Headcanon: How the reader helps them cope with their grief.
Characters: Ezio, Haytham, Shay, Bayek, Connor, Basim, M.Eivor, Arno, Jacob
Ezio:
- This man will never keep anything from you, not even his grief.
- Ezio is an emotionally available man, he is able to communicate his emotions (e.i grief) comfortably with you.
- He’d consider his partner a trusted confidant, his safe place.
- He’d be very emotionally transparent with you.
- I think one way Ezio would deal with his grief would be by spending time with you and the family you two have created together (biologically or nonbiological) in the peaceful countryside, living a peaceful and quiet life. He needs normality and peace as he grows older.
- This man would be eternally grateful that he has you to help ease the burden of his grief, he 100% believes you’re love love has saved him from a path of death and destruction in the name of revenge.
- Ezio would repay back your patience and guidance with a lifetime of gratitude (and kisses).
- He knows without you, his grief would most likely have consumed him whole, and he’d be a very different man without you.
- Even Claudia is happy that Ezio has you to comfort him during his darkest moments.
Haytham:
- This man does not know how to process grief like a normal person. He bottles up his emotions until he explodes, he allows his emotions to take over.
- So please look out for his warning signs, before he’s explodes with emotional trauma and ‘accidentally’ kills someone.
- So calm your emotionally, traumatized man down. And make his ass sit back down.
- His partner is probably the only human that can help him regulate his emotions.
- If you notice him becoming silent and broody, show him some loving. He needs to be shown physical and emotional love during those times. He’s touch starved in my opinion. 🤷🏼♀️
- He’d open up to you, and you only. Maybe not willingly, but he’d feel better once he did open up to you about his grief.
- Sometimes he appreciates just being held by you, as he wrangles with his own thoughts and emotions. You are his calm/peace.
- If you see him steering absently out the window? Go give your man a hug from behind, and just hold him. Sometimes he needs to be the one to be held. He is great at distancing himself from the world, and even you at times.
- The guilt often consumes his mind, but his s/o’s reassurance is the best remedy. But he will never go looking for your reassurance, you will have to be the one to give it to him.
- He is stubborn as a young man, and will be very closed over his feelings/grief, but older he becomes, he learns that it’s safe to open up to his s/o.
- And sometimes he’ll just come and hold you if he’s feeling overwhelmed by his grief. He won’t say much, but you both know he needs you to anchor him down in turbulent times.
- So safe to say, physical touch helps him immensely, more than words.
- But every now and then he’ll need to vent his emotions to you, and just having you listen to him, I mean truly listen, makes him feel not so alone. He won’t often vocalize his grief, but when he does he’s a mess of emotions.
- If Haytham didn’t have you to help him regulate his grief and emotions, he’d be much more emotionally unstable. You are essential to him as most trusted confidant, he knows his secrets are safe with you, vice versa.
- Buttttt sometimes his grief can make him snappy, and he can become quite annoying.
- All you gotta do is call him out and he’ll smarten up rather quickly, you’re temper is worse than his. Put that man back in his place every now and then for everyone’s sake or he’ll become a diva and stress y’all out, all because he’s stressed out.
- but also reassuring kisses help too. But you’re man won’t admit that openly.
- I honestly feel like if Haytham was going to open up about his grief, it would have to be when he feels most comfortable around someone (you) and on his own accord. There’s no point in trying to force Haytham to open up, it would only cause an argument, and distance between the two of you. Let this man open up willingly to you, and maybe gently inquire about his feelings and emotions and he’ll become more open and trusting.
- If he doesn’t end up wanting to talk though, just let him know you are there for him. And sometimes that’s enough for him.
- A cup of tea, and a warm fire usually helps cheer his spirits up.
- And of course his s/o’s company. Haytham just wants to be loved deep down. So show that man some lovin when he needs it!!!
- Also I think as his partner, you’d recognize the signs of his own grief before he would.
- But he can read your emotions better than he can read his own tbh.
- So show this man the happier things in life, because we all know he’s not one for enjoyment.
Assassin Shay:
- I think younger Shay would be much more open about his grief/emotions.
- I think he’s an extremely passionate man so when he feels any kind of emotion (such as grief), he’ll wear that shit on his sleeve.
- This boy is like an open book when it comes to being open with his spouse. He has 0 issues coming to you with any problems he may encounter. He doesn’t think twice, he just immediately goes to you with his emotions and feelings (he’d except the same from you).
- There’s no hiding anything between you two, so he’s gonna give you all the details and rundown.
- I think any advice you’d give him, he’d take to heart. He’d appreciate your lil pep talks.
- I alsoooo think he would become a passionate lover during times of grief, to help distract himself, physical love helps more than anything if you catch my drift 🤷🏼♀️
- I do think he could move on from his grief quicker when he was younger vs when he’s older.
- Offering him an excursion away from his work every now and then, would help immensely with his grief. Even if it was just a day exploring the surrounding shorelines or new places in the frontier.
Templar Shay:
- I think he’d be a lot more broodier and quiet in his moments of grief as he ages.
- I also think it’d become way harder for him to open up. So it be more work for you trying to get this broody man to open up.
- I think as his grief grows overtime, so does his callousness towards society.
- But he’d eventually open up with his own s/o. Especially if he wants you to do the same when it comes to your own emotions and thoughts. He knows it works both ways, so he tries hard for you, even though he doesn’t wish to burden you with his “problems” aka grief.
- Honestly he’d probably need a hug and a smooch more than any cheerful advice.
- I think as long as you were okay at the end of the day, he’d be okay too. He’d remind himself that the most important thing in his life is safe. You’d be his happiness.
- I think even drawing him up a warm bath and simply doting on your man would cheer him up. He’s never been shown true, genuine affection.
Connor:
- Do not let this man be by himself when you notice he’s grieving. :(
- I think Connor probably appreciative peace and quiet during these moments, just your company would be more than enough.
- Still the broody silent type :(
- I think he’d keep his grief in until he combusted from it, much like his father.
- So if you notice him becoming overwhelmed, take a moment and let this man feel your arms around him. And don’t let him go. He needs to feel loved sometimes, especially by the most important person in his life, which is you.
- Maybe a day of fishing/hunting, or forging for berries, away from the changing ways of the colonies. Remind him of simpler times.
- I think he’d open up to his spouse, and he’d be very honest about his grief and everything he has experienced.
- You are Connor’s safe spot in his world of trauma and grief.
- I also think he may be like Haytham in the sense that he may turn to anger/violence when he’s upset. So don’t let this man suffer in silence, unless you want him to fight half the colonies with his two fist.
- I think spending time with you and his homestead family would make life a little more bearable for him.
- As he grows older and matures, he becomes more open with you, because he has grown to realize that you can read him like a book and that there is nothing he can keep from you, his loving lil partner.
- I think cooking him a hearty meal would warm his soul. ❤️ Just show him the love he craves and remind him all is well in the world.
Bayek:
- This man is a honest man, so if there’s something bothering him (ex. Grief), and you ask him about it, he’ll be very open and honest about how he’s feeling.
- Very in touch with his emotions.
- Finds comfort in opening up to you about his thoughts and emotions due to grief.
- This poor man has been through hell and back, so it may take time for him to heal from his grief, so do not feel like you can’t help him, he needs to move on from his grief by himself, he can’t burden you with everything in his opinion.
- When he feels overwhelmed by his grief, he may retort to vigilantism, so try and keep him out of too much trouble.
- He also appreciates sitting and reflecting in silence over talking sometimes, your company completes him.
- Distract him with some hunting or stargazing!!!!
- I think if you helped him spread goodness/kindness, it would show him the brighter side in life during these difficult times for him.
- I can see Bayek relying on your touch/comfort during his times of grief.
Mirage Basim:
- This man is completely open about his grief, especially when he’s with you.
- he’ll come to you whenever he feels overcome with his grief.
- Basim depends on you’re comfort and love as a cooping mechanism
- He spends so much time in your arms that it feels like home.
- At nighttime when his nightmares return while dreaming, you best know that man will need your love more than ever before. You’ll feel him holding you more tightly than usual.
- He knows he can be open with you, and I think having you at his side would help with the burdens of his grief.
- I think the times you aren’t around are the times he is comforted/ influenced by Nehal. Which is not ideal.
- “Nehal” might even/ or at lead try to cause a rift between you too
Valhalla Basim:
- The most grumpy, moody man you’ll ever meet when he’s struggling with grief.
- Might become distant and cold when he is grieving.
- Definitely wouldn’t be as open as he may have been in his younger days.
- You’ll need to work hard to get that man to open up to you.
- He might even put up a fight when you try and get him to be honest with you about his grief/emotions.
- But I think he’d be secretly relieved after he opened up to you.
- Won’t admit it but you’re hugs and kisses and a soothing balm for his troubled soul. And sometimes your touch is enough to make him feel like maybe the universe isn’t completely against him.
- I think it be easier for him to open up at night when it was just the two of you in bed together, with you held tightly in his arms. But when he holds you in his arms in complete darkness, is when he becomes vulnerable and may open up to you willingly, but only once in a blue moon. He’s not an open book anymore.
Modern Basim:
- BIGGEST BABY FOR HIS S/O
- You are his partner, and therapist all in one.
- He’s not afraid to be open about his grief, and will gladly come to you when he feels even the slightest sign of grief.
- Would hold you like a teddy bear until he felt better.
- He’d become very romantic and gushy towards you when he’s feeling remorse or guilt. He doesn’t like the feeling and wants to replace it with your love. Your love is all he needs.
- Is glad that he has you by his side, he know you are his greatest asset, and knows you are the reason he’s not completely overcome by grief and regret.
- When he meditates, you are often the peace he thinks of.
M. Eivor:
- I think he’d be the quiet and reserved type, not wanting to bother his partner with his burdens/grief, thinking you’ve already been through enough of your own grief, that you don’t need any more of it.
- But he eventually finds himself smiling secretly when he hears you lecturing him about him keeping his grief locked away from you, his partner, especially when you are there to help lighten the load for him.
- But when you ask, he’ll be completely truthful about his grief. He holds nothing back, and he absolutely pours his soul out to you.
- Tbh just being there emotionally for this man would be enough, but the more support you give, the better.
- Besides what is a good Jarl without a good Jarlskonaz.
Arno:
- Arno can be a difficult man to deal with when he suffers from grief.
- His partner would have to understand that Arno struggles with his greif.
