#and I am so in my feels about these two beautiful people and the impact they’ve had on my life

[lovelessthan]

Gonna tell my kids this was Barbie and Ken.

Ville Valo and Cristina Scabbia for Sonic Seducer Magazine, 2005. All credit to the photographer

[despairots]

━━━━━━━━ in another another dimension.

1610! miles morales x gn! spiderman! reader x 42! miles morales. angst, and sorta fluff?? also spoilers if u havent seen the movie yet, shit writing since i havent wrote in a long time 👎

where miles morales was your boyfriend and died in your dimension ‘cause you couldn’t save him in time after he was pushed off a building. where earth 1610 & earth 42, you’re dead ‘cause you got pushed off a building.

you couldn’t save him in time. by the time you saw his figure disappear from the ledge of the building, you were already frozen in spot, seeing as if the love of your life was gonna die and it was because of you.

even though you caught him by the chest with one of your webs, the recoil already impacted his head and back, causing him to die. you couldn’t apologize to him after the argument you two had.

“miles… i am so sorry. please wake up. wake the fuck up, miles! this isn’t funny. please tell me i’m dreaming, please tell me you’ll wake me up from a nightmare like before. please, i can’t lose you too…”

he always would wake you up and comfort you after a nightmare, he wouldn’t do that anymore. he would always whisper sweet things in your ear that always made you blush, he wouldn’t do that anymore.

nothing that was only exchanged between the two of you wouldn’t happen anymore, nothing. it was meaningless to you, you missed him. it was obvious to everyone.

your parents, friends, miles’s parents, classmates, teachers, schoolmates. they all knew how much you cherished eachother, how much you couldn’t keep living without eachother.

when he needed you the most, you weren’t there. you weren’t able to save him in time. maybe you could this time, saving him from a hundred other spider people.

EARLIER.

“this your friend, gwen?” a familiar voice was heard behind you making you quickly turn around, your spider sense going off. “miles?” “[name]?” the two of you spoke at the same time, jaw dropped and eyes widened.

“this was the surprise you meant, gwen.” all guilt that you thought you buried long time ago was to much to handle when you saw him, the same beauty that he had when you he died in your universe.

you couldn’t help but hug him tightly, face buried into his chest, he was always taller then you. miles jumped a little bit before hugging you back, his face buried on top of your hair.

you were restraining yourself for crying, small sniffles came from you as you could see gwen lightly smiling at the two of you. embarrassment was the only thing that made you pull away.

“sorry! i— um, have a miles morales in my dimension b - but he died.” you stumbled upon your words, blush on your cheek as miles blinked at you. “it’s fine. i have a you in my dimension but they — uh, died.”

miles nervously chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. it was awkward between the two of you, completely embarrassed that you hugged eachother even though you technically knew eachother too.

when you think about it, maybe you could save him this time… from millions of spider people and being thrown to his earth with him.

EARTH ???.

miles told you to wait in the living to talk to his mother, brooklyn was totally wrecked on his earth. spiderman was gone for just two days or maybe more and brooklyn looked like hell.

it didn’t feel right, you felt uneasy. it felt to surreal, to unrealistic in your opinion. you turned invisible when you saw mrs. morales, miles’ mother, walk out of his room, laughing.

he tried speaking to her before getting cut off by glitching, scaring you. ‘he’s in the wrong dimension.’ miles and you shared a look, signifying the look of terror.

‘the spider that bit him… it wasn’t from his dimension. miguel was right… he was never meant to be spiderman.’ the door creaked open, revealing the man who thought had died in miles’ dimension.

the two chattered, his uncle taking him to the roof as miles looked at you and gestured to follow him. it was shocking, to say the least, watching the two look at a mural.

your eyes widened at the art, instead of miles’ uncle dead, it was his dad and you. until then, you realized, you were always going to die in ever dimension but yours.

no matter how many times, no matter how many dimensions, the universes were working together to stop you and miles from every getting together.

that’s why miles died in yours, you dying in miles, and you dying in this world too. the universes never wanted you two to get together, maybe it was because of the saying:

in every other universe, gwen stacy falls for spiderman.

you were too lost in thought that you didn’t realize miles was knocked out until your spider senses tingled, reflexes making you dodged the incoming punch.

your hood (from your black sweater that you wore over your suit) flipped off, revealing the tight frown and scowl on your face. “what the f— miles…” you whispered the last part, seeing him on the floor.

something was poked into your neck, injecting you with something and forced you to sleep. losing authority over your body, you fell to the ground, unbothered by it.

your body didn’t touch the ground, that’s the thing, someone caught you in time. they cradled you softly in their arms, watching your eyes blink in and out if reality before completely closing.

aaron scoffed at his nephew, “that’s not the [name] you knew, they ain’t yours.” his nephew mumbled a yes, watching you sleep with the beauty you still had when you died.

your fingers were twitching, a small habit that you always had when sleeping. he missed you, he missed you so damn much.

and when he saw your face when your hood flipped over, he felt like he got a second chance to be with you.

but when he looked over at the other miles that was over his uncle’s shoulder, he felt hatred. he didn’t want to risk you to his other counterpart, he didn’t want to lose you, again.

and that was the same feeling 1610 miles felt, he didn’t want to lose you again. and for sure, you felt that way too.

[lovelyverosika]

The winner takes it all…the loser has to fall

Hazbin Hotel! Adam x Fem!reader

Part 2 —> Part 1

Warnings: suicide & death

A/N: I wanted to say thank you for all the love on my first fanfic<3 Tbh I never planned a part two since I didn’t expect people to actually enjoy it and I lack of motivation but the support changed it. Also I finished it earlier than expected :) As before I’m sorry for any grammar mistakes. I hope you enjoy it!

3rd POV

All eyes on her, that was the situation she found herself in now. Under normal circumstances she would feel extremely happy. Getting noticed and seen has always been her dream but this was more a nightmare than a dream. Looks of confusion and hatred hit her as soon as she looked around. Humiliation was what she was feeling right now, a feeling she knew very well.

She didn’t even dare to look behind her, scared to face her husband and his reaction but she could feel Lutes stare full of hatred piercing through her body as if she was a sinner on Extermination day. Ironic isn’t it? Back then in hell this day filled her with pure despair. All that blood and screams made her cry every year. Y/N hated her days in hell even more than her days when she was alive. She got out of her trance as she heard Monika laughing from above her. As she looked up she found herself in a familiar situation:

Kneeling on the floor with tears streaming down her cheeks while someone looked down at her. Monika snipped with her fingers,making a picture of Y/N appear. Instead of the optimistic angel shining with happiness everyone could see a demon full of tiredness and sadness in her eyes. "You might wonder how I found out..well for those who knew her from her living days it isn’t rocket science that she killed herself. And we all know suicide is a sin.", Monika laughed as she looks down at Y/N and then at the other angels ,which whisper to each other in the courtroom. Y/N didn’t even noticed that Emily was hugging her,she was too lost in her own mind.

-Flashback-

Y/N was someone people would call a "trophy child", polite,smart and full of happiness,that changed as soon as she hit puberty. She started seeing imperfections she never noticed before, things she loved got boring and her grades were falling. In other words she burned out and lost motivation for basically everything. The only thing she didn’t gave up was dancing, for years she worked really hard for her dream to come true. She wanted to be a star, who can make people happy with her performances and be admired.

At the age of 21 she was faced with the fact that hard work is nothing compared to natural talent. The first time in 6 years she was supposed to be the main star of the show. But that would’ve been too good to be true. On the day of her performance they told her, they founded someone better…a natural talented girl named Monika. She was beautiful like a swan but her personality was rotten..wasted potential in Y/N’s eyes.

"Not everyone is born to be a star.", Monika said while looking down at the woman, who kneeled before her obviously crying. Blinded by rage and envy Y/N interrupted Monikas show,dancing with elegance and grace while Monika acted as if it’s supposed to be happen.

Y/N smiled at the audience as she continued to dance,. "Thank you all so much for your support but I am afraid that was my last show", she spoke as tears run down her cheeks. She thought about it often..just quitting everything including her life. She’s been working so hard her whole life for nothing. It was no secret that she had a fragil heart, being sensitive made her life twice as hard as it was. She couldn’t take it anymore, so she threw the axe she hid into the air right above her. She wanted to leave with an impact no one will forget. Her last words were "Thank you" as the axe hits her as she bowed.

Everyone was shocked especially Monika who stood next to her now lifeless body. Tragic isn’t it? But at least she had the impact she wanted happening,right? She was now know as "The dying swan".

It was too late when she realised that suicide wasn’t and never be the solution and that she wasted her previous life.

With her soul tainted by envy and sin she found herself now in Hell, a place ten times worse than earth.

It was hard but she survived, she found friends who shared a similar fate. Together they helped demons in need for 3 years. On the 4th yearly extermination everything changed. Y/N loved her friends dearly, so seeing one of her friends nearly getting killed by an angel made her act without thinking. Wanting her friend to live she threw herself in front of them. It was painful as the spear pierced right through her heart but it was worth it, after all she protected her friend, didn’t she?

With a smile on her face she made peace with the fact that she’ll die for a second time. What she didn’t expect was that she found herself waking up again, this time in heaven.

It wasn’t long until she befriended a seraphim called Emily, she was such a bundle of joy, which made Y/N feel better in no time.

How she caught the eye of the first man on earth and soul in heaven was a mystery to her but what she knew was that she despised him. He was cocky, rude and so full of himself and the sugar on the cream were the nicknames he gave her…"mini tits" and "sugar tits".

Because of their work they spent more time together and got to know each other. She got used to his antics and behaviour and started to enjoy his company, compared to others he was very nice and respectful to her. It wasn’t long until she fell in love with him. She realised it for the first time when he was actually starting to respect women in general. Respect for women was very important to her and seeing people change for the better out of their own will was something she cherished.

One year later, they started dating and Adam was surprisingly loyal and clingy,she didn’t mind it one bit. He brought light into her small and pathetic life and she cleansed him like a waterfall. All her anger, sadness disappeared while he was not used to all this love. Everyone in heaven knew they were totally smitten with each other. After another year she married him and they lived a happy life in heaven until now.

-Flashback ends-

Y/N buried her head onto Emily’s chest, not wanting to be seen in such a state. Everything was blurry and the voices muffled, all she could hear was her own heart beat loud and clear.

Adam didn’t know what to feel, his wife used to be a demon. Was he supposed to be angry, sad or disappointed, he didn’t know. She promised him to stay with him forever, she promised not to leave him like Lilith and Eve did. He knew that weren’t sweet lies, she was the first one to actually accept him as a whole, so why shouldn’t he accept her either. Sinner or not she was still his sweet and loving wife. The last thing Y/N saw before fainting was Adam standing in front of Monika.

Part 3

[coralinnii]

Hi! I saw that you were opening your requests for the next day or so to celebrate getting 2.7k followers! First off, I wanna say congratulations, and may you have a good day/night (almost wrote 'not' lol)!

Anyways, I read your rules, and wondered if I could get a fic with Leona, Vil, Malleus, and Lilia being in a relationship with a Venti! Reader? Essentially, Venti is a Genshin Impact character who plays the lyre, controls the wind, and has a playful personality.

‧₊˚✧ As Free as the Wind ‧₊˚✧

↳ Twst guys with a Venti!reader 

feat: Leona ❋ Vil ❋ Malleus ❋ Lilia  genre: humor, mild fluff note: no pronouns were used with the reader, Venti!reader is of legal age to drink, no spoilers regarding the Genshin Impact storyline, minor spoilers for TWST Book 7

Thank you reading my rules, always appreciate the extra effort people make! I deeply apologize for how late I am with this, but I hope you enjoy the post. Hopefully I captured Venti's personality well enough >_<'

2.7K Followers Writing Event 2023

Ooff, did he first thought you were a pain in his tail. 

Loud, cheeky, no fear of disturbing anyone for entertainment or favors… at least Ruggie has the decency to be useful. 

He scoffed when you smile and act as if he can’t sense a dangerous well of power within you, the playful persona you present may fool a common man but not Leona.  

He’ll play your game though. There’s no benefit to him to pry into your secrets. He finds this side of you, the one that would play a soft ballad for him for some booze money, much easier to deal with. 

This is a strange relationship, but Leona can respect someone strong and most of all, doesn't tell him what to do. You believe in free will and freedom above else, which Leona appreciates. 

“The concept of one king ruling over all... I can’t say I’m too interested in a land like that.” 

Leona laughed at your boldness. With you, there’s no sense about stuffy responsibilities and obligations. 

There are sweet days where you and Leona would spend the day in the greenhouse, Leona sleeping soundly as you play your lyre while humming your new poems, the wind carrying your melodic voice. 

“Huh, do you have a song for me? Hah, what do you want from me this time? Fine, I’ll let you play.”

Vil immediately clocked something powerful about you, your nonchalant persona is good, but you cannot fool a seasoned actor like him. 

No matter, though. Vil has no interest in delving into someone’s past like that. Vil assumes that if you must act so easy-going yet private about yourself, then he won’t pry into such things. One must have reasons, he supposed. 

However, Vil cannot let go of your pension for the “occasional” drink or two. Vil doesn’t care that you are older than your appearance suggest, alcohol impacts your body and health as you age so he rather you limit that little habit of yours. 

“Come now, Vil. Another bottle wouldn’t hurt~” 

“Hmmph, you don’t have to worry much about yourself when you’re drunk but I most certainly do, especially when you come to me reeking of wine.”

But you always managed to quell his anger by singing ballads and poems about your wonderful beloved Vil. That always lifts the Housewarden’s mood and you end up with a mere reprimanding. Hehe.

Vil will not, however, forgive you so easily if you get too mischievous with him. The beautiful man can respect your talent with wind and currents, but he doesn’t appreciate the gust you would conjure up if it messes up Vil’s appearance too much. 

“Don’t even think about running away from me. I know you were behind the sudden rush of wind, my mischievous one. Acting cute or sweet words is not going to work this time.”

However youthful you may appear, Malleus can sense an old soul within you which feels familiar and powerful. 

Malleus is often surprised by you, for your playful and bold nature while handling the wild winds as skillfully as you hold the lyre. You bear similarities to a certain someone that he can’t help but respect you and hold you to a higher regard than any typical being. 

Malleus doesn’t hate that easygoing personality of yours. On the contrary, he enjoys that spontaneous side of yours as you suggest the strangest of ideas to a powerful figure such as him. 

“Let's go jumping in puddles and see who can make the biggest splash!“

You are a sociable being, making friends so easily that it baffles the young fae. A few cute words from you and it was suddenly so easy to lower one’s guard around you. 

However, when you’re alone and don’t realize his presence, Malleus catches that gleam of loneliness in your eyes as you gaze from your tall resting spot. A look that Malleus feels a kinship with you in that regard.

”You would like to take a stroll with me tonight? Oh, a race in the sky, you say? Very well, but don't be conceited enough to believe I’m so easily bested.”

Dear Sevens, why would you ever let these two chaotic gremlins be in the same vicinity? Do you know no mercy for others?  

The two of you would hit it off so well, it’s almost concerning. Lilia finds you a delight to be around, almost a kindred spirit even. 

“So, you also took care of a dragon long ago.” 

“Yeap, but he sorta became a nation-wide threat when I decided to leave and go off on my own.” 

“Ah yes, those things do tend to happen.” 

(if you can’t tell who’s saying what, that really speaks to how similar a coincidence that was)

Jamming sessions ALL. THE. TIME. The campus has not known a single moment of rest as you display your musical talents in the courtyard while Lilia encourages you all the way, occasionally playing along with an instrument of his own.

Lilia is fascinated by your lyrical retellings of your world and would love to visit this kingdom that values freedom among all else, and of this dandelion wine you speak so lovingly about.

As a man with his own… history, Lilia isn’t the type to ask too much about you if he sees you dodging the question. He can recognize that familiar look of longing and loss, so Lilia doesn’t press further and instead indulge with you in one more glass of bittersweet wine. 

“What tales do you have to regale for tonight? I’m always captivated by these grand adventures of yours, it’s almost tempting for this old soul of mine, hehe.”

[relatableblorbopoll]

Round 1 of preliminaries, group 11

The first two places get a place on the bracket

Little reminder: there will be 2 more rounds of preliminaries, the losing blorbos of this poll still have 2 chances of getting in the official bracket

Propaganda under the cut

Mae Borowski (Night in the Woods)

"Spoilers! She's a college dropout in her early twenties, who suffers from untreated mental illness and dissociation and had a complete breakdown at college, causing her to come home. Now she's living with her parents again, but life in her dingy little hometown went on without her. Her friends are adults now - in a relationship and planning on moving to the big city, or having to waste away in a dead end job instead of following their dreams. Mae is the only one without a new adult role in life. She's not great with people either - she's blunt and often doesn't think things through, and in many ways just doesn't get the world of adults. She's also prone to petty crimes and general anarchy. She's kind of lost and purposeless, and trying to find meaning in life by desperately clinging to the past. Her decision to drop out of college probably saved her life, but it's also put her family in a tough financial situation and is viewed by most people as her just thoughtlessly doing whatever she wants. She's also kind of shamed a lot about not having a job or other productive role in life, despite the fact that her untreated mental issues are actually disabling for her. She also plays the bass real bad. Anyway, i love Mae a lot. Playing this game as a college dropout in my early twenties, sitting in my childhood bedroom in my mom's attic, back in my dingy little hometown, desperately missing my old friends who have all moved on to better, resposible things in life... yeah, it felt like the game was pointing dead at me. Given tumblr's general demographic, i figure i must not be completely alone in this"

Shigeo Kageyama / Mob (Mob Psycho 100)

"autistic. likes milk. if we reach a certain level of emotion we turn into a psychic bomb. cool brothers :)"

Barry the Quokka (The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog)

"Their only skill is working the microwave, they're non-binary, when seeing a trash bin their first instinct is to look through it, they're always the most normal person in the room, they can beatbox, and they were only hired due to being the only one who applied."

Kaveh (Genshin Impact)

"In a fantasy world, be a guy with a regular profession losing his goddamn mind. Poor guy has a guilt complex, (so true) and a lot of deep embarrassment regarding his life.(ehe) He just wants to do what he's passionate about but capitalism is evil and also he keeps getting scammed. Claims to not want anyone to know Things, goes into depth about these Things anyway. Is probably most definitely gay. Can be found face down on a table lamenting his fate. Terrible sleep schedule. (HA) He is such a guy. Wants to believe the world is a good place and people are inherently good. And wants to help people and do good himself. It's just hard. [And he has a roommate. Oh my god he has a roommate]"

"He was, and still is, regarded a genius. He aced his Akademiya days, he has the admiration and appreciation of so many people because he is oh-so remarkable. But what for, when reality is that he sits at home depressed and with guilt consuming him, faking the image people have of him, not only broke as fuck but actually in debt, drowning his sorrows in wine."

