Abyislan

Rare, read, rave, write and retribution. Lore lover. Please chat with me in the asks…I feel like my blog is dead! Thanks!

[abyislan08]

Masterlist

Traversing Teyvat Series

Prologue: Through the Night Aria

Chapter 1: Ad Astra Abyssosque

Chapter 2: Ridicule,Reality and Retribution

Chapter 3: Part 1: An Ice Peacock’s Tears

Chapter 3: Part 2: An Ice Peacock’s Tears

Chapter 4: Infinite bunny hopping and Nap time

Things that break their character (Fluff Drabble)

Diluc: Flaming Retribution

[hiveswap]

Hi my name is john normal and being alienated as a child didn't effect me at all

[daosies]

when you get injured

xiao, diluc, alhaitham, kazuha ♡ gn!reader

read the kinich, neuvillette, wanderer, wriothesley ver. !!

warnings: not proofread (except for xiao's pt, THANK YOU @melodead & @perpetualcynicism !!), graphic depictions of violence & blood, use of "[name]", established relationship for diluc's (& living together with him), reader is an adeptus in xiao's pt.

notes: THIS WAS SUCH AN ADVENTURE I HAVENT WRITTEN XIAO OR KAZUHA IN GENUINE YEAAARRRSSSSS

Desire.

Xiao will not speak of desire; he likens this trait to the wishes that mortals have, the ones they hold close to their chest, never daring to utter its enormity lest it doesn't manifest as a result.

Though—his gaze for, but a moment, flickers towards you—there are some things that betray himself. Xiao will not speak of desire.

But he will look.

(They say that eyes are the window to the soul.

(Like flashes of the sun; the molten heat; the rupturing bursts; the stroke of the light.

(Xiao spares you a glance, once, twice, thrice. And—throughout all of the minute looks, the quick aversions when you return his attention, the wisps of the wind which seem to shift in accordance to his reddening ears—he believes sight to be wanting.

(To see everything and to hold nothing. Truly, the eye is the most pitiful organ of all.

(You return his gaze with the slight tilt of your head, the widening of your lips as you smile, not-so sincerely—he can tell you're going to use this against him, somehow, sometime—but the gesture tugs at him. Like tendrils wrapping around his heart, contracting alongside the changes in your expression. The raise of a brow; the blink of an eye; the bareness of teeth.

(Your lips part to say, "Wanna fight? If I win, you have to take over all of my patrols for a month!"

("When have you ever patrolled?"

("Are we overlooking my good deeds during the Archon War?"

(Silence.

(Xiao stands, jade spear manifesting in his hand, the other remaining outstretched, allowing you to take it and rise yourself. You do. Gloved fingers tightening over your knuckles, he pulls you up, your smile unwavering, its mirth meeting your eyes. You glow.

(Like a wish unspoken; like a manifestation of all he's ever dreamt and all he's ever devoured; like an existence that his eyes cannot tire of.)

"I'll be back in three days!" you told him, holding up your fingers for emphasis. Your person was devoid of any supplies except for a performative lunchbag which swung across your figure. Xiao raised a brow at the sight—adepti do not rely on food for sustenance. What was the point of this act?

Still, he had nodded, arms crossed and all, seeing you off at the border to the sea as you had departed on a flimsy-looking boat for Inazuma. Even though your element is Hydro. Even though you can teleport. You insisted on taking a boat; Xiao believes such a compulsion can be attributed to the fact that you like pursuing random quests and experiences.

It has been five days.

Not a word of your return. Xiao finds himself loitering around the Wangshu Inn, most particularly, the front desk, where letters are delivered. Although he does not ask to see any himself, Verr Goldet has, ever so conveniently, splayed the envelopes out in such a way which allows him to see the names of each sender and their intended recipient. Your name is nowhere to be found; neither is his. He checks once, twice, thrice. Nothing again.

With nowhere to place his anxieties, Xiao finds himself toiling away at more monsters than before, clearing hilichurl camps and Ruin Guards at unprecedented rates, his pace constant, interludes arriving in the form of his return to Liyue's docks at night.

The moon's light splits the sea, and Xiao stares. Arms crossed, wind rustling through his clothes, sending shivers down the spines of passerby as they hurriedly rush home, the ocean wind and the night's chill posing an uncomfortable burden for most mortals. But Xiao remains as he is: waiting.

He has been waiting since the day you left. The first three days, he waited without any expectations—he had nowhere else to spend his time, and there was nothing wrong with surveying the sea.

(He wanted to be there in case you had decided to return early. You have always been a creature full of whims, after all.)

The fourth day, he waited a little longer than usual. Even after the moon began to settle across the opposite horizon, even when the sun's first light started to slice through the atmosphere, setting the obsidian sky ablaze, he waited. And no boat bore your presence—the glow, the radiance, the incomparable—and, he thought, maybe you had found something so interesting that made you stay in Inazuma a little longer.

Or maybe the return trip you had taken involved swimming instead of boating. Xiao wouldn't put such an outlandish idea above you, considering your adeptus status seems more like a suggestion than a fact.

And, if there were anything wrong, you would call him. You've always called him, whether it was for real danger, or to eradicate a handful of Hydro slimes.

The fifth day. He waits. Day breaks, and still, there is nothing. He looks around, noticing the many boats on the horizon, all departing but none returning, and he thinks that, really, you've always been cruel in this regard.

Time is not something that immortals are bound by. And to you, three days could mean anything: a couple minutes, a couple weeks. Xiao knows you to be particularly terrible at keeping him updated during your travels, and he knows you're the type of creature to get lost in your own endeavors, so enraptured you forget that the world beyond still exists.

Xiao is not fond of stillness. He values movement, whether it be the dance of his spear, or the press of his fingers over the pieces of a flute, and, truly, he cannot find it in himself to wait any longer. The bustle of the port has begun, and there is a duty he must uphold.

(But he manages a quick stop at the Inn. Verr Goldet, expecting him, has already laid out today's batch of delivered letters; again, your name and his—a pair—nowhere to be found.)

And so begins his routine. He makes quick work of the surrounding area, clearing camps and rogue slimes, ensuring that the trail for visitors remains untouched. Only when he sheds his mask does Xiao allow himself to look at the skyline. At birds, who fly in two; at the mountains, which tower above; at the dip of the hill, where the harbor remains, and where he was just a couple hours ago.

You will call him if anything happens.

With that thought, Xiao retires to the Inn's balcony, surveying the wide expanse of the land, the golden and orange hues, the blooming trees. He wonders what you're up to now, what matters are so pressing to have kept you for so long, what smile must be worn on your face as you mingle with humanity. Waiting; wonder; radiance. Xiao has learned to familiarize himself with these ideas when it comes to you.

Desire.

He supposes it must taste like a sweet dream. And it must look like—

You.

"Xiao!"

The warm air shifts, contorting into a swarm of turquoise and black, dissipating to give way for the pelting of rain, the slam of thunder, the burst of lightning as it ricochets throughout the air, the ground rumbling from the impact. Inazuma. Donning his mask, Xiao fights.

Everything appears as a blur to him—before he can even register what he's tearing into, the only thing that appears before him is a mangle of corpses, the iron sting of blood which wafts in the air, the elemental energy which emerges as a consequence of an adeptus's wound. He turns, ridding himself of his weapon, his mask, and he crouches down, the rain seeping through your clothes, your breaths coming out in gasps as your hand presses against the side of your neck.

"Hey," you manage to say, the slight tug of a smile contorting at your lips. Xiao reaches for your hand, peeling it from your neck, eyes narrowing at the gash which runs across your skin, just barely missing your vital points.

"You should've called me," he mutters, his words adorned with an indescribable heaviness, cradling your ruined body with both of his arms, bringing your head closer to his chest, the rampage of his heart threatening to burst through his ribs, desperate to reach you. It doesn't. But you grin and it nearly does.

"I did, though?" you reply, still as frustrating as ever.

"Earlier," he says. "You should've called me earlier."

You cough. Xiao brings you closer to himself, his hands coming to support your back while the other hooks under your knees. Tendrils of turquoise and black swarm around your figures, the thundering sky shifting to a grand blue. Liyue.

Verr Goldet says nothing about the sodden floors as a result of your appearance. She gestures towards a room, eyes wide at your state, and Xiao disappears behind the door, your figure still in his arms, your face pressed against the breaths of his skin, rising, then falling.

"That was so embarrassing," you remark, the shakiness of your voice not matching the tone of your words, your limbs limp as he rests you onto the bed. He thumbs at your face, wiping the rain, covering your eyes with his gloved palm. It's dark.

"Rest," he says.

It's dark. But even when sleep takes you, and when your labored breaths ease into normalcy, Xiao never once leaves your bedside. He remains, scrutinizing your every expression, the state of your wounds, its gradual healing over the night.

Desire.

His ribs curl inwards, his hands clasp around the hilt of his spear, his face wants to shrink into his mask. Desire. Xiao hopes it never takes this form again; the kind of form that exists in the midst of your absence, the kind of form that exists at the idea of your demise, the kind of form that makes him feel as though he must first die in order to live.

Desire.

It must taste like a sweet dream, it must feel like a warm body in his hands, it must look like you.

When you wake up, he's there, in the corner, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, eyes closed. You stir. He wakes. From his spot, he remains unmoving, head tilting slightly as he asks, "How do you feel?"

"Not good," you reply. Only when you try to sit up does Xiao meet you, his hands coming to your shoulder, opposite of the side your wound is on, and he presses you back into the mattress.

"Rest," he says, again. "You must heal."

Despite the steadiness of his voice, his expression betrays him. It's in the frantic movement of his eyes, tracing all over your skin, checking for wounds; the furrow of his brows, its vehemency forcing his lips downwards, the stir of his heart palpable.

Like flashes of light, flickering through crevices, dappling the ground, its radiance appearing as spots.

"I'm fine," you state.

His gaze tears from your neck to your own, wholly unconvinced.

"Have you no concern for your own wellbeing?"

"I know you're not the one telling me that right now."

Silence. It's broken by your laughter, your hand raised to wipe at forming tears as you congratulate yourself on being the funniest creature known to man. Xiao wonders if mankind lacks humor.

(But he would listen to you forever if he could.)

Desire; it must sound like this.

It's not often that Diluc returns to Dawn Winery at a reasonable hour.

"Has [Name] returned?" he asks Adelinde, lingering at the doorway, shrugging his coat off of his shoulders before hanging it on the rack. She looks up, lips drawn into a thin line as she shakes her head.

"Not yet, Master Diluc."

"Alright then. When they do arrive,"—he speaks with utmost certainty, leaving no room for doubt—"let them know that I will be in the library. Also, hold off on serving dinner until then."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Adelinde."

And so he retires to the shelves, thumbing through the many books of which he must finish reading, its piling stature next to yours. There's a stark contrast between the media you two consume—your books are all light novels from Inazuma, with titles so long they adorn the entire spine, whereas his are blank and devoid of any covers or titles at all. Still, they take up a substantial space of the Winery's library. He hasn't moved them since you slotted them there.

Why would he?

The Winery has reinvented itself, the walls shifting in accordance to the duration of which your gaze sweeps over their wooden frame, the chandelier lights aflame, brightening when you pass under their embrace, your face aglow.

It was a cold place following the death of his father; it found warmth again when you arrived. It's in the light novels which line the shelves, the drawings from Klee which you've hung up in the halls ("She said it's us!" you exclaimed, pointing towards a paper with two figures, both looking like disturbing phantoms), the dinner table, its length larger than life, once set for three, then one, and now, two.

Two.

Two coats on the rack, two pairs of shoes by the door, two stacks of books, two chairs by the fireplace. Like how the break of dawn bids farewell to the moon, making place for the sun—like how, as the first light pierces through the darkness, there is, most wonderfully, two. Two.

Diluc quite likes two.

What an odd title, he thinks, fingers dancing over the spine of one of your light novels, reading, "I Reincarnated as a Powerless F-Class Summoner, Until I Ate the Hair of the Number One Hero, and Became the King of Curses!"

... Huh?

Finding his seat, Diluc thumbs through the pages, finding where he last left his mark. Out slips a paper—a measly thing, really—with an abhorrent drawing of what looks to be a man with red hair. Apparently, it's him.

You gave it to him following a contest with Klee, in which the two of you tried drawing with your non-dominant hand. Klee won, for reasons he thinks is glaringly obvious when he gazes upon whatever abomination exists amongst the pages of his book. Still, he peels the paper from its place, setting it down onto the table, carmine eyes lingering on its peculiar look for much longer than it probably took for you to create it.

He smiles a little. Truly, you should stick to your dominant hand.

Diluc only tears his attention from the words when he hears a hurried knock. He rises, slotting your gift back in between pages, running a hand through his hair as he opens the door, sleeves rolled towards the crease of his elbow.

"Master Diluc, forgive me for the interruption," Adelinde says, dipping her head. "But Master [Name] has yet to arrive."

He glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, a brow raised upon realizing that it's about to strike midnight; you're not one for late outings, often preferring to spend your weekends at home, toiling away at random quests, or hatching new schemes to terrorize Jean.

"That's odd," Diluc remarks, gaze returning to Adelinde. "I will search for them myself, then. Please prepare dinner while I am away."

She nods in responds. Diluc returns to the coat rack, occupied by one, before swinging the fabric over his shoulders, donning his gloves, peering past the window before realizing it's raining. He narrows his eyes at the sight; you loathe this type of weather.

They must be back at the city, then, he thinks. You'd rather take shelter than venture out in these sort of conditions. Regardless, in order to ease his own nerves, Diluc will meet you there. He brings an umbrella with him, just in case you'd like to return to the Winery tonight.

He does not bother using it for himself.

Or, maybe—he unfurls its material—he should, considering all the times you've furrowed your brows upon seeing him soaked with rainwater, hurling profanities at him for letting his hair get all tangled. He doesn't care much about it; you do. For that reason alone, he raises the umbrella above his head, the sound of rain pelting against it as he walks outside.

The walk is peaceful. There are no hilichurl camps, no rogue abyss mages, no slimes to whack. With that, he allows his mind to wander adrift, to settle on a familiar subject, one that he often thinks towards whenever he finds interludes like this. You. Two.

He thinks of your incredulity when you see him again, pointing at him accusingly, cursing him for walking out in the rain and for getting his boots muddy. He thinks of your laugh when he tells you about that one peculiar light novel he saw on the shelf, how your words quicken when you explain its outlandish plot, how the title is actually important, how it's the pinnacle of literature. He'll purse his lips at your declaration, and you'll shoot him a glare. That'll fix him quiet.

And when you turn away, attention now belonging to one of your many hobbies, he'll continue to stare, long after the conversation has found its silence, long after your gaze departs from his. And it will be, most wonderfully, two.

The city in now in sight, Diluc's relaxed pace quickens a little, the familiar gates looming ahead, fingers tightening around the hilt of the umbrella. You'll be there, no doubt. You hate going out in the rain. Maybe you'll be in the Tavern, and the two of you can walk home from there. By the time you get back to the Winery, all will be prepared, and the two of you can eat together, and perhaps a little reading can be done by the fireplace, and—

"Get the healers!" a voice yells. There's commotion on the bridge, a handful of knights swarming around an unknown figure, one of them parting from the group to run back inside the city, searching for a nurse. Diluc raises a brow, but approaches the group anyway, umbrella in hand, asking a knight what happened.