- His s/o would have to deal with his moodiness and even detachment from him.
- You would have to be just as stubborn as he is. Don’t give up on him, he needs you most during these trying times.
- Keep him away from alcohol at all costs. You may even have to pour the bottle out on him (he’ll definitely be pissssed). Eventually I think he’d give up alcohol altogether, especially for you, and the relationship you share.
- It’d also be a full time job keeping him out of trouble at times, especially when Arno’s grief transforms into a desperate need for justice/revenge. And if you arrive too late, and he’s already found trouble, have your man’s back and keep him safe. But hey, you can lecture him the whole time as a form of punishment, a “I told you so” moment.
- But he is glad to have you at the end of the day, no matter how many angry, teary eyed lectures you give him. I think he’d hate to see how his grief/actions are hurting you, and that he can’t do. You are the love of his life, he’s find healthier ways to deal with his grief. You would be the light at the end of the tunnel for him.
- When he would write about his grief, those entry’s would usually end on a positive note, discussing ways you are saving him.
- Late at night, as you are both curled up together he’d whisper about how you had saved him from himself, you gave him reason to live.
- You’d definitely have to encourage him to mentor Leon. He’d be very opposed to the idea, but you know you’re man better than he knows himself, he needs more than just you in his life, he needs a purpose like mentoring.
- I think with your encouragement he’d eventually accept allowing another into his life, aka Leon.
- I believe you and Leon would become his new found family, he might even consider raising a few children of your own together, once he felt like he could let go of all the guilt and grief.
- Basically you are the sunshine that breaks through on his stormy moments of grief, you both create a beautiful rainbow of life/happiness together.
Jacob Frye:
- So I think this man appreciates a person who he could just open up too, just to help him reflect.
- But also I think he needs a partner who can lighten the mood with a lighthearted joke (or cheesy puns). He enjoys a good laugh with his s/o.
- Jacob would appreciate your soft touches, especially when he feels the world is against him. He also appreciates you listening to him when he really needs someone to just listen, and not argue.
- You probably should keep him away from pubs and street fights when he’s grieving . If he could drink and fight his grief away, he would.
- Maybe take time to get out of London, and maybe go visit his home of Crowley, or visit small towns and enjoy the slow life of the countryside.
- Jacob loves when you and your children take the time to cheer him up with hugs and family love when you all notice he’s down.
- Definitely tries to pretend he’s okay though, and will probably try to make a joke out of his feelings.
- Do not let him think that his emotions are invalid, because that man has some serious ptsd, especially after his near death experience with Jack. 😭❤️
- I think at moments he’d just break in your arms, and just let all his emotions out. But that’s the only time he’ll allow himself to be emotionally vulnerable.
- Let’s be honest, Jacob is really just a big ass kid who really needs some love and support.
- He’d probably be sassier than usual when it comes to his grief. Which would get under Evies skin at times. So you would probably have to do some family interventions, and keep Evie from strangling her brother.
- I think yours and Jacob’s family would be his remedy to any grief he feels. He adores begging a father/husband.
- Also maybe bonding over a cup of tea (or ale) with his s/o would be another good way to ease him out of his grief.
- Also, he doesn’t want to burden you with his grief. He tries to be the rock of you’re relationship, the one who you can come to with all you’re problems, not the other way around. But he’d appreciate when you allow him to open up.
- He’d think his grief would be too much for your poor lil shoulders to handle, so it’s his job in his opinion to take all the emotional weight on his shoulders. So you gotta get rid of that way of thinking, encourage him to share with you.
- He would definitely enjoy some train rides through England, showing you all his favourite sights and places. I think he’d enjoy traveling with you in general, whetherher it was England an another country altogether.
- But I think Jacob would honestly need a distraction from his assassin work when grieving, and I think showing him the simpler pleasures in life would help him bounce back eventually.
- I think grief is a very dangerous thing for poor Jacob.
- And I think he’d even avoid you when he doesn’t know how to handle his grief. So you’ll probably have to put your assassin skills to work and hunt him down, he won’t make it easy.
- Grief + Jacob = fight club (stop this man before he fights half of London)
A/N: More Basim headcanons (but it became more of a oneshot towards the end)
When Basim decides to set for AlUla, he makes it very clear that you are not to join him and Dervis on this journey. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because this mission already feels too personal and he doesn’t want to inconvenience too many people with the demons of his past
Dervis earns his approval thanks to his navigating skills, but you are left with negotiating with Basim. Luckily for you, you have a cousin living in the city who could give you insider information. The cousin, however, is wary of strangers and needs familiar faces to cooperate
The look Basim gives you is one of exasperation and fondness
And so, you find yourself on a camel the next day
He makes sure to ride close to you during the entire journey; gives your camel extra sweets when you’re not looking. When setting up camp, your cot is the first to be made and the last to be rolled up. Breakfast is laid before you the second you open your eyes and sheets are tucked when you move too much in your sleep
Basim watches from a distance, especially in Valley of Memory. Everything on this journey feels more… raw, like he’s bearing parts of himself to you and Dervis without even realising. He finds himself speaking of childhood memories he thought he’d lost to time. It’s scary yet unraveling at the same time
If you are not already courting by this point, this journey certainly brings you closer. Dervis and, funnily enough, Enkidu, play as undercover matchmakers – in their own way.
Dervis sits out minor missions – he’s tired, he says. Old age is creeping up on him and he’s not as in shape as he used to be (this is after he massacres a group of 20 robbers btw)
“Go on, now. Go together. No, Basim, I’m not smirking.”
Enkidu watches you. You’re sharpening your sword at the camp when you feel the bird’s eyes boring into you – and when you turn to ask Basim what Enkidu’s problem is, you find him already looking at you. He immediately looks away by feigning disinterest, and when you look back at his companion, you find Enkidu looking away too; only his demeanour is exaggerated, mocking the male assassin
Enkidu also starts to give you gifts like a shiny coin or a mouse he hunted. He’s seen Basim gift you trinkets or feed you when you’re too tired, and he quickly learns to mimic that behaviour. He is in sync with Basim’s soul, and the bond between the two of you clearly runs deeper than with Dervis, so his instinct is acting upon what Basim doesn’t dare touch
So, here’s a dead mouse for you. Say thank you to Enkidu.
You befriend a hare that lingers by your campsite. She’s cautious but trusting enough to let you feed her sometimes, maybe touch her fur before she scurries away (Enkidu was watching lmao). A few days later, you find the figurine of a carved wooden hare on your cot, small enough to cup it in your hands
That’s how you find out Basim wanted to be a wood carver during his childhood. It’s a new side of him you haven’t seen since you started training together, and it all starts to make more sense the more you study him. Those toys he gifts to the street urchins in Baghdad – those are no donations or stolen goods, but works of his own. The horse on wheels, the wooden doll; all sanded to perfection to ensure the children don’t get any splinters
That means he’s often gnawing and prodding at his fingers to get splinters out. Has definitely missed a few and has tiny scars and cuts on his fingertips as a result
He is still his silly self btw. But you can tell his mind is elsewhere, busy with the whereabouts of his father. He’ll be joking and wheezing with you before bed and then disappear the next morning before breakfast, needing to clear his mind. But he clearly appreciates your presence there, despite his initial apprehension
“When I was a child I used to stand under people’s windows and make weird noises haha”
“Where’s my dad :(“
Speaking of disappearing, you are a wreck when he is kidnapped. Enkidu hasn’t returned either, and after two days of searching around AlUla, you finally hear back from your cousin. Basim is in jail and ‘Abis’s men have spread out through the area, much to the dismay of the people.
You opt for a side entrance of the jail. It’s less guarded, and the soldiers posted there are gossiping instead of stopping your incoming attacks. One throwing knife after another eliminates your targets up to the entrance, when chaos suddenly erupts
You hear yelling first – the guards unsheathe their swords when the doors open, and for a split second, you think you’ve been caught. But then Basim comes out stumbling, favouring his chest as he drags his feet. He’s barely managing to dodge the bodies on the floor and the soldiers charging at him, his gaze hazy and his lungs squeezing. By the time you reach him, he has collapsed, his skin flushed and his wheezing rattling your heart
You don’t know how you managed to bring him back. Dervis found you halfway and helped you drag him to his cot where he cleaned his wound. For the next few days, Basim is in and out of sleep as he fights a fever, his breathing shaky as his body washes out the poison
When he opens his eyes, he looks dazed. Like he’s not sure the poison has claimed him or if the entire journey to AlUla was a part of his imagination. But you’re sitting there beside him, dabbing a damp cloth on his forehead to bring down the fever, and his lidded eyes are watching you so intently you blush
You allow yourself to chastise him for the worry he caused you and Dervis. How much of an idiot he is for falling for the oldest trick in the book, how he should have asked you or Dervis for help. Despite your anger, Basim doesn’t miss the tremor in your voice. You finally allow yourself to breathe after he responds to your rant with a squeeze of your hand and a kiss to the palm – an apology with what little energy he can muster, but no less sincere.
He doesn’t let go of your hand though – and he’s already fallen back asleep, so you make yourself comfortable next to him and rest
The next morning, you find Enkidu resting by his usual spot – only this time he isn’t watching you, but sleeping peacefully like his partner.
Once he’s recovered, Basim is itching to continue searching for his father. He knows where he is now, and while he is excited to see him again, he doesn’t miss the apprehension on your face. You’re worried of what he might find, if he’ll find anything at all; if he’ll get into trouble again or choose to walk away when he’s certain you and Dervis can’t follow him
And so, he places his father’s beloved amulet on your palm with so much reverence you’d think he’s giving you the relic of an altar. He forces your hand closed, cradles it between his in a silent promise. The warmth emanating from his eyes is new but not unwelcome
(he might as well just propose to you atp)
The days drag while he’s gone. You and Dervis keep each other entertained for as long as you can; but Basim shows up again on his third night away. You’re reading by the edge of the campsite when you see his figure walking towards you, dark clothes blending with the dark dunes under the moonless sky. His scarf flaps in the air in your direction, like an arm looking for you, reaching, yearning. He doesn’t say anything, only takes his hood off with a sigh that betrays the inner turmoil he’s feeling.
You’re almost afraid to ask.
“Did you find him?”
Basim purses his lips, hesitating, before his arms wrap around you and pull you close. The embrace is tender and lacks the playfulness of all the other hugs he’s given you since you met – it’s grounding, new, and warm like the hearth of a home in the eye of the storm. You are the eye of the storm.