Yusuke Kitagawa (Persona 5)

"highschooler who wants to spend the rest of his life doing what he loves. is obsessed with art and beauty and it's on his mind 24/7 received help from his now friendgroup to break from his abusive foster father who he still have complicated feelings with had to move into school dorms and am struggling to live independantly since he'd rather spend money and time on his art but he's still surviving and enjoying the good times id say also ends up saying whatever is on his mind and is pretty eccentric. very passionate about what he loves. doesn't want to do anything else."

Nanami Kento (Jujutsu Kaisen)

"Ex-salaryman, now jujutsu sorcerer. During one life-and-death fight, kept talking about how it was almost six pm with is when he is getting off work at 6pm no matter what because he hates overtime. While his opponent repeatedly almost kills him. Normalest adult in this shonen anime. Teen MC: "Let's go all out!" Nanami: "No. Where moderate effort will suffice, use moderate effort." Some of his quotes from the anime: "I studied at Jujutsu Tech and one thing I learned is that Jujutsu Sorcerers are shit! Then I worked at your typical company and one thing I learned is that work is shit! If both are equally shit I'll take the one I'm more suited to." "You've faced several life-or-death situations, but that does not make you an adult. Finding more fallen-out hairs on your pillow, watching your favourite stuffed bread disappear from the convenience store... The accunulation of these little despairs is what makes a person an adult." "I don't praise or disparage anyone. I adhere to facts and judge on that basis. That's who I am. There was a time when I mistakenly believed society operated the same way." "

[kashimos-hajime]

—𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐚𝐥-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

summary: he hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when al-haitham dreamed for the first time after the akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.

WARNINGS: archon quest akasha pulses, the kalpa flame rises spoilers! soulmate au if you squint, swearing, mentions of violence, death, injury, minor self-loathing, plot AND lore heavy, angst, fluff, not poly, happy ending!  pairing: al-haitham x fem!reader, minor kaveh x fem!reader word count: 18.1k grind

a/n: written for the lovely @zhongrin​ and her elemental supercharge collab! it was super fun to work on and really inspired me to love writing again because it was just a breath of fresh air. my entry: dendro + dendro + cryo = permafrost 

here are some important notes for this fic to help with understanding it:

tsaritsa is the former goddess of love. the goddess of flowers was a seelie. king deshret reborn was al-haitham. possibly ooc al-haitham (he’s also deaf!) i made shit up about teleport waypoints and about pretty much all the lore surrounding the three god-kings besides what i glimpsed through some books/theories/etc. i was just like fuck it we ball. 

inspo songs: who is she? - i monster, about you - the 1975, awake from a nightmare - hoyo-mix (i recommend you listen to this one especially during kaveh - chat: craftsmanship)

now on ao3 x

Greater Lord Rukkhadevata - About the Goddess of Flowers

In the place where Padisarahs bloom, two gods speak in the absence of their third. The Lord of Flowers picks these Padisarahs and the Greater Lord watches, entranced in the velvet purple petals that gleam in the sun.

The latter says: “You know the price to be paid if he searches for that divine nail.”

The other says: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t pretend to be a fool. You and I both know that—”

“Rukkhadevata.”

The Dendro Archon is silenced.

At last, the scorned one speaks. She has lost her people, her home. She refuses to die until Celestia is buried beneath her bloodied hands. “There is nothing to be done. Do you think Deshret’s mind sways so easily? He is set on finding the answers he seeks, and I am set on aiding in his endeavours.”

“But you… why? You understand what the Heavenly Principles are capable of, and you still put yourself in their line of fire. Again. Why?”

“Because Deshret asked.”

“I don’t think you understand what he is asking you to do.”

“No? Then, you have no idea of what I am, Rukkhadevata, and you are the one who won’t ever understand.”

Deshret - About the Divine Nail

The sandstorm is brutal, tearing at their clothes, their skin, blinding their eyes and clogging their throats. It had picked up so suddenly, there’d barely been enough time for Deshret to shield her from the first impact before realizing that the storm chaotically revolves around them. Around him. Uncontrollable winds swiping through the eye of a hurricane do not with hold their strength from the Goddess of Flowers, but Deshret, the powerful God-King remains untouched. 

He pulls her in closer to his side. The Goddess of Flowers can barely see straight by the time the divine nail rises to its full height, her withered body barely able to withstand the powerful galeforces that pull at her every which way. 

The divine nail is beautiful, glowing blue, refracting gold, and she can only smile as Deshret beside her raises a hand. He, too, glows, but he glows like the sun, like divinity.

“You’ve done it,” she congratulates through her weeping. The sand burns into her corneas, brands her lungs, but nothing touches her heart, and that is how she knows the reason it is shrivelling in her chest is because she is dying. The god beside her, the one holding her hand, turns, and she can’t help her laugh. “I told you once, though, that you would lose much in this exchange.”

“What?” His hand springs off her wrist, but her body is already disintegrating. It feels like it did when her kind was casted from their old home; her body thinned into a husk of what it used to be. Back then, she had prioritzed saving her mind over every inch of her beauty, yet now… now she doesn’t have the strength to save anything. 

Deshret cannot protect the Goddess of Flowers from a trade conducted by those who rule above gods. “No… no, what is happening? You’re…”

“I hope,” she cuts off cleanly, “that one day, I can love you without any selfish desire. I hope… in another life, another samsara as Rukkhadevata would so fondly call it, I will love you more than you ever loved me.” His eyes widen, and a trembling hand reaches for her face. The Goddess of Flowers smiles. Tilts her head into his palm, and laughs again through the tears that evaporate off her cheeks as soon as they spring off her eyelashes.

He is incinerating to touch—a conduit of swirling sand, an incarnation of the sun. How ironic it is that the hand that once saved her from the sands will be the hand that seals her fate amongst the dunes.

Stepping closer, her flesh burns away when she cradles his face. He is shining so brightly. A brilliant morning star, a genius with a hungry mind, a gluttonous scholar. The God-King of the Desert.

Yet, Deshret does not seem like the god everyone makes him about to be.

Before the Goddess of Flowers, Deshret is nothing more than a man, crying and holding onto her with all his might. 

A soft part of her melts at his expression.

“In all honesty,” she whispers, soft and choked, “I aided you because, in your ambitious vision of the future, I saw the possibility that you could free all of us from the shackles that chain us to the Heavenly Principles. In the end, it was my own selfish nature that led us here, and it is my own doing that marked your path to be one that you will have to walk alone.”

Deshret takes hold of her face, eyes searching, but the goddess withdraws her hands to settle her fingers on his wrists lightly.

“It was not your fault, Deshret.”

“No!” She pulls his wrists away, but he curls his hands into fists, fighting to free himself from her grip. For once, it is impossible, and he lets out a desperate growl, tears glinting upon his cheeks. “Don’t leave me. Don’t… don’t go.”

“Deshret—“

“Stay. Just a little while longer. I will take that divine nail and hammer it into this world, and build you an eternal oasis where I will bring you back to life with the knowledge that spills from its organs.” Lunging forward, his hands find themselves on the sides of her neck, thumbs stretching to trace the lines of her jaw. “I will not lose you. I cannot lose you!”

The ragged storm enflames, the winds grow deafening, loud enough to resemble a constant thunder that echoes in the hollowness of her chest. 

“Don’t worry about that sort of thing, Deshret.” 

Her voice is very weak now. When she swallows, sand shreds her insides and her eyes burn from the strength it’s taking to avoid coughing up iron.

“We will meet again,” she continues. “If Rukkhadevata has a hand in anything, it is the wisdom that pools around all of us, and the knowledge that there will not be an era where we are separated.”

“No, no, don’t go!”

But it falls futilely on deaf ears. The Goddess of Flowers lets go, and steps backward, her knees shaking, her frame swaying from the winds she can no longer fight. 

As soon as her heel tucks into the edge of the unrelenting galeforce, she is ripped away, and the Goddess of Flowers disappears.

Tighnari - Something to Share: Akademiya Days

If one asked Tighnari what he thought of the Artificer of the Akademiya, he would return that inquiry with one of his own:

“Do you mean my thoughts on the Artificer alone, or about her relationship with the Scribe of the Akademiya?”

The truth of the matter is, the Scribe and the Artificer’s history go past colleagues at the Akademiya, past scholars searching for a thesis, for once upon a time, they were students, too.

Paimon isn’t aware of this: “Er… I don’t know. Did they know one another?”

“Al-Haitham wields his practicality like a spear. Nothing could quite faze him or outwit him. Nothing could unsettle him, except for the Artificer. She was a student in his year, but she was a scholar of the Kshahrewar Darshan. They were quite the reliable pair of scholars.” A soft hum. 

“Really? Al-Haitham doesn’t seem like the partner type.”

“He isn’t. I suppose exceptions could be made when it came to her. I met Al-Haitham through the Artificer, actually, when they were working on some sort of prototype translation device for foreigners and she had asked if Sumeru’s scientific names for plants from other nations were derived from their original language.” Tighnari’s ears twitch. “I didn’t know her well back then, but from my brief meetings with her, she was very lively and happy. She didn’t care about the Sages and the politics surrounding the Six Darshans. All she wanted was to study. I think her thesis was to find a way to repair the Teleport Waypoints around Sumeru. It made quite the wave back in our day.”

“The Teleport Waypoints?” Paimon says. “Paimon noticed that they’re guarded by the Corps Of Thirty in Sumeru when in other nations they’re pretty much abandoned.”

“Her hypothesis that they’d been placed by some higher power than the Archons is a banned reference material and only the highest level of scholars are aware of the theory,” Tighnari says, and there’s a far off look in his eyes. “The Corps of Thirty supposedly defend these sites for a historical scholar for the day she comes home, but to be honest,” he adds quieter, “I think they were ordered to defend the Waypoints from the Artificer should she ever return.”

.

Technological advancement in Sumeru had progressed far enough that prototype cochlear implants are, though not a norm, a potential alternative than going through life unaware. The alternative is only made available by the resources of the Akademiya and Al-Haitham’s enrolment there since it’s where he can maintain upkeep with the help of Kshahrewar students who were overseeing this new piece of headgear. 

You are the student assigned ot make sure his top of the line technological headwear didn’t go awry. You spend a lot of time with him, which means, against all odds, the bright, voracious, and laughing sun of the Kshahrewar Darshan has become Al-Haitham’s friend.

He had avoided it at first. Honestly. In the three years they’ve been together as mechanic and project, it took almost a year for Al-Haitham to consider even looking forward to seeing you every Thursday afternoon where you’d fiddle with his settings and write down notes on his condition.

And, yet, when he conceded to the fact that you were a staple to him—a constant in the ever-changing nature of the Akademiya’s cutthroat landscape where scholars dropped at the tip of a hat—he found that he learned more about you in the first month he gave in than he did in the last twelve he resisted. 

Each factoid is like a dash in his head: your thesis is to be about the possibility of repairing the shattered Teleport Waypoints scattered across the nation, and how you’d go about doing it. Your work with Al-Haitham is just a way to investigate how the Akasha terminal and said Teleport Waypoints could work in tandem. Your life goal is for the latter to work on its own some day like it did in ages past and ease travel for those who could not afford to.

“It’s an altruistic thing to do.”

“I’m from Snezhnaya, but I moved here when I was younger.” You’re sitting across from him at the library as you tinker with a device similar to the one on his ears. “I used to go back every summer, but now that I’m at the Akademiya, I haven’t returned because I don’t have time, so the Teleport Waypoints would help with seeing my family more often, too. I’m not all good.”

He doesn’t look up from his book, although above the top of it, he can see your fingers deftly trying to rearrange wires. “Family?”

“Mhm. My father is a researcher here. My mother stayed back home. I grew up in a small hamlet, you know.”

He smiles faintly, flipping a page. “Yes, I know. It’s one of the first things you told me.”

“Oh, well… I didn’t think you’d remember,” you say, and he finally looks up from the pages to find you staring. You don’t look away, and instead, your smile grows as you tilt your head. “You’ve got beautiful eyes. Has anyone ever told you that before, Al-Haitham?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he answers. That’s another thing about you. You always say his name when you speak to him, as if to make sure that he understands you are directing such things to him.

That, and just the way you say his name. Every syllable purposeful, in that voice of yours that edges on melodic. You still have a Snezhnayan accent when you say certain words, including ones of Sumeran origin.

“Well, you do. They’re so beautiful.” Your smile makes your eyes crinkle as you return to your project, and Al-Haitham clears his throat, fighting the red that’s burning his ears. Scratching his jaw, he shakes his head minutely and instead tries to think of anything else.

You like oranges, but have a secret soft spot for peaches. You like reading romance, and you love art. Your father is a member of the Spantamad Darshan, and during his thesis, he travelled back to his homeland and fostered a family, which includes his eldest daughter, you.

The same you he can’t stop thinking of now that he’s stuck on it.

Later, when they begin to pack up their things from the library, in between him slipping a book into his bag and you sliding each tool back into its spot in your case, he asks if you’d like to have dinner with him at Lambad’s Tavern.

“Alright, but I’ll have to drop this off at my work room before I do. I don’t want to damage it,” you answer, tilting your head to your project wrapped in cloth which you’ve carefully nestled into a box.

“That sounds fine. I’ll meet you at the bottom of the tree, then?” he asks and you smile fondly at him, the box in your arms and your bag slung across your shoulder.

“Give me a minute or two,” you say. “I won’t be long.”

Al-Haitham bids you farewell at the entrance to the House of Daena, and you walk off with a bright smile, your figure outlined in a melting sunset gold. There’s not a lot of people outside—most have found shelter in Akademiya buildings or they’re out in the city, trying to maintain a social life as well as a scholar can.

“(Name)!” someone shouts, and Al-Haitham, who’d been walking down the ramp, looks up to see a tall, slim figure bolt past him. Blond hair flashes in the burning orange of dusk as a man runs past, and Al-Haitham twists around to avoid being hit by him as a foul word springs to his tongue.

But then, he realizes what the man had yelled and who the man even is the longer he stares at his retreating back, and Al-Haitham shakes his head.

You won’t be happy with him if he gets into an argument with your childhood best friend of all people.

Kaveh is easy-going, passionate, and empathetic. It is… to say the least, everything Al-Haitham is not. He’s met him once or twice out of pure coincidence, and he’s seen the blond around you more often than not. A part of him dislikes his nature. His whimsical, idealistic view of their future does not fall into line with how Al-Haitham sees it, and borders on idiotic considering that a romantic vision is not feasible in a nation where knowledge seeks to rationalize every existing thing.

The more logical half of him knows that you share all the same traits as Kaveh, and that the real reason behind his disdain is because Kaveh clearly has romantic feelings for you, and you return them.

It isn’t difficult to decipher the nature of your relationship with your “childhood best friend.”

How else would you describe the way his hand wraps around your elbow when other people want your attention and how when he leans to whisper something in your ear, you never fail to laugh and swat at him, your own arm looped through his.

He thinks that sick, logical side of him would pay to see you stumble through your words as you try to explain your relationship with your friend, but he can’t bare to do it. It feels cruel when all you’ve been is patient and kind with him.

“You seem distracted, Al-Haitham,” you intone with concern. You cradle tea in your hands, and cock your head at him, a thoughtful frown playing at your lips. “Is something wrong?”

Blinking, Al-Haitham finds you looking at him with those wonderful and warm eyes, and that logical side of him vanishes—a rat scurrying from the sunlight and back into the dark.

“No. No, I was merely thinking of something,” he dismisses, poking at the food he’s barely touched. The tavern is loud—almost too loud. His head aches with the amount of thoughts that swirl around, clattering in cacophony. It’d been stupid to suggest this place when he’s so tired from studying. Archons, he wants it to stop now. To get up and run, to curl up with a book and a warm fire, to tell them to stop, everyone, please, for the love of the Dendro Archon, shut the fuck up—

You laugh, and set down your cup of tea, reaching over to grab his wrist and squeeze gently, and his world goes quiet. It zeroes in on you, and the softness of your palm betrays the calluses on your fingers, a strange juxtaposition against his wrist.

“I know it’s hard,” you utter teasingly, “but I want you to stop thinking tonight. Nothing about studies, or labs, or anything about any kind of dictionary.” He smiles at that as you stroke your thumb over the back of his hand. “Just you and me, and this food.”

“Duly noted,” he mutters, and you smile again, returning to your own supper. But he cannot. His eyes do not stray, and his shoulders sink into his body, invisible weight sloughing off his skeletal frame.

All Al-Haitham does is watch you eat, rice slipping between two perfect lips, lips he knows, lips he could draw, and he’s not even close to resembling an artist. A mouth he can paint without seeing the reference, eyes closed, asleep, unconscious. A mouth he has dreamed of before, and he wonders just how he can tell you that, now, the reason he can’t stop thinking is because he’s thinking about you.

Collei - About Technology: Lockboxes

“What do you wanna know?” Collie asks brightly. “Oh, this is the Artificer’s seal! How do you have this?”

“We found it in the Balladeer’s chambers. It was addressed to Al-Haitham but we can’t seem to open it.”

“That’s probably because you need his permission to open it. Most of her work is password protected, so I guess that means including this. Top secret stuff. Master Tighnari received a few cases back before I knew him, though they’re still in his quarters.” She sighs. “Apparently, all her work is more valuable than a lot of the stuff the Sages hold, according to Master Tighnari, because she went missing and there is no way to replicate it.”

“I thought Tighnari didn’t know her well,” the Traveler mutters to themself quietly, before asking, louder, “Missing?”

“I don’t know much about what happened, but she went missing five years ago after an expedition went wrong. Apparently, a huge snowstorm overtook the desert and she was swallowed up by the sand. The rest of her team came out fine, but her and some other Spantamad scholar just… died in that snow. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen! So much snow it almost completely covered the sand dunes.”

“That’s strange,” intones Paimon. “It’s so hot and dry here, wouldn’t the snow just melt?”

