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siennahrobek · 2 years

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Present Past

Luke

Luke spent almost all of his time on their way to Anaxes hanging around clone troopers, talking about what was ahead, and learning everything he possibly could to aid him in the fight he was about to step into. They liked having him around, apparently. Luke didn’t even realize how intensely excited they were to find themselves with a padawan commander, something they thought they would have had before. And boy, was he absolutely happy to oblige. He had never been around so many friendly people, much less people who wanted him around. Crys had painted the symbol of the Open Circle Fleet on his vambrace, a little mark that made Luke’s heart just swoop. He talked with them, ate with them and trained with them. At least, aside when he wasn’t training with Ben… Master Kenobi.

Master Kenobi.

Luke’s Jedi Master.

The thought came through near giddy. He was a padawan now. A padawan. No matter how long this lasted, no one would be able to take that away from him now. He spent some time on their way to Anaxes with his master, talking about what was to come and how he could prepare. Often times Master Vos was with them, as the latter hadn’t really led a group of men like this before. Luke had loved hanging out with his new friends at the Temple – the ones around his age – but spending time talking with and learning from and meditating with the older masters, Ben and Quinlan, even his father a little bit, was also really exciting and interesting. He hoped he would be able to see Master Tachi again. Already, he rather missed her.

And there was so many others he could meet. He could learn from.

Most of the time, Luke thought his heart was about to explode from excitement.

It had been right after they left Coruscant when Quinlan gave Luke some clothes, or rather, a package that happened to have clothes in it. As he opened it, there was a pilot jumpsuit inside with a note from Master Tachi. She had spent some of the night before helping specialize a suit that he could wear in flight – as she knew any battles he would be participating in would be that of space, at least until he made his lightsaber – but also that he could keep most of his armor as well.

Luke had received so little gifts in his history but this, this he loved.

This. This was right. He was where he was supposed to be. This felt so right.

Like it should have been. It should have always been this.

It was around that time that his master had slipped on one of his cloaks, over his armor when he felt something in the pocket and took it out. Luke had recognized it right away. After all, Ben had carried it around for as long as Luke had known him. Master Tachi’s warming crystal.

A note had accompanied it and although Luke didn’t know exactly what it said, it had made Master Kenobi smile faintly.

As they got closer to Anaxes and the fight ahead, they picked up a few other men and the Bad Batch, which Luke had skipped through, greeting them in the halls, as he started on his way to Master Ben-Kenobi in one of the landing bays. Spotting them, he had brightened, although they were a little difficult to recognize, on the count of being so young looking. At least, from what Luke had remembered from before. But with Tech’s goggles, Wrecker’s stature, and Hunter’s ridiculous tattoo was beyond easy to spot and he grinned as he passed. “Hello! Hunter, your hair is so shorter! I actually kind of like it!”

The sergeant startled, blinking blankly. Luke jumped a bit as he kept moving, giving Wrecker a high five. It may have surprised him, but the larger clone was enthusiastic as always, even if it was with someone he didn’t really know. “See ya, after the battle, Wrecker, Tech, other guy that I’m not sure I’ve seen before but glad to see! Good luck and kick some droid metal!”

“OH YEAH!”

Luke laughed as he heard Wrecker cheer and the others glance back at him, confused, but he kept going towards one of the hanger bays. The one, in fact, he would be coming out of when the battle hit. It would be soon. It was already busy, with troopers from multiple commands swarming around the bay, preparing themselves.

It took him a bit to find his master but with a little concentration, he got a feel. They hadn’t technically established an official training bond – Ben wanted a little more time to form that – but they did have some kind of bond, which would probably make it easier. He was standing at a small holo table in the corner, saying farewells to Master Windu, alongside Ahsoka, Anakin – Master Skywalker – and Master Vos

“Sorry, I’m late,” he apologized, near tripping over his clunky boots. They were a bit thicker than the ones he was used to, with larger soles. It would take a bit of time getting used to but luckily, he didn’t think they hindered him enough to really hurt anything. “Had to try to stop Barlex from ripping some poor shmuck’s throat out.”

Ahsoka stared at him but snorted.

Luke was pretty sure Barlex was almost always ready to throw down at the slightest hint of offense. Usually when it came to his squad or something.

“You aren’t late, padawan,” Ben just hummed, near absentmindedly. Luke did everything he possibly could to keep himself from grinning. Ben had called him padawan. He wasn’t sure if this feeling would go away, ever. Ben continued to speak, directed towards mostly Master Vos, as he would be helping with some of the other troops. “I think Commander Appo’s forces can easily take over the main production facility. It would be a good base of operations for the campaign to come. Com-Cap-Rex,” Master Kenobi stumbled over the words with little clarity on the title, keeping his eyes on the map. The rest of them just watched him, curious, slightly confused and vaguely amused. “Rex, Quinlan, these are the major points to hit while we can. At the very least, to keep the enemy distracted, although I don’t think we will have a problem with taking them. Last time, the only reason we had a problem was because Trench was using our strategies through some algorithm but that was later in the war. They haven’t had time to set something like that up yet.”

“You want me, Fives and this new…Bad Batch, was it?” Fa-Anakin-Master Skywalker suggested, almost questioningly, as he gestured to the map, towards a tower glowing on the table. “To break into this…communications tower?”

“Cyber Center,” Master Kenobi specified, tapping the table at the exact spot.

“It relays all battlefield intel to their command ship,” Commander Cody explained.

“I’m fairly certain that is where we found answers last time,” Master Kenobi nodded.

“Fairly certain?” Ahsoka asked.

“It’s been… a long time and I wasn’t directly involved,” Obi-Wan muttered, with a small shake of his head. He was trying to concentrate on the memories. “It was Master Windu that they asked and then the second leg of the mission Anakin went on. I meditated on it and tried to recall everything that I could. I just know that this mission helped us a lot. Because of this algorithm, the Separatists were able to counter our attacks with devastating efficiency, due to the information they had forced out of their prisoner. Once we got it – and him – away from them, our battle plans were more efficient, even with the…other problems.”

“When do you want us to leave?” Master Skywalker asked, curling his arms over one another.

“Near immediately,” Master Kenobi replied. “We can get you through in the initial battle. They should be surprised and distracted by our sudden presence.”

“I’ll go get them together then,” Master Skywalker nodded, stiffly.

Commander Cody and Master Kenobi exchanged a brief glance, and the former went with Master Skywalker, who left the table to bring together his little surgical strike team. Luke watched them leave while Master Kenobi and Master Vos talked a little more, not trying to lean in to understand or hear them. He then glanced over at Ahsoka but as quickly as Master Kenobi started talking with Master Vos, he had stopped and changed the subject of whom he was speaking to.

“Is your fighter prepared, Ahsoka?” Luke heard Master Kenobi ask, distantly.

“Of course, Master Kenobi!” Ahsoka grinned, brightening with a gleam in her eye that Luke could only describe as righteous hunger. She liked to fight and she liked to fly, that was for sure. Luke had only ever met her once in the future and it was a rather short and tense meeting, due to the circumstances. “Master Skywalker is letting me fly with Artoo as well! Don’t worry, Master, we got this!”

His master just nodded as she bounded away, R2-D2 beeping excitedly as he chased after her. “Luke,” he gestured for him to follow. Luke saw Master Vos smirk faintly as the boy went after his master. It was around the middle of the cargo bay when Master Kenobi finally stopped in front of a fighter.

“Wait is this…” Luke muttered, questioningly as he walked around the little red A-wing fighter. He couldn’t be absolutely sure unless Master Kenobi specified but Anakin had mentioned twin fighters…Arfour was already settled into her place on the ship, letting out a series of low beeps that Luke only vaguely understood and heard.

“My fighter,” Master Kenobi nodded, stepping forth. Luke followed him, nearly within range to touch. Anakin had told him a little about the modifications and specs of the ship that Master Kenobi used, almost identical to his own, aside from color. “Arfour will assist you. She’ll will be able to help you during the battle and if something happens, she can get you to safety and back to the ship as well.”

“I’ll be okay,” Luke insisted with a knowing smile. “Look, not to, ya know, be too braggy, but lemme say, I’m not a half bad pilot. Hmmm?”

“Outrunning Imperial ties and outrunning Separatist droids are a bit different,” Ben replied, quietly, seriously. Luke believed him but he also believed that he could, in fact, due this. Not only due to his skill behind the controls of a ship, but also with his experience outrunning imperial fighters. “You have to remember, they are, in fact, droids. And yes, I know you have outrun Vader which is, as always, quite impressive, but this is also a war.”

“I understand, Master,” Luke nodded.

War now and war In the future were very different,

“A full out war; there is no just…running out of it,” he continued, tense.

“I understand,” Luke repeated, patiently.

“Your squad will help you,” Master Kenobi explained, glancing around at some of the others around him. Some of them Luke recognized. Freefall, Squash, Roger and Roger, Oddball; a good squad. “Watch each other’s backs and do not do anything too risky. We are mainly doing this to get Anakin, Fives and Clone Force 99 to the Cyber Center.”

“I understand, Master,” Luke insisted with a smile. “I won’t let you down.”

Master Kenobi just nodded. “May the Force be with you, Luke.”

“And with you, Master,” he replied. “Don’t worry, I don’t think our story is done just yet.”

Anakin

He didn’t really like being out of the fire fight.

Granted, he did tend to like small missions like this where choices could be made outside of the initial plan that really work in their favor. Plenty of running, jumping and lightsaber fights. On the other hand, it appeared he was out of the action, and he honestly was never sure how much of it he was going to see. If Anakin was better versed in the piloting of gunships, he would probably fly them to the planet surface himself.

I should start working on that he thought to himself as the ship rattled, the pilot just narrowly avoiding a blast shot from an enemy fighter. I could probably get us through this no problem.

Fives was standing next to him and even though his helmet was secured on his head, obscuring his face, Anakin practically feel the excitement and anxiety oozing off of him. He could understand that. His best friend, his brother could be alive. Not only that, Luke claimed that he did survive the war.

But things had already changed. There was a chance he wasn’t.

Anakin remembered at the beginning of the war, when he thought he had lost Obi-Wan. When he was assigned another master and he thought he lost one of the most important people in the galaxy to him and he could barely stand the thought. He also remembered the feeling when he first found that his master could have been alive. Anakin could hardly remember feeling such relief before.

“It’s getting real messy sir,” the pilot called back to the rest of them. “I gotta a feelin’ this landin’ ain’t gonna be pretty.”

Anakin wondered where he had picked up the accent from.

Another blast that threw all of them around a bit too much rattled the ship again, making everyone off balance, even hanging onto the pulls above. The pilot cursed loudly, probably in Ryl, if Anakin had to guess.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Fives muttered.

“I am not pleased to admit that this does not appear good,” Tech agreed with a frown. “Our chances of survival appear to be dwindling if this kind of firepower keeps up.”

Crosshair just scoffed and spat out his toothpick, undoubtedly, to be replaced with another. Anakin just moved up to see the oncoming battle from behind the pilot. “I’m a good pilot sir,” he said, automatically. “But this…”

“Trust me, trooper,” Anakin muttered, exhaling airily, taking in the fiery explosions, and screaming missiles that were flying and detonating all around them. “This is a lot… this is…I don’t know if we can get through this. We might have to turn back.”

“No!” Fives cried from behind. “We can’t!”

“We might not have a choice, if we can’t get through this blockade and battle,” Tech replied, calmly.

Anakin eyed some ships coming in from the left. “We are going to be overrun,” he grit his teeth, trying to prepare himself for impact. It hardly mattered. He – and undoubtedly the rest of them in the ship – were thrown to the side as a missile detonated right next to them. It wasn’t enough to tear a hole in the hull, but it was certainly enough to send them spinning.

The pilot cursed again under his breath. “I don’t think I can get through this.”

“I have your back!” a voice shouted, crackling over the communication systems. A familiar red painted modified A-fighter dove past them, firing at their enemy and blowing them apart, expertly avoiding debris and damage. Anakin watched and stared. That fighter, he knew that fighter, that was Obi-Wan’s fighter.

But that certainly wasn’t Obi-Wan’s voice.

Obi-Wan wasn’t flying his fighter.

That could only mean…

“Luke?” Anakin asked.

“I’ve got you,” Luke promised, spinning around their top and covering their sides, moving and firing at the same time. “But you gotta move and you gotta move now. I can only do so much by myself, and I don’t think it’ll get much better by the time ya get to the ground. Commander Appo already said they get some pretty heavy artillery cannons.”

Wait. Commander Appo?

“We have to fly over them,” the pilot frowned as he turned the ship sharply towards the planet side. “We will attract even more attention if we go around.”

“And this is a stealth mission,” Fives piped in.

“I’ve got your back,” Luke repeated over the link. “I’ll get you through.”

“I don’t think Obi-Wan approved of this,” Anakin muttered under his breath.

If Luke heard him, he didn’t say a word.

And Anakin was helpless to change any of this. He couldn’t help. He couldn’t fly. He couldn’t do anything about their situation and that rather drove him crazy. He was used to be the one who did things. Who saved people, who did all of the fancy flying. But here? Here, all he could do was stand back and watch from the viewport with the pilot as Luke flew around, clearing as much of a path as he possible could, while the gunner on their own ship got his own hits alongside him. One thing was for sure, Luke was good. Really good. It was strange, really, watching someone pilot, In such a way that reminded Anakin of well, his own flying.

They were coming to the ground, fast, and the swarms of droids, although getting generally thinner, were replaced with canon fire from the ground. There were other gunships - many Indistinguishable from theirs - that were following Commander Appo and Captain Rex and whomever was going with them - Master Vos, perhaps - to take back the planet surface. Anakin could only wish them the best of luck. For now, he would not be able to help.

He tried not to feel angry with Master Vos. It wasn’t his Idea to take the 501st away from Anakin but he was, In fact, In charge of the men for now and Anakin couldn’t help but feel a little bit bitter, resentment rising up whenever he thought about It.

He tried really hard not to think about It. He had a mission to focus on.

Their gunship veered away from the battle zone, out Into the blank wilderness of the planet, with the other gunships and republic fighters distracting the ground canons and droid troops. It appeared to have been going well. Luke was flying next to them, keeping an eye out and their pilot was still tense, ready for anything.

Anakin should have really known better.

He didn’t know where the shot came from. Honestly, he didn’t have any time to realize something was wrong, even If his body and mind knew It.

The bolt came out of nowhere and suddenly, the ship was smoking.

Luke cursed over the comms. “Where did that come from?!”

Anakin doubted he was actually looking for an answer; It didn’t really matter. The hit would make them go down, sure, but they certainly could get far enough away that the cannon couldn’t fire at them again.

And down they went.

The pilot did a fairly admirable job, although Anakin himself may have done some certain things different. Granted, Anakin was pretty sure he did virtually everything different than others.

They went down In a gorge, the viewport being blinded with smoke, as the pilot did his best to cushion their landing. It wasn’t pretty, of course, but In the end everyone was alive with some Injuries. The pilot punctured his side and Wrecker had to tear apart the ship before It exploded to get him out of there.

“He’s not In any condition to go anywhere,” Kix announced immediately with a frown. In the near distance, Anakin could see Luke landing Obi-Wan’s ship. He could almost hear Arfour screeching Irritably, although she was too far to understand what she may have been communicating. Scolding, If he had to guess by the feeling Luke was semi-projecting.

“Our mission is time sensitive,” Anakin said, Immediately turning back towards the men, not giving Fives any time to say a word. “Kix, you will have to stay with him and find some cover. The rest of us will go to the center on foot to take care of It. We will come back for you after securing a new vehicle,” he added, sweeping his eyes across the men. Fives was near vibrating out of his skin, although he did a fairly admirable job of not letting that show through. Even though, Anakin could feel It, of course.

He side-eyed Luke as the boy came jogging over, his new droid on hopping on his shoulder and R4 Irritably chasing after him. Upon giving the men quick orders to scout the perimeter and make sure there were no other droids around, Anakin finally turned towards Luke. This was so weird.

“Obi-Wan Is going to get worried If you don’t get back up there,” he said.

Luke stopped In front of him, his little droid nearly falling off his shoulder. The boy helped stabilize him. “I can’t give away your position now. If I take off, chances are the droids will spot me from the ground and send troops for you.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong. That was a very possible scenario.

“We have to get out of here, out of the open,” Anakin muttered. “You hid your ship?”

Luke nodded Immediately. “I have a lot of practice,” he smirked. After gathering themselves, the group helped Kix get the pilot out of sight and hidden with Luke’s ship. There was some surviving supplies there that the gunship no longer had, as It had burned up and exploded. Of course, as usual, they had gotten Into some trouble, as some droids started marching through the gorge. Hunter offered to take care of It and hardly waited for an answer when he and his men went to meet the droids. They took care of them with flair and Interest, which Anakin couldn’t help but appreciate.

“We are going to have to move quickly,” Fives said, after all was said and done. “Although the droids were taken out quickly, It would be no difficult thing to get a message back to them.”

“Not only could the droids send reinforcements, but could warn the center,” Hunter agreed.

“Get ready to move,” Anakin ordered. He glanced over at Luke, who was still studying their map with narrowed eyes and taught shoulders. Anakin couldn’t help but think he looked like Obi-Wan, like that. “Luke and I have a call to make.”

The boy looked up, curiously. “We do?” He echoed.

Anakin nodded and ushered him away towards the ship. Kix and the pilot were nearby, but still out of range. R4 wheeled over, beeping of something that sounded like a mutter. “Obi-Wan Is going to kill me,” he groaned under his breath, running his flesh hand along the side of his face. R4 started to spin around as Luke’s little droid hopped off his shoulder and landed on her.

The older knight turned and stared at him for a moment. “You are here. With me; on the ground, in danger and…and…you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“But that isn’t your fault,” Luke shrugged before toggling with the ship’s communication. It was like he knew what Anakin was thinking. Of course, he could have just been thinking the same thing. Luke was a…good Padawan. He was more likely to listen, to check in, whatever. “Ben…Master Kenobi,” he started but before he continued, Obi-Wan’s voice crackled through, the ship. Apparently, the call was finally starting to come through.

“Luke, Freefall and the squad lost sight of you,” Ben said and Anakin could practically hear the frown that was undoubtedly on his face. He was disapproving, of course. Concerned, perhaps. “Where are you?”

“I uhm…”

“Luke.”

“I’m on the surface. I had to protect Master Skywalker’s transport,” Luke explained, quickly rushing the words out but they sounded slightly uneasy.

“You’re on the ground?” Master Kenobi confirmed.

“Yes, master. But I can get back up; I just have to be kinda careful-,” Luke assured.

“No,” Master Kenobi replied, immediately. “No, stay with Anakin. It is a mess in the planet’s atmosphere. At this point in the battle, you probably wouldn’t get through the defenses, even coming from the ground.”

“Master, he doesn’t have a lightsaber,”Anakin cut in.

“I’m good with a blaster,” Luke muttered under his breath.

“He has blasters, and he knows how to use them,” Master Kenobi replied in agreement. Anakin glanced over at Luke, who had taken a small blaster from the ship cockpit and strapped it to his leg. He was still frowning. Both Anakin and Luke knew it. “That being said, Luke, please do not do anything…too much.”

“Too much?”

“I’ll be careful, master,” Luke agreed, with a faint smile. “I know this isn’t supposed to be…my mission. We will be okay. And we will get our information and back to the ship in no time. Granting that you break through the enemy’s blockade.”

A small, vaguely amused, scoff. “It will be done.”

And that was It.

Luke looked smug.

Was he….?

“I told you he wouldn’t be angry,” Luke announced.

Anakin just rolled his eyes.

“Come on. We have to catch up with the others and get this done.”

He was strange, Luke. He didn’t particularly look like Obi-Wan, per say, but he often acted like him. Spoke like him sometimes. There was certain aspects of his behavior or something that was just so…Kenobi.

It made things so…real.

The time travel, the betrayals, everything with this kid, It was all becoming more and more real the more time had passed. Every moment that Anakin spent In Luke’s presence, he could just see the little things, the things that reminded him of well, Obi-Wan. Or Anakin himself, but he wasn’t so full of himself to think he hadn’t picked up any habits or characteristics from his Jedi master. After all, the man had raised him for over half his life.

He raised Luke too. It was strange. Anakin had come to Obi-Wan at nine years old. Luke had been about the same age as well.

The boy kept up with the clones the best he could. He wasn’t especially used to walking long distances for periods of time, as far as Anakin could tell, but he didn’t complain either. He chatted with a couple of the troopers, helped Anakin stop a fight break out between Crosshair and Fives, and managed to figure out a better way through a especially difficult group of plants. Anakin nearly called him a nerd and then thought back to what Luke had said days ago about learning from Obi-Wan; never knowing when It would come In handy.

He talked about a little story behind It, which had, of course, Included Obi-Wan. Force 99 didn’t know about the time travel and perhaps It would have been suspicious, Luke talking about so much time and familiarity with the Jedi, If It had been with anyone else. But the Bad Batch didn’t know about Obi-Wan’s past or much about him really, so It was easy to pass It off as normal. Fives and Anakin, however, they both knew the truth.