“I did,” he responds, voice hoarse like he hasn’t used it in a while. “I have my answers.”
“And what’s your verdict?”
Basim pulls back just enough to find your gaze, nose brushing against yours. His eyes are studying you like he’s done every day during this journey, lingering and wanting – the warmth of his body, the smell of wood on his hands, his fingers quick to fix the lapel of your clothes. His palm cups the curve of your cheek like he carved and chiselled it himself to perfection.
“I have faced my past and buried it behind me,” he swallows before surging forward and catching your lips in a lingering kiss; tentative, almost shy until you melt into it. How you wish you could swallow the sigh he releases at that. When he parts again, it’s with a lingering peck, his eyes blown as they flutter open again. “My future awaits me now. If you’ll have me–”
“Yes.”
That earns you a chuckle. “Very well. We shall leave this all behind. Travel to distant lands.”
You tilt your head, caress his beard when the promise of travel seems to awaken a certain glint in his eyes. “Any particular place in mind?”
“You know,” Basim murmurs, his eyes dropping to his amulet in your hand. “Constantinople has been calling out to me lately.”
character : Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Ezio Auditore, Connor (Ratohnhake:ton) Kenway, Edward Kenway & Desmond Miles,
cw : Mention of blood and wounds, violence, sillyness, you know, a little bit of everything.
+ summary : you're an apprentice under the supervision of your mentor, but they have a platonic love for you. Do they have to deal with you or do you have to deal with them? This is the first of two parts I will be doing on this type of headcanon.
- notes : English is not my native language, so please be patient with me. Also this is my first post about AC, I hope you enjoy these headcanons.
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
✒ You're fucked up hahaha
✒ Being his apprentice it's a title everyone would die for, that's means he saw something special in you. Let's pretend he isn't in love with you.
✒ Now, you're under a lot of pressure, every step you take, every move you make, every look, every breath, everything has to be perfect. Being his student does not mean you're safe from your duties and his expectations. Sorry for that.
✒ He doesn't hold back in training; he loves to see how every time you fail, you get back up with even more determination.
✒ He doesn't admit it but he love hear you call him "master". This man only responds to your call even if there are any other asking for his help.
✒ He call you: Dove or novice, depending on how you did the job.
✒ On every mission assigned to him, you with him or vice versa. Literally takes you everywhere, by his side.
✒ The only time he "lets you go" is when he needs information, so gathering it is your fieldwork during missions. But he always find a way to get to you once he's finished his part of the job.
✒ Even if he doesn't want to or can't, you have individual missions to accomplish, but that doesn't stop him. As your mentor, it's his duty to make sure you'll be okay, right?
✒ When he sees you applying everything you've learned on missions, whether it's combat techniques, assassination, or even helping him decipher information, even if he says he didn't ask for your help, he can't help but smile proudly.
✒ "I wasn't wrong about you, little dove".
✒ When you get injured on missions, he simply sees red. He'll take you to the shelter and tend to your wounds, no matter how minor they may be. He can't deal with the idea that he failed to protect you. Once he makes sure you're safe, he'll take care of the rest.
✒ You're going to see him come back with blood in his ropes, obviously is not his blood.
✒ "You should have waited for me, you're still a novice... they could have killed you".
Ezio Auditore
✒ A blessing or a curse?
✒ You're his favorite apprentice, his eyes are always on you, yeah... Better you forget about privacy and personal space.
✒ The good new is that you don't have to deal with him alone, you've Leonardo!! If you want to escape from your mentor, just visit his house, he'll be happy to help you.
✒ But you can hide from him all the time, he'll find you any time soon, he always does.
✒ He loves to call you: "Cuore mio" (my heart), if you did a great job, but if you fucked up all the work, you will be called "cucciolo" (puppy).
✒ As much as he wants to, he knows perfectly well that he cannot accompany you on all your missions and vice versa, which is why you two always promise each other to return safe and sound.
✒ When you go on missions, he's by your side like a magnet.
✒ Watching you use everything you learned, make him smile satisfied, cause that mean you will be fine, he cannot afford to lose anyone else.
✒ "Excellent job, Cuore mio, you always exceed my expectations".
✒ "This time you screwed up, like the cucciolo you're".
✒ Lord have mercy on anyone who hurts you, cause that person don't will see the light again. As I said before, he doesn't want to lose anyone else, if he sees you injured, he would go mad. It doesn't care if the wound is minor or not, he wants you safe and sound like right fucking now.
✒ Be for sure that the blood will be spilled wouldn't come from him.
✒ "You've to be more careful, I can't protect you all the time, cuore mio"
Connor (Ratonhnake:ton) Kenway
✒ Bro... How did you manage to gain his trust?
✒ A lot of training in the forest, he'll teach you about hunting, camouflage, how to survive with limited resources, and most importantly, how to respect nature and connect with it.
✒ He'll also teach you everything he knows about boats.
✒ If you ask him to teach you his native language, at first he'll hesitate to do so, but if you use it as a code between yourselves, it is the perfect excuse to teach you something about his people and the place he come from.
✒ When he talks to Achilles about you, he calls you "the fawn". Never calls you like that when you're with him.
✒ "So you're the baby deer Connor adopted as his student".
✒ "I'm what?"
✒ "Don't listen to him..."
✒ Stay. Away. From. His. Father. This was the first rule he gave to you. Charles Lee already killed his mother. You're very important to him; the last thing he wants is to lose you to a templar like his father.
✒ When you go on missions, he doesn't interfere in your tasks, just like birds, he wants you to learn to fly by your own. Only interferes when he sees that you're in serious danger.
✒ You were gathering information when you were ambushed by templars and ended up hurt. Thanks to the lessons of your mentor, you were able to escape alive.
✒ While your wounds are being treated, all he needs to know is what those templars looked like. He'll finish the mission for you, and with a couple of lives too.
✒ "You're not ready to go on missions alone yet; the world is still too dangerous for you...".
Edward Kenway
✒ I'm so sorry for you.
✒ I'm not going to say he'll teach you about drinks, fights clubs and how to charm someone.
✒ He's knows more than you can imagine. Your training varies between the islands and the Jackdaw.
✒ You've to learn everything about the damn ship, cause you'll live in there all the time. Of course he helps you if you need it, but he prefers that you learn to communicate with the ship on your own.
✒ You must learn each island like the back of your hand. And he'll make sure you know how to get back to the port.
✒ So... Yeah, you'll have to memorize all the maps.
✒ But the most important thing he will teach you is to be loyal to your convictions and hold on to your dreams.
✒ The rest of the crew nicknamed you “the compass.” Because ever since Captain Edward took you under his wing, they noticed that his mood improved, and also because, no matter how or when, he always manages to find you.
✒ He calls you: "Gold coin". Why? Because you are worth as much as or more than a Spanish doubloon. Too much sugar captain.
✒ But when you don't finish your duties, or you fucked up, he calls you "Landlubber", sorry not sorry.
✒ No one would dare harm the Jackdaw captain's student, but at the same time, you are a high-value target for capturing the assassin pirate.
✒ And those who try to kidnap you, may the Lord have mercy on their souls, because the captain will have no problem reducing every island and ship to ashes in order to find you.
✒ "You understand now why I call you my golden coin?"
✒ More than a mentor, he would be an apprentice like you. You learn from each other, even though he knows a little more thanks to the memories of his ancestors.
✒ You train together.
✒ In missions, you compete to see who reaches the target first.
✒ He just call you by your name.
✒ Please, bother Shaun with him.
✒ Compliments here and there.
✒ "Of course you can't, you're a novice"
✒ "You're a novice too. Just because you've unlocked skills through your ancestors' memories doesn't make you a master!"
✒ Speaking of memories, if you are his “apprentice,” it's because you didn't see him as crazy for the bleeding effect.
✒ He teases you because you worry every time he has to enter the animus, but deep down he really appreciates that you pay attention to him during the immersion and help him deal with the bleeding hallucinations.
✒ The first time you came back injured from a mission, it was a reality check for him. So from that moment on, it's normal that on missions, he's the one who volunteers to face any danger first.
✒ This man is capable of sacrifice himself for your safety (just remember the games). He'll not hesitate to rush to your rescue, help you if you are injured, or kill the person responsible for such misfortune.
✒ "You'll drive crazy (Y/N)... I fucking swear to you, If you go alone again, I'll kill you with my own hands"
I'm just going back to my hyperfixations and it feels so good.
Remember that you can send me requests, questions, etc. I will be happy to respond.
Notes: Man idk what now, we are deep in this... The long-awaited Part 3, yay! Prev part: Pt.1
A titmouse’s call rang out among the trees, its quick, lilting cadence spilling through the woodland. Twigs cracked softly beneath your feet as you pressed onward, now and again bending or slipping aside to avoid the low-hanging branches that barred your path, careful not to stumble as you followed the man ahead.
Basim moved like a cat through the tangle of fallen trunks, stony rises, and roots that clawed up from the earth. At times he glanced back over his shoulder with a half-smile, his deep, dark eyes gleaming with a quiet curiosity as they traced your every movement.
You walked in silence, your passage alone disturbing the forest’s hush with the faint noise of intruders. Your gaze lingered on the motion of his back and shoulders, and you found yourself wondering at the play of muscle beneath the weight of his cloak. When you felt heat rise to your face and a strange unease stir in your stomach, you hastily drove the thought away, blinking hard and fixing your attention instead upon the uneven ground before you.
You did not know precisely where he led you, nor why he had brought you so far from the village; but you did not speak, because every trembling piece of your heart trusted him.
“Could you not have shown me the strength of my gift somewhere… closer to home?” You puffed at last, weariness creeping into your voice, after slipping yet again upon a slick stone—only for Basim to turn swiftly, catching your arm and drawing you back toward him.
His eyes were calm, almost gentle, as they searched your face, yet his lips curved with a hint of mockery.
“And where, Little Prophet, did you imagine we might speak in peace? ” He asked. “In Valka’s den, or with Hytham snooping around our office? Or perhaps in the Long House, where Eivor romps around?”
You blinked, flustered your gaze dropping aside as warmth flooded your cheeks and ears alike. In truth, you had not considered how small Ravensthorpe was, nor how many eyes lingered within it. There was scarcely a step one might take without crossing another’s path.
You parted your lips to answer, yet the words faltered at the sound of his low, resonant laughter.