“It seemed like a freak incident,” Collei agrees, “but the Sages were scrambling to figure out why. The Akademiya was in a flurry that whole season before it died down.” Her eyes fall to the box the Traveler holds again. It has a flat surface, with no keyhole, yet it’s sealed shut, and Collei hums. “Maybe, they’re just blueprints and stuff to keep safe. That’s what Master Tighnari has in his boxes. Or, maybe it’s a secret treasure!”

“It could be,” the Traveler answers. “But I haven’t been able to find Al-Haitham.”

“He’ll show up,” Collie assures confidently. “He always does.”

.

As a member of the Haravatat Darshan, Al-Haitham is capable of speaking nearly every living language in Teyvat and a handful of dead ones. It’s required for him to graduate alongside a well-founded dissertation. He wrote his own on the developing dialects of sign language across the regions, which he recited in front of his professor entirely in sign language.

A bit much, but Al-Haitham is nothing if not thorough.

He already has a reputation in his Darshan to be no nonsense, borderline rude, and a lone wolf, but brilliant, and the future of the Akademiya. A prodigy with no morality of the common sort, Al-Haitham walks the Akademiya grounds knowing that there are few who can shatter the earth beneath his feet. 

If the Sages are right, the current Scribe should be stepping down soon, and he could take that position easily. All access to so many projects would be granted, and he wouldn’t be short on resources for things he’d like to study. It’d also grant him more time to pursue his own endeavours. The desert is sorely understudied, but the rumours of a Divine Knowledge Capsule floating around the black markets, too, piques his interest.

Al-Haitham is a scholar without equal.

“Al-Haitham, there you are.”

Yet… in front of you, he’s nothing more than an awkward boy who doesn’t know what to say.

In the years since they’ve been mere fresh-faced students, you’ve graduated, too. Now, you work as a Dastur, leading expeditions with your father. Al-Haitham’s met him multiple times, but he’s been returning to Snezhnaya recently according to you. You’ve even overtaken some of his smaller projects.

“That’s not any of your responsibility,” he had pointed out in quiet Snezhnayan when he had come across you returning late to the city from an expedition to Avidiya Forest. Mud had ruined your shoes, and you looked up at him, moving to dump your bag on the ground. He had caught it before it could crash to the ground. Your eyes glinted, pleased, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

When his arms wrapped around your waist, you had seemed to melt into his body. Your fingers found purchase in his hair, and your nose dug into his neck as you sighed.

“Well, it’s my father,” you murmur in your mother tongue, strangely beautiful against his skin. It was one of the first languages he challenged himself to learn. You are much more subdued when you speak in the dialect of your homeland, yet no less beautiful. An everlasting snowflake in the middle of a rainforest. “He is most important to me, and I must do what he asks.”

He walked you home that night without you even asking.

Your smile is impossible to refuse, your laughter one of the few sounds that can bring him to a sane state of mind. A scholar without equal means a mind that never sleeps, and when Al-Haitham has enough of it all, he seeks solace in your mouth and your hands; your fingers carding through his hair, your lips whispering against his ear.  

A solace, no doubt, Kaveh receives nightly considering you two live together now on the stipend the Akademiya provides. Al-Haitham’s thoughts have driven him to stay up late on his most exhausted days, wondering what you did when you parted from the dinners they’ve scarcely scheduled and you returned back to that small house you shared with your childhood best friend. 

What do you and Kaveh even do every night anyway? Dinner, and conversations over what? The arts and poetics that Kaveh constantly waxes, whether or not you’re around? 

You plant yourself in front of him to stop in his tracks, and Al-Haitham’s eyes dart from your face to your neck against his will. 

Clear. It’s always clear.

“I’ve been looking for you,” you say.

“Have you?” Flippant. A bag hangs off your shoulders, and a shorter cut of the uniform drapes off your frame. Against his will, his heart sinks. “You look like you’re packed for another expedition.”

“Mhm. I’m going out into the desert for a month, maybe two. There’s a Teleport Waypoint near the Mausoleum of King Deshret that’s been displaying some abnormal levels of energy, so it might be a breakthrough depending on the cause.”

“You think there’s a Ley Line disorder?”

“Or maybe King Deshret’s risen again,” you comment blithely. Al-Haitham’s eyebrows shoot up at your boldness of stating such a blasphemous thing in the centre of Sumeru City, but you don’t seem bothered. “There have always been stranger things. Either way, I want to check it out.”

“I suppose so. Will Kaveh be accompanying you this time?”

“Kaveh? No. No, an architect and an artist has no place in the desert when he could be here.” You avert your gaze and you fight the stuttering in your voice. Al-Haitham bites his tongue. “Scholars from the Spantamad Darshan will be, though, considering the Ley Line aspect of the situation. It’ll be nice to spend time with my father again. He returned just recently, did you know?”

“I was made aware,” he says. He saw your father early yesterday morning, and they’d exchanged words, but you don’t need to know that Al-Haitham speaks to your father on a semi-regular basis. “Well, then, I hope your exploration is fruitful.” 

“Of course it will be. It’s me leading the expedition,” you tease, winking, and he can’t help the small smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. Your smile softens into a fonder, more genuine one, and you take hold of his hand. In Snezhnayan, you utter: “I wanted to see you before I left.”

“I’m happy that you made that effort to,” he murmurs in the same, inclining his head. You squeeze his fingers, before letting go, and Al-Haitham’s gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth. It’s still smiling, still warm, still those same lips that have haunted his dreams. He lets out a silent sigh and raises a hand to rest atop your head. In Sumeran again, he says, “I will await your return then, Artificer.”

“What a silly title.” A displeased expression overtakes your face but nonetheless, you clutch his bicep and duck from his hand and begin to make your way past him, trailing your fingers down his forearm. He turns to prolong the contact, his fingers tracing your veins. “Now, I don’t want to go, knowing you’re waiting for me to come back.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” he warns. They are at each other’s fingers, and he curls his digits, locking you in place for only a moment. “I might not be here when you come back.”

“Please,” you snort, but your expression betrays how happy and excited you are. “See you later, Al-Haitham.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” he agrees, and you giggle, waving one last time before turning around fully and running off to wherever you’re needed. Al-Haitham’s smile doesn’t fade as he watches you go. His heart warms whenever he’s near you, and now that you’ll be disappearing for a few months, he’s determined to keep that fire inside him burning low and bright.

He loves you. He knows that very well by now. Loves you without rival, without equal. Very few things can even think to challenge the spot you have in his life, although he is sure he does not have some sort of equivalent seat in your halls of life.

Why would he sit there when you have so many more acquaintances? Better-tempered ones, kinder ones, ones that aren’t ruled by selfish ambition, who actually have the initiative to tell you how they feel because they are not bogged down by the arguably controversial opinion that love is nothing more than an obstacle.

“Al-Haitham, the Grand Sage Azar wishes to speak with you,” an attendant says, and Al-Haitham is forced to look away from you. The scholar frowns at the request, but nonetheless, he follows the man to the House of Daena.

When he returns home from his meeting with the Grand Sage, Al-Haitham wants nothing more than to rip his brain out, strip it clean of memories. For the first time in his life, he curses knowledge, and the consequences it has inflicted on him

But a box sits waiting for him, a note attached to the top of it. By the intricate lock system on the front baring no keyhole, but a scanner that illuminates when Al-Haitham’s finger brushes against the box, he knows who it’s from.

Cyno - About Cold Cases

“The Artificer?” Cyno asks in the dying minutes of the feast in his honour. Crossing his arms over his chest, his brow furrows. “Why do you want to know about her?”

“We heard there’s a lot of mystery surrounding her, but if she’s such an important figure in the Akademiya, why didn’t she ever come back?”

“So you know she’s missing.” Cyno sighs. “I’m not sure if this is information I’m legally allowed to reveal to you as an outsider, but it’s you so I suppose I could make an exception. Her belongings were seized and her quarters were raided after her disappearance five years ago. The Eremites posted around the Teleport Waypoints are to assure that she doesn’t come to tamper with them.”

“Why? Is she a criminal?”

“No. The Sages put a stop to all of her research after it became clear she was extremely close to unlocking the full potential of the Teleport Waypoints. Whether or not it was fear that she would use that knowledge and surpass them is unclear, however she was well-liked by the public. Much of her work during her time was contribution to the public. Improving different aspects of our nation.”

“So, why… do you think the Sages had a hand in her disappearance?” the Traveler asks.

“I had my suspicions during the investigation which were only further supported once I was made the General Mahamatra and granted the ability to investigate past open cases.”

“As the General Mahamatra, you would probably know more about the circumstances surrounding the situation,” mutters Paimon. Cyno’s lips twist into a dismayed scowl.

“It was only the beginning of Azar’s need to retain power in Sumeru.” A resigned exhale. He glances around, but the place the Traveler has led him to is secluded and quiet. “I suggest you never reveal that you are searching for the Artificer to Al-Haitham. Talking about her is… a touchy subject.”

“The reason we wanted to find her is because of this box we found addressed to him.”

“A box?”

“Yeah! It must be something she hid from the matra before she disappeared.” Paimon flies around to the Traveler’s shoulder. “We wanted to ask Al-Haitham to open the box, but he’s been distracted by something else recently.”

Cyno hums, lips twisting into a frown. “From what I remember, the conclusion drawn from the investigation was that a freak snowstorm had caused her and another scholar to go missing. It went on for a month or two past their initial end date, so their resources eventually dried out, especially with being unprepared for that sort of weather. However…”

“What is it?” the Traveler asks.

“Well, why was she and a Spantamad scholar the only ones who went missing? The other members of the expedition emerged from the snowstorm cold but relatively unharmed at Caravan Ribat. Furthermore, there was a great shift in the area surrounding the Teleport Waypoint in front of the Mausoleum of King Deshret, suggesting that the Teleport Waypoint had somehow been used. I’m not quite sure of the efficacy of which it operated, but considering that there was no trace left behind, it’s possible that the snowstorm covered up the Teleport Waypoint tapping into the Ley Lines, and transporting the two scholars into some other place to escape.”

“So, in the end, she was successful in what she was trying to do,” the Traveler muses. “The Teleport Waypoints aren’t effective everywhere in Teyvat, though.”

The General Mahamatra shakes his head. “No, not to my knowledge.”

“Thanks, Cyno. This was a really big help,” the Traveler says, turning. Paimon flies in front of them, her hand scratching at her head. “I should leave you to your celebration. Sorry to bog it down with work.”

“Wait, Traveler. There’s one other thing that you should know. The investigation was preceded by an assignment issued by the Grand Sage to none other than Al-Haitham.”

.

Outside the Mausoleum of King Deshret, an expedition bustles around their camp. Scholars measure the Teleport Waypoint, use devices to take the temperature, and scribble down every observation in a small radius to ensure that the conditions are ideal.

You’ve retreated to your tent. The heat’s getting to you, and you feel exhausted as you set down your tool on your work bench, finger running down another manuscript to make sure everything is perfect.

Snezhnayan catches your ear and you turn around to see your father approaching, the tent flap closing behind him.

“You think it’ll work this time?”

“I’m sure, Papa,” you answer, lifting the core you’d been inspecting. They’ll insert this into the base of the Teleport Waypoint in a few days time once the Spantamad scholars are able to locate the source of destabilization in the Ley Lines. 

Archons willing, the core will be able to detect the Ley Lines running beneath the structure and channel energy back up into the Waypoint, and they’ll be able to go home in a blink of an eye.

There is one thing that you think separates you from the other scholars at the Akademiya, and it is not this groundbreaking technology you’ve crafted with your own hands. 

It is the higher purpose that fuels you to study. Not just for the sake of knowledge, or to find something new, something exciting.

“It’s our last chance. If we fail, the Doctor will have his way with me. I haven’t been useful enough, and he has no patience for people who waste his time. Little Star, I refuse to go back to Snezhnaya alive.”

The Fatui Harbingers. The fingers in your bones feel brittle after toiling for years and years for them to the point where you’re not sure that these hands are your own anymore. Maybe they belong to some unseen mind you don’t even know, but fear all the same.

All your work has only ever been for the Doctor, but maybe… maybe this way you and your dad can somehow find your mother and your siblings, find a secluded corner of this continent and hide from the Doctor for the rest of your days.

“Thank you,” your father murmurs, and you lower the core back into its box. Closing it, it lets out a little beep, and you drum your fingers against the top of the lid, sighing. “Little Star.”

“It’ll be fine,” you whisper, letting out a long breath. It feels like it takes the soul out of you, and you plant your hands against the table, letting your head drop. “We’ll be just fine.” 

A hand settles between your shoulders, and you let your father guide you closer towards him. His chest is warm, and when his arms embrace you, it feels like home. Turning into him fully, you wrap your arms around him and press your cheek against his chest, feeling like a small child again.

“You’ve worked so hard for my sake. I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

“The fact that I’ve managed to save your life, Papa, is reason enough to do anything.” You withdraw, and smile at him. He sighs, eyes scanning your face. “The Doctor will be pleased enough by this progress, right? I… it might not be a permanent solution, but he’ll think it’s enough of a relveation that he won’t kill you?”

“Don’t think like that.”

“I can’t help it!”

He flicks your forehead, and you separate, wincing. Rubbing your brow, you send him a glare. 

“That Al-Haitham won’t want you to be so pessimistic.”

“Dad!” Heat flashes over your face, and you whirl around, busying yourself with cleaning up your work bench. Your father laughs, leaning in beside you. “Al-Haitham’s just a friend.”

“I never insinuated anything more than that,” he teases. “But I’m sure you two are closer now than ever.”

“Papa!”

“You ought to stop giving him the wrong impression, if he’s just a friend. Living with Kaveh, playing house,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s going to realize that you and that silly boy are together.”

“We are… not… together.” You could strangle your father. Returning the manuscripts to your own box, you don’t quite close it yet. You’ll still need to do one last check to make sure the winds from the desert haven’t swept anything underneath anything else. “Kaveh and I are just friends. We just like living together.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll never understand then why you don’t pursue Al-Haitham.”

“You don’t have to understand anything,” you complain, exasperated. “Al-Haitham’s not interested in that way with me, Papa. Besides, I don’t have any time to foster a romantic relationship. Save that for when we’re in the clear.”

“Who knows? Maybe he can accompany us.”

“Father!”

“Artificer! The Scribe of the Akademiya has arrived looking for you.”

“The Scribe?” you murmur, frowning. Immediately, all that teasing evaporates like smoke, and your brow furrows. Your father’s expression is identical. “What would Abbas be doing here at his age?” 

“Perhaps there’d been urgent news?”

“They would’ve sent a messenger, wouldn’t they? Or even the General Mahamatra if it’d been serious.” You sigh. “It’d be better if you weren’t in here when I receive him. It could be something bad.”

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “You can send him in.”

Your father departs, and he chats with whoever is outside, but you can’t let yourself eavesdrop. Your anxiety is biting at your frayed nerves. You haven’t slept well in days.

The day that will seal your fate comes closer and closer, and you can’t think of anything else. Your head hurts, and you grab your canteen, taking a sip and hoping it’ll help with the ache. 

What will you do if the Teleport Waypoint works? Will you leave the Akademiya entirely? The Doctor might ask you to stay, and further develop and streamline the process for whatever plan the Harbinger is creating, but with this technology, you could run. Leave it all behind.

You absently brush your finger over a stick of charcoal. You’ll have time to think about it, you suppose.

The tent flap opens, and you let out a sigh. “Scribe Abbas, I’m surprised you—“

And whatever words you had, whatever had been autopilot motoring off your tongue, die.

“Al-Haitham?” Surprise shoots through your system. Your heart skips a beat when you see him, and that uncomfortable rhythm pounds against your ribs as he smiles faintly at you. He looks the same. Always the same. “What? What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you,” he admits, and you can’t help the silly smile that rises to your face. “I would prefer to speak with you in Snezhnayan. I know that your mother tongue goes unused often. I don’t want to get rusty either.”

“Oh.” That heat comes again to your face in a crashing flood. “Of course,” you comply. “But I don’t understand why you came all this way just to speak with me. Couldn’t it wait? I would’ve been back in the Akademiya in a few weeks.” Your mind scrambling for more words to say, your eyebrows knit together. “Wait. Scribe. You’re the Akademiya’s new Scribe?”

He nods. “Yes. I was promoted last week.”

“That’s excellent news!” you exclaim, coming closer and grabbing him by the wrists. His eyebrows rise but you tug him towards your bedroll. Sitting, you tug him down and tuck your knees beneath you. “Tell me everything. Wait, do you need anything? Food, or water?”

He chuckles, letting his bag slide off his shoulder, and you soak him in again. His beautiful eyes, the sweep of his downy grey hair. It has always reminded you of a dove’s soft breast. Fluffy, and attached to a body that can fly anywhere it’d like.

You card your fingers through that crop of hair fondly, pulling it away from his eyes and brushing the longer bits behind his ear.

“No, I don’t need anything more than your time,” he answers, taking your hand and pulling it back down to rest between them. “I was apparently Azar’s first choice to be the new Scribe. Abbas wanted to retire.”

“He is getting old,” you admit. “But I hadn’t realized. You don’t know how happy I am to hear this, you know.”

“I think I know.” His voice makes your eyes widen. You’d never heard it like that before—so unguarded, so softly spoken. Your eyes dart to his and your chest squeezes at the way he stares at you. Had he always looked at you like that, or is that a desert mirage manifesting itself in your tent?

You smile, letting out a scoff. “You have no idea how much I care about you, Al-Haitham.”

“More than Kaveh?” he asks off-handedly, and you blink. 

“Well, that’s not fair. Kaveh’s my oldest friend.”

“I think it’s more than fair,” he says. “But, I know I’m no rival of his for your affections, so I won’t pursue you on the topic any further.” Arguments build up in your mouth but he only pushes onward: “Are you making headway with the Waypoint? I saw some of the scholars crowding around it but you’re still in here.”

“The Ley Lines have been stable as of today. I was doing some final additions to a device that would activate the Waypoint, so we are,” you say warily. “The new blueprint I drafted before I left seems to be the most promising.”

His eyes drift over to your work bench before he nods. “I see. May I go look?”

“Yes, of course.” Rising together, you’re shocked when he leads the way, their fingers still entwined. Never before have you tempted physical touch for this long. You’re always aware that he’ll be overstimulated, or uncomfortable, or even just not in the mood to be touched, but you guess he’s amiable today, because he lets you sidle in close next to him—close enough that their arms are pressed together.