They were over halfway there when Anakin finally caught the nerve to talk with the boy. Obi-Wan had told him to have some patience with Luke, but since Anakin knew the truth, It should be fine? The whole reasoning and circumstances around all of these situations and feelings and challenges were strange, but at least Anakin knew the truth. Anger was still burning Inside him like a well-fed furnace. He just needed to keep his mind off of It for a while. Enough to get through the mission, at least.

Even though he was just. So. Angry.

“That was pretty handy, knowing about the plant,” Anakin tried to start a conversation and already It was going poorly. Lame, he thought. Legitimately a pathetic attempt.

“Well, Master Kenobi knows a lot,” Luke shrugged, not looking over at him. “And I spent a LOT of time reading. We were on a small ship a lot so reading and talking Is pretty much the main things to do.”

Anakin nodded. He had spent months on ships, especially during the war. Even before then, when he and Obi-Wan went on missions, they could spend weeks In a ship together at a time, depending on where and what planet the mission was on. At least now, during the war, there were people to talk to, although Anakin usually stuck with Padme or…. Or him.

Sometimes Rex. Sometimes Ahsoka.

“Right,” he agreed. “I heard he’s your master now. I guess… I guess that kind of makes us brothers,” he suggested, although his mind went elsewhere. It wasn’t entirely unusual for padawans under the same master to become close. Sure, plenty of padawans and knights who didn’t share a master were close, often similar to brothers, but there was something about having the same master. Like having the same parent. Anakin had often thought of his master as a father figure, mostly because he didn’t really have one. And after all, Obi-Wan had raised him since he was nine. He knew that Obi-Wan himself pushed a more brotherly role, mostly after he was knighted and an adult. Perhaps It was a way of trying to bond with him. Or something.

Perhaps he could be both.

And not only was Luke now Obi-Wan’s new padawan and therefore, kind of Anakin’s brother, but he was also probably Obi-Wan’s biological son. He didn’t look a whole lot like him, but Anakin was pretty sure that was the scenario that made the most sense. Who else’s kid could Luke be for Obi-Wan to raise the boy while on the run, hunted by none other than Anakin himself? It was hard to Imagine, really. Obi-Wan having a son. Anakin knew that he and Satine loved each other and, at one point, Obi-Wan would have left the Order for her. That was a whole other can of worms that boggled his mind. Obi-Wan said he wouldn’t do It now or anything, but apparently, that didn’t mean he loved her any less. It was just…different. Anakin wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. And then there was Siri Tachi, probably the more likely candidate for Luke’s mother. She was blonde, like him, (although, Anakin thought, so was Satine) but she was also a Jedi. It wasn’t like the Jedi were celibate, or, at least, they didn’t have to be but Anakin rarely heard of anyone having that kind of relationship with others. Granted, It wasn’t really something he wanted to think about. Obi-Wan loved people, sure, as much as he could at least, but It wasn’t usually like that.

His brain was starting to hurt.

“Brothers?” Luke had echoed, quietly, questioningly.

There was a lilt In his voice.

“Uh…yeah… I mean, a lot of times, especially when Masters take one padawan after the first so quickly, they can get kinda close, like brothers. It’s kind of like having the same parent-.”

Luke nearly backtracked so hard, he choked on air.

Anakin stared at him for a moment but Luke looked away real fast.

Alright then.

“-and so often times padawans of the same master can be like brothers,” Anakin just continued, acting as If whatever happened had not just happened. Obviously Luke wanted It that way. “Although sometimes padawans In with other masters, like age mates, can get really close, like siblings too.”

“Like Master Kenobi and Master Vos?” Luke asked, hesitantly.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Or Master Kenobi and Master Unduli,” Luke confirmed.

“Luminara?” Anakin questioned, glancing over at Luke again.

“I cannot wait to meet her,” Luke’s eyes where positively shining now. “Ben has told me so many stories. There Is…” he slowed down a touch. “There are so many people I’ve heard about and want to meet and talk to and train with and just… and just know. I’ve never been able to really know anyone. Except for Ben and I love Be- Master Kenobi, he’s amazing and he’s been practically everything to me. I don’t know how long I’m here but, man, I’m going to be able to make real friends.”

Maybe, Anakin thought. He never really did. Or, at least, he didn’t really keep them.

He wasn’t even sure If Rex would hang around after the war, much less continue to talk with Anakin. But then again, Luke wasn’t Anakin. Although, he also wasn’t sure how the other padawans would let him In. Luke may not have been a slave, but he wasn’t from around here, not from this time. He was too old and hadn’t grown up around any of them, like the other younglings. And If anything that Obi-Wan said was true about Luke’s power - which Anakin figured It probably was - then he was going to be better than the others of his age group, even with a lack of experience. They were going to hold him back and resent him, just like they had with Anakin.

It took a moment for Anakin to realize that Luke was still talking. “- and the others are amazing, I’ve already made some friends. Absolutely mind boggled that I had gotten Master Kenobi as my master. You know, they call him the Sith Killer? Which, like, I get, sure, but It’s still kind of weird because who calls another person something like that right?”

He was rambling, Anakin thought numbly. To him.

And then, just like that, It was gone. Luke had shut down, stiffened and apologized.

The moment was over.

Luke

“I know why you hate me.”

Luke tripped over his own feet.

Perhaps he should have been expecting a conversation. It wasn’t a particularly long journey to their target but apparently long enough for this. They were almost there. He and Master Skywalker had gotten into a comfortable silence - or at least, Luke thought it was comfortable - after his rambling about meeting new people and making friends. And then, out of the blue, he started talking. Did he want It? Absolutely not. Things were weird enough just being around his father - before all the evil, genocide and destruction, he guessed - but his father trying to spark up a conversation? Not only that, did he know? Did Ben tell him? He said he wouldn’t and by goodness, If there was one thing that Luke could count on, It was that Ben had his back and would protect him. But what else could Skywalker being talking about?

“Uhm…” Luke tried to buy a little time for his brain to catch up. It didn’t help much. “He told you,” he added, numbly.

“Yes,” Anakin repeated. “And I don’t blame you for, you know, nearly chopping off my head, not trusting me, generally hating me. Heck, even I hate me currently and It hasn’t even happened yet.”

“Happened yet,” Luke echoed. He supposed that was, technically, true. Senator Amidala wouldn’t be pregnant yet. He wondered, with all the changes, If It would even happen. And what would happen after that. Would there be two Luke’s? Would Senator Amidala name him something different now that she actually knew a Luke? Well, sort of knew.

Master Skywalker Interrupted his spiraling train of thought. “Me turning evil, turning to the dark side. Chasing you, killing people,” he answered.

Luke’s exhale was nearly audible, but he did his best to keep the sound of relief In. Oh, that. “Right, the evil stuff. I mean, It hasn’t even happened yet so…”

“It’s happened for you, though,” he replied with a frown. “I’m just saying, I understand and I am not…not going to hold It against you. I just think that…”

“Look, with all due respect, Master Skywalker,” Luke started, trying to soften any sharpness In his tone. “I have been here for a few days and not only has a LOT happened already, but It’s all a lot to take In and a little more than disorienting. Can you just…please give me a little time to at the very least, adjust? No disrespect Intended, I just, I need to focus and I’m not entirely sure how I feel at the moment.”

The older knight stared at him for a moment. He looked like he was about to say something, but Fives and his Impatience was certainly his saving grace. The trooper came out of the bushes and announced they came upon the outpost. Upon surveilling It, they considered their options.

“We pick ‘em off from the tree line one-by-one?” Hunter asked.

He wasn’t entirely fond of the Idea, Luke could tell.

Fives glanced at General Skywalker. “Actually, I was kinda thinking we could do something from your book, considering the show from earlier. What do you think, General Skywalker?”

“Rush them head on?” General Skywalker grinned subtly.

Hunter chuckled. “I like your style.”

Luke was less fond of that Idea, but this wasn’t his mission and technically, he was, In fact, the stowaway, so he said nothing as they Immediately began firing upon the post. It wasn’t hard for their little group to destroy the entirety of the droids there and go up the elevator Into the post Itself. Taking the droids out was easy enough. As they overtook the outpost, they got visual on the center.

“Thirty droids, minimum,” Tech announced. “A whole platoon coming this way.”

“Someone must have seen our handiwork from before.”

“Or followed the crash from our ship.”

“We have to move swiftly.”

“Keep an eye on those Separatist forces,” Master Skywalker ordered.

“We can use the speeder bikes to flank them from the rear,” Hunter added In.

Taking the center Itself as well was not that difficult either. Or at least, gettingg inside. He couldn’t say they actually took the base. Crosshairs was set up with a sniper rifle and The Batch with Fives and the Jedi? Well, It was overkill for sure. Even though Luke didn’t have a lightsaber, he helped make quick work of the droids with a blaster, alongside the majority of Force 99 and Fives, while Master Skywalker sliced through metal like butter. Hunter was rather fond of his knife, Luke found and Wrecker likes to just throw his weight around.

By the time they got close, a tanker had came through the foliage, letting loose over a dozen super battle droids. Master Skywalker frowned and tossed Luke a key chip. “Fives, Luke, you better get In there to help. We have got this.”

There was no need to argue. Luke holstered his weapon and caught the chip, and alongside the trooper, took off Into the center. “Almost there,” the trooper muttered. Luke had a feeling he wasn’t talking about their currently situation and destination. Finding out his closest friend Is still alive, Luke could Imagine the feeling.

They caught up to Tech In the center and the trooper asked what he was looking for. Luke handed him the card as Fives explained. “Here’s the algorithm that. You are looking for one that uses this sequence.”

“Skako Minor,” Tech reported a moment after. “But It Is a live signal.”

He played a sound, letting It continue for some moments. Fives’ eyes widened.

“What… Is that?”

“It’s him,” he whispered.

“CT-1409,” the computer voice repeated. “CT-1409. CT-1409. CT-1409.”

“We have to go,” Master Skywalker shouted. “We are getting a ride, let’s get out of here.” Shooting their way out, especially with the lightsaber and someone who could use It with them, wasn’t particularly difficult. Although, In all consideration, Fives wasn’t a whole lot of help, still stunned by the revelation and proof that Echo was still alive.

It wasn’t as If Echo hadn’t been told, Luke thought, but he tried to cut him some slack. Upon picking up Kix and the pilot, the skies were already clearing up, although the fight was still raging on when they came back to Luke-Obi-Wan’s starfighter, but It was significantly easier to get through, as the Republic was near decimating the droids and their forces. Luke tried to Ignore the uncomfortable dip In his stomach.

Anakin

Luke did as he did before while fighting towards the planet, now out of It, protecting Anakin’s ship. It was much to his Ire, as the latter was at the controls of the new ship Crosshair had found, but It was better to have more protection than necessary than not enough. Anakin could admit that, he supposed. They had the channel open to let Republic fighters know they were friendly and since they were in a Separatist ship, the droids didn’t really bother them. That didn’t stop Luke from shooting down any that got remotely too close. The droids - being droids - didn’t appear to notice or were quick enough to warn other droids, if they computed it at all. Besides, It was better to keep an eye on Luke. He didn’t want to upset Obi-Wan anymore than he already had by losing his shiny new padawan. Luke was a good pilot and Obi-Wan had been right, great with a blaster.

Anakin supposed that one couldn’t quite use a lightsaber In the open around the galaxy where he was from. Or, rather, when.

Otherwise they would send him after them.

Vader. Darth Vader.

Just the thought of the name made him angry.

At everyone, even himself. He was just so angry and It was getting hotter every time that he thought about It. “Sir, General Tsia and her troops have just arrive to reinforce what will remain here and take over the battle,” someone chimed from behind. His head was so full of rage he couldn’t quite remember who It was.

“We will be going to Skako Minor, I’m sure,” Anakin replied, feeling like he was on auto pilot. “Obi-Wan will probably… I don’t know, go whoever he was supposed to go before. Or something. He probably has a plan.”

“He usually does, sir,” someone else, agreed.

Sometimes that’s what worried him.

Eventually, there was somewhat of reprieve from the battle Itself and their ship, containing the Information and Luke could get back to the Negotiator. Anakin had landed their craft first with Obi-Wan’s new padawan right behind him, but by the time he had gotten out of the ship, he could already hear Luke arguing. And then, upon glance, he found It was just Arfour.

“I know I wasn’t supposed to but It was fine, even Ben said so,” Luke told the droid as he began crawling out of Obi-Wan’s starfighter. Arfour squealed and Luke tapped a trooper, probably quietly asking him to get the droid out of the ship. “Okay, that spin was NOT too fancy, I avoided blasterfire!”

Arfour did not sound Impressed.

Luke just rolled his eyes. “No wonder you and Ben are good partners, you both want to be so…efficient.”

A roll of beeps that were too quiet for Anakin to understand, even as he approached, getting closer. Someone said something behind him but he wasn’t listening.

“Yeah. Yeah! I said It. Big baby,” Luke huffed, jumped from his ship and taking his droid back on his shoulder. She chirped quietly. “Get your systems checked out…yes, of course I’m going to report to B- Master Kenobi. I’m not entirely incompetent, even in this time and place I’m in. Everything is going to be fine.”

Without anything more, Luke turned around and stared heading back into the actual bay, away from the ship, clipping the blaster he had been using to his belt. He had glanced at it for a moment, a little mournfully. He wanted a lightsaber, Anakin realized. Of course, who wouldn’t, and besides, if Luke had started when he was younger, he probably would have already had one. The only reason that he wasn’t on Corscant right now was the Sith. The Sith.

Palpatine.

Rage was seething under his skin, bubbling up in a furnace.

“Whoa there, Master Angry,” Luke’s voiced pulled Anakin away from further thoughts. He was trying to be light and slightly teasing, but Anakin could hear the undercurrent of anxiety layering it. “We won this one, you know? We got the location and on the way up here, it looked like the battle is going really well.”

“I’m not…” Anakin started and then sighed softly. “I’m fine. Let’s just find Obi-Wan so we can figure out our next move is.” Luke just nodded and they both set off for the bridge. As suspected, they found Obi-Wan there, talking with a couple other commanders, officers and others that Anakin didn’t recognize. They waited until the conversation was over. Frankly, Anakin wasn’t really listening.

“Sergeant Hunter and Fives have already updated me on the success,” Obi-Wan said, glancing over at Luke with a raised brow, in a show of not paticularly impressed with what had happened. “Even with the extra set of hands.”

Luke’s smirk was near smug. “Oh you know, the Force works in mysterious ways.”

“Mysterious, indeed,” Obi-Wan almost rolled his eyes and Anakin did his best to keep himself from chuckling. “General Tsia is coming to relieve some of our forces, while we proceed with other ventures.”

“Rescuing Echo?” Anakin asked.

Obi-Wan nodded. “Along with a few other events that I recalled in my meditations. We are…moving quickly. The Chancellor’s celebration on Naboo was a general success, since we had information on the plot this time around. The group of bounty hunters Count Dooku acquired was so obsessed with finding a traitor, they practically tripped over their own feet.”

“What do you mean?”

“A bit of maneuvering with word choice and certain parties believed certain things were happening… that weren’t technically, actually happening,” Obi-Wan pointed out with a half shrug, explaining the situation lightly. Anger was boiling under the surface of Anakin’s skin, although maybe it was more apparent that he would rather like, considering the side eyes and glances he was getting. Anakin wondered just how much people felt when he was this angry. “Dooku got away, of course, but the bounty hunters were apprehended and the… plot was foiled. Now, Anakin, you and Clone Force 99 are going to go to Skako Minor to retrieve our trooper and the destroy any technologies or information that the Separatists may have on us. Sergeant Hunter has the brief and you will be leaving as soon as possible…without Luke,” Obi-Wan’s tone turned slightly teasing and sarcastic as he glanced over at his new padawan.

That was still weird to think about. Speaking of padawans…

“What about Ahsoka?”

“She will be staying with us for now,” Obi-Wan added, although he had turned slightly to the table on the bridge, looking over the maps he had projected onto it.

Something stuck in Anakin’s chest. “I thought they said they weren’t going to take her away from me.”

“Anakin, breathe,” Obi-Wan reminded. “Onderon is one of the stops needed to be made and Ahsoka takes quite a shine to them, if I recall. Besides, she didn’t come with on the this mission last time either. Also, she is scheduled to accompany Master Yoda, Luke, and the younglings to the Gathering. You wouldn’t want her to miss that if your mission happened to go long, would you?”

“Fine, fine, you’re right,” Anakin muttered. As usual.

“We will stop at Onderon, help out a little in that situation…” Obi-Wan drifted off and muttered under his breath, “I think,” and then louder, continued. “By that time, Ahsoka and Luke will go to the Gathering, it’ll probably be time to deal with Maul, stop him from killing a bunch of people, stop him from taking over Mandalore and killing the Duchess and…”

“What?”

“Master,” Luke noted, poking at Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “You’re doing that thing. Let’s just work on what we have, here and now. You know, cross that bridge when we get to it. Skako Minor and Onderon, right?”

“Right, right. I can’t keep track of all this all at once,” Obi-Wan shook his head. “I’m probably forgetting something. Anakin, take Clone Force 99 to Skako Minor and rescue Echo, as well as destroy any information the enemy may have. Upon the outcome, check in with the Council so we can see where we are and what moves to make next.”

Anakin nodded, although that something was still twisting in his chest. Was this what Obi-Wan’s bad feelings felt like? If this is what he felt like all the time with those bad feelings, Anakin had no idea how he got anything done. Maybe it was because he was going to be leaving his padawan or that his men were under the leadership of Master Vos. He didn’t paticularly like any of it. But this mission might keep his mind off of things. It sounded like it would be a good mission for him. Thinking on his feet, rescuing people, probably knocking down some droids with his lightsaber.

“Sir?” a trooper came up to him as Anakin was walking down the halls. It felt aimless, even if he had a destination. He glanced over. The trooper wasn’t familiar to him but then again, there was many men both under him or Obi-Wan. He couldn’t recall them all.

“Yes?”

“You… have a communication,” the trooper replied. “I’m told it’s from the Chancellor.”

That burning was back. The anger as well, in force.

“Uhm… you should probably give that to General Kenobi or even General Vos,” Anakin replied with a frown. Not only was Obi-Wan still probably pretty pissed about the communicator that he had (that Obi-Wan had freaking confiscated) but Anakin didn’t want to talk with Palpatine anyways. He was a Sith Lord. A Sith Lord that had somehow gotten him to torture and murder people for years. Who had gotten him to turn on the Jedi, who had gotten him to try to hunt down Obi-Wan Kenobi like some kind of animal.

All Anakin was feeling was rage. There was no way he would be able to keep that in right now.

“He’s specifically asked for you,” the trooper frowned. “He is… insistent.”

This wasn’t good. Was this Anakin’s bad feeling? He rubbed one his of his head with his flesh hand and tried to suppress his exhausted sigh. “Okay. Fine, which room?” As the trooper relayed the information, Anakin nodded. “I need you to find someone to come and get me reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements, sir?”

“General Kenobi, General Vos, heck, I’d even take Commander Luke. Just find someone, tell them what is going on. They will understand,” Anakin ordered. The trooper just nodded and immediately went to accomplish his task in a timely manner which honestly, Anakin couldn’t help but appreciate.

Taking his own time getting to the communications room assigned was probably not a good idea, although Anakin could not stop himself from being hesitant and overthinking every moment. He was angry. So angry. This man had pretended to be his friend. He trusted him.

Too much, apparently.

The Chancellor was waiting for him in blue in the dark room, another trooper standing patiently – but no less awkwardly – in the corner. “Thank you, trooper, you can go now,” Anakin gave permission, and he could feel the tidal wave of relief and appreciation as he scuttled on out of the room. He wished he could go with him.

“Anakin!” the Chancellor greeted, cheerfully. So happy to see him.

Anakin would rather throw up.

“It is so good to finally get in contact with you, my boy,” Palpatine smiled, all warm and kindly and Anakin both was relieved and hated knowing that it was all fake. “Things must be very busy, considering you didn’t come see me when you were on Coruscant and you haven’t been answering your comm unit… and you weren’t able to join the festival and celebration on Naboo. A certain… native senator was rather disappointed.”

And now he was using Padme’s name. Or rather, a reference to her. That just pissed him off more. “It has been very busy. I heard that there was a kidnapping attempt.”

“Ah yes, of course it was foiled by the jedi,” Palpatine pointed out. “Although I do believe it wouldn’t have gotten so far if you had been the one on the case and protecting me.”

“My…duties called me elsewhere.”

“Of course, of course. You are the Jedi’s best and brightest. It’s just too bad they cannot offer you a break once in a while.”

Was he still trying to manipulate him? What was he doing? Everything was so confusing, going from one moment thinking he could trust Palpatine and the next, Obi-Wan, of all people, from the future, telling him all the horrible things this person had gotten Anakin to do.

“The mission was… time sensitive,” Anakin replied, slowly.

“Oh? I hadn’t heard from anything from the Jedi Council. I cannot imagine what they would hide from me,” Palpatine looked almost offended, but mostly hurt.

It was a façade, Anakin reminded himself. It was all a trick, all a trap, and he hated that he fell for it.

“It just kind of… happened,” Anakin tried to correct the course, trying not to fumble over his words. It wasn’t…entirely a lie. Could Palpatine see through him anyways? He wished Obi-Wan was here. He would know exactly what to say, in this exact scenario.

