoned my alcoholic saviour in Spencer’s hand back inside, it was the best next thing. 
I knew Spencer wasn’t gonna let me just disappear and leave it alone, and I had approximately 30 seconds at most before he found me among the crowd of smokers. 
I took a long drag of the cigarette, trying not to scrunch my nose in distaste at the flavour. I closed my eyes and prayed somehow Spencer hadn’t seen me beeline out to this door and that somehow he wouldn’t find me. 
The thing I liked about smokers is that they never felt the need to stand around making conversation as they smoked. I stood in the peaceful quiet of the pit, feeling my body begin to calm down and my heart rate begin to level out. 
That is, until I saw the door across the pit push open harshly, banging against the outside of the bar and causing people to jump. I knew it was Spencer instantly, not only from the aggressive door action, but the fact that he towered over virtually everyone else outside. It wasn’t hard to spot his mussed brown hair over the other heads of the crowd, which meant it wouldn’t take him long to spot me with his vantage point either. I cursed under my breath and turned to face the fence enclosing the smoker’s pit, looking out over the crowded parking lot and wincing as I heard my name again. 
“Y/N!” He exclaimed, his voice loud behind me now. I sighed slightly, flicking the ash off the cigarette and shaking my head, not turning around. 
“Spencer, please don’t do this right now.” I said quietly. 
“Are you smoking?!” He huffed loudly, grabbing my arm and gently tugging me to face him. “Y/N, what the hell?” 
I looked up at him with as blank of a face I could muster and threw the cigarette at our feet, stomping on it with my high-heeled foot while not breaking eye contact. He crossed his arms, watching me with an eyebrow raised. 
“Seriously?” 
“I don’t wanna talk, Spencer.” 
“Too bad.” He growled, pulling me again out of the fenced area and into the parking lot. He turned to face me finally, letting go of my arm. 
I could feel the emotions bubbling back up inside me, and I inwardly cursed him for finding me as I felt tears welling in my eyes. 
“Please, don’t.” I begged quietly, my voice cracking. “I’m embarrassed enough.” 
“Don’t what?” He asked, his tone and expression softening as he took in my face, taking a step towards me. I took a step back, crossing my arms over my body and trying to swallow away the lump in my throat. “Hey,” he whispered. 
“I can’t… I can’t handle you rejecting me. So, please. Just pretend you don’t know, okay? Please don’t say anything.” It was hard to get the words out without sobbing, and I hugged myself tighter as I felt my chin quiver. 
“Y/N, my God…” he whispered, stepping closer to me again. “Please, just listen, okay?” 
I was face-to-face with his chest as he got closer to me, and he reached up to press his thumb between my eyebrows again, looking down at me with sad eyes. 
“I was not planning on rejecting you,” he started. “I-in fact, I, I was planning on telling you that… I feel the same way.” He relaxed his hand against my face, his palm cupping my cheek as he gently ran his thumb over my eyebrow, his fingers tickling my hair at the nape of my neck. 
When we get all alone
I'll make myself at home
And he'll want me to stay
“I love you, Y/N. I have for so long.” He was scanning my face, eyes desperate, as he whispered his confession. My tears were running down my cheeks, his hand against my face catching them as they fell. 
I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, and I was sure I would need a defibrillator to restart my heart after this interaction. My mouth was agape as I looked up at him with teary eyes, the dim lights in the parking lot shining down and making him look like an angel. He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, so lightly I was sure I was imagining it, and I felt my eyes flutter closed as he wiped my tears off my face with his hand, sliding it back to tangle his fingers into my hair and tilting my head back ever so gently to gain better access as he towered over me. I lifted my feet slightly, my 4-inch heels coming off the ground as I stood on the balls of my feet, attempting to get closer to him as he deepened the kiss. His mouth was intoxicating, and I could taste the salt of my tears mingled into our kiss. He tasted so sweet, and there was a tinge of bitterness on his tongue, no doubt from the whisky that I would guess he had downed before coming out to find me. I hoped I didn’t taste too much like cigarettes. 
His other arm had snaked around my waist now, and he was holding me up on my tiptoes as he kissed me hungrily. I moved my hands from where they had been gripping onto his clothes for support and wrapped my arms around his neck fully, bringing us as close as I possibly could. He was grunting and moaning into my mouth, and his need for me was tangible, as mine was for him. Our kiss was full of years of built up repressed feelings, and it was enough to make me weak in the knees. 
Spencer was fully holding me up by the time we finally pulled apart for air, both gasping hard as he held me against him. 
“Spencer,” I whispered, my chest heaving against his in perfect time. 
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice raspy as he kissed the corner of my mouth, and then my cheek, and then my ear. “I love you, god, so much.” 
“I love you, Spence.” I said softly, running my hands over his shoulders and down his chest. 
“I know,” he pressed a chaste kiss to my neck as I felt him smile against my skin.
So where we gonna go?
I whisper in the dark
Where we gonna go?
I think he knows
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belit0 · 7 months
Note
Can please do Warrior by beth Crowley, I feel like this song would fit Indra and hsi wife, where the wife has powerful ablities and she wants him to help her.
I don't know if you've heard of the song before so but the lyrics match Indra and his wife so much, well mostly his wife
"You fascinated me
Cloaked in shadows and secrecy
The beauty of a broken angel
I ventured carefully
Afraid of what you thought I'd be
But pretty soon I was entangled
You take me by the hand
I question who I am
Teach me how to fight
I'll show you how to win
You're my mortal flaw
And I'm your fatal sin
Let me feel the sting
The pain
The burn
Under my skin
Put me to the test
I'll prove that I'm strong
Won't let myself believe
That what we feel is wrong
I finally see what
You knew was inside me
All along
That behind this soft exterior
Lies a warrior
My memory refused
To separate the lies from truth
And search the past
My mind created
I kept on pushing through
Standing resolute which you
In equal measure
Loved and hated
Teach me how to fight
I'll show you how to win
You're my mortal flaw
And I'm your fatal sin
Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com
Let me feel the sting
The pain
The burn
Under my skin
Put me to the test
I'll prove that I'm strong
Won't let myself believe
That what we feel is wrong
I finally see what
You knew was inside me
All along
That behind this soft exterior
Lies a warrior
Lies a warrior
Take me by the hand
I'm sure of who I am
Teach me how to fight
Ohhhh
The pictures come to life
Wake in the dead of night
Open my eyes
I must be dreaming
Clutch my pillow tight
Brace myself for the fight
I've heard that seeing
Is believing."
In fact, I took the lyrics quite literally, and made Indra into one of my favorite aus: fallen angel + witch reader.
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"You fascinated me, cloaked in shadows and secrecy, the beauty of a broken angel." (Y/N) remembers, reliving the fateful night when she saw him fall from the sky. A ball of fire and burnt wings shot from the clouds with overwhelming speed, in the middle of the darkness, lighting up the sky with a hellish red color.