"Oh, Diluc! We were just about to send someone your way! Actually, we found [Name]—"

He shoves past the jostling bodies, eyes grown wide, umbrella forgotten to the floor as he makes his way towards the zenith, unable to contain the spasm of his chest as his stomach lurches at your mention. Though it is dark, Diluc can make out your figure, crumpled on the floor, blood seeping into the pebbles, the scent sickening.

Sometimes, life can change in an instant.

These words resound all throughout Diluc's mind as he crouches down, ripping his gloves off, checking for your pulse. It's there. He gathers your body into his arms, bringing you close to his chest, his movements quick yet steady as he carries you into the city, heading towards the cathedral.

Not again.

Diluc looks at you. In between your shaky breaths, you manage to peer through the rain, skin soaked, clothes even more so, and you return his haunted gaze with one full of wonder. He doesn't deserve such a look from you. He was late. You're bleeding out. He should've searched for you earlier, instead of wasting away at a book which will exist forever.

But what of you?

You exist within his arms in a manner unlike the one you take in his mind. You've always been a creature so full of light, the burn different from his own—but the heat which once emanated from your skin now exists as viscous blood, seeping through his fingers, the redness sickening. And it feels as though you may disappear at any moment, the colossal vitality of your soul—radiant, inextinguishable, whole—now fragile, ephemeral, and so terribly mortal.

Sometimes, life can change in an instant.

But, Diluc thinks, remembering his father's words, pressing your figure closer to himself, racing up the stairs towards the cathedral, not like this.

Despite it being midnight, a healer is quick to reach your side, elemental energy seeping into your wounds as your labored breaths ease over, one of your hands encased by both of Diluc's as he remains by your figure, never to be parted, not even by death.

"They've made it through the worst of it," the healer says, the light emanating from their hand coming to a halt, their head craned towards him. "All they need now is rest."

"Thank you," Diluc breathes, unable to contain the tremble of his hands as they tighten around yours, the shakiness reaching his voice. "Thank you, so much."

"It's no problem," the healer replies, rising to their feet, bidding Diluc a kind farewell with the dip of their head before retreating into the general prayer area, leaving the two of you within private quarters. Hunched over, his hands never part from yours, carmine eyes blown wide as they frantically retrace over your figure, gazing upon your bandages, the rise and fall of your chest.

Not again.

Many hours pass, and eventually, the sun reaches your room. To think the person made of light is now submerged in it; Diluc considers the sight to be sublime, like a reminder that dawn will always break, that there will always be light after darkness. And the worst of it has come to pass. And Diluc holds your hands within his, and he utters his thanks, over and over, trembling, genuflecting, overwhelmed with the enormity of an emotion that has existed as so many flames before.

There will be two.

There will always, always be two.

Hazily, your eyes peer open, slicing through the abyss, the universe now beholding light. And Diluc leans even closer towards you, the distance impossible, his thumb reaching to brush your face, tracing over the bone of your cheek, the curl of your lips. He looks you once over again, and then, he whispers, "How do you feel?"

"Like shit," you manage to say. He hands you a glass of water, one that he kept by your bedside, lifting it up to your lips and allowing you to drink. Swallowing, you then add, "That was embarrassing."

He doesn't find mirth in that remark. "What happened?"

"I was leaving for the winery, but halfway through,"—you cough, and Diluc's eyes grow wide, hand now rubbing circles into your shoulder, unable to contain the fear which claws at his face—"I got ambushed."

His expression darkens. "Who?"

You shake your head. "Don't know. But I'm fine, now!"

Tucking that knowledge away for later, Diluc finds it in himself to nod, to force a smile, though not reaching his lips, it comes easily to him whenever you're involved. And he grasps your hand within both of his once more, and he brings your knuckles to his mouth, and, across a thousand flames, across all the distance of which light must travel through—a kiss.

Featherlight, yet his lips lingers there for longer than the action existed, serving as confirmation that the warmth he feels is yours. That the light remains inextinguishable, the colossal vitality whole, his soul complete.

Two.

There must always be two.

If it were up to him, Alhaitham would live a life of routine. The disruption of order results in the proliferation of problems—consequently, headaches for him to clean up—and, for the sake of his unbothered life, he'd prefer things to stay as they are.

This philosophy can also be applied to Alhaitham's perspective on socialization. With a life more comfortable than most, he has come to learn that being social is no necessity, and, in order to maintain his unbothered life, he would much rather keep the impression of him from others to be "unapproachable" and "difficult to get along with." Such titles work in his favor.

If it were up to him, Alhaitham would live a life of routine.

(The trick here is: "If it were up to him...")

With you on the loose, there is no such privilege as a routine. Alhaitham, your primary victim, feels this fact most tangibly in his frontal lobe, manifesting as a raging headache that he cannot get rid of. One day, you're dragging him along to check out some nonsensical weed you found, and the next, you're leaving stacks upon stacks of paperwork on his desk because you didn't follow protocol accordingly.

Still, he toils away at those papers (after downing a couple cups of coffee, and outsourcing half of the work to one of his assistants), and he makes no effort to swat your hand away whenever it encases his wrist. There is no use wondering why he lets you lead him astray; the answer is terribly obvious.

He likes you.

("So, why don't you tell them, then?!" Kaveh exclaimed, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair, damn near tearing it from his scalp as Alhaitham thumbs through the pages of his book, uncaring.

("They never asked."

("You're supposed to tell people that you like them! You can't be serious right now..."

("I think my actions are sufficient evidence," Alhaitham stated. Who else could keep him despite it not being working hours? Who else could drag him so carelessly, it feels as though he's some dog on a leash? Who else could talk his ears off, yet not once prompt him to reach for his soundproofing earpieces?

(Who else, if not you?

("Because they won't know unless you tell them!"

("Then, that's for them to discover later.")

Despite being renown for your novel discoveries, pioneering your field, leading lecture halls and developing new theories—you have never once picked up on any of Alhaitham's favoritism towards you. While Alhaitham does acknowledge that book learning alone is not enough to cultivate intelligence, you're in a different category in itself. You're just oblivious. There's nothing he can do about that.

It's because of that fact that Alhaitham's turquoise eyes linger on the clock for longer than he usually does—you wouldn't know that he favors you over others, so you wouldn't know that he would wait for you despite being thirty minutes late to your appointment.

He doesn't rule out you forgetting that the two of you were supposed to meet; you've always had a bad habit of letting things slip your mind whenever you get lost in your own research. Your brightness serves as a double-edged sword in that regard. Still, Alhaitham thinks, tearing his gaze from the clock, opening his book, drifting across the lines. This is taking longer than usual.

Thirty more minutes, then.

The tavern is bustling with people, the cacophony unheard by his ears as he dons his earpieces. Every so often, Alhaitham glances up, attention fixated on the door, waiting for it to slide open and to reveal your figure. Nothing. He returns to his book. The cycle repeats a couple times over, but eventually, Alhaitham shuts his book, and he prepares to retire home for the day. You probably forgot.

Taking the last sip of his drink, Alhaitham rises from his seat, weaving in between the drunken bodies, the heads thrown back into laughter he cannot hear. Then, the door he's approaching swings open, a figure heaving for breath, hunched forward, as they loiter at the door. Alhaitham raises a brow at the sight.

"You're late," is all he says. You glance at him, still catching your breath, and your lips part to say something, but Alhaitham doesn't quite grasp at what you're talking about. The world is still silent, yet he observes you thoughtfully, eyeing you once, twice, thrice, before settling on your moving lips.

How troublesome. He shoves any thoughts he's having down his mind, and he lifts the soundproofing from his ears.

Still, your lips move, and he hears nothing—just a quiet pop! from the action.

Why does he bother with you, again?

(Oh, that's right, he thinks. It's because he likes you, and you always slip in between the fingers of his philosophy, forcing through the order with chaos, prying him from solitude to listen to your rambles. You're troublesome. You're disorderly. This begs the next question: Why does he like you, again?)

You grin upon seeing his exasperated look, exclaiming, "I was saying nothing this whole time!"

(But then you grin that grin of yours, the curl meeting your eyes, head tilting, expression so utterly impressed with yourself—and Alhaitham thinks that, really, there is no question at all. You've made a lover of him. Troublesome, disorderly, loud.

(And yet, he remains as he is. Yours.)

"How hilarious," he states, voice remaining completely neutral.

You laugh, and Alhaitham notices the way your brows furrow a little, the way your hand curls, raising slightly towards your abdomen before retracting. And you turn away from him, retreating into the tavern, trusting he'll follow without the need to look back for confirmation, and Alhaitham notices the awkward pace to your gait, the way you prefer one foot over the other, the way you wobble despite being sober.

He just blinks. There are no other tells in his expression—a trait which he can attribute to your obliviousness regarding his favoritism towards you—but, there is the way he matches your pace, the way his eyes linger over your form, tracing the familiar, settling on one spot upon much consideration, condensed into a couple seconds.

Your abdomen. Something happened.

Alhaitham is not one to flower his speech with rhetoric; speaking factually and simply has always been his preferred form of communication.

You sit down. He sits across from you. Before you can even order a drink, Alhaitham asks, "What happened?"

You spare him a guilty glance. "Nothing."

"You're hurt," he then states, leaving no room for argument. "Why?"

As if such an observation flipped a switch, your eyes begin to lose their focus, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if to stabilize yourself, head lolling forward slightly, stopped only by the quick jolt of your figure. You sit up straighter. You don't look him in the eye. You crack a nervous laugh. He is unfazed.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Are you saying I look ugly?"

"I'm saying that you're hurt."

Only you could ever make him repeat himself. But his patience can only run so far. Alhaitham damn near reaches for your shirt himself, ready to figure out whatever it is you're hiding, but before he can, your head lurches backwards completely, your hands parting from the table as you fall from your seat.

He stands, figure leaning over the table, arm outstretched to catch you, your eyes half-lidded as you stare at the hanging lights without any form of response to such a bright stimulus. With this, Alhaitham reaches your side, crouching to bring you closer to the ground, your back still supported by his arm as he peels your shirt from your abdomen.

Bandages. Blood. You've done a messy job at cleaning up, it seems, for the gauze is unraveling and the wound seems to pulsate underneath. Alhaitham does not wince at the sight, and his lips remain slotted into their line, but his eyes meet yours, darting to and fro, the movement quick and, laced in between the speed, is frenzy.

His mind is racing, possibly outpacing his heart, possibly affecting the curl of his fingers as they tighten around your arm. And he gathers your body into his arms and he leaves the tavern without a single moment of hesitation, rushing you to the hospital, forgetting all about the bill or the rumors which will spread unfavorably about him because of this. People may start saying that he's a kindhearted soul; people may say that he has a soft spot for you; people may consider him to be reliable.

He doesn't need these facts to be revealed to the public, to affect his prospects at a comfortable, unbothered life. But then again, Alhaitham wonders why he's even fathoming such an idea when it's you he loves. Troublesome, disorderly, loud.

The door to the hospital slams open upon his arrival, and he wastes no time getting you to the physicians, watching your body get carried behind doors he cannot enter. He remains standing for a while, before realizing that there are seats, and he finds his spot there. Waiting.

In order to deter people talking to him, he pulls out a book, and he puts on his earpieces. But he remains acutely aware of the door where he last saw you, waiting for it to slide open, to reveal your figure, whole, and that grin of yours which he believes to be akin to some sort of hypnosis spell.

Thirty minutes. An hour. Two hours. Alhaitham waits.

Then, the door slides open. He stands. The physician tells him the wound has been infected, and he just nods at that, thinking that, with the shabby bandages you had wrapped, it's no wonder why such an outcome would arrive. But that doesn't make him worry any less. No, if anything, it only makes him even more concerned.

"So, how are they?" he asks, wasting no time on pleasantries or answering the questions that the physicians have for himself.

"They're doing well now," a doctor explains, "but, we will be prescribing them some medication. It must be taken daily, for two weeks, before their first meal."

"I'll handle that," Alhaitham states, hand outstretched, receiving the pill bottle. He doesn't think you'll remember your own schedule. He also thinks that this sort of incident should be avoided from now on; and so, the only logical decision is for him to monitor your intake on your behalf.

A couple moments later, you're discharged, and Alhaitham walks you home. His pace is considerably slower, his earpieces unworn, his hand supporting your waist as you watch your steps.

"Why did you try to hide your wounds?" he asks. Though you don't point it out, Alhaitham notices the slight widen of your eyes—you must've felt the way his fingers curled tighter around your side at the question. He doesn't make any effort to do anything else with that fact. You'll figure it out eventually.

"I was late to our appointment," you reply, scratching the side of your face. "I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer."

Alhaitham exhales a noticeable breath. He'd wait for you long past working hours, into the depths of the night, in loud and bustling environments which he finds no pleasure in—there's no need for you to do such reckless things.

Don't you know that you've already garnered his favor?

(Oh, that's right, he thinks again. You don't.)

"Is it that, or were you just desperate for a drink to ward the pain away?" he queries. You swat him with your hand. He doesn't budge at the action.

"Why're you speaking like I'm some alcoholic?!"

"I never said that,"—he eyes you over thoughtfully, noticing the way you don't clutch at your abdomen, the way you don't wince upon swatting him away—"and, if you said it, that must mean you've thought it many times before."

"What?! That's not how it works!"

"It's called a Sreudian Flip."

"Ugh, enough with your big words!"

"If you think that's a big word, then I have some bad news for you once you graduate from elementary education."

You swat him again, hexxing him under your breath. Alhaitham, terribly unmoved and terribly terrible (in your words), bears the subtlest of smiles, the usual line of his lips morphed into a shape that, really, feels as though it belongs to you.

He'll figure out what happened later; for now, just this is enough.

All that a samurai needs is wine, song, and a blade.

Kazuha considers his life to be quite full in that regard. With a disposition dependent on movement, Kazuha considers himself to be quite whole while he's wandering. Meeting new people, seeing new horizons—his already-full world somehow makes space to become even larger, fitting more memories, remembering more names.

All that a samurai needs is wine, song, and a blade.

But—Kazuha looks at you, your gaze casted downwards, eyebrows furrowed as you weave blades of grass together, the intricacies forming a checkered pattern, the shape making a basket—what a samurai wants is different.

("We'll be making a pit stop at Liyue," Beidou announced a day earlier, gesturing towards the many crates, full of deliveries from Inazuma. "Prepare for a two-night stay!"

(The sailors, a majority of which hailing from Liyue, rejoiced. They celebrated so vehemently during the stillness of the night, that their singing voices accompanied the lap of the waves, water kissing the boat, Kazuha's legs dangling overboard as he tried to tune their peculiar melodies out. He could not.

("Must they always be so loud?" he muttered, not really for anyone to respond. But someone laughed. He looked over, surprised despite knowing you were already there—your presence is unmistakable, after all—and you pat his back, head tilted to the side.

("You mean to tell me that this isn't music to your ears?"

(Kazuha returned your smile with his own, its meaning adorned with a different tinge.

("Not quite."