He just wanted Obi-Wan here.

“Well, personally, I –,” Palpatine started but he was interrupted by the door opening, with Anakin glancing over to see who it was.

Please be Obi-Wan, Anakin asked.

It wasn’t Obi-Wan.

“Master Skywalker?” Luke asked, raising his eyebrow, curiously. He took a quick, gestural glance towards the hall. “There was…”

“Hi, hello, uh, yes, Luke, thank you for coming. Do you know when…when Master Kenobi will be here?” Anakin near blurted out. Luke’s brow furrowed, confused and perhaps a tad suspicious but it only took him a beat to play along. As if Anakin had expecting him.

“I am sure he will be here any minute,” Luke replied, vaguely.

“Oh my,” Palpatine hummed. Anakin tried not to cringe as he forced himself to turn back towards the hologram. “Who is this fine young man? Did you take on another padawan, Master Skywalker?” the teasing was light and the smirk evident but it still made Anakin’s stomach churn. He hoped Palpatine couldn’t feel his rage from across the galaxy.

“Jedi are permitted to have only one padawan at a time, Chancellor,” Anakin replied, cordially.

“Will you not introduce us, Master Jedi?”

You should stay away from all of the padawans, you Sith Anakin thought to himself bitterly. Luke glanced at him, shoulders back and face drawn tight. “Right. Of course. Chancellor Palpatine, this is…Padawan Luke. Padawan, this is Supreme Chancellor Palpatine of the Galactic Republic.”

Palpatine probably couldn’t feel it, but Anakin certainly could. He could feel the fear, the anger, the desperation and grief rolling from Luke, practically in tidal waves. Anakin didn’t think anyone but him could feel like that. It was strange and a little worrying to feel it off of someone else.

“It is…my honor to meet you, Chancellor,” Luke forced out. Anakin could hear the low wheeze as the boy tried to keep his voice level and calm. He was not calm. Anakin could relate.

“If you aren’t Anakin’s padawan, then you must be Master Kenobi’s,” Palpatine noted, curiously. Anakin couldn’t make out the undertone. “I wasn’t aware that he had… took on another apprentice. You must be quite extraordinary for Master Kenobi to take you on at such a time.”

“He’s something else, that’s for sure,” Anakin forced out, unsure how to take this line Palpatine was feeding in.

“Master Kenobi truly must have his hands full. I’m a bit surprised that the Council gave him more duties and responsibilities. But, I suppose, this also means, Anakin, that you will be leading more on your own. Perhaps this is a sign that they are beginning to trust you and your abilities,” he praised lightly.

Starting to. Beginning to. Trust.

Yeah right. The Council didn’t trust him. They couldn’t. Not knowing what he would do in the future. For once, how could Anakin even blame them. After all, he led to their genocide.

“Chancellor Palpatine,” Obi-Wan’s smooth tone didn’t even skip a beat, his voice so level and even that there was nothing to be gleaned in terms of his feelings when he looked at Palpatine. Nothing at least, except for the barest quickness in pace of his heart and the ever so slight heavier in breath. “I am afraid that we must be moving. We have several missions and battlefields to attend too and a lot of ground to cover. Is there anything we can help you with in the moment?”

“Ah, Master Kenobi. It is good to see you up and around. I heard that you had been rather badly injured. That was the reason that Master Skywalker was not seen by many during your time on Coruscant.”

“I am…functional,” Obi-Wan replied, smoothly. “And our time planet side was very brief but the docket was full. There was little time for socialization.”

“Of course, of course,” Palpatine conceded. “We are all very busy in this time of war.”

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan agreed, voice still flowing as smooth as a river over flat stone. “Just as currently. Is there anything we can help you with, Chancellor? Unfortunately, we are on a bit of a timetable currently,” His gaze was piercing, a bit daring, but he was backing him into a corner.

“I suppose there no longer is, Master Kenobi,” Palpatine frowned subtly. Obi-Wan bid him good day and barely gave him the chance to reply before hanging up. There was a brief pause in the silence.

“Thank you,” Anakin whispered.

“I will not be able to keep you from him forever,” Obi-Wan replied, soft and mournful. “And try as I will. But you must learn to control your feelings around him, to see him… to see him the way you once did.”

“Easier said than done,” Anakin sighed. “He is a Sith and he…he is not my friend.”

“He is your friend, for now at least. Or, I suppose, a pseudo friend. Anakin, you must not let him get suspicious of anything awry,” Obi-Wan explained seriously. He looked up at Anakin, the latter barely seeing Luke melt into the shadows of the dark corner, trying to keep out of the conversation. “I will keep you from him for as long as I feasibly can, you will know this, but in the end, you will confront him. And there will be a choice to make.”

I’ll choose you, master, Anakin vowed. Always.

#fanfiction #star wars #star wars au #au #revolving suns #revolving suns au #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #luke skywalker #quinlan vos #the bad batch #bad batch #it's been a while #i don't remember what tags i usually use sorry

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2demon2slayer · 9 months

Note

quick question for my next fanfiction about your sun hashira au but

have they faced off against upper moons yet?

like hashira inosuke zenitsu tanjiro with just random slayer uzui against gyutaro and daki???

or just not yet, they havent been seen for fifty years...

and if they have what are those battles like? i mean uzui was the sole reason that they defeated gyutaro and daki but like... three hashira. one normal guy. not one hashira and three normal guys.

okay so like no super spoilers, but to your question, no upper moon encounters have happened in the sun hashira's tsuguko au. they don't start happening until the tsuguko squad start rolling in

but another lower moon gets packed up like once every other year probably. the year that the majority of the current hashira became hashira (points to my backgrounds post, a lot of the hashira got promoted at around the same time) they fucking annihilated the lower moons

there have technically been a handful of encounters with upper moons, but nobody's done any killing. questionably kanao and aoi's shared teacher (because they do share a teacher) may or may not have been a hashira who was killed by douma?? and also at some point inosuke meets douma and finds out about his mom from the guy, but doesn't get a chance to kill him or be killed by him.

and tanjirou has, at this point, encountered muzan once, which is what led him to meeting yushirou and tamayo

#kny #demon slayer #queries #sun hashira and tsuguko au #also i haven't really plotted it out #but here's a tidbit of the future for you guys:#the entertainment district arc is probably gonna go . kinda differently than in canon #but it revolves around the group that is inosuke giyuu sabito tengen obanai and kyoujurou #and shenanigans do occur

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naffeclipse · 2 years

Text

In the Club with the Revolver

FNAF Detective!Sun & Detective!Moon x Vigilante!Reader (SFW)

“You’ve already done something, haven’t you?” he groans, frustrated and about to say something more but you whirl around to face him.

“Detective Sun,” you stand on the edge of the dance floor, looking up at his tall frame as you hold up your entwined hands, “If you’re going to accuse me of a crime, at least let me commit one first.”

He grows still before he seems to register where you both are. You reach up to place your hand on his shoulder, flashing your teeth in a devil may care smile. You know he can’t resist. Torn somewhere between heaven and hell, his hand slowly comes to rest on your hip. The faint pressure sends a shiver through you. There he is. You pull him further into the crowd, not entirely out of place as you sway and hold onto each other.

Word Count: ~9,200 Warnings: Guns. Blood. Death. Corpses.

A/N: I'm back with more of @starlightcloudbaby 's delicious Detective AU because I'm still suffering from brain rot. I wanted to do a little something with the boys actually sleuthing and maybe (definitely) some self-indulgent dancing and hijinks. Enjoy!

#fnaf sb #fnaf security breach #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf daycare attendant #detective au #i'm sorry if this piece is too much alkdjfasdf #i just really wanted something spicy with a hint of murder mystery on the side #i also tried to make the title work as a clue reference #but ah we'll see if that makes sense to anyone lol #but here ya go *drops this and crawls under a rock*#fic: in the club with the revolver

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etherbonded · 1 year

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" I'LL DRAG YOU TO HELL RIGHT BY MY SIDE SHIDO MASAYOSHI,

THERE WILL BE NO ESCAPING YOUR FATE SO LONG AS I CAN HELP IT. "

She begged him, she pleaded with him to marry her, to give mercy to their child. Promising to always be by his side and never be disruptive, to be his TOOL and PUPPET of a wife. And after seeing her pathetic performance, he chose to marry her, to give her child a good life.

She's doomed herself just like her own mother when she married her bastard of a father.

So when she accidentally stumbles into the metaverse the night of their marriage with Shido being god knows where, she awakens her rebellion, her persona Laufey. And from that moment on she knew what she had to do.

Play along in Shido's game, and when Goro is near the end of his high school years and Shido thinks everything will be safe between them. She'll strike and take the last breath of the man who killed Wakaba ( her first and dearest friend ) and for the sake of her son.

But for now, she plays the role of a sweet fragile mother as she slowly chips off his associates by causing mental shut downs.

And god forbid someone try and stop her revenge.

#the sun who revolved around her world╰┈➤ HIMARI AKECHI #PATH DIVERGENCE ╰┈➤I'll bloody my hands in the sake of vengeance and happiness #( mamakechi and shido getting married and her trying to kill him + destroy him from the inside out au!! :D )#( black mask mamakechi )

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manicpixiefelix · 4 months

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head, heart, hand. {Oliver/Reader/Felix}

It had been a long time since your world has revolved around anyone but Felix Catton. He was like that; undeniably, unassumingly magnetic. You'd watched countless fawning, fairweather friends drawn into his orbit, only to be cast out when he eventually got bored of them, but not you, never you. Maybe you were a toy in the beginning, the thing they'd all called you when they were feeling especially petty, but it became clear that Felix has wanted to keep you around.

You weren't a toy, you weren't family, you were a sharp and beautiful tool, too good, too useful to be put down. Your loyalty was rewarded with a life in his shape. Felix was like the sun, and you lived your life enjoying his warmth, and wanting to keep him shining.

And there's something about the way Oliver Quick thinks and talks that you almost recognise. The others call him a toy but the look in his eyes says he's capable of so much more than that. Oliver Quick is not one to be tossed aside either, and you'll do all you can to make Felix see that too.

The three of you; head, heart, hand.

Oliver thinks. Felix feels. You do.

Need to Know: established fwb!Felix/reader, there will be smut, Oliver is a weird obsessive perv and reader recognises and is pretty into it, obviously manipulation, AU with a happy poly ending

[ IN PROGRESS ]

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

Part Seventeen

Part Eighteen

Part Nineteen

Part Twenty

Part Twenty-One

Part Twenty-Two

Part Twenty-Three

Part Twenty-Four

Part Twenty-Five

Part Twenty-Six

Part Twenty-Seven

Part Twenty-Eight

Part Twenty-Nine

Part Thirty

Part Thirty-One

Part Thirty-Two

Part Thirty-Three

Part Thirty-Four

Part Thirty-Five

Part Thirty-Six

Coda

[ PLUS + ]

a long way down to the bottom of the river - SALTBURN CANON ENDING AU (angst / one-shot)

never wanted anything from you (except everything you had) - SALTBURN CANON ENDING AU 2 (Oliver/Reader / fluff / one-shot)

seen and not heard - Felix & Reader's First Meeting (fluff / one-shot)

all this, and love too (will ruin us) - Reader Murders Oliver For Trying To Kill Felix (Felix/Reader / angst / one-shot)

he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) // epilogue - Reader Dies At The Maze Instead Of Felix (Felix/Oliver / heavy angst / two-shot)

alone with you - Felix Won't Believe The Reader's Dead (Felix/Reader / heavy angst / one-shot)

and other things that happened by the red staircase - Felix Fingers His Cousin (humour / one-shot)

at the other end of the leash - Felix Beats The Shit Out Of Someone For Trying To Assault The Reader (hurt/comfort / one-shot)

they stare at me (and i stare at you) - CEO!Reader AU With Enemies-To-Lovers (Felix/Reader / miniseries)

love the hand that feeds you - puppy play smut (Felix/Reader/Oliver / post head, heart, hand canon / one-shot)

Ask Box Vignettes;

Reader's Family History of Wealth

Felix/Reader - Joking About The Future

Felix/Reader - Sick Day

Felix/Reader/Oliver - Attending Colin & Araminta's Wedding (Crazy Rich Asians Crossover)

AU Tags;

Vampire AU

Fae AU (ft. Demifae!Oliver)

Crazy Rich Asians Crossover

Oliver & Reader Siblings AU

CEO!Reader AU

Felix Catton's Adventures in Employment

THE TAGLIST IS ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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Unrelated Fics & Headcanons;

baby, put your back into it - {Farleigh/Reader/Oliver} - (pwp / two-shot)

Euphoria AU - (12 Years Post Saltburn Canon / dot point headcanons)

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Other Tags;

#manic-writer; all fics

#it-shouts-back; all asks

#manicpixieart; my posts

#saltburn #felix catton x reader #oliver quick x reader #felix catton imagine #oliver quick imagine #felix catton x reader x oliver quick #saltburn imagine #saltburn x reader #felix catton x y/n #oliver quick x y/n #felix catton x you #oliver quick x you #felix catton x you x oliver quick #manicpixieart #manic writer

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1800jjbarnes · 7 months

Text

◇ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟐 : 𝐒𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤/𝐒𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 - 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 ◇

【Synopsis】 : Your two professors were more than happy to show you some tips and tricks to help you study.

『W.C』 : 1.36k

-> Genre: Colleg Au. Suggestive.

Pairing: Professor!Stucky x Student!Reader

[Warnings] : Swearing. Pet names. Hints of sex. Teasing. Dirty talk. Some man handling. Some pussy play hehe.

Masterlist | Kinktober List | Part Two

There was a secret code in college, an unspoken rule if you will. Never, ever, by any means, fall in love, or sleep with your professors. And yes, they might be handsome, and they might be only seven or so in age difference. But never, EVER, be romantically or sexually involved. And this rule stuck by most students and more professors. There were young girls who always fawned over the brooding, tall, and mysterious drinks of water known as their English or History teachers. And boys that would whisper among themselves who was the hottest, Ms. Romanoff, the Health and fitness teacher, or Mrs. Maximoff, the criminology professor.

But you? You swore the minute you only got barely accepted to the college―since you were late for the cut―that you would not look at your teachers in such an inappropriate and unprofessional way. Besides, you were one day going to be joining them as a professor once you pass your training exam. You always wanted to teach visual arts and Theater and this college has allowed you not only to study such majors and degrees but also train so that one day you’ll be able to teach them yourself to others.

You worked hard, studied instead of sleeping. Sleeping instead of hanging out with friends. Your life revolved around your work, and yet when you met the stand-in, since your normal teacher was away for a couple of weeks. It was like your brain no longer understood how to function. And the worst part…

Theres two of them.

Both are strong, tall, and deviously handsome. One had a voice so deep you could feel the vibrations of his vocals every time he spoke, and the other had eyes as piercing as the sun and a smile that could kill. To say they were your ideal type would be an understatement. And what was the icing on the cake? They are huge. Beefy broad shoulders, thick biceps and thighs, heavy chests. They were like super soldiers, and oh, how that made you swoon. Wanting nothing more than for them to pick you up and throw you around as if you weighed nothing. If you were to stand in between them, you surely would be caged in the best way possible.

You met them during the first term, six months ago. And every day since was a little unspoken game of cat and mouse. You didn’t flirt at first, still wanting to be professional but as your late hours at the library grew or the time spent sitting in an empty classroom for some quiet as your dorm was too loud to considerate became more common. Mr Rogers and Mr Barnes came to your aid to help you with your studies, of course. First, they would sit at the front of the classroom while you were at a row of desks. They would explain about being a teacher, cheat sheets of sorts, and tips for when to do your first training shift. Helping you understand the ins and outs of navigating college students. And then it slowly moved to one of them sitting next to you, Mr Rogers, you could smell his cologne, the musk of his natural scent. His arm would brush yours, occasionally making you see how his large biceps were. And they were definitely the same if not larger than your thighs. Your body felt so small next to him.

And then Mr Barnes sat on the other side of you. The feeling of being caged was coming to reality, and it was burning a fire inside of you. You tried to brush away these feelings. They are your professors, after all and one day, co-workers, not some school crush to dot over. But they were so smooth-talking, charming, with flirtatious smiles, and your mind couldn’t help but wonder since they are so naturally big, were they big else where…

“You get all that peach?” Mr Rogers's voice snapped you out of your lewd thoughts, redness suddenly pooling on your cheeks. You see that’s why Mr Rogers had given you such a nickname, Peach, was because of the shade of pink your cheeks would be whenever he made eye contact with you. Deep down you knew your professor shouldn’t be nicknaming his student but then again you didn’t take the classes they taught, and the longer you thought about it, the more okay it was to flirt back. After all, you were all adults.

“You seem a bit distracted today?” Mr Barnes grumbled behind you, making a shiver dance down your back. My god, if that man sounded like that on a regular, you wondered what his bedroom voice sounded like, or even better, his morning voice. “Is something bothering you?” he asked, placing his large hand on your shoulder, stopping you from turning to the side to see him. No, instead, he slowly rubbed his fingers deep into your tense muscle, making you feel relief surge through you. You almost forgot to answer the question, too focused on the older man's hands doing wonders on your shoulders.

“I-I uhmm…” You were lost, suddenly feeling Mr Rogers's hand grip the top part of your thigh, rubbing circles on your exposed flesh where the hem of your shorts are. “It’s just. M-mr Rogers…”

“Don’t worry, Peach, and I said already. Call me Steve. We are going to be co-workers soon. You should address me and Bucky as such.” He included his friend and co-worker at the end, letting you know what you’ve been told for the thousandth time, call them by their first names. “You seem tense, darling. What could ever be the cause of so much tension in this pretty body of yours.”

Your eyes snapped open now, looking at Mr Rog―uh you mean Steve―in his intense stare. Did he just call you darling? Now, your face was definitely redder than a tomato at this point. “S-Steve…”

Steve groaned, biting his lip while rolling his eyes slightly. he had to pull back for a second before returning his hand to your thigh. “God, my name sounds so good when you say it.”

You looked away for a moment, feeling your heart was going to beat right out of your chest. The next thing you knew, a pair of large beefy arms pulled you by your waist until your ass was placed onto a board, hard, lap. “Say my name Doll Face. I wanna hear what my name sounds like coming off your pretty lips.” All barriers were gone and lines were being crossed. But none of you cared anyone. The flirtation became too much, more so for the men it seems and with Bucky's lips finding the sweet spot behind your ear you couldn’t help but moan;

“Bucky…”

“Fuck, that’s it. Such a good girl.” The hold Buck had on you got tighter, and his huge biceps caged your back against his heavy chest. Your mind was spinning at the sheer thought that all Bucky and Steve had to do was squeeze you tight enough that you’d break. They are so much bigger than you, stronger than you. They could throw you around and do as they pleased to you and all you could―would―do is lay back and take it.

“We knew you’d be such a good girl for us peach. Just look at you, head empty already when we have barely touched you.” Steve chuckled, squeezing your thigh, letting his long fingers slip towards where you needed them most. “you want us to touch you, darling? Teach you some real lessons?” He emphasized the word ‘real’, all knowing that He and Bucky were going to teach you anything but a real lesson in this moment.

“Please…” you retched out for Steve, gripping his perfectly iron button-up, pulling him towards you. “Please show me…” He drew his lips to yours quickly as Bucky bit down onto your shoulder while his hands loosely move to open your legs, letting Steve cup your entire wet cunt with his huge hand. You were most definitely in for a night of your life.

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ja3hwa · 7 months

Text

♡ 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟐: 𝐒𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤/𝐒𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 - 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐢 ♡

【sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs】 : Your two professors were more than happy to show you some tips and tricks to help you study.

『ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ』 : 1.36k

-> ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Colleg Au. Suggestive.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Professor!Yungi x Student!Reader

[ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs] : Swearing. Pet names. Hints of sex. Teasing. Dirty talk. Some man handling. Mingi and Yunho are HUGE.

Thank you, @mixling-blog, @yugy-oh, and @senpai-of-doom, for requesting Mingi and Yunho for this day. ♡♡♡

Note: I actually forgot to finish this day, and I'm so sorry. So I'll be making a part 2 once kinktober is done cause I had this whole idea but i just lost track of all the fics and this one got put on the bottom of my list by accident ahhhh.

Masterlist | Navigation | Kinktober List

There was a secret code in college, an unspoken rule if you will. Never, ever, by any means, fall in love, or sleep with your professors. And yes, they might be handsome, and they might be only seven or so in age difference. But never, EVER, be romantically or sexually involved. And this rule stuck by most students and more professors. There were young girls who always fawned over the brooding, tall, and mysterious drinks of water known as their music or mathematics teachers. And boys that would whisper among themselves who was the hottest, Ms. Kim, the science teacher, or Mrs. Park, the criminology professor.

Theres two of them.