A sharp tug at your heart makes you sigh. You hadn’t the time to factor him into your future yet. You’ve thought about Kaveh—what he’d do if you left. You’d tell him, of course, where you’d be going. Why. How. You’d explain everything to the blond with the sincerest apology you can front it with.

After all, Kaveh won’t be able to afford the house they live in on his own stipend if you have to leave, and you can’t just leave your truest companion out in the cold like that. 

Kaveh. Your heart aches for him. You love him so much, but it’s never been the way he wanted you to. 

Glancing at the man beside you tracing a finger along your drawings, something inside you wilts. 

“Al-Haitham… I have a favour to ask you,” you speak suddenly. He’s silent, leaning against the work bench. Their hands are still interlaced in beween them, and you look down at his fingers, long and nimble. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, and you swallow.

“You know I don’t believe in favours,” he intones, not taking his eyes off the paper.

“I know, but this is something I have to ask out of our friendship.”

“Alright.”

You let out a breath. “If something happens to me, you’ll take care of Kaveh, won’t you? Give him a home if he needs one.”

“Why should I care about him?” he mutters apathetically and you smack him. His eyes finally meet yours and you glare at him.

“Al-Haitham.”

“Besides, why would anything happen to you?” he continues. “You’re one of the smartest scholars the Akademiya has right now. If you follow their rules, it’s nearly impossible for them to expel you.”

“Well, I know that’s what the Sages think, but there’s just a lot of things that are unpredictable.”

“Like King Deshret resurrecting?” he asks, and you scowl.

“Why do you always remember the things I say?” you complain. He smirks.

“You were the one speaking blasphemy.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter dismissively, and you let go of his hand, moving away, but he grabs your elbow before you can stray far enough. “What?”

“I was teasing. Of course I’d look out for Kaveh. He might not like that very much, though. I don’t know if you’ve realized, but like others, he can barely stand me.”

“Well, I’m not asking you to become his life partner. I just… I care about him deeply. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to him.”

“Fine. I’ll do it,” he acquiesces. “But I won’t do it happily.”

“Oh, shut up. You love to tease him.”

“That is true.”

“Oh, you said you wanted to speak with me, though, Al-Haitham,” you remember. “This can’t be all you wanted to talk about. The promotion’s great and all,” you add hastily as he turns to you fully, frowning, “but a letter would’ve sufficed.”

He doesn’t answer straight away, and you frown. He simply stands there, searches your face for answers you don’t know the questions for, and you’re shocked by the tight pain that screws up his forehead. He smells like the desert and sweat, but you don’t mind it. You’ve grown used to Al-Haitham in all sorts of states—grown used to the space he’s carved into your heart hurting from how swollen it gets in his presence.

You love him so much, too. In the way that he doesn't want you to. The irony is not lost on you, but you don’t know how on earth you’ll survive not seeing him anymore if the homeland keeps you there.

“Al-Haitham,” you whisper as his eyes dip to your mouth and linger there. Your lips tingle, and you swallow, his name trembling the second time it escapes your tongue. “Al-Haitham?”

“Hm?” he hums, gaze finding yours again and you realize that he wanted you to notice him staring. Your mouth runs dry, and he tilts his head, face tender, and sad, if you can trick yourself into believing it. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I’m just… I’m happy to see you. Honestly, I am.”

His eyes are an oasis. “I’m sorry,” he utters softly, and you frown.

Your heart shivers in your throat. “What for?”

You learn only a second later what it is. Soft lips press against your own and your eyes widen in shock as hands cup your jaw, holding you there for a moment longer before pulling away. A horrible blush stains Al-Haitham’s entire face, and he looks away, stepping back with shaking hands.

Your eyes fall to those fingers that had just held you so gently, watch as they roll into quivering fists, and a sharp breath leaves Al-Haitham as your own digits touch your lips.

“What?” It is all you can muster to say.

His ears are bright red as he ducks his head. “That was what I wanted to speak to you about.”

“Well, there wasn’t much speaking,” you stammer, and he looks up at your tone. 

“I apologize. I don’t… know what came over me, but the truth of it is, I came here because I wanted to confess that I’m in love with you before anything else happened between us that could ruin my chances,” he says slowly, deliberately. He clears his throat. “The kiss was… supposed to be what happened after if I had luck on my side.”

“Luck on your side?” you echo.

“If you loved me back,” he clarifies, “which I’m not sure you do.”

There is one thing that you think separates you from the other scholars at the Akademiya, and it is not that you’re the smartest Kshahrewar student they’ve had in years, or that you’re working for the Fatui against your will.

It is that Al-Haitham, against all odds, against reason and logic—the very values of which he has built himself up on—loves you. 

When you told your father you didn’t have the time for romantic relationship, it was not because of that entirely. Your father, after all, had been a scholar who fostered an entirely family on the job, and there are tons of families with members in the Akademiya. It’s hardpress to find someone who doesn’t know of someone in the Akademiya.

It was because you love someone already, and you didn’t want to get your hopes up. And it isn’t Kaveh, as much as you had wished for years and years that it would be. Maybe it would’ve saved them all some heartache.

Oh, but the heart wants what it wants, just as the brain chases what it desires.

“Al-Haitham,” you murmur in a soft breath, “would you kiss me again?”

The Scribe’s—internally, you laugh fondly at the idea that he has that sort of authority—eyes light up, and he approaches you cautiously, his hands flexing and waning. 

When his fingers slide along your jaw, this time you’re ready for it. Your eyes slide shut, your hands find the lapels of a chest you wish you were more familiar with, and when a soft mouth presses against your own waiting lips, you take your time to enjoy it.

Kaveh - Chat: Craftsmanship

Kaveh is a slim, tall man with blond hair. The Traveler doesn’t know him well, but they find him just as he’s about to enter his house whilst they’re looking for Al-Haitham, and he is polite enough to invite them in for tea when they accost him.

“Woah, we’ve never been in Al-Haitham’s house before!”

“I assumed not. We don’t have many guests over,” Kaveh says to Paimon. “Most of the interior decoration was by me.”

“I heard you were an architect.”

“Yes, I still am. The Palace of Alcazarzaray; have you ever seen my magnum opus?” At the Traveler’s nod, he smiles wryly. “I actually just returned from a project in the desert, and coming back to this whole mess in the Akademiya has been disorienting.” He places a tray of tea on the table and sinks down onto his seat. “What did you want to speak to me about?” The Traveler explains briefly, and his eyebrows rise as he raises the mug of tea to his mouth. “You know of the snowstorm? Cyno told you. I see.”

“I’m sorry if it’s a touchy subject.” 

“It’s not. It just reminds me of someone.”

“The Artificer?”

“I… yes. She left Sumeru during that storm years ago.” Kaveh sighs. “We grew up together in the same hamlet. Childhood best friends.”

“Wow! Paimon didn’t know that.”

“You said you were looking for my esteemed roommate,” he prompts dryly. 

“Well, if you know the Artificer well,” the Traveler says, “could you tell us where we could find her, too?”

“What makes you think I would know?”

“You said ‘left Sumeru’ instead of ‘missing.’”

Kaveh looks away, the light in his eyes dimming. “You’re as perceptive as Al-Haitham said you were.” He doesn’t speak for a moment, simply choosing to stare into his tea. 

“Of course I know where she is,” he utters at length. “I loved her with all I ever had. I warranted more than her leaving without a goodbye.” It’s said in a tone that does not offer an opportunity for further dialogue down this route. “Traveler, what do you want?”

“We just want to return this box to Al-Haitham,” Paimon answers as the Traveler procures it. “It was sealed within the Balladeer’s construction chamber, but it looks super important. And a part of Paimon is wondering how it even got there in the first place if she’s gone supposedly missing all these years. If it belongs to her, maybe she could help us. We heard she was studying the Teleport Waypoints and that they’re some sort of… out-of-realm kind of technology? Paimon’s still a bit fuzzy on the details…”

But Kaveh had stopped listening roughly two sentences ago. His gaze fixes on the box in the Traveler’s lap. “It’s hers, you’re sure? You… have her seal?” With an assenting nod, he takes the box gingerly, running his hand over the craftsmanship reverently, and the Traveler averts their gaze in respect. Kaveh’s fingers trace the edge, and he sighs softly, rubbing his temple with the same hand. “She isn’t missing. She returned home to Snezhnaya,” Kaveh answers at length after a hard internal fight, letting his hand drop. The Traveler can see it in the way this great architect clutches onto the box until his knuckles pale, and his breath comes shaking. “There, she worked under who I believe is the Fatui Harbinger, Dottore.”

“The Doctor?” Paimon whispers, horrified. “She was a Fatuus?”

“No, she wouldn’t. Despite those horrid people giving the rest of Snezhnaya a bad name, she was the best person I knew.” Kaveh’s voice softens wistfully. “Her mind far surpassed many of those who call themselves scholars now, but I don’t think any of us realized that she was being blackmailed by the Fatui behind the scenes.”

“That’s awful…” the Traveler murmurs, fists clenched tight in their lap. Kaveh sets the box down tenderly, and he raises his eyes warily to the blonde before him. “So she’s dead? Did the Fatui kill her?”

“No. No, they wouldn’t kill an asset.” At this, the colour drains from Kaveh’s face. “From what I understand… she gave her body to the Doctor’s definition of science in exchange for her father’s life. I only saw her twice since the snowstorm. Once, when she returned to Sumeru City after she departed for her homeland, and once again two years ago, and she was more machine than human.” Guilt, and a heavy tinge of regret seeping into his voice and face. “In other words, I have no idea if she’s still alive.”

“How is that possible? That she could survive all that human testing and not go mad,” the Traveler murmurs, setting down their mug. Their stomach turns over at the scenarios running through their head. “Thank you, Kaveh. Maybe I should leave the box with you, considering Al-Haitham will return, one way or another.”

“I’ll look after it,” he promises. Together, the two rise, and Paimon flies towards the box, inspecting it one last time as if it’ll hold clues they’ve missed. 

The Traveler sighs, and picks up their backpack. “We’ll be off, then. Al-Haitham still has questions we need answered.”

“Questions about…?”

“Well, Cyno told us of an assignment that Al-Haitham was given that sent him into the desert according to his report afterwards, but never about what exactly happened,” Paimon informs. Kaveh stiffens, his jaw clenching and a terrible scowl crosses his face. Flying back to the Traveler, the companion continues, “If Al-Haitham can give us answers about what exactly happened—”

“The Artificer bears a Cryo Vision,” Kaveh interrupts coldly. “And do you know, Traveler, what the Tsartisa used to embody before she was consumed with the vengeance that rules her hand? Her nation?”

The Traveler pauses mid-step, lightning shooting down their leg and freezing them to the ground. The icy anger that overtakes Kaveh’s body, seizes his entire body into a husk of hollow fury plated by brittle wrath, makes the Traveler swallow, arms tensing. The architect has tilted his head away, blond hair curtaining the darkening expression consuming his face. It makes him monstrous, unrecognizable from the amiable man that had been in his spot only seconds before.

For a moment, the Traveler is unsure if they should be the one to speak—to answer a question they’re hesitant to answer. The air cracks but Kaveh saves them from the terrible decision only moments later after a harsh breath, and a soft, bitter laugh. It sits in the Traveler’s throat like sour melon seeds.

“I know Al-Haitham believes that I dislike him because of differences in beliefs, menial things like personality clashes,” he whispers scathingly with an age-old contempt, “but the truth of the matter is, he is the reason my best friend has disappeared, and I won’t ever forgive him for it, no matter how many favours he grants me. I know he doesn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart—it’s because she asked him, and he thinks this is even close to honouring her.”

“Kaveh…” Paimon floats forward, but the Traveler grabs her hand, holding her back. The floating companion looks back at them, but they shake their head.

“Most people see Al-Haitham as someone who’s callous, coldhearted, and dishonest, but I’ve seen him grieve her more plainly than anyone else. He mourns her even now, carries that guilt like a thousand weights without a single complaint. And it infuriates me,” he grits out softly, fists clenched by his sides. He tilts his head back, and inhales shakily. A sharp amber gaze meets the Traveler’s, and Kaveh lets out a short, horrible laugh. “I’m guilty of actually… caring about him despite what he’s done. It’s why I told him a few days ago that she sent me a note that she’d be leaving Port Ormos by the end of the week.”

The Traveler understands, and without another word, they race out the door.

.

The day before they’re supposed to complete their first trial on the Teleport Waypoint had been a lazy one—consisting of well-placed naps on your part so you could be prepared for the long day ahead of you tomorrow. Al-Haitham had been your steady companion through it all, letting you show him around camp and describing your work just in case he wants to report back to the Sages. 

“They’re not concerned, are they?” you had asked, and he had shook your head. Your father also wanted to speak to Al-Haitham, and you had surrendered your partner for anyone else looking for your attention. Penultimate observations of variables were taken. Meals, prayers, and stories were exchanged.

Al-Haitham kissed his name into your neck, your cheek, your lips throughout the day, waking you up from your naps and corralling you to your next one with punctuality only expected of him. You can still feel him even as you bid him farewell that night. 

He frowns, brushing the back of his fingers down your cheek, before taking hold of your jaw and tilting your head towards his lips. It’s a brief kiss, but familiar, and you can’t help but smile into it.

“I’ll see you when I come back?” you murmur against his mouth, and he nods, eyes dark and downcast. He’s not happy about leaving just like you, but there’s something stronger in his stare, the downturn of his mouth that’s occupied him when he thinks you won’t noticed. It feels almost like regret. Pulling back, you take hold of his hand. “Alright, Scribe, lighten up. I’ll be home soon, and we can talk about all of this.” You squeeze his fingers. “I promise.”

“We… we will need to talk,” he insists, and your brow furrows. He brings your hand to his lips with both of his own, and reverently presses a soft kiss to the heel of your palm. “I’m sorry.”

You curl your fingers over his hands and push them down, shaking your head. His somber attitude in the wake of what could be the happiest moment of your life is ruining your mood with a growing bud of worry, but you can’t let him know that. So you paste a smile on your face and simply squeeze him. “Don’t be sorry. Just go.”

His eyes linger, but you only shake your head minutely and he lets out a long exhale, his shoulders falling. That lost little frown still possesses his mouth, and there’s a permanent wrinkle in his brow that must’ve been there for the past few hours. 

He woke up before you, and you’d found him outside sitting by the fire on his own. It’d been a strange scene, and he looked lost in his melancholy—book all but forgotten in his lap, his eyes staring sightlessly into the fire. The sun had barely risen, but now you’re starting to wonder if he slept at all if the puffiness of his eye bags and the lethargy that he’s been trying to hide all day is anything to go by.

A part of you is nervous that it’s because he didn’t want to sleep next to you and had to seek refuge, but you rationalize that when you had called his name, he had returned to you without argument and a kiss to your crown.

The troubled gaze still lingers now, even with the dusk approaching. He had said it’s best if he sets off now so he can get back to the Akademiya and make use of the cooler temperatures. He’ll spend most of this week travelling, and you know he’d rather not miss the beginning of another work week. However, you can’t help but let the thought that there’s more than travelling at night in the desert that bothers him.

You wanted this farewell to be sweet and temporary.

Except now, it feels more and more permanent, and the sweetness of it has suffered for it.

“Al-Haitham, don’t go doing anything irrational or stupid or… unthought of in these last few weeks,” you mutter, and his head raises just as you slither your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. His bag nudges against your side, just another reminder that he’s leaving, before he’s pulling back again, and his hands on your back rub up and down. You sigh and kiss him quickly.

His eyes flutter shut, and he presses his forehead against your own before whispering softly, “I’ll do my best.”

With that, he pulls away, and you grab hold of his hand. Together, they walk out of the tent, and you observe the activities occurring around camp. Most of the scholars are talking and bonding around the fire. Your father’s feeding the Sumpter Beasts, but he’s speaking to another Spantamad scholar you think he’s been taking to as a mentor figure. Rafiq, you remember his name as.

Humming thoughtfully, you let go of Al-Haitham’s hand as Rafiq looks over and you smile. He nods to you, and you note his eyes darting over to your companion, but he doesn’t appear to be watching as they approach.

“Father, Rafiq,” you greet politely. “The Scribe will be leaving our encampment, now.”

“Already? You won’t stay another day?” your father complains, and Al-Haitham has at least the decency to look sheepish as Rafiq quickly finds the Sumpter Beast the Scribe had ridden from Caravan Ribat, saddling the animal quickly as he can despite the low groaning protests.

“Unfortunately, the Akademiya calls,” he answers dryly. “The Scribe has no shortage of work.” Your father frowns, and glances at you, but you shrug. “I hope all goes well tomorrow. With luck, I’ll see you by the end of next week.”

“We’ll have to catch up, one-on-one,” your father says, leaning over nefariously and obviously eyeing you. You cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes as Rafiq returns, rope lead in his hand. You take it, giving the Sumpter Beast a quick pat on hard ridge. It lifts its head into your palm in response, and Rafiq crouches down to feed it an apple. 

“The Sumpter Beast is ready, Scribe,” Rafiq says, rising, and this time when they meet eyes, your eyebrows twitch together at the way Rafiq gulps and glances at you. He must be intimidated. You smile reassuringly as Al-Haitham clips his pack onto the saddle and takes the lead from you. Fingers brushing, you fight the heat rising to your face and the way your smile grows in pleasure.

“Goodbye,” he whispers, and you tilt your head at him. 

“I’ll see you,” you answer. He nods before clasping hands with your father in a firm shake. You can’t help but roll your eyes again but they let go soon enough before Al-Haitham swiftly presses a final kiss to your mouth. You blink, eyes widening, but before you can even question it, he turns to mount the Sumpter Beast with a soft grunt and picking up the reins and flashes you one final (sad) smile. 

You return to your tent, your bedroll feeling suspiciously more empty now that he’s gone. Sighing, you tuck yourself in for a sleep as restful as you can make it and wake up too soon by the hands of the last watch who was instructed to as soon as signs of the sun rising were visible.

You get up and prepare yourself, although the apprehensive feeling in you does not do anything but swell. Walking to your work bench, you go to the box containing all your documents and let it scan once you place your palm atop of it, your Akasha terminal connecting to the device within. With a soft beep, it unlocks.

You’d given one similar to this prototype to Al-Haitham before you left. You smile and wonder if he’s opened it yet. It’s a bit different than yours, only requiring a fingerprint and a connection to his Akasha Terminal rather than a full scan, but you muse if that’s what had prompted him to come here after all this time. Maybe he finally realized the depth of his feelings with such a hard-earned gift.