“Here, we shall have quiet.” He went on, his voice softening as his warm hand traced the line of your jaw, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You need not fear that anyone will look askance at the wonders you are capable of.”
You lingered on his words as he turned once more and led you deeper into the wildwood this time keeping your hand within his sure grasp as he guided you onward.
The sun pursued its languid course across the sky, casting heavy shadows about you and conjuring shifting patterns that danced upon the forest floor. You found yourself wondering what it was that Basim must show you in such seclusion—whether your gifts were so perilous, or so unsettling, that they must be hidden from all eyes. Admittedly, you had often spoken to Valka of the tangled nature of your dreams. Indeed, it had been one of the reasons she persuaded your parents to place you under her care: those strange impressions that lingered at the nape of your neck, that stirred within the depths of your mind…yet never fully took shape until they had already begun to fade, only to be recalled later when some event brought them sharply back into the light. You had felt them before they came to pass; you had known.
Aside from Valka, perhaps only Eivor had never recoiled from the visions that flared within your thoughts, only he had believed that what you saw was not veiled in dream, but stood before you as something near to reality.
And perhaps now… Basim as well.
Be your own master; do as your heart desires—he had told you more than once, urging you onward. Yet you had to admit, even to yourself, that you did not truly know what it was your heart desired. All your life you’ve been surrounded by familiar faces, though you’ve heard stories of other places and strangers… Who would have set out with you to explore the unknown? And the fact that you’re always helping people… After all, you’ve found joy in making their lives easier—why couldn’t you be happy this way? What is it that you couldn’t find here?
At last you came upon a high mound of earth, strewn with fragrant flowers that swayed gently in the breeze, their pale petals rippling like water disturbed by an oar. Basim led you along its base, and before long the soil gave way to the hardness of grey stone. To your surprise, you saw that a narrow hollow opened into the mound; not deep enough to be called a cave, yet far enough removed from the world beyond to conceal any who wandered within.
You cast him a questioning glance, and as though he felt your gaze upon him, Basim turned toward you with quiet assurance.
“We have arrived.” He inclined his head toward the opening, guiding you to his side.
“What place is this?” You asked, peering into the hollow. Darkness swallowed its far end; it stretched deep enough that the light of day could not reach its back wall.
“I found it when I first came here with your people.” He replied, drawing from the satchel at his side a shallow bowl and a leather flask. “On one of my scouting journeys. It was abandoned.”
With a faint groan he lowered himself to his knees, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
He cast you a sidelong look as he poured oil into the bowl. “Laugh if you must…” He muttered, somewhat aggrieved. “But aching knees spare no man. Though I remain a formidable opponent to any challenger…”
“I do not doubt it.” You giggled, lifting your hands in mild surrender as you crouched beside him. Basim’s keen gaze flicked over your movements then, raising an eyebrow, turned his attention back to the objects in his hands. After filling the wooden bowl, he untied a thick cord from his belt, took out a throwing knife, and cut off a piece about a finger’s length. With practiced ease, he dipped the cord into the oil, then placed it in the bowl.
When he set it alight, it sparked, then flared into a steady flame, casting a bright glow between you.
“Are you ready, Little Prophet?” He asked, glancing at you from beneath dark lashes, warmth lingering in his eyes. “Do you think you can master your power?” His warm eyes peered at you from behind his black eyelashes, and the quickening of your heartbeat made you look away from his gaze a few moments later.
Basim chuckled and, leaning on his knees, stood up, offering you a steady hand as well. Accepting it, you found yourself drawn easily to your feet. His hands lingered only briefly before sliding from your arms to your waist, guiding you gently forward.
“I… think so.” You replied in a choked voice, paying more attention to the pressure of his hands on your skin than to his words.
“Good girl, very good.” He murmured sweetly, then headed toward the entrance with you by his side, holding the lantern in front of him.
Together you moved toward the entrance, the makeshift lamp held before you. Tentatively, you lifted your arm and slipped it around his, and you felt rather than saw his quiet satisfaction as his hold about your waist tightened in return.
The passage was not long. Soon the damp stone gave way to a faint glow ahead, and as you turned slightly, the back wall of the hollow came into view. The flame cast your wavering shadows against the rock.
You stifled a startled - or maybe longing - gasp as your eyes fell upon the heap before you—thick furs and layered rugs spread across the ground.
A few heartbeats later, you cast a cautious glance toward him, scarcely turning your face, not daring to meet his eyes outright; - yet burning with curiosity as to how he might respond. Basim watched you in silence, turned slightly in your direction, studying the line of your profile. The small flame of the lamp softened the sharp lines of his face, lending it an almost gentle cast.
The heap of furs beckoned invitingly; thick, curling sheep’s wool, fine wolf pelts, and soft rabbit fur spread at your feet, and all at once you were reminded of home: villages cradled by fjords, rooftops buried beneath snow, the warmth of firelight, and the taste of smoked fish.
Without a word, Basim stepped forward and set the lamp upon a small stone ledge carved into the wall. Then he turned back to you. Gently, he took your hand and led you toward the nest of furs. At last, you lifted your gaze to his, searching his face, trying to discern what he intended in such a place—and what you yourself might do in answer.
“What… what is the purpose of all this?” You asked, blinking at him with a nervous half-smile.
His gaze moved slowly over your face, lingering upon each feature, as though he too sought to unravel your thoughts. For a moment, he said nothing; then, with the quiet gravity of a man long accustomed to weighing every step, he answered simply:
“This is my refuge. A place where, if need be, I may pass the night.”
He reached out and brushed a stray lock from your brow, his touch light as down. Yet there was something unspoken beneath his words, something you heard in the softness of his tone: This is my domain, and I bid you enter it. A sanctuary where none shall find you, nor do you harm.
You watched as Basim seated himself upon the edge of the furs, patting the place beside him - a silent invitation. Biting lightly upon your tongue, you lowered yourself to sit at his side, every part of you tingling at the closeness. Was it here, in this small cavern, that he meant to help you uncover your sight? Or was there some other purpose behind his strange conduct? You had to restrain yourself from seeking the answer too quickly.
Basim felt the tension that radiated from you as you sat beside him, yet he did not look at you at once. Instead, he busied himself with folding a fur blanket carefully across his lap, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.
This cave was more than a shelter. To him, it was sacred ground; hidden from the world, untouched by the ignorant and the curious alike. A place where he might act without witness, where he could move his pieces upon the board as he willed. Here, visions grew stronger, perception widened, lingering longer than in any other place. Perhaps it would aid you as well.
At last, he turned to you and this time, when his gaze met yours, something deeper lay behind the dark of his eyes: purpose. Slowly, watching the changes in your expression, Basim raised one hand and placed it lightly over your heart. At the touch of his broad palm against your garments, a knot caught in your throat, and you felt a sheen of warmth gather upon your brow, fearing that the quickening of your heartbeat might betray you to him - how deeply he affected you, how easily he could unsettle you with the simplest gesture or word.
“You are very gifted.” He began. “But talent alone holds no worth. You must command your visions; become their master. Seek within them; do not merely behold them.” His voice was low and measured, like that of a teacher addressing a pupil, or a master guiding an apprentice. Each word carried weight.
“You see things… but do you understand them?”
He tilted his head slightly, searching your face, as though to see whether you grasped the truth within his words. Then, slowly, he raised both hands and set them gently at your temples. His palms were warm from travel and from life itself, roughened by the calluses earned through years of blade-work and climbing stone walls.
“I can help you master them, bend them to your will.” He murmured, his thumb gliding over your soft skin. The touch sent a shiver through you; your stomach tightened, and you had to clench your jaw to stifle a greedy breath at the nearness of his scent.
“How?” You swallowed hard, trying to steady your thoughts. “You cannot step into my visions… can you?”
Basim opened his eyes slowly, deliberately and for the span of a heartbeat something shifted within them. Not merely focus, not merely intent. Something deeper stirred behind his gaze…something otherworldly.
The firelight dimmed, as though an unseen breath had stirred the flame, and the cave fell into an uncanny stillness. Even the whisper of wind through the cracks faded.
Then Basim smiled, not with amusement, but with quiet certainty, as though he carried a secret older than time itself.
“No.” He said softly. “That, I cannot do. But there are… means by which I may aid you. A crutch, if you will, to steady your steps in that other realm.”
Leaning back slightly, he reached for the belt at his waist, from which hung several small pouches and satchels. He drew one free and held it out to you; a strong, heady scent rose from it, thick and almost overwhelming.
“What herbs are these?” You asked, brow furrowing, already certain that some potent mixture lay within.
Basim held the pouch lightly between his fingers, letting the sharp fragrance drift into the air. It pricked at the nose—henbane, perhaps, or datura… and something softer beneath it: poppy, sage, and a deeper note, something almost sacred.
He did not answer at once. Instead, he loosened the drawstring and poured a pinch of finely ground herbs into his palm.
“Dittany.” He said at last with a faint, knowing smile. “That is the one you would not name. It grows in distant lands, where the air is warm and oracles walk among men. Hellas, they call it; and this comes from one of its famed isles - where great kings once ruled and terrible beasts were born.”
“They are for focus.” He continued, crushing a small portion between his fingers and letting the powder fall back into the pouch. “They sharpen the mind, so that you may see clearly; and lend strength to the heart, that it does not falter upon the path.” His voice softened, almost reverent, as though he spoke of something sacred.
Then he looked to you again, the fire casting shifting shadows across his features, and extended his hand in offering. He was ready to guide you—to help you understand all that you saw, if only you would accept.
You bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze darting between the pouch in his hand and the intensity of his eyes. It was not that you did not trust him… but that you feared what might follow. Visions could consume a person if misjudged and then there would be no one to shield you from the harm they brought.
Basim saw the hesitation in your eyes, the quiet fear beneath it. Not fear of him, but of what lay beyond. Visions were no mere dreams; they were storms, whispers from realms unseen, capable of shaking the soul to its core.
Without moving farther from you, he lowered his hand and closed the pouch again, placing it gently between you, within easy reach. Then, with a surprising gentleness for a man who carried blades and dealt in death, Basim lifted his hand and cupped your face in his warm palm.
“You need not take it.” He murmured. “Not unless you are ready.”
His thumb brushed your skin in a soothing motion. Your heart skipped, something stirring deep within you as you leaned, almost unconsciously, into his touch.