You met them during the first term, six months ago. And every day since was a little unspoken game of cat and mouse. You didn’t flirt at first, still wanting to be professional but as your late hours at the library grew or the time spent sitting in an empty classroom for some quiet as your dorm was too loud to considerate became more common. Mr Park and Mr Jung came to your aid to help you with your studies, of course. First, they would sit at the front of the classroom while you were at a row of desks. They would explain about being a teacher, cheat sheets of sorts, and tips for when to do your first training shift. Helping you understand the ins and outs of navigating college students. And then it slowly moved to one of them sitting next to you, Mr Song, you could smell his cologne, the musk of his natural scent. His arm would brush yours, occasionally making you see how his large biceps were. And they were definitely the same if not larger than your thighs. Your body felt so small next to him.

And then Mr Jung sat on the other side of you. The feeling of being caged was coming to reality, and it was burning a fire inside of you. You tried to brush away these feelings. They are your professors, after all and one day, co-workers, not some school crush to dot over. But they were so smooth-talking, charming, with flirtatious smiles, and your mind couldn’t help but wonder since they are so naturally big, were they big else where…

“You get all that peach?” Mr Jung’s voice snapped you out of your lewd thoughts, redness suddenly pooling on your cheeks. You see that’s why Mr Jung had given you such a nickname, Peach, was because of the shade of pink your cheeks would be whenever he made eye contact with you. Deep down you knew your professor shouldn’t be nicknaming his student but then again you didn’t take the classes they taught, and the longer you thought about it, the more okay it was to flirt back. After all, you were all adults.

“You seem a bit distracted today?” Mr Song grumbled behind you, making a shiver dance down your back. My god, if that man sounded like that on a regular, you wondered what his bedroom voice sounded like, or even better, his morning voice. “Is something bothering you?” he asked, placing his large hand on your shoulder, stopping you from turning to the side to see him. No, instead, he slowly rubbed his fingers deep into your tense muscle, making you feel relief surge through you. You almost forgot to answer the question, too focused on the older man's hands doing wonders on your shoulders.

“I-I uhmm…” You were lost, suddenly feeling Mr Jung’s hand grip the top part of your thigh, rubbing circles on your exposed flesh where the hem of your shorts are. “It’s just. M-mr Jung…”

“Don’t worry, Peach, and I said already. Call me Yunho. We are going to be co-workers soon. You should address me and Mingi as such.” He included his friend and co-worker at the end, letting you know what you’ve been told for the thousandth time, call them by their first names. “You seem tense, darling. What could ever be the cause of so much tension in this pretty body of yours.”

Your eyes snapped open now, looking at Mr Jung―uh you mean Yunho―in his intense stare. Did he just call you darling? Now, your face was definitely redder than a tomato at this point. “Y-Yunho…”

Yunho groaned, biting his lip while rolling his eyes slightly. he had to pull back for a second before returning his hand to your thigh. “God, my name sounds so good when you say it.”

You looked away for a moment, feeling your heart was going to beat right out of your chest. The next thing you knew, a pair of large beefy arms pulled you by your waist until your ass was placed onto a board, hard, lap. “Say my name Doll Face. I wanna hear what my name sounds like coming off your pretty lips.” All barriers were gone and lines were being crossed. But none of you cared anyone. The flirtation became too much, more so for the men it seems and with Mingi’s lips finding the sweet spot behind your ear you couldn’t help but moan;

“Mingi…”

“Fuck, that’s it. Such a good girl.” The hold Min had on you got tighter, and his huge biceps caged your back against his heavy chest. Your mind was spinning at the sheer thought that all Mingi and Yunho had to do was squeeze you tight enough that you’d break. They are so much bigger than you, stronger than you. They could throw you around and do as they pleased to you and all you could―would―do is lay back and take it.

“We knew you’d be such a good girl for us peach. Just look at you, head empty already when we have barely touched you.” Yunho chuckled, squeezing your thigh, letting his long fingers slip towards where you needed them most. “you want us to touch you, darling? Teach you some real lessons?” He emphasized the word ‘real’, all knowing that He and Mingi were going to teach you anything but a real lesson in this moment.

“Please…” you retched out for Yunho, gripping his perfectly iron button-up, pulling him towards you. “Please show me…” He drew his lips to yours quickly as Mingi’s bit down onto your shoulder while his hands loosely move to open your legs, letting Yunho cup your entire wet cunt with his huge hand. You were most definitely in for a night of your life.

-♥︎

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azsazz · 4 months

Text

Midnight Muse (Part 5)

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 4,069

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Masterlist]

_________________________________________

“All I’m saying is that I think he’s pretty cute,” Feyre scoffs, defensively.

Since you’d moved in, it seems as though your entire life revolves around the boys living next door.

While you’d finally gotten the sleep you deserved last night, something had felt…off. The other side of the wall was almost too quiet as you lay in the darkness, still awaiting sleep to take you in its hold, even though your body had been aching for sleep for so long. All night, there wasn’t a peep from the asshole sharing the wall. You knew it had to be Az living on the other side, there was no way in fucking hell that it wasn’t, but the lack of music blaring through the walls felt like a dream, almost.

You shoved the thoughts from your mind in the early hours of the morning, hastily getting ready for your day. Your first day of classes, and you wouldn’t let him ruin even that. Now, the sun shines brightly on you and Feyre as you walk to your first class of the day, Drawing 201.

You had made your schedules match up as much as they could. With Feyre being an art student as well, she had declared her major in oil painting, whereas you aren’t sure what medium you’d like to get into. All you know is that there’s something drawing you towards the arts, and thankfully, you still have time to take electives and try new classes to see if anything sticks.

The only classes you hadn’t been able to take together were your non-art related ones. Feyre seems to know exactly what her path is in life, minoring in business because she wants to open a gallery one day and figured having an understanding of what goes into owning her own business would be helpful.

You, on the other hand, had opted for a creative writing class to fulfill that requirement for your college degree. It is a semester filled with imagination and artistry, searching for that missing piece of your soul, trying to find it along the way.

Feyre has her drawing pad tucked under an arm as she walks. Yours is held in a similar fashion, the obnoxiously large pad of paper bigger than your torso. Her golden-brown hair is tied back into a loose bun that she makes look effortless. If you were to try and recreate the same hairstyle, you’d look like a rat. She’s clad in a plain t-shirt and jeans, simple for the balmy weather, not wanting to wear something nicer only to have charcoal and paints splashed over it by the end of the day.

The two of you had been talking about your neighbors, having seen one of them driving off in his vintage car that somehow always seemed to be parked outside of the building. Its paint was red and rusted, metal rotting through. You weren’t even sure that the car was in running condition, but it gave a splutter of black smoke as he rolled away and you wondered if it would make it the few blocks down to campus.

It was the last roommate, the one you don’t know the name of. He’s large and bulky, muscles seeming to nearly split the seams of any shirt he covered his torso with. The one who had seemed to be the least volatile, that is, until he shut the door in your face for the final time that dreadful night.

The building is old, but the classroom is spacious and drab. Concrete floors adorned with paint that hadn’t come off, dried clay chipping into dust, the room shared with many different classes working with many different mediums. The white walls brighten the room, the sun casting through the windows bouncing off of it and creating intriguing lighting to work with. Art horses are lined up in a circle, surrounding a mattress with a navy blue sheet spread across its lumpy surface. It smells of both paint and graphite, the scent comforting as a part of you settles, shoulders relaxing as you revel in it.

Accustomed to the setup, you realize that you’re going to be jumping right into the class and will be drawing today. Last year, the most memorable moment in your first life drawing class ever was the oldest man you’ve ever seen being the nude model. Of course, that was the day that your professor had each student drawing a close-up of a specific part of the model’s body, and you’d so luckily gotten to draw his low-hanging, wrinkly balls. Lovely.

You shudder as the memory resurfaces, following Feyre to a seat. You drop your bag to the floor, setting up your own sketchpad, before pulling out the necessary materials you’ll be needing for class.

You roll your eyes in response to her statement. “I didn’t say they weren’t cute, I said that they’re assholes.” Despite your quiet night, you can’t help but wonder about Az, thinking about his brooding nature and stupidly charming face as you drifted off to sleep in the loud quiet of your room.

Students trickle in one by one. A group of girls stride in, laughing about something that happened at a bar over their weekend. Another girl follows, but it’s clear that she isn’t in their group. She’s pretty, with chic, ice blue glasses perched on her button nose, her striking white hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

Your attention shifts to the boy that follows her in, and your jaw almost drops.

He’s handsome—no, he’s much more than that, you just can’t formulate the words twisting your thoughts and tongue into knots. Maybe after your creative writing class you’d be able to describe his sheer beauty. He has the most luxurious copper hair you’ve ever seen. It cascades across his broad shoulders, a braid on either side, caressing his face. He’s tall, too, an entire head—maybe even more—taller than the white-haired girl he’s bounding behind. His straight nose is flecked with freckles and his fox-shaped face is utterly devastating.

When his gaze finds yours, you feel as though you’re pinned to the art horse beneath you. He has one russet eye, and the other is golden. You want to commit it to memory, curse yourself for not bringing your colored pencils, stare right into those very eyes until you’ve gotten each stroke of his iris’ perfect. He’s mesmerizing, and the closer he moves, you start to make out the fine scar that slashes through that gold eye and his eyebrow above. It’s his only flaw, but only adds to his intimidating aura.

“Hi,” he greets, sliding into the empty seat next to you. You have to look up at him, even sitting, and something in your stomach stirs. “I’m Lucien.”

“(Y/N),” you respond numbly, thrown by his beauty. He’s wearing a loose button-up in the color moss, dark trousers, and even nicer shoes. He doesn’t look anything like an art student. Law, maybe. “Nice to meet you.”

You fumble with your art case as he holds out his hand for you to shake. Cheeks heating, you give him a bashful smile, sliding your hand into his. It’s warm, encapsulating the entirety of your own, and the longer your hand sits in his, the wider his pleasant smile becomes. “You as well,” he responds, then leans over to introduce himself to Feyre. With your back to him, you give her an ‘oh my gods, look how gorgeous he is’ look, and she responds with an elbow to your side, acknowledging that she sees just how gorgeous he is.

This year is determined to kill you, with all of the handsome men you’ve seen so far. Lucien maybe even more so, with how delightful he already is.

You can hardly even remember what you were conversing with Feyre about now that Lucien has entered the room. You couldn’t even remember if one of your neighbors waltzed right into the roo—

Fuck.

Of fucking course.

It’s the one roommate you don’t know the name of. The one who’d been driving away when you and your roommate left for campus this morning, waltzing into the room as if he owns the place.

His frame takes up the entire doorway, and you find yourself wondering if that’s his thing. Precious Azzy’s is being loud, Rhys’ is that forked tongue of his, and this one’s is filling any space with his massive body.

He enters the room with a swagger that has all of the girls swooning, carefree and confident. He oozes masculinity, barrel chested and tall. You didn’t know that he was in this class, though. When Rhys has said that they were juniors, you thought they’d be in the 300 classes, not 200s.

Now might be as good a time as ever to ask, though, because his hazel gaze sparks in recognition when he glances your way, and he beelines over to you.

“Well, hello there ladies,” he greets with a seemingly genuine smile. He had been the nicest of the three when you and Feyre had almost knocked their door clean from its hinges, but he had also shut the door on you. Plus, with your not-so-great experiences with his roommates, your body is tense, prepared for the worst. “You’re taking this class?”

Feyre takes the bait on this one, and you’re well aware that Lucien is listening in, despite the fact that he’s pulled his satchel into his lap and is unloading his own supplies. “Yeah, it’s required for sophomores. Are you in it as well?”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a sinful smile. Wolfish, almost. “You could say that.” You open your mouth to speak but he’s turning towards Lucien, smile broadening into something practically wicked, sticking his hand out to introduce himself. “I’m Cassian, man. Nice to meet you.”

“Lucien,” he replies politely, though you don’t miss the slight grimace on his face when Cassian clenches his fingers in his own. You smother a laugh because Cassian looks like he could break all of the bones in Lucien’s hand with just a little more pressure if he wanted to.

The trifecta is complete. You finally have all three names, though you only know Az through his nicknames alone. Or maybe his name is Azzy. Maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy all of the time.

Whatever. You don’t care.

After introducing yourself and Feyre to Cassian, he leans in closer. He smells earthy, like freshly turned dirt and smoked wood. It reaches out to you like roots in the ground, and it’s refreshing, to say the least.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” he starts, and you nearly recoil. You were expecting him to come in here with the arrogance his roommates seem to share, not this sincere politeness dripping from his words. His hazel eyes are earnest as you inspect him, his soft smile a touch guilty, if anything. “It’s just that I’ve got to side with my roommates. You can understand that, right?”

“You don’t even know what he did,” you answer, trying not to grumble. Your brows are pinched and you watch Cassian take note of that. Az had been a complete prick for no reason, and that’s just not cool in your books.

Cassian winces, dropping back an inch or two. His voice is low, more of a whisper than you thought someone of his size would be able to make. “It’s not really my place to say, but Azriel had had a rough day. And no, that doesn’t excuse his actions, but you did threaten to tow his bike, and he doesn’t take that lightly. But hey, it had nothing really to do with me, so I’m willing to look past it if you are.”

Azriel. Aa full name to a face and well, it kind of suits him. The angel of death. A shiver wracks your spine.

With that permanent scowl, he certainly looks the part.

And, this isn’t the apology you expected, but it’s a truce, a peace offering between neighbors. Maybe, if you accept, Cassian will be able to pass along the message of ‘shut the fuck up after midnight’ to Azriel.

You share a look with Feyre, contemplating. It seems as though she’s thinking similarly to you because she smiles up at Cassian, agreeing. “We’d love that.”

Cassian beams, straightening to his full height. Fuck, he’s huge.

He looks as if he may say something more, but the professor enters the room and calls his name. He shoots you and Feyre a cheeky grin. “That’s me,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll come get your numbers after class. Try not to enjoy it too much, ladies.” With a wink, he turns, gliding across the room with an ease someone built like a brick wall should have.

Your eyes follow him as he stalks towards the teacher, all grins and positivity. Maybe he isn’t like his broody, rude roommates. The teacher asks him something and he’s nodding along as if he’s done this before and is being reminded of what’s expected of him for this class. He roots around in the bag slung over his shoulder and pulls something out as he makes his way towards the door. Maybe he’s not enrolled in your class and only needed to speak to the professor?

“Welcome to Drawing 201,” the professor greets, clapping her hands together to gain the attention of the room. The murmurs soften as she speaks, students ready to have their talents molded by her intelligence. “My name is Ms. Woods, but you can call me Alis.”

You don’t miss Cassain slipping back into the room as Alis walks you through warm up exercises and best practices for the class. Your fingers are already coated with charcoal from where you’d roughly outlined shapes of Feyre’s body for warm ups. The curves on your paper become more and more fluid as you get into the familiar motions of drawing.

“What do you think he’s doing here?” you murmur to Feyre, still watching where Cassian is crouched low as if he wouldn’t be able to hear the professor from his full height. While you’re turned this way, you catch Lucien peeking at you over his shoulder for a fleeting moment, and before your gaze can snag his, he’s turning back to his own work.

Feyre shrugs, studying the lines of your face. “You don’t think he’s the—”

“This is Cassian,” Alis interrupts, stealing your attention from your roommate and your drawing. It’s nothing more than a mess of rough shapes, looking nothing like her at all, but you’re trusting the process. Only a minute's time isn’t long enough for more than that.

Cassian is no longer wearing his loose jeans and tight t-shirt. Instead, he dons a thick, gray robe. The fabric doesn’t nearly drape far enough down, his gloriously tanned and muscular legs on full display, showing off an intricate tattoo from his knees, creeping up underneath the fabric. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, following the lines of muscle all the way up as Alis continues, “He’s going to be our model for the day.”

You’re not the only one who chokes at the news. Girls and guys alike are blushing in their seats, and Cassian can hardly contain the smug smirk threatening to split his face in two. He winks over at you and Feyre who share a wide-eyed look. Lucien scoffs lightly, and your jaw snaps shut, pink heating your cheeks as well.

You busy yourself by flipping to a new page in your pad. It’s crisp and white, not at all as interesting as you’re trying to make it seem as you avoid Cassian’s mirth-filled stare. You smooth the paper with your hand, and it’s shaking slightly with anticipation. Your new neighbor who’s just offered a truce, and you’re already going to be seeing him naked.

Would it have been weirder to be mad at him and stare at his naked form, or now, when a ceasefire has been declared and you’re somewhat on the road to becoming friends?

You don’t have the chance to think further on it because Cassian moves into the circle towards the lone mattress on the floor as Alis explains how the time spent in class is going to be divided. There will be a few three minute sketching sessions where you are to get down as much of his form as you can, while Cassian continuously changes poses. Following that, there will be two fifteen minute sessions, a break, and a final longer session where you’ll focus more on detail than form.

He slides out of his shoes, and you swallow roughly as he undoes the ties to his robe. Thankfully, he’s not looking at you, watching your intent gaze pinned to his tanned skin. The fabric slides from his broad shoulders, down, exposing the muscles of his back. The less fabric that shows, the more tattoos you see, covering both arms and licking across his chest. His waist pulls in tight and you have to bite your lip to hold back a noise in the completely silent room. Rippling muscles line his body, corded and thick in all of the right places. You can’t help it, staring unabashed because he’s turned away from you, your eyes falling from the inky whorls of tattoos across his shoulders, down through the cavern of the muscle lining his spine, all the way down to his tight ass.

All of the students are entrapped by his beauty, as if he’s aphrodite reincarnated. Two dimples poke in the base of his spine that you want to lean forward and dip your tongue into, but then he’s shifting a little and his cock is on full display.

The stick of charcoal in your fingers snaps in half.

You hope you get that facing you for the few hours you’ll be here.

Next to you, Lucien tuts under his breath, but even he can’t seem to look away from the Greek God standing before you.

Alis instructs Cassian into his first pose and then addresses the class. “Alright, your time begins now.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

You don’t know how you’re able to focus on anything other than the cock draped so prettily across his abdomen.

Cassian looks as relaxed as ever, splayed out across the blue sheet on the mattress, one arm tucked beneath his head, eyes shut, and breathing even as if he might have actually fallen asleep.

With the late nights you know he and his roommates tend to have, you wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.

You lose yourself in the quiet of the classroom, nothing but the sounds of long strokes or chalk against paper, the scratch of quick sharp lines being drawn. There’s the occasional murmur of advice or comments from Alis as she makes her rounds, weaving through students spread throughout the room.

Drawing the contours of his muscle is no easy feat. Packed layer upon layer from years or hard work spent in the gym, you rub the dark soot into your drawing pad. It’s calming, sweeping the charcoal over the white space to create shadows the lighting paints across his body.

His tattoos take some effort, even though Alis had said not to worry about those, that getting his form down was more important, but you can’t help yourself. You’ve always been interested in people’s tattoos and the stories behind them, the significance or lack thereof for some, despite having none of your own. You draw them with an extra care, trying your best not to make up reasons as to why he might have them. Now that you’re going to be on friendly terms, maybe you can ask him the meaning behind them yourself.

Eventually, Alis’ timer goes off, the ringtone the same as your phone, and for a fleeting moment your body reacts as if it’s your own alarm going off, a slight twist in your stomach as your body locks for a moment. You put down your chunk of charcoal as Cassian sits up, dusting your fingers off and admiring your drawing, comparing it to the model once more before he tugs on his robe.

Feyre stands to stretch, her back popping as she twists around. You wipe the soot from your hands on a cloth and grab your water bottle, the crisp water wetting your parched throat.

Lucien leans over, copper hair cascading over his shoulder and almost brushing your arm in the process. You wouldn’t mind, it looks silky smooth and the smell of his hair oil makes you want to lean in a little closer. He studies your work as you drink and eventually, with a smirk, says, “You have quite an eye for detail.”

You splutter and he bites his pink lip, trying to smother his smile. He gives you the most innocent look he can muster, but he doesn’t know that you have a retort on the tip of your tongue, just as soon as you stop choking.

“You sound a little bit jealous there, Lucien.”

Feyre laughs and he gapes dramatically, “Maybe, a little.”

You can’t help but to chuckle at his antics, the rest of your classmates packing up around you. Cassian’s disappeared from the room already, probably in the restroom changing, and you wonder if he’ll be back for your number like he promised.

In the meantime, you pack your things away, stuffing your extra chalks of charcoal back into your case, along with your cloth and kneaded eraser. You feel confident in the work you’ve done today, so with a last glance at your drawing, you flip your pad shut, taking Feyre’s for her and walking with Lucien to stash them in the assigned drawer you and Feyre share.

“So, are you an art major?” you ask, waiting for the crowd around the shelves to dissipate a little.

He cuts you a suspicious look, but it’s playful. “You didn’t get a glimpse of my drawing, did you? I suppose I can’t blame you with a model looking like that, but it’s entirely awful,” he states, and you stare up at him in disbelief.

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” you argue, and his lips thin a little as he flips open his drawing pad just enough for only you to see. It’s difficult to hold in the laugh trying to burst from your throat.

Lucien winces but a puff of laughter follows that makes your shoulders ease. “I told you it was shit, your face only confirmed it!”

There’s no coming back from this one, so you decide to play into it.

“Okay, it’s not great, but I’ve definitely seen worse. You should’ve seen my stuff from last year.”

Lucien rolls his eyes, stepping forward in line. “Oh, I’m sure it was nothing like the gorgeous drawing you’ve managed to pull out of your ass in two hours today,” he scoffs, and you elbow him in the arm gently. “Your drawing literally looks like a photograph!”