(Your smile has always existed as the inevitable—like the promise that the sun will return, like the promise that the wind will pass—but to him, it is not so simple. There are lots of things to smile about in this world. When Kazuha looks at you, though, it feels as if all he needed was one.

(Joining him by the ledge, you leaned forward, gazing upon the sea. Kazuha admired the ocean through your irises, wondering what you saw—he thought it to be quite poetic, seeing beauty admire beauty.

("You won't hear their voices anywhere else," you remarked, wind tousling your clothes. You never once tore your gaze from the water. Kazuha never once tore his gaze from you.

("Perhaps that is for the better?" he suggested. You laughed again. That sound stayed with him for much longer than it did in the air.)

"Do you have any plans in Liyue Harbor, Kazuha?" you ask, setting your grass basket down, sparing him a quick glance before your gaze settles itself onto your handiwork once more.

"Not much," he responds. "And you?"

You beam. "I'm so glad you asked. I'm going to go make some kites, and get some materials for some more grass baskets!"

Kazuha nods along, the image of you harvesting blades of grass tugging at his lips a little, the subtlest of smiles sweeping across his expression.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all!"

Perhaps there'll be a nice, sunny rock for him to nap on after picking some grass. It's been a while since he last got an afternoon break in; traveling via ship has no lack of maintenance, after all.

Upon arriving at Liyue Harbor, and anchoring The Crux, deboarding various sailors and cargo as you and Kazuha slip in between the masses, escaping the dock swiftly, your gaze fixated towards the market.

In Liyue, Kazuha thinks you shine gold.

It's in the warm lights which illuminate your skin, the crinkle of your eyes when you recognize the kites you've been dreaming of, the slight curl of your fists as you weave through the crowds, chatting to the vendor as if you've known them your whole life.

Warm.

You tell Kazuha you'll be here for a while, and he nods, letting you know that he'll do a round of the marketplace before returning to you. Without giving him a chance to wave goodbye, you return to haggling with the vendor, pointing at various fabrics, asking about their material and their advantages.

Warm.

Kazuha spares one last glance at you before turning away, glancing to and fro, observing the lanterns above and the reinvention of Liyue Harbor in preparation for a festival. It's quite pretty, he thinks. It's nice being here with you.

While admiring some jades, he notices a faint ripple in the wind, its gentle breeze more akin to a gust as it wisps past his face, the ferocity unusual. Head tilted towards the sky, Kazuha mulls over his thoughts, departing from the ore vendor and returning to where he last saw you, with all the kites, face adorned by that grin of yours, eyes blown wide as if set ablaze.

He emerges from the crowd. Nothing. The kite vendor is gone, and so are you. His brows furrow a little, but the pace of his gait remains steady, sifting through the many people as he searches for a trace of your light, existence tangible in bursts of radiance.

The wind races past him again; if he wasn't nervous before, Kazuha feels it beginning to creep on him now. It's in the chill which follows the breeze, the goosebumps which ripple throughout his skin following the wind's kiss across the length of his arm. He feels the familiar hilt of his blade under his hand despite not holding anything at all.

Where are you?

Kazuha's senses are keenly attuned to this world. He can hear the giggles of children, the rustle of the trees, the shouts of vendors as they advertise their goods. He can hear the quickened footsteps, the hushed murmurs, the frantic gasps followed by a pulsating light. He follows it, the brilliance, and it takes him out of the Harbor, where rolling fields of grass overlook the sea and where the indents of footsteps can be discerned from the dirt.

It's getting warmer.

Then, the clash of blades. Kazuha draws his sword and he runs. The wind channeling into his feet, giving him a burst of speed, he follows the line of light until he can make out a familiar figure, weapon in hand, cornered and in front of two civilians as they cower from a Stonehide Lawachurl, its enormity unfathomable, forcing him to crane his head upwards as it hurls its arm back.

Kazuha knows you to be a formidable fighter; the two of you have crossed blades a handful of times, your prowess unmistakable whenever the duel draws to its zenith. But he also knows you to be terribly selfless. It's a trait that he finds serves your radiance well, drawing moths to a flame—but, there will always be a burn.

Always.

The warmth is no different from heat, after all.

He's too late. The wind can only get him so far; the swing of the Lawachurl's hand slams forth, and you shoulder the impact with your Vision, channeling energy into your weapon, your body a shield in front of the two civilians, sight devoured by the Lawachurl's body.

He can't make out your face, but he can hear your breaths, the rhythmic tempo of the wind, channeling your heartbeat to his own. You're alive. You survived the worst of it.

He rushes forth, wind drawn into his blade, and he pierces the monster's back, taking its attention for himself. In between the roars and the emergence of rocks from the ground, Kazuha's eyes find yours, those minute seconds serving as enough for him to continue onwards. You're alive. He's late, but he made it. You're alive.

Warm.

The feeling eats away at him while he's fighting, dulling his senses as his mind is preoccupied with that haunting image of your face, brows furrowed, jaw clenched, free hand clutching onto your side as you hunch forward—he should've left earlier. If he had been a couple seconds faster, if he had listened to the wind just moments before, if he had kept an eye on you and not lost himself in the beauties which only pale in comparison to your own, this could've all been avoided.

But Kazuha no longer wants to be the type who dwells on what's already done; journeying with The Crux has taught him to keep moving forward, to wear his experiences but not to let them weigh him down. And so, he fights.

The scent of your blood, the sound of your voice as you usher the civilizans away, the uneven rhythm to your steps—Kazuha recognizes it all. With the final pierce of his blade through the Lawachurl's heart, its Geo shield long gone, it dissipates, leaving nothing but a couple of masks and bones, his breaths haggard as he glances in the direction of the light.

You're there. The civilians are gone, but you're not.

He withdraws his blade, racing towards you, crossing the expanse of the field, the distance of what feels like a thousand years shortened to but a few seconds. His hand reaches for your face, as if to confirm your existence. Then, he glances towards your abdomen, brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as he examines the wound, the iron sting in the air, the crimson which seeps through your clothes.

"We need to get you to a doctor," he mutters, removing his scarf, tying it around your side. "Can you walk? How do you feel?"

The wind shifts, as if to convey the extent of his worry. Kazuha has often been described to be rather mellow in terms of whatever life throws his way—but when it threw you, a star, what else can he do but to wish upon it? To catch it, to grasp at the light which emanates from his palm? To feel its warmth, the colossal heat, the reminder of vitality which extends far beyond himself, beyond the world!

"I'm fine. We need to get the others back to the hospital, first." you respond. He blinks, almost in disbelief that you'd lie so blatantly, but also, acceptance. Frankly, he expected that sort of response from you.

"Why don't we all go together?" he suggests.

You nod. "What a genius idea."

He finds it in himself to laugh a little, the sound relieved, settling over the ferocious rampage of his heart as it threatens to burst from its cage of ribs. The image haunts him still; he scent of blood is so terribly potent. But you're here. He dips his head, swinging your arm over his shoulders, his hand wrapping around your waist as he ushers you towards the Harbor, the sound of your breaths overshadowing the beat of his own life.

Warm. His gloved fingers curl, letting the heat seep into his gloves, the vitality aflame.

(The sun has set, the bustling Harbor quieting into a gentle lull.

("Kazuha?" Beidou calls, a hand on her hip as she observes him thoughtfully, patting him aggressively on the back after her examination is complete. "What're you doing here?"

(Kazuha wrinkles his nose a little, the scent of alcohol overpowering his senses. Just how much did she have to drink?

("I'm waiting for [Name]," he replies, his back leaning against the walls of the hospital, arms crossed as he stands guard over the entrance. Beidou likens him to a bouncer. He doesn't deny the comparison.

("Did something happen to them?" Beidou asks, eye growing wide. She doesn't miss the slight curl of his fingers at the thought. Still, his voice remains steady as he speaks.

("They were attacked on the outskirts of the Harbor," he explains, quietly, as though speaking loudly would accrue bad luck. "They're fine now, though. The physicians are tending to their wounds."

("Must be rough, huh," Beidou remarks, her contorted expression dissipating upon hearing that you're doing fine now. "I hope you're not taking it too badly though, Kazuha. I know you have a habit of bearing burdens. Let it go, yeah?"

(Kazuha nods, but the sentiment is easier said than done. The thought nags at him, the wretched idea of being just a second earlier, the decision he made to survey the marketplace instead of staying by your side—lots of things could've turned out differently. But he did what he did; he can't go back. All he can do is look forward.

("It must be rougher though, knowing that it involves [Name]," Beidou says, chuckling a little. "Young love, huh?"

(Kazuha's gaze parts from the captain to stare upon the sea. Its rolling waves, the glow of the moon, the scent of salt, the absence of seagulls. He smiles a little, the haunting now replaced with that of irrevocable radiance.

(He doesn't respond, but nature speaks on his behalf. The tide ebbs and flows, the lanterns flicker on, and warmth returns to the Harbor with the slide of the hospital door, your figure stumbling through. Kazuha turns to you, Beidou too, and you smile, the mirth anew.

("Sorry, did you wait long?" you ask. Beidou laughs, saying she just got here, but that she'll give you two some space. Kazuha shakes his head.

("You're just in time," he replies, hand outstretched, receiving yours, interlacing, the crevices in between your fingers just large enough to fit his—nature's thoughtful intention, he surmises.)

[4crystalline-stars4]

Sumeru

🎧 Alhaitham

Engagement ring headcanons

His reaction to your death

Domestic headcanons

Him as your pet cat

Jealousy headcanons

Him comforting you

Unrequited love

Kissing headcanons

👁️‍🗨️ Cyno

Love confession

Jealousy headcanons

Kissing headcanons

🥃 Kaveh

Love confession

Engagement ring headcanons

His reaction to your death

Domestic headcanons

Him as your pet cat

Jealousy headcanons

Him comforting you

Unrequited love

Kissing headcanons

🍄 Tighnari

Love confession

His reaction to your death

Kissing headcanons

☔️ Wanderer

Love confession

His reaction to your death

Him as your pet cat

Jealousy headcanons

Him comforting you

Kissing headcanons

[biggest-gaudiest-poltergeist]

weighted blanket's not enough i need to be compressed by a hydraulic press

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

[biggest-gaudiest-poltergeist]

I mean i quite like my brain, i’m really very fond of it i just think it’s a design failure that i can’t pop it out of the ole skull basket every night and plug it in to recharge. travesty really

[biggest-gaudiest-poltergeist]

we share one collective braincell and that braincell desires a bath apparently

[stalkingchair]

This is brainwashing propaganda

[euph0pea]

✶ workaholic!alhaitham

workaholic!alhaitham who forgets meals but never forgets the exact time you usually come by. books lie open across the table in the amber evening light, pages marked with neat impatience. he does not look up when you enter, only slides a second cup of tea toward your usual seat. workaholic!alhaitham who claims interruptions are inefficient, yet never tells you to leave. rain gathers against the windows while you talk about trivial things and he annotates margins in silence. somehow, his pen slows whenever your voice does. workaholic!alhaitham who falls asleep upright over his desk once every few weeks and pretends it never happened. dawn catches on his lashes, pale and merciless. when you drape a blanket over his shoulders, he reaches back to keep your hand there for one second longer than necessary. workaholic!alhaitham who measures affection through practicalities. your favorite texts already copied onto cleaner parchment, a chair pulled closer to the lamp, medicine left beside you before you admit you are unwell. care becomes visible only if you know where to look. workaholic!alhaitham who grows irritable when exhausted, words clipped and colder than intended. later, after midnight softens the room, he appears beside you with fresh fruit and an apology so quiet it nearly disappears. you understand him enough to hear it anyway. workaholic!alhaitham who finally closes every book when you ask him to rest. the storm outside has passed, leaving the world washed and still. he lies beside you with obvious reluctance, then falls asleep first with his hand anchored around your wrist.

✶ ivykeeper’s note : alexa play work by fifth harmony :p thank you for spending time beneath the ivy walls ♡ interactions, requests & tiny thoughts are always welcome here. if you’d ever like to leave a small petal behind, my ko-fi helps support both this greenhouse & my education . . . 

lovpea © est. 2026

[kitorin]

clueless !

in which, your attempts to hit on the attractive stranger at your cafe seem to be going nowhere.

contents. alhaitham x gn!reader, fluff, crack, 4.4k words, (modern) coffee shop au (reader owns a cafe), alhaitham might come across as ignorant/insensitive, insecurity from reader (highschool drop out), liyue trio as your part timers (xq, cy, xl) ! :>, a bit unrealistic in the sense of how busy the cafe is lol, unproofread (came out worse than expected but oh well), smau at the end !!

tagging. @abyislan08, @prettysweet02

There's a hot stranger at your cafe.

There was no other way to put it. Sure, you've seen plenty of attractive people. Nowadays, their faces were plastered all over billboards and advertisements. Social media was filled with beautiful influencers, and it's not like pretty people are an extinct species. You've had crushes before, on both peers and celebrities.

But maybe it was the fact that he arrived right as your cafe opened, or his clinical ways of studying, reading glasses perched onto the bridge of his nose. Not once did he glance at his phone, or absentmindedly fiddle with anything. His handwriting was in consistent cursive and his posture remained flawless, and his grey hair just swooped over an eye, you're surprised it hasn't interfered with his work.

Whatever it was, you were painfully aware of him, from the moment he ordered a black coffee to when he nearly packed everything up, after a three hour study session.

There was even a hint of sadness as he walked out the door.

"Are you alright?" Xiangling, one of your part timers poked your shoulder. "You look upset."

You brushed it off, scurrying back to the kitchen. "Nothing! Let's get back to work."

The next day, you still thought of him, as embarrassing as it was.

It was a cold morning, a reminder of the coming winter. It manifested into silver puffs of vapour and growing goosebumps littering your dry skin, apparent that your sweater wasn't thick enough. You wondered if he'd ever be back, he didn't seem that enthusiastic about his coffee, nor did he try any of your specials or recipes, the ones you spent hours on

A fervent hand rubbed your forearm, relishing in the friction, until you saw who was waiting outside the cafe.

This time, he arrived before opening times, reading a book by the entrance with his headphones on. This time, he was wearing a turtleneck under his large trenchcoat, unbothered by the cold. He looked the exact same yesterday, but your heart raced a bit faster, grateful for whatever reason he came to your cafe again.

He didn't bat an eye as you got prepared for opening hours. Only when you flipped the sign to 'open', did he peel his gaze away from his book, snapping it shut with a hand.

You greeted him with a small smile while opening the door, and he responded with a brief nod, making his way to a seat.

It was the same spot as yesterday. The booth by the window.

Out came his laptop. Then his pencil case, followed by a thick notebook, with all sorts of sticky notes poking out the edges. He wore his glasses, and you swear your heart skipped a beat.

(You busied yourself even more, scolding yourself for being so shameless and weird. It's just glasses. Half the population probably wear them. It's simply another customer. Be normal already.)

You peaked through the kitchen, watching him stretch his neck and fingers before they burst into life, dancing across his keyboard, playing rhythmic melody.

Well. At least he liked your cafe enough to come back.

(It's not your job to stare at this random man. Get back to work already, would you?)

The kitchen buzzed to life, and your hands were brewing a black coffee. Which wasn't for you. Definitely not.