Basim felt the warmth of your skin, the subtle tremor beneath his fingers—small, yet telling. Something stilled within him, the way a predator stills before the strike. You leaned into him like a flower turning toward the sun. Without a word, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck - an intimate, vulnerable place - and he drew you gently toward him until his lips met yours.
The kiss was soft. Not demanding, not ravenous as it had been once before by the water’s edge. His lips brushed yours once, testing, then again, firmer this time, as though committing their shape to memory. The light rasp of his beard grazed your chin; his breath was warm and steady, an anchor for your unmoored senses.
A quiet, muffled sound escaped your throat as your thoughts dissolved into a soft haze, leaving only the language of your body; feeling every touch, every breath, every fleeting moment.
Basim felt the soft whimper against his lips and something in him unfurled. That fragile sound, as delicate and startled as a fledgling bird’s first chirp at dawn, kindled a heat deep within his chest.
He deepened the kiss in answer to that sweet surrender, his tongue seeking yours. One hand remained at the nape of your neck, while the other slipped around you, drawing you gently into his lap without ever breaking the movement of his lips.
You settled there with surprising ease; your body fit against his as though it had been fashioned for that very place. His arms closed fully around you now, one strong limb encircling your back, the other resting low at your waist. The kiss slowed, deepened, savoring the sweetness of you. You drew a breath; the scent of herbs still clung to him, mingled with sandalwood from his cloak, the faint smoke of hearth-fires, and the cold trace of iron from the blades he carried.
He tilted his head slightly to reach you better, then, after a moment, withdrew—but only by an inch, only to press softer kisses along the line of your jaw, and lower still, to the curve of your neck. A sigh slipped from you, and with trembling hands you reached for his cloak, meaning to free him of it. Yet as the heavy fabric fell from his shoulder, he stilled.
Suddenly he caught your hands and leaned back, breaking the kiss. It was not a harsh rejection, yet the distance between your lips widened at once, and the warmth vanished as swiftly as it had come.
“No, my sweet Prophet. Not yet.” He whispered hoarsely against your jaw. “I cannot let you be led astray - not now. We have a task to fulfill.”
His voice was low, restrained — the voice of a man wrestling with his own desires. Basim did not release your hands at once, but held them there, palm to palm, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his calloused fingers. His breath had quickened; it showed in the rise and fall of his chest, betraying the tide of feeling he held at bay.
For a heartbeat too long, he simply looked at you. Your face glowed in the lamplight, flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses. Your dazed gaze — half-hidden beneath your lashes — seemed to speak its own quiet plea for more.
Then Basim exhaled sharply through his nose, mastering himself once more. He lifted one hand, brushing his thumb across yours before at last letting go.
As your thoughts began to clear enough to grasp his restraint, a sudden weight of guilt settled over you, hot and heavy.
“I… I do not know what came over me…” You stammered, slipping quickly from his lap.
Basim watched as you drew away, the firelight casting a faint blush upon your cheeks; one that owed nothing to the chill of the cave. He did not speak at once. Instead, he adjusted his cloak slowly and with care, as a man might adjust his armor before battle.
And yet… he did not act further — not now, when duty still called him onward.
“Let us finish this.” He murmured, taking up the pouch once more and placing it into your palm. His touch lingered but a moment longer than needed. “And afterward… we may continue.” The last words were marked by the faintest hint of a knowing smile.
“Chew it.” He said softly, his voice low as velvet over steel. “Not too much; only enough to open the door.”
His gaze fixed upon yours; the dark brown depths now serious, intent upon what must follow: guiding you beyond the bounds of ordinary sight.
The cave fell silent once more, as though it held its breath, waiting for what was yet to unfold.
You could not still the trembling of your fingers as, after a moment, you raised the powder to your lips. With a steadying breath, you decide it best to be done swiftly with what you dreaded as you tipped the herbs onto your tongue and swallowed. The taste spread at once—earthy, bitter, with a deep, cloying sweetness that seemed to cling to the back of your throat.
Your palm braced itself against the furs beneath you, as though in preparation for losing your balance or your very sense of self. Though, perhaps, Basim would have caught you regardless, not permitting harm to come to you.
One shallow breath. Then another. The world didn't crumble beneath your feet; it simply softened. Edges blurred, as though the cave itself were receding from you. The flickering flame stretched, its light bending strangely; shadows lengthened upon the stone like grasping hands.
Basim did not move. Only his gaze followed you.
“Good…” He said quietly, his voice measured, almost distant. “Let it come. Do not resist.”
Your heartbeat quickened; not solely from fear, but from something deeper, a pull rising from within. That familiar pressure stirred at the base of your skull, creeping forward until it bloomed behind your eyes.
You exhaled, and the cave was gone.
Cold.
Not the cold of stone, but something older. Vast. It was not the flesh that shivered, your very soul.
Wind howled across an endless sky, and you stood there—not within your body, through it, as though you were both present and far removed. Before you rose a great hall, its beams carved with ancient runes, its doors as wide as the world itself.
Shapes moved within.
Not men—no, not truly.
Shadows given form; power made visible, unreachable, incomprehensible.
Your breath caught.
One of them stepped forward.
Tall. Cloaked.
Watching. Your being was pulled in every direction of the wind rose—pressure from within, a pull from outside, a roar all around.
A flash in the eye, bright, blinding—one shone… The other… disappeared. Or sold.
And yet you felt it—his gaze fixed upon you, sharper than any blade, as though it pierced to the very core of your being.
Knowledge.
Hunger.
An endless, searching hunger.
Your body jerked where it still existed. A sharp breath tore from your chest. Basim’s hand seized your wrist in an instant, anchoring your body, holding your spirit fast.
“What do you see?” He asked, his voice controlled, though it trembled beneath the surface, urgency threading through it.
Your lips parted, but for a moment no sound came from your throat. “Someone…” You whispered in the cave, but your voice screamed in the ether. “No… not just someone…” You furrowed your brow, breathing unevenly. “He… is watching me.”
Basim stilled. His eyes darkened, sharpened—like a blade drawn close beneath the skin.
“How?” He pressed, jaw tightening as he leaned nearer your face, as though proximity might lend clarity to your vision. “Tell me!”
Your fingers tightened unconsciously around his. “One eye…” You heaved. “The other… gone. Yet he sees more because of it. He—”
Your voice faltered as something shifted within the vision.
The figure tilted its head.
As though it had only now heard you.
As though it had heard him.
Basim’s grip tightened further—not enough to wound, but enough to be felt even beyond the weight of flesh.
“Stay with it!” He growled. “Do not turn away!”
Your breathing quickened, ragged now. “He knows…” You choked hoarsely. “He knows I am here…”
“Where is he?” Basim demanded, shouting hoarsely, as he grasped your shoulders, shaking you—only to catch himself in the same instant, holding you steady once more.
The wind howled louder.
The hall darkened.
And then—
Chains.
A glimpse—sharp, violent.
A bound beast.
A wolf.
Rage. Pain. Betrayal.
A flash of teeth.
A scream.
An ocean of blades drove into you.
You cried out as your body lurched forward, the vision shattering like glass. The cave rushed back around you: flame, stone, the heavy air in your lungs. Sweat no longer beaded upon your brow; it poured from you. Your head rang, a sharp ache behind your eyes. Your hand clutched at Basim’s arm, grasping something real.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. He watched you intently as you struggled to gather your mind back into your body. Then—
“Remarkable.” He sighed, his palm gliding across your damp brow, brushing strands of hair from your face. His skin was cool—refreshing, steadying.
You exhaled weakly, your sight still unsteady, blurring at the edges, sound echoing faintly in your ears.
“How long… was I gone?” You mumbled dazedly, but Basim calmed you down, pulling you close to his chest and wrapping his arms around your waist.
“I knew my little Prophet could do it.” He said, his voice once more softened with that gentle, honeyed warmth.
“I saw someone…” You coughed, your throat still feeling scorched and raw, every word dragged painfully from it. “That someone… that thing…” You swallowed thickly, forcing down the dryness that clung to your mouth.
Gently, Basim pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, his lips brushing your damp hair before he rested his chin there.
“An old shadow, perhaps.” He murmured above you. “Some wandering spirit your sight brushed against.” Yet you could not see the way his eyes darkened, nor how his gaze drifted into the wavering flame of the lamp. After a brief silence, he added quietly. “Do not trouble yourself with it further.”
Blinking, you tilted your head back to look at him. “Why—”
But before you could finish, his hand closed around your jaw. He drew you upward and silenced you with his mouth upon yours. His kiss came insistent now; teeth grazing lightly before his tongue slipped past your parted lips, exploring, urging an answering hunger from you. A startled sound escaped you, though it quickly melted into pleasure beneath the press of his mouth.
Basim groaned low in his throat, the sound rumbling deep within his chest as his grip upon your jaw tightened. The kiss grew bolder—untidy now, breathless. One hand slid into your hair, tangling there as he tilted your head for better access. His other arm drew you flush against him until no space remained between your bodies, not even enough for air itself.
“You astonish me.” He rasped, gazing down at you as he slowly guided you back against the furs, one hand cradling the nape of your neck.
He loomed above you as the pelts softened your fall, his tall frame hovering like a living shadow. Firelight streaked gold across his features—the sharp bridge of his nose, the strong line of his jaw darkened with beard.
Breathless, you tried to answer his praise, yet your tongue felt heavy and clumsy, far more eager for the taste of his own. A quiet chuckle left him as his knees eased between your legs. A soft moan caught in your throat, your body arching instinctively toward his touch. One of his hands drifted to your hip, fingers curling into the fabric there. His thumb pressed against the place where cloth met skin—a testing pressure, gauging how readily you would bend toward him.
“Basim…” You breathed, following his every movement with dazed eyes.
“My sweet little Prophet.” He murmured.
One swift hand loosened the cords of your garments, pushing aside the heavier cloth. You shivered as the cool dampness of the cave touched the heated skin of your stomach, a faint whine escaping you. His palms glided over the newly bared flesh, warm from your fevered visions and the nearness between you. The touch was almost reverent: calloused hands tracing slowly along your sides, learning the shape of you, your every trembling response.
Then he bent down again, though this kiss was not meant for your lips. Instead, you felt the gentle sting of his teeth at the edge of your shoulder, sending a shiver through every part of you before he soothed the mark with his tongue.
"Have you ever been touched by a man?” He asked roughly, one hand sliding to rest just above your navel.