It doesn’t, but your cheeks heat at his compliment anyway.

“I might’ve been doing this a little longer than you have,” you defend. Since you could hold a crayon, to be exact.

He huffs, stuffing his pad into a drawer and offering to help you with yours and Feyres. He pulls your drawer open and you slide the pads inside, stepping out of the way so others can crowd him as he closes up and follows you back to your seats. “Well, then you might have to help me out, because I thought that taking a few drawing classes would help me with my renderings for architecture, but those are all straight lines and circles and this is all curved lines and cock.”

You can’t help but laugh this time, leaning over your horse to pack away the rest of your supplies. Feyre’s all ready to go, face buried in her phone as she texts someone, fingers tapping quickly on the screen.

“You know, if you remove yourself from what you’re looking at, this is all just lines and circles too.”

Lucien slings his satchel over his shoulder, staring down at you with those mesmerizing eyes that shine when he speaks. “Would you want to explain that further sometime, over coffee perhaps?”

You’re a little shocked by his bluntness, but you grin and nod nonetheless. “I’d like that.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Midnight Muse Taglist: @going-through-shit @honeycriess @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @sakurafrost3-blog @imxnotxhere @bookishbroadwaybish @justdreamstars @i-am-infinite @whichwitchisthebitch @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @sia-r @acourtofbatboydreams @hannzoaks @judig92 @ilikefictionalmen @harrystylesfan2686 @dr4g0ngirl @vellichor01 @hirah-yummar @girl-who-writes-stuff @lees-chaotic-brain @konaanaria13 @emiler-love @yourdorkiness @azrielsstarlight

#azriel #azriel x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #midnight muse #art school au #azriel au #tattoo arstist!azriel

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dapndots · 2 years

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Thinkin bout my wild west security breach au.. and Springtrap redemption au…., what if COMBINE the two 🤔🤔

#daprandom #i actually don’t think I’ve posted my Wild West security breach doodles… 😭#they mostly revolve around sun and moon tho 😅 but I have been thinkin ideas for the rest of the crew too!#as for the redepemtion au.. hm #I still need to work out at least *some* plot #but yeah that’s comin up *tips hat*

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softlyspector · 8 months

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Summary: All you do is want, while Joel worries he won't ever be enough.

Find out how it started: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~9.2k

Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, just the barest hint of angst/argument, the ‘believes they’re hard to love, loving them is like breathing’ trope, tattoos and getting tattooed (the process isn’t really described), reader is touch adverse, vague mentions of a past abusive relationship, insecurity, self confidence issues, abandonment issues, anxiety, lots and lots of intimacy and touching, mentions of arousal, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this

A/N: Hello, so here we are at the final part of this lil four part thing. This fic owns a piece of my heart now, and I hope it's found somewhere to live in yours too. It's special for a lot of reasons, but the support its gotten has really been something incredible. Thank you for being so kind and lovely.

Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

Joel glances up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor. A lock of gray hair falls to the middle of his forehead. You reach down, without thinking, and push it back into place, letting your fingers trail through his hair. He always wears it so carefully parted to the side, especially now that he’s let it grow out a little longer.

You picture him standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom brushing his hair and feel something warm and fluttery beat against your ribs.

The image comes easily because it’s not something you have to imagine but remember—Joel tilting his chin down, eyes on his reflection in silvery morning light.

Pink stains the tips of his ears when you let his hair slip softly from between your fingers.

“Yeah, I did,” he disagrees before laboring to his feet. You hook one hand beneath his elbow and help him up. His knees pop and he hisses. “It’s past due we fixed it, anyhow. Past time I let you get back to your own life,” he continues, not pulling his arm away from your hand as he stoops down to shove the screwdriver in his hand back into the toolbox on the floor.

You like the way he says we.

You rub your thumb against the inside of his elbow as he straightens again with a groan that means his back is aching again. “Well, now you get your house back to yourself,” you tease.

“Ain’t like you’re trouble to have around,” he grumbles.

You keep a steady pressure on his arm, because you like the way his skin feels under your hand, warm and pliant, like he’s been in the sun. You like the way you can feel the shift of muscle and the micro jump of tendon beneath your fingertips.

You don’t like admitting to yourself that you like touching him, that you like the way he lets you hold on to him but so rarely tries the same with you.

But, you’ve come to realize over the last week, where you shy away from touch, Joel craves it; he’s positively starved for it. He tries his best to hide that he wants for anything at all, but you see it.

He would never ask for anything from you; it’s anathema to who he is, to ask for care. He’s stubborn and a little proud.

When the locks that fit your door weren’t in stock at the local hardware store and Joel insisted on you staying with him until they came in, you saw that want first hand.

He’d been busy for so many years—with work and his kids and his business and his brother. He’d lived in a busy house with a revolving door of people who constantly needed him. And now, he lives alone and away from his kids. His schedule is one he sets for himself, with easy, quiet days. His girls are busy, Tommy has his own family, and his house is empty.

Maybe Joel would never admit it, but he is lonely.

Staying with him for a week had shown you just how much he wanted—touch and companionship and company—and just how absolutely solitary his days were, especially in the evenings. Guilt like a tide had washed over you. How closely he paid attention to you, how cautious and watchful and giving he’s been, and you haven't really done the same. You haven’t tried to give him anything, to meet him somewhere in the middle. You hadn’t even thought of it.

“Thank you for letting me stay with you this week,” you say, releasing his arm to press your hand against his spine, rubbing gently. It’s easier that way, you find, subtly giving, easing hurts he wouldn’t admit to. “And for changing the locks. You’re too good to me.”

“No trouble,” he assures you again, quickly. “It’s too quiet without my girls livin’ with me. It was nice. Havin’ you around.” He clears his throat and bushes past the admission. “Anyhow. I’ll let you get settled back in.”

You frown at him, but Joel only puts an arm around your waist and leans in to press a kiss to your temple and then your cheek. “You call me if you need somethin’. Anything.” He says it against your skin, his lips warm and slightly chapped. “Even for nothin’.”

You close your eyes and absorb that affection, let it sink deep into your body, into your blood and bones, the ventricles of your heart.

For a moment, all you can feel is him breathing against you—the patient, steady rise and fall of his breath—before he starts to pull away. You don’t want him to go, you aren’t ready to be parted from him.

You aren’t ready to let him go.

“Joel,” you say and cup your hand around his wrist to keep him in place. “Wait. Why don’t you come in? For some coffee?”

He meets your eyes, searches your gaze for a long moment there in the doorway of your apartment. His brows relax, his mouth softens, and you know he knows exactly what you’re doing, that he’s been found out. He thinks it’s pity and not cloying sweetness, not needling want and a building codependency that you don’t particularly mind driving your request. “Sweetheart—”

“Please? I don’t want to be alone just yet.”

A few pleading words are all it takes for him to crumble. He nods and relents, “All right. Just for a minute, I have a client this afternoon.”

“Okay,” you nod and pull him inside. You snap the door shut behind you and make a show of locking your brand new locks.

Joel rolls his eyes at you, but doesn’t comment, settling himself at your kitchen table instead, toolbox tucked between his feet on the floor. The morning light paints him in sunburst orange and bumblebee gold, rays falling like a halo around him. He taps his fingers against the muraled, painted surface of the table, tracing the lines with one blunt nail.

Unfamiliar want bubbles up in you again. You want to touch him again.

Already.

You just let go of him.

It’s an ache, right in the center of your chest. It feels like something pulsing and raw, infectious and torn.

You’d like to plant yourself against his side and sit in the brutally warm, fall Texan sun shining so innocently through the slats of your blinds.

Cured. Clean.

That’s what you’d be, if you allowed yourself to reach out and grab it.

Instead, you cup your hands against the sides of his face and stroke your thumbs over his graying beard.

You half expect him to pull away, to jolt out of your hands, like you would. And though he does look startled, he doesn’t pull away. Hazel eyes flick up to meet yours. You trace the scar on the bridge of his nose with one finger. “Thank you,” you say again, just so he’ll hear it even if he won’t respond to it. “You don’t have to worry about me but you do.”

He pulls one of your hands away from his face and nods, staring down at the lines on your palm before he hooks your pointer fingers together. “‘Course I have to.”

You keep stroking his cheek, the soft bristles of his beard catching on your fingertips. “Of course,” you say. “It’s what you do.”

Joel thinks you look beautiful. He also thinks you look wistful, with later October light falling in drafts around your shoulders—merigold, sunshine, sepia.

For once, you aren’t looking back at him. Joel catches you looking at him all the time now, mostly at his hands, chancing glances from the corner of your eyes like he would mind you looking. If he thought more of himself, he’d probably say you look at him with a dreamy cut to your gaze.

Your feet are propped on the porch railing. Your jeans and scuffed sneakers are splattered with bright splotches of paint. His guitar is across your lap and Ellie is next to you, teaching you, he supposes. Or at the very least correcting you occasionally as the two of you talk. You say something and she tilts back with a full bodied laugh.

You’d worked with Sarah and Ellie all day, painting the chicken coop in bright swatches of pastel blush and lavender. It sticks out something awful, but he’d said you could paint it however you wanted and he meant it.

Any way Joel cut it, he was outvoted three to one anyhow.

He thinks you probably let Sarah influence the color palette more than you let on, and that makes something ache deep in his chest.

Joel’s not exactly good at saying what he feels, he knows that. He’s always known it.

But he can build you a chicken coop. He can fix your locks and your door and worry about your safety and drive to get you in the middle of the night. He can sketch out tattoo designs until his wrist aches and make you a million cups of coffee.

And you decided to share part of what he gave you with Sarah and Ellie. Whether you know it or not, it means something to him. It brings a tight feeling to the back of his throat.

Though the afternoon is mild, you’re wrapped up in a flannel over your t-shirt. It’s his flannel from that first night he spent at your kitchen table; the one you haven’t given back and that he doesn’t want back.

Joel keeps his eyes on you as he finishes up the last of the chores that needed doing. His back is aching again, a flare of pain that starts at the base of his spine and ends behind his ears.

It was lucky, maybe, that you’d convinced him, in your offhand way, to get chickens instead of horses, that he decided that was the best thing to give you. He isn’t sure he could keep up with much more than what he has.

“You’re staring again,” Sarah says from behind him.

“I’m not,” he snaps.

“It’s okay to stare at your girlfriend, dad,” she says and he can hear the laughter in her voice, the damn teasing.

Joel winces. “That is not—we ain’t—” Not yet. You aren’t anything yet. Maybe not ever.

You’ve bloomed in the last month or so. Opened up, shiny and blush bright. You’re still that watchful little doe, but now you’re one that recognizes something kind.

Not so skittish, not so afraid.

And that’s good, that’s something. But he worries. Worries you’ll start to see he’s nothing but an old man waiting around for his kids to visit, for his brother not to be busy with his family, for you to pay him any mind.

You surely noticed it weeks ago when you stayed with him those few days, all that painful, solitary loneliness that happened so quickly. Maybe you’d noticed it earlier than that, when you stopped coming by the shop after your first tattoo and his days went lonesome again too. It’s not like he has been subtle about how much your absence smarted.

He’s not sure when his life slowed down so much, when he suddenly looked around and realized he missed the noise.

Maybe he’s been the one to pry you open, but if you wanted something better for yourself, something more, he’d have to let you go. It doesn’t diminish all that time he’d spent gaining your trust, that trust he’s still trying to grasp at some days. He doesn’t want you to be burdened by his loneliness, to feel weighed down with it, to feel trapped by it, to feel like it’s your responsibility.

Joel already worries that’s already the case, with how often you’d ended up at his house in the evenings over the past month. But he isn’t strong enough to make you stop.

Still, he could never live with himself, if he were next in a long line to make you feel helpless and trapped.

Sarah rolls her eyes and herds the second stubborn goat into the barn and shuts the gate. “If you say so,” she says. “I’m gonna get Ellie and head out. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Okay, baby girl,” Joel says. Sarah fits herself into his arms and he presses a kiss to her hair. “Thanks for the help. Be safe.”

She pulls away and nods, jogging across the yard without looking back to hop the little fence that separates it from the driveway. He watches Sarah say goodbye to you, the way your mouth lifts in a smile, the way you move the guitar from your lap and lean forward when she climbs the steps to give you a hug.

Ellie gives you a much briefer hug, one armed and slightly stiff before she follows Sarah. He lifts a hand to her, knowing Ellie won’t come over and say goodbye the way Sarah does. She pulls a face at him and waves back as she climbs in the car.

When they disappear in a cloud of red dust at the end of the drive, you lean back and stare down at the guitar again, adjusting the positioning of your fingers on the strings as though nothing of note just happened.

Maybe, nothing of note has happened.

You’d hugged them so easily, smiled at them so warmly. He’s grateful for it, that ease you have with them, that you feel safe and secure. It makes something warm and protective and territorial for all three of you settle in around his ribs.

His girls and you.

Your mouth pulls down at the corners as he watches you clumsily reposition your other hand along the frets.

He tries to repress a smile and glances away from you to continue his work. A poorly struck chord followed by a frustrated sigh echoes across the yard.

You ain’t exactly a natural with the instrument, though you try.

Joel taught Sarah and Ellie to play when they were young. He taught Tommy, when their mother didn’t have time to. He’s happy to teach you now, too.

More notes float on the air, curl into the whispering leaves that skitter along the drive. You aren’t doing so bad, he thinks, when the music suddenly stops.

He turns to peer over his shoulder at you.

You’ve taken your feet off the railing and have folded your arms along it instead, chin leaning on your forearms, head tipped to the side, guitar propped between your knees. “Joel?”

“Honey?” He answers, and you smile. The effect is like being lit from the inside out. You brighten and there’s sunshine in his soul, in all the dark places in his chest.

“Will you play for me?” You uncross one arm to hold your hand out to him, like you could reach him from there if you tried hard enough.

“You were doin’ just fine at it,” he calls back, escorting the chickens as gently as he can into their newly painted home.

You smile at him again. “I know. But I want to hear you and it’s getting dark anyway.”

“Guess so,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just a minute, darlin’.”

You nod and grab the guitar again to settle it in your lap.

The evening light is bleeding gold through the boughs of the oak that overhang the driveway, the whispers of autumnal, purpled shadows bruise the horizon as the sun sinks ever lower.

With the other goat and his lone sheep herded into the barn, he crosses back to the porch where you’ve lit a lantern and tucked yourself deep into one of the rocking chairs. The blanket he keeps folded over the back of one of the chairs is now curled over your lap. You look cozy, too warm, in the lingering heat of the day. He takes up residence next to you, picking up the guitar you’ve abandoned in his seat. “What would you like to hear, darlin’?”

It had taken a week’s worth of needling for him to play for you, but now he wants to do it all the time.

“Whatever you want to play for me, Joel,” you say, bracing your elbow on the arm of the chair to lean your chin on your hand, eyes already closed.

He plucks idly at the strings, watching your face. You put yourself in his hands so easily these days, without thought or worry. There’s trust in its purest form in your expression, like you’d laid yourself at his doorstep. He can’t imagine you closing your eyes like that, relaxed and at peace, even a few weeks ago.

Joel says your name, watches your eyes blink open, the peaceful little spell broken. You pull back, sitting up straight. Doe eyes meet his, round with question. “Joel?”

“I just wanted to say how pretty you look this evenin’.”

You transform, bloom, duck your head and say nothing. The air is rose colored, heavy with the scent of magnolia.

You aren’t exactly good at taking compliments, either. But that’s something you’re both working on.

“Hey,” he says. You look up and lean toward him again, like you’re so ready to drop yourself into his waiting hands.

And when he reaches for you, you do.

Joel cups his hands against your jaw, and leans in to kiss you. Your mouth is soft against his. You taste like autumn air, and like the spiked sweet tea at your elbow. When you pull back, your eyes are oceans, like soil, like smooth, dark glass.

You also have a dot of bright paint on your cheek that he hadn’t noticed before.

He sweeps his thumb over it and finds it’s stuck there.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Got a bit a’ paint there.” He presses his thumb over it. “I like it.”

You pout at him, watchful eyes hooked into his. “Are you ever going to play for me or are you just going to make fun of me?”

He chuckles and releases your face. “I would never make fun of you, honey.”

“Good,” you say as he strums the strings again. “Or I’ll never paint another chicken coop for you again. Not even if your girls help.”

He likes that you tease him, that you feel comfortable enough. He smiles, stares down at the toe of his boot. “You know you didn’t have to let ‘em.”

“Let them what?”

“Help. Y’know, create a monstrosity,” he gestures to the monstrosity in question, the pink and purple slightly washed out against the blush of the setting sun. “I built it for you.”

Your foot nudges against his and he looks up to find you already gazing at him. There’s something vulnerable in your eyes, something soft and unafraid. “I know. I wanted them to help. I like spending time with them, Joel.”

He nods and you smile. “Colors are kind of awful, though. Looks like one of Sarah’s old dollhouses. Thought you’d do a mural, like your table.”

You laugh, and the sound is something he wishes he could capture, box up inside him and never release. “But it’s mine, like you said. And chicken dollhouse chic is what we were aiming for.”

He snorts, but he feels better about it. “That so?”

“Yeah. Now, play something for me?” You request again softly.

Joel mentally shifts through the catalog of songs he could play for you before settling on a song. When he glances back at you, you’ve once again closed your eyes. Orange light, flippant and fleeting, has drifted across your face in a fiery bar as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. You glow in that beautiful light.

He itches to do something other than play the guitar for you.

Although he’s painted you as a doe more times than he can count, he’s never attempted to actually capture your likeness. He could never do you justice, so he just shouldn’t try. It would be embarrassing enough, if you ever found out that you’ve been the source of all his creativity the last few months. That you are his muse.

The plum color on the horizon has darkened, the navy of the encroaching night feathering against the tops of the trees.

You’ve settled back into a peaceful position, eyes closed as you listen.

He plays through a couple of songs before he glances up again and finds you watching him, your gaze focused on his hands. “Will you ever sing for me?” You ask softly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

He hasn’t sung since his girls were little, not to anyone anyway, and not to anyone that could tell him his voice was terrible.

Even still, he’s never been more tempted.

“No,” he says, even though denying you anything is hard. “You don’t want to hear me sing, honey.”

“But you have such a pretty voice,” you disagree.

He plucks out a final note, music hovering in the air. “That just ain’t true,” he shakes his head and leans the guitar carefully against the bannister. Night has fully fallen, your face is shaded in shadow when he looks at you. “Do you want to stay with me?”

Joel’s offered a few other times, because he always wants you to stay. That week you’d stayed with him while he waited for your new locks to come in at the hardware store had been kind to him. He’d gotten used to your presence in his house embarrassingly quick, and when he got the call that the locks had been delivered, it was like ice sliding down his spine. He’d forgotten, in just days, that you didn’t actually live with him.

That was weeks ago.

And since then, you haven’t stayed.

You usually, always, decline and then he drives you home.

But today is different.

You reach out a hand to him and fold your fingers around his. “Yes,” you sigh.

“Sure?” He asks, surprised. “It’s no bother to drive you home, honey.”

“I’m sure. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll always gladly have you.”

Your lips curve up, and you duck your head. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

Joel burns whatever he attempts to make on the stove for dinner. He turns to you, with spatula in hand and an irritated tilt to his brows, and asks if you’d like to ride into town to eat at Flu’s.

You agree, and go, still laughing when Joel pulls onto the main road. He grouses under his breath the entire way to town, but he holds your hand against the center console. And when you get to Flu’s he opens the passenger side door for you, then the diner’s door, his hand held lightly against your spine. He tucks his legs around yours under the table, knees and calves brushing together. The diner’s lights are dim and cozy.

He looks soft, in that buttery light. The hard edges of his face ironed out, smile lines and crow’s feet divoted into his skin. He holds your hand on the table, and you watch his fingers more than his face, the rounded swell of his knuckles, the veins in the back of his hand, the knob of his wrist, on which he always wore an old watch that had long stopped ticking. When you’re apart, you find yourself daydreaming of his hands, scarred and broad and warm.

Joel insists on paying, doesn’t let you even consider doing it.

When you climb back into the truck, he puts one hand on your thigh and you sink back into your seat, warm and full and content. You slide your hand over his and feel the rough calluses on the tips of his fingers.

When you close your eyes, you see him working in the sun, poking fun at you while you and Sarah and Ellie paint the chicken coop, squinting through the bright light. He still smells like sun, like warm skin and his cologne and faintly of sweat and whatever thing he’d burned on the stove earlier.

When Joel kissed you that first time, he opened a door in you, one that’s impossible to shut and that does nothing but want.

You’ve never craved touch like you crave his. Even when you feel like you don’t want to be touched at all, you think his hand would be tolerable, would be okay.

You’re painfully aware that part of his appeal is knowing that he would always let you go, that he always knows when it's time to leave you be. And the times you don’t want him to touch you, have been shrinking.

Lately, all you want is for him to fold his fingers between yours, touch the bare skin at the small of your back, to trace your spine up between your shoulder blades, or cup his palm over the back of your neck and tuck you into him.

When you get back to his place, it’s still pretty early in the evening, and all you can think of is ways to get him to touch you again. He turns on the battery powered radio that sits on the porch, perpetually set low on an oldies station.