You plated it before striding to his table, placing it near his belongings, somewhere that would (hopefully) not be in the way, and wouldn't end up on the floor if he was too preoccupied.

His hands paused and he stared up at you.

"I did not order this."

His tone was far colder than the wintry outdoors.

"I–I know. It's on the house. You were the very first to arrive here today too."

He glanced at the coffee, before looking back at you. You were sweating and behind your back, your hands fiddled with apprehension. "Is this some sort of promotion?"

Phew. At least he wasn't angry. "I suppose so. A little thank you for our eager customers."

(Eager. Why eager? Now you sounded like you were labelling him with whatever you pleased. 'Loyal', at least would've come off as a compliment.)

"Hm. Thank you. I appreciate it." A finger traced the rim, and only then you noticed he preferred gold jewellery. "You must be the owner of this place?"

You nodded, brimming with pride. "I am. I'm guessing you're a student?" You gestured to his study materials, scrawled in annotations.

(What is wrong with you—you should wait for him to provide that information first. Now you're weird and invasive.)

"Right." He cleared his throat. "I'm a phD student at the Akademiya."

Wow. At least that meant he was around your age, regardless of whether he took a gap year or not. "And what do you study, uh–sorry, what was your name?"

"Alhaitham. I study linguistics."

You nodded along, not knowing nearly enough to start a conversation about it. "I see." The door's bell rang, demanding your attention. "Well. Enjoy your coffee, Alhaitham."

"Thank you." He replied curtly before taking a sip.

And so, you kept up this routine. Alhaitham being the first to arrive, and you'd be right there to provide him a free coffee. It felt a bit ridiculous, trying to win him over with free drinks and hospitality.

You tried to tell yourself that, but it was easy to piece together counter arguments when you were so infatuated with him.

The money came out of your dime, and it hardly interfered with your profits. And technically, it was an effective business strategy, Alhaitham usually ordered a few more coffees throughout the morning anyways, so it balanced out nicely.

But you couldn't stop at just free coffees, if you wanted him to be something beyond a customer.

Today, he sat at his usual spot like always, performing his usual routine of typing away for hours and annotating thick novels.

"So then, now I dunno where to go from there. I know nothing about linguistics so I can't say anything interesting or discuss it with him... he's not that talkative, either. Like, I don't think he even sees my flirting as flirting."

Chongyun nodded along, baffled as he held his sandwich, gaze fixated onto you. "And you're telling me this because?"

You sighed. "Xingqiu is gonna make a big deal out of it. Also he's not on break."

"So you do admit that Xingqiu is scary." He took a big bite out of his sandwich, chewing thoroughly. "He's more relentless at school, y'know?"

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." Your gaze drifted back to Alhaitham, who was now staring out the window. "Why's he so pretty..."

Chongyun frowned. "I know he's handsome, but isn't this embarrassing? Just ask for his number. You've had boyfriends before. Even though all you do is work."

Arms crossed, you shook your head. "This isn't the same."

"You're too old for me to understand. Good luck though." Chongyun dodged a playful swat from you, quickly hurrying back to the kitchen to put his plate away. You groaned before joining him, wishing things were as simple as how he described.

One day, you noticed Alhaitham packing his things up. Before Xiangling could even react, you glided towards him, flashing a smile.

"All done?"

"Yes. Thank you." Off his glasses went and into its leather case. It left a pink mark or two onto his nose bridge. You watched him put his books away, and realised it was not your queue to leave.

The coffee cup's handle was held between your thumb and finger, before Alhaitham cleared his throat.

"Where did you graduate from?"

"I dropped out."

"I see. Then which university did you att—"

"—highschool. I dropped out of highschool."

You watch a brief flash of horror, before he returned to his blank stare.

"I see. I apolgise for assuming otherwise."

You chuckled, simply grateful he was willing to strike up a conversation, though it went nowhere.

"Not at all! It happens."

(It hasn't. Hardly anyone paid attention to your academic background, and most did not care, as long as the food you were serving was good. You wonder if this made you less compatible with him, or even appear as less capable in his eyes. After making enough money, no one seemed to care.)

"It was still inconsiderate of me." He replied, readjusting his watch. "Forgive me."

"It's fine!" You chirped, glance flitting around for an exit. "I'm gonna get back to work now. Again, don't worry, you haven't offended me at all."

Before Alhaitham could retort, you scurried off, retreating back into the kitchen.

"What would you recommend on the menu to eat while working?"

For once, Alhaitham responded to his free black coffee with anything other than 'thank you'.

You drew a blank before humming, and to your horror, nothing came to mind.

A sandwich would get his fingers dirty and cake wasn't efficient. Pasta was an option but took way too much effort. You suddenly regret not meeting his niche, before retreating to the kitchen.

You hauled out a tub of grapes, and filled a large bowl with them, hastily drying each of them with paper towel so his fingers wouldn't get wet. You made sure to pick out the biggest ones, ignoring any with even the slightest hint of brown.

(Chongyun did stare, to which you ushered him to get back to work. He left you the tiniest smirk, but you were too busy worrying about Alhaitham to get annoyed at it.)

"Would this work?"

You placed the grapes in front of him. "These aren't on the menu." Alhaitham coolly replied.

(He knew your menu, you had to force yourself not to gush over it.)

"They're not." You'd never put just a bowl of grapes on your menu—that felt far too lazy and simple for you. "In all honesty I don't have anything on the menu that you can eat while working, but now that you've brought it up, I'll come up with something to do to the menu."

Alhaitham blinked, looked at the grapes then looked back at you. "How much would this cost, then?"

"On the house." Again. "This is coming from me as a friend. Not the owner of this place."

Your palms were sweating now and your face was probably flushed. You gave him a slight bow before scurrying away. "I'll let you focus now. Good luck!"

If it weren't for being out on broad daylight, you would've screamed and beaten yourself up for referring to yourself as his "friend".

For the first time ever, Alhaitham had stayed until closing time.

Alongside the black coffees he usually ordered, he bought a couple of sandwiches, trying every flavour. Whenever you glanced at him, he was either deep in a book or typing away, fully focused and productive. Even Xingqiu went as far as joining in your staring, murmuring about how he could never stay that focused, whether at the library or at his desk. Xiangling agreed, complaining about how the moment she eats lunch, she's already done thinking about schoolwork.

Evening was approaching, the remains of sunlight cloaked Alhaitham in a warm glow, a sight you wanted to openly swoon over if it weren't for your reputation and job.

Alhaitham looked up from his laptop, and immediately glanced at you as you wiped down the tables, after your part timers clocked out. Xingqiu had already caught onto your crush, donning a smug grin when you let him off early, whispering in Xiangling's ear as they left.

"Is it closing time?" He stood up, glancing at his watch. "Sorry. I was absorbed."

"It's fine! You can stay longer if you want to."

The invitation spoke before you could.

"I'll be closing up and cleaning, though. As long as you don't mind." You clarified, taking out your embarrassment by wiping a nearby table aggressively.

Even for a crush, this was a bit far. You avoided his gaze, cleaning anything in your sight, even if you'd already tided it up earlier.

You didn't want him to go, yet you couldn't find anything to talk about.

All you knew of was his degree and university, a subject you weren't familiar with and a university you could never get into. You don't know what kind of shows or video games he likes, or if he even had any interest in those, and all this man seemed to do was study and work.

Perhaps if it was best for you to let go of this crush of yours. There doesn't seem to be much chemistry, anyways, and it'd be better to withdraw while it was only mere interest.

But Alhaitham spoke, as you took his empty cup, after he finished packing his things up.

"Why did you drop out so early, if I may ask?"

You blinked, pausing, unsure of where the question even came from. There was no context, nor any possible event to trigger this conversation. "I didn't like school. I wasn't interested in university anyways."

"How come?"

You listed the reasons off on a finger. "Too much debt. I don't like studying. I think grades aren't worth much and are too stressful. Our job market is ruined enough for a degree to not be worth pursuing and—"

Shit talking academia, the thing your crush seemed to value most, was such a great idea, wasn't it?"

"And yeah." You mumbled. "That's not to say that I think it's pointless or bad. It's just not for me." The clarification came stumbling out, as the pink in your cheeks seared. "Sorry for rambling. I must be tired, or something."

As a teenager, it was more satisfying to learn how to create something new, or helping someone out, compared to school, even during the examinations you did well in. Memorising facts and appeasing teachers only seemed to drain the life out of you.

This remained as an adult, as well.

Watching Chongyun grow more confident, teaching Xiangling new recipes, or Xingqiu thanking you for tutoring him for his commerce class, was far more fulfilling than a good grade ever was to you.

Even if it was less favourable to drop out, you'd never change your mind, nor regret it if you could.

"That's not to say I think university is a bad thing." You blurted, afraid you overshared. "Just not for me." The clarification came stumbling out, as the heat in your cheeks grew. "Sorry if I was rude." You cleared your throat, shifting the weight on each foot. "Being a scholar seems very important to you.

Alhaitham nodded. "It is. Hence why you were not being rude. I appreciate the honesty. To be frank, I thought it was perplexing for someone to drop out as early as highschool. I even saw it as a failure when I was younger."

(Makes sense...your parents almost flipped out on you, and your teachers demanded you go see the school counsellor before making a decision that rash. Your peers suddenly seemed to look down on you, including your closest friends.

Though it was disappointing to hear, at least Alhaitham had the dignity to be honest about it.)

You awkwardly laughed. "I doubt I would've been able to get into any good uni, anyways."

He shook his head and sighed, gently. "That wasn't the point I was trying to make." He countered, looking up at you with sincerity. "I was pointing out my ignorance. I've had my life's path paved out into academia since the day I was born. Naturally, I was unaware of the experiences of others."

Alhaitham cleared his throat. "I'd have failed as a scholar if I didn't care for the perspectives of others, nor if I did not question myself. I asked because I was simply curious, not to mock or belittle you, and nor do I see it in any negative light anymore."

You were taken aback. This was probably the most you've ever heard him speak.

Although you felt a bit, unaccomplished, around him sometimes, you're glad he didn't see you that way.

"And if I made you feel that way." He murmured, taking off his reading glasses to put them away. "Then I'm sorry. I was not intending to."

"It's alright. Really. I just didn't expect you to be so...chill?"

You heard from other friends pursuing postgraduation degrees, about how insufferable most scholars could be. They were either "the nicest people ever" or the "worst snobs to exist", said your friend Ayaka, who always seemed to have a rant or two in store for whenever you caught up. It didn't take her recounts for you to understand how intense academics were; even in highschool, grades acted as a social hierarchy.

It puts your mind at ease, knowing that wasn't how Alhaitham saw things.

Alhaitham stood up, carrying his bag. You watched the muscles in his forearm ripple, before he hung his coat over them. "I should let you lock up now. Thank you again for letting me stay for longer."

You nodded. "It's alright. "All good. This cafe is home to me, I hope it'll feel the same for you."

Though the line embarrassed you after uttering it, Alhaitham seemed to think otherwise. "It does." He was far more taller than you expected, this was the first time he stood up, near you. "Do you need any help with anything? If it's cleaning I can help."

You shook your head. "I just need to lock up now. I'll see you next time."

Alhaitham hummed and walked out the door. Your heart raced, as you went to grab your things before leaving.

You stepped out, locking the door behind you, before almost dropping the keys.

"What was your name?"

You yelped, heart skipping a beat as you looked up at him. "You scared me..." The question seemed trivial, all staff, including you, wore a nametag, and you thought you've interacted enough for him to notice by now. "It's y/n."

He was waiting by the door. "I finally got to hear it from you." He clutched his coat tighter. "Thank you."

"What do you mean?"

"Your name. I've only read it on your nametag." (So he did notice) "I wanted you to tell me yourself."

You had no idea how to respond, nodding slowly before spewing out whatever came to mind. "You could've asked whenever, I already know yours."

He chuckled, an exotic melody you've never heard of. "That's true. I suppose I got nervous." Alhaitham glanced at his watch. "I'll see you tomorrow, get home safely, y/n."

"You too, Alhaitham."

And to that, he walked away, blending into the stream of people. You watched him cross the road into the evening, before heading your own way with a unique warmth in your cheeks.

Alhaitham's request had you thinking very hard. You spent more time than you'd like to admit brainstorming for it.

When you were in school, you studied at a library, where food was banned indoors anyways. And you hardly studied for over three hours anyways, always opting to work before or right after lunch.

It should be something healthy, easy to digest, and low in artificial sugars to avoid energy crashes. It had to be easy enough to eat while working, but couldn't leave any residue on the fingers.

Fruits were a good idea, but it felt too basic to sell. Maybe a fruit salad? But then again, it wasn't nearly as convenient as just eating grapes.

An idea flickered alight. You could make it a package deal? Fruits could serve as convenient snacks for during study sessions, and the deal could include tea, for long days and to avoid sleep disruptions and digestive issues. A meal could be included as well, for during study breaks.

You'll have to ask Xingqiu and the others for any ideas and for their opinions, maybe conduct more market research with an online survey, too, or just ask around your regulars. Or Alhaitham, the next time you see him.

You sighed, putting your notepad away, deciding to get into the details once you weren't sleep deprived and relying on coffee; but at least you've got a general concept now. You were tempted to bang your head on the counter, as the usual buzz from your cafe drifted all the way to the kitchen.

Xiangling leaned closer, eyes wide with concern. "Are you alright, Boss? You look like you haven't slept in a while."

You waved her off, ignoring the nickname you'd usually reprimand her for using. "I'm fine. Just tired. Something happen?"

"Oh. Chongyun said you should go to the front."

You almost rolled your eyes. He's capable enough to handle most problems, you wondered why he was being so lazy today.

When you stepped out, there Chongyun was. He patted your shoulder with a determined look in his eye, before getting back to work. You didn't get the chance to question it

Behind him, in his usual seat was Alhaitham, and Xingqiu standing by his table. "

"I'll have to keep working now. Thank you for your advice."

Alhaitham nodded, cold and brief. "It's no trouble, I can tell you'll do great."

Xingqiu flashed a bright smile, before bowing and hurrying away.

"Hello." Alhaitham waved, a subtle and brief movement. "How are you?"

"Good. 'm surprised you came in today. You usually come on the dot." Every time, he arrived upon opening without fail. You assumed he just wasn't coming today, since he wasn't there. "Xingqiu seemed happy." You commented, wondering what they discussed.

"He's very bright." Alhaitham murmured. "He's more thoughtful and clever that most scholars I've met."

You chuckled. "I'm not surprised, he's more considerate than most adults too." You noticed how empty the table was. "Have you ordered yet? How can I help you?"

"Could you take a seat?" He gestured to the seat in front of him. "I want to talk to you face-to-face for once."

You nodded and obliged, despite having no idea what he was planning.

"Thank you for earlier." He said. "I know you're kind, but even so, that was very generous of you."

You had no idea what he was talking about. "Pardon?"

"Chongyun. Your part timer said you asked him to keep this seat for me, since it's my favourite spot."

"Uh–yeah. I did, you seemed to like it a lot, and I've never seen someone so eager to sit here."

(You're going to thank that boy on your knees, or even give him a raise; whatever he deemed as sufficient gratitude. Chongyun's always been an angel, but today he might actually be a blessing from Celestia. You don't play favourites, but that may change in his favour.)