The question struck like cold water. Your heart lurched within your chest, your muscles tightening beneath his hand. His thumb circled your navel in slow, hypnotic motions as he waited for your answer. The cave suddenly felt smaller—closer, more intimate than ever before.
“N-no…” You managed at last, fingers clutching unconsciously at the fur beneath you.
Basim’s breath caught faintly. The air changed.
Your voice failed altogether when he laid his warm hand fully against your stomach. Wherever he touched, your skin seemed to kindle beneath his palm. Dizzy and exhausted, you waited as his hand drifted lower with quiet confidence; broad, and warm, roughened by years spent gripping blades and climbing stone. The contrast between his hardened skin and your softness sent a tremor through you both. Your breath shallow, body pliant with exhaustion yet alight as his fingers swept over your mound.
He lingered there a moment, as though granting you time to draw breath, before carefully parting you with two slow fingers. The gesture bore an almost reverent patience, as if he handled some sacred thing not meant for careless hands.
At once your body answered him. A faint gasp escaped your lips, and your back arched lightly from the furs of its own accord. Basim watched you closely—the flutter of your lashes, the tremor of each breath, every slight movement that betrayed either fear or welcome. Then, with agonizing slowness, he pressed a single fingertip to your clit, light as a feather. Your hips shifted on their own, chasing that small point of contact like a flower turning toward sunlight.
“That’s it, beautiful.” He murmured with a faint chuckle, but you barely heard his voice. His words reached you as though from far away, muffled beneath the pounding haze within your skull. “You’re perfect Little Prophet.”
Without rushing, he circled once more with delicate pressure, then again - testing the rhythm now. Each pass of his fingertip grew slightly bolder with a growing rhythm: slow circles, then soft up-and-down strokes between your folds as he learned the rhythm that drew breathless little sighs from your throat.
Your breathing faltered into soft, broken pants. Your hands tightened in the furs until your knuckles blanched pale. Then his thumb joined gentle side-to-side movements over your clit while his index finger pressed just beside it, adding warmth and pressure without rushing. He traced your folds gently with the pad of his thumb, still keeping that slow, maddening rhythm on your clit. When he finally dipped lower and barely grazed your entrance with one fingertip, you jolted with a gasp. A smirk passed his lips as he slowly probed at your slit.
“Look at you.” He murmured darkly. “So yielding beneath my hand. You answer me sweetly indeed.”
He didn’t rush in. Basim pulled back just slightly, swiping over your wet folds one more time, then pressed that same fingertip inside, slow and shallow — only the very tip. A soft cry spilled out before you could stop it.
A test — of how wet you were. How ready. How much you wanted him.
You were drenched as his fingertip slipped in easily, warm and slick, and a quiet groan rumbled from his chest. “You tremble as though the gods themselves touched you.”
Your back arched off the furs involuntary as he curled his digit slightly, testing your sensitivity. A breathy moan escaped you as that tiny curl inside hit exactly right. Without hesitation, stretching you open with careful pressure he added a second finger and began to move: gentle in-and-outs, shallow at first paying attention to your body's smallest response.
Each shallow thrust was deliberate, soft, rhythmic; designed to warm you up without overwhelming. His thumb never stopped on your clit, steady circles in time with his fingers and the combination sent sparks through your entire body — your toes curled, thighs twitching. You were melting. And Badim watched you unravel, with a satisfied deep hum as your lips parted, eyes half-lidded and glassy, cheeks flushed, all because of him — and not even all of him.
Every breath of yours came faster than the last, and seeing you warming up to his play, he increased the depth slightly; fingers sinking a little deeper with each thrust but still gentle, always mindful of your comfort. His other hand slid up to cradle your hip: warm palm anchoring you as he worked. Your hips began to rock in time with his movements; tiny, desperate little rolls chasing the sensation, perception so focused on the pleasure he evoked, that you weren’t even aware you were doing it.
As he added a third finger—slow, careful—stretching you gently, thumb continuing its sweet torture on your clit, you cried out, hips rocking desperately into his hands, enveloped by the flames inside you. The stretch burned just slightly, but in the best way. Your breath hitched, body tensing for half a second from the fullness.
Basim stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, breathing with you. When he felt the tension ease and your hips tilt upward again slowly, so slowly he began moving his three fingers again: deeper now. Each deep, careful thrust sent waves of pleasure through you—thicker, richer than before. Your body had opened for him perfectly.
He watched your face with rapt attention how your brows pinched slightly when the sensation peaked, how your mouth fell open in silent oh— It was beautiful as the squelch of your wetness filled the quiet cave.
He increased the pace a little, fingers moving with smooth, steady rhythm. Thumb pressed harder on your clit now: firm circles timed perfectly with each thrust. Your hips bucked slightly against his hand, chasing the friction. You were close. So he gave you more: His fingers nudged at a spongy spot, deep inside you.
The small, precise press sent electric fire through your entire body. A shockwave. That spot… it felt unreal. Like nothing you’d ever known existed inside you. You moaned his name, chanted it like a plea, for more, for longer, for him to give you everything, body and soul alike.
Groaning he curled his fingers again, pressing that spongy spot with each thrust. Every time it hit, your body spasmed: gasping, trembling.
The first wave crashed over you—sudden, overwhelming, your entire body locked up as your back arched, mouth falling open in a silent cry as pleasure exploded through every nerve. You clenched around his fingers hard,so tight, and he felt it all. With a low appeased chuckle he slowed his movements, to let it happen, letting the orgasm rip through you while he held you gently. Your climax pulsed in waves, each one stronger than the last. You shook, breath coming in ragged little hitches, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how intense it was.
Basim remained still within you, fingers curled just so, his thumb resting lightly on your clit now to spare you from further overwhelm while he savored the trembling pulses that rippled around his hand. Only when your strength finally gave way and you sagged back against the furs did he slowly begin to withdraw his fingers. Even that gentle retreat wrung soft whimpers from your oversensitive body, as though perfection itself were being stolen away the instant you had found it.
At last he bent low and pressed a lingering kiss to your damp brow as his hand slipped free.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The cave breathed softly around you, the faint crackle of the little flame, the distant murmur of wind slipping through stone. Your limbs still trembled from the force of what had passed through you, from vision and touch alike, until you scarcely knew where one ended and the other began. Basim remained beside you upon the furs, one arm curved firmly about your waist as though he feared your spirit might yet drift too far from your body. His hand moved slowly along your back, steadying, grounding.
“There now.” He murmured near your temple. “Easy, Little Prophet, you did wonderful today.”
Your lashes fluttered as you tried to gather yourself, though your thoughts felt hopelessly scattered, drifting like leaves upon water. Your mind had to keep up with the swirling images behind your eyes—first the swirling vortex of the vision, then, Basim’s deft hands, the unfamiliar, addictive high of the experience.
“As he looked at me…” You whispered faintly. “That one-eyed figure… as though he were searching for me.” At that, something sharpened behind Basim’s gaze, fury, and disgust, then it vanished beneath gentleness once more.
“You reached farther than any before you.” He said, softly caressing your bottom lip. “Farther than even Valka could have guided you.” His fingers brushed damp strands of hair from your brow with almost tender care. “You should take pride in that, Little Prophet.”
The praise sent warmth blooming painfully through your chest. You lowered your gaze, suddenly shy beneath the weight of his attention. Basim watched the reaction closely; even now, when his touch seemed languid and soothing, there remained calculation beneath it—a patient hunter measuring the trust settling into the hands of his prey.
Carefully he shifted away from you, though one hand lingered at your hip as if reluctant to surrender the contact entirely. He reached for your discarded garments strewn among the furs and stone.
“Come.” He said quietly. “We should not return with you looking so undone. Ravensthorpe’s tongues are sharper than blades.”
A faint, embarrassed sound escaped you as he helped ease your dress back into place. His hands were deft, practiced; straightening wrinkled fabric, fastening loosened ties, smoothing the folds over your trembling body with maddening precision. Each brush of his knuckles against your skin sent fresh heat coursing through you.
You could scarcely meet his eyes, and he noticed. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he adjusted the collar near your throat. “And here I thought my fearless little seer would have more courage toward me, especially after singing so sweetly in my hand.”
Your cheeks burned hotter. “You make it difficult.” That earned you another of those rare laughs, sweet and warm. When he finished arranging your clothes, his hands remained lightly upon your shoulders. His thumbs traced absent circles there, thoughtful.
“The visions will return.” He said at last. “Stronger now that the path has been opened.”
A flicker of unease crossed your features. “What if I cannot control them?”
“You can.” His answer came swiftly, certain. “And I will teach you.” The conviction in his voice wrapped itself around your fears with alarming ease. Basim’s gaze drifted briefly toward the wavering flame beside the cave wall before returning to you, dark and intent.
“There are places hidden beyond mortal sight.” He continued, quieter now. “Realms buried beneath memory and myth. The old gods do not vanish merely because men cease to speak their names.”
The cave seemed colder suddenly. You listened despite yourself. “In your visions.” He murmured. “There are roads leading toward them. Toward their den… their secrets.”
His hand rose slowly, fingertips brushing the side of your face. “And you, Little Prophet, may be the only one capable of finding the way.”
Your breath caught, as the enormity of it settled over you all at once; terrifying and wondrous in equal measure. Basim saw awe bloom within your eyes, and beneath it, dependence. Precisely where he wished it to grow.
“You need not fear it.” He whispered close to your lips. “Not while I stand beside you.” His thumb grazed your cheekbone with intimate familiarity.
“We shall continue your lessons here, away from prying eyes. I will guide you deeper each time until you can walk those realms without losing yourself.” The warmth in his voice, the steady assurance of his touch, dulled every warning stirring faintly within your chest.
“And… us?” You asked hesitantly, scarcely daring the question, eager for a pleasing answer.
His fingers slid beneath your chin, lifting your gaze fully to his. “If you still wish it,” He said softly. “then let this place belong to us both.” The firelight danced across his features, gilding the sharp planes of his face until he seemed almost unreal himself—half man, half shadow.
“A refuge.” He pondered. “A sanctuary from watchful eyes and meddling tongues. Here, you may learn freely… and I may continue showing you all that you desire.”
Your heart fluttered helplessly beneath his gaze as Basim leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against yours.
“And when the gods finally reveal where they hide themselves,” He murmured, voice scarcely more than breath. “we shall find them together.”