You can’t look away from him, something like agony twisting in your chest, like there’s a knife between your lungs. He’s talking about something, gesturing across the yard with one hand, his other tangled with yours. Joel’s thumb strokes little circles against the back of your hand, each pass like a bolt of addictive lightning. It’s not enough. His hand in yours is no longer enough.

Joel doesn’t protest when you pull him to his feet when a new song starts up. He gives what you don’t ask for but desperately want. He drags you into his chest and slides his arm around your back, tucking you in close to him. You can hear his heartbeat, feel it pulsing in his chest. He tilts around the porch with you for a long time, even when the music is interrupted by obnoxious ads.

He hums along under his breath and when you slip your hands beneath his shirt to rest against his bare skin, you can feel the vibrations of his voice against your fingers.

You wish you could sink your hands inside him, just to be a little closer. It feels so strange to want that. You’ve never been held that gently before, it loosens a knot you didn’t know existed in the core of your chest.

And you think, even when things with your ex had been good, when he hadn’t been yelling at you or bruising you with a tattoo you didn’t want, he had never held you gently or with such love.

When you pull back, Joel lets you go. There is no fuss about it; there is no guilt.

Eventually, you go inside.

He lets you shower first, just like he always had when you stayed with him before.

After, you watch him brush his hair and then his teeth and something painfully sharp gets caught up inside your chest. It’s hard to breathe around that feeling, that ache.

You watch him get ready for bed, and you watch him groan when he has to stoop down to pick a pair of socks up off of the floor, and you feel something more than warmth flood your heart. It unravels, spools through your veins, and it's so warm it burns.

Joel catches you looking at him, as he often does these days.

He smiles at you, the lines by his eyes crinkling up. He looks domestic in a heather gray t-shirt that sits loose on his frame, pajama bottoms that look as though they’ve seen a few too many years, and glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You all right?”

You nod. “Really good, Joel.”

That gets a little laugh out of him. “Must be worn out,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed. You lie back and curl on your side, watching him adjust his pillows, admiring the shape of his hands as he goes, remembering what they looked like sun drenched and warm in the yard. He drags his knuckle over the curve of your cheek and neither you nor your body remembers to flinch away. “After all that paintin’ and gettin’ me to dance.”

“It was fun though, wasn’t it?” You ask, suppressing the urge to trace the length of his spine through his shirt. “You liked dancing with me.” You clutch the pillow tighter to your chest and dip your chin into the fabric.

He takes his glasses off and then finally lies down next to you. Nerves burst in your belly when he turns to look at you. “I enjoyed it very much, sweetheart.”

“Good.” You wriggle a bit closer to him.

He watches you and then offers a place for you to fit yourself against his side. You slide in close to him, tucking your hands between his body and yours, slotting your nose against the dip of his collarbone.

He smells good there, like soap and something that’s purely Joel and so soothing, like sage and pine.

“This what you been wantin’, huh?” He asks, stroking your back slowly. You stiffen but he chuckles into your hair. “I mean that in a nice way.”

You lick your lips, feel the shift of muscle beneath your cheek as he reaches to turn off the lamp. There’s no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I know,” he says against your forehead. “Me, too.”

You settle against him, the feeling of his palm sliding over your shirt, up and down, tapping over your spine, soothes you. Your stomach flips when his hand drags along the bare skin at your hip.

If you could dig a trench into his bones, take cover there, you would. And still that wouldn’t be close enough.

“Joel,” you say, tracing your hand over his chest.

For once, your voice seems to encourage more than caution and he doesn’t stop touching you. His hand slides higher again and your breath hitches.

It feels so nice, like all the empty places inside you are slowly being colored in, shaded in emerald green and butter, sunshine yellow, jewel bright blue and blush pink.

You curl into him, shakily pressing the hand on his chest up to his neck. You cup your palm there and Joel turns on his side. His hair is soft and a little damp when you dig your fingers into it, the scent of him wrapping around you, cradling you close and safe. Joel touches his forehead very gently to yours, his breath fanning across your lips.

He waits for you.

You close the distance between you, and press your mouth to his.

He sighs into you, his grip tightening on your waist for a moment, and you push yourself closer to the circle of warmth that is his body.

His fingers graze the edge of your shirt, then push it up, rough palms sliding over your back again. His hand is so big, so warm, it spans your back and then covers your ribs. You gasp into his mouth when the pad of his thumb caresses the curve of your breast.

Goosebumps erupt along your body. “Joel,” you murmur against his mouth.

“Mhm,” he hums. “I know, honey. I got you.”

He touches you there again but doesn’t go any further. You shiver and press your mouth back to his, tasting the mint of his toothpaste when his tongue slips into your mouth.

Moonlight filters pale and bright into his bedroom, and when you pull away his eyes are dark, hungry. You wish you had the courage to feed that gaze, but you aren’t there yet. A stab of guilt pierces your lungs. He’s so patient with you, and you can’t help but wonder if one day that patience might run out.

Instead of lingering on that, on wondering how much time you could possibly ask him to give, you offer him something else. “Can I show you my tattoos?”

He blinks at you, pink, kiss swollen lips parting. “If you want.”

“But do you want to see?”

“Baby,” he touches your cheek, traces the line of your jaw. “I’ve been dreamin’ about it since you told me about ‘em.”

You squirm, embarrassment crawling up the inside of your belly. “You have?”

“Mm.” He kisses you again, his mouth lingering long against yours. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, his breath against yours. “I think about you all the time.”

You get your knees beneath you and push up from your place beside him. Joel turns on his back when you swing one leg over his waist and find yourself, boldly, very much in his lap. His hands anchor on your hips, thumbs beneath your t-shirt.

“Oh,” you say, pressing your hands over his, something nervous wriggling in your gut. “Sorry. Is—”

You try to move away but his grip doesn’t change. “It’s all right,” he says evenly, the barest hint of something tremulous beneath.

Before you can think about it more, overthink being in his lap or how much of you you’re about to show him or how heavy and uncomfortable his hands might become, you release his wrists and tug your shirt up to just beneath your breasts, so your ribs are visible.

Those feelings don’t come though. You don’t feel anxious or weighed down or wrong.

He’s looking at you and touching you and seeing you and it's fine. It’s fine because it’s Joel. No one had ever understood you before the way he has—not your family or your friends or any previous partner. They try, but Joel just seems to know you, understand, without really trying.

Joel clears his throat, his expression unreadable as he lifts one hand to your tattoo. When he traces the ink, you exhale against his curious fingers. It tickles. “That’s real pretty,” he says. “Antlers. It really suits you.”

“Thank you,” you murmur. “Deer are like good luck, I think. They know things.”

He looks at you like you’re some ancient creature he can hardly believe exists. Embarrassment claws at you but you don’t look away. “That so?” He looks at the ink again, tension slicing through the air. “Jesus you’re somethin’.”

You don’t get a chance to respond because he meets your eyes again and asks, “Where’s the bee?”

You laugh and the acid burn of uncertainty disappears. “How’d you remember about the bee?”

“‘Cause I’ve been wonderin’ about it too.” He’s still absentmindedly tracing the antlers, the moss and the flowers that loop through the branches of the antlers. His expression is open now, curious and needy. “It ain’t on your hip, if I’m rememberin’ right.”

You shift your hand to your sternum and carefully tug your shirt up a bit higher. There, nestled between your breasts, is a tiny, tiny bumblebee. “Well, ain’t that a surprise.” He shifts his hand up and covers the bee with his thumb, the length of his fingers sitting right beneath your breast.

An ocean wells up inside you, threatens to break apart your ribs. You lean into his hand, your chest warm, catching, like fire is spreading from all the places he touches you. The knuckles of his other hand drag up your side.

You shiver under his eye, fighting the urge to look away, to tug yourself out of his grip. But the thought of losing his warm hands against you is worse, it outweighs everything else.

“Where did you think it was?” You ask, hardly able to breathe. Everything in the world narrows down to his dark bedroom, his eyes skating over your newly revealed tattoos, milky moonlight parting the tiny space still left between you.

“I couldn’t get it out of my head that it was on your hip.”

You laugh and Joel keeps looking at you, his eyes flicking between your bared skin and your eyes. The room is warm, his gaze heavy. “You’re real pretty. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Once or twice, maybe,” you smile.

“Mm.”

You cup one hand around his wrist, the pressure of his hand against the swell of your breast sending shockwaves through you. It’s all you can focus on, the slow sweep of his thumb against sensitive skin. You push his hand harder against you until it feels hard to breathe.

You think about how much Joel gives you, how carefully he listens even when you don’t speak.

He deserves to know you hear him, too. That you see what he wants, that you hear what he’s saying, and that you’re trying.

“You show me what you think,” you say. “And I—I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” he says, eyes dark. He reaches for you slowly, giving you time to tell him to stop or to pull away, but you don’t. You desperately want him to keep touching you with his safe, patient, cautious hands.

Slowly, you’re pressed back into the sheets. Joel goans, a pained sound that means his back or knees hurt and he won’t admit it.

He settles himself against you, his body fitted against the cradle of your hips. Joel is heavy against you, but comforting. His fingers clench around yours, and for a long moment he just looks at you beneath him, starved eyes skittering across your skin.

“You all right?” He asks gruffly, like there’s something tangled in his chest. “You say it. If you aren’t.”

“I’m okay.”

You reach up and touch his cheek, then the tail of his eyebrow, as he assesses you. He tilts his chin down, brows lowered heavily over his eyes. You can’t exactly blame him for being cautious. You warned him that you were hard work, and he meant it when he said he didn’t mind, that he didn’t think you were. Caring comes naturally for him. “Really. I would say it. I trust you.”

He nods once and your chest hitches when he dips his head and presses his mouth softly against the bee and then the antlers.

The rough feeling of his beard against your skin tingles. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling, and you aren’t sure where to put your hands. Joel’s are pressed to your sides, forearms snugly against your body, warm and twitching. You settle on his shoulders, the wide planes of his back, so reassuringly large against your body.

Then, his tongue, firm and soft, slides over your skin. Over the bee and the tips of the antlers strung through with ivy and flowers, over the underside of your breast.

You gasp and arch against him and you suddenly know exactly where you want your hands. You tuck them against the back of his head, threading through the feathery gray strands to keep his mouth against your skin.

Want tightens between your legs, makes your belly ache. Your nipples tighten painfully hard. A whine catches in your throat that you know he hears because he answers you with a low groan of his own against your throat when he sucks a kiss to the underside of your jaw.

It’s overwhelming. You want to push him away and pull him closer. You want to bury yourself inside him and never look into his eyes again. You want this feeling to last forever. You never want Joel to feel lonesome again. You want him to be able to ask for what he wants, to let you give it to him.

Your ex again, flashes through your mind, an unfair comparison. How rarely he’d kissed you, shown you affection, for just the sake of it.

You want you want you want you want—

You want—

“I want you to tattoo the cover up,” you say suddenly. Tears salt that backs of your eyes, tightness itching at the back of your throat. You hitch your knees up around his ribs, fear that he might pull away swimming to the forefront of your mind. It’s dizzying, because your instinct has always been to move away, to put space between you and things that might hurt you. You’ve given Joel so many pieces of you; he could break every part of you, if he really wanted to. “If you still—if you want—I mean—” you stammer.

His head lifts and your thighs clench because you want him everywhere and nowhere all at once. You want him to want you as badly as you want him, and that just doesn’t seem possible. Not in all the ways you mean anyway, the kind where you tuck yourself inside his ribs, and into the dark places in his mind, like love letters that will never be sent.

You love him, you think. You love Joel.

It doesn’t feel like enough. The word isn’t big enough to encompass what he makes you feel. The feelings worming around in your chest are expansive, wide as the night sky, splattered with stars and distant galaxies that have yet to be found, let alone described.

“‘Course I want to,” he says easily. “Of course, I will.”

“Tomorrow?” You ask breathlessly.

“If that’s what you want, honey.”

You nod. “It is.” You suspect you could say you wanted him to do it right at that moment, and he’d find a way to make it happen. He’d drive you to his studio in the dark. He’d sit with you until morning bruised the sky, until the peach of the sun dripped sticky sweet down the horizon. “I want you to do it. I want it to be from you.”

“All right,” he agrees. “Tomorrow mornin’ we’ll go and do it.” His hand slides down your side to your hip, then your thigh. “You okay?”

You nod.

“You have to talk to me,” he says. “I ain’t a mind reader.”

“I know,” you admit. “I’m sorry I put so much on you to figure out.”

“That ain’t what I meant.”

“But that’s what you do. You figure me out.”

Joel pats your thigh and then presses the pads of his fingers to the hinge of your jaw. His eyes search yours for a long time, black in the low light of the room.

He kisses you until you start to fall asleep, the lazy press of his lips whispering things you can no longer hear.

Morning dawns bright and warm.

Joel gets up long before you even stir. You’re curled as close to him as you can get without actually touching him, hands tucked beneath your face, lips parted softly. You’d migrated to the center of the bed, taking up space he’s not really keen on reclaiming.

The memory of your skin against his mouth, all the other places on your body he’d like to touch and taste, is like nectar, like the sweet promise of a good dream after a long day. You aren’t ready for that though. Not yet, anyway, and that’s all right.

But he’s only a man, and he’s painfully hard.

Before, you were like a deer he’d accidentally come upon, skating around the rim of his peripheral vision. Now, you’re still doe-eyed and watchful, but you’re closer; you’re relaxed, lying in the shade of trees you trust, at ease.

Your hand twitches toward him when he presses a slow kiss against your temple, the jump of tendon beneath his mouth soothing somehow. He pulls the sheet up and tucks it around your shoulders, because without him next to you the draft from the fan overhead is too cool for you.

He takes care of himself in the bathroom without much fuss, and then feels a little bit guilty for it when you’re sleeping on just the other side of the wall. It wasn’t the first time though, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

In the kitchen, he makes coffee just the way you like it, with a little bit of cinnamon in with the coffee grounds. The coffee creamer you like is sweet, so he sets that out with a spoon next to a pale blue mug, pours himself his own cup, and relocates to the back deck.

The trees at the far edge of the property are still dark and skeletal, the thicket full of shadow and the buzz of night insects.

Even at the end of October, it’s still warm. A breeze ruffles his hair, shakes the nearly naked trees and sends a cascade of brown and orange sifting to the ground. Next month it would cool off, just a little.

He hadn’t told you when his birthday passed in September, that you’d inadvertently spent that day with him. Sarah and Ellie had tried to get him to tell you, but he hadn’t been able to stomach it.

Dread accompanies that day.

It hadn’t always, just since Sarah was little, like his body was braced for a tragedy that would never come. He couldn’t have you be a part of that too, though the girls had pointed out you would eventually notice his lack of a birthday, if you were around long enough.

He’d cross that bridge if he ever came to it. It’s hard to imagine he’d get you for that long.

It doesn’t take long for you to find him. The flood of morning sun has passed the tree line and twists dappled green and yellow circles over the deck. When you push open the back door, you have your cup of coffee in one hand and the neck of the guitar in the other.

He’d have to get you your own. Either that, or make one for you.

“Hey,” you smile at him as you set your steaming cup down on the patio table.

“Mornin’. You sleep okay?”

“Mmm.”

Joel expects you to ask him to play, but you settle down in the chair next to his, your bare knee pressed against his, and adjust the instrument in your lap.

The sound is clumsy, but beautiful and careful, when you play. Joel’s glad he decided to teach you. He just listens and watches you. Your expression is thoughtful but closed, like you’re somewhere else. That’s how he thinks too, music in hand, mind far away. He likes that look on you, until you suddenly pause and glance up. You watch him for a long moment with those doe eyes of yours, folding your arms around the body of the guitar.

You lick your lips and his eyes flick briefly to your mouth, the plush curve of your lower lip. He hadn’t kissed you good morning. “I want to figure you out too, you know,” you say.

You hold his gaze for just a second before dropping your eyes to the wooden floorboards instead, fidgeting like you’re repressing the urge to curl in on yourself, fold yourself away. “You got me all figured out, honey,” he assures you.

You shake your head and lift your eyes again, tapping your nails against the wood. “You—” you pause and swallow, “You’re allowed to want things from me, Joel.”

Something falls in his chest, like he’s missed the last step on a long staircase, gravity turned against him.

His heart lurches up into his mouth, tangy with some unknown fear. “I do. Trust me, I do.”

“Why don’t you ask?”

“Honey—”

“I know,” you say softly. “I know. I know how I am and how—” you stop and flounder, frustrated for a moment. “I know I’m not easy to ask. But you. . . I don’t feel that way with you anymore; I’m not afraid anymore. And I want to be enough for you. I hope I’m not too slow about it.” You look away again. “I want you to know you can call on me, too, Joel.”

He clears his throat but the tightness doesn’t go away. “You could never take too long. I don’t mind waitin’.”

“But?”

But, he’s bad at this.

But, he loves too hard, cares too much.

But, part of him is convinced that the loneliness is deserved. Everyone seems to leave him, someway or another. He’s just preparing early for it this time. He’s never held onto a romantic relationship before, so why should this one be any different than all the ones that came before it?

He doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t want; he gives and cares and that’s why people stay. It really doesn’t have all that much to do with him, or what he wants.

“But you don’t want anything from me?” You ask, your voice noticeably smaller, and the warm morning suddenly feels cold.

“It ain’t that.” He should say more, but nothing else comes out, words trapped like moths inside a lamp.

You swallow and nod, like you’re battering back your instinct to flee, to think the worst. You’ve come so far and it’s hard not to feel a little pride, that you stay, that you aren’t worried, not usually, that he’ll hurt you someway. He’s reminded of the first day he’d tattooed you, how one misplaced word was enough to have you jumping to your feet, fretful and afraid. “I like spending time with you. I like touching you. I can give that to you.”

He doesn’t answer and you eventually continue. “You can’t protect me from the whole wide world. Not even from you. I’m making a choice. To be here with you.” And he knows you’ve seen much more than he wanted you to, that you’ve seen the interior of him, bleeding red, splattered onto everything he touches. You’ve seen the want, the need, and you’re still here.

He’s still not sure letting you care wouldn’t end with you leaving. But he doesn’t see what other choice he has.

“Okay. But you promise me somethin’,” he says. “Just one thing and I’ll try.”

You tilt your head, the picture of a curious little doe, almost nosy, peering into unfamiliar woods. “What?” You ask, looking away as you set the guitar aside.

“If you ever want somethin’ better for yourself. You tell me. And you go.”

Your eyes snap back to his, mouth parted in shock. “Joel—”

“I’m serious,” he snaps and you recoil a little, hurt in your eyes. “You deserve better’n this. Better than a lonely old man.”

You shoot up from your seat in a rare show of anger. And that surge of pride hits him squarely in the chest again. He’s proud of you for that. For standing up for yourself, for letting yourself be angry with him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice doesn’t raise in volume, but it is waspish, venom laced. “Better? What’s better for me than you?”

“Honey,” he says, softens his voice. “Just ‘cause you opened up with me, don’t mean I think I get to keep you.”

Your shoulders loosen and you step closer. When you reach out, God help him, he leans into your hand.

Gentle fingertips run along his shoulders, bite into the knot at the top of his spine. “Keep me,” you scoff lightly. “I want you to keep me.”

You don’t protest when he winds an arm around your waist and tugs you down into his lap. You’re warm and soft and frowning so hard at him. There’s a divot between your eyes that he wants to press his thumb over, to smooth away. Instead he takes your wrist in his hand and traces the tattoo on your forearm. “You’re the only one who’s ever wondered if they should,” you say. “You aren’t keeping anything. I’m giving you something no one else ever even tried to earn.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, a hot fist around his words. He’d rather walk away, not talk about it, not talk about himself. But that would break all that hard won trust.

“I just can’t have you feelin’ like I’m your problem,” he admits, voice graveled and scraping. “Like I’m holdin’ you down.”

“It’s okay to need people,” you answer, ignoring him. “I want to take care of you too. I want to be here with you.” You slide your hand over his shoulder again. “Even if it's just like this. Especially if it's just like this.” You scratch your fingers through his hair. Sun spills around your shoulders, blinds him when he looks up at you. “I know how much you like it. And you can tell me when you need something. I’m still learning your tells.”

He chuckles at that, let’s you keep touching him, because he does want it and you don’t seem to mind so much that he’s just some lonely man. “All right,” he runs his hand up your thigh to your hip. “Promise me anyway.”

“I promise,” you say. “To learn your tells.”

You make breakfast without burning anything, while Joel watches, hip leaned against the counter. His smile is soft, affectionate.

Warmth balloons in your chest, bursts in your veins like champagne bubbles. You managed to reassure him, you managed to say what you want without feeling bad about it.

“Lonely old man,” you burst out with a laugh. “I’m lonely and old.”

Joel rolls his eyes when you dig your elbow into his side. “You ain’t old.”

“Neither are you.”

Joel buys you coffee from the little cafe you always stopped at before visiting him at the studio. He drives with his hand in yours. He opens the passenger side door for you and gestures you ahead of him into the studio.

After going through the usual motions of disinfecting and sanitizing and picking one of the many, many, many coverup designs he’d sketched for you and getting the stencil on right, you find yourself in much the same position as the first time you got tattooed by Joel.