Presently, you open the box and reach inside. Your smile dissipates as soon as you do. Nothing touches your fingertips except for the bottom of the box, and you lift the lid fully. Empty.

Huh. Maybe your father (the only other person with clearance) had already retrieved the needed documents while you slept. You wouldn’t put it past him to give you just a few more moments of rest. Sighing, you instead pick up the second box which contains the core. Strange he didn’t take this with him, but you dismiss the thought. 

You’re entirely too protective over the device. Besides, this is your moment of crowning glory.

You leave your tent to a frenzy. The sky is not quite clear—a few clouds spot the sky. Your father’s one of the first awake, too, and he’s running a hand through his hair as he takes the temperature of the air and writes it down. Another Spantamad scholar is measuring Ley Line energy through a device puncturing the ground, their Dendro vision winking in the growing light. Placing the box on one of the tables set up near the Waypoint, you sweep your gaze around the site.

You mainly search for the Kshahrewar scholars. As you walk around to make sure everything is going smoothly and if anyone has any questions on the way, you frown when you realize that none of the scholars from your Darshan are present. Approaching your father, you ask him quickly if he’s seen them.

“They’re awake,” he answers distractedly. “Some of them had gotten breakfast. Perhaps they’re still going over their notes.”

“I suppose,” you say doubtfully. They need the entire day to workshop this as effectively as possible and monitor any fluctuations. The entire operation is running late. It’s the only thought that’s ruling your brain as you glance around.

Still, no one. Perhaps you should check on them in their tents, just to make sure…

Before you can move: “Artificer!”

Turning, you spot a Kshahrewar scholar running towards you. Her brown eyes are wide, and she looks frightened to death as she runs her hands over her braid, tugging a bit hard to be a nervous habit.

“What’s the delay?” you ask irritably. The sun’s burning orange sky stains your corneas even when you close your eyes, and you squint against the rays as Amina skids to a stop before you, her face shining with sweat.

“All our manuscripts, the blueprints for the modifications of the Teleport Waypoint…” she trails off and dread begins to grow like a virus at her expression. The Spantamad scholars nearby pause in their work to watch, and behind, you see the other scholars of your Darshan running up. You are rended to the bone at each of their expressions. “It’s all gone! All our work, our notes, even the most personal things like our diaries have been stolen!”

“What?” your father shouts, storming over. Immediately, your heart drops and a chisel digs into your skull and cracks it in two. Your world goes dark as he continues to interrogate the young scholar, but a buzzing begins to whine in your ears as you stare at Amina who is frantically trying to explain herself. Your focus leaves, and your mind swirls as a flash of green later, your father has seized the poor young woman by the arms and shakes her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

He swears loudly in Snezhnayan. You cannot move. Letting go of the scholar, he turns to look at you, and all the colour has drained from his lips. His eyes are wide, his breathing sharp and rapid against your face. Suddenly all you can see is your father’s eyes—they fill your whole world with their colour, their shrinking, frantic pupils. “Little Star?“

But you can’t speak, because, for some reason, that horrible gut feeling that’s been bothering you since you woke up and found Al-Haitham outside yesterday morning, that tingling sensation that something is wrong, the nagging in your heart… it all returns in full force. Your heart wrenches into a rotten twisted ache and you want to fall to your knees, let the hurt of the stone against your bones distract you from everything else.

And it is not the thought that your father is going to die that first swarms your brain. Not even the second. No, that comes third. 

The first thought is that your father isn’t the one who extracted your papers from your box.

The second is that wish you weren’t smart. Not that you had never joined the Akademiya, no. You wish your brain didn’t work as fast as it does. You wish you didn’t see the whole picture, that you never knew which edges of the puzzle piece aligned perfectly and what slightest adjustment could be made for something to work like a well-oiled cog and handle. You wish you had no intuition, no fine-attuned sense. 

No memory, no heart, no brain. 

No emotions, no human fallibility. 

Humans make mistakes. They’re emotional creatures. You’ve always embraced that that is what makes life very much worth living, but that you has died in a matter of moments. You look out at the desert where, less than twelve hours ago, Al-Haitham disappeared beyond the dunes.

You had left the box open. After he had kissed you, you had spent the rest of the night on your bedroll, just dozing and speaking and rambling about all sorts of things, completely unaware. Unthreatened. It was not even a thought in your head in the heat of his arms. After all, how can someone you ask such stupid (unfailingly human) questions be untrustworthy? How could he ever hurt you? 

“When did you start liking me? Did you know how much I liked you? Yes… Kaveh does have feelings for me, but he understands I could never… I promise. Oh, you thought my feelings were my obvious? As if!”

“Rafiq has disappeared, too. I can only assume that he’s the one who took them. We haven’t seen him since sunrise, but we thought he was just exploring below the bridge,” are the first words that pierce through the dim, blurry fog that has surrounded your brain and sedated you to the point of debatable mental presence.

You blink, and look up. Your father is staring at the scholar who had spoken. A Spantamad scholar who only stares back at his leader with sympathy. All the others have gathered around them, but your movement catches everyone’s eyes. When you lift your head higher to take in those waiting eyes, you cannot help but feel numb.

“We weren’t stolen from,” you finally say at length. Your father returns to your side, his hand clutching onto your elbow, and you meet his eyes dully. “The Akademiya has confiscated all our research. They’re sending a message, loud and clear.”

He understands immediately, and you silently curse him. The hatred is sudden, pitiful, and undeserved, but you can’t help it. Where else could you have gotten your mind from? “No… no… he wouldn’t. He couldn’t do such a thing to… to you, of all people…”

A terrible, overwhelming sensation swarms your body like locusts. Your blood burns with the fury of a thousand suns, and you stand beside this Waypoint outside the buried resting site of a dead god, unable to do anything. Clouds that have gathered above you begin to darken.

Your mind rends at the memories from that night that seems like a lightyear away now. The way he had brushed your arm, the deliberate trailing of his fingers down your shoulder. He had kissed you, touched you, listened to you speak all the while knowing what he was here to do. 

It wasn’t to see you at all. Was it all… 

Was it all some ploy he had to make you a fool? A lovesick, blind fool whose heart is hanging on strings, tugging at every which way Al-Haitham wants it to. He doesn’t know what you’ve sacrificed to make sure that these Teleport Waypoints would work all the way from Snezhnaya to here. How much blood and flesh and sweat and time you’ve given up for the sake of family.

All that drive. All that ambition. All that desire.

Gone, like sand grain in the wind. Never again will you see that speck of nothing

Al-Haitham has made you a failure, and that is one thing you cannot… You cannot stand.

“What happens now, Artificer?” a meek voice asks. You don’t answer immediately and instead push through the crowd and you cannot look away from the dune your lover has disappeared behind. Lover. How stupid of you to think that word could suit your tongue. “If all of our research has been confiscated, I… we can’t just give up, can we?”

“Now?” you echo numbly. The clouds above you begin to swirl into a storm, and you cannot help the incredulous scoff, the noxious feeling of that smile curving your mouth. It’s bitter, and it makes you want to retch your rations onto the dirt as a crack of thunder sounds in the distance.  “Now, I think my father and I must return to our homeland and answer for our failure. The possibility we return is nigh zero.”

“Homeland? But… the rest of us—“

“The rest of you will return safely back to the Akademiya.” A gust of wind sweeps over you, and your eyes burn before it can touch your face. A shuddering exhale leaves your lungs in a death rattle sort of way, and it must mean something. That your heart has withered away and is nothing more in your carcass chest. That in this silence, Al-Haitham has declared you dead to a world he wants to create for himself.

“The rest of you should leave,” you breathe out, shoulders falling. The winds grow stronger as you let your head hang, blink and let the tears fall to the dusty tile beneath your boots. “The expedition is over. You won’t be paid much, so you should do your best to collect your wage before any sort of fees rack up for this expedition.”

“Artificer, there’s a storm—”

“Prepare to leave. You won’t have enough time if you dally around me any longer,” you intone listlessly, watching as the gales pick up the sand around your feet, swirl against your pants, rip at your clothing, and you squeeze your eyes shut, more burning tears streaking down your nose, into your grimacing mouth as you try to hold in the sob that clutches your heart. 

You want to pull your hair out, to scream, to do anything more than just stand here and watch as the work that carries your father’s life is carried farther and farther away.

Then again, Al-Haitham could’ve burnt all your manuscripts. Sunken them into an oasis never to be found again. 

Desecrated your work with something as simple as a flick of his wrist. 

Destroyed your entire life without a care as to what it would mean for you.

Were all those years meaningless to you? You wanted to know. Was your betrayal a price I had to pay for you to ever consider loving me? Or do you not consider this a betrayal at all, but just a trade between two scholars vying for the validation of the ones above us?

Blinding pale blue lighting cracks, and the thunder that follows is deafening as a column of light shoots through the dark storm that gathers over Sumeru’s desert as it did thousands of years ago. Sudden and loud, it sends the scholars scurrying. Your father stumbles back, calling orders in your stead, and you cannot speak. 

Clutching onto the front of your scholar uniform, you pull so hard you feel the threads stretch against your back, and your breath comes short and sharp, lodging into your intercostal spaces. 

Tears stream down your face and your mouth is dry, full of cotton, as you pant for air, bending over and stepping back, trying to find your footing on even ground. Heat blustering all over your face, your heart pounds in your ears and your hearing leaves you the moment you look up, trying to peer through the sandstorm and your tears. Blinking, you let out a low hiccuping sob of pain but even that is cut short by the knife that sinks into your heart.

Fingers splayed across your chest rip the buttons from the seams, tear your uniform apart in an effort to make space for your lungs to move. Running your palms over your face, you let out a raspy shout and clutch onto your scalp, trying to just breathe. The winds buffet against your head, the temperature in the desert sinking lower and lower as the rising sun is swallowed by the storm. 

How you wish you could rip your own brain out by the stem. Give up your body in the name of science, and rid yourself of this infernal contraption they call a heart. What have you done?

Voices inside your head scream louder than anything else: No! No, no, no! This can’t happen to me!

And that is when the third thought blasts into your chest like a gunshot. It leaves a wider hole than it entered through, and the shrapnel lodged in your body poisons everything. Out of every human emotion, it is guilt that tastes the most foul.

Howling squalls scream back at you as your entire world is consumed by this storm that turns white and grey. Flashes of pale blue lighting flicker at the corner of your eye, and you spin around, the shadow of a man making you crumple to your knees. He stands there for a moment, before he is blown away, and your squeeze your eyes shut, baring your teeth in a restrained sob. 

None of it is real.

None of it was ever real.

“Al-Haitham!” you scream in vicious Snezhnayan above the crackling thunder. Your throat tastes like iron. “I will never forgive you!”

You let out a screech that comes from the pits of your soul and it only dies into a loud, unhinged wailing cry that you cannot restrain any longer. Your bones chatter from the sudden onslaught of snow and brutal, slicing winds, but your fingers have numbed to any sort of sensation as you claw at your chest, your throat, pull them into tight fists that cannot do any more. Cannot tinker anymore—invent anymore.

Useless.

How could your father ever think that he was useless when you sit here, unable to do anything to save him?

A flash of lightning blinds you before the entire world pauses. The winds fade into a dull roar, the blazes of the storm cease into muted foggy glimpses of lighting, and the thunder rumbles like a heartbeat. Raising your head, you feel a soft breeze caress your tear-stained cheeks, and in the distance, you hear people screaming. People begging for help.

The world hasn’t stopped for them. Why has it for you? Are you dead? Do you… have the past few minutes been wiped into your mind? Looking up, the black clouds part and you see a moon that should not be visible at this time of day. Snow falls delicately and a pillar of lunar light shoots down through the hole, illuminating each snowflake that fall so slowly, so unhurried in their descent to the earth. 

You raise a hand to the moon peeking through, hoping for some sort of benevolence from the gods, but when you only serve to cover it from your sight, the edges of the round orb spilling between your fingers, you know it’s a stupid endeavour.

This moon is not the tender one it is in Sumeru. It is cold, and judgemental, and silent, and as the storm begins to swell around you once more, you bow your head to the Tsaritsa’s brutal judgement, letting your hand fall. You take hold of it with your other hand, cradling your palms to your chest when something hard meets your fingers. Jerking your head back, you stare blankly at the item that has appeared.

A Cryo Vision rests in the centre of your hands. 

You curl your fingers over it, feeling the newfound power of the element stream through your system. It sings with unbridled fury, as if the Tsartisa herself has wielded your betrayal, crafted it into a sword of permafrost that burns your hands, and you let out a soft breath.

To your surprise, it mists in the quiet, snowy air, and you let out a terrible sob, keeling over this Vision that means that something inside you has broken hard enough that it is worthy of being noticed by the husk of the Goddess of Love. 

That this… this is enough to be seen as other-worldly. As a kin.

A rattling scream echoes across the dunes, empties from your lungs into the remains of a lost civilization. The storm ignites, sending a rippling shockwave through the dunes. The buffeting winds crash into the stone. The snow begins to fall in earnest, and it mounts around you, covering the ruins you’ve studied so intimately. 

Ice spreads in thin spiderwebs from underneath you, crawling over the stone at a lecherously slow pace, and your heart rends. 

Hollows. 

Wilts like a dying flower. 

Crumbles to nothing. 

Disappears in the howling gales of a snowstorm, and for a long time, no one comes to you. 

No one will come.

No one can save you from your fate.

And so the storm rages on, and it will rage on until you feel nothing at all.

Al-Haitham - About Al-Haitham: Love

The only reason he knows you’re in Sumeru is because of Kaveh. The only reason he finds you is because of Kaveh. 

Al-Haitham curses that. Hates it more than anything that he’s in debt to a man who would’ve treated you far better than he did. Kaveh would’ve never betrayed you for the Akademiya. For all the romanticism and idealism Al-Haitham can’t stand, perhaps those are the things that would’ve saved you from ever leaving the safety of the city.

When he first sees you after five years, you are standing on the dock, speaking to the Snezhnayan engineers that must’ve been behind the Balladeer’s chambers and helping them load their ships with their supplies and technology that they must’ve scavenged to bring back to their country. He’s not sure if they’re all Fatui—not sure if you’re one of them, too—but you speak so quietly he cannot hear. They must not be, considering they aren’t arrested by the Dendro Archon’s command nor did they flee with the Doctor.

You’re clad head to toe in Snezhnayan colours, not a drop of green on you, and there’s something new on the harness that crosses in an x at your back when you turn around. It is pinned there, glinting pale blue in the sunlight.

A Vision.

He had never known you to have one. You’re also… bulkier in a way. More muscular, taller. Your hair is cut differently, too, and when you move to lift something that seems much too heavy, you do it with remarkable ease. But it’s you.

He hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when Al-Haitham dreamed for the first time after the Akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.

“I will be there when you dock,” you say loud enough that Al-Haitham can hear from where he hides at the mouth of the entrance to Wikala Funduq. “The Teleport Waypoint isn’t far from the harbour, and I’ll be able to sort out travelling arrangements before you all arrive. It’s short-notice, so I can’t guarantee the best, but I’ll try my hardest.” 

Peering around, he notes you surrounded by the engineers, but they begin to dissipate a moment later. Some leave the pier, while others board the boats, and you remain there, turning around to look out at the sea, hands planted on your hips.

Al-Haitham seizes his chance.

He walks out of Wikala Funduq, and as soon as his boots touch wood, you turn around.

The most peculiar shade of purple bewitches Al-Haitham. It’s a colour he is certain he’s never seen before, but an itchy part of his brain tags it as something he should be familiar with. A purple he should attribute to something else, something beautiful.

Your lips part, and a soft near-silent sigh escapes you as an entirely concoction of emotions racks through your face. Your eyes are not your own, yet they’re set in your face, and they widen like your eyes used to at the sight of him.

So it must be you. “(Name).”

You stiffen, arms falling limp at your sides, yet he cannot do anything but let out the breath he can’t recall ever holding and forgoing any sort of decorum, any sort of remembrance of who he is in the standing of the Akademiya. He is not the lone wolf scholar, the Akademiya’s Scribe, the Acting Grand Sage.

He is just a boy who is in love with you even now, even still, and his face crumbles into pure relief as he walks towards you in a daze, his feet dragging along the pier. You stare at him warily, and there are Snezhnayan workers who watch. Some even reach for a weapon, but at your barely raised hand, they fall silent.

“Al-Haitham,” you say, measured, soft, shaking, still your voice. You’re trembling in front of him. He is falling apart at the seams. When he nears, he can finally take in your finer details: the unnatural purple of your eyes, the mechanical optical rings of your irises, the way your pupils dilate  and shrink unnaturally as if sizing him up, inspecting him. “How did you know?”

“Kaveh told me,” he answers, and a sharp twinge of pain and betrayal flashes through your eyes before you blink, turning your head away. He’s surprised you haven’t frozen him to death yet, and he tests his luck further by reaching to touch your arm, but you only jerk back with a heavy step.

“How much did he tell you?” you ask roughly, eyes flitting from his fingers to his hand. 

“Nothing. Only that you’re here. That… you were leaving.”

“Did he tell you how he doesn’t even recognize me anymore?”

That silences him for a beat. “No.”

“I see. Well, I suppose you have questions?”

“Aren’t you upset with me?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve forgiven you,” you say, “then no. I haven’t. I won’t ever forgive you.”

“I’m sorry.” This time, when he says it, you understand. You didn’t five years ago, how he kept apologizing. You look away.

“Perhaps we should find somewhere more private,” you suggest quietly. “I don’t have any interest in entertaining your apologies. It’s in the past and we’re both… different people now, so I’ll answer your questions, and then we can see what happens next.”

“Fine.”

“I have a place nearby that we could talk.”

You begin to stride past him, but Al-Haitham, never one in the last five years to have the last word, feels himself act before he can think. “(Name), wait—“

When his fingers stretch to touch your hand, he feels a hard surface where you should be flesh, and your wrist twists unnaturally to free itself from his grasp. His blood runs cold at the way your hand rotates itself back to a more anatomically correct position, and you clutch it with your other gloved hand. 

“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Just follow me.”

He nods, burning, but he’s not sure with frustration or guilt.

You lead him to a hotel room that’s hidden but overlooking the pier. It’s a small place, but quaint and barely furnished. Picked dry mostly, except for a backpack resting slouched against the wall and some other knick knacks—a pen, a notebook you close as you walk past it.

You pull a chair at the table by the window out and sit down. Al-Haitham can see the water from the glass, and as he approaches, you lean on the table by your elbows and gesture with your hand to the chair across from you. He seats himself, and glances around the place.