At the time, she did not understand what was happening, approaching the place where she saw that object impact after its monumental descent from heaven, encountering an image both enchanting and terrifying.
An angel, with charred wings and only a few black feathers remaining on his back, laid unconscious inside the crater he created when falling from that height. His skin smoldering with burns and the destruction of his wings felt like a terrible premonition.
Why would an angel be cast out of paradise?
"I ventured carefully, afraid of what you thought I'd be, but pretty soon I was entangled" Memories of how she helped him, how she saved him from a frightening fate of torturous death, keep coming to her mind, as Indra watches her with curious red eyes and broken wings still shining on his back, black feathers strewn all over the ground.
He had accepted the woman's help, had accepted to be healed by her magic, had accepted what he felt in his chest every time those delicate hands ran over his skin. (Y/N) saved him, body and soul, and promised to help him with his evil purposes.
He would retrieve his power with her help, go back to heaven, and take revenge.
"Every time you take me by the hand I question who I am..." The angel whispers, unsure of what the woman causes in his heart, overwhelmed by the mess she leaves in his mind. Never having felt anything for anyone, Indra has no idea what sentiments are, how one deal with them, or how humans cope. He had come into her arms a few months ago, and from the beginning, allowed her to breach him, to tear through his being with her mortal qualities.
"Teach me how to fight, I'll show you how to win my love." (Y/N) pleaded, time after time, trying to absorb even a little of her beloved's power, to gain some of his wisdom, of his teachings, of the sorcery he has to offer. The angel had become her love, her mate, a celestial being and a human united by unexplainable bonds, ties that should not exist, and the woman set out to devote all her heart and soul to her man's cause, to help him with his plan.
"You're my mortal flaw, and I'm your fatal sin... Let me feel the sting, the pain, the burn under my skin. Put me to the test, I'll prove that I'm strong, won't let myself believe that what we feel is wrong. I finally see what you knew was inside me all along." She implores, between whispers and demands. Knowing that once her beloved regains his wings, once his feathers heal and his power is restored, he'll be headed for a fight to the death with whoever kicked him out of heaven.
She needs to stand by his side and support him when it happens.
"Behind this soft exterior, lies a warrior." Between caresses and soft touches he had mentioned, hiding their naked bodies under charred black wings, appreciating the wondrous magic within (Y/N), giving an accurate telling and narration about the potential he himself recognized in her.
"My memory refused, to separate the lies from truth, search the past my mind created. I can't imagine without you, Indra, let me join your cause, let me be by your side through it. I'll keep on pushing through, standing resolute, which you in equal measure love and hate, I know. Every time you take me by the hand, I'm seeing who I am." Her words are a silent plea, an attempt to get to the bottom of her beloved, to make him understand how much she needs to support him in this, to accompany him, to make sure his battle is successful and he finishes his personal mission alive.
Months ago she found the love of her life lying under a disaster of his own creation, submerged in a crater of earth and on the verge of death. She can't lose him now, not so soon.
"The pictures come to life when I hear you speak like that, wake in the dead of night I open my eyes and... Yes, I must be dreaming. I'll clutch my pillow tight, brace myself for the fight, I've heard that seeing is believing. You're the most beautiful dream I never had (Y/N)." The angel whispers, and the woman thinks she sees tears in his eyes before he turns his face away, avoiding eye contact.
Indra seems determined to wage his battle alone, to face combat unaided, but she will not allow it. She will fight tooth and nail to make her beloved understand she cannot exist without him, that she does not wish to live in a reality where her angel no longer is, and she will not allow him to end up in the hands of those who mercilessly threw him to earth.
(Y/N) will fight for him, whether he wants it or not.
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synonymroll648 · 1 year
Note
Sokeefitz cuddling headcanons pretty please?
thank you, random citizen! or villain. or hero. or vigilante. or outcast. who knows ;) but anyway. apologies for taking a while to answer this one (i had a hectic week), but. hopefully the amount of headcanons i am giving you in return makes up for it. also got a liiiiiittle bit carried away and strayed from strictly cuddling headcanons, depending on who you ask. but it's primarily sokeefitz cuddles :))
they switch up positions all the time based on who needs comfort the most
sophie had a nightmare and woke up screaming in tears? her boys scoot her into the middle and murmur sweet nothings to her, her head resting on one of their chests and the other listening to her heart beat (didn't specify who does what because, again, they switch back and forth)
keefe had a rough conversation w/ his dad or thought about his mom a lil too hard? it's keefe sandwich time, and he's wedged between his partners and either told sweet things or silly things to get his mind off things, depending on what he needs that day. and if neither of those work, sophie pins him down so he can't escape fitz's tickle attacks
(keefe screams about cognates being annoyingly good at working together, sophie laughs and presses a kiss to his forehead to get him to melt and let his guard down so fitz can get one of the particularly ticklish spots keefe had practically been guarding w/ his life. keefe proceeds to scream about cognates being not just annoyingly good at working together, but also generally annoying as fuck. fitz sing-songs but you love us anyways, and keefe has no response to that)
fitz's toxic academic perfectionism is pushing him to overwork himself a little too much for even sophie's super desensitized comfort levels? keefe pries him away from his desk by baiting him with, hey, there's this recipe i saw, and it reminded me of you, but i have noooooo idea how to hash out the instructions. could you help me out? pretty please? and sophie hides his homework while he's out of the room so he can't get it back without asking her. and sometimes, while the three of them are waiting for things to cook, fitz finds himself with his hand entwined in sophie's and her head on his shoulder, and keefe sprawled out on their laps like a housecat. other times, fitz finds himself spread out on his back and with a partner resting in the crook of each (numb) arm at a late hour w/ a batch a baked goods sitting on a nightstand too far away to reach. a lot of the time, both of those scenarios happen the same night
if everyone is somehow not stressed out, though, sophie's the big spoon, keefe's the middle spoon, and fitz is the big spoon
the started out in reverse order and then sophie and fitz slowly came to realize over the course of their relationship that they liked each other's positions better than their own positions. even if their heights made it a lil difficult to do that
a game the boys like to play w/ sophie whenever she's the big spoon is laying flat on their backs, shoulder to shoulder, and watching her struggle to wrap all the way around them w/o climbing on top of keefe
(because climbing on top of anyone would be cheating. though, to be fair, keefe told her to do it once just to see if she could even wrap around them from the middle. the answer is barely)
it started as an impromptu joke that made keefe laugh his ass off on a rough night, and now it's just an ongoing thing they do every now and then and reference just to see sophie get (lightheartedly) worked up