Joel isn’t talking. He’s taking his time looking you over, intense and careful and muttering about that bastard that had dared lay his hands on you. He’s meticulous in everything he does, but especially when it concerns someone he cares about, when it comes to you.

You’re lying down, studying the side of his face. He touches you without asking, and you don’t flinch once. The memory of his body against yours sends a flushed heat over your skin. Your scalp tingles with it, your toes curl with it.

He finally seems satisfied after a few long minutes, his hand on the curve of your elbow. You nod your consent when he looks at you, tattoo gun poised in his other hand over your shoulder. “Sure?”

“Never been surer.” You smile and then cover the hand resting on your elbow. He gives, you give back. “You don’t like it when I say thank you.”

“I don’t,” he grunts. There's a blush beneath his beard.

You sweep your thumb against his knuckles, and think about how different that first time had been. Joel had reassured you, gave you a physical anchor you hadn’t known you needed, kind and steady and already lodged somewhere deep inside your heart.

Now you can give that back to him.

“Okay.”

But he knows. You know he hears it anyway.

Still, you want to say it.

“Thank you, baby. For giving me back to myself.”

He leans over you, and you tilt your chin up so he can kiss you.

“Couple sessions, okay?” He croaks when he pulls away. “Don’t want to wear ya out.”

There is nowhere in the world you’d rather be.

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #honeyed fic

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joelalorian · 1 month

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Fall Into Me - Chapter Four: Until I had met you there was no sun in my sky

dbf!Joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Story is inspired by the song Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk. Chapter titles will be lyrics from the song.

Word Count: 3.5k

Chapter Warnings: Mature, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. Lots of feelings, confusion, and self doubt. Two idiots falling and pining for each other, but there's a little bit of progress. Tommy is the hero in this chapter. Age gap of about 9 years (Reader 24/25, Joel 33/34). No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname used only by her dad. Emily is modeled after my sister and JB is based on my dad, who used to try setting me up with his younger work buddies when I was in my 20s :)

Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Thank you for reading this little tale! I did not expect all the love - my heart is fit to burst over all the wonderful comments and reblogs!

Chapter Three | Main Masterlist

Sleep evaded Joel Saturday night, his mind unable to shut down and rest. He spent half the night searching for words to fit what he was experiencing. The right one didn’t occur to him until nearly five o’clock in the morning.

Turmoil.

That was the perfect word to describe the utter confusion and uncertainty boiling inside him.

His date went about as well as could be expected when one wasn’t particularly interested in the other person. There was conversation, but it mostly revolved around Annica and her interests. She asked a few polite questions about Joel but didn’t seem too interested in his responses. To be fair, they were short and rather ineloquent, but he barely had the chance to talk about Sarah before the woman changed the subject. She was also very much not his type.

She wasn’t you.

That’s the part which caused the most turmoil.

Joel didn’t realize how quickly he was falling for you until he was on a date with someone else. It somehow felt like a betrayal toward you, even though you and Joel weren’t together. Even though you didn’t even know that he liked you, more than liked you.

This entire thing was eating him up inside, all your interactions since Friday, but especially the way you bolted from him last night. He didn’t understand what happened until he checked out his face in the mirror, your parting comment finally making sense.

Annica had kissed him goodnight when he dropped her off. He knew she wanted more, at least a real kiss, but he offered nothing other than a loose hug and brief thanks for joining him. So, she pressed her painted lips to his cheek for several moments too long, subtly trying to turn his face toward hers, before he finally stepped back and walked away. He didn’t even wait for her to get into her house safely.

To his dismay, she left a clear and distinct reminder of her on his cheek that he was not aware of until you mentioned it. His face burned with the feeling of being marked like territory, and the worst part was you saw it. Who the fuck knew what you thought of him now.

Joel needed advice, someone to talk this all through with. If the situation didn’t involve you, he would have gone to you for advice. You were so easy to talk to and he opened up more easily with you than he had with anyone else in his entire life. But that was out of the question for… obvious reasons.

Your dad was equally as easy to talk to, a quality you must have inherited from him. But he couldn’t turn to JB about this for the same obvious reasons.

That left his brother. Tommy would give Joel a good ribbing about all this. Joel wasn’t ashamed to admit that his brother had more practical experience with dating and complicated relationships, especially recently, than he did. It was time to capitalize on all of Tommy’s shenanigans.

Dangerously under-caffeinated and bleary-eyed, Joel made bacon, eggs, and pancakes for the usual Sunday morning family breakfast. Tommy joined them a little after nine o’clock and helped himself to the spread. He knew better than to ask Joel about his date in front of Sarah, so the younger brother made quiet conversation with Sarah as Joel sipped at his coffee. She told him all about her adventure to the movies with you and how much she loved hanging out with you, how smart you were, and how pretty.

A stupid grin spread over Joel’s face as his daughter spoke about you. He could feel Tommy’s narrowed gaze burning into the side of his head, which he ignored until Sarah finished her food and ran off to play a video game in the living room.

“You gonna make me ask?” Tommy grinned at Joel as he cleared the table. Joel merely quirked a brow and focused on washing the dishes. “Fine, ya ol’ grumpy ass. How was the date?”

“Was alright. She talked, a lot,” Joel emphasized, “and mostly about herself. We don’t have much in common other than we like to eat. The movie she picked to see was God awful. I’d rather have seen the other movie with Sarah.”

“Really?” Tommy placed the last of the dirty flatware next to the sink, watching as Joel scrubbed each item before rinsing it off. “Annica texted me that she had a wonderful time and hoped there’d be a second date. Asked if I could put in a good word for her. Guess that’s not happenin’.”

“There’d be no point. She’s not who I’m interested in.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying, and he cringed when Tommy latched right on them.

“Ohhhh, and who might you be interested in, dear brother?” The shit-eating grin on the younger brother’s face let Joel know that Tommy already had an idea on who piqued his interest. “Couldn’t be JB’s hot little daughter, could it? You going cradle robbin’ now?”

Punching his brother in the arm, hard, Joel growled. “I ain’t robbin’ any cradles, asshole. She’s only about nine years younger than me.”

“Oh, is that all?” Tommy teased, rubbing his arm to soothe the sting.

“Don’t get me started on how you almost got busted for statutory rape last year, dickhead.”

“Hey now, I’m just teasing. Don’t get your panties all in a bunch.” Tommy surrendered, adding a grumbled, “And you know damn well that wasn’t on purpose. That girl looked 25! She sure had me fooled.”

Joel nodded, heading out to the back patio with another cup of coffee. Tommy followed, stopping briefly to grab a can of soda from the fridge. The pair sat quietly listening to the sound of songbirds singing the songs of their people before Joel finally spoke.

“I feel like an idiot asking this, but how do you tell if a woman is into you?”

Tommy nearly spilled soda all down the front of himself, the question caught him so off-guard. “Whadda ya mean?” he spluttered, trying not to choke on the carbonated liquid.

Rolling his big brown eyes with a huff, Joel glared at his brother. “I mean just what I said. I’m so outta practice with this. I keep second guessin’ everything. I just don’t know…”

Taking pity on his older brother, Tommy refrained from razzing him further. He was intrigued by this version of his brother who lacked self-confidence, so different from the over-confident man Joel used to be, at least when it came to women.

“Just so I understand, do you want to know how to tell if any woman is into you or a specific woman?”

Brows pulling together, Joel stared at Tommy blankly for a moment. “Does it make a difference?”

Tommy’s lips spread into a wide grin, deep brown eyes sparkling mischievously. “It sure as hell does, brother. There are few key ways to tell with most women, but if it’s a specific woman you’re curious about, I may have some intel.”

The struggle to hide his overwhelming curiosity on the ‘intel’ his brother had was a losing game, and Joel relented, his cheeks growing hot as he uttered the words. “Fine. It’s JB’s daughter.”

The room stilled as the brothers stared at each other, the grin on Tommy’s face growing impossibly wider until nearly all his pearly whites were on display. “I knew it! You dirty dog.”

“Tommy,” Joel growled, drawing out the two syllables until his brother sat back in his chair with a satisfied smirk.

“Fine, no razzin’.” Tommy grumbled. He waited a few beats until Joel grew even more uncomfortable. “She’s into you, too.”

Joel perked up at that. “That’s your intel? How do you know?”

Looking around the backyard, Tommy thought of all the times he’d been around and caught you ogling his brother when you thought no one was watching, but none rivaled that time in the kitchen when you stared as Joel pulled his tee shirt off to put in on right side out. Tallying it all up in his mind, Tommy was certain that you had a thing for his brother. And now, it seemed he had a thing for you, too.

The question Tommy had now was, would either of you do anything about it?

With recent history as proof, he had his doubts.

Perhaps it was time to give you each a little nudge.

“It’s in the way she looks at you, all wide-eyed with wonder, like she’s imagining what it’d be like to be with you. I flirted with her for nearly an hour one day and she never looked at me like that once.” Tommy smirked at the glassy look that overcame his brother’s eyes. “Well, that and the drool dripping down her chin every time she sees you.”

“Yeah… wait, what?” It took a moment for Joel to catch on. “Fuckin’ asshole, I swear. She doesn’t drool when she looks at me.”

Laughter rumbled from deep within Tommy’s chest. “She might as well do with as into you as she is. I’m telling you, pay attention to how she is around you and you’ll see.”

The brothers fell silent again with Joel’s thoughts drowning in you. If what Tommy said was true, then you must be hurting over the fact that he went on a date with someone else, more so since you also saw him on that date. Already feeling like such a dick, worry over you weighed more heavily on him this morning. He had to fix this, but how?

Part of Joel wanted to rush over to JB’s and check on you, but the other part was terrified of how that would work out, especially if your dad was home and wanted to know why his best friend was frantic to see his daughter.

Shit. JB. Joel still needed to figure out how to navigate that part of this entire situation. The two of you could like each other all day long, but how would JB react?

Joel envisioned several scenarios that ended with him getting his nose bashed in by your old man. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

“What about JB?” Joel finally broke the silence, looking once again to his younger brother for guidance. “If I’m gonna do this, I want to do it right.”

Placing his empty bottle on the patio table between them, Tommy nodded. “Ok. Let’s think about this. Do you always check with a chick’s dad before askin’ her out?”

“’Course not, but this is different.”

“I get that but hear me out. What if you try before you buy?” Tommy asked.

Joel immediately stiffened. “I’m not gonna just fuck her before asking her on a date. Jesus, Tommy.” Not that he didn’t want to fuck you… he most certainly did, but Joel wanted to do this right. He wanted more than just sex. He wanted something meaningful, and he suspected you would as well.

“That’s not what I meant, asshole. Ya can quit clutchin’ your pearls like you ain’t banged a chick before the first date before.”

“Tommy,” Joel growled again. Little brothers were the worst no matter what age they were.

“Jeez, alright, fine. You’re really into her, I get it. I’m not sayin’ sleep with her first. I’m suggestin’ you ask her out and see where this is goin’ before you go to JB with your tail between your legs, is all.” Tommy explained, already getting fed up with how easily Joel got his feathers ruffled.

Considering the advice, and ignoring his brother’s snippy tone, Joel bobbed his head in a nod. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.”

“I’m full of good ideas, sometimes. I got another one, actually. Get your grumpy ass to the store and buy some new shirts. Everything you own is at least ten years old and worn down. You need to dress better if you’re gonna date a younger woman.”

Another point to Tommy. He sure was racking them up.

“Fine. I fuckin’ hate to admit it, but you’re right,” Joel grumbled, looking down at the tee shirt he was wearing. It used to be black and faded to a cloudy gray from years of wearing and washing. “You mind watchin’ Sarah for a while so I can run to the mall?”

“Not at all, brother. I was hoping to watch the game on your flat screen anyway.” Tommy led the way back inside the house.

Emily: Sounds like you need some retail therapy, asap.

The pair of you spent the past hour texting about Joel’s date the night before. Emily’s emoji reactions were priceless as you recounted seeing them together at the movie theater and she was pissed on your behalf when you told her about the lipstick mark on his cheek. The conversation came full circle before Emily suggested the retail therapy.

You: Omg do I ever. Mall?

Emily: I can’t ☹ Ed wants my help with the garden. Again. I swear, I hate this fucking garden.

You: Booo. How dare you pick your husband over me

Emily: I gotta go with the one who has the bigger dick. Ur girl has needs u know that 😉

You: Yeah yeah. Chat later?

Emily: You bet. Have fun. Buy lots!

An hour later, you walked through Barton Creek Square, window shopping with a chocolate smoothie clutched in your hand. Not sure exactly what you were in the mood for, you started with clothing. This mall was a bit upscale for your budget, but you always enjoyed perusing the department store discount racks. Tossing your empty cup into the garbage can, you entered the large store.

Somehow, you found yourself searching through flannel shirts in the men’s department. Stopping for a moment once you realized what you were doing, you sighed. There was no escaping thoughts of Joel Miller, even subconsciously, it seemed. Huffing in frustration, you turned to walk back to the women’s section where you’d find things you actually needed when you heard your name.

Joel stood on the other side of the rack, eyes wide with surprise at the sight of you. His cheek was clean, no lipstick mark in sight, you noted. Just the normal, totally endearing patchy scruff. “Hey darlin’, what are you doing here?”

“Shopping,” you stated the obvious with a shrug, delighted at the pink tinge creeping up his cheeks.

“Me, too. Obviously.” Joel nodded, rolling his eyes – at you or himself, you weren’t sure. “I could use your help, actually.”

You weren’t expecting that. He looked at you with such open hope in his eyes, you couldn’t deny him. “Ok, shoot.” Your heart nearly exploded at the smile that spread across his face, putting his dimple on full display.

“I can’t decide which of these to go with,” Joel replied, holding up several flannels. After a moment, he put those across the top of the discount rack and held up a pile of tee shirts. “Or these.”

Eyes taking in the details of each selection – he had good taste; you could picture each option on him – you hummed. “Have you tried any of them on?” Joel shook his head, the mop of curls swaying deliciously with the movement. “Ok. Go try them on. That’s usually how I decide.”

Turning toward the fitting room with a nod, Joel paused and turned back around. “Come with me? I need your honest opinion on each one.”

Brow furrowed, you followed behind him wordlessly, eyes straying to his backside of their own accord. He wore the same dark, fitted jeans as last night and you swore beneath your breath at yet another reminder of his date. No amount of staring at his nice ass could pull that jealous feeling from your gut. He went on a date with someone and for all you knew, it could have been the best damn date of his entire damn life.

Leaning back against the wall opposite the fitting room Joel chose, you crossed your arms in front of your chest and wondered what the hell you were doing. You came to the mall for a distraction, to treat yourself and get your mind off the man on the other side of the fitting room door. Now you were… what? His wardrobe consultant?

Helping Joel pick out new clothes seemed like the job of a girlfriend, not his daughter’s babysitter. Let’s face it, you thought, that’s all you were to him. Mood growing sourer by the second, you startled as the door ripped open in front of you.

“What do you think?”

The universe was a fickle bitch. It wasn’t fair that Joel stood there looking like the man of your dreams and you didn’t get to call him yours.

The first shirt Joel tried on fit like a glove, like the factory made it with his frame as the model in mind. The material had just the right amount of stretch across the breadth of his chest and shoulders, while hanging on for dear life around his biceps.

After ogling him for far too long, your eyes finally met Joel’s. “Looks good,” you said, the cadence of your voice not giving away the riotous flutter of desire flaring to life deep in your lower belly. “Let’s see the next one.”

Chocolate eyes sparkled with delight at your response as Joel slipped back into the fitting room. What you wouldn’t give to follow him in there. Already picturing it in your mind, you would slip to your knees in front of him, fingers undoing his belt and the button of his jeans before slowly sliding the zipper down. You’d wind one hand inside his pants to trace the curve of his cock through his boxer briefs before slipping the length of him out of the little secret pocket. Joel would be trying on his shirts as your lips—

“How about this one?”

“Jesus fucking nutcracker!” you exclaimed, Joel’s voice jolting you right out of that wonderful little daydream. So deep into the fantasy, you hadn’t heard the fitting room door open.

Concerned, Joel reached out a hand, his calloused fingertips and palm running over the bare skin of your forearm as you steadied yourself. “Do, uh… do you have Tourette’s or something?”

Bemused, you blinked up at him, head thumping back against the wall. “What? No, no. I was just lost in thought, and you startled me.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with having Tourette’s, you know.” Joel tripped over himself to make sure you didn’t think he was making fun of the disorder.

You waved him off. “Of course not.” Clearing your throat, eyes closing to recenter yourself, you counted to ten. The heat of Joel’s gaze like a burn on your skin, you opened your eyes and assessed his shirt. It was nice, a deep burgundy color, but the fit differed from the last one. You hated it. “I like the way the other one fit you better.”

The pattern continued until Joel tried on every shirt in his pile. You managed to keep your mind from straying again by making conversation.

“How did your date go last night?” You dreaded the answer but needed to know.

“It was… I’ve had better dates. She talked a lot,” he said through the fitting room door. “I couldn’t wait for it to be over, honestly. I just wanted to be home.”

“So, no second date then?” you confirmed, butterflies beginning to take flight in your belly.

“Hell no.”

A wave of relief washed over you at the conviction in Joel’s voice, but you tried not to let it show on your face or in your voice as he stepped through the door. “That’s too bad. You deserve to find someone great, Joel.”

He looked at you for a long time, his eyes penetrating like he was trying to tell you something without using words. You just had no idea what. You were about to bid him farewell as he paid for the shirts you chose – the bluish gray tee shirt that fit him so well and a flannel with similar hues, and two more just like them – when he stopped you.

“Uh, would you have lunch with me?” he asked shyly, eyes brimming with such eager hopefulness you nearly melted.

Part of you wanted to turn him down over hurt feelings he wasn’t even aware of, but you couldn’t. Not after what he just told you about his date. The other part of you screamed not to read too much into it, that he wasn’t asking you on a date. It would just be lunch with your boss. But the final part of you, the hopeless romantic who wore her heart on her sleeve and just helped the man pick out clothes like a girlfriend would, screamed that this could be your chance to get closer, that it could be a date if you made it one.

Fearing you stayed silent too long arguing with yourself, you rushed out a quick, “Sure.” Joel’s face lit up like you’d never seen before. He didn’t look anywhere near this happy when he left for his dinner date the night before.

tbc

Taglist: @mellymbee @untamedheart81 @anoverwhelmingdin @runningmom94 @leilanixx @pedropascalfan221 @lovelyjess69 @sarahhxx03 @sofiparallel @tammythr @lulawantmula @islacharlotte @allyourfavesinoneblog @lover-of-books-and-tea @pedropascalsbbg @ashleyfilm @brittmb115 @lilmizmoz @loveisacowboyyy @shotgun-shelby @deninoe

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel x female reader #the last of us #tlou #dbf!joel #Fall Into Me #pedro pascal #eventual smut #mutual pining #idiots falling for each other

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kashimos-hajime · 1 year

Text

—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!!

#fic: a love immortal such as mine #zhongrin.elementalsupercharge #al haitham #al haitham x you #al haitham x reader #al haitham x y/n #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x you #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact al haitham #genshin al haitham #my writing

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2demon2slayer · 11 months

Note

Op for your sun hashira au, would Tanjiro still be the protagonist or would we follow a different person as we travel?

giyuu and sabito are (mostly) the protagonists! though there will probably be a decent amount of jumping around between various POVs

#sun hashira and tsuguko au #queries #i would say the main story revolves around their journey #but there are a lot of side stories going on

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livingemkayde · 9 months

Text

ch v. just you

joel miller x f!reader x unrequited!tommy miller (no outbreak AU)

chapter five of chaser

warnings: 18+ minors please dni. smut, half porn half plot, unprotected p in v, oral, f!receiving, a little fingering, kinda dom!joel but hes sweet. rough sex and mentions of bruising. some verbal disagreements and fighting. love triangle forming formed. lots of angst, talk of miscommunications. age gap, reader is 23 and joel is 35. Tommy is 30. (ages of all characters and plot do not follow canon strictly for the story’s sake).

summary: you confront joel about, well, everything. you talk it out in more ways than one.

a/n: i been waitin for this one. TURN IT UP. i hope you guys like this slow burn reward, im happy with how this chapter came out. enjoy this before all the drama lol. love you all smsmsmsm.

Joel cuts you off, dips his head lower, his tongue dips into your entrance and when you whine and moan he trails higher, tasting you and gently sucking until he reaches your clit. You bite your lip in favor of screaming, and you can barely hear Joel whisper, like he’s in awe— “I knew it,” as he takes another taste of the slick dripping out of your entrance. “I fuckin’ knew it.” “What?” “Knew you’d taste like heaven,” he says with a muffled groan, sinking his tongue back into your aching hole, his nose rubbing against your clit in a way that makes you shut your eyes so tight you see stars.

There are times you wish texting was never invented.

You like calling people — hearing their voice. The intonations of their words, knowing exactly what they’re thinking.

But there are other times, you thank the lord for creating the form of communication — because you have no idea what to say to Joel.

You stare down at your phone. The text’s words float through your mind. Trying to desperately figure out what to say.