“The last five years. Where have you been?” he begins.

“Snezhnaya. When you left, the one thing you didn’t take was the core of the Teleport Waypoint I created. My father and I used it and managed to successfully teleport home.”

“This whole time you were there?”

“Not exactly. I roamed the world for a while. I went to Mondstadt and Fontaine, but that was only a year or two ago.” You look down at your hands. “When we returned, the Doctor had been furious that I lost my research, but he blamed it on my father. He was… technically my supervisor.” As if realizing something: “Though, I don’t suppose you know all of that. With the Fatui blackmailing me, and… and everything.”

“I had gathered as much only recently,” he answers. “I went to the Balladeer’s chambers after he was defeated. I thought I could recognize your work, but… I was unsure.” Swallowing, he shifted uncomfortably. “All these years, I thought you had died in that snowstorm and that it was my fault.”

“Some would say I’ve had a fate worse than death,” you remark, acerbic and unsurprised. “If you had known, do you think you would’ve done what you did?”

“I think I would’ve been more aware of the consequence.” He shakes his head. “I would’ve been honest, even. When I received the assignment, I thought the worse. Betraying you was an impossible task, but they assured me you wouldn’t be punished, so I followed through with it with utmost secrecy. I thought you’d just come back to the Akademiya, and we’d have a huge fight, and somehow I could convince the Sages to allow you access back to your own work as long as there were restrictions placed.”

“Restrictions? None of my work was ever illegal, though.” Your eyebrows furrow, and Al-Haitham thought you were angry, but you only look at him in a strange, morbid curiosity. You’re only searching for honesty. “Unless…”

“They suspected your father’s loyalties had been swayed. The objective of the assignment was to take your materials away, bring you and your father back, and put you on trial. You would’ve been innocent, but your father…”

“He never did anything wrong.”

“I know that,” he replies coolly, “but Azar saw your father as a threat. Saw you as a threat. You were a public figure with a strong will of your own, inherited from your father. I doubt he could’ve put you under his control. Honestly, if you’d been here, do you think that entire situation with the samsara would’ve gone on as long as it did?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I don’t know much about anything anymore, I think.”

For some reason, and Al-Haitham has weathered many storms before, during, and after their friendship, this is what makes his heart shrivel.

“What do you know?” he asks softly. You peek up at him from underneath your eyelashes, and a tired face stares back at him. 

“I know that I loved you,” you reply. “I don’t know if I still do. Looking at you now makes me feel something, but it’s not a good thing.”

“Do you hate me?” 

“I don’t know. It’s over now. I hated you for a bit,” you allow, “but to be honest, I’m just exhausted. This whole ordeal. The Doctor. I finally have the chance to leave his service. I could, but I have obligations to other people. To be honest, I have a half-baked plan, but I’m not sure if it’ll work.”

“Are you returning home to Snezhnaya?” he asks, afraid to even put himself in this position of wanting something from you again, and you frown. 

“Kaveh insists I stay here to be safe,” you tell him. “He misses me. I miss him. Travelling Teyvat, all I could think about is how much he would appreciate the different types of architecture around the world.” You shrug. “But… he doesn’t really recognize me as a person. It’ll take some time for him to get used to the fact that I’m more machine than human.”

“You’re still you,” he assures immediately and you arch an eyebrow. 

“How do you know?”

“Because you haven’t killed me yet when I deserve punishment for what I did to you so you must have a heart,” Al-Haitham answers steadily. “And I know you could strike me down if you wanted to. Don’t lie to me.”

“Al-Haitham…” Your mouth moves but you don’t speak, and he nods, understanding.

“My opinion shouldn’t matter, but I would like you to stay.” He cringes at even recommending it. “I know I have no right to ask this favour of you.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “I thought you didn’t believe in favours.”

“I don’t.”

They sit in silence. You draw your hands towards you on the table. He steeples his fingers and looks out at the port to give himself something to do. The quiet isn’t amiable, but not openly hostile. Al-Haitham never thought he would be able to do this again. To sit across from you had been a long forgotten wish, and he doesn’t want to ruin it now, so he waits for you to start again.

“Did you ever open the box I gave you before I left?” you ask after a while. You’ve been tracing the woodgrain with your finger, and Al-Haitham has been watching you do it. You lift your hand back up and rest your chin in your palm to look out the window.

“I did.” A hard swallow. “How did you find such a collection of journal entries? They must’ve been rare.”

“Ruin diving and desert exploration,” you explain briefly. “At the time, you said you were interested in that catastrophe the oldest historical biographies mentioned, and when I had come across one of the journals detailing first hand experiences of a scholar during that time, I had to find out if there was more I could find and translate. Those six entries were all I could find at the time being.”

“There were more in the House of Daena’s collection. The entire anthology was called A Thousand Nights. A lot has been lost to time, so the rarity of these journals is high,” he says, and at last, you give into a faint smile although you still don’t look at him.

“You found more?”

“Yes, although the ones you gave me are stored safely in the box.”

“Not turning in precious material to the Akademiya? How rebellious, Al-Haitham,” you intone. You finally tilt your head towards him, and your smile has his heart racing. “Al-Haitham, you know of my feelings for you. What about yours?”

“Are you asking if they’ve changed?”

You nod. 

“Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know. Because I doubted it for a very long time. I thought that someone who loved me wouldn’t dare to do the things you did to me, but that’s an idealistic of the world I don’t have anymore. I don’t exactly trust you right now,” you tack on quickly, “but right now is honesty hour, isn’t it?”

“Seems like it.” He thinks on it for a moment. He could very well lie. It’d probably the easier choice for you to not possibly feel obligated in some way to his feelings. You wouldn’t have the burden of knowing that his love is unfaithful, nor would the chance to tempt it be there. 

And you’d believe whatever he says. Whether or not you know it’s the truth, you’d probably force yourself to believe it and he would, too, and they could leave all of this… them, their past, their present, and their potential future, too, in the sand.

Honesty hour. 

Is that what you called it?

“I did love you,” he admits when his moment is up. “I grieved you for a long time. I knew it was my fault that you had died and debated if my cushy job was worth surrendering the one person who could actually stand me and, against all odds, loved me for who I was. Those hours in your camp before I stole the documents made me feel the most helpless I’ve ever felt in my life and I hated it.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He ponders over this. “As soon as Kaveh told me you were here, I ran just to see you myself because I couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to see you when I had the chance. I… you’re not the same. I understand that. I understand my part to play in this, and I know that what I feel should not influence your decisions. I ask that you don’t consider them at all.”

“Al-Haitham…”

“I do love you. I’ve loved you for years, but it feels… longer than that somehow. Maybe I don’t make sense, but even when I couldn’t dream, I could still see you in my sleep.” Your stricken face makes him blink, and he fights the burning in his face and ears by looking down. The tightness in his sternum only aches more. “I don’t want your forgiveness, but I do love you.”

You are quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, unexpectedly, you say, “There’s a box”—and he jerks his head up, confused “—that I hid in the Balladeer’s chambers. I’m not sure if it’s completely destroyed by now, but only you and I have clearance for it.”

“What’s inside?”

“All the things that reminded me of you in the past five years. Things I wrote about you. Blueprints for your hearing aids. Collectibles I thought you’d like. I don’t know. Just a bit of everything, honestly.” His eyes widen. You don’t seem to notice, or you don’t let it deter you. “When I told you that I wasn’t sure if I loved you still, it’s because I’m trying not to love you. It’s very easy to convince myself I don’t when I never see you. But I see you and I feel disgusted.” 

You chuckle a bit, almost nervous. Al-Haitham isn’t quite sure of what to say. Grasping at straws, he opens his mouth to speak but you shake your head.

“To be honest, I never gave myself a chance to let my love for you die,” you whisper. “The disgust comes from remembering what you did, but it’s so overwhelmed by everything else. The longer I sit talking to you, I just feel like everything’s the same.”

“But it isn’t.”

“It can’t ever be, Al-Haitham” you agree. “But I’m willing to pretend. Just for a little while.” You look down at your hands, and slowly pull your glove off. A plate of silver metal catches the sun rays and Al-Haitham’s heart lodges right up in his throat at the cylindrical fingers that tug at your other glove revealing skin and a hand that he recognizes. “I thought it would be best if you saw it.”

“Does it… feel different?”

“Yes. I don’t… feel much the same way anymore, but most of the work was internal. Injections, a heightened metabolism, tinkered senses. A new leg. My eyes, obviously.” You gesture to your pupils, but they seem more natural the longer Al-Haitham watches. “My Vision gave me even more durability and he couldn’t kill me because of how useful I was to him, but I was the next best thing to a perfect subject.”

“Your father, then?“

“He’s alive. It was either him or me, and I gave myself up in an instant,” you answer. “I don’t regret that much of my life.”

He reaches forward tentatively for your flesh hand, but your mechanical hand comes into contact with him first, warm against his wrist. It’s almost like you’re still alive there, but the texture is too smooth, the edges where the metal plates too sharp to be human, and he looks down at the hand that touches him.

This is who you are now. This is who he’s made you.

“I want to move my family away from Snezhnaya, Al-Haitham,” you tell him in the lowest tone you can muster. Al-Haitham’s eyes meet yours, and a soft, pleading expression has taken over your face. “I know you’re the Acting Grand Sage, and that you have duties to the Akademiya, but—“ and he hears it for what it is.

I want there to be a chance for us.

“I would give you anything I could in a heartbeat,” he swears immediately. “If you need asylum, I’d be more than obliged to grant you your request. I—“ But nothing comes out. What his words cannot say, he hopes the silence can. I love you. I will help you in any way I can. I love you. I miss you. I love you.

I’ll find you.

I love you.

“You have beautiful eyes, Al-Haitham,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. When metal touches his smooth cheek, his eyes flutter closed, and a soft amused hum leaves his companion. “I think I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”

Cupping your wrist with his own hand, he turns his face into your palm. It smells like nothing, yet there is a hint of your scent clinging to your sleeve that slowly seeps into his nose. His lips kiss the ticklish part of your hand, and your mechanical hand reacts like your normal flesh one would—your fingers curl against his face, and your thumb strokes underneath his eye.

He smiles. “Yes. Yes, I’m certain you have.”

Buer - About Samsaras

The Traveler reaches Port Ormos by nightfall a few days later. By then, it’s too late and they’re too exhausted to even think about trying to find the man they search for. For all intents and purposes, he could be gone, but it doesn’t hurt to ask around on their way to their room.

They ask the owner of the hotel, Shapur, manning the concierge, who briefly mentions seeing the Acting Grand Sage walking with a woman renting a room in the hotel by the water. She had the most distinct purple eyes. 

Somehow, the Traveler knows that’s who they’re looking for and they take off again with renewed vigour, and leave Paimon in the dust.

They reach the port quickly. It’s mostly empty, but there are two distinct figures sitting by the water speaking. The moon is their only witness, and when the Traveler steps from around a pillar to observe them more clearly, they can see those purple eyes that Shapur mentioned clearer than day. They glow, even at night, and look almost fake. They’ve never seen eyes of a normal mortal glow like hers do.

Then, Al-Haitham, leaning back onto his arms, pushes himself up, and he extends a hand to his companion to help her up. When he turns, his eyes, too, catch the bright moonlight in a flash of golden divinity.

For a moment, time seems to stop, and the Traveler watches as they, holding hands, begin to walk further down the pier.

“This world is an eternal samsara,” someone comments. Spinning around, the Traveler’s eyes widen at Buer walking from a nearby ramp. When had they fallen asleep? She smiles, green eyes wide and innocent. “Just as there are memories of passed family members living in those of the present, gods never truly die. They are reborn when the time is right, and even alike souls can find one another again.”

The Traveler frowns. “What do you mean?”

“They’re happy. Let’s not disturb them,” she says instead, stretching out her hand. The Traveler takes it, and instantly, they are brought back to their room in Shapur Hotel. Paimon has fallen asleep, and the Traveler sits on their bed. Buer perches herself on the table, her feet not quite making it to the chair. 

“When did I fall asleep?”

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t a long time. I just didn’t want to ruin their reconciliation,” she explains. “I don’t remember them well, anymore, but as I’ve read more ancient texts in hopes of… remembering the more important details that have been lost to me, the times I had with King Deshret and the Lord of Flowers come clearer. Together, we were the three God-Kings of Sumeru. It’s unfortunate you were unable to meet them. They seemed to be my greatest friends.”

“They both died ages ago,” the Traveler says, and the knowledge that comes to their mind is stuck in their throat, chained from being freed. Rukkhadevata and the forbidden knowledge. That must be a secret that stays a secret.

Buer giggles. “Died in the loosest sense of the term. Gods don’t truly die. They may be banished, or lose their memories, but their essence is immortal. Even when they seem to be gone, a seed of them will always remain on this planet, seeking the right time and conditions to sprout.”

The Traveler’s spine shoots ramrod straight, and their mouth drops open. “You don’t mean…”

“Although it’s hard to confirm, I find it hard to mistake the similarities between your friend and mine. Deshret has been reborn,” she says, “not resurrected like the Eremites had predicted. As for the Artificer. Her purple eyes, although artificially made, bear a striking resemblance to those Padisarahs of ages past, don’t they?”

“Like the one in Nilou’s dream,” the Traveler realizes, all of it dawning on them like a flood and crashing wave.

Buer nods. “There are very few coincidences in this world. Be happy for them. Their ending in their last lives was not a happy one and they’ve struggled and toiled in this samsara, too, just for the chance to meet again. Even still, they will have to continue to fight these challenges to persevere.” She sighs, looking down at her feet. “Hopefully in the next one life, they can just be born friends and save each other some heartache, and maybe we can be friends again, too.”

“The Goddess of Flowers sacrificed everything for the price of King Deshret’s divine knowledge,” the Traveler points out distantly, their voice soft and wistful. “He drove himself mad because she was gone.”

“There are some events that must repeat on different scales in each samsara,” the Dendro Archon agrees quietly. “A first meeting, a death, a betrayal. I’m happy that my friends have found one another again, even if they don’t remember, but perhaps that is their pinned, pre-determined fateful event that must happen in every samsara. I don’t know. Irminsul’s powers are beyond even my full understanding.”

“They say she disappeared in a storm.” A sharp chill shoots down the Traveler’s spine as Buer hums, nodding. “And she was never seen again.”

“You’re understanding,” she says, delighted. “This time, though, she came back to him, and this time, he knows the knowledge he craves is not worth losing her love.” Buer smiles cheek-to-cheek. “The rest is up to them, now.”

a/n: reblog/comment if you enjoyed! did you catch all the parallels and foreshadowing? there was as much as i could stuff in, from subtle to unsubtle! i read and watched so many theory threads/videos for this and again this was such a fun collab! 

the prompt was to either make the third person (in this kaveh) a love interest or someone who helps the main couple get together, and i thought why not a bit of both. after all, it is kaveh who was al-haitham’s biggest reason not to confess, and also kaveh who told al-haitham where to find you. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ heheh thank you for reading!!

[ambers-archive]

what if all i need is you?

2 times the universe conspires against Spencer and the 1 time it doesn't. no use of y/n

"I think we’re lost," Spencer mumbled, stealing a glance at you, you’re in his passenger seat and you look like a dream he thinks. 

He hates driving, usually avoids it, but watching you smile next to him and hearing you sing along to his favorite songs makes him think it’s not all bad.

"You think?" You laugh, meeting his eye.

He had the date perfectly planned in his head – a tour around the city since you just moved here. Showcasing his favorite bookstore, two tickets to his favorite museum's exhibit, the whole thing.

However, things were not going as planned. He found himself driving in circles, twists and turns multiplying at every corner.

The universe was taunting him.

"I swear, these street signs are conspiring against me," he muttered.

“In the meantime, we should enjoy this,” you suggested, pointing to a barely visible café on the corner, proposing an impromptu coffee stop.

With a slight smile tugging his lips, Spencer nodded.

“You’re in Med school?

Spencer asked, trying to hide his amazement.

It all makes sense now, he thinks. Rarely does he find someone who matches him intellectually, even rarer for him to enjoy conversations with them.

“I am! I know it’s a cliché saying, but I just want to help people, I want to make a difference in the world.”

“It’s not cliché at all, that’s really noble.” Spencer replied, a genuine smile forming on his face. The passion in your voice is like a breath of fresh air for him.

You blushed at the compliment, warmth spreading across your cheeks. "Thank you. It's not easy, but it's worth it if I can make a positive impact, even in a small way."

As if you took the words right out of Spencer’s mouth, hearing you made him realize the reason he started the BAU. 

And oh how beautiful it is to have that passion.

For so long, his work had only consisted of repetition; the work that had brought him happiness was now draining him of it all. His thoughts are audible emanating from your lips.

To make a difference, and just for a little while, listening to you happily describe your passion, the horrors of his job, which once clutched his heart so deeply, slowly started to fade.

“Where to next, Doctor?” 

“I hope you like museums, I was able to get us tickets to one of my favorite exhibits.” 

“Lead the way.” 

“I agree; the universe is not happy with you right now,” you laughed, both stranded in the middle of nowhere as his car broke down under the afternoon sun.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he sighed, opening your car door. Taking his hand you led him towards the field, there were worse places to be stranded in you thought. 

“If we call for a cab right now, we can reach the museum in an hour, depending on traffic. We’ll miss the first half hour or so, but—”

“Spencer, look! The sun is setting.” You walked off into the distance, taking a seat near a tree.

“We’re going to miss the show.” He said disappointed. You looked up at him and the orange glow casted a beautiful hue over your face. Just when he thought you couldn't get prettier.

“No matter how much you try in life, you’re bound to miss something. Just take in the moment right now.” You say, patting the seat on the grass next to you.

To his own surprise, he obliges. 

He doesn’t mean to profile you, but it’s a reflex, a defense mechanism. Being around serial killers and rapists, he needs to know their every move. But right now, being in your apartment as you give him a tour, he lets go.

Realizing he doesn’t have to know everything about you right away; he can take his time.

He expected your room to be something like a catalog magazine, but books, plants, and paintings you've made surrounded you.

Messy maximalist, you called it.

Spencer learns you hate minimalism, you hate gray white empty spaces that don't feel like home.

He is almost envious of how carefree you are, willing to wear your heart out on your sleeve. Your guard has been down the whole time, a luxury Spencer can’t afford.