also i would like it to be known that whenever fitz cuddles w/ his partners they always make sure that his left knee (his bad knee, for those of us that forgot which leg it was in canon) isn't trapped underneath someone
(that started when sophie was the big spoon w/ fitz for the first time and he made a casually amazed comment about how being the little spoon hurt his knee way less. and sophie was like 'have you been in pain every time we cuddled and not said anything?' and fitz was dead silent. [she couldn't see it but he was making the ohhhhhh shit i was not supposed to say that face]
(so the next time she saw keefe she was like 'new rule: make sure fitz's knee is never trapped underneath someone or crushed against the mattress, unless he specifically requests otherwise' and keefe adopted it immediately
(this leads to fitz almost always being the on the right side, since if he rolls onto his side it keeps his left leg on top)
there was this one time when keefe went over to havenfield to find fitz curled up to sophie like a koala while she read a human book on the living room couch and he instantly was like ':O you guys didn't tell me we were doing storytime! i would've come home sooner!' and fitz explained that they'd gotten books from sophie's childhood and her reading to him was on accident
meanwhile, sophie was absolutely melting for two reasons:
a) keefe tried making the whole storytime comment sound teasing, but it definitely had a genuine undertone. and the idea of having both her boys snuggled up to her while she read books that no one had ever shared interest w/ as a kid was a literal dream
b) keefe called havenfield home keefe called havenfield home keefe called havenfield home keefe called havenfield hom-
keefe makes reason a come true by asking her to catch him up on what they'd read so far, and ultimately ends up sprawled out across her and fitz's laps w/ his propped up knees acting as an accidental bookstand and fitz's hand running through his hair. the two of them make comments every now and then - keefe asking more questions in the beginning, and then it slowly turning into all quips; fitz just noticing how little details connect and accidentally figuring out the plot twists ten chapters before they happen
(sophie tries to not let it show that he's right, but her poker face sucks and they can tell immediately how accurate fitz's guesses are)
the whole storytime thing ends up becoming routine, but they migrate the books up to sophie's room instead of bags and bags around havenfield's couch and cuddle on her bed instead
(edaline walked in to give them some muffins she made but noticed them reading and just watched for a while before setting the plate down wordlessly and stepping back out. gushed about it to della, and they both teased their kids respectively a little later on. + keefe because he is not safe from motherly affection, no matter how embarrassing it is sometimes)
keefe likes coming up behind either of his partners when they're doing homework (or paperwork sometimes, in sophie's case) and just hugs them. presses a lil kiss to their neck or ear or shoulder. doesn't say anything, just delightedly watches their composure fall apart
example: when he does this to fitz, fitz goes from writing fluidly to writing only a few words at a time and often having to erase them because it ends up being his thoughts instead, not the subject matter. like that time he was writing a sentence that started with Flareadons have evolved to have fire-resistant exteriors because and ended with, after a solid minute-long pause in writing, oh my god my boyfriend is driving me insane. keefe, who was reading over fitz's shoulder the whole time, broke away and fell apart into hysterical laughter
(keefe makes jokes about the flareadon sentence to this day)
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dustyy-angel · 8 months
Text
@pealeii here's the post about my favourite musicals you asked about :)
Alright this may come as a surprise to most of y'all but Newsies isn't actually my favourite musical, it's my second favourite.
My absolute favorite of all time has to be West Side Story. The music is perfect, the dancing is stunning, the costumes are always beautiful. The story is also pretty great and it just keeps getting more and more relevant as time goes on.
Second we have Newsies. I feel like I post a lot on this blog so you're probably very aware of how much/why I love this show.
Alright I don't actually have an ordered list after those two but here's some others that are definitely up there:
I watched Wicked for the first time ever about a month ago and it's quickly become one of my favorites. I'll admit it actually took quite a few listens for the music to properly dig itself into my head but now that it's there it's not gonna leave any time soon. No Good Deed is such a powerful song I love it so much and For Good actually made me cry.
In The Heights is absolutely brilliant (as is everything LMM creates) and unpopular opinion but I really enjoyed the movie and personally think it may even be better than the stage show. I really love story's set 1990's to late 2000's because they're like, modern enough (does that make sense) but not reliant on technology. The music is so amazing I love every single song in the show.
I fucking love Parade so much I have ranted to Fox about it way way too much and I cried happy tears when it won best revival at the Tonys this year. If I say anything else about it I won't be able to stop writing so I'll just say that I love it and leave it at that.
I am a Hamilton enjoyer and that is all I will say.
^^^Same with Dear Evan Hansen.
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shineyma · 8 months
Text
tagged by @ragnarokhound! thanks for the tag!!
name: Amy! Nice, simple, rarely gets misspelled. A pretty good name I think.
pronouns: she/her
where do you call home: Texas!!! It gets three exclamation points because I just moved back in December after three and a half miserable years in Louisiana XD I'm very happy to be home
favorite animal: Tiger 🐅 You know how when you're a kid you just pick a favorite animal and it just sticks with you forever, no longer a point of interest as you age but still written into a deep part of your soul as Very Important?
...or is that just me?
cereal of choice: Honey Nut Cheerios on a regular day, but I do enjoy some Peanut Butter Crunch when I wanna treat myself. Also I go through occasional phases of hardcore craving Frosted Mini Wheats, so that happens.
visual, auditory, or kinesthetic learner: Visual/kinesthetic. I have hearing problems and my brain defaults to "didn't hear that, must not've been important" which means I am the opposite of an auditory learner. This is a big problem in my life lol
first pet: When I was a kid, I won some fishes at a school fiesta. That was my first and last pet experience.
favorite scent: I think...sandalwood??? I'm not a scent expert but I got this wooden rosary at my confirmation that I think was sandalwood and it smelled so good? Catch me sniffing my rosary like a weirdo to this day.
do you believe in astrology: I know I'm a leo and that's it. All this sun sign/moon sign/ascending stuff that's suddenly popular is baffling to me. And the typical description~ of leos is all about being outgoing and confident and bold so like, ha, no. I absolutely don't believe in it.
how many playlists on spotify/apple music: why. who have you been talking to. what do you know. so many I cry
sharpies or highlighters: Neither, they bleed through the page and that drives me crazy
songs that make you cry: "No Good Deed" from Wicked. "Everything I Know" from In the Heights. "Beauty from Pain" by Superchick. Those are just the first three to come to mind, I tear up pretty easily lol
songs that make you happy: "Be Okay" by Oh Honey. "Alive" by Krewella. "Mambo No. 5" by Lou Bega. Also just the first three to come to mind, I'm easily influenced by music XD
do you write/draw/create: Not recently sadly. I used to! I'm still very proud of my 52 weeks of fic, in which I successfully posted a fic every week for the entirety of 2020, despite both a global pandemic and my best friend dying.
