#basim x reader

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.

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.”

I hope you all enjoyed it! 😭🤍

Tagging people I think they’d be interested in:

@vilkhaeya @starlightt180 @fridrssvardagi @a-captains-heart @annime16 @asneakyobserver @glodenwaves @pacingdaydreamr @frenchoravocadotoast @francoise-givenchy-romanova @justagirlinhercorner @kiraaawrn @lizlovecraft

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