“Can I offer you some tea? I recently perfected my mom’s recipe for chai,” You asked, already boiling the water and getting your tea bags together.

“Tea sounds amazing.”

He looks around, forming a profile in his brain.

You’re messy, but you somehow find beauty in it. It doesn’t bother you; it makes sense, he thinks.

Artistic people are commonly messy.

“What books do you like?” Spencer asks, watching you get two mismatched cups out.

“I love classic literature, Persuasion is one of my favorites. I love Jane Austen and the way she captures love in its most pure form."

“How would you define love?” It’s a question that has been nagging him, he wants to pick apart your brain and know every thought.

He can tell you’re a hopeless romantic, and he now wishes he had accepted Garcia’s movie night invitation to watch Jane Austen movies.

He already has a sense, knowing you love classic period pieces, but he just wants to hear your explanation for it. 

“In Med school they teach us that love is a complex emotion, a bunch of hormones: dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin in the brain. I can’t say much about hormones but love is life, and it's just peaceful like the slow water going down a stream. But an immediate phenomenon, much like life itself. It fills and empties you all at once, swirling like a river's water after a storm. Your hands, heart, stomach, and skin are just a few places on your body where you can feel it. And it overtakes you so intensely. You don’t even realize it until you’re in it. You can’t exist without it, love is like breathing.” You sigh, a shy smile overtaking your lips “Sorry i tend to rant a lot.” 

Spencer meets your smile. It feels nice to be on the receiving end of someone rambling.  “I don’t mind one bit. I knew you were an artist but I didn’t peg you for a writer.”

“Have you been profiling me, Doctor Reid?” you ask, he smiles avoiding your gaze.

“Most writers are artistic people; that is, they are imaginative, creative, and productive when working in an environment that promotes self-expression. Not to mention you mentioned journalism being your minor, also I saw you had a typewriter.”

“You're amazing, Spencer,” you say, taking the kettle off the stove, pouring two cups of chai.

Spencer whispers your name, and you look over, your name falls so easily through his lips. This is what was missing from your life, you think.

“I think you’re one of the most unique people I’ve ever met.”

He says, taking your hand, interlocking your fingers.

You graze your thumb over his knuckles squeezing his hand, meeting his brown eyes. And as if the universe was on his side for once you lean forward, your lips meeting his. Lips meddling into each other as if it was made just for you.

The morning sun is beating down on his small car, and there you are sitting in his passenger seat laughing at his horrible jokes.

Your favorite songs playing in the background. You smile at him, and Spencer is lost again, but not because of the street signs. He's just lost in your smile.

This is what was missing from his life Spencer thinks.

[icyg4l]

PAC: How Can You Attract More Clientele?

hello beautiful people! i wanted to do something different today! this is for my business owners out there, this one is for you. if you need some extra reassurance/advice on how to gain more traction, this is for you. without further ado, please pick the image that resonates with you the most.

Top Left-to-Bottom Right: (1-4)

Pile One: I heard “something’s brewing” as I was shuffling for this pile. Pile One, do you know how lucky people are to have your talents in this world? Why don’t you take your talents where they belong? I feel like you aren’t really pushing yourself the way that you’re supposed to. You’re all talk but when it comes down to actually putting in the work, you get scary. There’s no point in planning for the future if you don’t live in it. So do what you have to do in order to be known! Another thing about you is that there’s some shame around your work. It’s like you’re embarrassed to show off your stuff so you’ll just hand it off to people that you know and when you get compliments, you won’t necessarily take them as one should. You need to celebrate your work forreal. Your work needs to be seen. You need to be around other creative people so that you can have personal muses in your life. You need to know that your talents will be recognized as long as you let them. All in all, in order to attract clientele, you need to be willing to put yourself out there.

Cards Used: Princess of Swords, The Hermit, Prince of Cups, Knight of Swords, 2 of Wands, 7 of Swords.

extras: shuffle. coffee brewer. sodastream. alliteration. mime. pasties. original invention. 

Pile Two: Aggressive marketing is a tactic that you need to take on, Pile Two. This is a pile similar to Pile One in the sense that you are being too coy. I am seeing a fast-paced work environment. You deliver your products fast and you come up with ideas pretty fast. The thing is though, you do not really sell yourself. When I say this, I mean that you are too calm and humble with the way that you market yourself. People tend to overlook you because you’re not really showing off your product/brand. Invest in your brand and you will see better results. If you have a TikTok or Instagram, I’m not going to lie, talking fast or talking in a bubbly manner will help your clients flock to you. I am feeling a little chaotic right now as I type this. I feel like you need to unleash your chaotic side into this marketing. People would be more willing to buy the product if you show off your authentic energy. 

Cards Used: Four of Swords, Temperance (RX), The Devil (RX), The Hermit, 9 of Wands, Ace of Swords, Prince of Cups, Eight of Wands

extras: panda express. takeoff. funeral. egg sandwich. sadistic. clueless. “you are the visuals baby.”

Pile Three: There is nothing wrong with getting shit done, Pile Three. I feel like this pile thinks that they do everything right, or do you? I think you need to stop caring about the validation of other people. Do you actually like what it is that you’re doing/selling? Is it fulfilling to present this product to other people? If so, then you need to just be patient. You are very impatient to the process of gaining sales. You need to let more time pass. Your business hasn’t taken off because you do not let shit marinate. If you let time pass by, you would actually gain more clientele. As you await for this moment though, take everything as a learning experience. If you do not feel fulfilled/personally rewarded, then it is time for a rebrand. You need to figure out how this product resonates with you. What is your personal connection with it? How can you connect to other people through this product? What lasting impact do you want to leave on people? I also see that you do need to get involved with people offline as well. Posting flyers up around your neighborhood would really benefit you, my love. 

Cards Used: The Emperor, Strength, 4 of Swords, The Devil, The Hanged Man, Judgment, Prince of Wands, Queen of Discs 

extras: orlando. drill rap. ohio. “earthy scents.” twisted tea. green giant. 

Pile Four: I actually feel like this pile is super close to meeting their goal number of clients. You have been putting in the right amount of work and therefore, you have been getting rewarded. But you need to learn how to network. I feel like this pile just needs to be at the right place at the right time. If you find yourself getting invited to an event that needs your skills, you should check it out. It’ll be the key to your big break. I also think that you should consider trading with other creatives to gain more clientele. Consider promoting other creatives’ work so that more people can come to you. I think it really all comes down to the timing of it all. But your time is pretty soon. You’re already eating good but soon you’ll be eating real good. There’s not really much you have to do but just show yourself off. 

Cards Used: Wheel of Fortune. The Magician. Queen of Discs. King of Wands. 7 of Discs. King of Discs. The Emperor.

extras: dill pickle. onion rings. pastel colors. breakfast foods. sizing issues.

[tsurangaconundrum]

season 7 dash simulator

edlundite

so do we think these latest winchester murder sprees are gonna be in the next books or nah

dickromananti

My Taylor Double Theory

disclaimer: first of all i want to be clear. i would never call for violence against someone, and do not want anyone to act on this information. I also do not believe in stereotyping and I am not trying to "put down" famous women.

gaylors dni!

Read More

biggersons-official

kids these days are all just turslucking and turfucking. whatever happened to turducken you used to love turducken

couldtransitionsaveher

catgirlkeyboard

richard roman enterprises slack simulator

coworker one: whoever is getting rid of my bottles of borax is so fucking annoying i literally need to clean things

coworker two: did anyone see the turducken is back in the cafeteria again

coworker three: who all stoned on that job

coworker four: last night we got a shipment of an animal bone. who locked up the warehouse after we need to have a conversation. this is important please reach out immediately

coworker five: Hi guys! This weekend is my bi-annual LARPing festival. The set up in the park is really awesome and if you want to check it out feel free to ask for the Queen of Moondoor! :DDDD

tiktaalic

peach simulator Mutual 1: why tf are borox stocks plummeting…….. Sorry for job posting again but ive been looking at these numbers for 30 minutes

Mutual 2: Anybodyy been keeping up with the taylor swift double (dswift) theoury. Ithink it might hold a lot of weight to be honest

Mutual 2: Like ive watched a lot of theory videos and i dont believe she’s weird because she’s gay and I dont believe she’s weird because she’s autistic I think she’s weird because she got replaced by a double whodoesnt know how to be human

Mutual 3: the other day when i was processing my mice spleens i read the shipping label and it literally goes to roman enterprises? lol what?

Mutual 4: people complaining about my chemical romance selling out. acting different. um i think i know more about gerard ways sleep habits than you do genius.

Mutual 5: was at knitting night when literally half the group brought up turduckens again? not to have food aversion but what are we talking about

Mutual 6: I love to hear my american friends talk. Turducken. Ford. Dick Roman. You are living in a hollywood movie. thank god you unserious country nothing better than cultural exchange

Mutual 6: Though to be clear Merlin has had a much more impactful effect on the Australian psyche than any of this politics you people have on the news.

Mutual 7: did anybody want to watch that the horrifying documentary about yellow cedar trees going extinct because of the emissions from the poultry farms

Mutual 8 : i love our beautiful world :)

reginamillsofficial I think the worst part of the true crime fandom is the ppl who want to fuck Sam winchester. The sideburns alone

Biggersons-official Everyone come in to try our new Turducken™️ today! It’s a real hoot! Only a .03 percent chance of hyperadrenal cannibalism!

pizza biggersons-official coming for Denny’s crown omg

glowcloudstyle AND NOW THE WEATHER

#wtnv #i ship it #dennys x biggersons

biggersmons when you get paid biweekly. Week one. Turducken. Week two. Ice soup

calamitysong Biggersons again Biggersons again Biggersons again

eduardosaverin7 Eat a vegetable!

calamitysong I keep forgetting :(

[morose-marble]

Incoherent ramble bc I have the brain worms about Apo

I am very annoying and also unwell, which is why I have taken to scrubbing through a not-insubstantial amount of episodes from Apo's lakorns (without subtitles) to form some kind of picture of what kind of roles he was cast in while employed by channel 3, and sending screen caps to literally anyone with a messaging app in my immediate social circle (they are in hell, thanks for asking). So, now that I have run out of people to torment with my obsessive tendencies, I am left with posting into the void on good ole tungle dot com.

So far, it seems that Apo's bread and butter was a wholesome, boy next door, nong type character (this is based on quite shaky interpretations of Sut Khaen Saen Rak, Buang Banjathorn, Chaat Payak and Prakasit Khammatep) with some exceptions, such as Tiang in Chat Suer Pun Mungkorn, a hot-headed young gangster. These aside, I have not yet formed a comprehensive understanding of his profile as an actor, as I can't seem to get my hands on some of the dramas at all.

The aforementioned roles were all supporting ones, and I could only find episodes for one of his two lead parts, that of Pong Khun Boon Jirakit in Pra Teap Rak Hang Jai, an enemies to lovers story(?). His character sells artisanal traditional Thai silk(?) and ends up falling for a rich woman (Preeyakarn Jaikanta) down on her luck who needs to become independent and better herself as a person(?). Quite a straightforward premise. (He wears a bunch of plaid in the show, he looks uncomfortable.)

Now. What I have noticed about Apo's career in supporting parts is that the male leads he supports are very...narrowly masculine, in comparison to him. Apo has talked about having faced homophobia/general cishet discriminatory nonsense in the industry at that time, and flicking through these shows really illuminates how rigid the concept of a lakorn romantic male lead was (maybe still is, I don't know). Obviously, I gathered that lakorn gender roles were a tad more conservative, but I still struggled slightly with understanding why Apo was treated the way he was, bc I feel like he is relatively conventionally masculine (my european perspective impacts my perception of what constitutes normative gender roles, I know) to the point where picking up on any ~queer~ vibes would be a gays only event. However, I feel like I get it a bit better now.

Apo is very handsome. He is also beautiful in a way that a lot of these leads aren't. They are pointedly conventionally masculine, not necessarily hypermasculine, but going towards that direction, something that is emphasised by their role in the narrative and acting style. Lots of stoicism and displays of quiet suffering and anger. I know, it's very reductive to place gendered presentations onto a spectrum etc etc, but if one were to operate within rigidly delineated binary requirements for gender presentation that exist in media (and society, there's nuance), Apo does not quite fit the criteria of a leading man within the given parameters. Which is terrible, of course. I can absolutely understand why Apo got fed up with the industry and decided to leave it all behind.

Additionally, as pointed out above with the repeated archetypal character traits, I feel that he did not get to flex his acting muscles in the narratives of these shows, which is another thing he has commented on, though maybe not in those words exactly.

Thinking about all of this makes his recent successes with Kinnporsche and Man Suang terribly interesting and delicious. I recognise that narrativising a celebrity's experiences as an affective story like this is mad parasocial brain rot behaviour, but the idea of him taking something that he was disparaged for earlier on in his career (perceived queerness) and turning it into a factor of him surpassing that which held him back is very attractive in a story sense. Like, what a triumph?

I'm not sure if any of this makes sense or if this is completely old news to everyone, but for some reason I had to get it out somewhere. I'll probably read this back in the morning and cringe mightily.

Anyway. What an interesting time to follow his advancement and the changes in the Thai BL industry, namely the increased attention from the government. I have fears, but I don't know how to articulate them yet. Therefore, I will focus on enjoyment for the time-being.

[zevraholics]

ZevWarden Week 2023

What is it? A week (this year, November 5th - 11th) of creating new content, sharing it, and celebrating the wonderful relationship between Zevran Arainai and Grey Warden(s) of your choice. How to participate: Feel free to follow the daily prompts as inspiration for whatever ZevWarden-related content your heart desires. Fics, art, meta discussions - everything goes! Remember to tag your works appropriately (ie. #nsfw. Also see our full tag list here.) Most of all, have fun!

Prompts:

Sunday, November 5: Tradition and Trying New Things

Monday, November 6: Secrets, Kept and Told

Tuesday, November 7: Fear and Safety

Wednesday, November 8: Work and Pleasure

Thursday, November 9: Bodies and Minds

Friday, November 10: Favourite Things and Pet Peeves

Saturday, November 11: Family, Lost and Found

Tag your content with #zevwarden week 2023 or @zevraholics on your post and we’ll reblog it here.

*Any art found to be whitewashing Zevran will not be shared.

Day 1 - Sunday, November 5 - Tradition and Trying New Things

"It's Antivan tradition to throw coins in such a well as this. Supposedly it brings one luck." Which traditions (cultural, familial, personal) do Zevran and the Warden have in common, and which are different? Are there any that are unfamiliar at first, but one of them shares with the other? What are ways the two of them break with the past, forge their own paths, or maybe even create new traditions?

Day 2 - Monday, November 6 - Secrets, Kept and Told

Morrigan, "Are [the Crows] so powerful simply because they are very good at what they do? Or is there some secret to their power?" Zevran, "If there were a secret, it would only remain so if it were not told, my dear." What secrets do Zevran and the Warden keep from other people? From each other? Are there any consequences of keeping secrets, positive or negative? What truths eventually reach the light of day, and how does that reveal come about?

Day 3 - Tuesday, November 7 - Fear and Safety

"You mean you want to hear about the grueling training? Being locked in an oubliette for weeks at a time? The slavery? The festering injuries? Or are we seeking something more glamorous?" / "Oh, those things never happened to me." There are stand-out moments of fear in the life of any Grey Warden or an Antivan Crow. Share a time one or both of them were terrified. Did they face fear bravely, or did it get the better of them? What was the impact of that moment? Or, share a story about a time the two of them found safety, comfort, or calm. How did that feeling come about? Was it short-lived or long lasting?

Day 4 - Wednesday, November 8 - Work and Pleasure

"Falling down a flight of stairs is an adventure. Falling into someone's bed? Also an adventure. I am assuming what you're looking for are professional anecdotes." How much adventuring do Zevran and the Warden get up to after Origins, either together or on their own? What jobs or titles do they come to have, what anecdotes do they have to tell? Or do they settle down for a quiet life somewhere—either restlessly or happily?

Day 5 - Thursday, November 9 - Bodies and Minds

Alistair, "So those... designs you have all over your back..." Zevran, "They're called tattoos. And I have them in many more places than just on my back, my friend." What stories do Zevran and the Wardens' bodies tell? How have their bodies changed over time? How do they carry themselves, or use gestures or mannerisms? What about a time when they ran, swam, fought, or enjoyed other physical movement? Or focus your work on a part of the body - eyes, hands, hair, scars.

Day 6 - Friday, November 10 - Favorite Things and Pet Peeves

"I fancy many things. I fancy things that are beautiful and things that are strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting.Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?" What are Zevran and the Warden's favorite things about each other? How did they discover those favorite things—slowly over time, or in one particular moment? What things get on their nerves about the other person? Is this something they make an effort to change, or does their partner just have to learn to live with it?

Day 7 - Saturday, November 11 - Family, Lost and Found

"Surely your life has not been so idyllic? People like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all." Maybe the Warden resonates with that particular line from Zevran, maybe they don't. What does being part of a family mean to the Warden and Zevran? Does the answer change across different points in their lives? If they regard each other as part of a family, is there anyone else involved in their family? (Friends, other lovers, biological or adopted children, elders?)