But part of my 52 weeks of fic included writing for Harry Potter and I got some significant hate on those fics. It kind of just...totally killed my muse. I tried to push past it but here I am with my last fic published in September 2021, going on almost two years with no writing at all. :(
I did get a little inspired lately, but it fizzled out. JD's birthday is coming up in September (that last fic I wrote was her 2021 birthday gift XD) so maybe I'll try again then?
tagging but no pressure: the usual crowd! @safelycapricious, @ilosttrackofthings, @sapphireglyphs, @andyouweremine, @thestarfishdancer
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joinourbookclub · 10 months
Text
Third Writing Exercise!!
Task: Write a short story based on a song quote.
Song quote: "My mom felt bad so she sent me roses"
Time Brainstorming: 10 Minutes
Time Writing: 35 Minutes
-------------------------------
I woke up this morning to find a bouquet of roses on my doorstep. I knew who they were from and I knew why they were sent, but I brought them inside anyway. Flowers that pretty don’t deserve to be left outside in the rain, no matter what feelings are attached to them.
I took a seat at my kitchen table in front of where I placed the roses. Each flower had perfectly shaped petals and were such a rich color that it would make the red queen jealous. I knew nothing could be that perfect naturally. It was a kind gesture, but it was just as fake as our relationship had been. The flowers we grew in our backyard never looked like this. They all grew to different heights and their petals were nibbled by bugs. The thorns would tear into my soft hands, but I still loved them. She remembered that I loved them, though they withered away decades ago, unable to receive any love from we who hoarded what little was left. 
There was a note in the vase. I saw it now, long after I had taken the bouquet in, and gently plucked it between my index and middle fingers. She wrote, I have been thinking about you and all the mistakes I've made recently. I miss you. I let the note flutter from my fingers and onto the counter. She couldn’t even say that she loved me.
Has she ever said it? I remember her telling my sister that she loved her. I remember hearing it after every dance recital. She loved her and she was proud of her. I remember her crying in the kitchen and asking why I couldn’t be more like my sister. Of course she never said that she loved me. I was her burden.
Would dad have loved me? The man my mother and sister told me about sounded like a saint. He took them out for ice cream every Friday and sang them love songs as they fell asleep. I stopped imagining him years ago, when I moved out. The him I knew was just a figment of my imagination so there was no point trying to make it real. He was gone and it was time for me to make my own life. Yet, the daydreams were all coming back now. The ones where I was still a kid and my dad was a part of my life. Where he had enough love to give that my mom didn’t feel the need to hide hers away. Where he alone made me feel like I mattered.
The sight of the roses brought me back to reality. Should I call her? I called her once, before we stopped talking. It was a day like this one when I was thinking of our roses. She said the same things as always. I was a bad kid for leaving her. I made everything hard for her. I should be more like my sister. I didn’t let that conversation didn’t last long. That was then. Now she realized that she made mistakes. Would she want to listen? Would she want me back?
Should I care? Should I want to let the woman who hated me back into my life? Maybe I would feel better if we made amends. Maybe I would finally feel that I had worth if she told me I did. Maybe spending more time with me would remind her of how exhausting I am. My finger had been tracing my phone’s screen. I didn’t call.
The sky was starting to get dark. I didn’t notice until I finally tore my eyes from those roses. I left them on my kitchen counter as I went back upstairs to bed. That night I had dreams of dirt smeared on my face and gentle laughter at my ridiculousness. I had dreams of screams that can pierce ears and crying, scared in a corner. 
When I woke up the roses were still where I left them, just as perfect as the night before. I half expected them to be gone, like I imagined their existence. Or maybe they were like me and couldn’t stand to stay. But no, they were still there. And they stayed there until they withered away, exactly the same way my beloved roses from our garden had.
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strawberryloveyyy · 1 year
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Dancing Is A Dangerous Game.
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A/N: Hello there! I am here again with a new story. That's all. No, I'm kidding. This was based off of a song I wrote with the same name and yes that line is a direct reference to Emily Bronte's 'Wuthering Heights' oh and ignore the fact I’m using Keira Knightley for the GIF when she’s supposed to be my Andromeda Black fancast! I just thought it’d be fitting for the events of the fic.
Summary: Narcissa Black is wandering the corridors of Hogwarts in search of her lover, Alice Fortecue. She confesses her love for Alice and tells her she cannot be with her as she is engaged to Lucius Malfoy, and the wedding is arranged to take place in winter. Alice suggests they run away together, but Narcissa refuses, not wanting to risk Alice's safety. Alice walks away, and Narcissa runs after her, but Alice runs faster, and Narcissa is left alone by the black lake.
Pairing: Alice Fortescue x Narcissa Black
Warnings: Mention of Alcohol and Smoking
Curfew, what a horrible thing. Narcissa Black wandered aimlessly around the corridors, in search of her lover. Whom she promised to meet at the black lake at midnight, an odd meeting place for the two of them. The pale moonlight shone through the windows, as her feet tapped against the cold hard floor. Usually the young Slytherin would never dare to risk being sighted by a prefect, but her words were urgent. Curtains were drawn over Narcissa, always. Her words calculated, her spirit hidden in the shadows, she had always hid knowing she couldn’t run. Yet she continued to walk. Every step she took was planned. But she hadn’t thought about her steps could ever lead to this.. Wandering around the desolate Hogwarts corridors a quarter to midnight, all to tell… 
…She just couldn’t risk it. Risk them. Risk her. 
All her life Narcissa had been selfish, taking everything she wanted with no consideration for others. But tonight she ought to change that. Time was ticking, times were changing, the fantasies they shared will forever remain.. Fantasies. And she painfully swallowed that. The music had stopped, and the dances they shared, behind the curtains unbeknownst to the crowd, would have to come to an end.
Her pace started to pick up as she neared the lake, her blonde hair was flowing as the gusts of wind blew towards her. The castle was silent, but as she neared the black lake she could hear the water rippling as the many creatures it inhabited swam below. Fireflies were floating around the water, they looked like stars glistening from above them. Then her gaze landed on her. Alice Fortecue sat on the ground, her feet dipped into the shallow water as she looked at the distance.
“Alice.” spoke Narcissa, letting out a sigh of relief. The young Gryffindor’s head swiftly turned, revealing a warm grin. “Cissa.. Come sit here!” She giggled, beckoning for her to sit. The blonde followed and sat beside Alice, taking off her shoes to dip her feet in the cold water. The two sat in silence, without saying anything until Alice spoke up. “Well.. What is it you want to tell me?” Narcissa let out a breath and took both of Alice’s hands in hers, looking her in the eyes with sincerity and adoration. “I love you, and that whatever I tell you during; or the events that will follow this will never change that. Ever. I only love you and only you, no force in the world could ever make my love for you falter.”