VoM SPOILER FREE, requested by @secretprotectorchaos <3
Summary: In AlUla, a single melody ties your fate to Basim’s search for his father. Months later at Lion’s Tomb, the same melody reunites you; two ouds, one lullaby and a night where music rises above every answered sorrow.
You pick up your oud, just as you do every morning and make your way toward the heart of the city. AlUla may be small but you’ve carved out a place for yourself here —teaching anyone with enough passion how to coax music out of the instrument you love. Everyone knows you; you’ve become the skilled musician of this little desert city. Sometimes, just for fun, you play for the people wandering through the bazaar. Markets in your homeland have never been only for buying and selling; they’re places of meeting, of stories, of decisions, of life itself. And you know that playing your oud there is its own kind of advertisement for your classes… especially for the children who stop in their tracks, eyes wide, watching your fingers dance across the strings.
Today is no different. On your way you exchange warm greetings with familiar faces and once you reach the center of town, you head straight for your usual spot —shaded, comfortable, with a few people already gathered and waiting for you. With a smile, you begin to play. The sound of your instrument spills into the air, weaving between the sandstone walls and the murmurs of the marketplace. Slowly, more and more people gather around you, drawn by the melody. You keep playing, feeling their appreciative gazes settle on you. These are people who truly understand the beauty of what you offer.
You play a few familiar songs, melodies everyone in AlUla seems to love, and when you reach the final one, you rise to your feet, letting the last notes ring out while standing. As the piece comes to an end, the crowd breaks into warm applause. A few moments later, people begin to drift back into the flow of the marketplace, each returning to their errands.
All except one.
Amid the dispersing crowd, a single man remains where he stands, unmoving as if still caught in the spell of the music. When your eyes meet his, you notice his dark clothing, the sword at his side and the quiet confidence in the way he carries himself. He watches you for a heartbeat, then smiles and steps forward.
AlUla is a small city. Faces become familiar quickly. But this man (about your age) is a stranger. The weapons he carries mark him as a fighter, perhaps a man accustomed to danger… yet that hardly surprises you. Art belongs to everyone, after all.
“Assalamu alaikum, ya sayyedati.” he begins, his voice respectful, his manner composed. “I was passing through the bazaar when I heard your melody. I came closer… and then, truthfully, I lost track of time. Your skill is remarkable.”
You return the smile as you gather your things, sliding your oud back into its leather case. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Allow me,” he offers, stepping closer as if to help.
“No, it’s alright. I don’t have much to carry.” Your answer is gentle but curiosity nudges at you. “You’re not from around here… are you?”
For a brief moment, he hesitates; just a heartbeat of stillness as if he hadn’t expected the question. Then he smiles again, softer this time.
“My name is Basim,” he says. “And you’re right. I’m not from here. I come from Baghdad.”
“Hmm,” you say. “Yes, I had a feeling.” And so it won’t sound rude, you add, “I hope you have a good day.” With that, you turn and start walking toward your home. But you’ve only taken a few steps when Basim catches up to you again, matching your pace.
“You’re from here, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I…” He starts to speak but waits until the two of you have passed through a cluster of people in the busy marketplace. Only when the noise thins does he lower his voice. “I’m searching for someone.”
You stop. Why you? You glance around, then back at him. “And why do you think I’d be able to find this person for you?”
Basim meets your eyes and says, “Because while you were playing, I heard a woman tell her daughter she’d bring her to you... that you’d teach her the oud, like the others.”
“So?” you ask.
“That means you speak to many people. Young and old. You seem to know this place… and its people.”
His logic is sound. Nothing about it feels dishonest. You offer him a small smile. “AlUla isn’t a big city. Yes, I know a lot of people. My name is y/n.” You point ahead toward a modest building not far away, the place you call home. “I’m usually there. Either teaching or practicing or just getting through my daily work. If you need help and if it’s something I can actually do, I’ll try.”
Basim nods and there’s something in his expression... gratitude, yes but also a faint tired sorrow hidden behind it. Still, he thanks you sincerely… and then turns to go; leaving you standing in the warm breeze of the marketplace, wondering who exactly this stranger from Baghdad is and what kind of person he seeks.
A few days pass and there’s no sign of Basim. You assume he must have found the person he was looking for. Life continues, your routine pulls you along and little by little the memory of that strange meeting in the bazaar begins to fade.
Until one morning.
Just after dawn, a faint sound drifts into your home from the courtyard —soft, delicate, unmistakably professional oud playing. Before you even know what you’re doing, you rise to your feet. There is absolutely no one in all of AlUla who plays with this level of mastery. Who would come into your courtyard at this hour and play with such skill? None of your students are anywhere near this good. Not yet. Not like this. Curiosity pulls you toward the window beside the courtyard. You move quietly, lifting your head just enough to see outside. And the moment your eyes find him, your whole body stiffens.
Basim.
The same man you met in the marketplace… sitting there in your courtyard, playing the oud with a tenderness and precision that steals the breath from your lungs. The melody is heartbreakingly beautiful, a soft lament that seems to soak into the morning air. He’s playing quietly, deliberately so, clearly not wanting to wake you.
Yet you remain frozen for several long moments, listening to every note, letting the sound settle into you like warm light. Eventually, though, you stand up and your shadow stretches across the ground in front of him.
Basim stops playing. He lifts his head, eyes rising to meet yours.
You’re so touched by the music, every note etched into your memory that you find yourself applauding before you even think about it.
Basim laughs softly and rises to his feet.
You walk down the steps, the early dawn light brushing past your shoulders and before he can say a word, you blurt out, “That was incredible! Truly… incredible. I was completely captivated.”
“Thank you.” he replies gently.
“I didn’t know you played the oud,” you say. “Let alone this well.”
“I used to play… a long time ago.” He lowers his gaze for a moment. “And I must apologize. I picked up your instrument without permission. I saw it there and something inside me... something I hadn’t felt in years urged me to try again. I didn’t mean to wake y —”
You cut him off with a quick shake of your head. “No, please, don’t worry about that. You never need to ask permission. I’m happy when someone who truly knows how to play picks up my instrument.”
The sky is still pale, the sun not fully risen but you can feel it —the weight in his mind, the storm behind his calm expression. You remember what he told you in the bazaar.
“So? Did you find the person you were searching for?”
It takes him a little longer than it should to answer. Finally, he says quietly, “No. Not yet.”
“May I ask who exactly you’re looking for?”
And Basim, almost whispering as if afraid even the morning breeze might carry the words, says, “My father. Ishaq.”
Now you understand. The sorrow in his eyes. The heaviness in his voice. How personal this quest truly is.
You offer him a warm, steady smile. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry. You can tell me about him… if you’d like.”
“I know no one else is here...” he murmurs, “but I still… can’t. Not here.”
You think for a moment, then say, “Well, I sometimes go to the Lion’s Tomb to practice. It’s not far by horse. You could tell me on the way.”
Basim considers this, then nods, “That’s a good idea.”
“Or...” you add lightly, “you can write it down for me. Makes it easier for me to remember.”
“That...” he says with a faint smile, “is better.”
It doesn’t take long for Basim to write down everything he knows. While he does, you wash a few pieces of fruit and place them neatly inside a small basket. When it’s time for him to leave, you offer the basket to him. Basim takes only a single apple, thanks you with quiet sincerity and walks away.
But the letter...
The letter refuses to leave your mind. You read it again and again in the days that follow, trying to match the details to anyone you know in AlUla. No matter how hard you think, the image of such a man, someone with these exact traits and this past, never appears in your memory. And a heavy question settles inside you: What if you can’t help him? What if you fail him completely?
Months pass. Not a word from Basim. Over time you’re forced to admit the truth: You’ve failed. You couldn’t remember his father, nor find him. And because Basim himself wrote that you must not ask others, your search ended before it could even begin. Still, the thought of him returns at the quietest moments... his tired eyes, his voice holding a weight too old for his age, the way he played your oud like something half-remembered from a childhood long time ago...
One evening, while at the Lion’s Tomb, you pick up your instrument merely to clear your mind. But without thinking, your fingers begin to play that melody... the one you heard only once, in the soft light of dawn. The one Basim played in your courtyard with such quiet longing. Up here on the hill, near the ancient rock-cut graves, the world feels different at dusk. The light fades slowly. The desert wind hums between the stone walls. It feels as though your only audience is the spirits; silent, invisible, listening.
Then suddenly, you hear some footsteps. Close. Fast. Your heart jumps. For a moment you think of the bandits, this place isn’t always safe at twilight. But then a figure emerges from the shadows. A familiar face. A familiar way of walking. And when he calls your name softly, you know.
Basim has returned.
When Basim finally reaches you, he doesn’t speak. He simply smiles, gentle, restrained but the sorrow behind his eyes is impossible to miss. This man truly lives up to his name; Basim... 'the one who smiles' no matter how heavy life rests on his shoulders.
“It’s been a long time...” you say softly, gesturing toward the empty seat beside you.
He sits down slowly, lowering his gaze to the ground. “It’s a long story...” he murmurs.
Telling him the truth might hurt you but he deserves honesty. “I looked for Ishaq.” you confess. “I thought about him constantly... tried to remember if I’d ever met someone like him. But...” you pause, feeling the weight of the admission, “I couldn’t find him.” You inhale deeply. “I hope... I hope you found some kind of answer on your own.”
Basim lifts his head. His eyes meet yours and in the absolute silence of the tombs, tears slip down his cheeks without a sound.
You move your chair closer, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I found the answer myself.” Basim says at last, before covering his face with both hands. The moment he does, the quiet crying becomes a little heavier, a little less controlled.
You don’t speak. You know better. People need space to empty themselves —through tears, through words or through the silence of their own company. And here, in this lonely place between stone and twilight, he can have all three. So, a thought crosses your mind. You rise without a word and retrieve your own oud, along with the spare one you brought today to check its tuning. Carrying both, you return to him and offer him yours.
Basim wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, then takes the instrument from your hands.
And that is when you notice it... really notice it. His ring finger is missing. Yet despite that, his touch on the instrument is surely graceful. A master’s touch, truly.
“Amazing...” you whisper, a small admiring smile forming on your lips. “You’re missing a finger yet you play better than anyone I’ve ever seen.” For an instant, a thought flickers through your mind, was it taken as punishment for thievery? But you push it away immediately. You don’t judge people like that. You never have. And especially not him. Not Basim.
Basim says softly, “I truly didn’t expect to see you here today... and more than anything, I didn’t expect you to remember the song I played that early morning in your courtyard.”