He nodded, arms crossed. "It's perfect. There's an abundance of natural lighting, but there's no glare on my laptop screen. It's not far from the bathroom, either, and it's not as crowded as other areas of the cafe, too."

You noted that, realising why he always showed up first.

"I see. That's nice—oh, I wanted to discuss something with you, actually."

He cocked a brow. "Which is?"

"Your question, when you mentioned wanting to eat something while studying. I was struggling with coming up with something worth selling, but, I came up with a package deal." You scratched your head, wondering how to phrase it. "Think of it as like a course, but specifically for a students."

As he listened along, you continued. "It'd include fruits as a snack, since it's healthy and easy to digest, and it's clean to eat. Coffee as well, with tea as an option for something with less caffeine. And I was thinking to include a meal for when people have a break for breakfast or lunch.

As for what, I'll minimise sugar to avoid crashes and keep it easy to digest. What do you think? Since you raised the issue, I was curious what you'd think is suitable. I'll be asking other students their thoughts, too."

Only when you finish talking do you realise you've been ranting for so long. You tried to play it off, avoiding his gaze, hoping you'd come off as thorough, rather than incoherent.

"You're very attractive to me right now." He said, without a budge in his stoicism. "You're intelligent and every choice is intentional and thought through properly. Not only you've taken my question into consideration, but have analysed a number of factors. I find your competence and intelligent very attractive."

A rush of heat bloomed in your cheeks.

"You'd be the perfect lover. Could I get your number?"

"Huh?"

"I said you'd be the perfect lover. And I asked if I could get your number."

"N–no, I heard that but—why all of a sudden?" You barely had time to process that he found you attractive, and now he was asking for your number.

At this point, your heart was threatening to burst out your chest

Alhaitham blinked, confused for a moment, as if you'd questioned a universal truth. "It's not exactly sudden. I've always found you attractive. You're successful and generous enough to provide free coffee, I wondered how you could afford that, it's brilliant relationship marketing. You're considerate, too. You treat both your staff and customers very kindly, and you used my question as an opportunity for growth, even though you're not obligated to cater to every need."

He cleared his throat. "Pardon me if I'm speaking too much. What I'm trying to say is that I like you."

"Um...thank you?"

You never thought he'd see you as someone to be admired, let alone for him to ask you out first.

A smile creased his lips, and you swear you almost fainted on the spot. "Would you like more time to think of an answer?" He pushed his phone out to you. "My question still stands."

Without hesitation, you grabbed his phone, entering your number. You read over it a few times, making sure you didn't make any typos. You basked in shock, wondering if this was a dream, a cruel trick your mind was playing on you.

But the warmth of his skin was undeniable, when his fingers brushed against yours as he took his phone back.

"Thank you, y/n. I'll be sure to text you to organise a date, when you're off work."

With a face hot with excitement, you nodded, mumbling something about being excited to hear from him. You swear, you can see a tint of red emerging in his cheeks, too.

a/n. haven't studied commerce for yrs so my analysis of business practices might be wack. i had this concept planned for zhongli and neuvi too, but i love my grand scribe a bit too much :> been a while since i've released something that isn't lohen

© kitorin : do not repost, plagiarize, change, or translate

[undying-undine]

one day i am gonna grow wings

pairing: alhaitham x reader

content: suicidal themes, heavily implied reader suicide, angst, reader is an akademiya scholar, alhaitham character study, 2nd person pov, no use of y/n, no beta we die like a character's happiness when i write them

summary: When you pass, Alhaitham wanders through your legacy. He's born and bred a scholar, so he does what he does best: figuring things out. It's all he can do now that your place in his home is empty.

wc: 1.32k

notes at the end

The morn has come, bringing mourning bells tolling in the sky. Alhaitham is more of a ghost than you in this horrible dawn. If he were any worse at figuring you out, he’d bet you wouldn’t have expected that. There’s another gamble for comfort he knows won’t end well in his mailbox:

Alhaitham,

Your request for leave has been approved. We at the Akademiya know how hard it is to lose a distinguished scholar and loved one, especially when it seems too early. The Haravatat and your colleagues send condolences for your loss.

Sincerely,

Azar, Grand Sage of the Akademiya

The letter follows him inside, carrying all the fleas and sickness a stray dog would. A stranger’s shoes lay on the floor and wait to be worn. Alhaitham rips his gaze past it. He carries on through the foyer to set out on his familiar little journey for misery. Today, the smell of it is everywhere; today, he cannot find what he is looking for.

An armchair comes to bear the weight of the coat he sheds. The impression of wasted hours on the couch turns him away. He looks to the dining table, where a cup of coffee has not yet been put away, even as dust has begun to gather in a thin film over it. Alhaitham remembers asking you early on, half empty or half full? You had laughed out an answer, then spun away to wash the cup and yourself away.

But what does he know? For sure, it wasn’t without regrets. He thinks of the night you received your vision. You had been working on your first paper when it settled on the stormed-through desk, a suggestion of spring, before you had grasped it and hurled the thing across the room. The edges weren’t dull. As Alhaitham cleaned up your hand afterward, he chewed himself up over the fling of your fingers and your long, rattling sigh when you returned to your work. He’s not particularly faithful himself, but he was never angry like you. Perhaps he’ll learn.

A few days later, your darshan had begun singing your praises. You’d smiled. It was hard to mistake and harder to return, but no matter the difficulty of treasuring, some things are still worth keeping.

Alhaitham goes to the bookshelf. He runs his fingers over the rows of annotated and dogeared tomes, where this sickness is not named but ever-present. It’s all Vahumana material, and he remembers discussing the intersection between your and his studies many times—in other words, this should not be trash to him.

He begins unshelving and piling on the coffee table, where book after book he looks through the marks you left and decides there is nothing of value in this one, or that one, or any one of these useless things until he stops looking altogether. All he sees is history, yes, someone like you is a history he’s seen repeat endlessly. Transient and brilliant. He always thought you’d die young.

Like a pillar tumbling down, Alhaitham collapses on an armchair. He steeples his fingers, then presses them together, dragging the cold fingertips across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. He can’t help but wonder why him. When you are this sick, Alhaitham is not a doctor in any way that matters. He knows very well that it is impossible to save everyone, but the idea that not everyone can be saved—well, he can almost hear someone saying he should’ve tried harder. The more logical part of him laments that it wouldn’t have mattered. Not if you looked at him that night and said, I’m not you, and this is simple aetiology.

Alhaitham has a tendency of only exerting an exact amount of effort for any task at hand. In knowing you, this philosophy has come to bear a flaw, for to love is to never be enough. Perhaps it would have been better to be an ignorant man, or anything that wouldn’t have been powerless at the sight of you hurtling through life. Alhaitham knows you wouldn’t have listened, not to him; he knows there is nothing to say if he is not a fool.

Another one of his beliefs has come to fruition in validity: the recognition of talent is a heavyhanded burden when only adopted through the eyes of others, rather than realized through self-actualization. You’re a victim of this, yet Alhaitham cannot fault you for cowardice, not if you had disregarded praise for a legacy you called an “obligation”. It would be nothing short of nonsensical to deny you the title of genius. That makes you shortsighted, and thus, Alhaitham has arrived at an answer regarding your madness.

He rises, fingers looping around the neck of an empty, knocked over glass on the table. The residue of wine glistens on lacquered wood in the half light of the blinded window. It had accompanied the dinner from the night before you died, the leftovers of which are still wrapped up somewhere. It’ll mold, and he’ll let it.

Before he can think of cleaning up and moving on, Alhaitham sees a stray paper sticking out of one of the books. You take care of your materials, so he’s sure it isn’t a ripped page. He sets the glass down, then picks the book up—Scroll of Streaming Song. Out falls a letter.

Dear Alhaitham,

You’re not the type to rifle through my things, so if you find this, it’s probably because you need to figure out what to do with what I left behind. I’ll keep it short because I know you’re a concise man.

The closer I grow to you, the more I am sure we are not in the same realm of talent. Indeed, our worlds are entirely divorced and I wish it were otherwise because for you, I want to see. But you must understand that this has become my life’s work. I am nothing if not a shame, the forever stunted prodigy who has fallen into irrelevance. So be it. I’ll make it into art that even you will cry for.

With all the love I have, goodbye.

The paper crumples as Alhaitham leans his head on his clenched hands. He has to wonder, did you know that even your competition in the Vahumana called you the darshans future? And because that might not move you, he wonders what you knew of Alhaitham’s version of that truth. A wave of nausea rises over him, washing those dreams away.

There is another explanation, but it is more like an addendum. Many times have you broached the topic of a beautiful tragedy with him. Maybe you resonated with the idea more closely than Alhaitham thought. Like a fool, you swallowed yourself whole with open eyes, all while writing down every detail in fervent desperation. It was like religion. It was like academia: a fruitless martyrdom.

Life imitates art and forgets that consequences will be made real. But alas, there is no cure for a fallacy born of yearning. It’ll spread and take down every parallel soul of yours wandering the midnight oil with absent eyes. Alhaitham understands, it’s what you would’ve wanted. All you’ve ever wanted was to stave off this horrible loneliness, and you made sure he had nothing to do with that lofty dream. You’ve poured the glass empty to draw a picture in the stain without enjoying the drink.

Well. If you insist on sacrificing yourself in the temple of academia, then Alhaitham will help you in the only way he can now. There’s a sting gathering in his eyes as he carries your murderer piece by piece. As the fireplace takes his revenge, he cries for you.

On the second day, another letter from the Akademiya arrives to request that your research material be turned over to your darshan immediately. Alhaithams response is just as short as their first message: “I burned it all.”

academia does not define you. you have value simply by existing, and this value cannot be changed by a system and upbringing centered around it that promotes relentless, cutthroat competition and borderline hatred for yourself and your peers. the point of the glass is that there is something in it for you to enjoy

fic breakdown is here

[abyislan08]

This fic is so beautiful I want it framed on my wall

[dogpuppy]

[eveningmusings]

The Retreat (Intro)

Preview: You loved Alhaitham, as he did you. But at some point between you two falling in love and today, the relationship had fizzled out into a something hollow and unrecognizable.

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: This was written as the first part to a much longer story, but found myself stuck in one of the later sections. Decided to put this out here for now until I get enough creative energy to finish the rest.

Others: Althaitham, Reader Insert, Romance, Healing (not in this chapter, but eventually), Established Relationships, Strained Relationship, Conflict, Awkward Alhaitham

The clock on the wall of your shared living room ticked with a slow, relentless rhythm. It was eleven-thirty in the evening.

You sat hunched over the heavy oak table, the dim glow of a single lamp casting long, exhausted shadows across the parchment scattered in front of you. Your eyes burned, your posture was tense, and the cold cup of coffee beside your elbow had been untouched for three hours. You were currently drafting the budget annex for a new commission – a task that was entirely unnecessary to finish tonight, but you were doing it anyway. 

You were always doing it anyway. 

The heavy lock of the front door clicked, the brass mechanism turning with a familiar, heavy thunk. 

You didn’t look up from your papers as Alhaitham stepped into the entryway. You heard the familiar rustle of his dark cape being hung on the hook, the soft clatter of his keys hitting the ceramic dish on the console table, and the quiet, measured tread of his boots as he walked into the living room.

He paused behind your chair. He leaned down and pressed a brief, almost performative, kiss to your temple. It was a phantom touch. There, then instantly gone. 

"How was your day?" you asked, your voice mechanical, your eyes never leaving the column of numbers you were adding up. 

"Standard administrative redundancies," Alhaitham replied smoothly, his voice a low, even hum as he walked past you and toward the hallway that led to his private study. 

The door to his study clicked shut a moment later. 

You stopped writing. You sat perfectly still in the dim light, the metal barrel of your pen digging painfully into your fingers. 

Standard administrative redundancies. 

It was the exact same phrase he had used yesterday. And the day before that. And almost every Tuesday and Thursday for the last four months. 

A heavy and suffocating wave of introspection crashed over you, making the air in the quiet house feel incredibly thin. You stared blankly at the ink on the page, the numbers blurring together. How had you both gotten here? 

Nothing explosive. No screaming. No theatrics. No tears. The death of your intimacy had been a slow erosion. It was a thousand small, missed connections that had compounded over the last year and a half until your relationship had been entirely hollowed out, leaving behind only the structural scaffolding of a shared address.

You were two of the most intelligent and respected people in Sumeru City. In the beginning, that mutual intellect had been the gravity that pulled you together. But now, it was the wedge driving you apart. 

And you knew exactly what your role in this failure was. 

Admittedly, you had used your commissions as a shield. Whenever the silence in the house grew too loud, whenever you felt the terrifying distance stretching between you and the man sitting mere feet away, you didn't bridge the gap. You reached for a new contract. You buried yourself in maps and guild requests because managing a dangerous desert route was infinitely easier than facing the fact that you felt like a ghost in your own home. 

You were running on fumes, actively burning yourself out just to avoid the agonizing reality of your stagnant romance. 

A knot formed in your throat. You forcefully swallowed it down, blinking away the stinging heat in your eyes. You couldn't think about this right now. If you looked too closely at the ruin of your relationship, you would shatter. 

You tightened your grip on your pen, lowered your head, and pressed the nib back against the parchment. Desperate to lose yourself in the numbers on paper.

But as the metal tip scratched against the heavy paper, no ink came out. 

You frowned, shaking the pen slightly, and pressed harder. Another dry scrape. You tried to trace the number four, pressing the nib into the paper until it nearly tore the parchment, but the well was entirely empty. 

It was a microscopic inconvenience. A completely trivial and easily solvable problem. All you needed to do was to stand up and get a new bottle of ink from the shelf. 

But as you stared at the dry markings carved into the paper, something inside you just snapped. 

The pen slipped from your trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the table. You dropped your face into your hands, elbows planted heavy on the scattered documents. A low, broken sob tore its way up your throat. And in the silence of the room, that quiet sob echoed. The exhaustion, the loneliness, the months of pretending you were fine, it all crashed down at once. 

You couldn't move. You couldn't fix the pen. You couldn't fix the relationship. 

And just like the pen, you were entirely empty. 

You didn't hear the door to his study open, and didn't hear his footsteps returning down the hall. 

The only warning you got was the sudden shift in the air and a faint woody scent as Alhaitham stopped beside your chair. 

You braced yourself for the inevitable. He would tell you that crying over an empty pen was irrational. He would logically point out that you had been working for fourteen hours and that a sleep deficit was causing emotional volatility. He would offer a practical and infuriatingly cold solution. 

Instead, a large, warm hand settled gently over yours, pulling your hands away from your face. 

You looked up, your vision blurred with unshed tears. Alhaitham wasn't looking at the broken pen or the work scattered on your desk. He was looking at you. The stoic mask of the Scribe was completely gone, and was replaced by an intensity in his gaze that sent a mild chill down your spine.

It took you a moment to process the feeling, one that should have been so normal in the relationship but felt so distant. And as your gears ticked, Alhaitham took that moment to truly look at the face of the woman he shared his home with.