“I love you too, but- What do you mean by that? You’re scaring me, Cissa.. Is there something wrong? I’m always here for you, and you know that.”
“Alice.. You are the most beautiful, amazing woman I've ever laid my eyes upon. And I want you to remember that, always. But I'm afraid our dance would have to come to an end. I can no longer see you, for my hand… i-is promised to another.” Her words faltered, when she felt tears prick in her eyes. I suppose she hadn’t thought about what will happen when life catches upon them. When her parents would marry her off to a pureblood boy; How could she be so stupid to think that their dances would never cease? How stupid was she to believe that. But of course her love for the girl was unimaginable, she had never loved anyone or anything more.
“P-promised to another? You’re to be married…? To- To whom? When? How?” Alice cried, as she gripped on Narcissa’s hands, afraid to let them go. As those hands may be promised to another, but they belonged to her. As her own belongs to Narcissa. “To Lucius.. To Lucius Malfoy. His and My parents had arranged it. The ceremony is to be held in winter, as it is a Malfoy family tradition to do so.. And- And I’m unaware of the reason; But he’s to be marked right after, and I am to witness it.”
Silence was the only thing to be heard as Narcissa finished speaking, both of them had sat staring at the water with tears in their eyes. I guess they had danced too freely, not thinking of what step to take, what move to make, they spun around aimlessly. Too in love to know the consequences of it; They should have known when they took each other's hand that dancing was a dangerous game to be played. So here they are at the brink of calamity and war, reeling with the consequences of love.
“Run away with me. We can live together, I’m sure my father won’t mind.” Spoke Alice, her eyes hopeful. Her words sparked more tears, from Narcissa as she answered, “I-I can’t.” 
“Why?” Alice frowned, her voice stern. “I can’t put you through that. I’m not going to risk it.” She answered, as she wiped her tears. Alice stood up without a word, and walked away. Narcissa got up and ran after her, and upon seeing that. Alice fastened her pace, running faster. Her robes were flowing in the wind as she did, her bare feet running through the grass, her face flushed from the tears. It was quite a sight, two lovers on the edge of tragedy, it was… Melancholic. Nearly putting William Shakespear’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’  to shame. The surroundings were silent. The only things that could be heard were the grass rustling beneath their feet and wind. Alice continued to run til’ she reached the top of the hill, where she fell on her knees.
“Alice!” Narcissa yelled, lifting her dress to run faster. Once she reached the top of the hill she stopped in her tracks, staring at her crestfallen lover in defeat. “Alice, please! I can’t run from this- from them! If I did, they'd find me! They’d find us! Chains have been shackled to my feet the moment I was born in that family. No matter how much I run, no matter how much I hide. They will find a way to hurt you for being with me, and I know I’m already hurting you! And- And I don’t want to hurt you furthermore. Y-you can still live without me! You can be happy and free! Don’t carry the burden of me.. I won’t let you.”
“I can’t…’ Said Alice, as she lifted her head looking her in the eyes. “Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.”
At her words Narcissa’s legs gave up, falling to the ground. Her broken sobs were heard through the wind that brushed upon them. I guess this is what the consequences are, when you dance til the floor finally falls through, you fall with it. The moon was still high above the sky as its light shone upon them, they cried brokenly knowing that no matter what happens they would still love each other even if they did move on. For their love is eternal, no amount of force, energy, or magic can ever make it falter. Both still on the ground found each other's embrace, their tears continuously falling through their faces as they held each other for the last time. They were wise enough to use their last time together to hold each other rather than to resent each other for what they cannot change, and control. So they sat in each other's embrace til’ the sun rose.
。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆
It’s been years. But Narcissa Malfoy never stopped loving Alice, there had not been a day where she hadn’t thought about her. Even when she had married and given birth to her son or even when the rumours had started that Alice had married this boy in their year back at Hogwarts, Frank Longbottom. Narcissa still loved her, and she had no plans of stopping just because some… Man. Had married her. And she supposes she shouldn’t complain, for she also married another herself which was the reason for her and Alice’s parting. But she’s only loved one person in the entirety of her life, and that is Alice. And it will remain so, until the end of time. She truly means it when she says her love for Alice will never cease. 
She often looked for scraps of information she could find about Alice. Whether it was from the Newspaper or maybe words from a friend of a distant friend, she had to know. So when news broke that Alice gave birth to a son, Narcissa found herself in a confused state. For her son was potentially the kid from the prophecy along with the Potter’s boy; the one about, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. And the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal but he shall have power the Dark Lord knows not. For neither can live while the other survives. She feels awful, so much weight is dangling on Alice’s shoulders and she cannot bear to live knowing that some of it is caused by her.
Narcissa was having tea on the balcony when an owl swooped in, with a paper of the Daily Prophet on its beak. She reached into her pocket to hand the bird a couple knuts, she placed them on its claws and bid it goodbye. The woman was starting to dread receiving these papers, for it only reminded her of the war raging on. News of witches and wizards disappearing, ones being killed and tortured were the ones featured in them, knowing the people she called ‘family’ were the ones responsible for them. Though she's never actually done anything to the Dark Lord’s cause herself, tolerating and letting things happen was just as horrible in her opinion.
She read the headline, making her drop her tea. The cup shattered on the floor, creating a shrill shattering sound. Narcissa couldn’t believe it, she read the words over and over trying to see if it was something she had misread, but no. “No... No, no, no, no..” She muttered over and over trying to convince herself it wasn't true. That this is one of those times where the Daily Prophet spurs delusive information, for the sake of getting more recognition. But she hadn’t read it wrong.
Daily Prophet reports that Alice Longbottom and Frank Longbottom, tortured to insanity via the Cruciatus Curse by Bellatrix Lestrange sent to St. Mungos, Last night at 2:43am. Rabastan Lestrange, and Barty Crouch Jr. were also spotted at the scene.
For Narcissa, it was as if time had stopped, when the room started spinning. Her eyes were clouded by tears as she read the headline. Alice was tortured, and her and her sister were the ones to blame. If only she had agreed and ran with Alice when she was asked all those years ago this would have been prevented. But now even with all the regrets and what if’s there was nothing she could do. There was no force in the world that could bring back what was lost, and even if there were, it wouldn’t be the same as it was before.
The newspaper caught on fire as she gripped onto it with force. The ashes sprinkled onto the floor as she went out of her bedroom. And that’s exactly what she’s going to do. Set things on fire. Even if it meant waiting.
。・:*:・゚★,。・:*:・゚☆
Narcissa wasn’t able to visit her at St. Mungos. And not because she couldn’t or that she was being prohibited to. She just couldn’t bring herself to show her face in that establishment knowing how she was part of the cause  that put her there. She simply had no right to do so after what she did.