[roxyrondell]

I’ve been trying to find my words for awhile now about how OFMD has impacted me positively. I’ll start by saying how much I absolutely adore this show. It’s helped so many of us feel seen, loved and like we belong to something truly special. It’s helped me feel like I should never apologize for who I am. That it’s not only ok but important to live my life authentically. I love how many different types of queer voices are celebrated in this show! It’s truly a beautiful thing. I was absolutely heartbroken when I heard that OFMD had been cancelled. However this past week of the fandom fighting to get it back has helped me feel better. I’ve read so many stories people have shared about how much the show means to them and how it’s impacted them in a positive way. I love being a part of this community! I hope we’re able to get it back for a third season because that’s the story they’ve always wanted to tell. One with a three season arc. I hope everyone in the cast and crew know how much so many of us love and appreciate them. No matter what happens OFMD will always live in our hearts. I’ll always be grateful for this show and this community. We belong to something beautiful and so special! Below are some of my raw thoughts about OFMD a few days after the season two finale. Cw: suicidal ideation

[imgeekgirlfan]

Down The Road (F1 x Reader) SMAU Season 1

>> Down The Road 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

➡  Previous Part : Next Part

Taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius , @laura-naruto-fan1998 , @jpg3 , @tsukishimawhore , @minkyungseokie , @roseseraj , @bbhyuneee , @omgsuperstarg @roseseraj (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )

A/N : I got huge inspiration after reading Zendaya's definition of Hunter Schafer in the 2021 TIME100 NEXT, and I vowed to include this scene in my fic. LOL, Time Magazine practically became the main plot for this Episode. I'm putting a lot of effort into every detail, so if you like it, don't forget to like and reblog

Episode 4 will be the final part of Lewis Hamilton. After this, the series will move on to a new season with new storyline and new main characters. Stay tuned for Season 2 of the "Down The Road" series!

note ; As you can see, I want my SMAU to be as realistic as possible. So there will be both positive and negative comments from F1 fans. Just to show you that the social network has people with various attitudes, not everyone has a positive attitude.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Season 1 : ── 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐬 ── (Lewis Hamilton x Reader) S1 : E03 𝑅𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑠

The year 2024 started with a lot of news and a lot of rumors, especially for Formula 1 drivers. Y/N, in particular, has had to deal with a great deal of attention since last year when she made it clear that her goal was to clinch this year's championship. This has subjected her to considerable pressure, not only from her performance on the track but also regarding her personal life. The rumors about her relationship with Lewis Hamilton don't seem to be fading away easily; in fact, they are growing more intense with time.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Source : @autosport

The year 2023 is coming to an end, confirming Max Verstappen as the new world champion of the year. He secured a memorable victory at the Qatar Grand Prix, considered one of the toughest F1 races this year. There were several tense moments on the track, with one of the most talked-about incidents being the collision between Lewis Hamilton and George Russell, teammates, resulting in missed opportunities for both to be on the Podium

However, two other drivers who have made a lasting impact this year and are worth mentioning are Oscar Piastri and Y/N YLN, the two rookies in the world of Formula 1. They have consistently impressed in various races and are closely watched by experts as potential contenders who could challenge Verstappen for the championship title in the near future.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Source : @TIME

As a woman who runs and drives in the world of Formula 1, @Y/N a standout racer in Formula 1, is not only known for her exceptional performances throughout 2023 but also as a global icon for women. She defies stereotypes and inspires us all. Her ambitions to become the Formula 1 World Champion next year are exciting. invite us all to follow and support her with excitement in the coming year. Congratulations to Y/N on making the #TIME100Next list for 2023.

@LewisHamilton on @Y/N #TIME100Next : 

I truly believe anyone lucky enough to meet Y/N will feel the immense light that is constantly radiating from her. She makes everyone in her orbit feel seen. I’ve had the privilege of watching her tap into every facet of her courage as a girl driver in Formula 1, and I am lucky to call her one of my special ones. Her ability to solve on-the-spot problems, compete in a male-dominated industry fearlessly, and continuously set impressive records is truly remarkable. Additionally, her beautiful heart, honesty, and selflessness, which are rare qualities in the world of Formula 1, leave me so impressed that I'm at a loss for words.

Y/N is so special in so many ways that I could go on forever, but this truly is only her beginning. There is no limit to the wins she will create.

Hamilton is a seven-time Formula One world champion

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Source: Y/N's Instagram (update)

“I can't believe it! I've made the Time magazine cover as #TIME100Next2023 Thank you @lewishamilton for the beautiful description”

Y/N shared a moment of joy after being selected as TIME 100 Next 2023. Fans, friends, and even fellow F1 drivers joined in to show their support. and the one who drew the most attention was Lewis Hamilton, who wrote an entry for her. This has generated a strong and hot response from the media, reigniting discussions about their romance rumors (again)

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Source: Lando Norris's Instagram (update)

“Thank lil sis @Y/N for friendship bracelets. I won't take it off for sure (except when you're not around)”

Lando Norris shared a new photo on Instagram wearing friendship bracelets made by Y/N, symbolizing their strong friendship as friends from the same academy who are now both Formula 1 drivers.

Furthermore, Norris's post also helps reduce the rumors about the relationship between Y/N and Lewis Hamilton, which have been widely discussed since the release of TIME Magazine.

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Source : Twitter (update)

Fans noticed that @Charles_Leclerc was seen wearing friendship bracelets made by @Y/N at the #BahrainGP after he commented to her on Lando's Instagram last week, saying he wanted friendship bracelets like Lando too.

Some fans view it as a lovely relationship between Formula 1 racers, while others have pointed out the incident when Lewis Hamilton's accidental sharing of a photo of him wearing friendship bracelets on his Instagram Story. and compared it to Leclerc and Norris, suggesting that the rumors about Y/N dating Hamilton are trivial.

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Source : @ClutchPoints

This year's Bahrain Grand Prix Formula 1 race was exceptionally intense and special, with the special appearance of two Latin pop stars, Úrsula and Shakira, both of whom are currently rumored to be romantically linked with Formula 1 racers, Y/N and Lewis Hamilton.

What makes this even more interesting and complex is that Y/N and Hamilton were previously rumored to be in a romantic relationship with each other before they seemingly drifted apart last year. Now It seems like both of them have moved on to new romances, especially considering the clear distance they've maintained throughout the competition, and the arrival of both pop stars further solidifies that they are each embarking on new relationships, closing the door of romantic rumor between the two drivers once and for all.

However, the new relationships might not be smooth. According to insiders, Shakira herself has been rumored to be nurturing a romance with another star, Tom Cruise. While Úrsula and Y/N have rumors circulating that they had an argument before the female singer flew back to Los Angeles the next day, maybe both Y/N and Hamilton are more suitable to be single than in a relationship with someone? What are your thoughts? Feel free to leave your comments!

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𝙏𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙙 (in the next chapter)

If you like it, don't forget to like and reblog for me.

cr. https://x.com/autosport/status/1711339473470984517?s=20https://x.com/autosport/status/1711367295988084833?s=20https://x.com/autosport/status/1711122194044948778?s=20https://twitter.com/autosport/status/1711373281268207634https://firstsportz.com/f1-news-fans-baffled-as-lewis-hamilton-creates-an-instagram-burner-account-with-a-cryptic-username/https://twitter.com/TIME/status/1362015022927409154https://x.com/TIME/status/1362034951424778245?s=20https://twitter.com/i/events/1575120720597745667https://twitter.com/TIME/status/1362016250449326083https://twitter.com/PopBase/status/1710763206497714284https://clutchpoints.com/tom-cruise-shakira-lewis-hamilton-love-triangle-rumors-racinghttps://x.com/f1memorod/status/1712185898409087051?s=20

[thetragicallynerdy]

Okay so, I made a thread about this over on twitter, and thought I'd drop it here too. OFMD Season 2 spoilers ahead. An idea that I've seen a few times and felt I needed to yell about is the idea that OFMD is now ableist, and that it is wrong to like and enjoy it as a show. As a queer disabled person, it's something that pisses me off so, so much. I'm not going to defend everything that happens in OFMD. But I am going to say that it is one of the best shows I know for showing both a broad range of disabilities, and presenting those disabilities in a largely neutral light. We have multiple amputees, multiple people with chronic pain , multiple characters with mental health issues, and more. We have Pete's speech impediment, Wee John's back, Lucius' finger, Jackie's hand, Ed's mental health, Stede's mental health - and yeah, Izzy's leg. The way that these disabilites are presented is important to me - because they're just another part of the person, not good or bad. There are obviously impacts and things to work through - Ed's mental health being one, Izzy's leg being another - but they ARE worked through. Ed's suicidality - which spans over two entire seasons - is addressed. So is the moments of Izzy's. Izzy gets support and a prosthetic, Lucius gets support and a prosthetic, we see Wee John sitting down in most scenes which would support his back. Disability isn't just ignored, or played off for laughs, but neither is it made the entire plot point. Izzy is just as much of a badass as before. Lucius' finger doesn't stop his work. Jackie's hand doesn't make her less fearsome. Ed's mental health (and Izzy's, and Stede's) don't make them less deserving of love. None of the character's disabilities do. In fact, we see two disabled characters - Lucius and Pete - getting married at the end of the season. And that's important. It's so important!!

If you're sad and upset that Izzy died, that's incredibly valid. But to say that it "shows that disabled characters have nothing to live for" - when his death wasn't related to his disability at all - is so incredibly offensive. I am permanently disabled, to the point that I cannot work full time. I have seen posts about my disability saying that it would be better to die than to have it. But nothing - NOTHING - in OFMD suggests that it would've been better for Izzy to die than to have an amputation. Instead he is supported, encouraged, and loved. He is given a carefully crafted prosthetic, and given space to learn how to use it. He gets support, and his mental health improves. He is given a beautiful life. And then he dies. But his death is not about his disability. I'm going to repeat that - his death is NOT about his disability. Nor is it about being queer. It's shitty, random luck. I'm sure there are people who are going to say that the writers, simply by having a disabled queer character die, are ableist and queerphobic. But nothing we see in the show supports that. They show queer joy and delight and love and happy endings over and over again. They show care and support of disabilities, over and over again. And they specifically show queer disabled people living beautiful lives, over and over again. One character's death doesn't undo that. I'm sorry that your favourite character died. I really, truly am. It's a devastating feeling. I'm sorry that it hurts. But if you're taking it as a sign that the show is saying queer disabled people have no right to live? Then you're ignoring the rest of the show.

You're ignoring all the beautiful queer disabled characters we see, and the messages that the show tells us about them. You're ignoring the beautiful life and redemption that Izzy got. And yeah, you're being offensive as hell to queer disabled people. Sorry, you are.

And if you're queer and disabled and can't see a queer disabled character die - that's incredibly valid. I understand. However, that doesn't mean the show or writers hate you, or hates us, or wants you to die. They've shown us over and over again that actually, they love us.

Also - would you be this pissed if it was any other disabled character who died? Probably not.

I think it's also really important to have stories where disabled people are treated like people. And yeah, that means that sometimes we die. Because that happens in life, too. Same with queer people.

I don't really have a satisfying conclusion to this. I'm just queer and disabled, and really tired of seeing it said that it's now morally wrong to like this show. It's not. I'm queer, disabled, and I see more disability pride and support in this show than most others.

So yeah, thank you to OFMD for beautiful representations of disability, and queerness. It's a show that makes me feel seen - and that's really important.

[agoodficforchii]

Henna Headcanons

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Alhaitham, Ayato, Diluc, Tartaglia (Childe), Zhongli x Reader (Separately)

Summary: Genshin characters when they see you putting on henna

Word Count: Around 200-300 for each

Warnings/Extra Notes: Mentions of Eid, Mentions of marriage, Reader mentions wearing henna for weddings, Not proofread, Lmk if there's more!!

Alhaitham:

He actually reminded you about getting your henna done

Normally you’d forget about it until the last minute and then panic (no this is not from experience shut up)

And you had forgotten again this year until Alhaitham asked you a question,

“[Name], do you do your own henna?”

You do! You were so proud of it and were about to show off until you realize 

Oh no. You didn’t have any and he just reminded you about it. 

Probably why he asked you because let’s be honest he already knows the answer to that question

You had been staring at your empty hand for the last minute, while Alhaitham was staring at you. His question made you remember your henna or lack thereof. It also made you realize that it was the last day before Eid, meaning the already crowded bazaar would be even more crowded if that's possible. Alhaitham stared at you for a minute more before getting up from the couch with an exasperated sigh. Snapping out of your trance, you looked over to where Alhaitham was grabbing his keys while walking towards the door.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare or get up so we can get you some henna?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

You practically jumped out of your seat and ran towards the door with a slight blush dusting your face. Whether it was a blush out of embarrassment or because Alhaitham was going out on one of the busiest days of the year just for you, you'll never tell.

Ayato:

You did your henna with Ayaka

Like you were sitting in one of the rooms doing your henna when Ayaka walked by and saw

She found it beautiful so she asked if she could watch you putting it on

You obviously weren’t gonna just let her watch.

So that's how Ayato found the both of you putting henna on each other 

Ayato had just arrived back at the estate and all he wanted to do was spend some time with you before having to fill out the mountains of paperwork that awaited him. Walking past a slightly open door he heard his sister asking you a question,

“Ah [Name], am I holding it right?”

Now Ayato would normally leave you two alone but he was also really curious. So, he pushed the door open as quietly as possible to see what was happening. The sight that greeted him was one that made his heart skip a beat. He knew you and Ayaka were close, something which he adored, but seeing you guys interact would always make him fall harder for you. Especially now, seeing you share something important to you with his younger sister. While you were helping Ayaka apply her henna, he noticed your own. He couldn’t help but feel proud seeing how talented you were. He stood there for a few more minutes, unnoticed, before deciding to quickly go and finish his work. After all, how could he not spend all night with you after that sight?

Diluc:

You guys were in the dining room and he was watching you apply your henna

He was so serious about watching it too

Like he would watch you intently, ask questions, and listen to you tell stories about it

While you were talking about when people typically wear henna you brought up marriages

And ohmygod are you saying you want to marry him??? 

Diluc couldn’t take his eyes off you. Everyone knows that he’s always looking at you or for you. But right now he couldn't stop looking at you because you were applying your henna. He couldn’t help it either! You just looked so cute concentrating so hard on making the most perfect lines you could. You were talking about when you would typically wear henna when you mentioned something that literally made Diluc’s heart stop.

“My mom used to tell me how on her wedding night my father spent hours finding all the little references in her henna. I’m sure she exaggerated, but I can’t wait to pick my henna for our wedding.” You said so casually, even ending with a giggle. You didn’t even look away from your hand.

Those words rang through Diluc’s ears. Our wedding. Your wedding with him. Sure he knew he wanted to marry you, but you mentioning it like you were just talking about the weather did something to him. You were still talking but he couldn’t bring himself to fully pay attention. He was too busy thinking about what kind of ring to buy you.

Tartaglia:

He would be so excited about it

Also wants to help you

But sucks at it, it’s okay though because you’re there

Would want to also get henna done

Omg he would brag about your amazing talent in his letters home

You were just peacefully looking at henna designs when suddenly your front door slammed open. You would’ve been terrified if you didn’t hear Childe’s voice approaching your house. You moved over a bit on your couch to let Childe sit down. He started talking about anything and everything but quickly noticed how your attention wasn’t on him but on whatever you were putting on your hand. He got pouty really fast but recovered even quicker. He decided that he would help you. Well, he tried, but it wasn’t too great. You ended up forcing him to sit quietly and just watch you. He got bored though, so he started begging you to get matching henna designs. You decided to just give the two of you simple hearts because it was the fastest cutest thing you could think of. That led to Childe talking about how his family would love you because of how amazing you are. But hey that’s better than him “helping” you.

“Aww babe, you’re so good at this. My s/o is so talented! Tonia would love this, I can’t wait until you meet her.”

Zhongli:

He made you henna

LISTEN IF HE CAN SPEND HOURS MAKING YOU TEA HE WILL MAKE YOU HENNA

Ahem anyway.

He made you henna and applied it for you because he’s perfect like that

As you were walking home, you prayed Zhongli would already be home. It had been a long day and all you wanted was some tea and the presence of your boyfriend. Reaching your front door, you quickly unlocked your door and rushed to take off your shoes. You threw your keys into the mini tray on top of the shoe shelf near your front door, when you noticed Zhongli’s shoes. Knowing he was home you were now even happier to be there. A strong stench of something hit your nose as soon as you entered the house. It smelled like…henna? You were confused since you hadn’t bought any yet and even if you had, why would your house smell like it? You found your answer after you walked into your kitchen. There was a bowl of henna sitting on the countertop. Zhongli walked in shortly after you, and you knew that this was his doing.

“Hello darling, how was your day?” he asked with a small smile.

You also had a small smile on your face as you spent the rest of your day talking to him as he helped you with your henna.

Notes: lol. hi. haha. ANYWAY a week late but here's my Eid post. The diluc one has my whole heart ngl, when will it be my turn to do that. Hope those of you who celebrated Eid had a good one!!

[ravenpureforever]

random question time! which wwx's relationship do you like the most and why? It could be platonic or romantic, all canons allowed

Thank you for the ask! Oh boy this question is hard, because I like I appreciate so many of his relationships for different reasons that picking just one feels kinda cruel 

I think the biggest tie for me is between JC and LWJ for WWX. 

Wangxian is the rare ship where I genuinely can only see them romantically with each other, like I’m multishipper, I’ll ship literally anything if you have an interesting concept, pretty words or beautiful art, like grab my attention I am yours, except these two, they live in my head rent free and they can only be together because like maybe you lost everything, maybe you can never go back to that blissful youth you once had, but that doesn’t mean you can’t build a new life for yourself and find happiness and all the grief and tragedy does not define you but you still want to help people and you will help people and maybe it isn’t the life you thought you wanted when you were fifteen but it is a wonderful one and you love and you are loved and you are happy and that is enough. Maybe you suffered, maybe you were cruel, maybe the world misread who you are and assigned you a role you did not ask for, but maybe that doesn’t matter because you know who you are, you are still kind, and you have someone who knows and understands you and trusts who you are. You are both also kind of insufferable in your love and get to be annoying too. 

But JC & WWX are my ultimate tragic doomed platonic relationship, my neurotic little freaks who can’t be normal about each other and have zero boundaries, bickering idiots, wanting to go back to your youth except you’ll never be 15 again and you the person who knew the most intimate parts of yourself is now a stranger except you still see the glimmers of the person they used to be, the most brutal variation of you’ll never recover from that kind of devotion, the ultimate capturing  lost youth and having to go down different paths and really depicting what growing up is like sometimes, the viciousness where I am able to hurt you unlike anyone else (regardless if I want to or not), the abusive household codependency of survival, literally carrying a piece of your soul in my chest and making the ultimate sacrifice you never asked for because I couldn’t bare to risk losing you, the hollowness is a symbol of my devotion and the fullness is an omen of our splintering, there is one brain cell being shared like a game of tennis, my pathetic meow meow and beloved blorbo, I genuinely can’t be normal about them. 

I think if I really have to pick between them though, I’ll have to say JC & WWX just by virtue of I don’t like Wangxian fics that mischaracterize or villainize JC, like if he’s featured and isn’t a well-written character (Shanastorytellers' and loosingletters’ fics my absolute beloveds), it really takes me out of the narrative. His depiction and relationship with WWX has a lot of impact on my Wangxian enjoyment, and even in canon my beloved Wangxian gets to develop because of all the Ls this poor guy takes, so congrats JC, you win here! It’s by a literal hair, but JC & WWX platonic relationship, get these boys a reconciliation so they can drink in Lotus Pier and gossip about their kids and people they think are stupid, WWX it will enrich your marriage so much I promise. It’s what *I* deserve.