He had known his part in this failing, too. His flaw was complacency. He had viewed the pursuit of your heart as a complex, fascinating variable to be solved. And once he had solved it, his logic dictated that the equation was complete and required no further maintenance. He was perfectly content to exist in the same house as you, breathing the same air, reading his books in the next room. He had failed to realize early enough that proximity did not equal presence.

You were, by all accounts, roommates who shared a bed, and a scheduled appointment on his calendar.

Without a word, he reached across the desk, gathered up your scrolls and your books and your empty pen, and slid them entirely out of reach. 

"Alhaitham–" you started, your voice cracking pathetically. "I need to finish–"

"No, you don't," he interrupted. His voice was low, devoid of its usual clinical detachment. It carried a weight that you couldn’t yet measure.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a thick envelope sealed with the heavy green wax crest of the Akademiya, and he placed it on the empty space on the desk in front of you. 

You stared at it, wiping a tear from your cheek. "What is this?"

"It is a fully approved, non-negotiable, thirty-day leave of absence," Alhaitham stated, his silver-green eyes locking onto yours, refusing to let you look away. "I bypassed your guild master this afternoon. All of your pending commissions have been reassigned. My own duties have been delegated to the junior scribes."

Your breath hitched. "Thirty days? Alhaitham, you can't just cancel my work, I have obligations–"

"Our current dynamic is operating at a critical failure rate," he cut in smoothly, but the intensity in his eyes betrayed the academic phrasing. "You are using your work to avoid me. And I have allowed my own complacency to create an environment where you feel the need to do so."

You froze.

He had noticed. 

While you thought he was entirely oblivious, reading his books in the other room, he had been quietly calculating the catastrophic trajectory of your relationship. 

"I have rented a private estate in Pardis Dhyai," Alhaitham continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We leave in two days. You will not bring a single map, and I will not bring a single manuscript. We are going to correct this inefficiency, and we are not returning to this house until we do.”

[bloomingtorii]

when you take off your wedding ring during an argument [genshin men]

⋗ ft. alhaitham, ayato, baizhu, dottore, kaveh, pantalone, zhongli

⋗ ~0.6k | fluffy angst | gn!reader

Alhaitham

“-what does that have to do with the issue at hand?” Alhaitham breaks off his sentence in the middle, his eyes narrowing. And right now, you have half a mind to believe it’s only because he’s mad he didn’t finish his thought.

The ring sits heavy in your palm; the weight of the promises it symbolizes. The memories of you and him. He stares at the band in your hand, his thumb touching the matching ring on his own finger. For a moment you feel like he might take it off too, despite how out of character that would be for him, and your heart feels like it’s gonna crumble on itself. You bite your lip.

“Do you need a moment?” he asks in a tone much softer. For the first time since you began fighting his voice isn’t the same as it always is.

“Yeah,” you admit. More words form and die on your tongue. You don’t even know where to begin - to spill your arguments now that you have the chance, or apologize? Part of you just wants to scream and cry. 

Alhaitham gives you space. You can hear him in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water, while you sit down in the armchair and stare at the ring still in your palm. You forgot what it looks like removed from your finger. It looks so foreign, and not in a good way. You slowly slip it back on your finger. There’s guilt gnawing at your conscience. You shouldn’t have done that.

And so you stand up and join him in the kitchen. Before you can speak, he slides a glass of water towards you. Maybe the fight was pointless. Just a little bit. You drink the whole thing.

“Better now?” he asks, voice still careful. You nod. The lump in your throat only dissolves when you see the ring securely on his finger. It seems he looks for yours too. “Do you want to continue discussing that?”

You need to remind yourself that this is Alhaitham. He’s only asking. He’s not mocking you, not blaming you.

“No,” you shake your head. You put the glass back on the table, rounding it to stand closer to him. 

“I explained my side,” he says, but he doesn’t push, “It’s more productive if you tell me what you think now.” 

You suppose it would be. You know it would be. He’s right like he always is.

“Can we revisit it later?” you suggest, “It… I feel tired.”

It’s almost hesitant, the way he nods and opens his arms for you to walk into. Still you do, without question. The longer he holds you, the more you think about whether the fight was worth it. Was this really that important to you? Was he so mean that you had to do that?

Your thoughts are brought to a standstill by a hand prying yours away from his chest. Unsurprisingly, it’s just him. Just Alhaitham taking your hand, intertwining your fingers and resting your hands above his beating heart. Your rings press against each other. It’s not much of a difference, but you feel him relax. His eyes reflect on the shiny surface of the rings. You’ve never seen him look so relieved, and you don’t think it’s the metal distorting the image.

After a brief hesitation, you look up. Nothing changes, Alhaitham looks exactly like his reflection on the silver mirror. His thumb strokes the side of your hand. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly.

“I’m not letting you,” he smiles, careful. But the smile can’t hide how serious he is - not that you’d want it any other way.

Ayato

How can he just stand there? Calm, impassive, as if this was just another diplomatic negotiation. Perhaps it is, perhaps you should think about it that way too but-

“I’d think about that some more,” Ayato’s voice raises, “If I were you.”

You should. You definitely should. But him pointing it out makes you not want to, gets on your last nerve and so your fingers wrap around the band on your finger and tug- Try to.

There’s a patient hand, though really not so patient now, preventing you from moving. His touch isn’t rough, but it certainly isn’t the gentle, reverent touch you’re used to. How did he get to you so fast, you have no idea, or why it feels like there’s nothing you can do to break free from his touch. The candlelight paints shadows that make it feel like he’s towering over you.

“I know you’re upset, my love,” he speaks slowly, not much of a difference from how he’s been talking the whole night but there is a barely noticeable strain to his voice that makes you reel in any attempts at pulling your hand away from him, “But what you’re about to do is playing dirty. And you know I’m more than capable of stooping to that level too.”

You swallow. Of course he is. And he’s not threatening you, you know, not yet. He only reminds you, you think, of the previous times where he didn’t play fair in way less serious situations, where even playful teasing ended up hurting you. Though naturally, it wounds him too to cause you pain. You don’t want to force his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say, then quickly add - albeit softer: “For this, I mean.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t get the wrong idea,” he chuckles. Before he frees your hand, he brings it to his lips to kiss just above the ring.

Yet he doesn’t let you go. Instead of your hand, he now holds your waist. It’s grounding, both his embrace and his proximity. Maybe this whole argument getting so severe could be avoided if you talked like this. You can dream.

“It seems to me we won’t reach an agreement,” Ayato sighs.

“No,” you admit as much as you don’t wish to. Unresolved conflict only means repetition later on, in some form. “Not with the way things are.”

You let him wind his arm around your waist and bring you closer. You, too, embrace him, resting your head on his shoulder. The argument exhausted you.

“Then we both need to put in more work,” he hums, “And continue at a later time.”

Maybe. It’s the only thing you can do, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it. Perhaps you should go pray, there must be someone who could grant you both what you want without the other losing their chance. He’d laugh if you suggested it, though.

“I hate how efficient you are,” you let go of your final grievance for the night, making him chuckle.

“Years of experience, darling,” he reminds you, “With higher stakes - which of course doesn’t mean I’m calling our marriage insignificant.”

You only roll your eyes but nod. You know that’s not his intention. He’s right anyway, and to some extent you’re glad he can remain stable and unshakeable like this. Being able to always depend on him, that’s one of the reasons you married him in the first place, after all.

“But I must say,” he murmurs into your hair, “I’ve never been threatened so violently before.”

You laugh and shake your head.

“No sword, no polearm or a bow is as scary as seeing you without your ring, my dear,” he whispers, “Believe it or not.”

Baizhu

“What are you doing?” his voice cuts through the air. Amber eyes staring at you, wide and afraid, eyebrows furrowed and his lips twisted downwards.

You hold the ring in your palm, your gaze dropping to the band like you need to make sure you really did that. But you did and now Baizhu is crossing the room to cradle your hands in his. 

“What do you mean by this?” his chest is still heaving but at least his voice drops into something softer again. 

“We should stop,” you lick your lips, your attention is split between the warm ring and his cold hands, “We’re just talking in circles.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it go again. His touch is so careful, even though he keeps distance between you. His gaze slowly seems to be warming up too the longer you silently stare at each other.

“Life’s too fragile to keep fighting,” Baizhu murmurs. Tension still holds his body in its grip. At the same time he looks like he really wants to let go. 

“But this is really important to both of us,” you remind him, “Or we’d be better at making a compromise.”

He seems torn. Stuck between wanting to argue his point and dismissing the argument. It’d be easier to pretend nothing happened, but the core of the issue would just loom over your heads. He doesn’t come closer but his thumbs stroke the sides of your hands. 

“We shouldn’t be together right now,” he sighs eventually. You nod. The pain in his eyes reflects your own. 

“Stay here,” he suggests, cautiously, “I’ll go - but I’ll come back, okay?”

And so it’s agreed. You sit by the open window for the most part, taking deep breaths of the cool air in hopes it’ll clear your mind - it does. What it doesn’t do is magically give you a revelation as to what would be the perfect solution in this situation. Your anger ebbs and flows, even though it’s no longer directed primarily at your husband, more so at the circumstances.

And by the looks of it, Baizhu fares no better than you. He looks disheveled, as if he ran his hand through his hair the whole time he was out. Even his braid looks horrible, clearly having taken the most abuse. 

Baizhu kneels next to your chair, easily intertwining your hands once more when you offer. With his other hand he reaches up to cup your face. You’re tired, you’re angry and you’re sad. You let him touch you, leaning into the familiar comfort.

“I’m gonna take the couch today,” you inform him. There’s no malice in your voice, only the silent understanding passes between you - you both still need time.

“I should be the one-”

“Let me,” you shake your head. You push some of his hair away from his face. “You take the bed and I’ll put the ring back on.”

He huffs, incredulous, before his lips settle on a softer smile.

“That’s a strong bargaining chip, are you sure you want to use it this way?” his thumb strokes your cheek.

“Mhm,” you give him a weak smile too, “You already know I’m yours.”

He nods. His eyes fall to your lips before he, sadly, looks away. Now it’s your turn to make him face you with a gentle touch to his jaw. Your lips meet slowly, first a hesitant brush, then they melt together like it’s the first time. Baizhu soaks up the contact, drinking the reassurance from your lips. You think you could be convinced to forget everything, if only for the night.

“We’ll figure this out,” he promises, then he adds after some hesitation: “Together.”

And really, that’s all you’re asking. So you let him take your hand and guide you to the bedroom. Then you let him slide the ring back onto your finger.

Dottore

The ring slips off your finger to the very last digit, as if giving you time to reconsider. Dottore watches the action intently. Nonetheless, his words only stop once he’s finished his sentence - that, too, as if it was your chance at redemption. Despite the mask shielding his eyes, you can feel his gaze on you and swallow heavily. As passionate as he was about presenting his arguments, the energy is gone now, turned into cold tension. 

You hesitate, the ring still gingerly held between the fingers of your other hand. Dottore doesn’t move, tense and silent, observing your next step. He doesn’t say a word. And in the wordless face off, you understand - he would let you make this choice. He won’t say he wants you to stay and put the ring back on. Sometimes you have to do the work for both of you. Your ego is not more important than him. 

It takes effort to make a step forward. The fists at his side clench but he makes no move to stop you, his silence remains deafeningly loud. You walk on until you stand before him and offer him your hand, ring dangling on the tip of your finger. The mask allows him a lot of anonymity. He tilts his head, the lower half of his face offers no hints as to what’s going on inside his head. 

“That was very irrational,” you admit quietly, “A lapse of judgement.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. You don’t pull your hand back. “I have no use for an unwilling partner. I believe I made myself clear about only giving one chance.”

He waves you off, disinterested. Even so, he purposefully moves in a way that won’t remove the ring barely balanced at the tip of your finger. 

“Did I catch you off guard, doctor?” you ask, “Do we have no further use for each other? Is that what this is about?”

Dottore bristles. Perhaps it’s pointless, as he warned you it is, to attempt to persuade him that a relationship can work even if the parties have no vital need for each other.

“I need you,” you whisper, little more than a breath, “Why stall? If you had no need for me at all, you would take the ring back already.”

It might be a trick of the light, the moment it seems like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs your hand rather roughly and shoves the ring back down your finger. He doesn’t let go.

“So stubborn,” he growls, “Inefficient. If you just-” 

“You don’t need me for the experiment to progress,” you sigh, “Why get upset with me beyond the way in which I wronged you?”

His grip tightens. His jaw is set, which is about all you can read in his face. From the tilt of his mask and his fingers lingering by the band now securely around your finger, however, you can guess where he’s looking. 

“Have you never doubted your decision? I should be allowed to make the same mistake,” you reason. He scoffs.

“Mistake?” he mocks, then he huffs, “Perhaps.”

He swipes his thumb over the ring. His own rest hidden inside his breastpocket for safety. Not that it matters - it’s more important that his claim on you is clear for all to see. Above all - for him, Dottore himself, to see. As if the intricacies binding you together were not enough.

“I should find a more permanent way of branding you,” he mutters. No attempt to hide it. No need for the mask either - now you know well that’s looking at you, studying you.

You just smile.

Kaveh

You can barely see what you’re doing but you feel the empty space immediately, and perhaps more so the painful void inside your chest than the cold air on your finger.

The room goes deadly silent. Kaveh stares at you, speechless. His mouth opens and closes like fish out of water. A thousand different emotions flash across his face before they settle on anger. 

“Fine,” he scoffs, “Fine, go on then!”

He’s supposed to be furious. Why does he look like a cornered dog? Too scared to see through his fears. You blink and the anger turns into hurt, as if he wore nothing else on his face before. It breaks something inside of you. He’s not fully sober, he’s not thinking rationally, the whole fight got blown out of proportion-

You jump when something lands somewhere in front of you and rolls away. His own ring.

“I won’t hold you back!” he keeps screaming even as he falls to his knees. He looks like he can’t believe what he’s done, what he said. Your heart breaks but… this is just too much. And you’re in the wrong too, you have no right to be upset with him - you took off your ring first. But it’s too much. 

So you ignore him when he starts crawling forward to look for his ring. And because you’re hurting and emotions are high, you drop your ring too. The search should entertain him for long enough that you both cool down, you could take a walk- 

You don’t get the chance. And maybe you should’ve expected it. 

“Kaveh…” you sigh. 

Looking down, you see exactly what you thought you would. It doesn’t matter, your heart still clenches painfully. His eyes glisten with unshed moisture, his cheeks burn red. His face is twisted in agony, suffering which only you may free him from. He’s holding onto your leg like a lifeline, clawing at your clothes to make you stay. 

With another long exhale, your frustration dissipates into nothingness. Your hand falls to the top of his head, pushing his hair away from his face. He leans into your touch like a cat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking much more sober now, “I’m so sorry. Please don’t go.”

Words would be pointless. They’re cheap and without substance Kaveh could latch onto. He rests his head against your thigh while you slowly keep combing your fingers through his hair.

“Let’s look for them together, hm?” you suggest eventually as you get down on the floor with him. He furiously nods his head.

It’s easier than you thought it’d be, with the light catching on the metal and guiding you to the discarded bands like the stars guide ships at the sea. Even so, Kaveh keeps looking your way as if still scared you’ll leave. The fear remains despite both rings resting in his palm, it lingers after you put them back on with shaky hands. Not long after you find yourself looking up at the ceiling.