Guilt wasn’t enough to define what she’s feeling. The moonlight once again shone through, though this time not through the Hogwarts corridors but the desolate and barren room that kept Narcissa. A glass of wine in her hand and a cigarette in the other, she stared at the open window watching the dark sky, noticing the lack of stars in the dark abyss that they called the sky. It was somehow ironic. Her star was gone and so were the stars above... Funny? Isn’t it? She never noticed it, when the stars were gone. But now the empty space feels so prominent.
She did it to protect her. Yet it caused more harm than good, and she was to blame. If only she hadn’t been so foolish to think she’d manage to deflect her from the war by pushing her away from her. The damages of the war was inevitable, and she now knows that. But she wish she’d known it sooner so she could have spent their possible last moments together.
A white cradle sat on the other side of the room, distanced from the smoke and the smell of wine. And a small baby slept peacefully holding onto its little blanket, snoring hushedly. The moonlight shone right above it, the cradle. Making it seem like it’s glowing, contrasting the dark room.
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not-quitenormal · 9 months
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To Future Max:
In case I go down the rabbit hole of self-doubt again (in which, let's face it, I will eventually), here is a detailed list of exactly what is so fucked up about Mom's response.
The only thing bitter and toxic about my behavior is probably mentioning that her words have led to multiple suicide attempts. But considering that her words are several variations of "gay people are not human", I think mentioning it (even in absolute brain-shattering frustration) is warranted.
"Sneaking around the internet"? HER TWITTER PROFILE IS PUBLIC. (Or at least for as long as Twitter is around.) She didn't know that I knew about this one, but it's a moot point.
"Find stuff to be angry at [her] for" - She's literally perpetuating anti-trans and anti-gay rhetoric. Something I've been fighting all of my life. She's just angry that I'm calling her out on it instead of rolling over again.
Mom literally only posts these things to get back at me for "misbehaving". When we were good, she kept political posts to a minimum. When I upset her in some way, out popped her most racist, queerphobic, inhumane cold takes. And then she told me I'm the bad guy for reacting to them. I don't know why she does this. But she does.
The last few lines in the second screenshot? The lyrics to "My Wish" by Rascal Flatts? She shared this song with me when I was 15 to tell me that no matter what, she would always love me. It was "our song". (Which honestly? Sounds like another layer of emotional incest to me.)
This was going to be the song to our Mother/Child dance at my wedding. Which I had to uninvite her from due to her extreme anti-vax views during the height of COVID-19 in 2021.
This is several degrees of fucked up, imo.
6. Now for the more personal fuckery. Going back to the "early grave" comment. My bio-dad, the terror of our household, died at 52 because of either a heart attack or a drug overdose. Personal health and drug addiction shouldn't be things people are shamed for - a fact that I myself am still working on reconciling - so again, she's the asshole.
7. The "chose to carry [me] in [her] body" line is rich given that she hated her own mother for having an abortion and is very anti-choice. That being said, she clearly did not want children if this is how she's going to phrase it.
8. She may have tried to shield us from my father's abusive behaviors. She did not shield us from hers, though.
9. "[I]f you can't respect...me enough to just acknowledge the basic fact you are here bc [sic] of me, to honor me for that." My response was clear: The lone fact that she gave birth to me does not matter. People are born every day. What matters is how my life was shaped after my birth, and my life has been plagued with criticism for just being myself. Mostly by her. (See Point 8.)
10. Listing off my niece and nephew as trophies to her happiness is real cute.
So. Yeah. My anger and tears are warranted, but so is my final response to her. And this has to be the final one. There's no use in trying any further.
I did good.
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eurydicees · 2 years
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hi hi! joining in the birthday asks with 1 for kuroo please! 🫶
hi hi hi !! come get a present for my bday !!
1. have a favorite character? here, have 5 of my top headcanons for them
kuroo my dearly beloved!!!! thank you for asking, i want to talk abt him all of the damn time. under the cut because. yeah. i'm just like this. (very minor kuroken notes included, lmk if you want hcs w/o any of that)
i think that there was a time when he dreamed of becoming a professional volleyball player. in the extended haikyuu canonverse that lives in my head, he couldn’t make it onto a professional team after graduating high school, so he decided to go to university and play there instead of going pro. once he was in uni, he got an internship with the JVA and kind of just fell in love with the job. he decided he was better off not as a player but working behind the scenes. it’s not really something that he’s insecure about or regretful of, but it is very much a “what if” that he thinks about sometimes. (ok fine yes i wrote a fic about this and never published it and that’s why i’m thinking abt this, hush) 
he is terrible at social media. like, not only for jva promotional posts (which is canon) but for his own social media as well. his instagram is blurry photos of the sunset with cheesy captions and twenty five hashtags. he doesn’t know how to block people on twitter, which is a problem as he tends to get into passive aggressive arguments with trolls (kenma eventually shows him how, exasperated at kuroo’s complaining abt the people dming him). this being said, he has a tik tok dedicated to making bad fan edits of his friends on professional volleyball teams. this has done more promotional work for the v.league than anything he has ever seriously posted on twitter. 
actually he’s just terrible with technology in general. he doesn’t get how it works, and he’s the kind of person who likes knowing things. the fact that he doesn’t just get how internet and tech overall work drives him insane. he’ll try and take things apart to see how they tick (literally) but he doesn’t know how to put them back together. he claims his computer hates him personally, but in reality, he just spilled orange juice on the keyboard once and now the n key sticks. he doesn’t know what a dark mode is and at this point he’s too afraid to ask. his phone password is 1234. he doesn’t know where the wifi router in his house is because kenma set it up for him and, if pressed, he would not be able to tell you what the said wifi router does in the first place. (kenma knows enough about tech for the both of them, he says. kenma replies, you have ten viruses on your laptop and still haven’t set up face id on your phone. kuroo tells him to shut up.) 
that all being said, his spotify account is insanely organized and personalized exactly how he wants it. he has music OPINIONS and he is not afraid to share them. he’s always ready with a song rec for any genre, but he is also ready to tear apart a person’s music taste if he thinks they like something compositionally bad. he absolutely has a superiority complex based on his music taste but refuses to admit it. he has playlists for every mood and situation, all sorted into folders and listed alphabetically. for people’s birthdays, he likes to give them carefully curated playlists based on their taste and things he thinks they would like. (he makes kenma a mixtape on a cassette tape for their first anniversary and kenma is very very grateful but also “kuro literally how am i going to listen to this. what were you thinking.” “it’s romantic!” “i mean sure but that doesn’t change the fact that i still can’t listen to it.” “....fine, i’ll send you the spotify link.”) 
he loooooovesssssss bad b rated horror movies. he thinks they’re hilarious and the height of entertainment. at a team sleepover, he convinces the team to watch one with him, and he provides running commentary throughout the entire thing. just in general, he tends to talk a lot during movies and tv shows, whether or not they’re good. the more he talks during it, the more he’s enjoying the movie/show. his commentary is usually pretty good/funny/entertaining, but there are times when it just gets obnoxious. kai is a patient man but he will deck kuroo if he laughs at a dramatic death scene one more time. 