Your thumbs fiddle with each other, you bite your lip as you try and concentrate on a suitable text. Joel’s contact name just stares back at you, unmoving.

You: going to the store on my own, i don’t need your—

You delete that text quickly as you start making a pot of coffee.

You: i don’t think we should go together—

You delete that one too.

You run a hand over your forehead, swiping through your phone to get to Tommy’s text.

You slump against your kitchen counter when you realize you don’t know what to say to either Millers. You look out the window, it’s a nice day out, the sun shining through the early morning dew. The spot in front of your house stares back at you. The spot where Tommy was parked in last night. Where he had cut you off after his question, and begged you to consider it.

“Just think ‘bout it before you say no.”

And when you hadn’t said anything—

“Please?”

So you nodded, and you’re not sure why, but tears threatened to spill from your eyes, leaving the truck in disarray and falling asleep in much the same manner.

When you woke up this morning, you hoped it had been a dream — his big brown eyes had never looked that desperate, and you know you fucked up by telling him you’ll think about it — when all you can think about is his brother.

You stare back at Tommy’s messages and type in your own.

You: can we talk in person?

You look at the words for a long time, before hitting send. You needed to clear the air as quickly as possible.

You open Joel’s texts. The last couple ones just revolve around Sarah, pick up times, and what the plans were for dinner.

But the very last one, from last night — looks particularly menacing. Like it might grow wings and fangs and jump out of your phone.

Joel M: Get home okay?

You sigh, ignoring his text and typing out your own.

You: i think i’m gonna go shopping on my own soon. be by to drop off the stuff later

Whatever — you think to yourself before hitting send.

You don’t even know what month it is.

You hadn’t realized the calendars flicked to July, until you walked through the Party City and all the decorations you can find are red, white, and blue. The aisles are crowded, everyone getting last minute party favors and decorations in prep for Monday’s holiday.

You find the birthday section, rifling through to get streamers, string lights, balloons, and banners. You smile to yourself when you find a small toy horse from that show Sarah likes.

You put the toy into the basket.

The market is next, you haul ass to get as many two liters of soda you can carry, chips, and different snacks for the party. Tommy had managed to get a decent turn out from his RSVP (which was just a phone call asking if they could come) and you want to make sure there’s enough food for everyone.

Your name being shouted from down the aisle snaps you out of your thoughts. It’s Janet Baker, one of the moms from Sarah’s soccer camp, she strides towards you pushing a cart full of hot dogs and buns. You distinctly remember seeing her at one of Sarah’s games. The one where Joel and Tommy both showed up, you, slotted to sit between them.

“Hey, you!” she says, pulling you into an unexpected hug.

“Oh! Hi, Mrs. Baker,” you reply shyly with a chuckle, her cart is abandoned when she gets a peek into yours.

“Now, I told you to call me Janet, don’t be makin’ me feel old with all this ‘Mrs’ crap,” she chides, you smile, not really knowing what to say.

“Sorry, Janet,” you say with a chuckle.

“What are you shoppin’ for missy? Fourth of July party?”

“Oh — uh —” you look down to your cart, “actually, Tommy’s birthday is tomorrow.”

“...Tommy…?” she says, while looking up towards the sky.

“Oh my god, sorry — Tommy Miller, Sarah’s uncle?” you say, trying to get it to ring a bell. She thinks for a long time, you’re about to say it’s not important but she cuts you off—

“That’s right! We met at that game last weekend,” she says, nodding her head, remembering the encounter.

You remember that game. It was before all of these new — situations — with Joel.

Sarah had come up to the three of you before the game started, a friend in tow. You were introduced to one of Sarah’s close accomplices, Katie.

“Are you Mrs. Miller?” Katie had said, looking between you and Joel hesitantly. Your cheeks felt hot.

Joel stifled an awkward laugh beside you. Tommy was quiet.

“Oh, no, kiddo — ’M just Sarah’s nanny.”

Tommy was silent the rest of the game. You don’t remember much after that.

But you remember Janet, giving you a couple friendly smiles, when you introduced her to Tommy after the game had ended. The same smile she gives back to you right now.

“Yeah, just getting some decorations and food,” you say, pointing down towards your cart.

“Well, aren’t you a sweet thing for throwin’ him a party.”

“I appreciate that, Janet. Why don’t you and your daughter come tomorrow, she can play with Sarah?”

“Oh, how nice of you to invite us. I sure hope Tommy’s okay with it,” she laughs.

“He will be,” you say back, trying to match her enthused demeanor. Her bright eyes and almost obnoxious laugh make you chuckle to yourself a bit.

She’s suddenly close to you, dipping into your personal space to whisper slyly so that no one else can hear her ask—

“Y’all aren’t datin’, right?”

Your eyes widen. This woman’s timing is fucking impeccable, you’ll give her that.

“No! Oh no, no, I’m just — I’m Sarah’s—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Sarah’s babysitter. But between you and me, sweetie —” she leans even lower, her hand coming to the side of her mouth like she’s telling you a secret. “ — even though you’re Sarah’s babysitter, all us moms think you look mighty nice next to Joel.”

You don’t even know what to say, Janet’s eyebrow sticking up like she’s hinting at something. Jesus, it’s like she’s had a private viewing of your life this past week and she’s taking the footage and taunting you with it.

“M-me? With…?”

“Joel. Yes, doll—” she says, like now it’s her turn to get you to remember one of the Miller brothers, “—we see the way he looks at you.”

“No — I think you might be mistaken, Janet—”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll see it soon too.”

Joel’s door stares back at you.

You have all the bags in your hands, the plastic of the handle turns your fingertips white from the pressure of the two liters pulling it down, but you can’t bring yourself to knock.

Not until you hear some movement from inside — not wanting him to catch you waiting outside his door like a creep. You kick the door a little with your shoe in place of freeing a hand to knock.

Joel opens the door, his eyes widening at your state.

“Jesus, what are you—” he cuts himself off with his movements, bending down to take the bags from your hands, though you protest.

“I got it, Joel, just—”

He takes the bags from you anyways.

“Should’ve called me,” he mumbles while turning towards the kitchen counter, leaving you in the doorway sans the six bags you struggled to pick up all on your own.

“Sorry. I —”

You don’t really know what you’re apologizing for.

“Thanks,” you say when he puts the bags on the table and begins to unpack them. You move to help him, opening up the fridge for some of the food.

“What’s this?” he says, pulling out the toy horse for Sarah.

“Oh. It's for Sarah. ‘S the horse from that show she likes.”

He stares at you for a long time, before looking down towards the toy in his hand.

“You got this for her?”

“Yeah,” you say, confused as to why he seems surprised you got her a toy.

“She’ll like that. Thanks,” he says, setting the toy on the dinner table and rifling through more stuff until it’s just decorations left in the bags.

“She’s at her sleepover?” you ask, looking around the living room at any signs of life.

“Mhm,” Joel replies from the kitchen.

You wait in silence for a while, unsure of how to proceed. Normally you would probably just ask him if he wants to set up some decorations but this is far from normal.

“You wanted to go without me?” he asks, when you stop walking around and stand in front of him.

“I just didn’t want it to get too late, since Sarah was here…sorry” you say. You try to keep the hurt out of your voice.

“‘S fine, I…wanted to—” he shakes his head, organizing his thoughts before changing the subject. It sort of surprises you — but it seems like this has been on his mind all day. “You didn’t answer my text. Had to call Tommy last night.”

“Oh.”

Shit.

He sounds so fucking worried it almost makes you sick.

“‘M sorry. It was a—long night.”

“You got back okay? No issues?”

Yeah. No fucking issues except your brother asked me out.

You think you should say something. Not like Joel has the right to know, but it’s the right thing to do in your eyes regardless.

“Did Tommy tell you…?”

“Did Tommy tell me what?”

Fuck.

“He—uh—um,” his eyebrow lifts at your words, you can barely get the sentence out, your pulse thrumming with each second you stall with stuttering.

“He asked me out. Last night.”

Joel looks at you. It might be the first time you’ve ever seen that look in his eye. Like he’s the embodiment of disappointment. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his face, let alone his hands, his body.

The warm sunlight peeking in through the window starts making you sweat the longer he stands looking at you. When he finally speaks you can barely hear him — the drawl you love so much, quiet and blanketed under an emotion you can’t place.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah.”

He nods like he’s trying to collect his thoughts. Though, it only makes you more scared from the uncertainty of his words and actions. But surprisingly he doesn’t act out at all, he just gives you an emotionless face and words that seem harmless, but cut through your skin.

“Oh. Happy f’you two.”

“No—I—”

“Nah—’s…’s good.”

“Stop, Joel—”

He stops. But you’re not entirely sure he’s listening very clearly.

“I didn’t say yes. He told me to…think about it.”

“And?”

“And I wanted to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Jesus, Joel,” you say, exasperated. Your hand comes up to your forehead. “About last night? About…?”

Everything. You want to say. But fall short.

“What about last night?”

God, was this all in your head? It certainly didn’t feel like that at the bar. Nor on the front porch when he almost kissed you, or on the phone that same fatal night.

“Joel,” you plead with him, your voice breaking a bit. He breaks your eye contact when you say his name, almost like it hurts him to hear you say it. This game you two are playing right now is fucking ridiculous, an old tired version of the one from last night, in front of the bar.

“There’s nothing to talk—”

“Don’t do that. You can’t just fucking—” you almost laugh.

Who the hell is this guy in front of you? You continue, even through your ragged breaths and tears that now stain your cheeks.

“You can’t. Don’t—”

“He’s my brother.”

“So? I knew you before any of this—”

“He’s my brother.”

His loud voice cuts off any thoughts you had forming. You wait for a while, trying to understand what he means by that — maybe this is some petty competition they have going and Joel feels like he’s losing. You don’t know what to think of their dynamic anymore.

“I can’t just ignore it,” you say. You hate how your voice sounds so small. “I didn’t want it like this,” you say, more tears falling, you try to wipe them away quickly, embarrassed to cry in front of him.

“You think I do?” his rhetorical question lingers in the air when you don’t respond. “That fuckin’ day you met Tommy, he—” Joel can’t even look at you anymore.

“He asked me if I — liked you — or whatever, ‘n I said no. You and I were done. We had just decided it was over.”

“So you’re just gonna throw this away because he called dibs?”

“I ain’t throwin’ anythin’ away—” he shakes his head. “I don’t wanna throw this away.”

“Right. Like last night?”

“So this is about Caroline? I told you that I don’t like her — it was a fuckin’ set up.”

“This is not about Caroline,” you could almost laugh.

He gives you a knowing look. You both know this is definitely not about Caroline.

“‘M sorry. About last night, ‘bout everythin’, but you left,” Joel says, “You wanted to leave. I—I wasn’t gonna stop you.”

“I thought you were gonna come with me.”

That shuts him up. He looks at you with a slack jaw, like he was going to say something already braced on his tongue but at your response, he became speechless. Like your sentence smacked the words out of his own mouth.

“I wanted you to come with me,” you say, softer this time. “And then you—fucking—left me and got Tommy.”

“Tommy was—”

“I didn’t want Tommy. I don’t want Tommy.” you say, your voice breaking more with each confession. “But you wanted to hand me off to him—”

“C’mon. ‘F course that’s not what I wanted. You know that.”

“Then what? Because this isn’t a game to me, Joel.”

“‘S not a game,” he forces out, like he’s tired of playing too. “It was never a game.”

You stay silent, taken back by his words. You can tell his head is spinning, not really sure of what to say or rather, how to articulate his feelings.

“This is — you’re fucking…Jesus, I don’t know,” he starts, but begins to pace around the room, unable to finish.

You stay silent, watching him walk around slowly until he’s rooted right in front of you, closer than before.

“‘S a mess. Tommy is — you’re gonna break his heart because this is —”

You raise your eyebrows, pleading with him to continue, to finally say what he’s been thinking about since you two met at the bar.

“This is real. You’re real.”

Your heartbeat bangs in your ears, he’s closer than before. You don’t remember when he got so close. Close enough that when he talks after an unbearable silence, you can feel his breath on your nose.

“But you don’t know. You don’t see — any of it.”

“I see you, I —” you can’t get much out because your breath hitches. Big brown eyes stare back into yours. “Help me — show me,” you hiccup out while his hot breath catches your eyelashes.

His hand reaches down, like last night, pulling you closer, this time, you let him. His fingers sprawl out across your cheeks, feeling your neck, his big brown eyes pulling you in. He's a bit more breathless than you if that’s even possible. You keep blinking like you’re scared it might be a dream.

You look up at him. For the first time in a while your gaze isn’t cut short by wandering eyes or loud interrupting voices.

He dips down, his lips just barely touching yours, letting you make the final move towards him, kissing him, tasting him. It might be silly, but you remember his taste from all the weeks before. It feels like yesterday when he moans a bit in your mouth, and your hands fly to his chest to steady your shaky knees.

He breaks away first, you’re both panting into each other, like you’ve just surfaced from being underwater for so long — maybe you have been.

But he doesn’t say anything, only takes your hand in his and with a couple panting sighs, pulls you towards the stairs, towards his bedroom. He looks at you with a silent question etched on his face.

You nod before you know what’s happening, and he’s whisking you off into his room. You’ve never been in his room before, upstairs, sure, to help Sarah with things. But his room was unspokenly off limits. It smells like him, and as the tears reside and the genuine want rushes over you, it seems like he’s one step ahead of you, closing the door, and guiding you back towards the bed.

He’s kissing you, it’s sloppy but calculated at the same time. So much pent up frustrations and wandering eyes seemed to break at the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands running up and down your body.

You’re moaning and whimpering into his mouth, almost desperate despite always trying to remain stoic. But who are you kidding, it’s Joel.

“Please,” you bite when his mouth trails kisses down your neck and even more so when he slips your top off, catching your nipple in his hot mouth.

“Joel,” you whine again, when all he does is hum against your sensitive bud.

“Baby,” he says, and you notice the drawl is back. Like it never left, rich and honeyed — matching what you imagine every night before bed — hell — every waking moment.

You’re naked before you muster the brain power to notice him taking your clothes off. He doesn’t bother with his clothes, almost like he’s too eager to see you, forgetting about himself. You claw at his flannel but he pushes your hands back and over your head, rending your arms useless.

His other hand reaches down, finding your aching cunt dripping onto the gray bed sheets and he genuinely groans at the feeling. Brooding Joel Miller reduced to a moaning mess at the feeling of you wet and hot for him. The thought drives you up the walls a bit.

“Fuckin’ wet, so fuckin’ wet, sweetheart,” he grumbles more to himself than to you.

He runs his fingers over your outer lips while mouthing at your neck — you whimper and squirm under his grasp but his hand just holds yours harder. It might — no, it definitely will leave bruises on your wrists the next morning, but you could care less. The biting pain of it shoots right down to that white hot burn in your lower stomach.

“Quit movin’,” he says while beginning to trail down, almost like a warning for when he releases your wrists and settles in between your legs. He pants hot breath onto your swollen folds and despite his warning, you squirm underneath him. Joel seems a bit too desperate to tell you to stop or punish you otherwise.

When his lips place a hesitant kiss to your clit you almost scream, forcing his head in between your thighs and when he stops, you realize you might be squeezing him too tight. You sit up a bit, releasing your thighs when he stops and looks up at you.

“‘M sorry — shit — I — no one’s ever…I’m sorry, Joel—”

“‘M fine, lay back down.”

You do lay back down, but you're hesitant.

“No one ever do this to you, baby?” he asks, smiling up at you from between your legs, your face feels hot and you hide a shy smile. He mouths at your thighs and places a few gentle kisses to your folds.

“No, I — I guess not.”

“It feel good?”

“Good? Joel it feels fucking—”

“I knew it,” as he takes another taste of the slick dripping out of your entrance. “I fuckin’ knew it.”

“What?”

“Knew you’d taste like heaven,” he says with a muffled groan, sinking his tongue back into your aching hole, his nose rubbing against your clit in a way that makes you shut your eyes so tight you see stars.

His mouth feels like a shot. Your grip in his hair, more like the chaser, grounding you back to the bed, his bed. In his room. The bite of him seeping through every corner of your body, his flat tongue pulling your fast approaching orgasm out of you so quickly you forget your name.

“Joel, I—”

You shut up because you think he knows, his hum against you sending vibrations through your clit, his wide palms coming up to grasp at your thighs until the spasms from your orgasm cease.

He keeps going even after you come down from your high, mouthing at your entrance which seems to get even wetter after you come. He snakes back up to kiss you, you moan into his mouth at the taste of your own slick all over his lips.

The feeling of his clothed length pressed into your all too sensitive cunt makes the wanting need spark back up, like he’s blowing hot air onto a fire starter, and it just ignited.

“Need you,” you moan into his lips as he kisses you, his hands coming to grab your breasts, he’s everywhere, and you need more. And you need it now.

He pulls back at your words, a darker look on his face. You remember this look from the bathroom, when he asked you to beg for his cock, his name, and to cum inside your hot cunt.

“I — I don’t think I can be gentle, baby — I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Please, want it rough,” you tell him, looking back into his brown eyes, almost pleading.

I just need you.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he says with your final words, your permission. Joel suddenly hauls you up towards the head of the bed so you’re resting against his pillows. He shucks off his flannel and t-shirt, undoing the belt buckle of his pants in such a timely manner, if you weren’t watching him intently you might’ve missed it.

He’s kissing you, rubbing his cock through the slick of your folds, you remember the punch of his girth and how the length of his cock almost kissed your cervix, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be prepared for that feeling, especially now, when you’re pent up, and tense and you just need him.

“God, feel fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he says, running the tip of his cock through your folds, when it hits your clit you buck up against him, but he falters.

“Easy.”

His voice, his drawl, a bit darker, but you’re not scared. Like he said before, he can’t go easy, he can’t be gentle. You don’t want him to, anyway.

But what surprises you is when the tip of his cock comes to fit snug against your entrance, he falters. Almost like he’s asking the final permission, in a dark drawl that might almost sound whiny if he wasn’t so brooding—

“Can I? Please?”

“Yes. Joel, yes, please — ngh —” he cuts you off, sinking into your heat with a tight thrust, you’re surprised at the stretch of his length, it’s like he barely fits.

“What…Jesus — you —?”

“Didn’t touch myself much,” you admit, knowing what he’s saying; How are you so fucking tight?

“Was trying not to think — ngh — about you.”

Your face feels a bit hot when you remember your phone call half a week ago. It was one of the first times following the night at the bar you touched yourself, and there was definitely no time to see anyone in the last couple weeks.

Joel can evidently feel that too, groaning when he sinks in to the hilt, his breath punching somewhere near your ear, his hand bruising your waist with the force that he grips you with.

“You gotta relax, baby, I —”

“Please just — move, Joel,” he laughs a bit at your neediness, but it’s cut off with a groan as he moves, retreating a fraction of an inch before pushing back in, rending your breathless, boneless.

He picks up his pace when you start to relax around him, mold to him, like he’s the only one who will ever fit inside you. His groans and grunts are no match to mask your whimpers, his praises ring through your head, you feel weightless.

“Fuckin’ perfect, angel,” he groans, you claw at his back, probably leaving scratch marks but you’re too fucked out to care. “Just like I remembered.”

It feels like old times. Before all this mess, before the incident in the car, on the porch, outside the bar. Before Tommy, or Caroline, or Janet fucking Baker. Before everything. Before all the laters and everything unsaid. Like old times. Like he’s saying Hi for the first time and not Goodbye like he has been for the last week.

His grip on your waist tightens if possible — so much for wearing a bikini tomorrow at the party. The bite of his fingers almost snap you out of it, but he feels so good, teetering you right on the edge of painful as he spears into you with no remorse. It’s like he can’t help himself, and he probably can’t considering all the blue balls over the last few weeks.

For some reason that spurs you on further, your orgasm quickly approaches with each stab of his fingertips digging into you, his hot breath near your face, and the feeling of coarse hair nudging at your clit just right.

“J-Joel,” you moan, but you don’t think you have to tell him you’re close. You know he can feel it.

“Missed you so much – fuck, baby,” he groans, placing hot kisses on your neck, “Needed you. Needed this.”

“Joel—” it’s already braced on your lips, you both know it. An unspoken ritual that feels way too possessive for either of your own good — but you say it anyways and he groans all the same.

“Can I cum? Joel, please?”

You don’t really hear much aside from his small yes and your vision blinks white as you moan out long and deep into his ear. He fucks you through it, grunting out praises when he feels you get impossibly tight around him.

It might even be too much but you don’t care.

You wait for him, your aftershocks sending him closer to his own release as his hips stutter and he gets out one last demand that sends him over the edge.

“Say it’s me — sweetheart. Please,” he groans, almost begging. Like it’s the last thing that will push him towards bliss.

“‘S you, Joel — it’s-’s always been you,” you comply and feel him groan and shudder when his orgasm rolls through him. You can feel the hot stickiness of it roll through you, and he holds himself up to whisper one last thing to you before you both slump onto the bed and fall asleep.

“Tell him no. Tell him — just — just be with me.”

You nod, panting, he finally falls into the crook of your neck and you welcome it graciously, pulling at his curls until you fall asleep.

“Okay,” you whisper.

chapter vi. bruises

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