“Please don’t leave,” Kaveh mumbles into the crook of your neck, lying on top of you after tackling you to the ground, “I’m sorry, I’m-”

“I’m sorry too,” you stop him from the inevitable self-depreciating rant. You hold him closer. “Let’s talk about it again after we get some sleep.”

It’s so easy to get him to agree. He always insisted that the bed you share is his only safe space, a sacred space he never brings work to. He sinks into the mattress with you, more like a snake than you ever imagined was possible for a human being. Sleep evades you. Kaveh holds you so tight it’s hard to breathe. You can’t say you mind, though.

Pantalone

The world narrows down to this moment - his office, his biting remarks, your voice hoarse after hours of this. Nothing else exists. Nothing beyond this room. And then Pantalone says another hurtful thing and you’ve just about had it. The ring tries to stick to your finger, truly it does. But you’re stubborn.

And then the click of safety being dislodged, the pull of a trigger - not enough to make the gun aimed in your direction shoot but close - rings through the room in the sudden deep silence.

You freeze, staring at him not quite in disbelief, but in cold clarity of what happened, the whole sequence of events. His usual mask is already back in place.

“Now now, be careful with that ring,” he says smiling. That calm, deceptive smile that fools nobody that ever made the mistake at displeasing him. Your palms start to sweat, goosebumps rise over your body. You think your body starts trembling. “It might be your only chance at survival should you leave, to sell it.”

Pantalone comes closer, quiet, slow strides. His hand cups your jaw to tilt your face towards him, holding you in place. Apparently, he needs to work on his temper and you need to work on your survival instinct.

“No pawnshop will buy it,” you argue. Because what else are you supposed to do than submit to him fully, to admit his full control over your life. You messed up, and Feofan is not a man easily placated. “And anyone foolish enough to want to buy it won’t have enough mora to do so.”

He smiles, looking almost proud as he leans closer to you. “And why is that?”

“Because only the smart survive, get rich and stay in business,” you answer, “And because they’re smart, they’ll recognize the ring. And they’ll know that you’d come for it. And that you’d make sure the word doesn’t get out and that there’s no witness.”

Pantalone looks most pleased, closing the distance between you to rub your noses together.

“Very good,” he murmurs, “So how about you make sure the ring is safe on your finger, hm?”

You don’t acknowledge the threat to you. That was only to be expected. You wounded him, or at least upset him, destabilized a favourable situation that is your relationship; naturally he’d lash out. You know better than most. The ring feels heavy on your finger. Less like a ball and chain locked around your ankle, more like a heavy winter coat around your shoulder.

Feofan can be incredibly sweet and attentive to those he cares for. He is. Unless given a reason not to be.

“There we go,” he whispers. Some of his smile is genuine, which is a relief.

He’s about to pull away but you’re quicker. It doesn’t matter much, whether he stays or not is entirely up to him. For a moment you don’t think he will, considering how coldly he regards your hand tugging on his sleeve. Then he indulges you, allowing you to even put his hands on your waist.

“I hurt you with my words,” he states, licking his lips. The haze of the argument must’ve left his mind. “I apologize.”

“I also apologize,” you sigh, “I shouldn’t have done that. You know how to be incredibly infuriating and I never know how to stop you and then act out of line.”

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “Yet you’re forgiven. A benevolent lover, am I not?”

You agree, with reluctance that remains privy only to you. Feofan knows how to be very benevolent, yet unapologetically cruel at the same time. You, at least, are protected by his fondness for you. Still you think you’d rather pamper him for a while, to make him forget your mistake.

Zhongli

You’d maybe prefer if Zhongli showed his emotions more. You’d perhaps appreciate more if he looked as worked up as you. This is going nowhere and it’s frustrating, he’s frustrating-

“Do it and you’ll have to face punishment,” he says, sternly, impatiently. Exactly the way you hoped he’d talk ever since your blood started boiling. Yet now you completely disregard his tone for sake of what he’s saying, or rather - those words with that tone make you forget what you were doing in the first place. 

He closes the distance between you swiftly and you all but shiver when he takes your hand into his. However, his mood changes rapidly the moment his fingers brush the ring halfway down your finger. Zhongli’s very good at hiding his emotions, but when he lets them show, they’re painfully clear. And now the remorse consumes him completely.

“I didn’t mean to upset you so,” he murmurs, stroking over the ring now safely in its usual place, “I apologize.”

You take a deep breath, exhale slowly. He means it, of course he does, sometimes your tempers just don’t match well. 

“I’m sorry too,” you mumble, then you swallow, “What did you mean earlier though, by the punishment…?”

You know better than to genuinely think Zhongli was suggesting what your body clearly seems to think, or maybe even hope for. 

“We signed the certificates,” he says, slowly, almost carefully, the tone you know well because that’s how he always says what he’s half-certain might be upsetting to you without fully comprehending why, “Marriage is basically a contr-”

“Zhongli, I swear, if you call our marriage a contract I am resigning from it,” you sigh. Exhausted by the revelation so much that you can’t even get mad, let alone think about what you were fighting about in the first place, you let your forehead fall against his shoulder. He freezes for a moment in a silent contemplation. 

“I don’t think of our relationship as a contractual obligation-”

“Zhongli, I know you think that’s comforting but please be quiet,” you stop him before he can get the rest of the explanation out.

“I love you,” he chuckles, settling for the safe option.

“I love you too,” you accept, a small smile blooming on your lips, “But don’t ever call our marriage that.”

He nods against your head, his arms wrapping around your waist. He holds you closer, rubbing circles into the small of your back. How easily does he undo you with his words - how easily you undo a god. With nothing but a simple mistake in the heights of emotion.

“I wasn’t planning to leave,” you mumble into his shoulder, “I was just so frustrated.”

He makes a small noise of acknowledgement. The longer he holds you, the more you feel like you’ve both calmed down. The golden light of the late afternoon casts a warm glow around the room.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says, slowly, as if each word was hard to spell out, “I don’t like the idea of you leaving… our home, and me.”

His hand finds yours, squeezing, tracing the ring again. You have to appreciate he made the effort to not say breaking the contract. You reward him with a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“I don’t plan to,” you pull away enough to meet his eyes, “We swore until death do us apart, didn’t we? I’m keeping that promise.”

Zhongli cups your face, his thumb strokes your cheek. You close your eyes when he leans in. The kiss is enough, the tenderness of his touch. The god of contracts made his vow to you, he wouldn’t dream of breaking it.

[azurewitchxx]

Is it alright if you do some Alhaitham x reader headcannons? Whatever you think would be best for you to write, I believe you'll write him very well 🤍

yeesssss

Alhaitham Headcanons

• Alhaitham is not naturally clingy, but he becomes deeply attached in subtle ways. He’ll act like he simply “prefers efficiency,” yet somehow always ends up sitting beside you, walking home with you, or reading in the same room as you. Not because he needs company. Because he specifically wants yours. And that distinction matters to him.

• He remembers everything about you. Not in a creepy way. Just Alhaitham notices details most people ignore. The exact tea you prefer when tired. Which books frustrate you. The difference between your fake smile and your real one. The way your footsteps sound when you’re upset before you even enter the room.

You could insist you’re fine all day long and he’d still calmly hand you food and say:

“You’ve been quieter than usual for approximately six hours. Something’s wrong.”

• Arguments with him are frustrating because he’s annoyingly logical. Not cruel. Not dismissive. But if the two of you are fighting emotionally while he’s approaching things analytically, it can feel like talking to a wall at first. However, once he realizes you need emotional reassurance instead of solutions, he does adapt. He’s just not naturally expressive. So his version of comfort sounds like:

“I’m not leaving because we argued.”

Or:

“You’re important enough for me to stay and resolve this properly.”

Which, coming from Alhaitham, is basically a love confession.

• Physical affection starts small. Very small. Brushing hands together while reading. His knee touching yours beneath a table. Resting against your shoulder while working. But once he’s truly comfortable with you? He becomes unexpectedly affectionate in private. Especially late at night. There’s something about being exhausted after long Akademiya days that makes him softer. You’ll be half asleep and suddenly feel him quietly pull you closer against his chest while continuing to read. If you point it out the next morning, he’ll deny nothing.

“Your presence is relaxing.”

That’s it. That’s the explanation.

• Kaveh suffers constantly because of your relationship. Not because Alhaitham neglects him. But because witnessing Alhaitham in love is psychologically devastating.

“You bought them flowers?” Kaveh says in horror.

“They like flowers.”

“You remember their favorite flowers?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even remember MY birthday.”

“I remember it. I choose not to engage with it.”

Meanwhile you’re in the background trying not to laugh while Kaveh questions reality itself.

• Alhaitham trusts very few people completely. So when he trusts you, it’s profound. He lets you see the exhausted side of him nobody else does.

The side tired of being perceived as emotionless simply because he isn’t expressive traditionally. The side that overthinks quietly. The side that sometimes feels isolated from everyone around him intellectually and the greatest proof of his love is that he never masks those things around you. You become the one place where he doesn’t have to constantly explain himself.

• If someone hurts you emotionally, Alhaitham becomes terrifyingly cold. Not explosive. That would require losing control emotionally. Instead, he dismantles people with terrifying precision. A single conversation from him can leave someone reevaluating every decision they’ve ever made. The worst part? He never raises his voice.

He just looks at them with complete disappointment and says something devastatingly accurate. Then comes home to you afterward like nothing happened.

• He loves domestic intimacy more than grand romance. Quiet mornings. Reading together in silence. You sitting beside him while he works. Falling asleep tangled together after long days. He doesn’t need constant excitement in love. He needs peace. Consistency. Trust and if he finds someone who gives him that? Alhaitham loves deeply enough to spend the rest of his life beside them without hesitation.

• One of the clearest signs Alhaitham truly loves you is that he starts including you in his future automatically. Not dramatically either. Just casual things like:

“We should move those bookshelves eventually.”

Or:

“You’d dislike that region’s climate.”

Or even:

“If we stay here long term, the house will need renovations.”

We. Long term. No hesitation. No fear. As though loving you became such an undeniable fact in his mind that his future naturally reshaped around your existence.

• And honestly? One of the most romantic things about Alhaitham is that he chooses you consciously every single day. He is not impulsive with love. He does not fall easily. Which means if Alhaitham loves you, it’s because he looked at every part of you carefully, the good, the difficult, the emotional, the irrational and still decided:

“Yes. This is the person I want beside me.”

[pluie-nocturne]

Random relationship HCs - Various Genshin Characters x GN! Reader

Characters (in order): Neuvillette, Wriothesley, Alhaitham, Kaveh

Had some time to kill so I wanted to write down some random relationship headcanons I’ve been thinking about! Reader is gender neutral, no specific pronouns used.

I did this entirely on mobile so I hope the formatting is okay! Not proofread, please let me know if there are any glaring issues.

No content warnings beyond vague mentions of jealousy and depictions of physical affection (SFW).

Neuvillette

One of Neuvillette’s largest struggles is feeling emotions loudly but not being entirely sure how to interpret or express them. He knows that he cares for you profoundly, but in the initial stages of your partnership, finds it awkward to express his fondness towards you. Thus, I imagine he expresses his affection in many roundabout manners. Being a dragon, I imagine he collects various items that remind him of you and often gifts them to you. For example, did you notice a piece of clothing or jewelry that you liked? It may show up at your door with a simple note attached to it signed with your lover’s name.

He feels guilty by the time consumed by his work. He recognizes that one should take more breaks, and yet he knows he holds a great deal of responsibility that cannot exactly be so easily shirked, even for someone he holds so dearly to his heart. Neuvillette often feels the need to make up for the lost time. The Iudex is fond of penning you long, flowery letters expressing his affection towards you, as well as discussing the trivialities of his own day. At first, these letters can come across as stilted and reserved, but with time, you find that Neuvillette becomes far more comfortable with fully expressing himself with you.

You will find that he is amenable to doing most anything if it is guaranteed that you are by his side. Even if it is tasks that he once found displeasurable like ballroom dancing, he finds great joy in doing them if only to see the joy on your face and to spend the time with you. In this way, one of his love languages can be considered spending quality time with you.

If you are human, Neuvillette will likely treat you as rather fragile at first. He does not understand human constitution well, and he fears the worst when you so much as sniffle or cough. This gets better with time, but he’s a bit of a mess initially, urging you to receive checkups. He often comes with you to personally hear the verdict that you are well. With that comes his tendency to remind you to stay hydrated, to wear sunscreen, and to take leisurely walks as to help clear your mind.

Though he will do almost anything with you, his preferred activity is certainly the off-days he spends with you away from work and by the water, whether at the beach or by the river. He is content to simply sit by the water, legs outstretched, your head against his shoulder, watching as the current flows steadily, listening as it bubbles and laps against the shore. Though he does not always prefer melting beneath the sun, there seems to be scarcely anything better than spending this moment by your side where the sun’s warmth embraces you both. If it’s a picnic, he certainly goes all out in preparing snacks and ensures your favorites are available.

That being said, he does much prefer being in the water. There is a certain beauty gained in observing and reflecting upon it, sure, but nothing replaces the feeling of diving beneath its surface and being wholly encapsulated by its coolness. Neuvillette loves swimming with you, to hold your hand as he guides you through his favorite underwater sights. Though he admires a good race, he figures such competition is often unfair - though appreciates when you humor him. He also adores leisurely resting atop the water, you floating by his side whilst your hands are interlocked. Neuvillette is prone to dozing off in such spots, given this is one of the few times that he can truly unwind in the element he adores most.

Neuvillette also quite enjoys aquabus rides with you. There is something serene about sitting by your side as you drift over water, watching Fontaine’s idyllic hills, trees, and streams pass by. He will occasionally invite you to accompany him on tasks outside of the Court of Fontaine as an excuse to have you accompany him on one of these rides.

The Iudex quite likes reading books with you. I imagine his absolute favorite to read with you are mysteries. You’ll lay your head against his shoulder or chest, feeling the low rumble of his words as he reads aloud the contents of the book to you. Neuvillette’s tone will change as the story progresses and he finds himself getting invested. The mysteries in these books are not so different from the cases he observes and judges on a daily basis. Neuvillette finds intrigue in learning through these books, even if fictional, more about human ambition and nature. Though he has already seen and learnt much that has lent him to reliably predict endings, sometimes you guess endings more accurately than him. He is constantly surprised by the facets of humanity he has yet to understand. The Iudex has been aware that humans go to great extents in the pursuit and protection of love, but he has never understood why until recently upon meeting you.

That being said, the Iudex has maintained a distance from any manner of personal relationship as to preserve impartiality. He is rather firm, but around you he is noticeably softer. Sometimes it’s hard for him to say no to you when you plead him to stay home or try something, he finds you are the one person he is apparently partial towards. He knows were there ever a case involving you, he would undoubtedly recuse himself. Those close to him are surprised to see how much he changes and softens around you, and may perhaps tease him about it.

Neuvillette absolutely spoils you. He’s not a materialistic man by any means, but he only wants you to live as comfortably as you can. He also does that thing where if you ever say you like a snack or beverage off-handedly, you’ll find yourself with copious amounts of such the next day.