You laugh lightly, “How did I play it? Was it any good?”
“It was!” he answers without hesitation, “Hearing that melody is what brought me here... up to this hill.”
“Art and music are miracles.” you say, “Maybe the only things we have left from heaven.” You take a seat beside him and continue, “I, too, was captivated by that melody. I watched you from the window... and that’s why I learned to play it. And now that same melody brought you here." you pause for a moment, "Now, I have a suggestion.” you add, eyes bright, “Life may be harsh but today, here and now, night falls but music rises. How about we play it together?”
Basim’s expression softens with genuine happiness. “This melody... it’s called Ishaq’s Lullaby. I learned it from my father. A long time ago.”
And right then, you understand why the song brought him to tears moments earlier. “I see... it’s a very personal melody for you.”
Basim nods, offering a small but sincere smile. You return the smile, say nothing more and simply begin to play. Basim joins you. In the quiet of the night, music becomes the only thing holding your hearts close. You both play the piece several times, letting the melody drift into the darkness.
When it finally ends, you say quietly, “You know, Basim... my oud should be yours.”
He looks at you in surprise but before he can speak, you add, “My oud belongs in the hands of someone who knows how to play it with their heart. You deserve it. Consider it a small gift from me.”
wc; 0.8k
genre; pure fluff , maybe a pinch of melancholy(?) it comes with every bday
─── .✦
A party held in honor of your birthday wasn't a welcome you were expecting when your steps echoed across the colored marble of the bureau after a long day of hopelessly crawling through dusted selves and forgotten books in chance to find any clue that could be laying around in the office of your enemy. What you truly wanted were just a few wishes, half-mumbled or not, you'd take them.
Instead, all you were greeted with was silence, pure and utter stillness. You don't even remember the last time the bureau fell this quiet. Everyone seemed too busy handling their tasks to notice your entry. But Basim did.
His hand found yours in a matter of seconds. It came packaged with the training you had endured together long before initiation. "Let me show you something." He urged. That familiar smile, as he pulled you right back outside.
The freshness of the evening's air hit you in the face while he guided you on, his grip faltering one second only to tighten the next at the sight of guards near the bazaar's entry.
Your hand instinctively activated the hidden blade, not out of fear, but because no one can escape their habits no matter how far they run. The guards' eyes never fell upon you, no trouble caused tonight.
The Bazaar flooded with people when least expected, something helpful for your kind, and Basim had already taken advantage of the situation, excusing his way through. When was the last time you went up this close to a stall to notice how each piece fabric and rich silk flow on the table under the soft lighting of the latern hanging above them, had it been so long that you had forgotten how freshly brewed tea blessed the air with spices?
As soon as he noticed your fingers slipping through his, Basim turned to check on you, ensuring you wouldn't stay behind or get lost in the hectic crowd you sought cover amongst.
Tonight was bound to be interesting.
He moved through a narrow passage, forgotten and overgrown, easy to miss if you didn't pay enough attention. You found no difficulty falling into step, these worn-out walls had already been emitted to memory, and the place knew you just as well – the grass, trees and flowers had listened to every worry you spilled each day you came here.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, "Your shoulders seem heavy." He stated, his tone calm but never distant as he placed all of his undivided focus upon you, kind, hazel eyes running over your frame. "What's burdening your mind?"
The sun had just begun caressing the waters of the river that ran endlessly beside you, creating hues impossible to capture in artwork. The time of the day that went unnoticed by most, yet perhaps the most significant. Today neared its end, and your week-long anticipation started evaporating.
However, the older you grew, the less excited you felt over something like your birthday, hence why you didn't expect anything grand. Nowadays, it resembled a regular day more than a notable event.
"You don't need to lie." It wouldn't take a genius to see the cheap lie hanging on the tip of your tongue, or to point out your averting gaze and busy hands trying to find something to fix in the flawless stitches of your robes.
The waves recognized and acknowledged the parasite eating away your brain and ruining your mental health, and so did he. Basim was hanging from each word that rolled off your tongue, nodding with every syllable.
"Don't tell me you think I'd forget your birthday?" His words caught in the wind, carried by the same gentle breeze as the one tangling your hair. Head tilted ever-so-slightly, eyes glued on you, almost offended.
You groaned, crouching down and picking up a stray rock to admire before tossing it into the river. "I don't know." You shrugged and he smiled in response, his hand barely resting on your back as he dirtied his robes with sand.
"Here," Basim prompted, a carefully wrapped, homemade desert pressed in your hand before he reached into his pouch once more, slipping a folded piece of paper in your open palm. "I know it's not much, but it reminded me of you."
Your curiosity piqued as you opened up the paper, half-expecting secrets to start spilling out and much to your surprise, it was filled with a handwritten poem in Arabic from his favorite book. "I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it."
"Did you write this?" You laughed.
"I'm not a well-known poet, but..." He chuckled, pointing at a shorter poem at the bottom of the page, "I, indeed, worked on this."
A comfortable silence fell once more, hugging the two of you like a mother's veil. "Now, come, the others are waiting for you at the bureau."
THE ART OF PICKPOCKETING: Basim Ibn Ishaq x fem!reader
Summary: Basim Ibn Ishaq really liked to think of himself as someone, who's impossible to pickpocket -- and she finally found the opportunity to prove him wrong.
Notes: English isn't my first language. I apologize for any mistake I may have made while I wrote this short story.
Warnings: none
•••
Basim Ibn Ishaq really liked to think of himself as someone, who's impossible to pickpocket.
And whenever he said that thought out loud, she wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.
She sometimes liked to include the children too, who were free to do whatever they wanted after finishing the task Dervis had given them. They liked to be the distraction, while she did her best to sneak up on him and take the little blue charm from his scarf. When she failed Basim chuckled while the children laughed. Nehal just stood not far away, shaking her head as she tried to hide a smile.
All her attempts had failed. None of them worked.
Basim always seemed to expect all her ideas and tries, and he was holding a firm grip on her wrist the moment her fingertips were touching his clothes.
She almost gave up, accepting defeat. Almost.
Because soon the right moment presented itself.
She just came back from an errand Dervis had given her -- an easy task; just a go in - grab the small chest of dirhams - then get out without getting caught. She was on her way to give Dervis the chest when she ran into Basim - or rather: Basim jumped her in a tight alleyway.
She was startled and almost dropped the dirhams, what would've gotten her a long, endless, angry speech from Dervis himself. She playfully hit Basim on the shoulder as he laughed.
"You're such a child sometimes, I swear." she shook her head disapprovingly, hiding a smile.
"Oh, come on! You left me all alone today with nothing to do!"
"Wasn't Nehal around?" she asked with a raised eyebrow as she continued to walk toward Dervis' place.
Basim followed her closely.
"Nehal isn't you." he complained and she felt a blush threatening to appear on her cheeks. "Besides, she never wants to come with me to see what the Hidden Ones are up to!"
"Because you annoy her a bit too much with that." she chuckled as Basim pouted at her teasing tone. "And it's not a bad thing that at least one of us isn't suicidal."
"Do you have any other errands to do after this one?" Basim asked.
"No. Why? Is there something you'd like to do?"
"I was thinking, maybe we could go and practice."
"Practice what?" confusion was the only visible emotion on her face.
"Pickpocketing."
She stopped so suddenly that Basim almost bumped into her. It was Basim's turn to look confused and hers to pout.
She looked at him as if he just hurt her feelings. Her eyebrows were raised as if challenging him to continue. When he didn't, she decided to voice her anger.
"Pickpocketing? You think I need to practice pickpocketing?" her voice was higher than usual and Basim just scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, not really knowing what to say.
"Well, everyone needs to practice..."
"Basim!" she could imagine his heart jumping at her tone. "Do you think I need to practice?"
He crossed his arms in front of his chest and did his very best to look confident, but he couldn't really fool her. She knew him too well. And she knew he wasn't feeling overly confident at all.
"Well, I did follow you and you didn't even notice me until I jumped you. And you still can't pickpocket me."
If looks could kill...
"So you're telling me that no one could possibly surprise you? Not like you suprised me?"
A quiet understanding ran through Basim's eyes, as if he finally realized that he set up a trap for himself. Her eyes were shining with mischief as she was waiting for an answer, and his body became more rigid, feeling a storm coming.
"That's exactly what I'm saying..."
Always acting so confident, always hiding the side of him she loved the most - the side that loved poetry, and softness, and the thought of love itself...
"If that's what you think, Basim..."
She put the chest between her left arm and her side to keep her right hand free. Then, she took a step or two toward Dervis' place to let Basim feel safe and give him the false feeling of relief.
The moment she heard him take the first step, she turned around, grabbed his scarf and pulled him down into a kiss.
She closed her eyes, but she could imagine the surprised look on his face. She could imagine him blushing and she could imagine his eyes being wide open. And those thoughts made her grin.
She made sure to kiss him with passion. To show him the feelings she has been having for him since the beginning of time. She made sure to kiss him roughly, she made sure it made him lose all his senses. She made sure it was a great distraction.
By the time Basim collected himself and found the courage in himself to kiss back, she already let go of his scarf and pulled away.
His flushed face made her smile widely.
"So this wasn't surprising... At all..."
"No, I--"
She grinned.
"It's alright Basim. It happens to the best of us."
She started to walk again and after a few long seconds Basim began to follow her.
Some of the children noticed them and ran toward them to greet them. She just giggled and raised her left hand high, showing them the blue charm what she was holding in a tight grip.
"I finally did it!"
The cheering was almost comical. So was the laughter what came after Basim touched his scarf with a confused expression, not believing that the charm was gone.
"Oh, don't worry Basim, we all need our practice!" she teased and the children laughed harder.
"That's cheating!" Basim argued with a blush. "Give it back!"
"Get it back!" she shouted as she began to run, dropping the chest of dirhams not caring if Dervis gets his money or not; or if he gets angry or not.
Victory just felt too good. So did Basim's lips on hers.
Their game of cat and mouse didn't last long. After a few minutes Basim managed to tackle her on one of the rooftops - and she gladly let him turn her around and kiss her with so much passion, she had to whimper.
Yet the minute Basim's fingertips touched the charm, she grabbed his wrist, pulling him away from her prize.
"Don't you dare." she warned.
Basim grinned. She did too. Then his lips were on hers again as her free hand held onto his shoulder tight.