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An Unexpected Conversation
The date was the 29th November 2002, and the time was 1.30 in the afternoon. It was hot. Pattie had retreated into a patch of shade and had drawn a scarf over her head and arms to protect her from the heat of the sun. She would not normally have elected to sit on a mountainside in Peru in their summer in the heat of the day, but she had no choice today. The Concert for George was starting right now, a few thousand miles and six hours away, and this was how she had chosen to honour him. Not to sit in the crowded Royal Albert Hall, enduring all the glances of recognition and curiosity from friends and strangers alike, and not to attempt dry-eyed stoicism as each song being played up on the stage ripped at her heart. Here she was alone, and her grief was hers alone.
A sharp breeze riffled the chiffon scarf around her head and she drew it closer as she gazed across the panoramic view which spread out below her feet. She knew she was safe here, she’d chosen her spot well, but nevertheless sat still and careful, her back pressed against the rock behind her; she had never been good with heights. She remembered how George had giggled at her when they first boarded their boat in Tahiti and she’d hung on grimly for fear of falling. She’d got used to it after a day, or maybe two days to be honest, and was soon clambering around the beams like a pro.
The memory brought the familiar sharp stinging to her eyes. The tears were nearly always just below the surface, they came so easily now. As the breeze stroked her cheeks the tears, allowed to fall freely here, now, dried around the creases to the side of her nose and mouth. She embraced the complete luxury of being able to weep with no-one around to try to console her and no-one for whom she had to be brave. Pattie sat on her mountainside and cried and cried for George. She listened to her own sobbing and she cried some more.
The pain seemed unendurable. A year was too long. She wanted him back on this world.
“I am.”
The voice was unmistakable. She’d heard it nearly every night in her dreams. Millions knew that voice as well as their own. Near the end it had lost its quality, its timbre, and the words had rasped through pain. But this…
Her head whipped to one side towards the direction of the voice, with the result that she turned right into the scarf and her face was completely covered. Through the folds of chiffon though she thought she could see something. But she certainly could hear something. It was laughing. It was George laughing. It was George laughing at her.
She thrust the scarf out of the way and blinked at what looked for all the world like George Harrison, sitting next to her. Checked shirt. Hair brushed back. Not her George then…
What on earth…?
“What…?” She could do nothing but gawp. The thing that looked like George grinned.
“What are you laughing at?” She heard herself snap. She was apparently cross at something that wasn’t there. What was happening?
“You. You’re all snotty with a scarf over your face.”
“I’m…” This thing that wasn’t real was now insulting her.
“But you’re still gorgeous.” At that, the… whatever it was…stopped grinning at her and instead looked out over the view, hands clasped and arms wrapped around his upturned knees.
Pattie could do nothing but stare at him. At… it? It couldn’t be real. It obviously wasn’t real. But… what was this sitting and talking to her and looking like George?
And shouldn’t she be terrified? It was some kind of… ghost… sitting in front of her and talking to her.
“Not really.” He turned back to look at her, and said, “I’m not a ghost. I’m not haunting you.” He grinned again. “I’ve just come to see you.”
You’ve…” What could she say? Does she have a normal conversation with this…?
“You might as well,” the ghost who said he wasn’t a ghost interrupted. “Since I’m here.”
Pattie buried her face in her hands and sat for a while, all rational thoughts suspended. All that was going through what was left of her mind was that he sounded just like George. George’s common sense. George’s laugh.
He was right. She might as well. But all she could then think to say was, “You should be in London! It’s your concert.”
At that he burst out laughing again, but then turned once more to face her. “I am,” he said. “I’m there too. I can be in two places at once, you know.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. But I can.”
She looked at him, carefully. Fear, or the thought of fear, was gone. As he’d said, she might as well… “Are you alright? I mean…”
“I know what you mean.” The familiar dark eyes regarded her, the familiar piercing and penetrating gaze. The one that always used to make her feel as if he truly understood her. “And, yes. I am.” And he smiled again; she saw the dimple appear in his cheek, just like before.
There were so many questions she could, or should, ask someone who’d just turned up from beyond the grave after a year’s absence. Profound issues. The meaning of life. And death. So she thought, and pondered… and gave up. And simply asked instead, “Why did you come here? Just now? To me? “She searched his face, waited whilst he looked back at her.
“You needed me.”
“I’ve needed you before.”
“You mean since…?”
“Yes. Why here, and now?”
Again, he shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing to do. Here. And now. You were… upset.”
Then Pattie found her heart and her mind stabbed, pierced, by a thought which sounded in her head almost as a scream and the strength and pain of which made her gasp. She wrenched her gaze away from him and stared out at the stunning view which stretched out below her as she grappled with the emotional intensity. Yet, not surprisingly, as he seemed to have the ability to hear her thoughts as clearly as though she’d spoken them aloud, his voice, his dear familiar voice, brought her gaze back to meet his.
“Okay,” he said, his voice gentle. “Say it.” Then he waited.
It was a while before she could speak. All her instincts fought to prevent her from saying what she had thought, what she wanted to say. But that was stupid. She knew it was. Because, it seemed, he already knew it all. She blinked hard to fight back tears. She breathed deeply to give herself courage. He’d told her to say it. So, she said it.
“You didn’t care…” her voice wobbled, so she paused until she could steady it. “You didn’t care about me being upset when… you were alive.”
God, that sounded weird. When you were alive. This was crazy. What was she doing? What was happening? What…
“Go on.” The voice was still calm, still gentle. She looked up at him, something she had never never been able to do when having a harsh conversation before, but she did it and she continued because, unlike ever before, he was inviting her to do so.
“You didn’t care,” she kept her voice even and steady this time and was proud of herself. “You didn’t care when you brought her to the house. And kept her there. All those days.”
“Charlotte.”
“Yes!” And she lost the even and the steady, and heard her own voice shrill and snapping. “Have you any idea…?”
She couldn’t go on, but sat, exhausted now and limp and shaking. She’d never said this to him before.
Why had she never said this to him before?
“Why didn’t you?”
Tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, and she simply shook her head. But it seemed that he wasn’t going to let it go. Not this time.
“Pattie. Why didn’t you?”
She looked at him, vision blurred. She swallowed. Then said, “Did you come all the way back for me to be having a go at you?”
He smiled. “You’re changing the subject,” he said. “You often did that.”
She thought about that. “Yes. I suppose I did.” She thought some more. “You never picked me up on it. You never followed up.”