Though he is more than capable of doing his own hair, he much prefers it when you do it for him. In the initial stages of your relationship, he found it too selfish and embarrassing to ask you to indulge in his wishes, but eventually warmed up seeing how willing you were to do so. Now, Neuvillette will ask you softly if you will help him brush and braid his hair before bed and in the mornings. His eyes will flutter shut as he feels you working, and his heart overflows with adoration.

Being a busy man, he usually returns back from work very late. There are some nights he finds you passed out on the couch waiting for him - and his heart wrenches in his chest with guilt. Though, as much as he feels bad, there’s a small part of him that thoroughly enjoys the opportunity to scoop you into his arms, to bring you to your room, to lay you on your mattress and lay your covers atop you. Neuvillette gently kisses your forehead and thanks you for waiting for him.

Wriothesley

Wriothesley is an absolute sucker for seeing you wear his clothes. It probably started one day when you were chilly on a midnight walk on the surface, and he offered you his coat without second thought. Seeing how it fit on you and how much he liked it wrapped around you - it became a bit of a problem. He’s almost too eager to offer you his coat at the slightest inkling you might be cold. He’ll also conveniently leave it draped over chairs in his office in hopes you might find interest in borrowing it since he’s not using it. He’ll also gladly lend you his shirts to sleep in.

Meropide’s conditions have always been unfavorable, but they were something he just had to get used to, so they simply stopped bothering him after time. With you, however, he’s suddenly reminded about how awful the living conditions can be. He notices every aspect of this life that can be difficult, from the lack of sunlight, to the quality of the food, to the inhabitants of the fortress - sometimes he feels guilty about keeping you down here with him, but he knows that is a choice you have made for yourself, and one he cannot make for you.

The fact that Meropide is so isolated from the surface has also scarcely been an issue - the Duke does like his privacy and alone time, and he’s got plenty of interaction in the fortress itself. However, he realizes just how alone and isolating the Fortress is on days where you’re not here. It is cold, quiet, and suffocatingly empty. Wriothesley has gotten accustomed to seeing you around, to having you in his office, to holding you in his arms and feeling the heat of your body against his own while you sleep.

In addition to this, Wriothesley is clingy when you sleep. He prefers wrapping his arms around your torso or waist and pulling you against his chest to reassure himself (and you) that you are safe here with him.

The Duke isn’t a show off for unnecessary purposes, but sometimes he’ll get puffed up in the Pankration Ring knowing you’re in the crowd watching. Wriothesley typically fights to prove a point or settling a debate, and only expends what energy is needed. With you, sometimes he’ll be a little extra, swing a bit harder, try some more complicated maneuvers if it means he’ll get to see the amazement in your expression. This definitely goes right to his head. The Duke is either on his best form for you or is incredibly sloppy from how distracted he is - it can go either way at times LOL. Sometimes he likes to make eye contact with you and wink before knocking someone out cold.

He might’ve been initially against the idea of you seeing him fight, especially considering how rough it can get for both participants. Though if you’ve been down here long enough, he assumes it’s inevitable, and eventually warms up to the idea.

Wriothesley is extraordinarily protective over you. He’d certainly fight someone for you, but he often prefers handling situations with more discretion rather than making a public display. If someone has wronged you, you can guarantee that individual will hesitate the next time they think so much as to glance in your direction. Wriothesley will have had a very direct conversation with said individual.

Wriothesley probably teaches you the basics of fighting and/or self defense if you’re not already well-versed. He probably goes easy on you at first, not wanting to hurt you, but eventually toughens up once trusting your capabilities. He adores placing his rough hands atop yours and guiding them through each and every motion. Wriothesley is so proud for the moment when you catch him off guard and truly manage to best him in some manner.

Wriothesley has no issue making it clear that you’re his partner. Though he may not be keen on public displays of affection, he’ll have no reservations for talking about you and referring to you as his partner.

Even if he doesn’t enjoy public displays of affection, he is still extremely clingy and affectionate when he believes nobody is watching. The Duke will approach you from behind, arms snaking around your torso or waist, and rest his head either on top of yours or on your shoulder. He adores pressing kisses to your hands, as well as running his thumb over your knuckles when you hold hands.

Wriothesley may not outwardly express it, but he adores it when you kiss his scars or caress them softly. He has felt insecure of them, both in how they disfigure his appearance and how they serve as potent reminders of his bleak past. When you treat them with such care, he begins to feel less ashamed by them. The Duke feels loved, seen, and has begun to change his perspective on such scars as signs of his resilience through the most intense of tribulations.

That being said, Wriothesley occasionally struggles with insomnia and can wake from nightmares. He doesn’t make a big deal (or any deal) out of either, but if you’re awake, he’ll sleepily request for you to talk to him until he falls asleep. You’ll listen as his voice becomes groggier and groggier, as his full responses fade into quiet ‘mmhmms.’ You’ll notice when he drifts off, when the tension has lifted from his jaw and shoulders, when his breathing has softened. His hand almost always rests atop your own, as he always wants to hold you in some manner while he rests.

If you’re a tea person, he always has your favorite blend and accompaniments stocked up. It doesn’t matter what it takes for him to get it stocked, he’ll always have it ready for you.

Alhaitham

He’s a very attentive listener. While some may misconstrue Alhaitham as purposefully inattentive or uninterested, you know that even if he is seemingly not physically engaged, he is always more than willing to lend you his ear. He actually really enjoys hearing you talk, even if he scarcely expresses it, and loves nothing more to hear about how your day has gone or what you’re currently interested in.

Alhaitham’s extraordinary when it comes to recalling small details. These are things you mention in passing, like a book you wanted to read, an idea you were exploring, or something you do/dont like. It caught you off guard initially, but you’ve come to deeply appreciate his memory.

His love is often shown through the small things he does for you, like in preparing you coffee/tea for breakfast, in arranging your desk during busy times, or in picking up extra chores around the house when you’re overwhelmed.

Alhaitham also likes to try the things you like. He loves learning, and though he may not outright express he’s doing so, you might notice him picking up a series you like, reading about a topic that interests you, or engaging in a hobby you enjoy. While he is content to listen, he likes to contribute to conversations as much as he can, especially seeing how happy it makes you.

Alhaitham also enjoys spoiling you and treating you well. He has no shame in it.

One of his favorite activities to do with you is solving puzzles together. Sometimes he’ll find delight in not revealing that he’s found an answer before you, but playing coy and leaving trails for you to find so you can work towards the answer yourself.

One of his favorite type of puzzles are linguistic puzzles, especially if they pertain to his line of work. Alhaitham knows that linguistics may not interest all, and that it’s a rather niche field of study, but he’s overjoyed when you take interest in his work. He’ll always take time to slowly and patiently explain it to you, even if you don’t quite understand everything. He becomes noticeably more enthusiastic with you and loves to ask for your thoughts on whatever problem he’s working through.

In addition to the above, Alhaitham is probably skeptical about taking you into the field with him. However, if he does, the immense pride and satisfaction that would come about not only in you getting to see him work, but in working together to solve a real problem. The Scribe particularly enjoys having someone to bounce his ideas off of.

I think Alhaitham visibly changes when he’s in a relationship. It’s not hard to tell that he’s become a bit softer, more patient, and perhaps lenient with everyone he interacts with. Kaveh certainly teases him for this.

Alhaitham deeply trusts you and knows that you understand his needs. With that being said, I imagine he has moments where he has sensory overstimulations, particularly in regard to noise. He appreciates your ability to help pull him from those situations without him explicitly needing to ask. You bring him somewhere quiet where he can breathe and decompress.

If you’re a fellow academic, he is your #1 fan!! Alhaitham will show up to any talks that you host, read whatever you publish, and will readily discuss your work with you. Part of it is certainly that he will try to challenge you on any weak points in an attempt for you to strengthen your position. If you’re ever nervous about presenting, he helps you present with him ahead of time. He certainly poses difficult questions in preparation so that when he actually asks them during the real presentation, you’ll be ready. It’s definitely a silly operation that the two of you have designed to exchange rehearsed verbal debates to showcase your intelligence and authority on the subject at hand.

Alhaitham doesn’t express it, but he misses you deeply when you’re gone. He finds himself purposefully lounging by the window with a book in hand to watch the street for any sign of your return. Though he’s not always so forward with physical affection, sometimes upon returning he’ll pull you into a tight hug against his chest, or he’ll squeeze your hand and seem to follow you around at home.

Kaveh

Kaveh is incredibly attentive towards you and your feelings! He always wants you to feel your best, to feel loved and supported. He never misses a moment to ask how you’re doing, to offer to lay in his arms and tell him everything, to take care of you after a hard day. He just wants to hear from you, to be honest.

He adores when you return the favor. Kaveh enjoys yapping about his own day to you, of being the one you hold while he dramatically presses the back of his hand to his forehead as he grumbles over a client’s outrageous request. He finds comfort in telling you all the big and small details of his day and in truly being heard.

It’s no secret that Kaveh’s got a passionate soul. He’s extremely vocal about how much he cares about you, and he expresses such love with flowery words and in the little things he does for you. Kaveh knows how sappy he sounds, but he doesn’t really care. Life’s too short not to make his feelings known, so he makes sure you spend everyday knowing how precious and loved you are.

Talk about a man who loves to show you off!! If you’re okay with it, he’s unabashedly holding your hand in public, kissing it, wrapping one arm around your waist. He’s very very proud to be your partner, and will never hide that fact.

Kaveh is ALWAYS sketching you. Whether he’s watching you sit at the park or work at your desk, he finds you so enchanting and breathtaking, that he wants to capture you in every moment and light. He loves to paint you as well when he can. You’ll notice on some of his drafts or notes for work that you’ll be doodled in the sidelines.

With Kaveh’s big emotions come his jealousy as well, unfortunately. Part of it stems from his own insecurities, naturally, as he’s always grappling with the worry that he’s not good enough, and that extends to being your partner. Kaveh tries not to ask for it, but he does appreciate what reassurance he can get, and when you are equally honest and vocal about your feelings. He tries his very best to get better about this. Kaveh deals with his jealousy very internally, and would never make it your or anyone else’s problem.

Kaveh loves to talk to you about your future dream home. He’ll ask you what sort of rooms you might want and will sketch mock-ups of what could be. Sometimes he finds himself daydreaming imagining the two of you in the walls of his home, in something he has crafted for you with his own hands.

Pretty please ask Kaveh to help you with the small things. He adores helping you whenever he can. Do you have an important event coming up that you need a particular outfit for? He’ll work with you to lay out different outfit options, and will ask you questions about the venue and theme to ensure everything is absolutely perfect. He loves doing your hair as well if that is something you would entrust him with. Kaveh is your ultimate hype man and will honestly call you gorgeous in anything you wear, so sometimes it’s difficult to make decisions with his input. He praises most anything you do, but he can also be perfectly honest if you make a design choice that is aesthetically questionable (if it is something that is within your ability to change, and if the change is helpful and not going to make you unnecessarily feel insecure).

Kaveh wants to remember and cherish every moment with you, especially knowing that life is short. He takes as many pictures as he can, draws whatever moments he can capture, and journals moments both big and small. He wants to remember every second spent by your side, and will probably compile everything in a scrapbook for you both to enjoy when you’re older.

Thanks for reading!

[snoozer-crow]

thinking about drawing while sitting in valko's lap!! his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your head as he uses his size to his advantage and watches you draw from above. his chest is solid and so so warm against your back, almost too warm. you can never get used to how much warmer he is compared to you.

if you're working digitally, he has endless questions. "what's that? how'd you do that? what does that do?" you answer them all, because you know he's asking just to hear a bit more of the sound of your voice. even if he repeats a couple questions unknowingly.

every once in a while, once you finish a step, he'll ask to borrow your pencil/stylus. if you oblige him, he'll draw a little doodle on the side, his brow furrowed in focus and concentration. (aww! he drew a little puppy!!!!!)

you ask him if he's bored, if he'd rather be doing something else, if he wants to get his phone or gaming console to entertain himself with, but every time he tells you no without even a second of hesitation. he loves being in your presence and feeling your body against his own; just spending time with you and watching you do what you love, even if everything progresses slowly.

if you look up at him, you'll find him attentively watching your process, flashing you a charming grin when you meet his gaze. if you get frustrated during the process of drawing, he'll kiss your furrowed brow, tilting your chin upwards so you move your focus to him instead. he's a master at dissolving the tension building up in your head, and you're never quite sure how he does it. you just know that a few minutes later, you feel reinvigorated and ready to get back to drawing.

and once you put in the last finishing touches and show him your artwork, he'll gaze at it with shining eyes before kissing all over your face and pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, telling you he's so proud and so incredibly lucky to have such a talented mate <333

[chastiefoul]

valko short comfort fic

you jolted awake, breathing raggedly. the vision of valko running ahead and his back getting smaller while you weren’t able to catch up no matter how fast you were chasing him was still as clear as day, replaying like a short clip in your mind.

”valko?” you muttered, hand frantically reaching out to pat the spot beside you—the spot where the man had lied down the night before while holding you close, finding him still asleep and sound. you let out the quietest but somehow still biggest sigh of relief, your heartbeat adjusting to reality after coming down from the horror you were just seeing in your dream. 

he’s here. everything’s fine.

”hey, why are you up? nightmares?” you heard a familiar rasp as valko got up, enveloping you in a big hug from behind, his hand around your stomach as he gently pulled you in so you were leaning on his chest. should’ve known your charade won’t get past his sharp hearing. 

”your heart is racing, i could’ve heard it from miles away,” he claimed softly, bringing a hand to your cheek, gently nudging your face to his way. his yellow orbs gleamed subtly in the dark as they scanned you, his eyes narrowed slightly when he saw tears at the corner of your eyes. 

“you see, i like when your heart does that when you’re near me. but this time? not so much.” he planted his lips to both corners of your eyes, washing the tear away. he kissed your cheeks as well, wanting to erase the trail of wetness away, but above all he just wanted to chase away the sadness you’re currently feeling. 

“just had a dream where you left me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “that stupid wolf.” he didn’t miss a beat when he said it, like he’s more angry in your place more than you had been. you let out a small laugh, valko’s eyes softened at the sight, like he just won something so valuable.

“you’re talking about yourself, you know,” you replied, leaning closer to the man hugging his arm closer like it’s your lifeline. 

“i don’t claim him, must be a random man pretending to be me. you know i’ll never leave you. i’m not going anywhere, you’re stuck with me,” he grinned, showing his canine teeth you had grown to adore, a smile that you could see even a hundred times but still won’t be satisfied. hearing that, you would usually retort with a joke of your own, leading to a light hearted banter. yet now all you could do is stare, as he stared back at you, nuzzling closer as his hair tickled your neck; trying to draw a laugh out of you. 

“promise?” you asked, chuckling softly but at the same time still  tearing up at the thought of your nightmare coming true once more.

valko used his thumb to brush your tears before it they could reach your cheek, his stomach churning at the sight of you being so sad. if only he could take your distress away with the power he had, but he never felt so hopeless when the only thing he could offer at the time was consolation when the only thing he wanted to do was give you everything. so instead he said.

“yeah.” he kissed your temple. “promise.”

[abyislan08]

Quick sketch. Yu as izanagi