“I am now.”
“But…” And paused. He had asked her a question. A good question. Just difficult, as she’d never put the answer into words. Even though people had asked her. Jenny had asked her. Terry.
Eric.
“I was… scared. I didn’t know if I could face what would happen.” She thought a moment more. Waiting for memories of agony to clarify. “If… you’d chosen her. Or any of them. Or…” Now crowds of thoughts began to tumble into her brain and she worried they would overwhelm her, might…
“It’s fine.” The voice was just as gentle, just as reassuring. “Say it,” he said again.
“I didn’t know if I could face the answers.” She blurted it out, and then knew it to be true. She’d been afraid of pushing it, all of it, afraid, in case she’d lost. In case she hadn’t wanted to hear his answers. “I was just… fingers in my ears la la la, until it was all over and I was back with you again and you had your arms around…” And she couldn’t go on because the tears, the keening sobs, erupted with the force of Vesuvius and she could only put her head onto her upturned knees and cry and cry. The sobbing tore at her chest and her throat and her eyes and she wondered if she could bear it. “I loved you so much,” she tried to say but the words were as drowned as her eyes. Yet,
“I know.” He’d heard her. Astonishingly, because she wouldn’t have understood what she’d said, that’s for sure. They both waited for some calm. Eventually,
“Did you love me?”
“You know I did.”
She still couldn’t look up at him. “No I didn’t.”
“Pattie.” He paused, but still her face was buried in the folds of her skirt. “Please look at me.” She breathed deep, swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and fumbled in her bag for something resembling a tissue. Were there any leaves around…? “Look at me.”
She found that she could raise her head and turn towards him, though familiar fear clutched her heart.
“I should have let you know I loved you. I took you for granted. It wasn’t your fault.” He paused, waiting perhaps for her to reply but there were no words so he continued. “I was a shit.”
She, almost, smiled.” “You said that to me, then.”
“I’m saying it again now.”
“The cooking.”
If ghosts, or whatever he was, could look surprised, then he looked surprised. “Cooking??”
Pattie shifted her position so that she could face he more, be more emphatic. “I loved cooking for you. And, that was all you left me. You chanted all the time, you didn’t talk to me for days, but I could still give you food and that was important and then you got… him...that other man, to cook for you and there was nothing left for me to do and it was all gone…” Tears returned. Her head ached. Her eyes burned.
“Why didn’t you say?”
This time she was more ready with the answer; it was, after all, the same answer. “I didn’t want to start a row. I didn’t want to know what you’d say, you’d have said I was being silly, you’d have said I was making it all up, like with Krissie, and I wasn’t…” Now she was shouting.
He… it?...was quiet, still. It gave her time to calm a little and reflect. And a thought popped into her head so she voiced it; another novelty for her, a person whose custom had always been instead to crawl into her room and brood. “You were cross when you found me with Eric that night.”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Why was I cross?”
“Yes.”
“My wife with another man? Who wouldn’t be?”
She turned to him, as far as she dared on what felt like her precarious ledge. “He was going on and on. And you never spoke to me. You never tried to make it better. It ended up that I couldn’t see any reason not to. You weren’t there, and he was.”
“I know.”
“George!” Even at the distance of a year and a death, she still found herself becoming exasperated and confused. “Why?? Why didn’t you try to get me back? You’ve just said you did love me. So why didn’t you try? Why??”
He looked out over the view again, before turning back towards her. “I was a mess,” he offered.
“Too much coke.”
“Too much everything.”
“But…”
“Pattie, I’m not defending myself here. I’m not here to defend myself.” He smiled, faintly. You remember that song? You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone?”
She nodded.
“That was me. I took you for granted, I was full of what I thought I was at that time - Krishna with all his women – I thought I could get away with anything. And then, you weren’t there. And then, I knew how much I’d loved you all the time.”
“So…” She paused to assemble her words. “What would you have said, what would you have done, if… if I had said it all? If I’d told you to get Charlotte out. What would you have done if I’d said, get her out?”
He smiled at her again, another small and gentle smile. “I don’t know,” he offered eventually. “It never happened, did it. I don’t know.” He paused again. “It would have been good, to find out. What I’d have done. I think…” Another pause, and then, “I think, I’d have got her out.”
Pattie stared at him. “So I should have tried.”
“That’s up to you.”
Pattie sat next to whatever that image of George was and allowed the words and thoughts to absorb into her. She wondered whether she felt better or worse, and decided that it would be a while before she could know that. Yet one thing she knew she needed to say, and she turned towards him again. “Thank you. For coming to talk to me.”
She basked yet again in the beloved George grin. “Pattie, I’m always here.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“What, on this mountain?”
A peal of laughter. “No, silly! Wherever you are.”
Tears pricked at the back of her eyes again, and she blinked back at him. She nodded. “That’s good. Good to know.”
Her gaze swept across the spectacular view once more, but then another question darted into her mind and she turned back to him. “But…”
She was alone on the mountainside. He’d gone, to wherever he’d come from. The Royal Albert Hall? She smiled to herself amidst the new tears. She wrapped herself more tightly in the folds of her scarf and leaned back against the rock and let her heart go out to him, wherever he was.
“Thanks, George,” she said aloud. And then waited until she felt ready to clamber to her feet and make her way down towards real people, and real life and, at last, some real peace of mind.
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avatardoggo · 1 year
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hiii tea asks!! earl grey, chamomile, and sugar! hope your're having an awesome day! ♡
thanks for the ask :)) hope you're having an awesome day too <3!
earl grey: how do you take your tea?
black most of the time but if i feel i need something more then i'll add 2 spoons of sugar & maybe some cream
chamomile: comfort movie?
moana i cry every time during the i am moana scene im litrlly tearing up rn and the freaking soundtrack omgoodness
sugar: tell me about your first crush
asdfghjkls;flhgywe9fehownvwen LOOL omgoodness ok so i met him in preschool & he was a year older than me but we didn't really talk until i was in 2nd grade & he was in 3rd. we listened to the same radio station so in the morning when we were waiting for class together we'd sit and talk about the songs that were playing that morning and he liked reading so we'd also talk about the narnia series which i was obsessed w/ as a kid. i think i liked him when he let me play football w/ him and the guys during recess bc all the girlies liked the monkeybars which i hated bc of heights and the merry go round but i hated being dizzy and felt like puking. he wore glasses and i thought he was so cute but ik he only saw me as a friend and kinda a freak bc when i didn't want to play football or be in the park i'd pick up beetles and bumblebees bc they're fuzzy and i wanted to pet them and i remember once at the end of recess he was like "you're disturbing God's creatures" and i was so mad bc wtfreak?! a girlie just wants to pet some bees?? since when was that a crime??? but ya that was my first crush.
ask game here <3
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